Godplayer

by Robin Cook

  Cassi listened, enjoying the images. Soon she felt a peace settle over her. With Thomas there she could relax. Consciously she could feel the sleeping pill begin to work, and she realized that she was falling asleep.

  Robert was caught in the netherworld between sleep and consciousness. He’d been having a terrifying dream: he was imprisoned between two walls that were relentlessly closing in on him. The space where he stood became smaller and smaller. He could no longer breathe.

  Desperately he pulled himself awake. The entrapping walls were gone. The dream was over, but the awful sense of suffocation was still there. It was as if the room had been sucked dry of its air.

  In panic he tried to sit up, but his body would not obey. Flailing his arms in terror, he thrashed around looking for the call button. Then his hand touched someone standing silently in the dark. He had help!

  “Thank God,” he gasped, recognizing his visitor. “Something’s wrong. Help me. I need air! Help me, I’m suffocating!”

  Robert’s visitor pushed Robert back onto the bed so roughly the empty syringe in his hand almost dropped to the floor. Robert again reached out, grabbing the man’s jacket. His legs kicked at the bed rails setting up a metallic clamor. He tried to scream, but his voice came out muffled and incoherent. Hoping to silence Robert before anyone came to investigate, the man leaned over to cover his mouth. Robert’s knee flew up and thumped the man on the chin, snapping his teeth on the tip of his tongue.

  Enraged by the pain, the man leaned his entire weight on the hand clamped over Robert’s face, pushing his head deep into the pillow. For a few minutes more Robert’s legs jerked and twitched. Then he lay still. The man straightened up, removing his hand slowly as if he expected the boy to struggle anew. But Robert was no longer breathing; his face was almost black in the dim light.

  The man felt drained. Trying not to think, he went into the bathroom and rinsed the blood out of his mouth. Always before when he dispatched a patient, he had known he was doing the right thing. He gave life; he took life. But death was only administered to further the larger good.

  The man remembered the first time he had been responsible for a patient’s death. He had never doubted it was the right thing to do. It had been many years ago, back when he was a junior resident on thoracic surgery. A crisis had arisen in the intensive care unit.

  All the patients had developed complications. None could be discharged, and all elective cardiac surgery in the hospital had come to a halt. Every day at rounds the chief resident Barney Kaufman went from bed to bed to see if anyone was ready to be transferred, but no one was. And each day, they stopped last by a patient Barney had labeled Frank Gork. A shower of emboli from a calcified heart valve had been loosed during surgery and Frank Gork, formally Frank Segelman, had been left brain-dead. He’d been on the unit for over a month. The fact that he was still alive, in the sense that his heart was beating and his kidneys were making urine, was a tribute to the nursing staff.

  One afternoon Kaufman looked down at Frank. “Mr. Gork, we all love you, but would you consider checking out of this hotel? I know it’s not the food that’s keeping you here.”

  Everyone snickered but the man who had continued to stare into Frank’s empty face. Later that night, the man had gone into the busy intensive care unit and walked up to Frank Gork with a syringe full of potassium chloride. Within seconds Frank’s regular cardiac rhythm degenerated with T waves peaking, and then flattening out. It had been the man himself who called the code, but the team only made a halfhearted attempt at resuscitation.

  After the fact everyone was pleased, from the nursing staff to the attending surgeon. The man almost had to restrain himself from taking credit for the event. It had been so simple, clean, definite, and practical.

  The man had to admit that killing Robert Seibert had not been like that. There wasn’t the same sense of euphoria of doing what had to be done and knowing that he was one of the few with the courage to do it. Yet Robert Seibert had had to die. It was his own fault, dredging up all the so-called SSD series.

  Returning from the bathroom, the man quickly searched the room for any papers relating to Robert’s research. Finding none, he moved to the door and opened it a crack.

  One of the night nurses was coming down the hall with a small metal tray. For a terrifying moment the man thought she might be coming to see Robert. But she turned into another room, leaving the corridor free.

  His heart pounding, the man slipped into the hall. It would be a disaster to be seen on the floor. When he was a resident, he had reason to be in the corridors or patients’ rooms or even the intensive care unit at all hours of the night. Now it was different. He had to be more careful.

  When he reached the safety of the stairwell, panic overtook him. He plunged down three floors without pausing for breath and kept up this frantic descent until he’d passed the twelfth floor. Only then did he begin to slow down. At the landing on five, he stopped, flattening his back against the bare concrete wall, his chest heaving from his exertion. He knew he had to collect himself.

  Taking a deep breath, the man eased open the stairwell door. Within a few moments he felt safe, but his mind wouldn’t stop racing. He kept thinking about the SSD data, realizing that Robert probably had a source in his office, very likely a floppy disc. With a sigh the man decided he’d better visit pathology right away, before Robert’s death was known. Then the only problem would be Cassi. He wondered exactly how much Robert had told her.

  Eleven

  Cassandra woke up with a start, looking into the smiling face of a lab technician who was calling “Dr. Cassidy” for the third time.

  “You do sleep soundly,” she said, seeing Cassi’s eyes finally open.

  Cassi shook her head, wondering why she felt drugged. Then she remembered getting the second sleeping pill.

  “I’ve got to draw some blood,” apologized the technician. “You’ve got a fasting blood sugar ordered.”

  “Okay,” said Cassi equably. She let the technologist have her left arm, remembering that for the next couple of days she would not be administering her own insulin.

  A few minutes later a nurse came in and deftly started an IV in Cassi’s left arm, hanging up a bottle of D5W with ten units of regular insulin. Then she gave Cassi her preop medication.

  “That should hold you,” said the nurse. “Try to relax now. They should be coming for you presently.”

  By the time Cassi was picked up and wheeled down to the elevator she felt a strange sense of detachment, as if the experience were happening to someone else. When she reached the OR holding area, she was only vaguely aware of the profusion of gurneys, nurses, and doctors. She didn’t even recognize Thomas until he bent over and kissed her, and then she told him that he looked silly in his operating paraphernalia. At least she thought she told him so.

  “Everything is going to be fine,” said Thomas, squeezing her hand. “I’m glad you decided to go ahead with your surgery. It’s the best thing.”

  Dr. Obermeyer materialized on Cassi’s left. “I want you to take good care of my wife!” she heard Thomas say. Then she must have fallen asleep. The next thing she was aware of was being pushed down the OR corridor into the operating room itself. She didn’t feel at all scared.

  “I’m going to give you something to make you sleepy,” said the anesthesiologist.

  “I am sleepy,” she murmured, watching the drops fall into the micropore chamber of the IV bottle hung over her head. In the next second, she was fast asleep.

  The OR team moved swiftly. By 8:05 her eye muscles had been isolated and tapes had been passed around them. As soon as complete immobilization had been achieved, Dr. Obermeyer made stab wounds in the sclera and introduced his cutting and sucking instruments. Using a special microscope, he sighted through the cornea and pupil to the blood-stained vitreous. By 8:45 he began to see Cassi’s retina. By 9:15 he found the source of the recurrent bleeding. It was a single aberrant loop of new vessel coming from Cassi�
�s optic disc. With great care, Dr. Obermeyer coagulated and obliterated it. He felt very encouraged. Not only was the problem solved, there was no reason to expect it to recur. Cassi was a lucky woman.

  • • •

  Thomas had finished his only coronary bypass for the day. He’d canceled the next two. Happily the case had gone tolerably well although he again had trouble sewing the anastomoses. Unlike the previous day, though, he was able to finish, but the moment Larry Owen began to close, Thomas changed into his street clothes. Normally he waited until Larry brought the patient to the recovery room, but this morning he was too nervous to sit around with nothing to do. Instead he stopped down in the OR to see how things were going.

  “Just fine,” shouted Larry over his shoulder. “We’re closing the skin now. The halothane’s been stopped.”

  “Good. I’ve been called on an emergency.”

  “Everything under control here.”

  Thomas left the hospital, something he rarely did during a working day, and climbed into his Porsche. It thrilled him to hear the powerful engine as he turned on the ignition. After the frustration of the hospital, the car provided an enormous sense of freedom. Nothing on the road could touch him. Nothing!

  Driving across Boston, Thomas left the car in a No Parking zone directly in front of a large pharmacy, confident his MD license plate would save him from a ticket. Entering the store, he went directly to the prescription counter.

  The pharmacist, in his traditional high-necked tunic, emerged from behind the high counter.

  “Can I help you?”

  “Yes,” said Thomas. “I called earlier about some drugs.”

  “Of course. I’ve got it right here,” said the pharmacist, holding up a small cardboard carton.

  “Do you want me to write a script for it?” asked Thomas.

  “Nah. Let me see your M.D. license. That’ll be adequate.”

  Thomas flipped open his wallet and held it out for the pharmacist who just glanced at the license, then asked: “That’ll be all?”

  Thomas nodded, putting his wallet away.

  “We don’t have much call for that dosage,” said the pharmacist.

  “I’ll bet,” said Thomas, taking the parcel.

  Cassandra awoke from her anesthesia, unsure of what was dream and what was reality. She heard voices, but they seemed to be far away, and she couldn’t make out what they were saying. Finally she realized they were calling her name. She heard them tell her to wake up.

  Cassi tried to open her eyes but found that she couldn’t. A sense of panic gripped her, and she attempted to sit up only to be immediately restrained.

  “Easy now, everything is okay,” said a voice by her side.

  But everything wasn’t okay. Cassi could not see. What had happened? Suddenly she remembered the anesthesia and the operation. “My God! I’m blind!” shouted Cassi, trying to touch her face. Someone grabbed her hands.

  “Easy now. You have patches on your eyes.”

  “Why patches?” Cassi yelled.

  “Just to keep your eyes quiet,” said the voice calmly. “They’ll only be on for a day or so. Your operation went smoothly. Your doctor said you are a lucky woman. He coagulated a troublesome vessel, but he doesn’t want it to bleed again, so you must stay quiet.”

  Cassi felt a little less anxious, but the darkness was frightening. “Let me see, just for a moment,” Cassi pleaded.

  “I can’t do that. Doctor’s orders. We’re not supposed to touch your bandages. But I can shine a light directly at you. I’m sure you’ll see that. Okay?”

  “Yes,” said Cassi, eager for any reassurance. Why hadn’t she been warned about this before the operation? She felt as if she had been cast adrift.

  “I’m back,” said the voice. Cassi heard a click and saw the light immediately. What’s more, she perceived it equally with both eyes. “I can see it,” she said excitedly.

  “Of course you can,” said the voice. “You’re doing fine. Do you have any pain?”

  “No,” said Cassi. The light was switched off.

  “Then just relax. We’ll be right here if you want us. Just call.”

  As Cassie let herself relax, she listened to the various nurses as they moved about their patients. She realized she was in the recovery room and wondered if Thomas would come down to see her.

  Thomas finished seeing his office patients early. By 2:10 he had just one appointment left at 2:30. While he waited he checked the OR to see which attending was on call that night for the thoracic service. Learning it was Dr. Burgess, Thomas gave him a call.

  Thomas explained that he was planning to sleep in the hospital anyway to be near Cassi and suggested he take call as well. Dr. Burgess could pay back the favor when the Kingsleys were away.

  Thomas hung up and, seeing he still had fifteen minutes to spare, decided to visit Cassi. She had just been brought up to her room, and Thomas could not tell if she was asleep or not. She was lying quietly, her face covered with bulky eye patches secured with heavy elasticized tape. An IV dripped slowly into her left arm.

  Thomas went silently to the side of her bed.

  “Cassi?” he whispered. “Are you awake?”

  “I am,” said Cassi. “Is that you, Thomas?”

  Thomas grasped Cassi’s arm. “How do you feel, honey?”

  “Pretty well. Except for these patches. I wish Obermeyer had told me about them.”

  “I talked with him,” said Thomas. “He called me right after the surgery. He said everything went better than he could have anticipated. Apparently only one vessel was involved. He took care of it, but it was a large one and that made him opt for the patches. He didn’t expect to use them either.”

  “It doesn’t make this any easier,” said Cassi.

  “I can imagine,” said Thomas sympathetically.

  Thomas stayed for another ten minutes, then said he had to get back to the office. He gave her hand a squeeze and told her she should get as much sleep as possible.

  To her surprise Cassi did doze and didn’t wake up until late in the afternoon.

  “Cassi?” someone was saying.

  Cassi jumped, startled by the unexpected voice so close to her.

  “It’s me, Joan. I’m sorry if I woke you.”

  “It’s all right, Joan. I just didn’t hear you come in.”

  “I heard your operation went well,” said Joan, pulling up a chair.

  “So I understand,” said Cassi. “And I’m going to feel a lot better when these patches come off.”

  “Cassi,” said Joan. “I have some news. I’ve debated all afternoon whether I should tell you or not.”

  “What is it?” asked Cassi anxiously. Her first thought was that one of her patients had killed themselves. Suicide was a constant worry on Clarkson Two.

  “It’s bad news.”

  “I guessed that from the tone of your voice.”

  “Do you think you’re up to it? Or should I wait?”

  “You have to tell me now. If you don’t I’ll just keep worrying.”

  “Well, it’s about Robert Seibert.”

  Joan paused. She could guess what effect the news was going to have on her friend.

  “What about Robert?” demanded Cassi instantly. “Dammit, Joan, don’t keep me in suspense.” In the back of her mind she knew what Joan was going to say.

  “Robert died last night,” said Joan, reaching out and grasping Cassi’s hand.

  Cassi lay motionless. Minutes went by; five, ten. Joan wasn’t sure. The only sign of life from Cassi was her shallow breathing and the force with which she gripped Joan’s hand. It was as if Cassi were holding on for her own life. Joan didn’t know what to say. “Cassi, are you all right?” she finally whispered.

  For Cassi the news seemed like the final blow. Sure, everyone worried when they went into the hospital, but with no more seriousness than one expected to win the lottery if he bought a ticket. There was a chance, but it was so infinitesimally small that it wasn’t
worth thinking about.

  “Cassi, are you all right?” Joan repeated.

  Cassi sighed. “Tell me what happened.”

  “They don’t know for sure,” said Joan, relieved to hear Cassi speak. “And I don’t know all the details. He apparently just died in his sleep. The nurses told me the autopsy showed that he had more severe heart disease than anyone suspected. I suppose he had a heart attack, but I don’t know for sure.”

  “Oh God!” said Cassi, fighting tears.

  “I’m sorry to bring you such sad news,” said Joan. “I just felt if it were the other way around I’d want to know.”

  “He was such a wonderful man,” said Cassi. “And such a good friend.”

  The news was so overwhelming that Cassi suddenly felt devoid of emotion.

  “Can I get you anything?” asked Joan solicitously.

  “No, thank you.”

  There was a silence that made Joan feel acutely uncomfortable. “Are you sure you’re all right?” she asked.

  “I’m fine, Joan.”

  “Do you want to talk about how you feel?” asked Joan.

  “Not now,” said Cassi. “I don’t feel anything right now.”

  Joan could sense that Cassi had withdrawn. She questioned the advisability of having told Cassi, but what was done was done. She sat for a while holding Cassi’s hand. Then she left, turning at the door to wish her a good night.

  On her way out, she stopped at the nurses’ station and spoke to the head nurse. She said she’d seen Cassi as a friend, not a consult, but she felt she should point out that Cassi was extremely depressed over the death of a friend. Maybe the nurses should keep an eye on her.

  Cassi lay motionless for a long time. She’d not objected when Joan left, but now felt very much alone. Robert’s death had triggered all her old fears of abandonment. She kept remembering the nightmare she had as a child that her mother would send her back to the hospital in exchange for a healthy child.