“I’m sorry. We’ve nothing scheduled for Mr. Turnbull this afternoon.”
Ford frowned.
“I understood from Dr. Lloyd that it was a matter of some urgency. Postinfective pharyngeal dysphagia, in fact. Perhaps he didn’t have time to log it in.”
A flicker of confusion registered on Miss Heller’s wrinkle-free face.
“I suppose … I’m afraid Dr. Lloyd’s not here right now.”
Ford stared.
“Is there any reason why he should be?” he said.
“Well, I don’t … Didn’t you want to check with him?”
“No,” said Ford. “A second opinion. I’m to give a second opinion, an independent opinion.” The receptionist nodded blankly. “Independently, you see? So if you’d just direct me to Mr. Turnbull’s ward—I mean, his room—I can get on with it.”
Miss Heller tapped a few more keys. Three little parallel creases had appeared in the middle of her forehead.
“But we’ve nothing on the schedule,” she said, looking at the screen. “We’re not supposed to—”
“Listen, Lauren,” said Ford. He leaned onto the counter, trying to keep smiling. “I’ve come all the way from Santa Monica to check on this patient. On rather short notice, as a matter of fact. Now, personally, I’d be quite happy to turn right around and go back, but I don’t think the Turnbulls would be. You know, they’re old Oscar Turnbull’s family, and, well”—he lowered his voice to a whisper—“litigious as hell. So I think for Dr. Lloyd’s sake…”
Miss Heller looked around, as if in need of help.
“Oh … well. I guess if it’s urgent.”
“It certainly could be.”
She pointed down one of the corridors.
“I’ll give you a visitor’s pass.” She handed him a green clip-on badge. “Take one of the elevators to the second floor. Turn left. He’s in Suite C-three.”
Ford attached the badge to his lapel and walked away. As soon as he was out of sight, the receptionist pulled out a list of phone numbers, found the one she was looking for, and dialed.
“Hello? I’m sorry to trouble you. This is Lauren Heller from the Aurora Clinic. I wonder, is Dr. Lloyd there by any chance?”
There was an upright chair outside the room, with a folded copy of Newsweek magazine and glass tumbler of mineral water resting on top of it. Ford checked up and down the corridor. Through a pair of open fire doors he glimpsed a nurse wheeling a trolley away. There were voices, laughter, then silence. He reached for the door handle and turned it.
The Venetian blinds were half closed against the setting sun. It was a big room, furnished like a modern hotel. There were neatly arranged flowers in blue vases, an occasional table, upholstered chairs, a magazine rack, a big television in one corner. A small strip-light in a brass fitting illuminated a reproduction impressionist landscape. Another door led off into a private bathroom, from which a faint hiss of plumbing was audible. Instead of the pungent hospital smell of phenolic disinfectant, Ford thought he could smell lavender.
Turnbull lay asleep on his bed, his arms by his sides. Wingate was right: there had certainly been no amputation. In fact, a gauze bandage wrapped around the boy’s right hand and a drip at the left wrist were the only obvious indications that he had ever been sick.
Ford moved closer. The fingers of the right hand were still swollen, he could see that now. The skin was stretched tight around the finger joints, and there was a general yellowish discoloration between the knuckles, although that could have been iodine. The skin around the wrist was also blue and puffy, and on the underside of the forearm there appeared to be the aftermath of a petechial rash: at some point the boy had begun to hemorrhage into his skin. The bacteria had eaten right through a blood vessel. That must have happened sometime after Wingate’s final diagnosis, but given the absence of a fracture, it all squared with his account of a life-threatening infection—but an infection that had apparently been beaten.
“Who are you?”
The boy was sitting up. The pitch of his voice was scarcely deeper than an adolescent’s. He sounded scared.
“Hi, there. I’m um … I’m Dr. Ford, Dr. Marcus Ford.”
The boy lay back again, smiling.
“I’d shake your hand, Doc, but, as you can see…”
Ford smiled back, keeping up the bedside manner. He wasn’t sure how best to go about this.
“That’s all right, Edward.” He put his bag down on a chair. “No need for formalities.”
Turnbull yawned.
“Am I getting out of here soon? Dr. Lloyd said I’d be out by the end of the week, but my mom says she’s not gonna take any chances. If she has her way, I’ll be laid up here till Christmas.”
Ford turned on a light above the bed. Letting patients’ relatives decide when to vacate a hospital bed wasn’t a concept he was used to.
“I’m sure tomorrow will be fine,” he said. “How long have you actually been here now?”
“About ten days,” said Turnbull. “Did Dr. Lloyd send you over?”
“Yes, that’s right. He wants a second opinion.”
“About what? I feel great. All I need is a drink.”
He reached over for a torpedo switch that lay on top of his bedside cabinet. Ford guessed it summoned a nurse—or was it just room service?
“Wait a second,” he said, pulling the switch out of Turnbull’s reach. “No fluids for the moment. It could interfere with the tests.”
The boy looked at him for a moment.
“What tests?” he said. He sounded wide awake now.
“Well, yours is a very unusual case; you probably know that. We can’t be too careful, can we?”
“Dr. Lloyd did say I was very lucky,” Turnbull said, looking down at his arm.
“Did he … Did he explain why? I mean, why you were lucky?”
The boy blinked and appeared to reflect for a moment.
“Well, the infection was real bad, I know that. Dr. Wingate—my regular doctor—I think he got quite worried about it. It did get pretty gross, actually. And it hurt like hell. Ached real bad. But you people up here, I guess you’ve got all the latest stuff, right?”
He yawned. Ford smiled reassuringly. It sounded as if the possibility of amputation had never actually been put to the boy. Probably Wingate hadn’t had the guts to tell him or hadn’t been given the chance. Officer Denny, on the other hand, had been spared nothing: the amputation had gone ahead and he had died anyway, died from an infection that nothing could stop—or so everybody thought. Ford felt a surge of anger. Denny had been a hardworking, decent guy, with friends and family. But they had let him die.
“Listen to me, Edward. Has Dr. Lloyd kept you fully informed about your treatment here? Has he explained to you what he’s doing?”
“Kind of. I was given papers to sign. My mom too. Some kind of liability waiver. It explained things. To tell you the truth, I didn’t read it all. I mean, I wasn’t in great shape at the time.”
“Do you remember anything about it?”
“It’s some kind of experimental treatment, right? A drug.”
Ford nodded. “That’s right.”
Turnbull smiled. He was a confident young man, strong, good-looking, his attention fixed on whatever bright future he had imagined for himself.
“I guess I was like a kind of guinea pig. As a matter of fact, I’m surprised Mom went along with it. Where her kids are concerned, she’s what you might call risk averse.”
“Edward, when was the last time you had to take these drugs?”
Turnbull coughed.
“I’m taking ‘em all the time. Three times a day. They come and stand over me while I swallow.” There was a flicker of alarm in his eyes. “Is everything okay? There’s no problem, is there?”
“No, no problem. I’d say you’re healing up very well here. Remarkably well.”
“The swelling’s gone right down. It still aches a little, and I get these bad twinges. But I feel much be
tter generally.”
“That’s good. Now, tell me, who administers these drugs? Do you know where they’re kept?”
“Well, the nurse comes around three times a day. She … Wait a minute.” He stopped, slowly eased himself up again. “You want to know where they’re kept? Why would you…?”
Something about the situation got him worried.
“Who are you?”
He reached over for the torpedo switch, but Ford got there first, pushed it out of reach.
“Look, I don’t have time to explain.”
The boy was looking increasingly alarmed.
“Who the hell are you? What do you want?”
“Just listen to me. That drug you were given, I have to get hold of it. Right now. There are people dying right now, and that drug, the drug that saved your arm, can save their lives. It’s their only chance.”
“You don’t even work here, do you?”
“What difference does it make? What I’m telling you is true. This drug is being withheld from people who are dying.”
“Christ, I bet you’re not even a doctor. What are you, some kind of—”
“Sure I’m a doctor.” Ford opened his bag, reached inside for the Sig. “Here are my qualifications.”
“Jesus Christ!”
There was a sharp knocking at the door. A muffled voice from the other side.
“Everything all right in there, Mr. Turnbull?”
Ford put the gun against the boy’s temple.
“Everything’s all right,” Ford said through clenched teeth. “Say it!”
The boy looked at the gun. Ford’s hand was shaking.
“I’m fine,” he called out. “No problem.”
Ford took the remote control from the bedside, turned on the television: cowboys in plaid shirts were shooting at each other from behind water troughs and wagon wheels. He turned the volume up high.
“I’m sorry it has to be this way,” he said, taking a step back. “But there isn’t much time.”
“He told me you’d called him in specially, for a second opinion. Pharyngeal dysphagia, I think he said. Something serious, anyway.”
The receptionist blushed as the voice at the other end of the line switched from a tone of disbelief to one of anger. Pharyngeal dysphagia was, apparently, a type of sore throat.
“Yes, of course, Dr. Lloyd. Yes, yes, right away. I am sorry. Yes, good—”
Dr. Lloyd had hung up. Immediately the receptionist punched in another number, this time just four digits.
“Hello, Security? This is Lauren Heller. I’m afraid we have a problem.”
“Sure,” said Turnbull, “sure. Whatever you say.”
“Just tell me—”
“They’re down there. In the cabinet. All my medication is right there.”
The cupboard was part of the bedside unit. Ford rummaged through packets of sterile dressings and needles, cotton wool, gauze, a tube of centrimide disinfectant, and then at last he found it: a brown plastic bottle, with no label. He unscrewed the cap.
There were thirty or forty bicolored capsules, half pink and half yellow. Hastily Ford emptied a few of them into the palm of his hand. Then he was looking at it—Omega. Somehow he had expected something more, something clearly and demonstrably unique. Yet it looked just like any other oral antibiotic, just a handful of capsules. It struck him as ludicrously prosaic. Like penicillin, and its hundreds of successor drugs, it was a lifesaver, a miracle cure. Yet it looked no more miraculous than a handful of candy. Perhaps it was no wonder antibiotics had been so quickly and universally taken for granted, misused, squandered. They were just products, demanded by people, supplied by business. And that was the way they would stay until the supply finally dried up, for good.
Ford held up the bottle. “Are these the capsules you take?”
“Yes, yes,” said the boy. “Three a day.”
The boy had been in for ten days, had been all but cured in that time. There were enough capsules left to do the same for Sunny. And that was all that mattered now.
Ford put the bottle inside his black bag. All he had to do was get out and away. He took the torpedo switch and yanked it clear of the wall. But how could he hope to keep Turnbull quiet? There was no way he could bind him and gag him. There was nothing there to do it with.
“Look,” he said. “I’m sorry about the gun. But it’s my daughter. My daughter’s life. I need to get to her before it’s too late.”
The boy stared, said nothing.
“If you call out right away, before I’m out of here, there’s a chance I won’t make it. And then my daughter may die.” Ford hid the gun inside his jacket pocket. “She’s thirteen years old, Edward. She deserves the same chance you had, don’t you think? Even if she doesn’t have quite the same … connections that your family has. Because that’s what this is all about. Who gets healed and who doesn’t. Who lives and who dies. Do you understand what I’m saying?”
Turnbull’s lips parted as if he were about to say something, but nothing came.
“Well,” said Ford, turning back towards the door. “I guess it’s up to you.”
The man outside was standing with his hands behind his back. Hearing the door, he turned. A tall man in a gray suit.
“An excellent recovery,” Ford said, his grip tightening on the gun in his pocket. “Mr. Turnbull should be out of here in a couple of days.”
“Glad to hear it,” the man said, watching him coolly.
Ford smiled and turned towards the elevators, afraid that Turnbull would call out any moment. But there was no sound. The boy was going to wait. Ford was about to press the call button when the steel doors slid open. Two security men in the blue sports coats were waiting on the other side.
“That’s him,” said one. “Hey, you!”
Ford stepped back, pulled out the gun.
“Don’t move or I’ll—”
It felt as if he’d been hit by a truck. He pitched forward, a pair of muscular arms locked round him. It was the guy in the suit. The weight drove him over, down. He landed hard on the tiled floor, shoulder first. One of the blue coats stamped on his wrist, kicked away the gun.
“Call the police, Jack.”
Ford tried to speak, but the fall had knocked the wind out of him. He thought for a moment he was going to vomit.
“Fucking psycho,” someone said.
Jack got on his radio, started talking. The man in the suit pinned Ford’s arms halfway up his back.
“Wait just a moment there, please, gentlemen.”
A third man stepped out of the elevator. He was balding and built more lightly than the others. The way he carried himself, he looked as though he was in charge.
“I don’t think we need the police just yet.”
“But, Mr. Denman, the guy pulled a gun,” said Jack.
Mr. Denman knelt down next to Ford. There was a smell of aftershave—Cool Water or something sporty.
“That’s true,” he said, turning his head so that it was in line with Ford’s. “It is a serious matter. But I still think we can get it all cleared up without the need for charges. Don’t you think so, Dr. Ford?”
3
Right out of the blue he had offered her Paris. Driving towards the bloody sunset half an hour later, Helen Wray relived the moment once again. Whittaker had been standing when she entered the room, looking out across the desert towards the purple haze of the Shadow Mountains. He’d turned and looked at her. He was actually rocking up and down on the balls of his feet. She could sense his excitement. Then he’d smiled and said, “Helen, how do you feel about Paris?”
And she knew then that they weren’t just going to reward her for what she’d done. They needed her, valued her. Because Paris could only mean one thing: head of sales and marketing, Europe. And that was a big job. In fact, it dawned on her now, she would be ten years younger than anybody else at Stern with that level of seniority. The only woman.
She had mumbled some incoherent answer, an
d then Whittaker had begun to outline “the package” he had in mind. Her salary would double, naturally, but that was just the beginning. She would be issued a block of stock options, options that would already be worth a good deal in the market, but which, he added with a complicit smile, would probably be a good idea to hang on to for a couple of years, given what we now know (she liked the way he said we). And when she did not respond immediately—it was all too much to take in—he’d added that the options were in no way conditional upon her accepting the post.
Moving to Europe was a big step, and there were always personal considerations, he recognized that. And, of course, her bonus position would not be affected, the bonus in question being a reflection of past—and recent—achievements.
“Helen, we just feel you’re the best person for the job,” he’d ended by saying, almost defensively. “You’ve earned it.”
She’d managed to get out of his office with a reasonable degree of composure. But no sooner had the door closed behind her than the elation took over. Hurrying past Whittaker’s personal assistant, she dove into the nearest bathroom, just to steady herself, just to let the emotion out for a moment, unobserved. She’d felt light, giddy, and, at the same time, invincible. It was a feeling she’d worked and fought and struggled for, and now it was there, done, delivered. She’d splashed water on her face, drank from the palms of her hands. It had spoiled her makeup. Laughing, she’d taken the rest off with a paper towel, leaving her face looking flushed, her skin shiny.
She’d gone back out to the fourth floor, helped herself to a cup of coffee, sipped at it once, and then sat alone for a while in an empty meeting room staring at the aluminium grid on the ceiling. She remembered that she had to get back to Marvyn Lennox, the guy who had helped with Novak’s apartment. If it hadn’t been for his good work, she would never have gotten Novak’s records. But it had been impossible to sit still for long. Almost right away she had gotten up again, and without saying anything to anyone, left the building.
Now, gripping the wheel of the BMW, she was struggling to keep her speed down. Every time she thought about what was happening to her, about all the infinite possibilities now opening up before her, she found herself leaning on the accelerator. It was the executive fast track. It was life in the fast lane. She felt as if she were being hurled into the future. And she realized that now she could do whatever she wanted. Her success was no longer conditional upon anything or anyone. They needed her. And it didn’t matter if she never worked again. She was free.
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