“Somebody is going to find out.” She stood up and walked down the room toward this man who was her husband. “Even if I don’t talk, Mark, someone will. You can’t hide polio and smallpox and diphtheria and all the rest. It’s bound to come out, and what then? Who will you blame?”
“We’ll worry about that when it happens.” He turned to her with real affection and respect in his face. “I didn’t think you could fight, Natalie. I’m very proud of you, even though you’re wrong.”
She choked back angry tears. “I can’t live with you any more, Mark.” She tried to look away from him, but could not.
“Fine.”
“And neither can Philip.”
“All right.”
They stood together silently.
“May I leave now?” she asked in a moment.
He shrugged. “Why not?”
On the other side of the door Ian Parkenson faced her, his deep eyes sad. “I’m sorry for this, Natalie. I wanted to be the one to talk to you. Mark doesn’t understand what we go through. He doesn’t know what we face.”
“Do you know, or have you forgotten, Ian? You’re kidding yourself, if you think this plan will work.”
Ian took her by the shoulder, regret in his face. “I know better than you do what we’re up against. That’s why I’m for this. If you want to talk about it when you’ve had a chance to think it over, I’m willing to listen. Let me know.”
She pushed past him. “That’s very generous of you, Doctor. I might take you up on it after I talk with Justin or Wexford.” She knew that Ian would not like to be compared with the two most bureaucratic of the hospital administrators.
“Natalie ...” he began.
But she was already out of earshot.
She stopped at the first phone and dialed the desk. “This is Dr. Lebbreau. I want to talk to Peter Justin in administration. His office is in Statistics on the sixteenth floor.”
“Dr. Lebbreau?” asked the operator. “Just a moment, Doctor. We have a message for you.”
“Oh?” Natalie was not willing to be put off. “Who from?”
“From a Mrs. diMaggio. I think it...”
“It’s from my son’s school.” A sharp pain lodged itself in her throat as she waited. She.told herself that it was psychosomatic, but that did not make it go away. “What does the message say?”
“I’ll read it to you, if you like. Just a moment.” There was a pause and Natalie heard the rustling of paper. “Here it is. ‘Dr. Lebbreau: we have sent Philip home with a bad cough. Will you please advise us when you are ready to return him to school? Miss Sczieker will stay with him until you can get home.’ It’s signed Florence diMaggio. Will you wait to talk to Dr. Justin, Dr. Lebbreau?”
Natalie’s hands had gone numb. She fumbled with the receiver with unfeeling fingers. “No. No. I’ll talk to Dr. Justin later.”
It took her forty minutes to get home, and all the while she was in turmoil, outraged. Over and over she told herself that Philip had only a cold, that Mark would not let this happen to their child. But the selection for vaccines was random, and no one knew which batches were good and which were not. She wished there was someone she could talk to, someone who would understand and help her fight back, someone who could share her horror.
“It’s only a cold,” she said aloud, blushing when the other passengers stared at her.
By the time she left the bus she was calmer. Her temper was under control and she had realized that she could not buck the whole administration. One thing at a time, she told herself, and the most important thing was her son.
Before she opened her door, she took a deep breath and steadied herself against the frame. At last she knew she would not panic, no matter what she saw. She went into the little apartment.
“Mommy!” Philip wailed as he saw her.
“Dr. Lebbreau,” said the stout young woman on the sofa. She rose with surprising grace, extending her hand. Her hair was the color of highly polished cherrywood.
“Yes, Philip,” Natalie said as she took the proffered hand. “Mommy’s home.” She turned to the other woman. “You’re Miss Sczieker, aren’t you?”
“Yes, I am. How do you do, Dr. Lebbreau?”
Natalie made some answer, anxious to see her son.
“I’ll be leaving now, Doctor, unless you want me to stay?”
“No, thank you,” Natalie said, wishing now that she could confide in this polite, plump woman. It would be so much easier to endure her fear if she could confide in someone.
But Miss Sczieker was already at the door, a light jacket over her arm. “He’s a fine boy, Dr. Lebbreau. You must be very proud of him. Well, if there’s nothing else I can do, I’ll say good-bye.”
Natalie stood uncertainly in the center of the room after the door had closed. Then she walked the few feet to Philip’s bed, each step feeling like miles. “Now, Philip, what’s this about a cold?”
From his mound of covers he said, “I don’t feel good, Mommy. Make me better.”
“I’ll have to look you over first, and then we’ll fix you up perfectly. And soon you’ll be well and you can come with me to a new house.” She wondered where she was to find housing for them, now that her marriage was over, then forced that concern from her mind. “You’ll like a new house, won’t you?”
The boy laughed, which quickly dissolved in a thin wheezing cough. Natalie tried not to be too alarmed. This could be a recurrence of croup, she told herself. For about a year, Philip had had bouts of croup, and this could be more of the same. She reminded herself, as she reminded other parents, that children go through some pretty terrific colds which don’t amount to much later on. But she didn’t believe it.
“Mommy, I feel funny,” he whineti, putting his hand into Natalie’s. His fingers were cold, the palm hot and dry.
Despite her stern mental orders to herself, Natalie’s voice broke as she said, “Philip, will you sit there just a moment. Mommy’s going to turn on the light and have a real doctor look at you. All right?”
She felt her son nod.
And in the light she saw that his face was waxen and gray, that his movements were fever-restless, and she saw what she had feared from the start. “Oh, Philip...” It was too late. If she had known two, three days ago, if she had not learned what was happening to her county.
Philip looked at his mother uncomprehendingly. “Mommy, what’s the matter?” he asked, then started to cough again. “Mommy?”
“It’s nothing, Philip. Mommy’s tired, that’s all,” she lied, taking Philip nearer the window and rocking him gently. Yes, his face was gray, and his eyes were becoming affected. Only three years old and now this was happening to him. He was dying of diphtheria. It was such a stupid waste. “You lie back and get some rest. Everything is going to be fine.”
As she phoned the hospital she felt desolate. There was no hope for Philip, and there was no hope for her now. It was too late.
“It’s going to be fine,” she said to Philip as she went back to him. She had told the admit desk that he had croup, not diphtheria. Maybe if she went along with them, they’d let her see her son before he died. Perhaps if she really worked at it, found a way around the red tape, she might be able to save him, even yet. There was a slim, slim chance. She put her hand to her eyes. They would not give her permission, not after what she had been through with Mark this morning. They would treat Philip the way they had treated the other children and he would be dead shortly. Nothing short of heroic measures would save him, and she would not be allowed the heroic measures.
“Don’t worry, Mommy,” Philip said once as Natalie rocked him through the afternoon. “Daddy’ll fix everything.”
For one dreadful moment Natalie thought she might laugh. “Yes,” she said when she could trust herself to speak. “Daddy certainly will fix everything. He’s a great fixer.” She looked down into Philip’s pinched face, seeing Mark and diphtheria there. “A great fixer.”
And when the ambulance l
eft later with Philip, Natalie went back to the hospital alone.
* * *
CHAPTER 3
“NEVER MIND,” DR. SMITH SNAPPED at the intern. “He’s dead.” Angrily he jerked the feeder lines from the support module, bitter exhaustion showing in his face. Another dead kid.
“But what happened?” asked the intern. He was both hurt by the death of the child and frustrated by how little had been authorized to save the boy.
Dr. Smith finished closing down the monitor display before he answered. At last he said, “That child was admitted with minor bronchial inflammation, possible croup.” He looked down at the ashen face, the tension fading from the features as the little body surrendered. “Fever developed long before he got here and his chest was badly congested. We performed a tracheotomy.” He fingered the disconnected tube that dangled from the boy’s thin neck. “We did not get permission to use the intensive care units on five, which might have helped. So we did the best we could with precautionary support. About ten minutes ago the monitor picked up trouble and now we have cardiac arrest. That’s what happened. That’s the official record.”
The intern shook his head, feeling helpless. “But don’t you know what did it? This wasn’t croup. The computer diagnosed unknown viral infection. You’d think they’d let us have space downstairs.” He knew that units in Intensive Care were hard to come by, and that they were particularly difficult for their floor, the sixth floor, which was General Medicine, the catch-all for the hospital. “Unknown viral infection. Don’t you have any idea what killed this kid?”
“No, I don’t.” With that, Dr. Smith stepped out of the room and rang for the removal units.
As he walked away from his intern he was scowling. No, he didn’t know what had killed the boy, but he knew that the child should not have died, not in his hospital. He had not known what had killed the other fourteen children he had seen. Fourteen dead in less than a week. He had run every sample he could think of through the diagnostic computer and he had got the same answer every time: virus, unknown.
“Dr. Smith, Dr. Smith,” the paging system called idiotically. “Dr. Smith to floor sixteen. Dr. Smith to Statistics on floor sixteen.”
“Damn,” he said. He did not want to deal with Justin and his crowd. He knew the epidemiologist well enough to dislike the cool statistical mind that lay behind the politic smile and large gray-green eyes. Halfway down the hall he picked up an emergency phone long enough to say, “This is Harry Smith. Tell Justin I’m on my way.”
Peter Justin had his smile on automatic when Harry walked in. He waited until Harry had chosen a seat, then flung a stack of diagnostic printouts on the desk.
Harry Smith’s eyes flickered between the charts and Dr. Justin’s face, settling on the latter. “Yes?”
“Would you kindly explain these? You and Dr. Lebbreau have been busy.”
“Dr. Lebbreau?” He didn’t know any Dr. Lebbreau, which was not surprising at this hospital, which employed seven hundred thirty-odd doctors and almost two thousand on staff: paramedics, nurses, interns, lab personnel and the tremendous bureaucracy of the administration. Harry considered denying his part in the investigation and letting Lebbreau, whoever he was, take the blame. But he did want some answers. He laced his fingers together over his knees. “Just checking,” he said.
“Do you seriously call this checking? There are fourteen different post morts in full series here. I think you have some explaining to do.”
“Do you?” Harry asked, smiling genially. “In the last week I have lost fifteen patients under the age of ten. All were admitted for unknown viral infections. They all died. I want to know why, and since your department doesn’t seem to be doing anything about it...” Harry felt his voice rise; he forced himself to take a deep breath. “I thought someone ought to check it out.”
Peter Justin’s elegant brows drew together, his wide lips pursed. “Yes, I see. Fourteen on your service, did you say?”
“Fifteen, as of twenty minutes ago,” Harry corrected.
“Fifteen. And you indicate here,” he tapped the printouts, “that all these were in roughly one week’s time. That’s quite a large number for so short a period. All children, too, apparently.”
“All under ten,” Harry said, a sardonic smile touching his mouth.
Peter Justin drummed his slender fingers on the high gloss of his masonite desk. “That is a significant increase.”
That was Justin. Give him death or a disease and he would try to fit it onto a graph and make statistical comparisons. Harry forced himself to keep these thoughts private.
“Fifteen. And Dr. Lebbreau reports something around a dozen.” Peter Justin muttered. “Yours were most bronchial? Very unusual.” He looked up, the smooth smile returning to his face. “Yes. I am glad you brought this to my attention, Smith. Ordinarily your actions would warrant a board review, but under the circumstances...”
Under the circumstances, thought Harry, you don’t want to get caught in a neglect suit. The smile he directed at Justin was thinly veiled rage.
“Yes. You must let me know if you get another one. Any viral admits, particularly bronchial, in the next two weeks, provided the patient is within the proper age bracket, should be reported to this office. I really must thank you for calling this to my attention. I don’t know how I could have overlooked it.”
Harry had a retort to this, but left it unsaid. He was very tired and was due back on the floor in less than six hours. So he rose, saying, “Anytime. It looked suspicious and I thought it should be checked.”
Justin nodded. “You were right. Although you should have contacted me before you went ahead with this check. We don’t like this sort of unauthorized research.”
Harry raised his brows. “We do have a certain responsibility to our patients. And if you find out what the unknown virus is, you’ll let me know, won’t you?”
“Certainly, certainly,” Justin said blithely. “A thing like this takes some tracking. I’ll get the labs on it right away. It might be a while but we’ll get results. You know what a stickler Howland is. Good afternoon, Dr. Smith.”
“Good afternoon, Dr. Justin.” He closed the door with a bang.
Number sixteen was waiting for him when he came on night duty. This time the child was very young, no more than three or four, and the only son of another doctor. Harry was surprised when he saw that the father was Mark Howland, Chief Pathologist. How ironic that Howland’s kid should get the unknown virus.
“He’s the son of two doctors,” the intern corrected him. “Dr. Howland and Natalie Lebbreau are married.”
“Lebbreau?” he repeated, remembering the name from his interview with Peter Justin. “What floor is she on?”
“Eleven, I think. General/Pediatric service. The kid’s name is Philip Howland. Age three years, seven months. He’s underweight and his eyes need correction. He was hospitalized last year with a broken wrist.”
Broken wrist? Was that his parents’ doing? There were more and more of them being brought in: children beaten, starved, maimed, burned, tortured. Harry had seen too much of it and it sickened him.
“The wrist was broken at his day-care center. He fell from a ladder,” the intern said, as if reading his thoughts.
“Thanks. What’s been ordered so far?”
“The usual. IV, oxygen unit, standard monitor hookup and support systems.”
“Good,” Harry said absently. “I don’t suppose we can get an intensive care unit from five?” He didn’t expect an answer. He was already checking over the boy, touching, listening, probing for some clue of the disease that was wasting him and had killed fifteen others. He looked in the throat. “I could swear the kid has diphtheria, and pretty advanced.”
“Diphtheria?” the intern asked.
“Yeah. Look at the throat. It’s classic. What tests have you run?”
“Standard series.”
“I wonder if his father has seen them. Post the results in Dr. Justin’s o
ffice.” There was grim satisfaction in being able to upset the urbane Peter Justin and his staff of number keepers.
“How long has his breathing been augmented? Has the breath therapist been to see him yet?”
“Not yet. There’s an emergency on eight, in quarantine. But he’s had a breathing unit for roughly two hours...” The intern frowned at his information as he read it. “Two hours? He isn’t going to make it, is he?”
“No,” Harry said shortly. “Not now. Not in this condition. Not without intensive care.” He stepped back from the fragile child on the bed. “I think you’d better notify his parents. Get them over here if you can.”
The intern was only too glad to have this chance to escape. He did not want to see the child die, not after the fight to save him.
Left alone with Philip Howland, Harry found himself helpless. There was only so much he could do now, only so much he was authorized to do, then the case would be decided by the administration. Harry wanted more equipment, more medication, an intensive care unit and all the help that brought. But he could not get it. Not now.
During the next ninety minutes Harry watched the boy’s condition deteriorate. Breathing became shallow, his pulse light and erratic. As his circulation worsened, the tiny nails took on a bluish cast, the sunken face turned gray. Harry watched the monitor display, his face impassive, as the readout went inexorably on, a Greek chorus foretelling a necessary end.
At 11:37 Philip Howland was dead. He had died alone.
Harry sat in the darkest corner of the surgeon’s lounge, wondering why he had become a doctor. It felt ... good to save lives. And when he had specialized in pediatric surgery, lengthening his schooling by eight years, it had all seemed worthwhile. When had he lost his faith? He rubbed his forehand with clammy palms.
“Emile Harrison Smith?” asked a troubled voice.
Harry looked up, startled. It was rare to hear his full name, especially in the surgeon’s lounge. For a moment he was confused.
Chelsea Quinn Yarbro - Time of the Fourth Horseman Page 5