Flashback (1988) (58 page)

“Oh, for God’s sake. Will somebody call security? Iverson, this is madness.”

Zack did not respond.

The pain in his shoulder partially numbed by his own adrenaline, he dragged Pearl through the scrub room and slammed him against the bank of lockers, pinning him by the throat so that he was up on the tips of his toes.

“Iverson,” Greg Ormesby hollered, “I see now that what everyone is saying about you is true. I’ll get you for this! I’ll see you up on charges!”

“Okay, Jack,” Zack said, ignoring the surgeons bellowing. “This is it. Now tell me: There
is
an experimental drug, isn’t there? …”

He augmented his grip with his injured arm, and hoisted the anesthesiologist up another fraction of an inch. Pearl’s toes came off the carpet.

“Well, isn’t there?”

Pearl, either too frightened or too obstinate to answer, did not respond. His face was violet. His eyes, now nearly level with Zack’s, were bulging.

At that moment, a security guard burst into the locker room, and without a word, struck Zack with his nightstick—a blow that glanced off the side of his head and landed squarely on his injured shoulder. Crying out from the pain, Zack dropped heavily to the carpet, clutching his arm, as Jack Pearl slithered down the locker and, moaning, collapsed in a heap nearby.

The guard knelt on the small of Zack’s back and raised his stick, preparing for another blow.

“Stop that! Right now!”

Startled, the guard came off Zack and whirled toward the voice. Zack reacted more slowly. He turned, and through tears of pain saw Jason Mainwaring, hands on hips, standing by the door.

“Mainwaring,” he gasped, “it’s Suzanne. She’s in the unit, and—”

“I know. I just came from there.” Mainwaring turned to the guard. “Everything’s under control here now. You can go.”

“But—”

“I
said
, things are under control.”

“Y-Yessir.”

The guard backed from the room, with Mainwaring’s ice-blue eyes helping him along.

“Okay, Jack,” the surgeon said as the door swung shut, “give Iverson whatever he wants.”

“Jason, I can’t—”

“Dammit, Jack, do it! There are two people in deep trouble
in the unit up there. I may have made some mistakes in this business, but I’m no murderer. If Serenyl’s responsible for their condition, then I want Iverson here to get whatever he needs to help them.… Now!”

Pearl stumbled to his feet.

Zack tried to rise, fell heavily, and then tried again—this time with shaky success.

“Thanks, Mainwaring,” he said, “I didn’t think I’d gotten through to you.”

“Just remember, Iverson, that just because I’m here doesn’t mean I’m admitting to anything.” He glanced over at the anesthesiologist, and then added in a voice too soft for the man to hear, “I’m no monster, Iverson. If Pearl’s drug has hurt some people, I want to do whatever I can to help out. You remember that, now. You remember I did that.”

“Yeah, sure, Mainwaring,” Zack said. “I’ll remember.”

Frank sat alone to one side of the Carter Conference Room and watched as Whitey Bourque, the last remaining board member, wheeled his father away for readmission to the hospital. The re-vote had been an impressive fourteen to six in favor of repurchase.

As he neared the door, the Judge looked back at him and mouthed the words, “I’m sorry, Frank.”

Across from Frank, Leigh Baron shared a final exchange with her lawyers and sent them off. Then she turned and surveyed the near-empty room and the vestiges of the meeting just past.

“Well, he beat you,” she said finally.

“He beat you, too,” Frank retorted.

“He’s one of the hardest men I’ve ever dealt with.”

“Tell me about it.”

Leigh paced to one side of the room and then back.

“Unfortunately,” she said, “that is, unfortunately for you, your father’s actions have placed me in a rather ticklish position.”

“Oh?”

“You see, Frank, three years ago you did a very stupid, very amateurish thing. You took money from us. A good deal of money.”

Shocked, Frank stared up at her.

“I … I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he managed.

“Oh, Frank,” she said sardonically, “you disappoint me so.” She crossed the room and laid the accountant’s report in front of him. “We were a little worried about this vote today,” she explained, “so last night I visited with your father.”

“You what?”

“I shared the contents of that folder with him, and promised that it would be incinerated as soon as the sale of the hospital was complete.”

“That’s insane.”

“No, Frank,” she said calmly, “that’s business.”

“What kind of person are you? Do you know that you probably were the cause of his accident?”

“I know nothing of the kind. But what I do know is that your father made his choice, and now we must make ours. You can expect charges of embezzlement to be brought against you first thing next week.”

“You can’t do that.”

“Can, and will,” she said.

“I … I was about to put that money back. I have the cash. Right now. Right in the bank.”

“Too late.”

“You’re an insensitive bitch.”

“Oh, that’s wonderful, Frank. So witty, so articulate.”

“I’ll … I’ll double what I took,” he said. “Five hundred thousand. I can have it in your hands this afternoon.”

“Frank, you don’t understand. If it was the money, you would have been buried three years ago, when we first became aware of what you had done.”

“In that case,” he said, suddenly seeing a crack of daylight and racing toward it, “if I go down, your company goes down with me, big time.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I’m talking about some work that has been going on at this hospital—at
your
hospital. The testing of a new and unapproved anesthetic. It’s work involving
your
administrator, and one of
your
surgeons, and one of
your
anesthesiologists, and it hasn’t come out too well. If you need proof, stop by the ICU and check out a kid named Nelms. And I promise you that if I get charged with anything, I’ll smear Ultramed’s name until your stock isn’t worth using as toilet paper.”

“I don’t believe you,” she said.

But Frank could tell that she did.

“Like I said, just stop by the unit. I’m sure the child’s parents and their lawyers would love to know that a multi-billion-dollar company was responsible for their son’s condition.”

“You’ve been allowing this to go on without our knowledge?”

Frank felt the shift in momentum.

“Allowing it? Hell, I’ve been in charge of it. How do you think I was planning on coming up with that much money? In fact, the work is already done. I’ve been paid off. And fortunately—for all of us—only I know that it hasn’t come out all that well.… Now, do we have a Mexican standoff or not?”

Leigh Baron spent several seconds sizing him up, but he knew that he had won.

“How many patients?” she asked.

“Oh, five hundred,” he said, “give or take.”

“I intend to check up on what you’ve told me.”

“Feel free. Just be careful when you do. If this blows, it blows in your face.”

“Frank, you’re pathetic.”

“Ah, ah. Now who’s being articulate?”

“One word, Frank, if so much as one word about this … this stupidity touches Ultramed, I swear I’ll bury you. What you’ve done is horrible.”

Frank grinned broadly.

“No, it’s not,” he said with a wink. “It’s business.”

37

The article, “Studies in the Reversal of the Delayed Toxicity of Lysergic Acid Diethylamine (LSD),” had been written by a Scottish neurologist named Clarkin, and published almost fifteen years before in the little-read British
Journal of Neuropsychology
. It was an anecdotal report, not a scientific study in the true sense of the word. Zack had stumbled onto the work during his first year of residency and had saved it because the notion of treating LSD flashbacks with LSD both amused and fascinated him.

In most of his cases, Clarkin had used a high-density, saline-flotation isolation tank. With no such device at hand, they would simply have to make do. And while the Scotsman’s concepts were intriguing, the data presented were too scant to justify many of his conclusions. It was frightening to realize that with no other promising options, Clarkin’s theories were all that Suzanne and Toby Nelms had going for them.

As he supervised the nurses’ transfer of Suzanne to a water mattress—the first step in reducing her sensory input to the absolute minimum—Zack wondered about the neurologist and his work.
Was it a mistake not to try and locate him? Was he even still alive? Still practicing? Was he a scholar, or a fraud? Had he received acclaim for his theories, or scorn?

But most of all, Zack wondered if he might be endangering his two patients by what he was attempting to do. Over the years of his training he had developed total, implicit faith in his clinical judgment. Now, having difficulty focusing past the pain in his shoulder, and with the nightmare of the past twenty-four hours so fresh in his mind, he was having doubts.

Be diligent. Be meticulous. Be honest. Account for every variable.…

Zack stared down at Suzanne, bound for the moment by four-point, leather restraints. Shortly after arriving in the ICU her coma had lightened and she had become combative and disoriented. Her symptoms were identical in many ways to
Toby’s, but were clearly evolving more rapidly and virulently—the result, Zack was certain, of Frank’s vicious treatment of her.

Although she was groggy from Valium she had received, it was apparent that she was still locked in her psychosis, totally out of touch with reality. Her temperature had risen to almost 101.

Was there another way?
He had been so sure of himself before the Judges accident; sure enough to charge in and insist on applying Clarkin’s anecdotal work to Toby Nelms. Now, even with Mainwaring’s and Pearls validation of his theories about an experimental drug, he felt himself on the knifes edge of panic.

Be meticulous.… Account for every variable.…

Zack rubbed at his shoulder. The swelling was increasing. Even the slightest movement of his arm was now sending numbing, metallic pain up into his neck and down to his fingertips. Fatigue and tension were battling for control of his mind.

Across from him, in quiet resignation, Jack Pearl was readying his instruments and syringes. Off to one side, Jason Mainwaring stood alone, watching.

As Zack finished placing patches over Suzanne’s eyes and oil-soaked cotton in her ears, Mainwaring motioned him over. He looked uncharacteristically rumpled, gray, and drawn, and the concern in his eyes was, it seemed, genuine.

“Iverson, you know, I’m sorry this is happening,” he whispered.

“You should be.”

“I’ve never been one to make excuses for myself, but before you ’n’ Pearl get started, there are two things I’d like you to know.”

“Oh?”

“First of all, that woman you learned about from Tarberry—the one who died in my office …”

“Yes …”

“She died of a coronary, not any allergic reaction. She never got anything but plain ol’ Xylocaine. And that’s the truth. I had some … some enemies at the hospital who had learned about my involvement with a pharmaceutical company. They were determined to get me, and Mrs. Grimes’s unfortunate death gave them the chance. I won’t deny doin’ some work in
my office with an experimental local anesthetic, but Mrs. Grimes got Xylocaine.”

Zack glanced over at Suzanne.

“Mainwaring,” he said coolly, “I appreciate your coming back here the way you did. But don’t look for any exoneration from me. What you two—
you three
—have done here was beyond stupid, and beyond wrong.”

“I’ve never been one to cut corners, but our company was failing. We … we were desperate. Serenyl would have saved us.”

Zack gestured toward the two comatose patients.

“Do you think they care?” he asked.

Mainwaring had no response.

“Zack, we’re all set,” Bernice Rimmer called over.

“Coming.”

Throughout the ordeal the nurse had been a rock, quietly stemming the concerns of the rest of the unit staff, and promising to take full responsibility should anything go wrong. She was so quick, so efficient and compassionate. Zack found himself trying to remember what she had been like during their years together at school. The only image he could conjure was of a plain, soft-spoken girl, pleasant enough, but well outside of the in crowd. How meaningless all of that seemed now.