The Sisterhood

by Michael Palmer

  She knew, as surely as she knew sunrise, that Margaret Donner Armstrong could accomplish anything. The sentence they had voted for David Shelton was as good as carried out.

  With a few parting words Barbara Littlejohn dismissed the meeting. As she said her good-byes, Dotty paused by the lavish bouquet, bending to inhale its strong perfume and briefly touch a feathery petal. Then, with a final glance at Peggy, she left.

  The room emptied quickly. Soon only two remained—Peggy Donner, gazing serenely out the window, and Sara Duhey, who paused outside the doorway, then returned. She was still ten feet away when, without turning, Peggy said, “Sara, how nice of you to stay. We so seldom get a chance to talk.”

  The willowy black woman froze, then noticed her own reflection in the glass.

  “So this is how Peggy Donner earns the reputation for having eyes in the back of her head.”

  “One of the ways.” Margaret Armstrong turned and smiled warmly. Sara had been a personal recruit of hers. “I see a troubled look in those beautiful eyes of yours, Sara. Are you concerned about what happened here tonight?”

  “A little. But that’s not what I stayed to talk to you about.”

  “Oh?”

  “Peggy, a few days ago Johnny Chapman died at your hospital of a massive allergic reaction—probably to some medicine, they’re saying. Had you heard of him and the work he’s done?” Armstrong nodded. “Well, I’ve known Johnny for years. Served on so many committees with him I’ve lost count.”

  “And?”

  “Well, I’ve talked to a few people about his death—you know, people from my community. At least one of them felt there was nothing accidental about it. You can probably guess that Johnny’s been a thorn in the side of a lot of important people over the years.”

  “My dear, every time an important or influential person dies, someone has a theory about why it couldn’t have been a natural or accidental occurrence. Invariably their theories are nonsense.”

  “I understand,” Sara said, “and I hope you’re right in this case. We’ll never know for certain, because Johnny’s church forbids autopsies. His wife told me that. She had it written in big red letters on the front of his chart, along with a list of the things he was allergic to.”

  Armstrong shifted uncomfortably. “Just what is it you’re driving at?”

  “Peggy, this man told me he had heard ahead of time that Johnny Chapman would not leave Doctors Hospital alive. He didn’t. Then, two days after Johnny suddenly goes into anaphylaxis and dies, Senator Cormier has a fatal cardiac arrest on the operating table. The papers said it was a heart attack, but they also said that because the attack was instantly fatal there was no definite cardiac damage on his autopsy.”

  “Sara, I still don’t see what—”

  “Peggy, two of the cases I have handled through The Sisterhood involved intravenous ouabain. Both of them looked like heart attacks. The drug is impossible to detect. Isn’t it possible that someone could be—”

  “Young lady, I think I’ve heard enough. Your insinuations are in poor taste and way off base. Worse than that. They come at a time when our movement needs total unity.”

  Sara Duhey stiffened. “Peggy, please. Don’t lash out at me. I don’t want to stir up any hornet’s nest. All I’m asking is whether it’s possible that someone in your hospital is using our methods. There are still more Sisterhood members on the staff of Boston Doctors than at any other single hospital.”

  “And I know every one of them personally,” Armstrong said. “They are all superb nurses and completely honorable human beings. Now, unless you have something much more concrete than what you have presented me here, I would suggest—no, I will insist—that you keep your farfetched notions to yourself. We have much more pressing concerns, you and I, starting with the man who is posing a threat to our entire movement.” Armstrong sensed the impact of her outburst and softened. “Sara, after this Shelton business is cleared up, we can discuss your concerns in more detail. All right?”

  Sara Duhey studied the older woman, then nodded. “All right.”

  “Thank you,” Armstrong whispered.

  The two women left Room 133 together. Outside, the storm had intensified and wind gusted with a fury that shook buildings.

  CHAPTER XIV

  “A crack that had the habit of looking like a rabbit …” David repeated the words over and over as he studied the series of thin lines that gerrymandered his living room ceiling.

  “… had the funny habit of looking like a rabbit.” Where had he read that? What were the exact words? No matter, he decided. None of the cracks looked anything like a rabbit. Besides, the super had promised they would be plastered over, so it was a fruitless exercise anyhow.

  He rolled to one side, tucked an arm under his head and stared out the window. The outlines of buildings across the alley undulated through a cold, driving rain.

  It had been nearly two days since the nightmarish session with Dockerty. The morning after the inquiry David had tried to conduct his affairs at the hospital as usual. It was like working in an ice box. No virus could have spread through the wards faster than news of the tacit indictment brought against him. Most of the nurses and medical staff took special pains to avoid him. Some whispered as he walked past and one nurse actually pointed. Those few who spoke to him picked their words with the deliberateness of soldiers traversing a mine field.

  By early afternoon he could take no more. Aldous Butterworth and Edwina Burroughs were the only two patients he had in the hospital. Butterworth was essentially Dr. Armstrong’s problem again. The circulation in his operated leg was better than in his other one. Edwina Burroughs was anxious to go home and probably as ready for discharge now as she would be in the morning. David wrote a note in Butterworth’s chart instructing Dr. Armstrong to arrange for his sutures to be removed in three days; then he made out a list of directions for Edwina Burroughs and sent her home.

  He was walking, head down, toward the main exit when he collided with Dotty Dalrymple. They exchanged apologies, then Dalrymple said, “Heading to the office?”

  David fought the impulse to brush aside her courtesy with a lie. “No,” he said. “I’ve canceled the rest of the day. Actually, I’m going home.”

  He was surprised at the interest and concern in her eyes. Although the two of them were acquainted, they had never talked at length.

  “Dr. Shelton, I want you to know how distressed I am about last night.” She was, David realized, the first person all day who had openly said anything to him about the session.

  “Me too,” he muttered.

  “We haven’t had the chance to get to know one another very well, but I’ve heard a great deal about your work from my nurses—all of it highly complimentary.” David’s face tightened in a half-smile. “My praise plus a dime gets you a phone call. That’s what you are thinking, isn’t it?” she said. David’s smile became more open and relaxed. Dalrymple rested a fleshy arm against the wall. “Well, I’m afraid I don’t have much in the way of cheery news for you, but I can tell you that Lieutenant Dockerty was in to see me this morning. Your name came up only briefly and, for what it’s worth, I think he is not at all convinced of your guilt despite that circus last night.”

  “From the reaction around the wards this morning, Miss Dalrymple, I’d say that if that’s the case he’s in a tiny minority. All of a sudden, I feel about as much control over my life as a laboratory mouse. At the moment Lieutenant Dockerty is very low on my list of favorite people.”

  “I guess if I were in your position I’d probably be feeling the same way,” Dalrymple said. She paused, as if searching for words to prolong their conversation. Finally she shrugged, nodded a “Good day,” and headed off.

  She was several steps down the hall when David started after her. “Miss Dalrymple, please,” he called out. “If you can spare another minute, there is something you might be able to help with.” The nursing director slowed, then came about like a schooner, smiling e
xpectantly. “You had Charlotte Thomas’s chart last evening,” David said. “If it would be possible, I’d like to borrow it for a day. I have no idea what to look for, but maybe there’s something in there that won’t read just right to me.”

  Dalrymple’s expression darkened. “I’m sorry, Dr. Shelton,” she said. “The chart I had last night was only a copy. The lieutenant has the original.” She hesitated. “Now, I don’t even have the copy.” David looked at her quizzically. He felt uneasy with the way she was weighing each word. “I … ah … gave it away, Doctor … this morning … Wallace Huttner and the woman’s husband … and a lawyer. They came to me with a court order for my copy of the chart. Apparently it was the only one the lieutenant would allow to be made.”

  David’s hands went cold. A damp chill spread from them throughout his body. He had little doubt as to what they were doing: malpractice. No other explanation made sense. He carried a million dollars in liability. Peter Thomas wanted to be prepared to move as soon as any action was taken against him. David shuddered. On top of everything else, Thomas was going to sue him for malpractice. And his own chief of surgery was helping him do it.

  Dalrymple reached out to touch his shoulder and then seemed to change her mind. “I’m sorry, Doctor,” she said coolly. “I wish I could make it better for you, but I can’t.”

  David tightened his lips against any outburst. Thanks,” he mumbled, then hurried toward the exit.

  By the time he arrived home his emotions were blanketed by a pall of total frustration. He paced the apartment several times. Then, overwhelmed by feelings of impotence, he threw himself across his bed and grabbed the telephone. He would call Dr. Armstrong, or Dockerty, or even Peter Thomas. Anyone, as long as it felt as though he was doing something. Indecision kept him from dialing. His address book lay on the bedside table. He opened it and flipped through the pages, hoping halfheartedly that someone’s name would leap out at him. Anyone’s who might help.

  Most of the pages were blank.

  His brothers were listed—one in California and one in Chicago. But even if they were next door, he wouldn’t have called them. After the accident, after the alcohol and the pills and, finally, the hospital, they had quietly separated him from their lives. Christmas cards and a call every six months or so were all that remained.

  A few associates from his days at White Memorial were listed. From time to time over the past eight years some of them eyen invited him to parties. He was fun to be around … as long as he was fun to be around. The more he had chanced talking about the course his life had taken, the fewer the invitations had become. There would be no real help from any of them.

  In a doctors life, fragmented by college and medical school and internship and residency and marriage and children and setting up a practice, firm friendships were rare enough. For David, having to retrace so many steps had made close ties impossible.

  The shroud of isolation grew heavier. There was no one. No one except Lauren, and she was five hundred miles away, probably having lunch with some congressman and … Wait! There was somebody. There was Rosetti. For ten years, whenever he was down or needed advice, there had always been Joey Rosetti. Joey, and Terry, too. Over the months with Lauren he hadn’t seen them very much, but Joey was the kind of friend to whom that really didn’t matter.

  Excited, David looked up the number of Joey’s Northside Tavern and dialed. Even if Rosetti didn’t have any advice—which was doubtful, since he had advice for everything—he would have encouragement, probably even a new story or two. Just the prospect of talking with him was cheering.

  A curt, gravelly voice at the Northside Tavern informed David that Mr. Rosetti was not available. The cheer immediately vanished.

  “This is Dr. Shelton, Dr. David Shelton.” David emphasized the title in the manner he reserved only for making dinner and hotel reservations or for working his way past the switchboard operator at an unfamiliar hospital. “I’m a close friend of Mr. Rosetti’s. Could you tell me when he’ll be back or where I can reach him?”

  The voice called someone without bothering to cover the mouthpiece. “Hey, some doctor’s on the phone. Says he’s a friend of Mr. Rosetti’s. Can I tell ’im where he’s gone?”

  In a few moments it spoke to David. “Ah, sir, Mr. Rosetti and his wife’ve gone to their house on the North Shore. They’ll be back late tonight.”

  David heard the voice ask, “Any message?” but he was already hanging up. In less than a minute the silence and inaction were intolerable. Purely out of desperation, he called Wallace Huttner. When the ringing began, he fought the urge to hang up by pressing the receiver tightly against his ear. The ear was throbbing by the time Huttner came on.

  “Yes, Dr. Shelton, what is it?” The distance in the man’s voice could have been measured in light-years.

  “Dr. Huttner, I’m very concerned and upset about what happened last night and with some things I’ve learned today,” David managed. “I … I wondered if I might talk to you about them for a few minutes?”

  Huttner said, “Well, actually I’m quite far behind in the office and—”

  “Please!” David cut in. “I’m sorry for raising my voice, but, please, just hear me out.” He paused for a moment, then sighed relief when Huttner made no further objection. Struggling to keep his words slow and his tone more composed, he said, “Dr. Huttner, I know that you helped Mr. Thomas and his lawyer get a copy of Charlotte’s chart. Somehow you must believe that I had nothing to do with her murder. I may have given you and some of the others the impression that I favor mercy killing, but I don’t. I … I need your help—someone’s help—to convince Peter Thomas and the lieutenant of that. I …” At that instant David realized how ill conceived his call had been. He really had no clear idea of what he wanted to say or ask. Huttner sensed the same thing.

  “Dr. Shelton,” he said with cool condescension, “please understand. In no way have I judged your guilt or innocence. I assisted Peter this morning as a favor to a distraught old friend. Nothing more.”

  Old friend? David nearly laughed out loud. A few days ago Peter Thomas had made it clear they barely knew one another. Now they were old friends. He clenched the receiver more tightly and forced himself to listen as Huttner continued. “The lieutenant was by to see me earlier today, and it seems as if he’s conducting a most thorough inquiry into the whole matter. Let us just wait and see what direction his investigation takes. If, as you say, you had nothing to do with Charlotte’s death, I’m sure the lieutenant will be able to prove it. Now if you’ve no further questions …”

  David hung up without responding.

  When he awoke still dressed at five thirty the next morning, the muscles in his jaw were aching.

  David amused himself for nearly an hour by counting the seconds between a flash of lightning in the alley and the subsequent clap of thunder. Three calculations in a row agreed exactly—the electrical discharge was a mile and a half away. Measured against the disappointments of the past two days, his mathematical triumph was like winning an Olympic medal. Fifteen minutes reading a mindless paperback. Two with the weights. Another few with the book. They were, he realized, the random, anxious movements of someone with no place to go. The same sort of restlessness that had characterized his first few weeks of hospitalization in the Briggs Institute.

  He stared at the phone and considered trying Lauren again. He had tried earlier in the day—her home number and even the hotels in Washington where she usually stayed. She’ll be here soon, he told himself. If not today then tomorrow. Their only contact after she had left had been a brief conversation just before the hideous session with Dockerty in the Amphi. Lauren had called to explain that she would be on the move, covering reaction to the death of Senator Cormier. In fact, she confessed, her main reason for calling (other than“just to say hi,” she said) was to see if David could talk to people at his hospital and get some inside information on the sudden tragedy. At the time he’d felt certain he could learn som
ething. Of course, there had been no way of knowing that within a few hours he would become a pariah at Boston Doctors.

  David went to the kitchen for some water, then to the bathroom for some more.

  She’d said she’d be in Springfield today covering the funeral. Possibly for a day or two after that. Perhaps she would call and they could meet in Springfield. Maybe they could even drive to New York or … or maybe up to Montreal.

  Random movements, random thoughts.

  He reopened the mystery novel, read for a time, then discovered that the last ten pages of the tattered paperback were missing. He barely reacted—just shrugged—and shuffled off to take a shower—his second of the day. As he turned on the water, the telephone rang.

  David skidded into the hallway and raced to the bedroom. “Hey, where have you been?” he panted. “I’ve been worried. I didn’t even know for sure what city you were in.”

  “David, it’s Dr. Armstrong. Are you all right?”

  “Huh?” Oh, damn. “I’m sorry, Dr. Armstrong. No, I’m fine. I was expecting a call from Lauren and … uh … she’s a woman that I …”

  “David? Take a minute and relax. Do you want me to call back?”

  “No, no, I’m fine. Really.” He stretched the phone cord to reach his bureau and pulled on a pair of scrub pants. Then he sighed and sank to the bed. “Actually, I’m not fine. I’ve been sitting around here all day. Half the time I wait, and the other half I try to figure out what I’m waiting for.”

  “But you haven’t …?” She let the question drift.

  “No, not even close,” he said, forcing a laugh. “Not a pill or a drop of anything. I told you the other night that nothing was going to get me back there.” Actually, the urge had been there several times—fleeting, but unmistakable. It never lasted long enough to pose a major threat, but after so many years, any sense of it at all was frightening.