Side Effects

by Michael Palmer

  Sally Bicknell looked at her queerly and then ushered them over and drew back the curtain. "Her? " The girl was there, lumbering about exactly as she had been before. "Yes, exactly, " Kate said. "That's her, Jared.

  That's Lindsey."

  "I'm sorry, Mrs. Samuels, but you're mistaken. That girl's name 1S Rochelle Coombs. She is sixteen years old and has a genetic disease called Hunter's Syndrome."

  Kate stopped herself at the last possible moment from calling the woman a liar. "Could I see her medical records, please?"

  The nurse snapped the curtain shut. "Her medical records are confidential. But I assure you, her name is Rochelle Coombs, not-what did you say?"

  "Lindsey, " Jared said, "Lindsey Samuels." It was, Kate realized, the first time he had spoken since just after their arrival. "It is not Lindsey Samuels." Sally Bicknell completed her sentence. In that moment, Kate realized what had bothered her so about the girl the first time she had observed her. She was too young to have been Jared's sister. Far too young. Her thick features and other physical distortions added some years, but not twenty of them. The girl's grote. Rnlleness had made her too uncomfortable to look very closely. Had I Win Samuels counted on that? Silently, she cursed her own Stuplulty. Helpless and beaten, she could only shrug and shake her head. "Will there be anything else?"

  Bicknell asked. Kate looked over at Jared, who shook his head. "No," she said huskily. "We're… we're sorry for the intrusion."

  "In that case, " the woman said, — "I have rounds to make." She turned and, without showing them out, walked away. Kate felt far more ill than angry. As they approached the car, she handed Jared the keys. "You drive, please. I'm not up to it. Your father told me it was Lindsey, Jared. I swear he did. And that woman was right there when he said it."

  There was, she realized, no sense in discussing the matter further. Win Samuels had set up a no-lose situation for himself. Either she would be impressed by his demonstration, in which case she might have agreed to back off at the hospital and, as he wished, turn her attention to domestic issues, or she would be angered enough to do exactly what she had done. His son, already in doubt about her, would be drawn further away from their marriage and toward a political future, unencumbered by a wife whose priorities and mental state were so disordered. All that for only the price of a tankful of gas and whatever it cost to buy off Sally Bicknell. Nice going, Win, she thought. Nice goddamn going. She sank into her seat and stared sightlessly into the night.

  Friday 21 December

  She is out, suspended, finished. I did it, Norton Reese boasted exultantly. "Yesterday afternoon. I tried to call you then, but there was no answer."

  Still in his bed at the Ritz, Arlen Paquette squinted at his watch, trying to get the numbers in focus. Seven-thirty? Was that right?

  Was goddamn Reese waking him up at seven-thirty in the morning9 He fumbled for the bedside lamp, wincing at the shellburst in his temples Somewhere in the past four hours, he had passed from being drunk to emg hung over. His mouth tasted like sewage, and his muscles felt as if he had lost a gang fight. "Norton, just a second here while I wake up a little bit." He worked a cigarette from a wrinkled packet and lit it on the third try Over the H past week, his smoking had gone from his usual four or five cigarettes a ay to three packs. For a moment, he eyed the half-empty quart of ewarrs on the bureau. "No, goddamn it, " he muttered, "At least not yet. It took two hands to hold the phone steady against his ear. "Now 1! sir, just how did you go about accomplishing this remarkable feat of yours?"

  Paquette listened to Reese's excited recap of the events leading to the unofficial suspension of Kate Bennett by her chief, Stan Willoughby. By the time the administrator had finished, Paquette had made his way across to the scotch and buried half a water glass full. The story was disgusting. A woman had lost her breast unnecessarily, and another had been professionally destroyed, and he, as much as the idiot on the other end of the phone, was responsible. As he listened to Reese's crowing, a resolve began to grow within him. He picked up a picture of Kate Bennett from the floor by his bed, wondering briefly how it had gotten there.

  "Norton, " he said cheerfully, "you've done one hell of a job there. Our friend's gonna be pleased when I tell him. Real pleased. Say, listen.

  Are you going to be at your office for a while… Good. I'd like to stop by and get some of the details in person. Probably be nine-thirty or so… Great. See you then."

  He hung up and studied the picture in his hand. The scotch had stilled the shakes and begun to alleviate the pounding in his head.

  "I think you've taken enough shit from us, Dr. Bennett, " he said. "It's time someone helped you fight back."

  A glance at his watch, and he called Darlington. His wife answered on the second ring. "Honey, have the kids left for school yet?… Good.

  They're not going. I want you to pack them up and drive to your mother's house… Honey, I know where your mother lives. If you step on it, you can be there by dinner time. There've been some problems here with old Cyrus, and I just want to be sure you and the kids are safe… Maybe a few days, maybe a week. I don't know. Please, honey. Trust me on this one for a little while. I'll explain everything. And listen, I love you.

  I'm sorry about the other night and I love you. Not a word to anyone, now. Just get out and go to your mother's." Paquette showered and then shaved, taking greater pains than usual not to nick himself. He dressed in a suit he had just bought, eschewing the vest in favor of a light brown cashmere sweater. Some Visine, another shot of scotch, some breath mints, and he was ready. On his way to the hospital, he would attend to one final item of business, stopping at an electronics store to purchase a miniature tape recorder. "Okay, Doctor, " he said to Kate's picture,

  "let's go get us some evidence." He glanced at the mirror. For the first time in nearly two weeks he liked what he saw., Nothing to do. Nowhere to go. No one to hold. The thoughts, the futility, kept intruding on Kate's efforts to wring another hour, even another half hour, of sleep from the morning They had spent the night-what was left of it after their return from Stonehill-in separate beds.

  Or, perhaps Jared hadn't slept at all. She had offered him food, then company, and then sex, but his only request had been to be left alone.

  After an hour or so of staring at the darkened ceiling over their bed, she had tiptoed down the hall and peeked into the living room. He was right where she had left him, on the couch, chewing on his lower lip, and studying the creases in his palm. Her immediate impulse was to go to him, to beg him to believe her, to plead for his faith. The feeling disappeared as quickly as it had arisen. If their marriage had come down to beggings she was beaten. Aching with thoughts of what he was going through at the choices he was trying to make, she had crept quietly back to bed, hoping that before long, she would feel him nudging his way under the covers. Nothing to do. Nowhere to go. No one to hold. The ringing of the phone interrupted the litany. Kate glanced at the clock.

  Eight-thirty. Not too bad. The last time she had looked it was only six "Hello?"

  "Kate? " It was Ellen. "Hi. How're you feeling?"

  "I got concerned when you didn't stop by this morning, and I called your office. Her voice was quite hoarse, her speech distorted. "When you didn't answer I rang the department secretary. Kate, what's the matter?

  Are you sick?"

  "Hey, wait a minute, now. Let us not forget who is the patient here and who is the doctor, okay?"

  "Kate, be serious. She said she didn't know what day you'd be back I…

  I got frightened. They're giving me more blood, and now I have a tube down my nose. I think the inside of my Rtnmsrh h Qft bleeding."

  "Shit, " Kate said softly. "What?"

  "I said shit." rcu "Oh. Well, are you all right?"

  Kate pulled a lie back at the last possible instant. "Actually, no," she said. "Physically I'm fine, but there's been trouble at work and here at home. I've been asked to take some time off while my department head sorts through some probl
ems with a biopsy."

  "Oh, Kate. And here I am all wrapped up in my own problems. I'm there anything I can do? "

  "No, just be strong and get well, that's all."

  Don't talk to me, Katey. Talk to these little platelets or whatever the re called. They're the ones who are screwing up. You said trouble Stop asking about me, dammit You're bleeding to death! "I'm afraid re's wife and his father in all their infinite wisdom have put him in a position where he's going to have to choose between them " At the moment, she began wondering where he was. Upstairs in the guest room, perhaps? Maybe still on the couch. She listened for a telltale sound, but there was only heavy silence. "You versus Win? " Ellen said. "No contest. Thank goodness. I thought it was something serious." Her cheer was undermined by the weakness in her voice. "Listen, my friend, " Kate said. "I'll see you later today. I may be shut out of the pathology department, but I'm not shut out of the library. There are two Australian journals I'm expecting in from the NIH. Together, we're going to beat this. I promise you."

  "I believe you, " Ellen said. "I really do. See you later, Doc." Kate set the receiver down gently, then slipped into a blue flannel nightshirt, a gift from Jared, and walked to the living room. Roscoe, who had materialized from under the bed, padded along beside her. She glanced through the doorway and then systematically checked the rest of the house. She had, as she feared, read the silence well. Jared had left. "Well, old shoe, " she said, scratching her dog behind one ear,

  "it looks like you and me. How about a run together and then some shirred eggs for breakfast. Later, maybe we'll make love."

  The letter, in Jared's careful printing, was on the kitchen table. He had taken their wedding picture from the mantel, and used it as a weight to keep the single sheet in place. Kate moved the photograph enough to read his words, but left it touching the page. It sounds so easy, so obvious, that I'm not sure I even listened when the minister said the words. "For better or for worse." It all sounds so easy until one day you stop and ask yourself, For whose better? For whose worse? What do I do when her better seems like my worse? Dammit, Kate, I'm forty years old and I feel like such a child. Do you know that in all the time she was alive, I never once heard my mother say no to my father? Some role model, huh? Next came Lisa-bright, beautiful, and imbued with absolutely no ambition or direction. I thought she would make a perfect wife. She cooked the soup and pinched back the coleus, and I kept her pipe filled with good dope and decided when we could afford to do what, and that was that. I still don't know why she ran off the way she did, and if another Lisa had come along, I probably would have married her in a snap. But another Lisa didn't. You did. Almost before I knew it, I had fallen in love with and marrsed a woman who had as rich and interesting and complicated a life outside of our marriage as I did. Probably, more so. After first mother and then Lisa, it was like moving to a foreign country for me. New customs. New mores. What do you mean I was wrong to assume we'd have the same last name? What do you mean I was | wrong to assume that you would be free to attend three rallies and a campaign dinner with me? What do you mean I should have asked first? What do you mean you've been involved in trouble at your job that might affect my career? I could go on all night listing my misguided assumptions in this marriage. It's as though I don't have the programming to adapt. Well, I may not have the programming, but I do have the desire. It's taken most of the night sitting here to feel sure of that. If what you've said is all true, I want to do whatever I can to help straighten it out. If what you've told me is not true, then I also want to face that issue and my commitment to you, and we'll get whatever kind of help is necessary. If we don't make it, it won't be because I ran away. I've gone to speak to my father and then, who knows, perhaps a chat with Norton Reese. Bear with me, Kate. It may say five years on the calendar, but this marriage business is still new stuff for me. I love you. I really do. Jared Kate reread the letter, laughing and crying at once. Jared's words, she knew, meant no more than a temporary reprieve, a respite from the nightmare.

  Still, he had given her the one thing she needed most next to answers, time. Time to work through the events that were steamrolling her life.

  "We're going to find out, Rose, " she said grimly. "We're going to find out who, and we're going to find out why."

  A sharp bark sounded from the living room, and Kate realized that she had been talking to herself. Through the doorway, she could see Roscoe prancing uncomfortably by the door to the rear deck. "Oh, poor baby," she laughed. "I'm sorry." Focused on letting the dog out, she missed the slight movement outside the kitchen window and failed to sense the eyes watching her. She pulled open the slider, and Roscoe dashed out into a most incredible morning. The temperature, according to the thermometer by the door, was exactly freezing. Pat, lazy flakes, falling from a glaring, silver-white sky vanished into a ground fog that was as dense as any Kate could remember. Roscoe dashed across the deck, and completely disappeared into the shroud halfway down the steps to the yard. Kate estimated the height of the fog at three or four feet. Much of It, she guessed, was arising off the surface of nearby Green Pond, a small lake that because of warm underground feeders, was always late to freeze and early to thaw. Winter fog was not uncommon on the North Shore, especially around Essex, but this was spectacular. It was a morning just begging to be run through. She dressed and then stretched, sorting out the route they would run, mixing low spots and high hills and straight-aways along five miles of back roads. Wearing a gold watch cap and a high-visibility red sweatsuit, she trotted out the front door and whistled for Rosco. He was almost at her side before she could see him. "A fiver this morning, dog, " she said, as they moved up the sloping driveway and out of the fog. "Think you're mutt enough to handle it?"

  At the end of the drive, she turned right. Had she mapped their route to the left, she might have wondered about the BMW, parked not particularly near anyone's house, and perhaps even noticed the blue Metropolitan Hospital parking sticker on the rear window. It was near perfect air for running, cold and still. To either side of the narrow roadway, the fog covered the forest floor like cotton batting. "Race pace, today, Rose," she said. "Eight-minute miles or less. And I'm not waiting for you, so keep up." In reality, she knew Roscoe could maintain her pace all day, and still stop from time to time to sniff out a shrub or two. After a quarter of a mile, they left the pavement and turned onto a plowed dirt road meandering along an active stream named on the maps as Martha's Brook. Kate loved crossing the picturesque, low-walled field stone bridges that spanned the water, in part, she had chosen this route because of them. By the end of the first mile, her thoughts had begun to separate themselves from the run. For the next two or three miles, she knew, her ideas would flow more freely, her imagination more clearly, than in any other situation. Following a kaleidoscope of notions, a kind of sorting out process, her mind settled on the breast biopsy. Perhaps under the stress of exhaustion, Ellen's deteriorating condition, and the rest of the chaos in her life, she actually had made a mistake. For a time, the grisly thought held sway, bringing with it a most unpleasant tightness in her gut. Gradually, though, the truth reappeared, emerging like a phoenix from the ashes of her self-doubt. The cells she had read had been, she was certain, cancerous. But if they had been, then somewhere a switch had been made and later reversed. But how? who? The broken cryostat was, she decided, part of the puzzle. Sheila? Possible.

  But why?

  The images led into those of other tissues, other cells-the ovaries of Beverly Vitale and Ginger Rittenhouse. Ever since the discovery of anthranilic acid in her own vitamins, Kate had, several times a day, been checking herself for bruises and wondering if pockets of scar tissue in her ovaries had already made a mockery of their discussions about having children. She had to find out. The answer, almost certainly, lay in the Omnicenter, and more specifically, in the data banks of Carl Horner's Monkeys. Kate was heading down a steep grade toward the first of the field stone overpasses when the blue BMW crested the hill behind her and acceler
ated. Immersed in the run and her thoughts, she lost several precious seconds after hearing the engine before she turned to it. The speeding automobile made a sharp, unmistakably deliberate swing to the right and headed straight for her.

  There was no time to think.

  There was only time to react. The waist-high wall of the bridge was only a few feet away. A single step, and she dove for the top of it. She was in midair when the BMW hit her just below her right knee. The impact spun her in a horizontal pinwheel. She struck the edge of the wall midthigh and then tumbled over it. As she fell, she heard the crunch of metal against stone and the agonizing cry of her dog. The fall, twelve feet from the top of the wall, was over before she could make any physical adjustment whatsoever. She landed on her back in a drift of half-frozen snow, air exploded from her lungs, and a branch from a rotting log tore through her sweatshirt and her right side, just below her ribs. Desperately, she tried to draw in a breath. For five seconds, ten, nothing would move. Finally, she felt a whisper of air, first in the back of her throat and then in her chest. She tried to deepen her effort, but a searing pain from her side cut her short. She touched the pain and then checked the fingertips of her tan woolen gloves. They were soaked with blood. Frantically, she tried to sort out what had happened.

  She had been hit. Roscoe had been hit, too. Possibly killed. It had not been an accident. Whoever was driving had tried to run them down.

  Gingerly she tested her hands and then her legs. Her right leg throbbed, and her right foot, which was dangling in the icy water of the brook, seemed twisted at an odd angle. Please, God, don't let it be broken.

  There was pain, but, gratefully, there was full movement as well. At that moment, overhead, a car door opened and closed. She turned toward the noise, but could see nothing. It took several seconds to realize why. She was quite literally buried in the fog. From somewhere above and to her left, a branch snapped, then another. The driver of the car was making his way down the steep embanktrlentx more than likely to check the completeness of his work. Could he see where she was? Possibly not.