Witner smiled sympathetically and shook his head.
“Though I could almost wish that were the case.”
Debussy shook Witner’s hand with both of his, then pushed through the doors into the night.
As Witner turned away, he felt a buzzing at his waist. It wasn’t his pager, but his cell phone. He opened it and studied the number. Hinkle. He frowned, and looked carefully around before putting the phone to his ear.
“In the future, you page me, and I’ll return the call from a secure phone. Is that understood? We’ve talked about that.”
“I know we talked about that,” mocked Hinkle. “It’s done, but I needed to discuss my little change of plans.”
“You call the difference between a campus footbridge and the Seneca River bridge a little change of plans?”
“Whatever, Witner. You left the details up to me. I saw an opportunity, and I took it. Getting him into a car and driving out there would have been a major hassle and dangerous. Anyway, it’s done. Nobody his age was going to survive a fall from that footbridge.”
“That’s probably true, Fred, if somebody his age had hit the highway instead of the median.”
There was a pause.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean that he landed in some bushes that broke his fall.”
“He’s alive?”
“And in a coma.”
“Motherfucking hell, Witner. It was dark as sin. I couldn’t see anything down there.”
“Obviously.”
“But I don’t see the big deal. He’s right there under your nose. I’m sure you can finish the job yourself, Dr. Death.”
Witner thought for a moment.
“I’m disappointed in you, Fred, but perhaps there’s a reason why it turned out like this.”
“How so?”
“We have many resources, my friend, and I see ways we can benefit from this complication.”
“Who? You and me? I don’t see how.”
Witner’s eyes widened at the slip. With his left index finger, he sketched a circle in the air three times clockwise, then three times counterclockwise.
“Of course, I mean you and I, Fred,” he said. “Don’t be obtuse.”
“You know, Witner, I wonder about your sanity. No, I don’t wonder. I know. Maybe you should see somebody.”
* * *
The Surgical Intensive Care Unit was like the bridge of a starship—a discrete world with no external windows, only screens and gadgetry. Its lighting was bright and never varied, day or night, and neither did the ebb and flow of staff members. At any given time, there were nine nurses, a respiratory tech, two ward clerks, a second-year surgical resident and, usually, two pulmonary fellows assigned to the unit. Above the head of each bed sat a bank of monitors, each set to sound an alarm at the least variance.
Many of the staff knew James Gavin personally, and knots of people from all over the hospital came and went, standing at a respectful distance while his primary nurse and her assistants hovered over him. A plastic endotracheal tube attached to a hissing ventilator protruded from his mouth, and a large IV catheter ran into his internal jugular vein, dripping saline and an antibiotic. He also had a catheter inserted into the radial artery of his left wrist, giving a continuous reading of his blood pressure and oxygen saturation. A Foley catheter had been inserted into his bladder, and a thermal probe placed in his rectum.
Shortly after midnight, a young man in surgical scrubs with deep circles under his eyes came into the SICU and stood looking at Gavin from the doorway. His attention moved from the man on the bed to the monitors and back again.
“Yes?” the nurse said.
“Just wanted to see how he’s doing.”
“Are you one of the new SICU residents?”
“No, I’m nobody,” Steve Brasio said.
Sarah Hopper had been quite kind to him, as had Dr. Hansen. Sarah told him a war story of her own, about having missed a case of appendicitis when she was an intern, and how hard it had been on her emotionally, but that she’d learned a great deal from the experience. Dr. Forester had shaken his hand and told him it wasn’t his fault, that he hadn’t had the backup he’d needed.
Brasio knew all this was true, but it barely eased his shame and guilt. He could have saved a life. Instead, he may have destroyed a great one.
XVIII
Déjà vu
Jack leaned close to the old man’s ear.
“Dr. Gavin, if you can hear me, it’s Jack. This is my hand. Can you squeeze it?”
The fingers lying on the blanket didn’t move. They felt unnaturally cool and smooth. Only Gavin’s chest moved, rising and falling as the ventilator fed him oxygen through the endotracheal tube.
It was Saturday morning, and Jack’s shift was over. Unable to break away during the night, he’d called upstairs a number of times, hoping to hear that Dr. Gavin was waking up. There was no such news.
A nurse came to the bedside and stood next to him. She must have assumed he was one of the caregivers. She smiled at him, then looked up at the monitor and began writing on a clipboard.
Jack read her name badge.
“Hi, Becky,” he said. “I’m Dr. Forester from the ED.”
“Yes?” she said, glancing over.
“Listen, I think Dr. Gavin had a letter on him when he fell, and I know he’d want me to have it for safekeeping. I’m a close friend. You’ve haven’t seen it, by any chance?”
“No, sorry.”
“Could you tell me where they put his clothes?”
“They’re in the little closet next to the bathroom, right over there.”
During the night, on the off chance the letter might have fallen out of Gavin’s pocket while he was in the trauma suite, Jack had checked the room carefully but found nothing. The medics who’d brought Gavin in had transported another patient to the ED later that night, and Jack had questioned them. Had they seen anything that looked like a letter? They hadn’t. It had to still be either in Gavin’s pocket, or back there on the median, thrown out during the fall.
He opened the closet. Gavin’s overcoat and suit jacket hung inside, the former still wet and covered with mud and darker stains. Jack searched all the pockets but nothing. A red plastic bag lay on the floor of the closet. He fished inside and discovered Gavin’s pants, which had been cut off him, and a bloodstained white shirt and blue tie. All the pockets were empty.
After adjusting an IV line, the nurse came up to him.
“Any luck?”
“Zero,” he said.
“Then it’s probably with his wallet and personal effects.”
“Which are where?”
“They’d be with security. Valuables get locked up somewhere downstairs.”
At the SICU nursing station, he dialed the security office number, but Tim Bonadonna wasn’t in.
“Ask him to call Jack Forester as soon as he arrives, please. Tell him it’s very important.” Then he checked his watch. Nelson Debussy could wait a while longer.
After asking the SICU unit clerk to call him if there were any changes in Gavin’s condition, Jack headed down to the old lobby to grab a cup of coffee.
The lobby was nearly empty. He trotted down the steps from the mezzanine, his briefcase swinging, still dressed in last night’s scrubs, and he saw a single person standing at the coffee vendor’s counter. His eyes and senses may have been heavy and numb, but his heart suddenly leaped.
Zellie Andersen had just paid for her coffee and was arranging her big leather satchel over her shoulder. She saw him coming, and to his great pleasure, she smiled at him.
“I was afraid you’d left town,” he said.
“I was going to, but I postponed it after what happened last night. I read about it in the paper this morning at the hotel. What a tragedy. It’s a far more interesting story than yesterday’s. I’m going to write a second piece about it.”
The memory of walking into the ED and seeing Witner and Debussy and heari
ng the news, and of seeing Gavin a few moments ago in the SICU, all came crashing back in on Jack, and his spirits plummeted.
“Yes, I can understand why,” he said.
She was studying his face.
“You knew him well, didn’t you?”
“I did.”
“I’m sorry. I hope he recovers. Were you involved in the case?”
Jack’s heart clenched again.
“No, but I wish to heaven I had been.”
She gave him another smile, kind and understanding, and nodded.
“Well, listen,” he said, trying to shake off the sadness. “I’ve solved the mystery of who you are.”
“Mistaken identity, right?”
“Far from it. Have you got a minute?”
“Dozens of them.”
He ushered her over to one of the old leather sofas. Opening his briefcase, he took out the book, thanking his lucky stars he’d brought it with him last night. He always carried something with him to read in case the department got slow in the wee hours—a rare event in the past few years.
Handing it to her with the back cover photo up, he relished her look of astonishment.
“I’ve been waiting a long time for an autograph,” he said.
“Wait a minute.” She shot him a skeptical look. “You’re telling me you remembered me from this awful picture. If this is a joke, I don’t find it funny. Where did you get this?”
“I bought it when I was an intern. Eight or nine years ago. And I think it’s a wonderful picture.”
“No.”
“Yep.”
“I don’t know what to say.”
“You believe me, don’t you?”
She looked at him again with those intense eyes.
“Yes, I suppose I do.”
Jack took a pen out of his scrub shirt pocket and handed it to her.
“Would you?”
“How could I refuse?” She opened to the title page. “Is Forester with one R or two?”
“I’m flattered you remembered my name. One.”
She thought for a moment then wrote, and when finished, she read it aloud.
“‘For Dr. Jack Forester—of elephantine memory—one good line deserves another. Warm wishes, your friend, Zellie Andersen.’”
Jack noticed the lack of rings on her left hand.
“I was afraid I wouldn’t run into you again.”
“Why did you bring the book, then?”
“I was rereading it.”
“So, you really liked it?”
“I did. What have you done since then?”
She hesitated.
“I’ve got one in the works. We’ll see.”
“I’ll look forward to it.”
“Have you heard of second-novel syndrome?”
He shook his head.
“Some writers never get past their first book.”
“Ah, but I’m sure that doesn’t apply to someone who writes as well as you. I’ll tell you, the scene where the little brother falls off the breakwater and gets stranded with the tide coming in—I can see it.”
“Okay, now I believe you. Well, thanks. That’s kind of you to say.”
“You wrote so well from a male point of view, if you ever did a book from the female perspective, it would have to be fantastic.”
He was surprised to see her eyes suddenly cool.
“But what do I know about writing?” he added quickly. “Listen, I’m running very late for a meeting, but you know, if you’re going to be in town and didn’t have any plans, could we talk some more over dinner tonight?”
A moment passed, and then she nodded.
“How could I turn down my only remaining fan?”
* * *
Late or not, Jack wanted to check something out. He went to the steps leading up to the footbridge but turned into the trees and worked his way down the embankment until he reached the highway. The Saturday morning traffic was light as he crossed the eastbound lanes to the median strip.
The temperature was in the high thirties, and there were many footprints on the muddy ground. He saw a dark-brown stain near a bush, which had to be blood. There were no skid marks on the pavement nearby. He looked up. Had Gavin fallen from the bridge or been hit by a car? It could have been either, but it had to have been the latter. Suicide was out of the question. How could those idiots even think it?
After searching for several moments, he found something rectangular and mud-soaked that looked about the size of an envelope. Peeling it away from the muck, he looked at a pizza shop bulletin offering free delivery to the dorms.
He heard the distant scrape of footsteps on the bridge above. A man in a dark overcoat was striding over it, coming from the medical center toward the main campus. He was silhouetted against the overcast sky, and there was no doubt—it was Witner. Jack froze as the man glanced in his direction, but Witner made no sign of having seen him.
* * *
When he arrived in Debussy’s office, Witner was there.
“Sorry I’m late,” Jack said.
“Just as well. It’s given Dr. Witner and I a chance to talk some more.” Debussy motioned him toward a chair and waited a full minute before speaking, his hands folded on the desk, his face unsmiling. “Dr. Forester, first-off, you are no longer the ER director.”
This was not unexpected, but Jack still felt heat suffuse his cheeks as the words hit him. He glanced at Witner, who was, as usual, a portrait of serenity.
“You understand why, don’t you?” added Debussy.
“Sure,” Jack said, keeping his voice contained. “One of the emergency physicians under my supervision leaves the ED, despite departmental policy, so I’m being fired for having set the policy.”
Debussy leaned forward, his belly folding around the edge of his desk.
“You can spare me the sarcasm. Do not think for a moment Dr. Atwood is forgotten. He will own his share of responsibility, but at this point that is not your concern. I’m talking about the fact you decided to ignore Dr. Witner’s decision about that paging system.”
“Look, Mr. Debussy, as I said last night, setting policy fell within the job description I was given. There was no reason to make an exception.”
“Except when the dean tells you to make an exception. What’s so hard to understand about that? You have a direct line of responsibility to Dr. Witner, and you brushed it aside.”
“It went against the good of the department. And I’ll tell you another thing, sir—Dr. Gavin did not try to kill himself.”
Debussy’s face was going from pink toward crimson. He raised his hands, looked at Witner and shook his head.
Jack continued.
“I’m here for you to fire me, so let’s get it over with.”
Witner cleared his throat.
“If I might interject. First of all, Dr. Forester, your opinions are always valued, and Mr. Debussy is not firing you. It would be prudent to remain respectful.”
“Very prudent,” said Debussy. “Forester, you’ve done many good things here—I’ve heard that from many sources. We need good doctors, and we’re not going to toss you out in disgrace. I have relieved you of your directorship, that’s all. We would like you to continue in your clinical and teaching roles in the emergency department. But, as far as administrative activities, no. I’ve got a leadership team to maintain, and it’s obvious you don’t want to participate in the command structure.”
“Not with the way things stand.”
Debussy leaned back in his chair, paused a moment, and went on.
“On the other hand, I’m also offering you the chance to resign with no black marks against your otherwise excellent record. If you choose to leave, there will be no mention of this conflict over the paging system in your letters of reference. You can depart New Canterbury with a clean slate and a separation package of three months’ salary. Many faculty members and students will be sorry to see you go, but if you have to move on, we’ll do it with a handshake, in r
ecognition of your service.”
Jack looked down at the oriental carpet and felt something he hadn’t in a long time. Hot tears were forming in his eyes. He blinked hard.
“I know you worked last night, Jack,” said Debussy. “Call me Monday and let me know what you’d like to do. As for Dr. Gavin, I guarantee you there were signs I personally witnessed suggesting he was far more ill than might have been apparent to you. I know you were close to him, and I’m sorry. We all are.”
Jack glared up at the ceiling. He knew of a job in Denver. All he had to do was call. Three months would give him plenty of time to prepare Tony for the dislocation. There were bigger mountains and plenty of rivers in Colorado; very likely, his brother wouldn’t complain.
Maybe the promise he’d made to Dr. Gavin didn’t matter now, anyway. The one about not leaving.
* * *
As he crossed back over the footbridge, Jack’s legs felt heavy. A stiff wind was blowing from the east now, and the air temperature had dropped. The mud below would soon be frozen solid. In his jacket pocket, he felt a piece of folded paper. It was just some notes he’d made a few days ago for the next ED staff meeting, the meeting he would not be leading. He tossed it over the railing.
Halfway across, his cellphone rang. It was Tim Bonadonna.
A few minutes later, in his office in the basement of the medical center, Tim pulled out a chair for him and shut the door.
“Pardon my French, Jack, but you look like merde,” said the big man, laughing. “Get it?”
Jack sat staring at his shoes.
“Man, are you all right?”
“I’ve been better.”
“That was awful about Dr. Gavin last night. He was such a great guy. He’d say hello every time I passed him in the hallway. Even remembered my name. How’s he doing?”
“He’s still in a coma.”
“Why in hell would he try to commit suicide?”
“That’s the official story, Tim, but I’m having a real hard time believing it.”
“Hang on a second.” Tim returned a moment later with a cup of very dark coffee. “You look like you could use some of this.”
Final Mercy Page 15
