“Are you referring to that business about the emergency department?”
“That’s just one of many. Like what you’ve done to the Blue Team.”
Witner smiled. “As far as the emergency department goes, there was general opposition to Dr. Forester’s proposal. I said relatively little.”
“You expect me to believe that? When I left here almost everyone except Norm Scales was enthusiastic about it.”
“Dr. Forester misunderstands me.”
“Oh, does he? The role of an interim dean does not include alienating good faculty members. Nor is it to create from whole cloth entirely new projects like this Medical Media thing. Neither is it to increase the size of the medical school class, as I hear you’re trying to do, by lowering admission requirements, or what you’ve done to the Blue Team—shortchanging the experience of many to benefit a few.
“You’re not acting like an interim leader, Witner, so drop the pretense. You’re pandering to the board. You’re campaigning. I see hidden agendas, and I see power abuse. And I will tell you right now, I suspect there are other things going on of far graver concern.”
He had never seen Gavin’s face like this—rigid and red, with a faint sheen of perspiration on his forehead.
“What might those things be, Jim?”
“You’ll know when the time is right, Witner. I still can’t believe this. When I hired you, I thought I was bringing on board a reserved, promising, sincere individual who’d just recovered from an unfortunate problem and who deserved a chance to grow in the sun.”
“And I grew. So, what’s the issue?”
“This isn’t growth. This is some kind of metamorphosis. Or maybe this is what you were all along. Whatever—I’ve come to believe you’re an artist at manipulating people.”
Witner smiled and shook his head.
“You overestimate me. You make it sound as if I’m a threat.”
“To be perfectly honest, I believe that having you selected as the permanent dean would be an unmitigated disaster.”
“Jim, your negative feelings toward me are very distressing.”
“Odd—you don’t look distressed. I think that somewhere inside you’re enjoying this. You think this is a game, and you think you’re the master.”
“I don’t know how to respond to that.”
“I know what my response is going to be. I’m going to have myself placed on the search committee.”
“That’s your prerogative, of course.”
“I suggest you wipe that smile off your face. My opinion will be heard.”
“As well it should.” Witner looked down at his watch. “Listen, I don’t want you to think I’m brushing you off, Jim, but I’ve got work to do, I’m afraid.”
“You amaze me, Bryson. There’s no crack in your facade. You sit there like we’re at a garden party.”
Witner unlaced his long fingers and studied them for a moment, then looked up at Gavin and let his face turn grave.
“Power is a strange thing, Jim. Some people compare it to the wind. But I think power is more like the sail a person raises to the wind. The wind is, for lack of a better term, fate. When a person—such as yourself, for example—gives up a powerful position, as you did, he lets his sails down. When the wind is blowing strong, it may be very difficult to raise them again.”
Gavin’s eyes bulged with fury, and the old man rose. He said nothing for a long moment as his face grew calmer.
“Witner, just who the hell are you?” He didn’t wait for a response. He strode to the door and let himself out, closing it quietly.
Witner went to his desk, and sighed. The battle was engaged, and that in itself was a relief.
With a key from his pocket, he opened the bottom left drawer of the desk and removed a small digital recording device he’d installed two months before that allowed him to monitor all telephone activity on Greta’s extension. Because a number of people considered Greta a reliable confidant, he had learned many things of greater and lesser value, and that was the major reason he tolerated her insolence.
This recording device was, in fact, how he’d discovered the threat the recently deceased Lester Zyman had posed. Zyman had made the mistake of leaving a message on Greta’s answering machine one day—a message, fortunately for her, she never received—and had paid the price.
Witner fast-forwarded through several routine calls, then came to the one Gavin had made. Leaning back, he listened.
* * *
“Hello, is Chief Bedford in?”
“No, he’s not. May I ask who’s calling?”
“This is an old friend, Jim Gavin. Dr. Jim Gavin.”
“Oh, hello, Dr. Gavin. This is Agnes. How can I help you today?”
“Thank you, Agnes. Listen, I’m calling from the hospital. I’ve just got back in town and was hoping I could see him this afternoon.”
“The chief will be sorry he missed you, but he’s at a law enforcement conference in Albany today. He’ll be back the day after tomorrow. That’s Saturday, but I know he’s going to spend the morning in his office catching up. Would you like to see him then?”
“I guess that will have to do.”
“Certainly, sir. Just stop over. I’ll leave him a message. How’s eight o’clock?”
“Fine. I’ll be there at eight o’clock Saturday morning.”
“Can I tell him what it’s about, sir?”
“It’s a private matter, Agnes, but you could mention I want to talk about the deaths of Robert McCarthy and Lester Zyman. Maybe he could pull the files.”
“I will certainly let him know, Dr. Gavin. Nice to speak with you.”
“The same here, Agnes. Goodbye, now, and thank you.”
* * *
Witner nodded. So, the old man thinks he’s on to something. Resetting the recorder, he placed it back in the drawer and carefully relocked it. Then he unlocked the drawer below it and removed a large fireproof metal box secured with both a combination lock and a padlocked chain that ran through the handle and over the top. He spun the combination dial, then fished a key out of his pocket and unlocked the chain.
Inside lay a leather-bound book the size and thickness of a volume of the Encyclopedia Britannica. The words Society Carnivalis were inscribed on the cover and, below that, his initials BMW.
With his left thumb and index finger, Witner lifted the front cover to a forty-five degree angle and looked at the clock. He watched the second hand complete a sweep, and then he opened the cover fully.
Not long ago, he had been called away from the office for some urgent clinical matter—a Blue Team patient taking an unexpected turn for the worse. He had locked the office door, of course, but he had not put the book away, had left it lying on the desk. It was a shocking lapse into complacency that could not be tolerated again. No harm came of it, fortunately, but he lost sleep castigating himself.
How gratifying, the way life had fallen into place since that day he’d felt compelled to enter a little bookstore in Cambridge. Almost against his will, he’d gone to a dusty shelf in the back where his eyes came to rest on this book. To anyone else it would have been a relic from the days before personal computers, the kind of elegant ledger that would have been at home on his grandfather’s desk; but for some reason it drew him like a magnet, and when he opened its cover, the voices began talking to him.
They were not the strident voices he’d used to hear. They were calm, measured, professional and comforting. You are the one. Take this Book and fulfill your mission. We will teach you all you need to know. We will reveal to you the truth. Not only was this Book the medium though which he had been recruited to the Society, it would make visible, through what he wrote, the plan of action that must be carried out.
After all these years, he still didn’t know who the others were, or how many souls like him existed. It was enough to know that, in due time, all would be revealed. That is, if he succeeded. Perhaps there were thousands like him, indistinguishable from the Infected ones.
Jack Forester. Let’s see. He turned to Forester’s entry, took up his pen and briefly noted the outcome of today’s meeting. Forester was a 12B3—meaning he had no potential to assist and was potentially disruptive. His resignation should be encouraged.
As for Dr. Gavin…
Witner flipped the page. Gavin was 1T2B—a dangerous impediment to progress. He picked up the pen and added the code tag XR. Expedite removal.
Setting down the pen, he thought for a moment then dialed Nelson Debussy. Debussy’s secretary picked up the line and informed him the president was out.
“Give me his cell number, please.”
“He left his mobile here, I’m afraid, Dr. Witner.”
“Kindly tell him to return my call when he gets in. Let him know it’s urgent.”
Turning back to the Book, he leafed forward to the chronology map and studied it. With a fingertip, he traced his rise from associate professor of medicine to interim dean to permanent dean. The timeline didn’t stop there, of course. Once he had gained a national reputation, it would be on to the directorship of the World Health Organization, which would occur in approximately fifteen years at this rate.
Only then would the real battle against the Infection commence.
The intercom crackled.
“Dr. Atwood is here,” Greta said.
He pressed the button.
“I already have a brief meeting scheduled with him this afternoon. What’s the problem?”
“You’ll have to ask him. He just wondered if you had some time, and I said yes.”
“All right. Send him in, in exactly four minutes.”
He returned to the Book. Closing the cover halfway, he watched the second hand sweep from twelve to twelve before ending the session.
When Greta showed Atwood in, it was obvious the man was agitated.
“Sit and state your business,” Witner said, pointing at the chair recently vacated by Gavin. “Then I’ve something to discuss with you.”
“Thank you for seeing me early, Bryson. This is about Forester.”
“What about him?”
“He’s trying to crucify me over some silly little patient complaint. Believe it or not, he’s ordered me to write an apology letter. It’s insane.”
“Ordered you to write an apology letter? What was the complaint about?”
“Oh, this child came into the ER with a sprained ankle and a few weeks later was diagnosed with a brain tumor. I missed the brain tumor, ergo, I’m a bad physician.”
“That was all?”
“The crux of it was that I made a Social Service referral because I was concerned about parental neglect, and the family felt insulted. Forester wants me to write the boy’s mother and admit my mistake. He’s threatening to take it to the board of trustees.”
Witner tapped his fingertips together and sighed. Atwood’s ability to empathize with patients was painfully limited, and he could easily imagine him unintentionally insulting a family. People don’t easily forget that sort of thing.
“Humphrey, I assume you know what happened to Forester’s proposal this morning?”
“Indeed, sir,” said Atwood, flashing a smile. “A victory for common sense.”
Witner shrugged. Forester’s plan actually made considerable sense.
“Humphrey, you have to realize that Forester’s upset,” he said. “He’s lashing out because his plan was crushed. It might be wise to humor him.”
It was Jack Forester himself who made the plan unacceptable. If Forester had shown the appropriate amount of deference, like Atwood and Delancy—not that he’d have needed to be as obsequious as that pair—Witner would have helped him. But ever since Forester voted against him becoming the interim dean in favor of Dr. Zyman, the man’s true nature was clear. Forester had chosen the rocky road.
“I see what you’re saying, Bryson, but it’s the principle of it.”
“Principles, schminciples, Humphrey. By refusing to write this letter you give Forester power over you. Imagine standing before the board of trustees trying to explain why you won’t say you’re sorry. You’ll get little pity, believe me. You’ll come across as callous and petty, and because I have supported you, it may tint my reputation as well.”
“Do you really think he’d take it to the board?”
“Our friend Forester is a frustrated fellow right now. I wouldn’t rule it out.”
Atwood looked at the floor and fiddled with his mustache for a moment.
“I would never want to tarnish your image, Bryson,” he said finally. “You’ve been very good to me.”
“Console yourself, then, with the thought that I believe Dr. Forester will resign within a month or two. When he’s gone, I will see that you get the directorship. It’s just a question of time. Meanwhile, don’t pick a fight you can’t win.”
“I see your point.”
“Go ahead and draft the letter and let me see it first.”
“It shall be done. On a brighter note, Bryson, I’ve got a great idea for a new study. Can I run it by you?”
“Make it quick—I’ve got something else to cover with you.”
Atwood leaned forward, excited, his eyes gleaming.
“Sir, I believe I’ve hit on a revolutionary way to reduce overcrowding in the emergency room that’s far cheaper than building new rooms. Let me give it to you point by point.
“Point one, most ER patients are not true emergencies—the sore throats, the headaches, the chronic back pains, little rashes, insomnia—and many of them are uninsured to boot. They’re bad debts that clog up the system. It’s a loss any way you cut it.”
“Short and sweet, Humphrey.”
“Okay, point two, people with trivial problems will sit in the waiting room for hours until they see the physician, when they don’t need to see one to begin with. But there they sit, hour after hour, tying up resources. Why?”
“To the point.”
“The reason is so obvious we overlook it, Bryson. It’s due to some extent simply because the waiting room is a comfortable place to lounge. We provide them with a TV, magazines, vending machines, carpeting, even upholstered chairs. It’s warm in the winter and it’s cool in the summer. There’s even a volunteer to answer questions and hand out tissues. In essence, we reward them for sitting there and waiting. We’ve created a paradise for hypochondriacs and malingerers where they can relax and socialize with each other.”
“And therefore…?”
“Therefore, I propose that for three months we remove all amenities and install simple wooden benches—like church pews. I even kicked around the idea of restricting use of the restrooms, but the State Public Health Code mandates them. We could, however, reduce the frequency they’re cleaned and stocked, and we could remove the air fresheners.”
“I think we’ll leave the bathrooms alone,” said Witner, glancing at his watch.
“Even so, Bryson, I hypothesize that a significant number of people who don’t need the ER will get frustrated by the Spartan conditions and walk out. Fewer of them clogging up the system means faster turn-around times for the sicker cases. We’ll do a simple before-and-after comparison. I believe this has got New England Journal of Medicine potential.” Atwood leaned forward, his face brimming with excitement. “So, what do you think?”
Witner looked at him for a moment.
“You’re proposing we encourage people to leave by making the waiting environment inhospitable?”
“Not inhospitable—just barren.”
“I see. Had you thought about irritating music at loud volume, too?”
The to
uch of sarcasm was lost on the younger man, who smiled enthusiastically.
“Yes! Just loud enough to discourage conversation, like a short Bach fugue played in an endless loop.”
“Or maybe something by the Monkeys, Humphrey?”
“The Monkeys? Hmmmm. Interesting. You know, we could have separate study arms using different music.”
“All right,” Witner sighed. “Enough of this. Have you run your idea by Dr. Forester yet?”
“Are you kidding? He treats every little boo-boo with the same intensity he devotes to myocardial infarctions. His approach to overcrowding is to hire more staff and whip them into working faster. I’m interested in getting rid of the little boo-boos entirely.”
Witner smiled.
Good, then, this may be the straw that breaks the camel’s back.
“Humphrey, your plan may require some modifications, but I want you to draw up a formal proposal. Run it by me, and we’ll submit it to the IRB, and I’ll make sure Forester gets a copy. I’m sure Norm Scales would be happy to make this an Internal Medicine-supported study. You, I and Dr. Scales can be the major authors, and Dr. Forester will just have to accept it.”
“Or leave, right? Thank you for the support, Bryson. Forester’s never been receptive to any of my ideas. I’m still struggling to have my paging system installed.”
Witner frowned.
“Are you telling me the paging system I personally approved for you has not been installed yet? I sent him authorization over six weeks ago.”
“No. He’s stalling.”
Witner’s frown deepened.
“So, Bryson, you really like my idea?”
“Humphrey, sometimes you remind me of a dog that can’t get enough petting.”
Atwood laughed.
“Nancy’s accused me of the same thing sometimes. Oh, I wanted to show you something.”
“Can it wait?”
“Won’t take a minute,” Atwood said, removing a photo from his lab coat pocket. “This will be our Christmas card this year. That’s nine-year-old Jeremy standing by me, and Nancy’s holding Brianna, who’ll be twenty-two months.”
“Yes, very nice.” Witner gave it a glance.
Final Mercy Page 8
