"Son of a bitch!"
The neurosurgeons here will be able to do the procedure for the ones who will need it.
"How much time will he get?" Richard asked McKnight as he rejoined him in the hallway."Who knows? We're still counting up the charges we can bring against him. What with conspiracy to commit medical assault and his being an accomplice in two accidental homicides, I'd say ten years easy, if not twenty. And his refusal to help us locate Downs isn't helping his case any. What did he say to you at the end back there?"
"Nothing. Just that he was sorry."
"Amazing!" said Kathleen, seated by her bed. Though the tube was still in place, she no longer had to cover her tracheostomy site to speak. Since she'd been breathing entirely on her own for weeks and no longer had difficulty swallowing her saliva or fluids, a stopper plugged the opening. The entire apparatus would soon be unnecessary, once she mastered solid foods. "So he went along with Hamlin purely to save my life, not to try and ensnare you in a cover-up?"
Richard nodded. "That's right."
"What a remarkable man. And now he's going to take the blame for everyone else."
"It looks like it."
"But it's so unfair."
"I know."
"Can we help him?"
"I don't see how, but I'm sure going to try."
"Yes. Me, too. Whatever it takes. Money. Lawyers. Speaking out on his behalf. Oh, Richard, it would be wrong to put him away."
How like her, he thought, not able to walk yet, and she's already charging to the aid of what's probably a lost cause.
They were seated across from each other in floral-patterned sofa chairs he had arranged to have brought to her hospital room from her apartment. The air was filled with the aroma of cappuccino he'd made for her on a newly bought machine. Around her were the fresh flowers he'd brought in every day, nicely arranged in the crystal vases he'd retrieved from his own house. While nothing could disguise the coldness of institutional decor, he figured it was possible at least to take the edge off it for her.
Kathleen tentatively raised a cup mounded with white foam to her lips. Being able to take a drink by herself was one of her recent accomplishments.
"You better watch how much of that stuff you down," he told her. "It's high-octane caffeine."
She took a swallow, then grinned at him with a white mustache. "Fruits of victory. It goes especially well with all the reading I've got to do." She gestured with her cup at a coffee table between them that was strewn with newspapers, scientific journals, and files from her laboratory. But there was a tautness to her voice that belied the smile.
"Then I'll get you decaf," he said.
Her legs were still unable to support her, and the physiotherapists thought it would be another three to four weeks before she could go home and attend sessions as an outpatient. Whether she would ever walk again they couldn't yet say, and he was sure that the uncertainty weighed heavily on her. She'd met his attempts to talk about the future with such an icy silence he'd learned to let it be.
Until now.
"You know, you're doing exactly what I did."
"Pardon?"
"Running."
She stiffened. "Poor choice of words, buster."
"Not really. You don't need legs to desert." He tapped his head. "Not if you do it up here."
"Richard, stop—"
"No way! Nothing stopped you from giving me a piece of your mind— full blast— when I needed it. You deserve just as good from me. And if you don't like it, it's your own fault. I'm your worst nightmare, a reformed duck-out junkie you helped to restore who's head over heels in love with you. That means I stick around and nag you out of the hole you're trying to dig us into."
"Us?"
"Yeah. Us. You and me, not to mention Chet and Lisa."
"Now that's not fair. You leave the kids out of this."
"Not fair? The kids are already in 'this.' We figure it's you who's not being fair to any of us."
Her jaw dropped. "Richard! You didn't discuss us with them, did you?"
"Of course I did. Or rather they demanded to know what was up. We all think you're nuts. I'm just the one who gets first crack at you."
"Now wait a minute—"
"No, you wait a minute. Did you really think we would let you kiss us off, Kathleen?"
"I'm not kissing Lisa or Chet off! I'd never do that. I simply won't be a burden—"
"You've never been a burden to anyone in your life, and never will. It's just not in your nature. You're take-charge Kathleen Sullivan, and what your muscles will or won't do isn't going to change that. Hell, I for one won't even see your wheelchair, if you have one."
"That's easy to say. Living it is different—"
"Of course, we'll have to make adjustments wherever we move, but we can more than afford any help we'll need. Only difference would be that I'd get to pick you up and carry you lots. No letting some hired hunk have all the fun of putting his arms around you."
"Richard! And that's another thing. What if we can't ... I mean ... if I can't. . ."
"Make love?"
Her face flushed. "Yes."
He got up, walked over to the door, and locked it.
"Richard, what the hell are you doing?"
He came back to where she was sitting and took the cup from her hands. "I'm showing you what a doctor with a good imagination can do." He slipped his arms under her and lifted. She still felt so light it startled him.
"Richard, put me down."
He laid her gently on the bed. While she'd gotten much of her color back, her face remained as skeletal as the rest of her. He almost abandoned what he had in mind, she looked so frail, and if she continued to demand he stop, he of course would. But her pupils widened, telling him something else. He smiled at her, and lay down at her side, his lips brushing her temples.
"What if someone comes and finds they can't get in?" she asked, glancing nervously at the door.
He kissed her softly on her lips. "They won't dare."
"But isn't this against the rules?" she murmured, kissing him back.
He caressed the side of her neck, "I'm chief of emergency. That gives me privileges," he whispered in her ear.
"Even with me?"
"If you want."
She didn't reply at first.
"Kathleen?"
"It does feel nice."
He reached down and undid the tie on her robe, then slid his hands underneath hertop, over her emaciated rib cage to her breasts. Gently he circled his fingertips around one of her nipples, and felt it become firm.
"Oh, my God." She sighed, her eyes glistened as she ever so slightly arched her back. "It's wonderful."
"You sound surprised."
"I was afraid I'd never feel sexy again."
"Shall I continue?"
"Oh, yes."
"Like that."
"Oh, Richard."
"More?"
"Yes. And don't stop."
He raised her nightgown, and let his lips do the touching. Sunday, July 22
"Do you want me to go up with you, Chet?"
"No, Dad. It's better I speak with him alone. Every time the poor guy sees a father and son together, it must be extra hard on him."
Richard smiled, impressed. "You're right."
They stood in the cavernous gloom of Saint Patrick's Cathedral where a memorial service for Ted Mallory had just drawn to a close. The actual funeral had been held weeks earlier, a private affair for family members only. Ted Mallory Senior, his face pale, his eyes and cheeks sunken, stood in a reception line staring blankly ahead and shaking hands with an endless stream of uniformed officers. At his side was a slender, dark-haired woman who looked equally sucked inside out by grief.
The fiancee, Cathy? Richard would have a word with her later, in private. Heartrending as it would be for her, he knew she would want to hear about Ted's final moments. The bereaved always did. He usually dressed it up for them, distilling from their loved one's final agon
y a story of dignified courage and noble last words, but in this case it would be true.
He watched Chet make his way into the line. When the boy reached the old man, they exchanged a few phrases, and Mallory Senior's face broke out of its porcelain mask into a look of astonishment. He instantly clasped the teenager by the shoulders, gave him a tearful smile, then pulled him into a hug. The young woman's features, rigidly dry-eyed until now, seemed to crumple as she joined in the embrace.
Chet hesitantly put his arms around them, and the rest of the people in the church went silent. Only the sobs of the father and Cathy filled the echoing interior.
After a few seconds Richard heard the man's broken voice say, "God bless you for coming and giving us a chance to meet you. Your being alive is the only thing that makes sense out of what our Ted died for." Monday, July 23, 10:35 p.m.
Jimmy Norris had no idea why they were taking him for an MRI at this time of night. When he'd scribbled a note demanding an explanation, all anybody told him was, "It's been ordered."
Not that he cared much what they did with him anymore. His life was finished. Having nothing but prison to look forward to, his survival on that slab in the morgue had become a cruel joke. His only comfort came in knowing they hadn't gotten Francesca. He had no idea where she'd fled. Yet he spent hours fantasizing her finding a safe refuge someplace and continuing their work, thereby keeping a part of him free. Then he'd think of all the hurdles she would have to overcome— financing, security, censure in the world scientific community— and would sink back into despair knowing all they'd done had been for naught.
An orderly loaded him into the waiting wheelchair and off they went toward radiology, the policeman assigned as his guard trotting along behind.
"You won't be able to go in with him," said the man doing the pushing. He was a slight wiry fellow who seemed to enjoy rushing everywhere at double speed. "The force of the magnet will rip out any metal you're carrying and pull it across the room like shrapnel—"
"I know the routine." The cop puffed, running behind a belly that certainly suggested he sat around watching incarcerated patients a lot. As soon as they arrived at the anteroom to the imaging suite the big man found a seat, pulled what looked like the Tinted crossword out of his pocket, and started to pore over it with a pencil.
The orderly shrugged, and helped Norris to his feet. "Give this to the radiologist," he said, handing over the requisition for the procedure once they were inside the chamber itself, a bare medium-sized area containing a giant tube over eight feet long that was the magnetic resonance machine. Then he left, closing a massive door behind him that sealed itself with the buzz of an electronic lock. Like a gas chamber, thought Norris, all at once feeling claustrophobic. The only window looked in on him from a small control booth where a man in OR greens was hunched over a panel of dials, his back turned. Probably a technician cuing up the necessary settings.
He walked over to the stretcher-sized tray that would feed him into the cylindrical opening where he'd be expected to lie perfectly still for about forty-five minutes. It was a pretty cramped space.
Who the hell had visited this on him anyway? He held the requisition up to the light to see the signature.
Rachael Jorgenson.
What the hell? That was Hamlin's former resident and squeeze. She had no business writing orders on him. It had to be a mistake.
A buzzing sounded behind him in the direction of the control booth, and he spun around to see a small door open. In stepped the man he'd noticed a few seconds before, except now he could see his face.
"Evening, Jimmy," said Richard Steele as casually as if they were meeting for a round of golf. "Whaa!" said Norris, forgetting his garbled speech and self-imposed silence.
"Now listen carefully, Jimmy. We don't have much time," Richard said. "Through that booth is another door leading to the radiologist's lounge. There you'll find a set of civvies, and a stolen pass card that'll open all the doors you'll need to exit the rear of the hospital. A car is waiting out there, and in it is a woman named Bunny and her pilot boyfriend who you know. They are going to drive you to a private airport where they've arranged for someone to fly you to Francesca, but you've got to hoof it. I figure just under an hour is all we have before someone comes checking."
Norris felt his heart quicken. Was this a joke? Surely Steele was tormenting him, teasing him with the possibility of escape and seeing Francesca, only to slam the door shut in his face if he fell for it. "Goh te hill" he managed to drawl.
"Damn it, Jimmy, trust me. It's your one chance. Take it."
Richard didn't sound like he was kidding. Maybe he was on the level. Why not play along? After all, he had nothing to lose. He started for the door to the booth, barely daring to hope. Passing on through and into the lounge he found trousers, socks, shoes, and a shirt laid out for him. "Wy rr yu halping me?" he asked, hurriedly pulling on the clothing, the job hampered by his having only one hand. "Without you, Kathleen would be dead. A lot of other people, too, probably. The bottom line is, given what you can offer humankind, it makes no sense to throw you in jail. Now go."
Norris felt something release deep inside him. Richard was playing straight, at no small risk. "Won u git n tubble?"
"Hey, residents make errors all the time, including writing orders on the wrong patient. The police will just figure that once here, you took full advantage of the situation, stealing the clothes and whatever else you needed to skedaddle. I'll have nothing to do with it."
"Wha ef Jorgansin tals?"
"She can't say anything about our arrangement; she has no proof. Besides, she owes me big-time for not pursuing a huge screwup of hers. A potential career-ender."
Norris fished the promised pass card out of his newly donned pants. Realization hit like a blast of oxygen directly to the brain: He stood on the verge of freedom. His head swam and a swell of elation filled his chest. "Than yu," he said, his eye filling with tears as he grabbed Richard's hand. It was his first shake as a southpaw. "Just go!"
Minutes later he was out a rear exit on Thirty-fourth Street. A breeze off the East River flowed over him, cool as a fresh spring shower, and overhead was a moonless starry sky. A good night to fly, he thought. Half a block away he saw the headlights of a car blink on and off. Running toward it, he started to laugh, yet he continued to cry. In seconds he was speeding away, safely in the custody of Bunny and Ralph Coady.
Epilogue
The New York Herald,
Sunday, September 2
A pair of doctors on Grand Cayman Island made medical history last week by implanting adult stem cells taken from a patient's own bone marrow into his heart. The subject, Ralph Coady of New York City, is a 45-year-old former airline pilot who suffered a major heart attack 10 weeks ago. The event left him with moderately severe heart failure, or weakening of the cardiac muscle. The new ceils are expected to restore the injured areas of his myocardium, returning them to normal function within 6 to 12 weeks.
What makes the occurrence ail the more remarkable is that the two people who carried out the procedure, Dr. Francesca Downs and Dr. James Norris, are wanted by U.S. authorities in connection with a recent scandal at New York City Hospital where they allegedly carried out unauthorized stem cell research on unsuspecting patients. Authorities in Grand Cayman, however, have refused to comply with all requests for their extradition of the pair to America. Instead local officials have authorized their participation in a stem cell research and treatment center established on the island in conjunction with Fountainhead Pharmaceuticals of Mexico. A spokesperson for the newly formed institute reported that they have also recruited leading specialists in all fields of regenerative medicine from virtually every corner of the planet, and patients are inundating the recently opened facility with requests for appointments.
Dr. Francesca Downs put it most succinctly: "Clearly the demand is there. Obviously we will be opening more such institutes in other countries where regulations favor scientific progres
s. In ail, Dr. Norris and I are delighted our life-saving work is free to flourish."
Kathleen Sullivan lowered the newspaper and looked over at Richard. How she loved him. How grateful she was for his devotion and protection that had saved her life. But, oh, my God, what had she and he set in motion by freeing Norris?
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