Extreme Measures (26 page)

“Bob, tell me something,” he said as they sped through Glenwood Springs and on toward Denver. “Do you have any family? Anyone you want to call? A place you want me to bring you?”

“Mrs. Gideon’s horse,” Scott said suddenly.

“What?”

“I need to go to East Boston to find Mrs. Gideon’s horse.”

“East Boston, Mass?”

“Yes.”

Scott knew that was true, and important as well, but he had no idea why.

“Bob, who’s this Mrs. Gideon? She a relative of yours?”

“I … I don’t know what I’m talking about.” He clenched his good hand in frustration. “Dammit, I just don’t know.”

“Well, look,” Garcia said, “we’ll be in Cleveland tomorrow night. You can hitch from there to Boston. Better yet, you can catch a bus. I’ll front you the money.”

“Mrs. Gideon’s horse,” Scott said again. “I’ve got to find it.”

Eddie Garcia, relieved to have even the semblance of a plan, shifted into overdrive, and the rig barreled on.

P
ropped on one elbow, Laura lay in Eric’s bed watching the gray light of the new day filter over the city. It had been a year or more since she had last spent the night with a man. And even though they had not yet made love, she knew that she wanted to. In a short time they had already shared so much.

She reached over, swept Eric’s hair from his brow, and kissed him there. He blinked and squinted up at her. Then, without a word, he drew her over onto him and held her. For nearly half an hour they lay there, her face nestled against his chest.

“Soon?” he asked, reveling in the lines of her body and the smoothness of her skin.

She nodded and kissed him deeply.

“I want it to be perfect, though,” she whispered.

He rolled her over and caressed her breasts with his lips. Her nipples hardened to his touch.

“I understand,” he said, “and I promise you it will be.”

They showered and then shared juice and coffee on the balcony, neither anxious to break the mood by speaking of the day just past. Finally Laura stood and leaned against the railing, gazing across the rooftops at Cambridge.

“Do you have a plan for the day?” Eric asked.

“Not really. I think it’s worth going to the police and at least seeing what they’re willing to do about Donald Devine.”

“I agree. But after yesterday morning I’m not sure I like the idea of your wandering around the city alone. I’m off tomorrow if you can wait.”

“I’ll see.”

“At least wait until noon. I’ll call before then.”

The phone began ringing. Eric hesitated, not anxious to deal with Caduceus again. Finally he pulled himself up and reentered the apartment. A minute later he was back.

“I’ve got to go,” he said. “Something’s happened at the hospital—something pretty bad. Reed Marshall’s resigned.”

“Resigned?”

“That was my boss, Joe Silver. Apparently, Reed pronounced a woman dead and sent her to the hospital morgue. Late yesterday, they autopsied her and found her heart was still beating.”

“No! Is that possible?”

“I really can’t imagine it, but according to Silver, it happened. We kid about such things all the time, and there are always stories, but this is the first time I’ve heard of its actually happening to anybody
I
 know. Just the notion of it gives me a sick feeling in my gut. Reed called in this morning and quit. It sounds like he’s in a pretty bad way.”

Laura followed him into the apartment and sat on the side of the bed as he dressed.

“Eric, how can that be? How could a doctor with all that equipment make such a mistake?”

“I don’t know. As I’ve told you, Reed’s about as good as there is.”

“Will you call and let me know what happened?”

“I’ll call,” he said. “But I’m not sure we’ll ever know what happened.”

From the moment the doors of a hospital open for the first time and the first patient is treated, the facility acquires a pulse and begins to develop a personality as unique as any individual’s. It fumbles and grows, learning from its mistakes. It stretches and explores, reaching out more and more to the world around it. Its organs decay and need repair or replacement. Its moods—the collective moods of its patients and employees—grow more distinctive.

Within minutes of arriving at the emergency room that morning, Eric could feel the uneasiness pervading White Memorial. It was the reflection of a great hospital confronting its own fallibility.

The autopsy of Loretta Leone had taken place late the previous afternoon. The hospital grapevine, while by no means always accurate, was as swift as any communications system yet devised. Within hours everyone at every level in the institution had a version of the tragedy.

Joe Silver, looking even more frazzled than usual, met Eric at the triage desk.

“I just got a call from the goddam
Herald”
he said. “This sucks. It really does.”

They walked back to Eric’s office, where the E.R. chief told him what he knew.

“Marshall blew it,” Silver concluded. “He just blew it.”

“Nonsense. I refuse to believe that,” Eric said. “Reed’s damn good at what we do, and you know it.” Anger prickled at the base of his neck and then began to burn. “Joe, it doesn’t seem to me that you’re showing a hell of a lot of loyalty to someone who’s worked so hard for you for five years. The least you can do is
give him the benefit of the doubt until you know the full story.”

Silver glared at him.

“Benefit of the doubt? A medical examiner named Corcoran wants to have my department nailed to the wall, some asshole from the
Herald
is bringing up that Worrell business again and calling me and my staff incompetent, a woman got pronounced dead who wasn’t, and
you’re
calling me disloyal? You’ve got some goddam nerve, Najarian.” His sallow complexion was nearly scarlet. “You just get out there and do your job and keep your mouth shut to any reporters,” he spat. “No wonder people don’t want you in a position of authority around here. You’re just too damn arrogant. Marshall was overtired from working too many shifts in a row. If you had been on duty yesterday the way you were supposed to be, this would never have happened.”

“Now just one minute,” Eric started to say.

But Silver had already stalked from the office.

Eric sank to his chair, nearly as furious with himself for not holding his feelings in check as he was with Silver. But what he had said to Silver was true. Reed had his weaknesses, but he was a hell of a doctor. In all likelihood, whatever happened to him could have happened to any of them. Eric snatched up the phone and dialed Reed’s home. On the tenth ring Carolyn Marshall answered.

“I’m sorry, Eric,” she said. “Reed’s in bed. He’s not talking to anyone.”

“Just tell him it’s me and see if he’ll speak with me for a minute.”

She set the receiver down. In the background Eric could hear a baby crying. He glanced down the corridor at the triage area. The faces of the E.R. staff looked gray and drawn. Not one of them, he guessed, wanted to be at work that day.

“Hey, whaddaya say, pal?”

Marshall’s speech was thick and awkward.

“Reed, have you been drinking?”

“Not since I threw up that blood a few hours ago, I haven’t. Besides, Valium’s so much mellower.”

“Jesus. Reed, you’ve got to stop that shit.”

“Why? I’m still conscious.”

“Can you tell me what happened?”

“I fucked up. That’s what happened.”

“We all fuck up, all the time,” Eric said. “That’s the nature of this job, and you know it as well as I do. If we had all night to sit and debate and hold court, we could do the right thing every time. But the people we deal with are sick, and we have to make decisions. That’s just the way things are.”

“Well said,
mi amigo
. Well said.”

“Dammit, Reed, I mean it. Now please, just tell me what happened.”

“The woman had a rhythm and I ignored it. I fucked up. It’s as simple as that.”

Eric felt a sudden tightness in this throat.

“What kind of a rhythm?” he asked.

“Eight, ten beats a minute. Broad complexes. Looked useless at the time. But I guess they were enough to generate a contraction, ’cause that’s what the M.E. said was happenin’. Now, if that isn’t fucking up, I don’t know—”

“Reed, did you stick the tracings in her chart?” Eric’s pulse was beginning to race.

“Course I did. Mr. Thorough, that’s me.”

“Well, listen. Get rid of that goddam Valium and don’t give up on yourself, okay?”

“Whatever you say, Doc. Well, thanks for callin’. See you around, ol’ buddy.”

“Reed, put Carolyn on for a minute, will you?”

Eric heard him fumble with the phone and then knock something over. Moments later his wife came on.

“Listen,” Eric said, “Reed’s got Valium someplace.”

“He does?”

“Find it and throw it out, okay?”

“O-okay. Eric, do you understand what happened?”

“Nothing that should have caused all this trouble. Carolyn, we pronounce people like this woman all the time—believe me we do. I’ve done it plenty.”

The admission brought a sudden chill. All Eric could think about was the need to review Loretta Leone’s chart.

“You’re not just saying that, are you?” Carolyn asked.

“No way. Joe Silver nearly fired me just now for sticking up for Reed. I meant what I said to him and I’m not lying to you.”

“Thank you,” she said. “Will you keep in touch?”

“Of course I will. But for now, just get all the booze and tranquilizers out of the house. Reed once mentioned he was seeing a therapist. Is he still?”

“Um, yes. Yes, he is.”

“Well, call him. I think Reed might need to be hospitalized. At least let his doctor decide.”

By the time Eric hung up, he was damp with sweat.

It took nearly half an hour to track down Loretta Leone’s hospital record. It was in Joe Silver’s office, but at first the E.R. chief refused to allow him to see it. Eric persisted. Finally the man relented, extracting the promise that it would go no further than Eric’s office and be discussed with no one.

Unable to wait, Eric flipped open the chart in the hallway. From what he remembered, the EKG complexes were identical to those of the derelict he had pronounced dead. Not similar—identical. He spent an hour getting through the mounting backlog of patients, and then sent to the record room for the derelict’s chart. He was right. The man’s cardiogram and Loretta Leone’s were interchangeable.

Was the man who might have been Laura’s brother still alive when his monitor was shut off?

Given what evidence he had, Eric knew there was little reason to believe otherwise. The prospect sickened him. Trying desperately to make sense of things, he wandered from the triage area to the deserted residents’ lounge and dropped into a battered easy chair.

Could the similarity between the tracings be coincidence?

Once, in medical school, when confronted with a confusing set of findings in a patient, he had suggested to a favorite professor that the explanation might be coincidence. The woman patiently allowed him to braid his own noose before turning to the class.

“Your cohort Mr. Najarian has chosen coincidence as his solution to this problem,” she said. “I suggest to you all that while coincidence might from time to time exist in diagnostic medicine, the concept is in the main God’s way of placating the intellectually lazy.”

Eric managed a thin smile at the memory. Never since that day had he accepted coincidence as an explanation for anything without one hell of a fight. He took the two charts to his office and locked them in his desk. As soon as he could break from the E.R., he would head for the library to begin the process of becoming an expert on metabolic poisons and deathlike states.

Somewhere there existed an explanation for the findings in the derelict and Loretta Leone. And until there was not a source left in Boston he hadn’t tapped, Eric vowed that there was no way he would settle for anything even remotely like coincidence.