Life Support

by Tess Gerritsen

  “Middle age is hell.”

  “Middle age? Speak for yourself, buster.”

  He laughed, his eyes narrowed against the sunlight. “So now it’s ten years later and you’re an old lady in her, what? Thirties? Yet you’re still working the graveyard shift.”

  “It got to feel pretty comfortable, after a while. Working with the same nurses. People I could trust.” She sighed. “Then my mom’s Alzheimer’s got worse. And it seemed important for me to be home during the day. To do things for her. So now I hire someone to sleep at my house at night. And then I get home from work in the morning and take over.”

  “Sounds like you’re burning the candle at both ends.”

  She shrugged. “There’s not much choice, is there? Really, I’m lucky. At least I can afford to hire help and keep working, unlike so many other women. And my mother—even at her most exasperating—she never stops being. . .” She paused, searching for the one word that would describe Ellen’s essence. “Kind,” she said. “My mother has always, always been kind.”

  Their eyes met. She shivered as a biting wind swept across the pond and rattled the bare branches overhead.

  “I have a feeling you’re very much like your mother,” he said.

  “Kind? No. I wish I was.” She looked across the pond, where ripples danced. “I think I’m too impatient. Too intense to be kind.”

  “Well, you are intense, Dr. Harper. I knew that from the first conversation we had. And I can see every emotion playing right across your face.”

  “Scary, isn’t it?”

  “Probably healthy for the soul. At least you let it all out Frankly, I could use some of your intensity.”

  She admitted, ruefully, “I could use some of your reserve.”

  The last slice of pizza was gone. They threw the box in the rubbish bin and began to walk. Dvorak seemed not to notice the cold; he moved with easy, long-limbed grace, his coat unbuttoned, his scarf trailing like an afterthought over his shoulder.

  “I don’t think I’ve ever met a pathologist who wasn’t reserved,” she said. “Are you all such good poker players?”

  “Meaning, do we all have personalities bordering on the comatose?”

  “Well, the ones I know seem so quiet. But also competent, as if they know all the answers.”

  “We do.”

  She looked at his deadpan face and laughed. “It’s a good act, Dan. You have me convinced.”

  “Actually, they teach you that in pathology residency. How to look intelligent. The ones who flunk out become surgeons.”

  She tossed back her head and laughed harder.

  “It’s true, though, what you say,” he admitted. “The quiet ones go into pathology. It attracts people who like working in basements. Who feel more comfortable looking into microscopes than talking to live people.”

  “Is that true for you?”

  “I’d have to say yes. I’m not very adept with people. Which probably explains my divorce.”

  They walked for a moment in silence. The wind had dragged a few clouds overhead, and they moved through intermittent patches of shadow, then sunlight.

  “Was she a doctor, too?” asked Toby.

  “Another pathologist. Very brilliant, but also very reserved. I didn’t even notice there was anything wrong between us. Not until she left me. I guess that proves we were both pretty good poker players.”

  “Which doesn’t work very well in a marriage, I imagine.”

  “No, it didn’t.” He suddenly halted and glanced down at his belt. “Someone’s paging me,” he said, frowning at the beeper readout.

  “There’s a pay phone right over there.”

  As Dvorak made his call, Toby stood outside the phone booth, eyes closed as she drank in a brief moment of sunshine between passing clouds. A moment of pleasure in just being alive. She was scarcely listening to Dvorak’s conversation. Only when she heard the words Brant Hill did she suddenly turn and look at him through the Plexiglas.

  He hung up and came out of the booth.

  “What?” she said. “It’s about Robbie, isn’t it?”

  He nodded. “That was Detective Sheehan. He’s been over at Wicklin Hospital, interviewing the staff. They told him Dr. Brace was there yesterday evening. He visited Medical Records and Pathology, inquiring about an old file on a Brant Hill resident. A man named Stanley Mackie.”

  She shook her head. “I’ve never heard the name.”

  “According to Wicklin, Mackie died this past March of head injuries from a fall. What Sheehan found interesting was the diagnosis found on autopsy. A disease he remembered hearing about only last night.”

  Overhead, the sun vanished behind a cloud. In the sudden pall, Dvorak’s face looked gray. Distant.

  “It was Creutzfeldt-Jakob disease.”

  From the window of the twentieth-floor conference room, Carl Wallenberg could see the ornate dome of the old Boston State House, and beyond that, the trees of the Common, their branches skeletal under a hard blue sky. So this is the view the suits enjoy, he thought. While the rest of us do the real work out in Newton, keeping Brant Hill’s clients alive and well, Kenneth Foley and his staff of accountants sit in this plush downtown office and keep Brant Hill’s money alive and well. And growing, by leaps and bounds. Foley’s Armani clones, thought Wallenberg, looking at the other people sitting around the table. Wallenberg remembered their names and titles only vaguely. The man in the blue pinstripes was a senior vice president; the snooty redheaded woman was a financial officer. Except for Wallenberg and Russ Hardaway, the corporate attorney, this was a gathering of glorified pencil pushers.

  A secretary brought in a carafe of coffee, gracefully poured it into five bone china cups, and set the cups down on the table, along with the crystal sugar bowl and creamer. No messy paper sugar packets at this meeting. She paused, waiting discreetly for any further instructions from Foley. There were none. The five people seated at the table waited until the secretary withdrew, closing the door behind her.

  Then Kenneth Foley, Brant Hill’s CEO, spoke. “This morning, I got another call from Dr. Harper. Once again, she reminded me that Brant Hill isn’t doing its job. That more of our residents may be getting sick. This could turn into a far more serious problem than I thought.” He looked around the table, and his gaze settled on Wallenberg. “Carl, you assured me this issue was resolved.”

  “It is resolved,” said Wallenberg. “I’ve discussed it with Dr. Dvorak. And I’ve met with the people from Public Health. We all agree now that there’s no reason for alarm. Our dining facility is in total compliance with regulations. Our water supply comes off the municipal line. And those hormone injections everyone got so excited about—we have documentation to prove they’re from recent lot numbers. Perfectly safe. Dr. Dvorak is convinced these cases are purely coincidental. ’Statistical cluster’ is the scientific term for it.”

  “You’re sure both Public Health and the ME’s office are satisfied, then?”

  “Yes. They’ve agreed not to make any public disclosure, since there’s no cause for alarm.”

  “Yet Dr. Harper knows about this. We need to know how to respond to her questions. Because if she knows about it, the public will soon know about it as well.”

  “Have there been inquiries from the media?” asked Hardaway.

  “So far, none. But there may be unwanted attention coming our way.” Foley refocused on Wallenberg. “So tell us again, Carl, that we have nothing to worry about with this disease.”

  “You have nothing to worry about,” said Wallenberg. “I’m telling you, these two cases are unrelated. Coincidences happen.”

  “If more cases turn up, it won’t seem like just a coincidence,” said Hardaway. “It will turn into a PR disaster, because it’ll look like we didn’t bother to pursue the problem.”

  “That’s why Dr. Harper’s call worries me,” said Foley. “Essentially, she’s put us on notice that she knows. And that she’s watching us.”

  Hardaway
said, “This makes it sound like a threat.”

  “It is a threat,” said the financial officer. “Our shares climbed another three points this morning. But what’ll happen if investors hear our residents are dying—and we did nothing to stop it?”

  “But there’s nothing to stop,” said Wallenberg. “This is pure hysteria, with no basis in fact.”

  “Dr. Harper sounded quite rational to me,” said Foley.

  Wallenberg snorted. “That’s the problem. She sounds rational, even when she’s not.”

  “What’s she after, anyway?” asked the financial officer. “Money, attention? There’s got to be a motive we can address here. Did you get any hint of it when you spoke to her this morning, Ken?”

  Foley said, quietly: “I think this is really about Dr. Brace. And the unfortunate timing of his death.”

  At the mention of Robbie Brace, everyone fell momentarily silent and looked down at the table. No one wanted to talk of the dead.

  “She and Dr. Brace were acquainted,” said Foley.

  “Maybe more than just acquainted,” added Wallenberg with a note of disgust.

  “Whatever their relationship,” said Foley, “Dr. Brace’s death has upset her enough to inspire these questions. And she seems to have the inside track on his murder investigation. Somehow she knew about Dr. Mackie’s diagnosis. She knew he lived at Brant Hill. None of this was released to the public.”

  “I know how she found out,” said Wallenberg. “The ME’s office. She had lunch with Dr. Dvorak.”

  “Where did you hear that?”

  “I hear things.”

  “Shit,” said the financial officer. Leave it to the only woman in the group to utter the first four-letter word. “Then she has names and facts she could leak. So much for the three-point stock gain.”

  Foley leaned forward, his gaze hard on Wallenberg. “Carl, you’re the medical director. So far we’ve deferred to your judgment. But if you’re wrong, if one other patient comes down with this disease, it could kill all our expansion plans. Hell, it could wreck what we already have.”

  Wallenberg had to suppress the irritation in his voice. He managed to sound perfectly calm and perfectly confident, which he was. “I’ll say it a third time. I’ll say it a dozen times if I have to. This is not an epidemic. The disease is not going to turn up in any more of our residents. If it does, I’ll hand over my goddamn stock options.”

  “You’re that certain?”

  “I’m that certain.”

  Foley leaned back with a look of relief.

  “Then all we have to worry about,” said the financial officer, “is Dr. Harper’s big mouth. Which, unfortunately, could do us a lot of damage, even if nothing she says can be proved.”

  No one spoke for a moment as they all considered the options.

  Wallenberg said, “I think we should just ignore her. Don’t take her calls, don’t give her any validation. Eventually she’ll hurt her own credibility.”

  “In the meantime she hurts us,” said the financial officer. “Isn’t there some . . . pressure we can bring to bear? Her job, for instance. I thought the Springer board was pushing for termination.”

  “They tried,” said Wallenberg. “But that ER chief dug in his heels, and they backed down. Temporarily, at least.”

  “What about your friend, the surgeon? I thought he had her termination sewn up.”

  Wallenberg shook his head. “Dr. Carey’s like every other surgeon I know. Too damn overconfident.”

  The financial officer gave a sigh of impatience. “All right, so how do we handle her?”

  Foley looked at Wallenberg. “Maybe Carl’s right,” he said. “Let’s not do anything at all. She’s already fighting to keep her job, and I think she’s losing that battle. We’ll let her self-destruct.”

  “With a little help, maybe?” the financial officer suggested softly.

  “I doubt that’ll be necessary,” said Wallenberg. “Believe me, Toby Harper is her own worst enemy.”

  From the other side of the freshly dug grave, Toby spotted him, his head slightly bowed, his gaze cast downward at the coffin. Robbie’s coffin. Even without the mantle of his white coat, Dr. Wallenberg looked every inch the part of the compassionate and godly physician. What ungodly thoughts does he hide? Toby wondered. The small gathering of doctors and administrators from Brant Hill all seemed to wear the identical expression, as though they’d donned the same rubber masks of mourning. Who among them had truly been Robbie’s friend? She could not tell by looking at their faces.

  Wallenberg seemed to sense that he was being watched, and he raised his head and looked at Toby. For a moment they stared at each other. Then he looked away.

  A cold wind swept the gathering, tumbling dead leaves into the trench. Robbie’s daughter began to wail in Greta’s arms, not sobs of grief, but frustration at being confined too long among adults. Greta set her daughter down, and the girl was off in a flash, giggling as she weaved through the jungle of grown-up legs.

  The minister could not compete with a laughing child. With a look of resignation he cut short his final words and closed his Bible. As the mourners began to file toward the widow, Toby lost sight of Wallenberg. Only as she circled around to the other side of the trench did she spot him walking away toward the parked cars.

  She followed him. She had to call out his name twice before he finally stopped and turned to look at her.

  “I’ve been trying to reach you for almost a week,” she said. “Your secretary never puts me through.”

  “I’ve been busy with a number of matters.”

  “May we talk now?”

  “It’s not a good time, Dr. Harper.”

  “When is a good time?”

  He didn’t answer. Instead he turned and walked away.

  She followed him. “Brant Hill has had two documented cases of Creutzfeldt-Jakob,” she said. “Angus Parmenter and Stanley Mackie.”

  “Dr. Mackie died from a fall.”

  “He also had CJD. Which is probably why he jumped out that window in the first place.”

  “You’re talking about an untreatable illness. Am I supposed to feel somehow negligent about this?”

  “Two cases in one year—”

  “Statistical cluster. This is a large population base, Dr. Harper. One can expect several such cases in the greater Boston area. Those two men just happened to reside in the same neighborhood.”

  “What if this is a more infectious strain of prion? You could have new cases incubating right now at Brant Hill.”

  He turned to her, his expression so ugly she retreated a step. “You listen to me, Dr. Harper. People buy into Brant Hill because they want a life free of worries, free of fears. They’ve worked hard all their lives, and they deserve the luxury. They can afford it. They know they’ll get the best medical care in the world. They do not need to hear some crackpot theory about a killer brain disease in their food.”

  “Is that all you’re concerned about? Your patients’ ease of mind?”

  “Ease of mind is what they pay for. If they lose trust in us, they’ll start packing up and selling out. It would turn Brant Hill into a ghost town.”

  “I’m not trying to tear down Brant Hill. I just think you should be monitoring your residents for symptoms.”

  “Think of the panic that would cause. Our food is safe. Our hormones come from reputable drug companies. Even the Public Health Department agrees there’s no reason to be monitoring any symptoms. So stop trying to scare our residents, Dr. Harper. Or you’ll find an attorney knocking at your door.” He turned and began to walk away.

  “What about Robbie Brace?” she blurted out.

  “What about him?”

  “I find it very disturbing that he was killed right after he learned about Mackie’s diagnosis.” There, she had said it. She had come right out and voiced her suspicions, and she fully expected Wallenberg to lash back in defense.

  Instead, he turned and looked at her with an eerily unru
ffled smile. “Yes, I hear you’ve been pushing that angle on the police. But they’ve dropped the theory because they can find no evidence whatsoever of any connection.” He paused. “By the way, they asked me a number of questions about you.”

  “The police? What questions?”

  “Whether I was aware of any relationship between you and Dr. Brace? Did I know he’d brought you into our clinic building late at night?” The smile deepened until it looked more like a snarl. “I find it fascinating, the sexual attraction you women have for black men.”

  Toby’s chin jerked up in startled rage. She stepped toward him, her fury propelling her forward. “Goddamn you. You have no right to say that about him.”

  “Is everything all right, Carl?” a voice said.

  Toby turned sharply to see a man, tall and almost completely bald, standing nearby. He was the same elegantly dressed man who’d stood beside Wallenberg during the graveside services. He was staring at her with some trepidation, and she realized her face was flushed with rage, her hands bunched into fists.

  “I couldn’t help overhearing,” the man said. “Would you like me to call someone, Carl?”

  “There’s no problem here, Gideon. Dr. Harper was just feeling a bit”—again, that nasty, satisfied smile—“distraught over Robbie’s death.”

  You bastard, thought Toby.

  “We have a board meeting in half an hour,” said the bald man.

  “I haven’t forgotten.” Wallenberg looked at Toby, and in his eyes she saw the glint of triumph. He had pushed her over the edge, had made her lose her temper, and this man named Gideon had witnessed it. Wallenberg was the one in control, not her, and he was communicating that fact by his smile.

  “I’ll see you at the meeting,” said the bald man. And with a last, concerned glance at Toby, he walked away.

  “I think there’s nothing more to discuss,” said Wallenberg, and he too started to leave.