Flashback (1988)

by Palmer, Michael

  “Don’t get comfortable, sport,” he said. “Just say what you want to say and leave.” He motioned to the computer. “Number six now, Zack-o. Six out of nearly two hundred administrators nationwide. Not bad, if I do say so myself. No, siree, not bad at all.”

  “Well, then you’d better listen to me, Frank. Because I’ve learned something that could bring this place crashing down about your ears if you don’t do something about it.”

  There was no more than a flicker of interest. “Oh?”

  “It’s that anesthetic, Frank. The one I tried to tell you about before.”

  “Go on.”

  “I just came from speaking with Mrs. Nelms, the mother of the boy in ICU.”

  “I know who she is,” Frank said.

  “Well, I was going over some of my concerns with her, and—”

  “You what?”

  “Frank, just calm down and listen.”

  “No, you listen. Do you have any idea how much of a nuisance that woman will be if you fill her with all that human experimentation bullshit of yours?”

  “Frank, it’s not bullshit. It’s really happening, and you’d better help me do something about it or this place will be crawling with lawyers, hospital-certification people, and police. I promise you.”

  “Don’t you dare threaten me.”

  “Well, then, will you please listen, for Chrissake? Suzanne’s life may be on the line here, to say nothing of that poor kid in the ICU. We don’t have much time.”

  Frank toyed with a paper clip for a few moments, straightened it, and then snapped it in two.

  “Okay, Bro,” he said finally. “You’ve got five minutes.”

  “They’re experimenting with something, Frank—Mainwaring and Pearl. They’re fooling around with some sort of new general anesthetic, and they think it’s working fine, only it isn’t. The patients look asleep during their surgery and even think they were asleep afterward. But at some level, just below their conscious surface, they were wide awake, experiencing the whole thing—the cutting, the blood, the pain, everything.”

  “Sport, I didn’t believe you this morning, and I don’t believe you now.”

  “Well, you’d better. I have proof.”

  “Oh?”

  “It’s the music, Frank. ‘Greensleeves’—the music Mainwaring operates to.”

  “What in the hell are you—”

  “Mainwaring nearly always works to one piece of music. It’s a classical version of ‘Greensleeves’—you know, the folk song from—”

  “I know the tune,” Frank said testily.

  “Well, according to Mrs. Nelms, every time her kid had one of his seizures, he was watching a children’s show where they play that melody.”

  “That’s your proof?”

  “There’s more. Last week Suzanne and I were together, when suddenly she went blank, totally blank.”

  “So?”

  “Frank, that tune was playing on the radio. As soon as I shut it off, she snapped out of whatever place she was in, and kept on talking as if nothing had ever happened. I didn’t put together what was going on until just now. She was on her way, Frank. I’m sure now that if I had left the radio on a little longer, she would have had a seizure just like the kid’s. She was on her way to reliving her breast operation—probably in some bizarre, distorted way—just the way Toby kept reexperiencing his hernia repair.”

  “This is ridiculous.”

  “It’s fact, Frank. Listen, you’ve got to help me find Mainwaring, or at least help me try and reason with Pearl.”

  “No way.”

  “That child is dying. We need to know what they gave him.”

  Frank picked up the phone and dialed.

  “Chief Clifford, Frank Iverson here,” he said. “That restraining order I asked you for ready yet?”

  “Jesus, Frank, you are crazy,” Zack said.

  “That’s fine, Chief, fine. So it’s effective immediately?”

  “I’m going to tell the board what’s going on here, Frank—the board and Ultramed. And as soon as I find Mainwaring, I’m going to—”

  “Chief, could you do me a big favor and send a couple of men around now? He’s here, and he’s refusing to leave.…”

  “Dammit, Frank.”

  “Thanks, Cliff.… Oh, he’s doing as well as could be expected. It’s nice of you to ask. John Burris, the neurosurgeon from Concord, has transferred him down there.…”

  “Frank, for Chrissake—”

  “Hopefully, we’ll be getting a new neurosurgeon in town soon, so that we won’t have to send folks out who need our help.… Exactly. Well, thanks again, Cliff. When can I expect those men of yours? … Excellent. You run a crack operation, Cliff. The best … You bet. Take care now.”

  Frank laid down the receiver with exaggerated deliberateness.

  “You’ve got about three minutes to get your ass out of my hospital,” he said, “and less than a day to get it out of our house. I’d suggest you get home and start packing. And I promise you, if you so much as set foot in this place, or say one word to any of our patients, you will be in deep, deep shit. Is that clear?”

  “Frank, you’re making a big mis—”

  “I said, is that clear?”

  Without responding, Zack headed toward the door. When he opened it, a hospital security guard—if anything, even larger than the guard, Henry—was standing there.

  “It’s a little button right down here,” Frank explained, gesturing to the base of his desk. “I never had to use it until now, but it just paid for itself. Tommy, would you please see to it that Dr. Iverson here is out of the hospital and off hospital property right away.”

  “Yessir.”

  “No stops.”

  “Yessir.”

  “It’s not going to work, Frank,” Zack said.

  “I’ll take my chances.”

  “What about that kid?”

  “That kid will be better off having a doctor who doesn’t get drunk when he’s on call, sport. Now, I see by the ol’ clock on the mantel that your five minutes are about up.” He looked out the window. “Oh, and there are our friends from the constabulary, right on time.”

  “You are something, Frank. You really are.”

  Frank smiled broadly.

  “Yes,” he said, “I know.”

  * * *

  “Greensleeves.”

  Curious, Frank fished through his desk drawer for the cassette Mainwaring had given him and popped it into his tapedeck. It was syrupy, spineless music—certainly far from being any sort of lethal weapon. Clearly, Zack had flipped over the edge, grasping at any straw in an effort to disrupt his brothers finest hour.

  “No way, Zack-o,” Frank murmured. “No fucking way.”

  He snapped off the tape and then watched through his office window as his brother was led across the hospital parking lot to his car by two policemen and the hospital guard. It was a scene he would carry with him forever. The days of sports trophies and star-struck coeds might be part of the past, but this triumph would do quite nicely.

  As he followed Zack’s battered orange camper down the hill toward town, Frank knew that the last obstacle toward his achieving every one of his goals was all but disappearing. With the Judge out of the way, and Bourque having agreed to a closed vote, the final purchase of the hospital by Ultramed was a virtual lock. And with Zack out of the way, there was nothing to interfere with the satisfactory conclusion of his dealings with Mainwaring.

  He felt at once exhilarated and exhausted. It had been a brutal game, but with time running out, he had just run in for the go-ahead touchdown and then recovered the fumble on the ensuing kickoff. Now, he had only to hang on to the ball and run out the clock. He glanced at his watch. The board meeting was less than an hour away. He reminded himself that no matter how exhausted he felt, this was not the time to let down.

  “Loose ends …”he murmured. “Loose ends … loose ends …”

  He called the guard room and order
ed an extra man brought in to patrol die outside of the hospital, on the off chance his brother tried anything foolish. Then he phoned two fence-sitting board members to tell them about the closed-ballot vote and to call in favors he was owed. Finally, he called Atlanta and learned that Jason Mainwaring had left for New England the previous evening and was expected back in Atlanta the next day. Perfect, he thought. If the secretary’s information was correct, Mainwaring had to be planning to conclude their transaction that afternoon.

  Again, Frank checked the time. For the moment, there was nothing he could think of to do but wait. He returned his attention to the still-open hookup with UltraMA. Soon, perhaps within a day, his access code would be upgraded to that of a regional director and he would be made a party to some of Ultramed’s most sensitive information.

  Regional director, with a cool three quarters of a million dollars in the bank. Frank Iverson was within a cats whisker of making it all the way back and then some. When she walked out on him, Lisette had made the biggest fucking mistake of her life. By the time the dust settled, he would have it all—the position, the money, the house and, goddamn it, the children, too. She’d see. He had handled the board, he had handled his brother, and he would handle her just as well.

  Only when the knock on his office door grew persistent did Frank notice it.

  “Who is it, Annette?” he asked through his intercom. “Annette?”

  There was no answer. Then he remembered having sent the woman home, and cursed himself for forgetting that his other secretary was on vacation.

  “Come in,” he called out. “For crying out loud, stop that pounding and come in.”

  Jason Mainwaring, wearing his customary beige plantation owners suit, entered, carrying his briefcase.

  “Little shy on office help, aren’t we?” he said, heading directly for Franks liquor supply.

  “You know me, Jason. Slice off the excess fat. Everything goes down to the bare bone.”

  Mainwaring ran his fingertips over the glistening mahogany surface of Frank’s desk.

  “Yes,” he drawled. “I can see that philosophy at work all around me.”

  “I called Atlanta a while ago. Your secretary said she expected you back there tomorrow. You’re welcome to use your house for a few more days if you want.”

  “Thanks all the same, but I’ve been here about two years too long already. My replacement lined up?”

  “Ready to cut. He’s due here next Wednesday.”

  Frank felt determined to keep his eagerness in check. He knew that Mainwaring wanted Serenyl at least as much as he wanted Mainwaring’s million. If this was their last skirmish, he was damned if he was going to let the man leave with the upper hand. He crossed to his bookcase and poured himself a glass of tonic. Then he deliberately set aside Mainwaring’s “Greensleeves” tape, which he’d been listening to, and snapped on a Mantovani in its place.

  The surgeon flinched.

  “Iverson,” he said, “are you tryin’ to bait me?”

  “Hardly, Jason. I just thought that since this might be our last meeting together, I might see if I could change your opinion about Mantovani. This album’s called Roman Holiday. What do you think?”

  “I think we should get this business of ours over with. That’s what I think.” Irritably, the surgeon rose and shut off the tape.

  Frank unlocked a drawer of his desk and withdrew a thick envelope.

  “Here it is, Jason,” he said. “Signed, sealed, and ready to be delivered.”

  “Just as we had it drawn up?”

  “You were there.”

  “Well, then …” Mainwaring set his briefcase on his lap and opened it. “Our chemists have approved Dr. Pearl’s work, and my company has authorized payment to you of the sum we agreed upon.”

  “That being?”

  “That being the sum we agreed upon. Iverson, don’t play games with me, or I swear, I’ll be out that door.”

  “In that case, Jason, you’ll be out two years of your life as well.”

  Frank was feeling glorious. It was the sort of scene he had watched his father play any number of times over the years. Now, there was a new Iverson pulling the strings—a new Iverson at the top of the heap.

  Mainwaring hesitated, then flipped an envelope onto the desk.

  “Barclay’s Bank, Georgetown, Grand Cayman Islands,” he said, somewhat wearily. “They won’t release the money to you until they hear from me. But if you have doubts about the account numbers, feel free to call them.”

  “That won’t be necessary, Jason. I trust you. Besides, I’ve arranged for my man at the Cayman National Bank to transfer the funds to accounts there as soon as he hears from me. So, if you’ll just check over those papers, we can each make a call.”

  “You are quite the most distasteful man I have ever had dealings with, Iverson.”

  “Thank you,” Frank said. “From you, I’ll take that as a compliment. Now, if you’ll be so kind.”

  He slid the phone across to the surgeon, then sat back as calmly as he could manage and waited. When the calls were completed, he dropped Mainwaring’s envelope in his drawer and watched as the surgeon tucked the bill of sale and the patent rights to Serenyl into his briefcase. A million dollars, Frank was thinking. Just like that—a million dollars.

  “I hope this means we’re about to see the last of one another,” Mainwaring said.

  “We’ll miss you, Jason,” Frank replied with a straight face. “We surely will.”

  The surgeon stood and gave Franks proffered hand an ichthyic shake. Then he whirled and was gone.

  Frank walked to his bathroom, washed his face, and studied himself in the mirror.

  “Funny,” he said, straightening his tie and then winking at his reflection, “you don’t look like a millionaire.”

  Judge, you’re my father. I love you for that—for the things you’ve done for me.… I would give up my life, if necessary, to protect you.…

  Lying on his stretcher, Judge Clayton Iverson watched the foliage flash past through the rear windows of the ambulance as he reflected on his son’s words. They had passed through Conway five or ten minutes before, he guessed, so almost certainly they had split off from Route 16 and were heading southwest on 25, toward Moultonborough and the northern rim of Lake Winnipesaukee. Beside him, the paramedic, a woman with Orphan Annie hair and an eager, child’s fece, was carrying on a running conversation with the driver, pausing occasionally to check his pulse and blood pressure.

  It was all so painful, the Judge acknowledged; so confusing. One moment, he was on top of the world, the next he was speeding through town to confront his older son with the facts of his dishonesty and embezzlement, and with the reality that, once again, the man had been given every opportunity and had failed. And even more distressing, Frank’s perfidy had, in effect, ripped control of the Ultramed-Davis situation from the community board and handed it to Leigh Baron on a plate.

  … Paralysis may be due to factors other than spinal cord damage.… Guilt, fear, grief. Only you can fill in the blanks, Judge.…

  There was no cause for guilt, the Judge reasoned desperately. Beau Robillard hadn’t done one thing of value his entire life. Clayton Iverson had been elected Sterling Man of the Year six times. Six! Besides, if blame were to be placed, it should go to Frank, not to him. If it weren’t for Frank, there would have been no accident. If it weren’t for Frank, there would have been no drinking, no lapse in concentration, no missed red light.

  … Given the information I had to work with last night, if the same situation arose again, I would make the same choices.…

  If it weren’t for Frank, Zachary would never have been put in the position of having to make such a terrible decision. At least Zachary had had the guts to face him—to face him and to hold his ground. Why hadn’t he appreciated his younger son more before? Explanations, but no excuses. That was the way of a real man. Frank always had excuses.

  Now, because of Frank, Ultramed would ha
ve control of Davis forever, and with that control, a stranglehold on Sterling that even Clayton Iverson would be unable to break.

  There was no sense lingering over the spilled milk that was Beau Robillard. That milk was soured to begin with. But the hospital was a different story. John Burris had told him that trying to attend the board meeting was out of the question, and in truth, he had wanted to get as far away from both of his sons as possible. But now …

  If only he weren’t so damned helpless. If only he could move.…

  “Judge Iverson,” the paramedic said.

  “Yes, what is it?”

  “Sir, you just crossed your legs.”

  “What?”

  Clayton Iverson looked down at his feet. They were, in fact, crossed—his left ankle resting on his right. Gingerly, he lifted the upper leg and set it down on the stretcher. Then he lifted the other. His pulse began to pound.

  “What time is it?” he demanded.

  “Eleven, sir.”

  “Where are we?”

  “Just outside of Moultonborough.”

  “Tell the driver to turn around.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Turn around, dammit. Turn around. I’ve got to get back to the hospital.”

  “Sir, we can’t—”

  “Do you know who I am? … Well then, I said turn around. I don’t have time to argue. I’m paying for this ambulance, and I swear, if you don’t do as I say, there will be hell to pay for both of you!”

  “But—”

  “Now!”

  “Y-Yessir.”

  The woman knelt beside the driver, and after a brief exchange, the ambulance swung into a driveway and turned around.

  “Use your lights and siren, and step on it,” the Judge said.

  “But sir, we’re not allowed to—”

  “The siren, dammit! I assure you nothing bad will happen if you do, but everything bad will happen if you don’t. Quickly now, lets move.”

  The driver hesitated, and then switched on the lights and siren and accelerated.

  Behind him, Judge Clayton Iverson crossed and uncrossed his legs again.

  “Well, I’ll be damned,” he muttered. “I’ll be goddamned.”