Terminal

by Robin Cook

  “I’m not doing autopsies this month,” the resident said, trying to rush away.

  Sean blocked his path. “How can I find out if a patient will be posted?” he asked.

  “You have the chart number?” the resident asked.

  “Just the name,” Sean said. “She died in the ER.”

  “Then we probably won’t be autopsying the case,” the resident said. “ER deaths are usually assigned to the medical examiner.”

  “How can I be sure?” Sean persisted.

  “What’s the name?”

  “Helen Cabot,” Sean said.

  The resident graciously went over to a nearby wall phone and made a call. It took him less than two minutes to ascertain that Helen Cabot was not scheduled.

  “Where do bodies go?” Sean asked.

  “To the morgue,” the resident said. “It’s in the basement. Take the main elevators to B1 and follow the red signs with the big letter M on them.”

  After the resident hurried on, Sean looked at Janet. “You game?” he asked. “If we find her then we’ll know her disposition for sure. We might even be able to get a little body fluid.”

  “I’ve come this far,” Janet said with resignation.

  TOM WIDDICOMB felt calmer than he had all day. At first he’d been dismayed when Janet had appeared with a young guy in a white coat, but then things took a turn for the better when the two went directly to the Miami General. Having worked there, Tom knew the place from top to bottom. He also knew that Miami General would be crowded with people at that time of day since formal visiting hours had just started. And crowds meant chaos. Maybe he would get his chance at Janet and wouldn’t even have to follow her home. If he had to shoot the fellow in the white coat, too bad!

  Following the couple within the hospital had not been easy, especially once they went to pathology. Tom had thought he’d lost them and was about to return to the parking lot to keep an eye on the 4×4 when they suddenly reappeared. Janet came so close, he was sure she’d recognize him. He’d panicked, but luckily hadn’t moved. Fearing Janet would scream as she had in the Forbes residence, he’d gripped the pistol in his pocket. If she had screamed he would have had to shoot her on the spot.

  But Janet glanced away without reacting. Obviously she’d failed to identify him. Feeling more secure, Tom followed the pair more closely. He even rode down in the same elevator with them, something he’d not been willing to do when they’d gone up to pathology.

  Janet’s friend pushed the button for B1, and Tom was ecstatic. Of all the locations in Miami General, Tom liked the basement the best. When he’d worked at this hospital, he snuck down there many times to visit the morgue or to read the newspaper. He knew the labyrinthine tunnels like the back of his hand.

  Tom’s anxiety about Janet recognizing him returned when everyone else but a doctor and a uniformed maintenance man got off on the first floor. But even with so slim a crowd to lose himself in, Janet failed to remember him.

  As soon as the elevator reached the basement, the doctor and the maintenance man turned right and walked quickly away. Janet and Sean paused briefly, looking in both directions. Then they turned left.

  Tom waited behind in the elevator until the doors began to shut. Bumping them open, he stepped out and followed the couple, keeping at a distance of about fifty feet. He slipped his hand in his pocket and gripped the gun. He even put his finger between the trigger and its guard.

  The farther from the elevators the couple walked, the better Tom liked it. This was a perfect location for what he had to do. He couldn’t believe his luck. They were entering an area of the basement few people visited. The only sounds were their footfalls and the slight hissing of steam pipes.

  “THIS PLACE feels appropriately like Hades,” Sean said. “I wonder if we’re lost.”

  “There haven’t been any turnoffs since the last M sign,” Janet said. “I think we’re okay.”

  “Why do they always put morgues in such isolated places?” Sean said. “Even the lighting is getting lousy.”

  “It’s probably near a loading dock,” Janet said. Then she pointed ahead. “There’s another sign. We’re on the right track.”

  “I think they want their mistakes as far away as possible,” Sean quipped. “It wouldn’t be good advertising to have the morgue near the front entrance.”

  “I forgot to ask how you made out with the medicine I got for you.”

  “I haven’t gotten very far,” Sean admitted. “What I did was start a gel electrophoresis.”

  “That tells me a lot,” Janet said sarcastically.

  “It’s actually simple,” Sean said. “I suspect the medicine is made up of proteins because they have to be using some sort of immunotherapy. Since proteins all have electric charges, they move in an electrical field. When you put them in a specific gel, which coats them with a uniform charge, they move only in relation to their size. I want to find out how many proteins I’m dealing with and what their approximate molecular weight is. It’s a first step.”

  “Just make sure you learn enough to justify the effort for getting it,” Janet said.

  “I hope you don’t think you’re off the hook with this one sample,” Sean said. “Next time I want you to get some of Louis Martin’s.”

  “I don’t think I can do it again,” Janet said. “I can’t break any more vials. If I do, they’ll be suspicious for sure.”

  “Try a different method,” Sean suggested. “Besides, I don’t need so much.”

  “I thought by bringing the whole vial you’d have plenty,” Janet said.

  “I want to compare the medicines from different patients,” Sean said. “I want to find out how they differ.”

  “I’m not sure they differ,” Janet said. “When I went up to Ms. Richmond’s office to get another vial, she took it from a large stock. I got the feeling they are all being treated by the same two drugs.”

  “I can’t buy that,” Sean said. “Every tumor is distinct antigenically, even the same kind of tumor. Oat cell cancer from one person will be different antigenically from the same type of cancer from another. In fact, if it arises as a new tumor even in the same person it will be antigenically distinct. And antigenically distinct tumors require different antibodies.”

  “Maybe they use the same drug until they biopsy the tumor,” Janet suggested.

  Sean looked at her with renewed respect. “That’s an idea,” he said.

  Finally they rounded a corner and found themselves in front of a large insulated door. A metal sign at chest level read: Morgue. Unauthorized Entry Forbidden. Next to the door were several light switches.

  “Uh oh,” Sean said. “I guess they were expecting us. That’s a rather formidable bolt action lock. And I didn’t bring my tools.”

  Janet reached out and yanked on the door. It opened.

  “I take that back,” Sean said. “Guess they didn’t expect us. At least not today.”

  A cool breeze issued from the room and swirled about their legs. Sean flipped on the lights. For a split second there was no response. Then raw fluorescent light blinked on.

  “After you,” Sean said gallantly.

  “This was your idea,” Janet said. “You first.”

  Sean stepped in with Janet immediately following. Several wide, concrete supporting piers blocked a view of the entire space, but it was obviously a large room. Old gurneys littered the room haphazardly. Each bore a shrouded body. The temperature, according to a gauge on the door, was forty-eight degrees.

  Janet shivered. “I don’t like this.”

  “This place is huge,” Sean said. “Either the architects had a low opinion of the competence of the medical staff, or they planned for a national disaster.”

  “Let’s get this over with,” Janet said, hugging herself. The cold air was damp and penetrating. The smell was like a musty wet basement that had been closed for years.

  Sean yanked back a sheet. “Oh, hello,” he said. The bloodied face of a partially crus
hed construction worker stared up at him. He was still in his work clothes. Sean covered the man and went to the next.

  Despite her revulsion, Janet did the same, going in the opposite direction.

  “Too bad they’re not in alphabetical order,” Sean said. “There must be fifty bodies in here. This is one scene the Miami Chamber of Commerce wouldn’t want to get up north.”

  “Sean!” Janet called, since they’d moved apart. “I think your humor is tasteless.”

  They worked around opposite ends of one of the concrete piers.

  “Come on, Helen,” Sean called in a childlike singsong. “Come out, come out wherever you are.”

  “That’s especially crude,” Janet said.

  TOM WIDDICOMB was filled with excited anticipation. Even his mother had decided to break her long silence to tell him how clever he’d been to follow Janet and her friend into Miami General. Tom was well acquainted with the morgue. For what he intended to do, he couldn’t have found a better place.

  Approaching the insulated door, Tom pulled his gun from his pocket. Holding the pistol in his right hand, he pulled the thick door open and looked inside. Not seeing Janet or her friend, he stepped into the morgue and let the door ease closed. He couldn’t see the couple but he could hear them. He distinctly heard Janet tell the man in the white coat to shut up.

  Tom grasped the brass knob of the heavy lock on the door and slowly turned it. Silently the bolt slid into the striker plate. When Tom had worked at Miami General, the lock had never been used. He doubted if a key existed. Locking it ensured that he would not be disturbed.

  “You’re a smart man,” Alice whispered.

  “Thank you, Mom,” Tom whispered back.

  Holding the gun in both hands as he’d seen them do on TV, Tom moved forward, heading toward the nearest of the concrete piers. He could tell from Janet and her friend’s voices that they were just on the opposite side of it.

  “SOME OF these people have been in here for a while,” Sean said. “It’s like they’ve been forgotten.”

  “I was thinking the same thing,” Janet said. “I don’t think Helen Cabot’s body is here. It would have been near the door. After all, she just died a few hours ago.”

  Sean was about to agree when the lights went out. With no windows and the door heavily girdled with insulating weather stripping, it wasn’t just dark, it was absolutely black, like the vortex of a black hole.

  The instant the lights went out there was an ear-piercing scream following by hysterical sobbing. At first Sean thought it was Janet, but having known where she was before the darkness enveloped him, he could tell that the crying was coming from behind the wall near the door to the hall.

  So if it wasn’t Janet, Sean thought, who was it?

  The agony was infectious. Even the sudden darkness wouldn’t have disturbed Sean ordinarily, but combined with the terrorized wailing, he found himself on the border of panic. What kept him from losing control was concern about Janet.

  “I hate the dark,” the voice cried out suddenly amid weeping. “Someone help me!”

  Sean didn’t know what to do. From the direction of the wailing came the sounds of frenzied commotion. Gurneys were bumping into each other, spilling their bodies onto the concrete floor.

  “Help me!” the voice screamed.

  Sean thought about calling out to try to calm the anguished individual, but he couldn’t decide if that was a good idea or not. Unable to decide, he stayed quiet.

  After the sound of more gurneys clanking against each other, there was a low-pitched thump as if someone had hit up against the insulated door. That was followed by a mechanical click.

  For a moment a small amount of light fingered its way around the concrete pier. Sean caught sight of Janet with her hands pressed against her mouth. She was only about twenty feet from him. Then the darkness descended again like a heavy blanket. This time it was accompanied by silence.

  “Janet?” Sean called softly. “You okay?”

  “Yes,” she answered. “What in God’s name was that?”

  “Move toward me,” Sean said. “I’m coming toward you.”

  “All right,” Janet said.

  “This place is nuts,” Sean said, wanting to keep talking as they groped toward each other. “I thought Forbes was weird, but this place takes the prize hands down. Remind me not to match here for my internship.”

  At last their groping hands met. Holding onto each other, they weaved their way through the gurneys in the direction of the door. Sean’s foot nudged a body on the floor. He warned Janet she’d have to step over it.

  “I’ll have nightmares about this the rest of my life,” Janet said.

  “This is worse than Stephen King,” Sean said.

  Sean collided with the wall. Then, moving laterally, he felt the door. He pushed it open, and they both stumbled into the deserted corridor, blinking in the light.

  Sean cupped Janet’s face in his hands. “I’m sorry,” he said.

  “Life is never boring with you,” Janet said. “But it wasn’t your fault. Besides, we made it. Let’s get out of here.”

  Sean kissed the end of her nose. “My feelings exactly.”

  Mild concern they would have trouble finding their way to the elevators proved unwarranted. In minutes the two were climbing into Sean’s 4×4 and heading out of the parking lot.

  “What a relief,” Janet said. “Do you have any idea what happened in there?”

  “I don’t,” Sean said. “It was so weird. It was like it was staged to scare us to death. Maybe there’s some troll living in the basement who does that to everyone.”

  As they were about to exit the parking area, Sean put on the brake suddenly, enough to make Janet reach out to support herself against the dash.

  “What now?” she asked.

  Sean pointed. “Look what we have here. How convenient,” he said. “That brick building is the medical examiner’s office. I had no idea it was so close. It must be fate telling us that Helen’s body is over there. What do you say?”

  “I’m not wild about the idea,” Janet admitted. “But as long as we’re here…”

  “That’s the ticket,” Sean said.

  Sean parked in visitor parking, and they entered the modern building. Inside they approached an information desk. A cordial black woman asked if she could be of assistance.

  Sean told her that he was a medical student and Janet was a nurse. He asked to speak with one of the medical examiners.

  “Which one?” the receptionist asked.

  “How about the director?” Sean suggested.

  “The chief is out of town,” the receptionist said. “How about the deputy chief?”

  “Perfect,” Sean said.

  After a short wait they were buzzed through an inner glass door and directed to a corner office. The deputy chief was Dr. John Stasin. He was about Sean’s height but of slight build. He seemed genuinely pleased that Sean and Janet had stopped by.

  “Teaching is one of our major functions,” he said proudly. “We encourage the professional community to take an active interest in our work.”

  “We’re interested in a specific patient,” Sean said. “Her name is Helen Cabot. She died this afternoon in the Miami General emergency room.”

  “Name doesn’t ring a bell,” Dr. Stasin said. “Just a minute. Let me call downstairs.” He picked up the phone, mentioned Helen’s name, nodded, and said “yeah” a few times, then hung up. It all happened extremely rapidly. It was apparent that grass did not grow under Dr. Stasin’s feet.

  “She arrived a few hours ago,” Dr. Stasin said. “But we won’t be posting her.”

  “Why not?” Sean asked.

  “Two reasons,” Dr. Stasin said. “First, she had documented brain cancer which her attending physician is willing to aver as the cause of death. Second, her family has expressed strong feelings against our posting her. In this kind of circumstance we feel it is better not to do it. Contrary to popular opinion, we�
�re receptive to the family’s wishes unless, of course, there is evidence of foul play or a strong suggestion that the public weal would be served by an autopsy.”

  “Is there a chance of getting any tissue samples?” Sean asked.

  “Not if we don’t do the autopsy,” Dr. Stasin said. “If we did, the tissues removed would be available at our discretion. But since we’re not posting the patient, property rights rest with the family. Besides, the body has already been picked up by the Emerson Funeral Home. It’s on its way to Boston sometime tomorrow.”

  Sean thanked Dr. Stasin for his time.

  “Not at all,” he said. “We’re here every day. Give a call if we can help.”

  Sean and Janet retraced the route to the car. The sun was setting; rush hour was in full swing.

  “Surprisingly helpful individual,” Janet said.

  Sean only shrugged. He leaned his forehead against the steering wheel.

  “This is depressing,” he said. “Nothing seems to be going our way.”

  “If anyone should be melancholy it should be me,” Janet reminded him, noting how glum he’d suddenly become.

  “It’s an Irish trait to be melancholy,” Sean said. “So don’t deny me. Maybe these difficulties we’re having are trying to tell me something, like I should be heading back to Boston to do some real work. I never should have come down here.”

  “Let’s go get something to eat,” Janet said. She wanted to change the subject. “We could go back to that Cuban restaurant on the beach.”

  “I don’t think I’m hungry,” Sean said.

  “A little arroz con pollo will make all the difference in the world,” Janet said. “Trust me.”

  TOM WIDDICOMB had every light on in the house despite the fact that it wasn’t even dark outside. But he knew it would be dark soon, and the idea terrified him. He did not like the dark. Even though it was hours after the terrible episode in the Miami General morgue he was still shaking. His mother had done something similar to him once when he was about six. He’d gotten irritated at her when she said he couldn’t have any more ice cream, and he’d threatened to tell the teacher at school that they slept together unless she gave him more. Her response had been to shut him in a closet overnight. It had been Tom’s worst experience. He’d been afraid of both the dark and closets ever since.