Embryo 2: Crosshairs

by JA Schneider

  He inhaled and scribbled an order sheet as he spoke. “Temp check every two hours; call resident for temp over 103.4. If she doesn’t respond to the cefepime, we may have to add a different antibiotic, but at least we know which family of drugs this bug is sensitive to.”

  One of the med students looked alarmed. “Pseudomonas! Are we in any danger of contagion?”

  “No,” David said, looking back at Kassie. “Her infection is internal and she isn’t coughing yet.”

  The med student looked relieved.

  “As for rape victims,” David said, “you never know if you’re going to be treating this, so everyone please study up on Pseudomonas aeruginosa. It isn’t rare, it’s extremely hard to treat, and these rogue bugs seem to be proliferating.”

  “I saw this in London,” Ramu Chitkara said.

  Charlie Ortega looked at him. “Did the patient make it?”

  Slowly, Ramu shook his head back and forth. “No.”

  Jill sent a troubled glance to David. She was afraid and her heart ached. She looked back to Kassie feeling desperate with compassion. “A good friend. Helps everybody,” the orderly had said. When would life start being fair?

  Gary Phipps said, “I wanna kill this guy.”

  “Join the club,” Jim Holloway said.

  Someone asked why Lainey Wheeler, whom they’d seen in previous rounds, didn’t get this infection. No one needed to be told it was the same rapist.

  “The guy wasn’t symptomatic yet,” David said. “Was still just incubating his bug.”

  MacIntyre’s mind clicked. “So that pinpoints him. It takes what? Three or four days to develop bronchitis or pneumonia?”

  “Right. This is probably day two for him.”

  Evan Blair asked, “What are the first symptoms?”

  “Scratchy throat, dry cough, then fever.”

  Blair and the others took notes.

  Problem: where do you buy Mace?

  Outside Kassie’s room, as the rest of the group left and David spoke with a nurse, Jill fisted her knuckles till they were white, and decided not to hold it in any more. Inhaling, she poured it out to friends she trusted, and who didn’t know yet, what the red letters on Kassie meant. And that she was terrified and wanted Mace.

  “You’ve been threatened?” Ramu and Gary Phipps said almost together, aghast.

  “Yes. David too. This rapist is also after us. We don’t know why.”

  “A psycho…” Ramu screwed his face in horror.

  Tricia got emotional, spoke in a rush. “We should have bought Mace yesterday. There’s a Right-Aid a block away, you stay,” she told Jill. “You shouldn’t be running around. Bad enough we’ve got clinic in half an hour. Jeez, the creeps I see down there, scary guys who say they’re waiting for their girlfriends, but they don’t leave!”

  “They like the air-conditioning,” Phipps said gloomily.

  MacIntyre said, “I don’t think drug stores carry Mace.” Charlie Ortega didn’t think so either, and suggested a sports store.

  “Amazon?” Ramu suggested.

  “She wants it now,” Phipps said.

  They stood fretting and guessing. The young cop outside Kassie’s room looked over and said, “Walmart. Only, it’s over on Fifth and 30th. Ten blocks away.”

  They thanked him. Jill noticed that his last name was Precioza.

  David, who’d been listening with half an ear, turned from the nurse to Gary, who was madly scrolling through his cell phone. “How’d you like to be excused from clinic duty?”

  “Duh!”

  “Great.” David tore off half an order sheet, and wrote.

  “Get two cans of Mace,” he said. “I’ll pay you back. Wait. Get three cans, one for Lainey Wheeler too. Damn, I haven’t gotten to see her.” He looked at Jill. “You’ll go? I have to check some new charts.”

  She nodded. “Was planning to.”

  “I’ll come with you,” Tricia said.

  Gary piped, “Does Walmart sell stun guns too?”

  “’Fraid not,” David said.

  “How ‘bout real guns?”

  Officer Precioza grinned over at him. He looked lonely.

  “Just get the Mace,” the young cop said.

  29

  Lainey Wheeler was doing better. Her pallor was gone and her skin had pinked up. The head of her bed was elevated and she was watching TV.

  “Back?” she smiled at Tricia.

  Jill, entering behind Tricia said, “I missed rounds. Wanted to see how you’re doing.” She went to take Lainey’s hand, which squeezed hers back. Firmly, warm and strong. With her free hand Lainey turned down the TV.

  Tricia was re-checking her temperature chart at the bottom of the bed. “Ninety-eight point six! Normal!”

  And no infection, her look to Jill said.

  Next came the delicate question. “So how are you feeling…emotionally?” Jill asked gently. “Have, uh, trauma counselors been in to see you?”

  “Yes.” Lainey tried to smile. “It’s hard, but I’ll get through it.” She exhaled. “In fact, I kinda wish they’d stop coming. They’re depressing.”

  Jill and Tricia looked at her.

  She shrugged. “Hey, I’m alive,” she said, misting up a little. “You guys took care of me, he used a condom so no STDs to worry about, so I’m thankful. That makes me weird, I guess.” She pulled in a deep, determined breath. “I refuse to feel victimized.”

  She turned the TV back up and said, “Look at that.”

  The news was on. Thousands being massacred in Syria. A four-year-old boy shot in the head, his mother wailing over him. A crying father carrying his blown-apart little girl.

  Lainey turned the sound down again, and swallowed hard. “I’ve had my nightmares, catch myself feeling, Why me, oh poor me? Then…I remind myself …try to anyway…that I really am lucky.” She looked from Tricia to Jill; gave a brave, crooked little smile. “If that makes me weird, maybe I do need those psych counselors.”

  They both hugged her. “You’re awesome,” Tricia said; and Jill, tears welling, said, “You’re an inspiration. I can’t tell you how much.”

  Movement caught her eye and she looked to the doorway. There was Trey Raphael, taping them. Adjusting his focus and actually stepping into the room for this moving scene.

  Vulture…

  “S’cuse,” Jill said tightly. She rounded the bed and took off after him.

  “Get out,” she said in his face, her voice charged with fury.

  He stepped back, but the sonofabitch kept taping! “Ah, a close up,” he cooed. “I love it when you’re mad.”

  “When I’m – “ In a rage she shoved his shoulders so hard he stumbled backward out into the hall, nearly dropping his camera.

  “Assault!” he hissed, straightening, his face twisting. “This is a Sony VX! You’ve got a hell of a nerve!”

  “I’ve got - ?” she hissed back, shoving him further into the hall. “You spy. You tape personal moments-”

  “Bitch,” he sneered. “I can tape you whenever I want.”

  He was again in scrubs. What a laugh if it weren’t so infuriating. Two nurses yards away stopped to stare worriedly. An orderly joined them, a muscular guy frowning with concern. The Gyn hall was quiet, at least…usually. No new moms in pastel robes gaping out.

  Jill glared at Trey Raphael, stepping closer. “I will not be followed around, spied on. You pull this again and I’ll sue you for invasion of privacy.”

  “Sue the hospital,” he sneered. “They told me to do this.”

  Tricia had come running out, worried. Jill gestured to her: “Go back. Reassure.”

  Tricia scooted back into Lainey’s room.

  The big orderly approached, eyes narrowed protectively.

  To Raphael Jill mimicked, “’I love it when you’re mad.’ You just came on to me! That’s harassment! Still got your audio running? Give me that camera!”

  They tussled. Jill’s hands were on his camera, pulling-

  And
a heavy hand gripped her shoulder; twisted her around hard. “What’s the meaning of this?” said Tom Ganon. His voice was ice.

  Jill squirmed away from him, her chest heaving. “He’s harassing me!”

  Coolly, as if he were used to this kind of confrontation, Trey Raphael said, “She tried to break my camera. Screwed a scene for the hospital’s P.R. promo.”

  Jill said, “You know what you can do with your camera?” It came out too stridently.

  Ganon’s sallow, rat-like face actually reddened. “Lower your voice,” he threatened.

  She moved away, eyes flashing at Ganon, and pointed to her shoulder. “You just left your finger marks. That’s assault and battery!” She sent a quick prayer of thanks to her mom, the prosecutor, then glanced to the end of the hall, to Officer Preciozo. “Cops aren’t going to like that.”

  Ganon looked. The young cop guarding Kassie Doyle had stepped out from his post, watching narrowly, one hand on his holster. He didn’t move. His job was to guard Kassie. His look was enough.

  On the other side of the melee, the big orderly stood near with his hands clenched.

  Ganon reddened further, “For Chrissakes – “

  Movement from the patient’s doorway stopped him.

  Lainey Wheeler stood there, supported by Tricia.

  “Two men manhandling a woman,” Lainey said, her eyes full of disgust. “Just what I needed to see.”

  “No one’s getting manhandled.” Ganon approached her, his voice turning silky smooth. She and Tricia shrank back. “I’m glad you’re taking a few steps,” he said as if nothing. “It’s important for your circulation.”

  His rat eyes switched to Tricia. “Help Ms. Wheeler back to bed,” he said self-importantly. “Repeat more steps every three hours.”

  But Tricia wasn’t looking at him. Her gaze had shifted with sudden delight over his shoulder, and he turned.

  David stood there, casual, hands in his pockets. “You can leave now, Tom.”

  Jill’s spirits leaped. She hadn’t seen him approach.

  Ganon glared hard at him. “Excuse me?”

  “Leave. And have your P.R. flunky here leave too, after he gives me his camera.”

  Jill went to Lainey and Tricia, breathing heavily. Trey Raphael crept away from David. “Ha,” he said mockingly. “Funny joke.”

  “Nothing funny about harassment,” David said. “’I love it when you’re mad,’” he mimicked too. “Give me your camera now before you can edit it out. You’ve been caught on tape, stupid. By yourself.”

  “This is bullshit!” Raphael was starting to worry, clung to his camera.

  “What else have you got in there?” David pressed, stepping closer to him. “Fun stuff you plan to keep for yourself?” He looked to the orderly for a second, nodded thanks, then turned to the cop, who nodded back…and then he looked back to Raphael…waved an indifferent hand as if he’d never actually been serious. “Okay, keep the camera,” he said magnanimously. “You were witnessed anyway.”

  Ganon seethed. “I hear you’re getting real friendly with the cops,” he said low.

  David smiled pleasantly. “Yeah, as a matter of fact. Seriously, Tom, you can leave. The floor is calm, and we’ll help Ms. Wheeler back to bed. Have a look at Jill’s shoulder too, right, Tricia?”

  30

  Shortly after 4:45, another summons. Oh great, Jill thought, I must be setting a new record.

  Only this time the summons was not to Administration but to Willard Simpson’s office, in the creepy, hated Sturdevandt Research wing.

  The fracas with Raphael and Ganon had her still feeling badly shaken. Simpson’s secretary called just as she was finishing in the clinic, having whipped through routine exams with little conversation, rushed in and out of cubicles with continuous, furtive looks over her shoulder…HI J and HI D replaying in her mind like Psycho’s shrieking violins. The shower scene, that’s how she felt. There were male relatives (or not relatives?) out there in the waiting room, some of them looking hard at her, recognizing her, she was sure of it. Isn’t fame fun?

  David had spent ninety minutes in the clinic, and then been called to an ovarian cancer surgery. Jill was surrounded by bustle and felt so alone, so scared. She struggled to ease her fears. More hospital security guys were everywhere, and two uniformed cops had been stationed, one in the waiting area and one here in the clinic - but who was going to protect them? Sweet guys who couldn’t act until violence happened.

  Psychos can strike wherever and whenever their demented minds want to, there’s no hiding from it.

  Gary Phipps had brought her the Mace. She had hugged him her thanks, filched some other items, and retreated for moments to the john. Good man – the Mace he’d gotten (most powerful pepper concentration spray allowed by law!) came with a pretty, adjustable hand strap which she strapped to her left ankle. Around her right ankle she taped a filched scalpel, dagger sharp, with a rubber band wound round the tip so it wouldn’t nick her, but would flick off easily.

  She told George Mackey where she’d be (in case she went missing or something), then steeled herself for the tunnel. A newer tunnel, at least. Not the nightmare old passageways she’d gotten horribly lost in that Night in The Attic.

  The Sturdevandt Research wing was a crazy mish mash: four stories high and three buildings away, extending at an angle from the new hospital complex to that much older group of buildings. It should have served as an easy connector building, but was off limits to general traffic. Serious research was going on there…

  Jill practically ran through hallways, then down an elevator and through a painted-white tunnel, then into another elevator that brought her to the Sturdevandt’s fourth floor.

  Ohhh, déjà vu. She cringed, seeing again the brightly lit foyer with the sign reading FERTILLITY AND GENETIC COUNSELING.

  She’d absolutely and positively changed her mind about wanting to do such ambitious research. She just wanted to deliver healthy babies. So try to relax, she told herself, heading down the hall lined with cute baby pictures and closed office doors.

  Fat chance.

  The door marked Department of Obstetrics and Gynecology, Professor W.I. Simpson, M.D., PhD, was open. Wide open, as if waiting for her. From inside, phones were ringing and cheery voices were heard. A beautiful black woman was just leaving, looking radiant. To Jill’s surprise, the woman hugged her.

  “I’m not crazy, just happy!” she cried. “Just heard I’m pregnant! Finally, finally, after three wasted years at other hospitals! I’ve been running around hugging everyone!”

  “Oh, I’m thrilled for you!” Jill said, immediately excited. “That’s so great!”

  Second thoughts about research?

  She watched the woman hurry off, then entered an anteroom of flowers, more adorable baby pictures, and beaming secretaries.

  “Yes, he’s waiting for you,” one of them smiled, pointing to the right and an open mahogany door.

  Simpson actually hefted his bulk to greet her, and motioned her to a chair. He sat heavily back down, and gave a sigh as if the sky was falling in.

  “I think you are owed an apology,” he said slowly.

  Jill looked at him. Was this the same Willard Simpson who’d been cold to her during her nightmare struggle? Who three mornings ago had acted indifferently to the creepy scary snail mail she and David had received?

  “Uh…” She didn’t know what to say.

  “Doctor Levine called, appalled at the finger marks Tom Ganon left on your shoulder. And he’s right, that’s highly inappropriate, unprofessional. It’s…” He searched for another word.

  “Assault and battery?” Jill supplied. Thinking, Oh, it’s about Ganon?

  Simpson looked down, bulging his jowls in his too-tight collar, adjusting his spectacles on his pointy little nose.

  “I am hoping,” he said, peering up again, “you aren’t seriously considering your assault charge.”

  What was this? She’d never seriously considered it. Had onl
y bleated it in the heat of the moment. Or…she suddenly realized that on some level she was starting to learn how to play politics. Learn the bleeping ways of the real world?

  “No. It’s forgotten,” she said magnanimously. And felt suddenly older, smarter, less afraid. It was a magic moment for her; she looked down to hide her flush of pleasure. How ‘bout that?

  Simpson was looking relieved when she glanced up again: one less lawsuit to worry about.

  He reached for a ballpoint and turned it slowly in his thick fingers. “So many doctors know nothing about the law,” he said somberly. “Don’t realize that if you so much as put an unfriendly hand on someone, that’s assault.”

  “Right,” Jill said, her sarcasm showing. “Especially when several witnesses include a cop and a girl who’s just been raped. Now that’s bad P.R.”

  Ouch. His features changed; showed that she’d stumbled onto something else on his mind.

  The ballpoint stilled. Simpson exhaled, put the pen down.

  “I am hoping too,” he said uncomfortably, “that you’ll tolerate, ah, that Raphael fellow’s endeavors…I forget his first name.”

  “Trey.”

  “Oh yes. He did nice work on the hospital’s last promotional video.”

  Do tell. Abruptly Jill said, “Have you seen his website?”

  Simpson looked at her quizzically. “Website?”

  “TreyRaphel.com. Take a look. His last promo video ran before the Arnett awfulness. Do you really want someone like that involved with the hospital? It would come out. Feed more ick to the media.”

  Simpson was already in his laptop, clicking, then finding Raphael’s website. “Oh my,” he said, slack-jawed; clicking again. “Oh my.”

  “You didn’t know about that?”

  “No! Why would I? The P.R. office should have… Someone should have vetted…” He sputtered; words failed him. He shoved his laptop away, disgusted. “Well…they’re almost finished,” he said dubiously. “Then they can quietly…oh, I don’t know.”

  “He’s obtrusive with both staff and patients.” Jill leaned forward. “I’ll bet he gropes women in subways.”

  Simpson’s hand rubbed his face, his mouth. “I’ll have someone…deal with him.” His voice turned almost plaintive. “Dammit, I just want to do my work! Without all this insanity! When did things get so big and messy?”