Host

by Robin Cook

  “I’ll try, but I’m overwhelmed. The problem is I’m not fully in control of my feelings.”

  “Where are you now?” he asked.

  “I’m here at Carl’s. Which reminds me: you are off the hook about Pep. I’ll see to her needs.”

  “Do you want me to come and pick you up? You could stay with Naomi and me.” Frank had a single house similar to Carl’s and not that far away. “You can stay as long as you want. We have plenty of room.”

  “I appreciate the offer, but I want to stay here.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “As sure as I can be at the moment. I’m going to take it hour by hour, day by day. I’ll call you if I need to talk. Meanwhile I’m going to occupy myself learning as much as I can about his medical situation.”

  “You have my cell. Call me anytime you want. Truly: anytime. It doesn’t matter. And if you don’t mind, I’ll check in with you later this evening.”

  “I don’t mind,” Lynn said.

  “Okay, catch you later. And I’m sorry.”

  “Thank you,” Lynn said before she clicked off.

  Turning her attention back to the computer screen, Lynn first made sure of the Internet connection, then brought up Google Chrome. Before she could initiate the first of what was going to be many searches, she jumped in fright. Sudden movement off to her left caused her to leap to her feet, sending the desk chair skidding backward on its casters and crashing loudly into the bookcase. A few books that had been balanced upright to display their front covers fell to the floor. The cat who had initiated this chain reaction howled in equivalent fright and fled the room.

  “Holy shit,” Lynn voiced, pressing an open palm against her chest. Her heart was racing. For the second time the cat had innocently enough terrorized her, this time by leaping up onto the desk. The intensity of her reaction gave her an idea of the extent of her anxiety. She bent over and picked up the volumes that had fallen and returned them to the shelf. Next she pulled the chair back to the desk and sat down.

  For a few moments she let herself recover before getting to work. She had three main areas of interest. The first was the incidence of complications involving anesthesia. The second was the specialty of anesthesia itself so that she could go over Carl’s record with full understanding. She particularly wanted to know about problems related to hypoxia or low oxygen and what could cause them. Apparently that was the current explanation of Carl’s delayed return to consciousness. And finally she wanted to read about the Glasgow Coma Scale.

  A few minutes later Pep wandered back into the room. This time when she jumped up onto the desk to sprawl on its surface, Lynn didn’t even notice. She was deep into a piece on hospital complications. The statistics floored her and even embarrassed her about the profession she had been working so hard to enter. She had known complications were a problem in some hospitals but nowhere near the extent that she now knew existed. It made her wonder why there had never been a formal lecture about it or even any discussions in her preceptor groups. The more she read, the more shocked she became.

  Lynn had been furiously taking notes and suddenly needed an eraser. Assuming there would be one in the desk, she pulled out the drawer to look. Not unexpectedly there were several. She picked one up and was about to close the drawer when her eye caught something else. It was a small signature-blue Tiffany box.

  Lynn froze, staring at the box. After a moment’s hesitation and with a shaking hand, she reached into the drawer and lifted it out. Sliding off the white bow, she opened it. Inside, as she guessed, was a small, black, felt-covered box containing a diamond engagement ring. With a loud snap, Lynn closed it, put it back in its blue carton, and replaced it in the drawer.

  For a moment she stared off into space. Now she knew for sure there was going to be an engagement that had been derailed by the events that morning. For a moment she struggled with a combination of overwhelming sadness and paralyzing anger, each trying to best the other. But instead of giving vent to either, she closed the desk drawer to return to her Internet search. She felt a renewed commitment to the task of finding out exactly what had happened to Carl and who was responsible as a way to avoid even thinking about lost opportunity and the disturbing freedom issue.

  11.

  Monday, April 6, 2:53 P.M.

  For almost a half hour Michael stayed where he was on the park bench, staring at the Shapiro Institute and mulling over the realities of his childhood that had been awakened by thinking about Ashanti Davis. He was truly amazed at how lucky he’d been to escape the near hopeless, self-fulfilling web of poverty in which he and his friends had been enmeshed and the self-destructive methods that had evolved to deal with it.

  Suddenly Michael sat bolt upright. In his direct line of vision, a man emerged from the single Shapiro Institute door. Considering the time of day, it was a rare sight and rarer still because the man was by himself and wasn’t wearing the typical white outfit Michael had seen before. Instead of white scrublike clothes, this man was “flamed up,” sporting a black leather suit jacket over expensive-looking jeans.

  Surprising himself to a degree with his spontaneity, Michael called out, “Hey! Sir! Hold up!” Using his hands to restrain the collection of pens and other paraphernalia in his pockets, including his digital tablet, Michael ran toward the man, who was walking quickly, parallel to the building, apparently en route to the parking area on the other side. “Excuse me!” Michael added as he fell in alongside. “Can I speak to you for a moment?”

  The man stopped and regarded Michael. He had on sunglasses and Michael could not see his eyes. He was a white, muscular fellow with heavy features and dark, lank hair. He had a goatee not dissimilar to the kind Michael had been tempted to grow on occasion. He was wearing earbuds with the wire looping down and disappearing inside his jacket, and carrying a laptop computer in his right hand and a soft leather briefcase in his left.

  “I saw you came out of the Shapiro Institute,” Michael said, slightly out of breath. “I’m a fourth-year medical student, Michael Lamar Pender. I have always been fascinated by the place.”

  The man took out one of his earbuds, and Michael could hear jazz at a not insignificant volume. The man cocked his head with a frown. Michael repeated his comment. He hoped a little friendly chitchat would open the man up as a potential source of information, but no luck. Not only did the man not say anything, he kept frowning.

  “We medical students visited the institute during our second year. We learned a bit about the place but . . .”

  Michael trailed off, hoping for some response. There wasn’t any. “Do you work in the institute?” he added in desperation.

  “No,” the man said finally.

  “Were you just visiting?” Michael persisted. “Do you have a relative who is a patient?”

  “I don’t understand question,” the man said with a strong accent. “I am computer programmer. I fix problem.”

  “Cool,” Michael said, and he meant it. Michael was suddenly more interested as he recognized the Russian accent. Over the years a number of Russians had been hired by the Mason-Dixon Medical Center to staff the Department of Clinical Engineering, which included IT. Michael had spoken with a couple of them on a number of occasions and found them generally friendly and very competent.

  With the sizable computer servers associated with the hospital’s electronic health records and all the other hospital equipment that were essentially computers, such as the anesthesia machines, MRI units, CT scans, and the like, the hospital needed a team of truly computer-savvy individuals. And Michael knew that Russians generally were talented with computer code. They had even become somewhat infamous of late with their involvement with high-frequency trading on Wall Street. Some of the hospital team had even been recruited from there.

  “So you work here in the main hospital?” Michael said, speaking slowly and loudly, gesturing over his shoulder to
ward the main eight-story hospital tower behind them.

  “No,” the man said without elaboration.

  “Cool,” Michael repeated, nodding as if agreeing. It suddenly occurred to him that the man didn’t speak nearly as much English as the Russians he had spoken with in the main hospital. Yet Michael didn’t want to break off the conversation. Meeting this dude popping out of the Shapiro seemed so serendipitous, considering his sudden interest in finding out about Ashanti Davis. He thought that the chances were better than good that the man had administrator status with the Shapiro’s computer system. He’d have to, if he was working on it.

  “Is the computer fixed?” Michael asked to make conversation. If this guy was a computer admin guy, he could be very helpful if he was inclined. Michael was well aware that people, like himself, who had reasonable access to the main hospital system could not access the Shapiro Institute’s. He knew it because he had tried several months back when he briefly attempted to find out about Ashanti.

  “Computer not yet fixed,” the man said. “But it work okay.”

  “Cool!” Michael repeated yet again, trying to figure out how he was going to get on this guy’s good side. He was encouraged by something he had learned from hanging with the Russians in the hospital, namely that Russians generally admired black men and black culture. It had to do with the ambivalence Russians harbored about America, giving weight to the adage, the enemy of my enemy is my friend. It was common knowledge in Russia that the United States historically had not done right by its African American citizens. “I have met some Russians in the hospital,” Michael added, again speaking slowly and loudly. “Who do you work for?”

  The man quickly glanced around as if concerned someone might overhear. Michael took it as encouraging behavior, as if they were sharing a secret between them, but then the man did something Michael didn’t expect. Instead of answering verbally the man put down his laptop and briefcase, then took out his smartphone. He opened an app and began typing. When he was done, he held the phone out toward Michael so that Michael could read what was on the screen. On the upper portion was a paragraph in Cyrillic. Below, presumably a translation: “I work for Sidereal Pharmaceuticals in North Charleston.”

  Michael nodded. It made sense. It was common knowledge that there was an ongoing relationship between Sidereal Pharmaceuticals and Middleton Healthcare. Not only had Sidereal funded a large portion of the Shapiro’s construction, there was talk about Sidereal, with its deep pockets, gaining a controlling interest in the hospital chain.

  Michael took the man’s phone and quickly figured out how to type a message in English and have it appear below in Russian, and they began an electronic conversation:

  Michael: My name is Michael Lamar Pender. I’m a fourth-year medical student. What’s your name and where are you from?

  Vladimir: My name is Vladimir Malaklov. I am from Yekaterinburg, Sverdlovsk Oblast, Russia.

  Michael: How long have you been in the United States?

  Vladimir: Short time. I came to New York and then here three months ago.

  Michael: Were you brought over here for a specific reason?

  Vladimir: I am a specialist in the MUMPS computer language. The system here is coded in MUMPS.

  Michael: It must be hard for you being here to communicate.

  Vladimir: English is a struggle. I studied some in Russia before I came, but it hasn’t helped very much. I am trying to learn, but it is difficult.

  Michael: Do you know any of the Russians who work in the hospital?

  Vladimir: Yes. I know several from the same university where I trained. I am staying with one of them, which is difficult. He says that after all day he is tired of talking English, so I do not get to practice.

  Michael: I’m about to finish medical school and have some free time. Maybe I can teach you some black-talk.

  Vladimir: I do not understand. What is “black-talk”?

  Michael: It is the way we African American sisters and brothers talk to each other. It’s like the words in rap music. You like rap?

  Vladimir: I love rap music. Here, listen!

  Vladimir changed the app, took out the second earbud, and handed both over to Michael. Michael held one of the buds close to his ear. He recognized the tune and the artist immediately. It was Jay-Z belting out “Hard Knock Life,” a piece Michael knew well.

  Michael took out his own phone with an attached Beats headset, brought up the same tune, and handed the earplugs to Vladimir. Vladimir’s face quickly broke into a contented smile and his head bobbed to the beat. Michael wasn’t surprised. He knew that the quality of his headset was far superior to the one the Russian was using. It was like night and day.

  Michael motioned toward Vladimir’s phone and pantomimed tapping the screen and then looking at it. At first Vladimir didn’t understand, but then caught on when Michael said: “English to Russian.”

  Michael: The music is better with my headset.

  Vladimir nodded and gave a thumbs-up, indicating he agreed. He was still bobbing to the percussive beat with a slight smile on his face. He was enjoying himself, and Michael was ready to reel him in.

  Michael: I give you the headset as a welcome present to the United States.

  Vladimir: I cannot accept. You are too kind.

  Michael: You have to take it. You dishonor me if you don’t, and that would be a problem. In rap-talk we’d have a fucking beef, which means that I might have to shoot you, since everybody and his uncle packs a gun in this country.

  Michael watched Vladimir’s face as he read the translation, wondering how the last sentence would be translated into Russian. He smiled inwardly, thinking that beef might be translated as steak or hamburger, neither of which would make any sense whatsoever. But a broad smile lit up Vladimir’s face. The Russian then typed into his screen before holding the phone up for Michael to see.

  Vladimir: I accept with pleasure to avoid a fucking filet mignon, whatever that means, but you must accept a gift from me as well. I have some souvenirs I brought from Russia.

  Michael after a good laugh: Whatever. Russian souvenir would be nice. How about a selfie with you and me?

  Vladimir: I do not understand selfie.

  Michael alternately pointing to himself and to Vladimir: A photo. The two of us. To demonstrate, Michael quickly snapped a selfie picture of himself and showed it to Vladimir. Michael wanted a photo of this Russian fellow, thinking that Lynn was not going to believe his meeting this guy.

  Vladimir: Yes, photo, but with my camera as well.

  Michael first held his own smartphone at arm’s distance, put his arm around Vladimir’s shoulder, and took a photo. Then Vladimir did the same. Michael took Vladimir’s phone back and typed into the translator app:

  Michael: I also have a collection of all of Jay-Z’s albums on my PC that I can share, if you are interested.

  Vladimir: Very interested.

  Michael: How will I get in touch with you, say tomorrow or the next day?

  Vladimir: I give you my mobile number and my e-mail address.

  Michael: Perfect. And I will give you mine.

  For the next few minutes the two men concentrated on getting each other’s information into their phone’s contacts. Michael noted that the country code for Russia was 7, followed by ten digits. He wondered how much texting the man was going to cost. Although Michael bolstered his meager finances with various jobs around the medical center, like working at the blood bank, by the end of the month he was always a bit short.

  When he and Vladimir finished exchanging their mobile numbers and e-mail addresses, Michael pantomimed he had more to say. Vladimir brought up the translating app once again on his phone.

  Michael: Pleasure to meet you. In black-talk we say good-bye as “catch you later!”

  Vladimir: Okay! Catch later! And thank you for the headset.

  With a
broad smile on his face, Vladimir stuck out his hand and vigorously pumped Michael’s. When Vladimir let go, Michael balled the Russian’s fingers, did the same with his own, and then proceeded to bump fists with him.

  “That’s how we black folks do it,” Michael explained.

  Vladimir kept it up, nodding and smiling. “Catch you later,” he repeated in his accented, halting English.

  “Cool,” Michael said with a laugh. The guy was a piece of work.

  Vladimir picked up his laptop and briefcase from the ground and insisted on bumping fists again, which necessitated tucking his laptop under his arm to free up a hand. As he managed this, he never stopped smiling, obviously enjoying himself. Then, with a final wave, he turned and headed off in his original direction.

  Michael deliberately waited until the Russian was about thirty feet away. Then he called out the man’s name and jogged toward him, struggling once more to keep his medical-student paraphernalia from flying out of his pockets. When he reached him, he motioned again that he wanted to use Vladimir’s smartphone translation app. When he got it he typed in:

  Michael: I just thought of something. I have a distant relative who was taken into the Shapiro Institute a few months back. I haven’t heard anything about her and promised my mother I’d find out if she was still there and doing okay, but I haven’t been able to do it. When you go back into the institute, would you mind just finding out if she is still there so I can let my mother know.

  Vladimir: I would need the name.

  Michael: Ashanti Davis.

  Vladimir: We could find out now if you would like.

  Michael: I would be very grateful. Since I am not immediate family I haven’t been able to visit her. How could we check about her today?

  Vladimir: We can go back into the institute, and I can quickly find out.

  Michael: I can go in with you?

  Vladimir: If you would like, but it is not necessary. It will only take a few moments. You can wait here if it is better for you.