He never should have come back to his office. Upwards of a quarter-hour had now been wasted. Why was this happening?
By the time Hansen had his say and left, Witner was nearly trembling with frustration. All these brambles sprouting in his path had the feel of something more than coincidence.
Is there a message for me in all this?
He suddenly understood. It was time to wrap things up with the old man. Yes. On this day of final mercy for all the others, the danse macabre with Gavin must end as well.
He dashed into his office bathroom and locked the door. The scratch Zellie Andersen had left on his cheek was looking angrier than when he’d left home, damn her. He took a box from the cabinet, removed a syringe and a bottle containing concentrated potassium chloride. Filling the syringe with enough of the potassium to kill an elephant, he recapped the needle.
But no sooner was that done than Greta’s voice came over the intercom again. He cursed and put the syringe into his lab coat pocket, where it made a plastic click against the ones already there.
“Dr. Delancy is here. Do you have a moment for him?”
“Tell him I’m busy.”
“He says it will only take a minute.”
Greta, you meddling fool!
Yes, Greta, too, would need to be dealt with in due time. That would be a pleasure. No more sneaking off at lunchtime for meetings with his enemies. Meanwhile, he could not appear stressed. Everything must seem normal. This was all for a purpose—he had to remember that. He took a deep breath and buttoned his coat.
“All right, send him in.”
He made the appearance of listening as Delancy complained about the ER schedule. He was starting to sound like Atwood.
Witner thrust up his palm.
“Enough, Randy. I’m sorry, but you’re going to have to work this out for yourself. That’s your job now. I don’t know what the devil else I can do to help you.”
Delancy looked wounded.
“Sir, are you all right?”
He made his expression soften.
“Why, of course, I’m alright. I’ll be happy to help you, but I’m a little overwhelmed today.”
“I can imagine you are, sir, with all the responsibilities you’ve taken on. Is there any progress with Dr. Gavin yet?”
“None, I’m afraid.”
“Has there been a decision made about taking him off life support yet?”
“As long as there’s a thread of hope, Randy, we’ll cling to it. Now, I’m sorry, but I must attend to other things.”
A few minutes later, he was finally back on the seventh floor. He strode past the nurse’s desk, nodding to her and to the security guard sitting by the door, a new man since yesterday—tall, stocky and bearded.
He entered Gavin’s room, took a deep breath, and a sense of calm returned. Stepping up to the bedside, he gazed down.
“Hello, Jim.”
Deep inside that old carcass, Infection was festering. As he stared, he could almost hear whispering as the viruses tried to establish communication with their kind. It seemed to be growing louder. Of course. They sensed what was going to happen next.
“Sorry I’m running a little late today. You’re probably starting to feel almost sprightly. In case you’ve wondered, I’ve been using pancuronium bromide, along with chlordiazepoxide, but today, it’s time to change the routine.”
Gavin’s eyelids fluttered. From his lab coat pocket, Witner took out the syringe.
“Today, you’ll be getting potassium chloride, which will stop your heart in a minute or two. Potash, as the ancients called it.” He held the syringe up to the light and tapped it. “This room has a wonderful view of the Mt. Seneca Cemetery. I never noticed before how the tombstones march up the hill like a militia. You’ll be the newest recruit.”
He leaned over the gaunt face.
“You hired me out of pity, Jim, I know that very well. You thought you were getting a great bargain—my talents at a fire sale price. But you got Charon, and I’m here to row you across the Styx.” He removed the cap from the needle and lifted Gavin’s IV line. “I’m actually freeing you from something, and you’d thank me if you could understand.”
Gavin’s eyelids were now open, the pupils rolling, his cheeks twitching slightly, his lips trying to form a word. Witner had arrived not a second too soon.
“Joining you today on the opposite shore will be the Andersen woman, along with your duplicitous daughter-in-law, Mr. Hinkle and, last but not least, Dr. Forester. Your attempt to join forces against my mission was always doomed. I’ll be named dean within two months, and if you think my rise here was rapid, you just wait. I will not stop until this blight is erased.”
Witner located the rubber injection port on the IV line.
“Potassium is a marvelous weapon, you’ll have to agree—completely undetectable postmortem because dead cells release vast amounts. This is how Lester Zyman died. Hinkle held him, and I injected though a vein in his foot.”
Witner was about to insert the needle into the port when he realized something. He had not sterilized the injection port by swabbing it with an alcohol pad. Since medical school, this was a ritual he’d never broken. Never.
Swab then stick. Swab then stick. That ritual had been hammered into his brain. Why in God’s name should he worry about it now? He stood frozen, his jaws tight, a drop of sweat percolating down his back.
“Oh, all right,” he said. “Why fight it?” He recapped the needle and dropped the syringe back into his pocket. “Jim, the human mind is a strange thing.”
Opening the bedside drawer, he found an alcohol swab, tore it open and was about to wipe the port when a sound from outside made him stop and cock his head. There were footsteps in the hallway, coming closer—multiple footsteps. Now someone was talking to the security guard.
In one swift movement, Witner fished the syringe from his pocket, jabbed the needle into the port and squeezed, finishing just as the door swung open. What was that damn security guard doing? He yanked the needle out—there was no time to recap it—and dropped the syringe back into his pocket, all while swiveling toward the door and arranging a grave look on his face.
He felt his heart skip a beat, and his face suffused with heat. There, staring at him insolently was the one person he least expected to see at that moment. Forester was supposed to be in Boston, according to Daphne, not due back till this afternoon.
But you’re a few seconds too late.
“Dr. Forester, who gave you permission to be here?”
Forester didn’t answer, and he wasn’t alone. Beside him was an old woman Witner recognized as one of the volunteers—Eleanor somebody. He cleared his throat as the she stepped toward him, beaming, her hand outstretched.
“Why, hello, Dr. Witner. How wonderful to see you. I ran into Dr. Forester in the elevator, and he escorted me here. He’s always so kind, isn’t he? So, is our patient doing any better today? Jim is my neighbor, you know. I could tell you so many stories.”
Witner modulated the expression, letting his expression fade deeper into somberness and grief. He took her hand and pressed it in both of his.
“Eleanor, I’m afraid…”
“What’s the matter, Dr. Witner?” Her voice fell.
“Things did not work out as we’d hoped.”
Eleanor’s hand went to her mouth.
“Oh, my God, he isn’t…?”
Witner moved his gaze to Forester and shook his head sadly. More than a minute had passed since he’d injected the potassium. The game would be over now. He drew a breath and released it slowly. He brought moisture to his eyes by remembering the day his father had killed himself.
“I’m afraid so,” he said softly. “Not unexpected, but never easy.”
“That’s strange, Witner,” said Forester. “He appears to be in normal sinus rhythm up on the monitor.”
Witner’s eyes darted to the screen, and shock coursed through him. This could not be! Even if Gavin’s heart
hadn’t stopped, a dosage of that much potassium should be causing some dramatic pre-terminal changes in the heart rhythm. Had he taken the wrong syringe out of his pocket? That was the only explanation.
Gavin’s eyes were closed again, and his face utterly relaxed. That was it. He had given him the wrong medication, the paralytic.
Forester pushed past him and reached down to feel Gavin’s wrist.
“Dr. Forester, you’re not supposed to be here. This is inappropriate.”
“Yet, here I am, and I’m not going anywhere.”
The old woman looked at both of them with an astonished expression.
“Security!” yelled Witner.
“He’s got a normal pulse, too,” Forester noted. “What made you think he’d died?”
“I was speaking figuratively, of course. You understood my meaning, didn’t you, Eleanor?”
“I must admit you certainly had me scared,” she said, her expression growing increasingly puzzled.
“I’m going to examine him,” Forester said.
“No, you’re not. Guard, dammit!”
“What on earth is going on?” Eleanor asked. “Why shouldn’t Dr. Forester be here?”
“Dr. Forester no longer has hospital privileges.”
“Since when?” Jack demanded, whirling on him.
“Since this morning,” Witner improvised. “It was a decision I regretted having to make, but circumstances forced my hand.”
“What circumstances?”
“That will all come out at the hearing.”
“Listen, Witner, I know all about your problems at Harvard.”
Witner felt his color rise, but he controlled his expression.
“And I know about the Society Carnivalis.”
Witner exhaled sharply.
“Now is neither the time nor place for this discussion.” He nodded in Eleanor’s direction. “I have no desire to embarrass you, Dr. Forester.”
At that moment, his pager beeped. He looked, and an electric charge coursed through him. It was Humphrey Atwood’s number. He stared at it. What did this mean?
“Guard!” he cried again.
The door flew open.
“Yes, sir? How can I help?”
“Why did you let this man in here?”
Tim Bonadonna shrugged.
“He told me he was your son, sir.”
“My son!”
“I’m sorry, sir, I was—”
“Just escort Dr. Forester out of the building immediately. If he resists, call the police.”
“It’ll be my pleasure, sir.” Tim stepped aside to let the interim dean march out. “I’ll take care of it right away.”
“My son,” Witner muttered, casting a withering glance at Forester before he went through the doorway.
Once in the corridor, he trotted for the nearest flight of stairs. There was no time for elevators. He’d waited too long, let himself be distracted by a parade of Infected idiots. It was his own fault. He’d made a mistake. I’m sorry. There must be a reason for it. He could still finish the job. I’m sorry. He bounded down to the accompanying echo of footfalls in the old stairwell.
Greta looked up in amazement up as he rushed past.
“No interruptions,” he commanded. You’ll be next.
Locking the door, he took out his cellphone and dialed. Humphrey Atwood’s number? What the blazes was going on. It had to be a message of some kind. After half a dozen rings, someone answered.
“Hello?”
The voice was that of a boy, no older than ten, surely.
What in the name of Moses…?
“Hello?” repeated the voice.
“Is this five-five-five-zero-zero-one-two?”
“Yes.”
“Listen, did someone from that number just page someone?”
“I did.”
“You did? And who the devil are you?”
“Are you my dad’s friend, Dr. Witner?”
“I asked who you are.”
“I’m Jeremy Atwood.”
It felt like a glass of ice water had just been poured down his spine. He saw Atwood standing, his eyes closed, holding the pistol against his temple.
Now, Humphrey, I’m going to help you angle it so the bullet will only crease your scalp, but you’ll have to relax your wrist more, yes, that’s right, that’s just my hand over yours, relax, relax, it’ll all be over in a sec. Then the sharp report, blood and gray matter spraying the wall.
Witner waited a moment before speaking. He heard nasal breathing on the end of the line, a sniffle.
“Why are you calling me?”
“I found my dad’s address book, and it had this number. It was in red, and it said for emergencies.”
Witner said nothing. He heard whispering.
“Nobody wants to talk about him now, especially Mom. He was supposed to take me to my hockey tournament today.”
“Do not call this number ever again—ever, do you hear? Throw that book away immediately. That’s what your father would have wanted.”
“Okay,” said the boy, his voice now quivering. Another sniffle. “Do you know what happened to my dad?”
“Of course, I don’t,” he snapped. “Why would I know what happened to him? Listen, how old are you?”
“Nine.”
“Your father was a well-meaning sort of person. You’ll forget all of this soon enough, and someday the world will be a better place.”
If you’re not Infected.
Witner heard the sound of a woman’s voice in the background, approaching.
“Jeremy–? Why are you crying? Who are you talking to, honey? Give it to me.”
Witner slammed the phone down and felt an odd urge to piss. He dashed into the bathroom and yanked down his fly, the sound of his water mingled with a wave of whispered words he could not quite make out.
Talk to me. What do you mean by these things?
XXXIX
Suite X
Jack stood at Gavin’s bedside and listened to Witner’s footsteps recede up the hallway.
“What on earth is going on?” said Eleanor. “I’ve never seen Dr. Witner like this before.”
“It’s a very long story.”
“Jack,” Tim warned, hovering in the doorway, “he’ll be back soon. I’m supposed to call the cops on you.”
“We’ve got to get Dr. Gavin out of here.”
“Would somebody please tell me what’s happening?”
“And how are we going to accomplish that, amigo?” Tim said. “The nurse out there is Gestapo-trained.”
“I’ve got an idea,” said Jack. He turned to Eleanor. “Listen carefully, I’m going to tell you something you may find hard to believe. But I need your help, and Dr. Gavin needs your help.” He swiveled back to his friend. “Tim, go tell the nurse Eleanor just fainted, and we need to take her to the ED. There’s a stretcher down by the elevators. Bring it here.”
“Jesus and Mary, I need to change jobs anyways,” Tim said, shaking his head. “Oh, yes, I do.”
* * *
Tim returned with the gurney, wheeled it into Gavin’s room; and a short while later, Jack pushed it back out into the hallway, headed for the elevators.
The nurse looked up. When Tim told her Eleanor had fainted, she’d come running in and found her on the floor, with Jack kneeling at her side.
“It’s probably just a vasovagal episode,” Jack told her. “But I know her well and she’s got a cardiac history. I’d like to take her down to the ED and check her out.”
The nurse had agreed then returned to her post in the corridor.
“How’s she doing?” she asked as they moved past.
“She’s starting to come around. Thanks for your help.”
“You bet.”
“By the way, Dr. Witner told the security guard to stay in Dr. Gavin’s room. Don’t know why, but that’s where he is.”
“Okay. Do you need some extra help with the gurney? I could call an orderly.”
“Nope, I need the exercise.”
The elevator’s descent seemed to take forever.
“How you doing, Eleanor?” he asked.
“I’m frightened.”
Jack lifted the blanket. On his side, pressed against Eleanor, lay a motionless James Gavin. Jack had fastened a plastic hose to the endotracheal tube so Eleanor could breathe for him.
“Tell me again how often I’m supposed to do this?”
“Every three seconds. That’s perfect—just blow slowly and deeply into the tube.”
“It’s lucky I’m so skinny,” she said. “Are you sure my breath has enough oxygen for him?”
“More than enough until we get to the emergency department,” Jack assured her, placing the blanket so only her head was visible.
“Dr. Witner is going to be hopping mad,” she said. “But if you’re correct, Jack, it only serves him right. How could he do such a thing?”
“Just imagine the story you’ll have.”
The elevator bumped to a stop, and the doors slid open. Jack guided the stretcher into the corridor, and then pushed it toward the ED’s back door several hundred feet away. His heart was pounding. Things were going too easily. This was a piece of cake so far. It couldn’t last.
Suddenly, a man in a long white lab coat rounded the corner in front of him. It was Norman Scales. Of all the people he cared not to meet now, the Chief of Internal Medicine was high on the list.
As they drew close, Scales recognized him and nodded.
“Hello, Norman,” Jack said, pushing faster. The ED was only fifty feet away now.
“Dr. Forester? What—have they got you doing orderly work now?”
“Nothing like a little manual labor to clear the mind.”
“If you say so,” Scales said, his lips curling into a supercilious smile. “Looks like you’re adept at it. Maybe you’ve finally found your métier. Feel free to sweep my office when you’re done.”
“Good one, Norman.”
Screw you.
Scales chuckled at his own joke as the stretcher glided by. Though Jack breathed with relief and winked at Eleanor, the back of his neck was tingling with tension. The ruse back up on the seventh floor wasn’t going to last long. Somebody—either the nurse or Witner—would enter Gavin’s room and find Tim lying there reading a magazine with the monitor leads on his chest. Maybe they already had. Any second, there might come a sudden stampede of footfalls behind him and a burst of shouts. But once inside the ED, he’d be on home turf.
Final Mercy Page 32
