by Dan Alatorre
THE KEEPERS
THE GAMMA SEQUENCE, Book 4
a medical thriller
© 2020 Dan Alatorre
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Table Of Contents
The Keepers
A Note From The Author, Dan Alatorre
Other Thrillers By Dan Alatorre
Chapter 1
The nurse raced toward room 431 as screams echoed down the corridor. The elderly patient’s heart rate monitor indicated she was coding, filling the dark wing with audible alarms. Throwing open the door, the nurse gasped, putting a hand to her mouth.
The old woman flailed on the bed, kicking and screaming, her restraints ripping into her flesh and splattering the sheets and walls with blood.
“They’re killing her!” Spit flew from the patient’s mouth. “They’re killing her!”
Heaving herself forward, Patrice pushed down on the elderly lady’s thin, bony shoulders and forced her to the mattress. “Calmez-vous, s'il vous plaît. Vous devez être calme.”
“I must go!” The old woman twisted back and forth, her eyes red and raw in the dim light. Veins throbbed on her wrinkly forehead. “Please, let me go! Laissez-moi partir! They’re killing her!”
“No one is killing anyone, madame.” Patrice held the woman down, staring at the detached sensors. Heart, respiration, temperature, each dangled from their respective machines—sending a chorus of alarms into the little room. She leaned close to the old woman. “You are safe! Look at me! You are safe in hospital.”
“No!” She kicked harder. “I must go. They’re killing her!”
“No, madame. You are safe. Look with me. This the Pitié-Salpêtrière Hospital, in Paris. See the machines? The bed? It is hospital. You have been here a few days. Do you remember?” The radio on Patrice’s hip would alert additional staff, but she was restricted from using it while dealing with this patient—unless it was a life or death emergency. “Madame, please. Look with me. Do you see you are in hospital?”
The elderly patient slowly looked around the ward room. Her muscles relaxed and she sagged into her pillows. Sweat dotted her brow.
Catching her breath, the nurse stood up and grabbed a towel from the side table, wetting it with the water bottle and dabbing the old woman’s cheeks. “It is just a dream, yes? A bad dream.”
“You don’t understand.” The elderly lady moaned. “Vous ne comprenez pas. Je dois partir.”
“Yes, I understand. You are suffering from the fever your injury gave you, and you take off your sensors again. This is very serious, madame. You must not try to move.” She glanced at the large gauze bandage over the woman’s upper chest. “Chut, I fear you have rip your stitches.”
“Help me.” The woman pushed upward against her restraints. “Please. I must go to her before it’s too late.”
“You must rest.” The nurse shook her head, whispering as she pressed the wet cloth across her patient’s forehead. “It is very serious, this injury you have. You almost lose this arm, yes? Maybe you need it one day. Let us fix you. Please be calm, madame.”
Tears welled in the old woman’s eyes. She sank back onto the bed. “She needs me. I—I must go to her.”
Patrice put a hand on her hip and wagged a finger. “If you insist on trying these games, I will have to administer un sédatif. I know how they scare you, but do you leave me a choice?”
“No.” The old woman’s eye went wide. “No sedatives. I’ll . . . I’ll be calm. You’re right. It—it was just a bad dream.”
Convinced the fight was over, Patrice relaxed and stepped away from the bed. She inspected and cleaned the cuts from the restraints, bandaging the old woman’s wrists as she stared at the ceiling. The sensors went back onto the patient’s thin upper arm and bony fingers, and the machines were reset.
“Merci, Patrice,” the old woman said.
The bloodstains would have to wait for now. “I cannot change your sheets until the morning, when the other nurse is here and I can unshackle you from the bed, so no more of this tonight, oui?” Patrice slid a few towels under the woman’s arms, hiding the mess.
The patient nodded. “I understand.”
Picking up the chart, the nurse checked the time and made a few notes. In the upper right-hand corner of the first page was a yellow highlighted area with additional directions. She pursed her lips as she read them, and tucked the chart under her arm.
Her patient lifted her hands, staring at the restraints. “I’m not crazy.”
“No, madame.” Patrice closed her eyes and massaged her forehead. “I think, peut-être, it is the fever—it has imbalanced your levels, and so we will be careful. But we get someone to talk to you anyway, eh? So you can sleep. It is very late, almost two a.m.”
The old woman turned her face to the window. “I don’t wish to sleep.”
“Yes, you have told me this.” Patrice sighed. “But if you are to get better, you must rest—do we agree?”
“I . . . will rest.” The elderly patient nodded, waving a frail hand. “Go ahead and bring your intern.”
Patrice recoiled. “Excusez-moi?”
“The young doctor. The woman. I . . . I won’t give you any more trouble. Fini les ennuis.”
“Ah . . . then, you rest now, yes?” She headed to the door. “I am just outside, but no more scares tonight. Only rest.”
The machines recorded their information, blinking and beeping in the quiet room. The patient, her energy now apparently gone from her frail old bones, clasped her hands to her waist. “Do you wonder why they put me by myself in this wing?” She looked at Patrice. “All alone. An entire hospital wing for one old woman?”
Patrice shifted on her feet. “I—I don’t know this. It is not—”
“The other nurses gossip. They ask you, and you stay quiet. But can you tell me?”
Holding the chart in front of her, the nurse spoke in soft, gentle tones. “I will tell you this. You need to go to slee—rest. Get some rest.” She stepped out of the room and eased the door shut behind her.
In the hallway, Patrice held up the chart, biting her fingernail as she read the highlighted note again.
It is time.
She put a hand to her abdomen and walked toward her station, staring at the phone console the entire way.
At the desk, Patrice glanced back toward room 431—and then to the highlighted note once more—before lowering her fingers to the receiver.
The display on the phone console read 2:18 a.m.
Groaning, she released the phone, sitting down in the d
esk chair and wiping her hands on the legs of her scrubs. At the end of the corridor, near the elevators, the soda machine’s refrigeration unit kicked on. Its low hum was the only sound in the ward.
The console display changed to 2:19 a.m.
You were instructed to do it.
It is time.
Taking a deep breath, Patrice picked up the receiver and dialed the phone number on the note, then waited for the Chief of Medicine of the Pitié-Salpêtrière Hospital to answer the phone.
Chapter 2
Dr. René Dechambeau pounded on the rickety door of the intern’s suite de chambre. In the basement of the old hospital, the large, barrel-chested man clutched a file folder and puffed hard on his Gauloises cigarette, peering at his wristwatch. He balled up his thick fingers and knocked again, harder. “Doctor Kittaleye! Wake up, you are needed.” Dechambeau stepped back, scowled, and tried again. “Réveillez-vous, Docteur!”
The latch clicked on the other side of the door, and a young African-American woman peeked out. “Docteur Dechambeau?” Clutching her robe to her chest, Dr. Djimoa Kittaleye adjusted her wire-framed glasses as she opened the door for the Chief of Medicine. “Que s'est-il passé?”
Her boss scowled. “What has happened? You are about to earn your pay.” He tucked the file folder under his arm and entered the tiny office-apartment suite, exhaling a thick stream of smoke. “Get dressed. We have much to discuss.”
“Yes, sir.” The slender young woman rubbed her eyes. “What time is it?”
“Time to do your job, Madame Docteur.” He waved a hand at her. “Now, hurry.”
“Yes, of course.” Kitt glanced around her cold little suite. The desk and filing cabinets took up most of the floor space that the bed didn’t occupy. A space heater was pointed at the mattress, working overtime against the drafty, basement accommodations—and failing miserably, based on the frost on the room’s tiny window. She pulled a lab coat and a pair of scrubs from the dresser, stepping into the miniscule bathroom as she checked the time on her phone.
What’s important enough to get the head of the hospital out of bed at 3 a.m.?
She slipped into her scrubs and pulled her straight, black hair into a ponytail, searching the icy floor for her shoes. One was under the corner of the bed.
The other was under Dechambeau’s foot.
“Excusez-moi, s'il vous plait.” Kitt bent down and reached for her sneaker.
“Eh?” Dechambeau looked down, grunting as he lifted his foot and stepped away. “Your services are required upstairs, Doctor.” He curled his thick fingers around the cigarette, taking a long drag. “I hope I’m not inconveniencing you.”
“No, it’s just—”
“Très bien.” Dechambeau exited the suite, smoke flowing over his shoulder. Kitt hopped on one foot, trailing him as she pulled on her other shoe and shut the door. He walked quickly, heading for the ancient service elevator at the far end of the narrow, dark hall, and not the staff elevator outside her door. “I make it no secret that I don’t care for your specialty, Dr. Kittaleye. Psychology is not medicine, to me. You understand this.”
Kitt grabbed the bottom of her scrubs and stuffed it into her pants. “All too plainly, sir.”
She pushed aside her ongoing irritation over the way he seemed to purposely mispronounce her name. Kit-a-LAY-yay, she had told him—many times, during her brief residency. Others at the hospital called her Kitt, but with the Chief of Medicine it was always butchered into Kittle-eye, or Kit-a-lee.
“So,” he said, “you will understand when I say this matter is of utmost importance and must remain silent to all but you and myself, yes?”
“Yes, sir.”
The large man took another puff on his cigarette, exhaling the smoke in a huff. “We’ve been hosting a guest, Madame Docteur. A wing of this fine old institution has always been on reserve for those requiring special services—foreign diplomats, high French government officials, wealthy patricians. Of course, I cannot say who, but the rumors that we’ve had several members of the French President’s family are not far off the mark. Comprenez-vous? And it is these . . . special guests of the hospital, shall we call them, that receive the benefit of the special wing. Do I make myself clear?”
No. “Yes.”
He waved his hands as he talked, clouds of smoke intermittently wafting over his shoulders. “As the overseer of your grant, it falls to me to ensure that every penny of our budget is used wisely. This is why we provide to you room and board as your intern’s suite de chambre within our hallowed halls.” He stopped at the elevator, turning to face her as he pressed the call button. Behind the old doors, the ancient motor whined as it woke from its idleness.
“Oh, and I appreciate it, sir.” She shrugged.
I might ask that you occasionally spring for a light bulb so I can actually see to do my research.
He stubbed out the Gauloises in the brass ashtray mounted beneath the call button.
And I’m happy to report I only had to kill two cockroaches last night. But they did manage to eat the cover sheet of my research report first.
Dechambeau shoved the folder under his arm again and fumbled in his pockets for another cigarette. “It is this attitude, Madame Docteur, that has put your career in my hands.” He withdrew a lighter from his coat and lit the Gauloises, taking a hard drag and sending the smoke toward the ceiling. “Research, Doctor Kittalaye, is what a training hospital must provide with its ever-shrinking budget—not the silly, misguided endeavors that saddled you with a grant and me with a headache. Nonetheless, we are both here now, and the challenge before us is grand. That is why—”
“Excuse me, sir,” Kitt said. “I’m not yet understanding what it is you’re talking about.”
Kitt often wondered if the only reason a Doctor of Psychology was residing in a medical hospital instead of a psychiatric hospital was because a certain someone at Pitié-Salpêtrière Hospital had seen the dollar amount of the grant and had overlooked everything else.
Dechambeau pursed his lips, eyeing her. When the Gauloises returned to his mouth, his fingers trembling and sweat beaded on his upper lip. “A few days ago, an elderly woman was brought to us at the request of the French government. The details are shrouded in secrecy, but she had suffered a severe injury to the upper chest region—a very damaged pectoralis major, a shattered clavicle, substantial blood loss. Prior to arrival, she was treated by paramedics on a helicopter, and our original attending physician saw on the chart that she had been sedated. He operated at once, to remove . . . well, to address her injury. However, no actual anesthesia had been administered.” Dechambeau lowered his cigarette. “The woman underwent a three-hour surgery without pain medication of any kind.”
Kitt put her hand to her lip. “Goodness.”
“A post-operative review disclosed the error, and the attending physician was immediately disciplined. But during the operation, all members of the surgical staff noted her heart rate was steady, her blood pressure stable—as if she had been under anesthesia the entire time.”
“That’s . . . remarkable.”
“Without knowing what she had been given,” Dechambeau said, “they were remiss to administer anything more. The anesthesia was at the ready, but went unused. Of course, as a special guest of the hospital and under such circumstances, we cannot ask too many questions, but the patient had been silent before and after the operation. We assumed trauma or stroke had resulted in neurogenic mutism, but the CT scan and MRI showed no brain injuries. And in what would be her sleep, she has been exhibiting violent seizures that—”
“Excuse me.” Kitt looked the Chief of Medicine in the eye. “In ‘what would be’ her sleep?”
“The patient does not sleep.” Dechambeau sighed, exhaling a long stream of smoke. “She has not, to our knowledge, slept since arriving.”
“And that was a few days ago.”
“But she convulses in the night,” he said. “Willfully, it seems, and sometimes during the day. S
he can put herself into a deep, semi-hypnotic, trancelike state—not unlike what was observed during the errant surgery. And as I say, she had not uttered a word since arriving here, despite being fully awake and apparently in control of her faculties.”
“I see.” Kitt pushed a strand of her thick, straight black hair from her forehead. “How may I be of service?”
Behind the Chief of Medicine, the ancient elevator motor ground to a stop. The doors opened with a lumbering grunt, revealing the rusty, accordion-style gate. A faint musty odor seeped from the elevator’s faded wooden walls.
Dechambeau rubbed his chin. “We have stationed one senior staff member—Patrice Chevalier—to attend to our special guest. It is Mademoiselle Chevalier that awakened me some minutes ago, and for which I now have awakened you.”
“Sir?”
“You will conduct a session with this patient, Dr. Kittaleye. Interact with her. You may speak with nurse Chevalier about the woman, but share your findings only with me.” He handed her the file folder.
Kitt opened it. The pages inside were almost entirely blacked out.
Dechambeau withdrew a small chrome key from his pocket and shoved open the elevator gate, stepping into the dimly lit compartment and inserting his key into the slot on the tarnished brass panel. As Kitt slipped past him, Dr. Dechambeau pressed the button for the fourth floor. “There are four keys to the special wing,” he said. “I have one, the attending nurse has one, her relief has one—and you will retain the fourth key.” As the elevator started its slow ascent, he handed Dr. Kittaleye a short key with a rounded tip and a rectangular bow, like that of a vending machine. “Our special guest was scheduled for a follow-up surgery tomorrow—and she would, naturally, be anesthetized for it. But the mere mention of anesthesia, or a sedative of any kind, sends her into convulsions. We are a hospital, a fine training ward, but we are not equipped to handle mental patients. That is the job of Sainte-Anne Hospital.”
Kitt nodded. The reason for the presence of a Doctor of Psychology was becoming clear. “Of course. But why—”
