“Help us, ma’am!”
Two children stood huddled together on the doorstep. Abigail immediately recognized the boy, with his freckled face and scraggly reddish-brown hair slicked back behind his ears. The other was a little girl, probably no older than six or seven. The front of her raggedy blouse was stained red. The boy pressed what looked like a wadded up shirt against her face.
“My little sister—she got bit by a dog.”
“Hurry,” she said, shepherding them through the door and then falling down on one knee in front of the little girl. “Let me see.” She pulled the blood-soaked cloth away and caught her breath. A large chunk of the child’s cheek and lip had been ripped away but was still attached, hanging like a mangled piece of meat.
“When did this happen?”
“’Bout half an hour ago,” the boy said. “A man drove us here. He went fast.”
Abigail swept the little girl into her arms and ran toward the hall. Once inside the operating room, she had the boy pull the light cord above the operating table as she gently laid his sister on the white sheet.
“Good lord!” she breathed, looking down at her. The harsh lights only made the gaping wound appear more ghastly. Should she take her to the hospital? It had already been more than half an hour since the accident. It was hard to judge how much blood she had lost.
She hurried over to the medicine cabinet and pulled some clean towels from one of the drawers. Returning to the child’s side, she pressed the first towel against her face and watched it slowly turn scarlet.
“She’s not going to die, is she?” the boy asked, his voice shaky.
“No, she’s not.”
Abigail stared down at her. The girl had stopped crying but was shivering, and her eyes had a glazed look about them. She made a little whining noise, almost like a puppy.
“Aren’t you going to do something?”
“Yes, of course.” Abigail’s heart was in her throat. It wasn’t that complicated, she told herself. Stop the bleeding, clean the wound, sew it up. Still, she mustn’t act precipitously. She must think everything through. The first part was easy, but after that . . .
“Keep pressing hard on this towel.” She took the boy’s hand and placed it where her own had been. Then she sprang into action, rolling up her sleeves on the way to the metal sink. She vigorously scrubbed her hands and arms with soap and water. She sterilized a small basin of water in the autoclave. Next, she found the iodine in the medicine cabinet.
She came back to the table and took over from the boy. It required a few more minutes of pressure to halt the bleeding. Once she was sure it had stopped, she washed out the wound with water and iodine. Thankfully, the bite had missed the artery; nevertheless, the repair job would be considerable. She had learned from watching Franklin how to close a wound with finesse, how to run the stitches in such a way as to minimize the eventual appearance of the scar. Still, even with her best efforts, or anyone’s, the little girl would be badly disfigured. She could only hope there would be no infection to complicate matters further. And what if the dog was rabid?
She looked over to see how the boy was doing. He leaned against the sink, his arms crossed over his chest, his head down.
“Was it a stray dog?”
He looked up with a start. “You won’t tell nobody, right?”
“Who would I tell?”
“The police maybe.”
“Why would the police be interested?”
“They wouldn’t,” he said quickly. “But the dog—they might try to take him away. He didn’t mean to do it. He’s a good dog. Really he is.”
Abigail heard the anguish in his voice, and her heart went out to him. She had always wanted a dog; her mother had forbidden it. “He’s your dog?” she asked gently.
“Yes, ma’am. I found him in the alley. Somebody’d beat him up pretty bad, left him for dead. I took care of him until he got better. My sister—she likes him. Sometimes he licks her face. This time though . . . it was just an accident.”
“Things like that happen sometimes,” she said, trying to reassure him. “You’re certain the dog isn’t sick? Was he acting strangely before?”
“No, ma’am. Not strange at all. Somebody came up behind him and made a loud noise, that’s all. It scared him.”
“All right then.” She could only hope that he was telling the truth. “Why don’t you go lie down on the bed in there,” she said, nodding toward the adjacent recovery room. Looking greatly relieved, he shuffled off. Within a minute or two, she heard him snoring.
So far, her patient had stayed remarkably still and mostly quiet. Abigail wasn’t even sure the child heard her soft reassurances, her gentle praise. But despite the little girl’s compliance up to now, Abigail would need her unconscious to complete the job; otherwise, the pain of the needle would be intolerable.
It was the moment she had dreaded. Reluctantly, she decided on chloroform. She had seen Franklin administer it several times. But there were risks. Determining the proper dosage was critical. Too little would fail to have the desired effect on the central nervous system. Too much could paralyze the lungs, leading to death. In determining the dosage, she would have to take into account that her patient weighed no more than fifty pounds.
Her patient. Her responsibility. Was she really ready for it? Did she have the right to take an innocent life into her own hands—without being a doctor?
As she went to fetch the mask, a nose-shaped metal cage with a hinged rim to hold the cloth in place, she was overtaken by uncertainty. Cleaning the wound, stopping the bleeding—those things were relatively simple. But anesthesia could be dangerously tricky. What if she made a mistake?
She went back to the table and stared down at the child. Such a beautiful little angel entrusted now to her. And then, all of a sudden, she was back in her father’s office, on that dreadful afternoon when she was called on to make the judgment that would change everything forever. Her father fell to the floor. He began to hyperventilate. His arms were flailing, his body contorted. She watched in horror, unable for a moment to comprehend. But she had to do something! She went to the cabinet. She saw the reflection of her face in the glass. She opened the door, searched for the bottle of potassium bromide, reached for it . . .
She closed her eyes, squeezing them so tightly that it hurt, until the image of her father’s stricken face faded away. Would she never forgive herself? Would she never believe what the others had said—that even a doctor would likely have treated him for epilepsy? There was no way to have known it was his heart.
Her hands shaking, she dripped a small amount of the sweet-smelling liquid onto the cloth. “I’m going to put you to sleep for a little while,” she said softly. “And when you wake up, you’ll be much better.” She held the mask to the little girl’s nose and mouth. If done properly, the effect should be gradual, possibly taking several minutes during which she must remain vigilant, focused on the child’s breathing and watching for any irregularity, any sign of weakening.
The seconds ticked by . . . one minute, then two, three. The child’s breath stayed steady. Finally, when she thought surely it had been long enough, she removed the mask.
For the next two hours, Abigail worked on sewing up the wounds. It was nearly ten when she finished. She had placed over eighty stitches. She was exhausted but satisfied. She had done a good job, and she knew it. She almost wished Franklin was there to see it. But, of course, then she would have been admiring his work, not her own. She would have been merely the assistant.
“Where am I?” the child asked, starting to awaken. Just to see the little girl’s blue eyes flutter open, to hear the sound of her tiny voice, was the most wonderful feeling Abigail had ever known.
“Don’t try to talk just now. You’re fine, and your brother is asleep in the next room.”
The child’s eyelids drifted down. She opened them again, raising her hand to touch her face, but Abigail quickly stopped her. “Leave your face alone for a while
, all right? It’s nice and clean now.”
“My brother—”
“I’ll take you to him.” She had already decided to keep both the children there for the night. There were two beds in the recovery room, plenty of blankets. She would sleep on the couch in the reception room.
She thought again how fortunate it was that Franklin was away and how what had started as a disaster seemed to have ended as well as it could. But she would never be able to tell him how superbly she had handled the situation. Because she had figured out how the boy found her. It was her purse—she had forgotten before, but there were several of her business cards inside. Besides, what reason was there to boast to Franklin of her success? She had done what needed to be done, and it was over.
“Let’s see if we can sit you up,” she said. “You let me do it. I don’t want you straining.” She slipped her arm beneath the girl’s back and helped her into a sitting position. “I’m going to lift you up now and carry you into the next room where your brother is. You just relax, and don’t wiggle around. I won’t drop you, I promise.”
Abigail managed to carry the child into the recovery room and carefully laid her down on the bed, elevating her head slightly with a couple of pillows and pulling the warm blanket up to her chin.
“How’s that?”
The child didn’t answer. She was already asleep. Abigail looked down at her, tears welling up in her eyes. She was such a sweet-looking little girl, pale complected with light freckles across her nose and cheeks. Shark had hinted at what her brother did to earn money. For all Abigail knew, this little one might also make her living on the street. It was not all that impossible to imagine.
The boy was now awake and sitting up in his bed. “You fixed her?”
“Yes, she’s all fixed. But it’s very important that she stay quiet and rest. Will you help me make sure that she does?” He nodded soberly.
“That doesn’t mean I want you to stay up all night, though.” She came over to him and plumped his pillow. “Go on, lie back down. You can go to sleep.”
He seemed hesitant but did as he was told. Abigail had the sudden urge to tuck him in, as she had his sister, but imagined he would consider himself too grown up for that. She watched as he finished settling himself and was about to say good night, when it occurred to her that she didn’t even know his name.
“What do your friends call you?”
“Paddy.”
“And your sister?”
“Shaena.” He gave her a sly smile. “I already know who you are. Miss Abigail Platford.”
At first she was startled, but then she remembered again. The business cards. So he knew Franklin’s name as well, which was doubly unfortunate. She still wasn’t sure, though, if he had made the connection about his ears. She decided it was best if she didn’t try to find out.
“You get some sleep.” She patted him lightly on the head. “And if Shaena wakes up, you come and get me right away. I’ll be down the hall, in the room where you first came in tonight.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Abigail glanced once more at her patient, who was sleeping soundly, her mouth slightly open. Then she switched off the light.
“Miss Platford—”
She turned around. “Yes, Paddy?”
“Are you mad about the purse?”
She hesitated. “Why do you ask?”
“I was just afraid you might be mad. I wouldn’t have fleeced you, ’cept—well, that’s what I do. I mean, it’s what everybody does.”
A lump rose in her throat. “That doesn’t make it right, of course, but no—I’m not mad.”
“Good.”
She turned again to leave.
“Miss Platford—”
Abigail sighed, pivoting around once more. “What is it, Paddy?”
“Are you a doctor?”
She was about to say no, but then thought better of it. “Not exactly.”
“But you seem like a doctor.”
“I do?” She smiled. “Well then, I suppose that’s good enough.”
CHAPTER 13
Abigail took Shaena to her apartment early in the morning, bathed her, and tucked her into the luxurious featherbed. It was obvious from the child’s awed response that she had never seen or felt anything like it. Abigail hated that she must leave her alone while she went to work, but there was no choice. If she were to bring the little girl with her, how would she explain it to Franklin when he returned in the afternoon? She couldn’t tell him that she’d ignored his orders to say nothing to Paddy, nor could she admit to him that the boy had stolen her purse, knew their names and where the office was, and perhaps had figured out the rest as well.
The best she could do for now was to ask her neighbor, Mrs. Krueger, an elderly lady who lived alone, if she’d mind looking in on her little “niece” every now and then. She explained that the child had an accident; when Mrs. Krueger saw her, she was moved to tears. The dear woman told Abigail not to worry; she’d keep an eye on the child, she said, and see that she had a good lunch as well. As for Paddy, Abigail had already sent him on his way with instructions to come back to the apartment for his sister at six o’clock that evening. She thought by then Shaena should be stable enough to go home—that is, if she had a home. Abigail planned to find out what she could about the children’s circumstances, though she feared it would only upset her more.
She was at her desk in the office at four thirty when Franklin finally walked through the door. She could tell from the openness of his smile that he was in a considerably better mood than when they’d parted last. With all that had happened, she’d forgotten her anxiety over whether he might be spending the night with Alexandra—until now.
“Hello, Abigail.”
“Welcome back,” she said, hoping he wouldn’t notice how frazzled she looked, having slept barely a wink all night and in a lingering state of worry over her little patient.
“Any calls while I was gone?”
“Yes, but only one. I’ll tell you about it after you’re settled.”
“Why don’t you come with me now? There are a few things I want to go over with you.”
She followed him into his private office. His step seemed particularly jaunty. She was sure it could have nothing to do with the meeting with Ludwik. Their conversation undoubtedly had ended as she already predicted it would—which led her to a second conclusion, one that she had wished to avoid but now could not. The image that surfaced in her mind was Alexandra’s smiling face, the beauty of her porcelain skin, the exotic black mole above her lip. Her voluptuous breasts spilling from the tight bodice of her green taffeta gown.
Franklin set down his leather bag next to his chair and immediately pulled out a bunch of oversized documents. Feverishly, he began laying them out on the desktop.
“I’ve never seen anyone who works as fast as Joe Radcliff,” he said, unfolding a huge blueprint sheet. “Can you believe that he and the architect have already developed the preliminary drawings for the surgery center? There are quite a few things they got wrong, but it’s a start. Very encouraging, I must say. It seems he’s really serious.”
Abigail leaned over the desk next to him, staring down at a maze of lines and scribbled notations.
“Right here,” he said, pointing to one of many rectangular boxes, “is the operating theater. It will be designed so that up to thirty spectators can watch surgeries being performed. Several tiers of seating, all providing a superb view. And above the table, a big mirror so even the most subtle maneuver can be seen from almost anywhere in the room. Houdini himself won’t be able to top such a display of quick-handedness as exhibited by the amazing Dr. Franklin Rome,” he bragged, chuckling to himself.
“I’m afraid I’ve never thought of surgery as a magic show.” Abigail abandoned her speculations concerning the countess, alarmed by how quickly things were moving with regard to the Institute. There was so much still to be resolved. She had assumed there would be plenty of time. But what if
she had underestimated Joe? What if the Rome Institute was closer to becoming a reality than she had supposed?
Franklin brushed aside her comment with a wave of his hand. “There are a great many things you’ve never thought of but, fortunately for both of us, I have. This Institute is to be built on my reputation, and mine alone, so it only makes sense to display my skills to their best advantage. It’s a fine old tradition, that kind of teaching. I should think you would appreciate it, having aspired once to be a student of medicine.”
Her head jerked back. “You make it sound as if I no longer do.”
He looked up. “I meant formally, of course. Surely by now you realize that medical school would be a complete waste of your time. For one thing, you would find it excruciatingly boring—day after day, endless lectures delivered by a bunch of old men hopelessly set in their ways, with very little vision of the future. As I’ve told you before, I don’t think much of the medical establishment. Besides, why would you need them when you’ve got me?” He smiled. “I confess, I’ve always thought of medicine as a man’s profession—but lately I’ve been thinking about your options, Abigail. Dermatology! That’s what you’re going to do. And it won’t be difficult. It won’t be difficult at all. You’ll pick it up in no time. A little knowledge goes a long way in a field like that. Especially when you’ve got a proprietary line of products to go with it.”
She was barely listening to him, her mind flashing back to the night before—how she’d gently cleansed Shaena’s face, how she’d held the mask over the little girl’s nose and mouth, and then how steady her fingers had been as she sewed up the wound, making sure the edges met perfectly.
Then she remembered.
“Did you have your little talk with Ludwik? And how is he doing?”
“He’s as well as could be expected. But I have some good news. Ludwik and Joe have worked out a deal.”
“A deal!” Already she didn’t like the sound of it.
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