by Robin Cook
“I suppose I can guess,” said Patricia disdainfully, “even though it upsets me. Snooping through his possessions like this when he’s in the hospital saving lives! What kind of a wife are you?”
Patricia’s question hung in the air like static electricity. Cassi didn’t try to answer. She’d begun to wonder herself what kind of a wife she was.
“I think you should leave this room at once,” rasped Patricia.
Cassi didn’t object. She walked past her mother-in-law with her head bowed. Patricia followed her out and closed the door. Without looking back, Cassi descended the stairs and headed for the kitchen. She heard the front door close and presumed Patricia had left. The woman would tell Thomas that Cassi had been in his study. It was inevitable.
She looked at the meal Harriet had left on the stove with distaste, but she knew that after taking her normal insulin dose she required a certain amount of calories. Forcing down the warmed-over food, she made up her mind to return to the study and finish her search. Having already been caught, she no longer had anything to fear except what she’d find.
There was still the chance Thomas could appear, but Cassi was prepared to listen for the sounds of the Porsche. In order to keep from having to face Patricia again, Cassi pulled the heavy drapes over the windows, and she used a flashlight, like a real burglar. She went directly to the desk and tried the side drawers, starting at the top and working her way down. She didn’t have far to go. In the back of the second drawer inside a stationery box, Cassi found a collection of plastic pill containers. Some were empty, but most were full. All of them had the same prescribing M.D., a Dr. Allan Baxter. The dates were all within the past three months.
In addition to the Dexedrine, there were two other types of pills, and Cassi carefully took one of each. She replaced the vials in the stationery box and closed the drawer. Switching off the flashlight, she reopened the curtains and walked quickly back to her room. When she got out her Physician’s Desk Reference and compared the pills to the identification pictures, she realized that her suspicions were right. “Oh God!” she said out loud. “Dexedrine for exhaustion is one thing. Percodan and Talwin are something else entirely.”
For the second time that day Cassi burst into tears. This time she did not even try to check her sobs. She flung herself down on the bed and wept uncontrollably.
Despite his interlude with Laura, Thomas decided to keep his planned visit with Doris. He was disappointed enough that the man in cardiac cath had suffered a second heart attack and couldn’t be scheduled for surgery. He certainly wasn’t going to ruin the night further by the long drive home.
Doris buzzed him in the minute he touched the bell. When he reached the second floor, he found her peering coyly around the door. When she opened it, he realized why she’d stayed inside. She was dressed in a diaphanous, short black camisole that laced up the front and snapped between her legs. It covered about the same area as a one-piece bathing suit.
“Glenlivet with Perrier,” said Doris, handing Thomas a tumbler and pressing herself up against him before he could get his coat off.
Thomas took the drink in one hand and put the other on Doris’s backside. The only light in the room came from a Scandinavian-style oil lamp that painted the room with warm, golden tones. The coffee table was also laid for dinner with an uncorked bottle of wine standing nearby.
When Doris retreated to the kitchen, Thomas called the hospital page operator. He gave her Doris’s number along with the admonition it was for the thoracic resident-on-call only. She was not to give it to anyone else, and if there were a question she should call herself.
Six
“I gotta be moving,” said Clark Reardon. My woman told me not to be late.” Clark had pulled a straight-back metal chair over to Jeoffry Washington’s bed.
“Well, it was great to see you, man,” said Jeoffry. “Thanks for coming in. I really appreciate it.”
“No problem,” said Clark, standing up. He raised his hand, and when Jeoffry put his out, he slapped it affectionately.
“So when you breaking outta here?” asked Clark.
“Pretty soon. Maybe in a couple days. I’m not sure. I still got this IV.” Jeoffry raised his left arm, indicating the coiled plastic tubing. “I had some inflammation in my legs right after the operation. At least that’s what Dr. Sherman told me, so they started giving me antibiotics. It was a little rough for a couple days, but it’s better now. The best thing that happened to me was when they took away the cardiac monitor. I tell you, the beep from that mother drove me crazy.”
“How long you been in here so far?”
“Nine days.”
“That ain’t bad.”
“Not from this end. But I tell you, I was pretty scared in the beginning. But I had no choice. They told me I was going to die if I didn’t get operated on. So what can you do?”
“Nothing! I’ll see you tomorrow night and I’ll bring in those books you wanted. Anything else?”
“I’d love a little grass.”
“Come on, man.”
“I’m just joking.”
Clark turned and waved at the door before disappearing down the hall.
Jeoffry surveyed his room. He was glad that he was leaving soon. The other bed in the semiprivate room was empty. His roommate had been discharged that day and no new patient had arrived. Jeoffry was sorry to be alone, especially now that Clark had left and he had nothing to look forward to. As far as Jeoffry was concerned, a hospital was not a place to be alone. There were too many frightening machines and procedures to face without support.
Jeoffry switched on the miniature TV set connected to the head of the bed. Toward the end of the second situation comedy, Miss DeVries, a spunky LPN, entered. Pretending she had some delectable treat for Jeoffry, she insisted he close his eyes and open his mouth. As he did so, he had a pretty good idea of what was coming, and he was right. It was a thermometer.
Ten minutes later she returned and exchanged the thermometer for a sleeping pill. Jeoffry took the pill with water he had on the side table while the LPN examined the thermometer.
“Do I have a temperature?” asked Jeoffry.
“Everybody has a temperature,” said Miss DeVries.
“How could I forget,” said Jeoffry. They’d been through this before. “Okay, do I have a fever?”
“That’s classified information,” said Miss DeVries.
Jeoffry never could understand why the nurses could not tell him if he had a temperature; correction, a fever. They always said that was up to the doctor, which was crazy. It was his body.
“What about this IV?” asked Jeoffry as Miss DeVries started for the door. “When’s it coming out so I can take a real shower?”
“That’s something I know nothing about.” She waved before disappearing.
Jeoffry twisted his head and looked up at the IV bottle. For a moment he watched the regular fall of each drop in the small chamber. Turning back to the TV and the evening news, he sighed. It was going to be a relief when his tether was removed. He reminded himself to ask Dr. Sherman about it in the morning.
When the phone first rang, Thomas sat up, confused as to where he was. On the second ring, Doris turned over to face him in the half-light of her apartment.
“Do you want to get it or should I?” Doris’s voice was thick with sleep. She pushed herself up on one elbow.
Thomas looked at her in the semidarkness. She appeared grotesque with her thick hair radiating from her head as if a thousand volts of electricity had passed through her body. Instead of eyes she had black holes. It took him a moment to remember who she was.
“I’ll get it,” said Thomas, staggering to his feet. His head felt heavy.
“It’s in the corner near the window,” said Doris, flopping back onto the pillow.
Groping with his hands, Thomas went along the wall until he got to the open doorway of the bedroom. In the living room, the bay window let in more light.
“Dr. Kingsle
y, this is Peter Figman,” said the thoracic resident when Thomas picked up the receiver. “I hope you don’t mind my calling, but you asked me to let you know if any service cases were going to the OR. We have a stab wound of the chest that’s due within the hour.”
Thomas leaned on the small phone table. The chill in the room helped organize his mind. “What time is it?”
“A little after one A.M.”
“Thank you,” said Thomas. “I’ll be right over.”
As Thomas stepped out of Doris’s vestibule to the street, the icy December wind sent a chill through his body. Pulling the lapels of his coat more tightly around his neck, he set off toward the Memorial. Every so often sudden gusts would swirl down the street, moving a line of papers and other debris against his feet, forcing Thomas to turn and walk backwards for a few steps. He was relieved when he rounded the corner and could see the complex of buildings that comprised Boston Memorial.
Approaching the main entrance, he passed the parking garage on his left. It was a cement structure, open to the elements. Although it was jammed during the day, now it was almost deserted. As he glanced in to admire his Porsche, he noticed another familiar car. It was a Mercedes 300 turbo diesel painted puke green. There was only one person in the whole hospital whose taste was that bad. The car belonged to George Sherman.
Thomas was practically at the hospital door, mulling over the absurdity of getting such a good car in such a terrible color, when he began to wonder why George was there. He turned to look again. It was his car all right. There was no chance of confusing it with another. Thomas glanced at his watch. It was 1:15 A.M.
Thomas went directly to the OR, changed, and while passing through the surgical lounge, saw one of the OR nurses knitting. He asked her if George Sherman had a case that night.
“Not that I know of,” said the nurse. “Hasn’t been a chest except for the stab wound you’re covering.”
Outside of OR room 18, Thomas met Peter Figman scrubbing. He was a baby-faced, slight fellow who appeared as if he didn’t have to shave yet. Thomas had seen him on numerous occasions but never had the opportunity of working with him. He had a reputation of being smart, dedicated, and of having good hands.
As soon as he saw Thomas, Peter launched into a detailed presentation of the case. The patient had been stabbed during a hockey game at the Boston Garden but was in stable condition, although there had been some trouble with his blood pressure when he’d first been admitted to the emergency room. He’d been typed and crossed for eight units of blood, but none had been given yet. The first thought had been that the knife had punctured one of the great vessels.
While Thomas listened to the presentation, he took a surgical mask from the box on the shelf above the scrub sink. He preferred the older-style masks that tied behind the neck and head as compared to the molded masks that were secured with a single elastic band behind the head. Tonight, however, he kept dropping one or the other of the straps. Then the mask slipped from his grasp and fell to the floor. Thomas cursed under his breath and took another. As he reached into the box, Peter noticed that the older man’s hand had a slight tremor.
Peter stopped his presentation. “Are you all right, Dr. Kingsley?”
His hand in the box, Thomas slowly rotated his head to look directly at Peter. “What do you mean, am I all right?”
“I thought maybe you weren’t feeling well,” said Peter timidly.
Thomas snapped the mask out of the box, pulling an extra one with it which fell into the scrub sink. “And why did you think I might not be feeling well?”
“I don’t know, just a hunch,” said Peter evasively. He was sorry now he’d said anything.
“For your information, I feel perfectly fine,” said Thomas, making no attempt to conceal his anger. “But there’s one thing I will not tolerate from the residents, and that is insolence. I hope you understand.”
“I understand,” said Peter, eager to drop the subject.
Leaving the resident to finish his scrub, Thomas pushed through the OR door. “For Christ’s sake,” thought Thomas, “doesn’t the kid realize I was just awakened from a deep sleep; everybody has a little tremor until they have a chance to fully wake up.”
The OR was a buzz of activity. The patient was already fully anesthetized and junior house staff were in the process of prepping the patient’s chest. Thomas walked over to review the X rays. Then, while his back was to the room, he held up his hand. The tremor was slight. He’d had worse. “Just wait until that cocky kid rotates on cardiac surgery,” Thomas mused with some satisfaction.
Thomas parked himself in the back of the OR and watched carefully as the case began. He was ready to intervene if needed, but to Peter’s credit, he was a good technical surgeon. Thomas quizzed all the residents about possible hemopericardium. None of them, including Peter, had thought of the diagnosis despite the fact that it had been discussed at the last death conference. When Thomas was certain the case was routine and would go smoothly, he stood up and stretched. He wandered over to the door. “I’ll be available if anything goes wrong. You fellows are doing a good job.”
When the OR door closed behind Thomas, Peter Figman glanced up and whispered: “I think Dr. Kingsley’s had one too many tonight.”
“I think you’re right,” said a junior resident.
Thomas had felt a sudden sleepiness steal over him as he’d sat in the OR. Fear of nodding off had driven him out. On the way to the surgical lounge he took several deep breaths. He couldn’t remember how many Scotches he’d had with Doris. He’d have to be more careful in the future.
Unfortunately, the lounge was occupied by two nurses on their coffee break. He’d planned to stretch out on the couch but decided he’d use one of the cots in the locker room instead. As he passed the window, he glanced out and noticed a light in one of the offices across the way in the Scherington Building. Counting the windows from the end, Thomas realized that it was Ballantine’s. He looked up at the clock over the coffee maker. It was close to 2:00 A.M.! Had the janitor just forgotten to turn it off?
“Excuse me,” called Thomas to the two nurses, “I’ll be in the locker room if they call me from surgery. In case I fall asleep, would one of you mind coming in and giving me a nudge?”
As Thomas went through the swinging doors to the locker room, he wondered if the light in Ballantine’s office had anything to do with the fact that George Sherman’s car was in the parking lot. There was something disturbing about those two facts.
The windowless alcove with the two cots was not completely dark. Light from the surgical lounge drifted through the short hall to the locker room. As usual the cots were empty. Thomas had the suspicion that he was the only person ever to use them.
Reaching into the pocket of his scrub shirt, he found the small yellow pill he’d placed there. Deftly he snapped the tablet in half. One half went into his mouth where he let it dissolve on his tongue. The other half went back into his pocket in case he needed it later. Before he closed his eyes, he wondered how long he had before he would get called.
At 2:45 A.M., the stairwell seemed to belong in a gigantic mausoleum rather than a hospital. The long vertical drop acted like a chimney of sorts, and there was a low-pitched whine of wind coming from somewhere in the bowels of the building. As the figure in the stairwell opened the door on the eighteenth floor, air hissed out as from a vacuum jar.
In usual hospital dress, the man was not afraid of being seen but still preferred not to be. He checked carefully to make sure the corridor was deserted for its entire length before allowing the door to close behind him. As it swung shut there was the same rude sucking noise.
One hand thrust into the pocket of his white coat, the man moved silently down the hall to Jeoffry Washington’s room. There he stopped and waited for a moment. There was no sound of activity coming from the nurses’ station. All that could be heard were distant, muted sounds of the cardiac monitors and respiratory machines.
In a blin
k of the eye the man was inside the room, slowly closing the door to the hall. The only light came from the bathroom where the door was cracked an eighth of an inch. As soon as his eyes adjusted to the dimness, he pulled his hand out of his pocket, gripping a full syringe. He dropped the cap from the needle into the opposite pocket and moved rapidly to the bedside. Then he froze.
The bed was empty!
His jaw straining to its limits, Jeoffry Washington yawned hard enough to bring tears to his eyes. He shook his head and tossed the three-week-old Time magazine onto the low table. He was sitting in the patient lounge across from the treatment room. Getting up, he pushed his IV pole ahead of him out of the lounge toward the semidarkened nurses’ station. He’d hoped that a stroll down the corridor would have helped his insomnia, but it hadn’t worked. He wasn’t any sleepier than he’d been tossing in his bed.
Pamela Breckenridge watched his progress through the doorless opening of the chart room. She’d become accustomed to his appearances over the past two nights. To save money she’d been brown bagging it rather than using the cafeteria, and Jeoffry would appear just as she was ready to eat.
“Is it possible for me to have another sleeping pill?” he called.
Pamela swallowed, told him it was, and directed the LPN to get Jeoffry another Dalmane. Dr. Sherman had obliged by adding a “repeat × 1” after his initial order.
As if he were standing at a bar, Jeoffry accepted the pill and the miniature paper cup of water the LPN extended toward him over the counter of the station. Jeoffry popped the pill and tossed off the water. God, what he wouldn’t have done for a few tokes of grass. Then he began the slow trip back up the corridor.
The hall darkened as he moved away from the nurses. Presently he saw his shadow appear in front of him on the vinyl floor, growing as he walked. The IV pole made it look as if he were some prophet clutching a staff. To open his door he thumped it with the wheeled footplate. Inside he hooked the door with his foot and shoved it closed. If there were any chance of dropping off to sleep, he had to shield himself from the noise and lights from the corridor.