By My Hands (7 page)

“Maggots,” he said with disgust.

Wednesday, March 4, 1992; 10:15
A.M.

RACHEL WAS NEARLY FINISHED with morning rounds when
she heard her name paged over the hospital’s public address system.
Leaving a patient’s room on third floor west, she went to the
nursing station, picked up the handset on the phone, punched
two-two, and then waited for the switchboard operator to answer.
After receiving her message, she dialed Dr. Morgan’s number.

“Administration.”

“This is Dr. Tremaine.”

“One moment please, I’ll connect you with Dr.
Morgan’s administrative assistant.”

Rachel could hear the connection being made.

“Dr. Morgan’s office, Mary Rivers speaking.” Mary’s
voice was pleasant and cheerful.

“This is Dr. Tremaine,” Rachel said dryly.

“Oh, good, Dr. Tremaine. Dr. Morgan would like to
see you as soon as your schedule allows. For what time should I
schedule you?”

Rachel wondered what would happen if she said that
her schedule didn’t allow for an unplanned meeting.

Before Rachel could respond, Mary added, “I’ve
checked with surgery and noticed that you have nothing scheduled
for this afternoon.” Rachel felt a twinge of anger at having her
schedule “investigated,” but she knew that antagonizing her
employer wouldn’t be wise. “I have two more patients to see on my
rounds. That will take about forty minutes. I could be there at
12:15.”

“Just a moment, please.” Rachel was put on hold. She
realized that it was useless to feel irritated at being made to
wait. After all, waiting was a part of life—certainly the medical
life; nonetheless, the irritation was there.

“Dr. Morgan says he will not be free until 1:00,”
the voice came back. “Will that be convenient?”

“One o’clock will be fine,” Rachel said, concealing
her frustration. “We’ll see you then,” Mary said, and promptly hung
up. Rachel stared at the disconnected phone for a moment, feeling
angry that she had been hung up on. There was nothing else to be
said; yet, she somehow felt slighted. After a few moments
reflection she decided that Mary Rivers wasn’t worth her
concern.

Wednesday, March 4, 1992; 12:57
P.M.

AT THREE MINUTES TO ONE Rachel stepped from the
staff elevator that opened into a large reception area. A large
pair of doors directly behind the receptionist bore the name, “Dr.
Evan Morgan, M.D.”

The receptionist looked at Rachel as she stepped
from the elevator. “Good afternoon. How may I help you.”

“I’m Dr. Tremaine.”

“Of course, you have a 1 o’clock appointment. Dr.
Morgan’s office is through that door. Miss Rivers will help you
from there.” Turning the handle, Rachel crossed the threshold and
closed the door behind her. Although she had met Dr. Morgan on
several occasions, usually at staff meetings, she had never been in
his office. The plush surroundings astounded her. Seated behind a
large oak desk was a woman with shoulder-length brown hair and
dark, penetrating eyes. Her complexion was light and contrasted
with the darkness of her hair. She wore just enough makeup to
highlight her features. She was gorgeous. This appraisal was
maintained when the woman rose from her chair. Her body, clad in a
red knit dress with a broad, black waist belt, would have pleased
any fashion photographer.

“I’m Mary Rivers, Dr. Tremaine. Won’t you please sit
down? Dr. Morgan shouldn’t be a moment.” With that Mary turned and
disappeared behind another door.

While she waited, Rachel took in the room. The walls
were covered with teak paneling. The plush carpet and furnishings
were all in earth tones. A computer terminal had been installed
next to the desk. Classical music gently filled the room. Rachel
couldn’t help but think of her Spartan office on the fourth floor.
The incongruity that an administrative assistant should warrant an
office of greater comfort than a highly trained physician angered
Rachel.

Mary reappeared with a smile. “Dr. Morgan will see
you now.” As Rachel nodded and crossed the threshold into the
hospital administrator’s office, she was immediately struck by the
difference in interiors. Mary’s office was like a warm den in a
large home; a place where one would drink herb teas and read the
classics. Dr. Morgan’s office was a cavernous high-tech room that
looked like something out of the future. The walls were painted
with a high-gloss white enamel. All the furnishings, couches,
chairs, and a large conference table, were stark black. The thick
pile carpet was white with thin, black, intersecting lines that
made Rachel feel like she was standing on graph paper.

“Thank you for coming, Dr. Tremaine.” The cheerful
voice came from a distinguished-looking man seated behind a large,
glass-topped desk. As he stood to greet her, Rachel was reminded of
how tall he was. Six-foot-three, she judged. He was slim, lacking
the usual paunch that middle-aged men develop. His hair was
absolutely white and his smile was impeccable.

“Please, Doctor, sit down.” He motioned to the black
leather chair opposite his desk. “I appreciate your coming on such
short notice. I know your schedule must be terribly busy. May I
offer you some coffee or tea?”

“No, thank you.” Rachel was out of her element, and
the comfort of the chair did nothing to dispel her anxiety. She
felt like a child called from class to the principal’s office
without knowing why.

“Mary, if you are ready, we’ll begin.” Turning to
Rachel he said, “Mary takes notes on all my meetings. I assume that
you are aware of the unusual happenings of late.”

Rachel remained silent.

“What I mean is the sudden, shall we say,
symptomatic reversals.”

“The healings,” Rachel said matter-of-factly.

“Exactly.” Dr. Morgan leaned forward, placing both
elbows on the desk and folding his hands. “Unfortunately, word got
out before we could do any meaningful investigation. The sick are
arriving from all over the city, and there appears to be no
letup.”

“I’m afraid that I’m not very good at admission
problems.” Morgan laughed, filling the room with sonorous tones.
“You misunderstand me. I’m not asking you to help in the admitting
department.” Morgan picked up a brown folder and handed it to
Rachel. “That folder holds the medical records of both patients who
have been involved in these incidents.”

Taking the folder from Morgan’s hand, Rachel
wondered at his consistent redefining of the healings, preferring
terms like “incidents” and “unusual happenings.”

“I want you to be this hospital’s investigating
physician. You’ll have free run of the hospital and labs—within
reason, of course. You’ll also help with the press.”

“Dr. Morgan, I’m not sure that my schedule will
allow me—”

“I’m not finished.” Morgan’s tone became
authoritative. “This task is very important. Our board of directors
wants some answers as does this hospital’s medical board, and I’ve
chosen you to help find those answers. Your patients will be
assigned to other staff for the remainder of the
investigation.”

“But, sir—”

“Of course, you may oversee their care, but I want
you to give this your utmost attention.” Morgan stood, signaling
the end of the discussion. “I have every confidence in your
abilities. Your record here is spotless. You will report directly
to me or to Mary and—please hear this carefully—to no one
else.”

Morgan was issuing a command and not requesting
help. “Dr. Morgan. Perhaps someone else would do a better—”

“No. You are my choice.” Morgan walked to the door
and Mary followed making clear the meeting had ended. She rose from
the chair and turned to leave. “You begin immediately. Mary has
already reassigned your patients. Thank you for coming.” Morgan
closed the door behind Rachel.

Alone inside the elevator Rachel could contain her
outrage no longer—she kicked the elevator’s metal doors. “The
unmitigated gall of that man! Summoning me without explanation,
assigning me a task that takes me away from my work, and having my
patients summarily assigned to others!” Although her outburst was
useless, she could not contain her anger. She kicked the door
again, this time sending stabs of pain up her leg.

Calming herself, Rachel paused to evaluate her
options. She could walk back into Morgan’s office and flatly refuse
to accept the assignment, but the best that would do is get her
dismissed. A poor recommendation from the hospital’s chief
administrator would be a difficult blot to remove from her record.
The hospital was owned and operated by a large medical group that
paid her salary and consequently held sway over her. In other
hospitals she might have more freedom and greater control over her
actions, but not at Kingston Memorial. Here she was an employee.
Her only option was to accept the task, do it quickly and
efficiently, and then get back to the practice of medicine.

Wednesday, March 4, 1992; 3:10
P.M.

“YOU’RE NOT GOING TO like this.” Irwin Baker set his
coffee cup on his desk.

“I’ve been disappointed before,” Priscilla stated.
“Whatever it is, let’s get to it. I have calls to make.”

Irwin stared at Priscilla for a moment. There was no
doubt that he was attracted to her, but not like most men. It was
true that he found her beauty captivating, but he was also
attracted to her for reasons he had trouble defining. At times he
felt fatherly toward her, even though he was only three years her
senior; but most of the time he just felt a longing for her that
made him ache. It puzzled him. She could be an irritating person
and easily gave offense. She could be short-tempered, curt, and
even rude. But she was quick, and she laughed easily. Irwin Baker
wondered if he loved her. He would like to take her in his arms
and—

“Earth to Irwin.”

Her words snapped him back to reality. “I’m sorry, I
let myself get distracted.”

“So what’s this news I’m not supposed to like?”

“Dr. Evan Morgan has called a news conference;
that’s the good news.” Irwin paused for effect. “The bad news is
that it’s scheduled right in the middle of tonight’s
broadcast.”

Priscilla sat silently for a moment and then slowly
smiled. “I must admit, you’re taking it well.” Irwin picked up a
piece of paper and glanced over a list of names. “I think we can
send Bob Parker. He has no live reports tonight and—”

“I’m going.” Priscilla stood as if to leave.

“Oh no you don’t. You’ve got a program to
anchor.”

“Get Judy Moore to do it.”

“You don’t like Judy Moore. Remember?” Irwin stood.
“You said she read like a third-grader.”

“I know. This way I’ll know that my job is safe.”
Priscilla quickly exited the office.

“Priscilla!” Irwin shouted and jumped to his feet.
He considered chasing her into the open office area but decided
that the effort was useless and would only embarrass him before the
reporters and writers. She was a good reporter, the best Irwin had
ever worked with. She was also pompous and bullheaded. He ought to
fire her; none of his supervisors would blame him; she was as
obnoxious with them as she was with him. He would fire her—someday;
but right now she was too hot a property to lose. The station would
drop several rating points the minute the news was out that she was
gone. There was nothing to do now but tolerate her behavior and
wish that things— many things—were different.

Wednesday, March 4, 1992; 6:30
P.M.

THE HOSPITAL CONFERENCE ROOM was filled with cables,
lights on stands, and microphones. Thirty members of the press were
seated on metal folding chairs. Cameramen with their instacams
fixed to their shoulders were situated behind the seating area.
Newspaper photographers stood near the white walls.

Dr. Morgan entered the room through a side door,
followed closely by Rachel. Morgan was dressed in a dark blue
Caraceni suit and a yellow silk tie and looked as if he’d just
stepped from the pages of
Fortune.
His white hair dazzled
under the camera’s lights as he took his place behind the podium.
Rachel took a seat just to his right. Morgan stood silently until
he was sure he had the full attention of those gathered. “I wish to
thank the members of the press for their courteous response to our
invitation. I will make a short statement and then allow a few
moments for questions.

“As you know,” Morgan continued, “certain anomalies
have occurred in this hospital. Much of what you have heard has
been exaggerated. It is our hope that those of you whose
responsibility it is to keep the public informed will exercise
discretion in reporting these events. We have no secrets from you;
however, we are obligated by certain professional restraints and
ethics not to divulge information that will disrupt or disturb our
patients. Being professionals yourselves, I’m sure you understand
our concerns.”

Morgan’s glibness and easy delivery impressed
Rachel. He could hold his own with any politician. He had an ease
and confident charisma that most found endearing. Rachel felt drawn
to him. Yet, despite the attraction, she was still furious at him
for presuming to volunteer her for such a ridiculous task. She was
here because she was commanded to be and for no other reason.
Morgan had insisted that the press be introduced to the
“investigating physician.”

Morgan’s speech continued for another ten minutes.
He gave a brief account of Bill Langford’s unexpected recovery from
cancer and Lisa Hailey’s remarkable change. The gathered crowd sat
in disciplined silence, perhaps a little intimidated by Morgan’s
strong projection of self-assurance.

“Before we take a moment or two for questions, I
would like to introduce Dr. Rachel Tremaine, a surgeon on staff
here. She will be heading up our in-house evaluation of the recent
events. Dr. Tremaine, please come and stand with me.”