He tied Cheapdog on his run and then lurched the camper out of the drive and down the hill toward the hospital, hoping that the time for Toby’s transfer to Boston had not been moved up. As he drove he pictured the boy sitting cross-legged on the rug in his house, watching his favorite hero cavorting across the screen, urging him to join in a song extolling the virtues of the letter P.
“Alas my love, you do me wrong …”
How many others, Jack? he said to himself, practicing the words he would use. How many other time bombs have you and Mainwaring planted in your patients?
The hospital was located on the opposite side of town from Zack’s house. Ordinarily, he took the highway bypass around Main Street. This day, lost in thought, he missed the turnoff and was well into town before he realized it. Traffic was heavier than usual, and it seemed, from the long line of cars at the corner of Birch, that the light was malfunctioning. After a moments debate, he backed up a foot and made a U-turn, narrowly missing a two-tone Oldsmobile that was speeding past.
It took several seconds before he realized that the driver of the Oldsmobile was Jason Mainwaring.
Zack began honking and waving, but it was several blocks before Mainwaring became aware of him and pulled over. They confronted one another in a small streetside park, circumscribed by an arc of slatted benches arranged about a marble pedestal and bust of one of Sterlings founding fathers. Several grizzled men sat on two of the benches, smoking cigarettes, watching the passing scene, and occasionally sharing surreptitious sips from a brown bag. They watched curiously as the two well-dressed men approached one another.
“Jason,” Zack began, somewhat breathlessly, “God, am I glad to see you.”
The surgeon looked at him strangely.
“I’m sorry, Iverson,” he said after a beat, “but I’ve signed out to Greg Ormesby. If y’all need any surgical help, I’m afraid you’ll have to call—”
“This has nothing to do with surgical help. Jason, we need to talk. I’ve been trying to locate you for several days.”
“I’ve been at home in—”
“Georgia. I know.” He glanced over at the old men, and then motioned to the bench farthest from them. “Please, Jason, what I need to speak with you about is pretty urgent and very private. Could we talk over there?”
“Well, Iverson, I’m afraid I’m in a bit of a rush. Why don’t we get together, say—”
“It’s about the anesthetic.”
Mainwaring’s color drained.
“I beg your pardon?” he said.
“Over there?” Zack again motioned toward the bench.
By the time they sat down, the surgeon appeared as composed as ever.
“Now, then,” he drawled, “just what anesthetic are you talkin’ about?”
“It’s the one you and Jack Pearl have been using on your cases, Jason. The one that allows them to get out of the recovery room three times faster than anyone else’s cases.”
“I’m afraid I don’t understand,” Mainwaring said.
But Zack could see from his eyes that he did.
“I don’t have time to play games,” he said. “A child is dying, and I have reason, good reason, to believe that your anesthetic is at fault.”
A minute tic developed at the corner of Mainwaring’s eye. The hint of understanding disappeared from his face. This time, Zack felt certain, the man was genuinely surprised.
“Look, Iverson,” he said, “I just don’t have time for this nonsense. If you have something to accuse me or Jack Pearl of, then I’d suggest you do it through channels. I would also suggest you have a shitload of proof.”
“Jason, please,” Zack said, trying desperately to keep civility in his tone. “This isn’t ethics or charges we’re talking about. It’s a child’s life. Please listen.”
Item by item, in a near whisper, he reviewed his investigation into the case of Toby Nelms. Mainwaring listened impassively. Only at the mention of Darryl Tarberry did Zack detect any reaction.
“So that’s where things stand,” he concluded. “The boy’s mother is certain that at least several times he was watching this children’s show when he had his seizures. It’s a show that features a version of ‘Greensleeves’—the same music you use in the operating room. If I could just get my hands on whatever it is you were using for anesthesia, I think I might be able to help that kid.”
“Oh, you do?”
“It’s a long shot, but right now, it’s his only chance.”
“Well, then,” Mainwaring said, “it would appear that the boy has no chance at all. Because, y’see, Iverson, there is no mystery anesthetic.”
Zack stared at the man in disbelief.
“Iverson, just who have you shared these charges with?” the surgeon asked.
“Jason, these aren’t charges. A child is dy—”
“Who?”
“The child’s mother.”
“That all?”
“Suzanne.”
“She believe you?”
“She was willing to listen. But I spoke to her before I learned about the trigger—the music. Now Jason, please—”
“I asked if she believed you.”
“Not completely, but after I tell her what I’ve learned, I’m certain she’ll—”
“Not completely,” Mainwaring cut in snidely. “Iverson, I sure hope you have one hell of a lawyer. Have you mentioned this nonsense to your brother?”
Zack glanced at his watch. The board meeting was already under way.
“Mainwaring, this isn’t nonsense. If that child dies, if anyone who received that drug dies, then it’s murder.”
“Don’t threaten me,” the surgeon said, shaking a finger at Zack. “Don’t you ever threaten me. Now, I asked if you had shared this hokum with your brother.”
“I did. Dammit, Mainwaring, doesn’t any of this have an impact on—”
“When did you tell him?”
“Just a while ago.”
“And his response?”
“Mainwaring, there’s no time for this—”
“What was his response?”
“He ignored me.”
“Just as I intend to do,” Mainwaring said. “Now, if you’ll excuse me.” He rose.
“Mainwaring, you can’t do this,” Zack said loudly.
The grizzled observers’ interest heightened, and one of them sputtered on the contents of the brown bag.
“Can, and am,” Mainwaring said just as loudly. “Now you just quiet down, Iverson, or you’ll have even more charges to deal with than you already do.”
“Mainwaring, are you some kind of fucking monster?”
The surgeon turned and headed for his car.
“Well, are you?” Zack screamed after him.
Mainwaring, now at his car, turned back and shook a finger at him.
“Watch it,” he said venomously. “Just fuckin’ watch it.”
The sun, which had been gliding in and out of hiding all morning, slid behind a dense billow of gray cloud, instantly cooling the air. Zack pulled the camper onto a dirt track off the Androscoggin road and worked his way upward through a forest still sodden by the midnight rain. He felt ill over his unsuccessful encounter with Mainwaring, and could not dispel his anger—not only at the surgeon, but at his own handling of the man.
Had he been too aggressive? Too abrasive? Would his arguments have been inore effective if he had simply brought Mainwaring to the hospital and let him see Toby Nelms for himself? The questions burned in his thoughts as he picked his way uphill toward the north side of the hospital.
Only one thing was certain now. With Frank an enemy, and Mainwaring unwilling to expose himself to charges, Jack Pearl was all the hope the child had left. And without either of the other two men to back him up in a confrontation with the anesthesiologist, that hope was slim, indeed.
Through the trees ahead, Zack could see the top two floors of the hospital. The broad glass windows were, he noticed for the first time, tinted just en
ough to give them an ebony cast. The effect was cold and uninviting.
He moved up to the edge of the forest and flattened himself against a thick beech tree. To his left, just beyond an expanse of grass and past the corner of the building, was the patio of the cafeteria. A group of nurses sat laughing and talking at the only table in his line of sight. The entire north side of the hospital was deserted.
Cautiously, he picked his way along the treeline toward the corner farthest from the patio. He would have to dash across, perhaps, twenty yards of lawn to reach the delivery door. From there, he would walk nonchalantly through the kitchen, searching for a route to the corridor that did not take him through the crowded cafeteria itself.
Ahead of him the tinted windows of the hospital glinted ominously in the muted midday light. If there were faces behind those windows watching him, he would have no way of knowing. His heart was pounding in his ears, more so than even on the most treacherous climbs.
A crouch, a final check of the building line, and Zack bolted ahead. He saw the blur of movement and color to his right at virtually the same moment he heard the barked command.
“Stop! Right there, right now!”
Startled, Zack stumbled forward, slamming heavily against the brick facing and nearly falling as he spun toward the voice. Standing not ten feet away, brandishing a heavy nightstick, was the security guard, Henry, the pockmarked behemoth who had been present at Guys death and again at his funeral.
“I been following you, Doc,” he said, rubbing a hand over the side of his nearly nonexistent neck. “From that window right there, I been following you all the way across.”
“Jesus, Henry, you just scared the hell out of me,” Zack said, still gasping for breath.
His shoulder was throbbing viciously at the point where it had collided with the building. Gingerly, he raised his arm. Pain stopped it just below a horizontal position. He’d almost dislocated it. A first-degree separation at least, he guessed.
“Didn’t mean to scare ya, Doc,” the huge guard said, lowering his stick nearly, but not completely, to his side. “Just to stop ya.”
“Henry, I’ve got to get in there,” Zack said.
“Mr. Iverson left strict orders not to let you. That’s why I was called in.”
“There’s a kid dying in there, Henry. A kid that only I can help. You’ve got to let me pass.”
“Can’t,” the man said simply. “If I do, it’s my job. No discussion, no excuses. That’s what my boss said. I got three kids, and nothin’ to support ’em with exceptin’ what God gave me from the neck down. Jobs like this one don’t come along that often to a man like me.”
Zack started to argue, but then, just as quickly, stopped himself. He pictured the guard at Guy’s funeral—his ill-fitting blue suit, his quiet, anxious little wife. The man was right. The job probably was a godsend to them and their children. And too many people had been hurt already. He would find another way to contact Suzanne, or perhaps a way to lure Jack Pearl outside the protection of the building.
“All right, Henry,” he said. “I won’t try to argue with you.”
He turned and started back toward the woods.
“Doc, wait …”
Zack looked back over his injured shoulder.
“How old’s the kid?”
“He’s eight, Henry.”
“I see.… My Kenny’s almost nine.… Doc, what in the heck happened between you and your brother, anyhow?”
Zack laughed ruefully.
“It’s a long story, Henry.”
“You know, he’s not a very nice man, your brother.”
“No, Henry,” Zack said. “I guess he isn’t.”
“He doesn’t think much of people like me.”
“Perhaps he doesn’t.”
For a few moments, there was only the sound of the wind through the leaves overhead.
“Doc,” the guard said suddenly, “why don’t you just go ahead on in there and do whatever it is you have to do.”
Zack eyed the man.
“You mean that?”
“Talking to me and my wife the way you did at Doc Beaulieu’s funeral—that was a really nice thing to do.”
“Henry, your job may be on the line.”
“I’ll find another one if I have to. You know, I really did think I was responsible for Doc Beaulieu’s death. I’m big, and I’m tough when I have to be, but I’m not mean. I couldn’t eat or sleep after he died—that is, until you talked to me.”
“If anyone was responsible, Henry,” Zack said, “it was my brother. He’s the one who started all those rumors about Dr. Beaulieu.”
“I believe it. You go on in there.”
Zack started toward the door.
“You sure?” he asked.
“Do it for Doc Beaulieu,” Henry said.
35
Forty-nine years.
Had Guy lived, Clothilde Beaulieu suddenly realized, they would have celebrated their forty-ninth anniversary in just one week. How strange that now, standing behind her chair, surveying the room of blank, bored, and patronizing faces, she should feel as close to her husband as she had at any time during those five decades.
He had stood in rooms like this one many times over the past two years, confronting these faces, or faces like them. And although she had never been there with him, Clothilde knew that she was feeling exactly as he had. She knew, too, that even though there was little or no chance she would prevail, he was, at that moment, by her side, and he was proud.
“… For many years after my husband opened his practice in Sterling,” she was saying, “he was one of only three doctors in town, and the only surgeon for almost a hundred miles. He was a kind and skilled and caring man, who did nothing—nothing—to deserve the kind of treatment he was to receive from the administration of this institution and the corporation whose philosophy it has adopted.…”
Seated across from the woman, Frank Iverson shaded in portions of the geometric design he was developing on a napkin, and checked the time. It would be a laughable irony if Guy Beaulieu’s widow were allowed to drone on past the twelve o’clock deadline, rendering the vote of the board legally meaningless, regardless of its outcome. No, not laughable, he decided—perfect. It was all he could do to keep from smiling at the notion.
The Carter Room was set up in its conference mode—thirty chairs arranged around an open rectangle of sandlewood tables. At the back of the room, near the gallery of past medical staff presidents, a serving table was set with coffee, Danish, and bowls of fruit.
Hidden beneath the draping linen cloth of that table, awaiting the inevitable, several bottles of premium French champagne were chilling in sterling silver ice buckets.
The magic number was ten. Of the twenty-two members of the Davis Hospital’ board of trustees, nineteen were present. Absent from the group were a real estate agent who was vacationing in Europe; the CEO of the Carter Paper Company, who had never attended a board meeting since his first one years before; and Board Chairman Clayton Iverson. In the Judge’s absence, Whitey Bourque had been presiding over the meeting.
Frank sat beside Leigh Baron at the corner of the arrangement farthest from Bourque. They were flanked by a trio of lawyers, two representing Ultramed and the third, the hospital.
Across from them stood Clothilde Beaulieu.
“… Someone must realize that in a civilized society such as ours,” she was saying, “the best available medical care must not be doled out as a privilege. The right to live ones life as free from disease as possible must be extended to all, regardless of their ability to pay. It was my husband’s belief, and it is mine, that the Ultramed Hospitals Corporation has failed in that sacred obligation. By selecting only those who can pay for treatment, by influencing the therapeutic decisions of physicians who have studied many years to develop their craft, the corporation has reduced the delivery of medical care to the level of … of automobile mechanics.…”
Frank glanced over at Gary Garri
son, proprietor of Garrisons Chevrolet Sales and Service, just in time to see the man smile and whisper a remark to the board member seated next to him. More irony. Garrisons vote was one of those that Frank had not absolutely locked up. Given enough time, it was possible that Clothilde Beaulieu could insult enough members on the board to make the vote unanimous.
Frank made his fifth head count of the session. When he had left his fathers office, less than a week before, he was certain of only five votes, six at the most. Now, thanks in large measure to the Judges absence and his refusal to use his influence on the board, he had eleven—one over the magic number. Gary Garrison would make twelve. And with the closed ballot Whitey Bourque had promised him, there might even be one or two more.
“You look concerned,” Leigh whispered.
Frank smiled.
“No sweat,” he whispered back.
“I hope so, Frank. We’re counting on you.”
“That’s the way I like it.”
“… Over the past two years, Guy Beaulieu fought back against the attempts of Ultramed to drive him from practice. Unfortunately, as I said earlier, much of the evidence he accumulated is not available today. I have done my best without it to present our position to you. I leave you now with this petition, signed by sixty-seven residents of this area, requesting the return of our hospital to community control.
“I greatly appreciate the opportunity you have given me to represent my husband’s interests this day. I know, just as he did, that the age of the country doctor making house calls and sharing the most intimate details of his patients’ lives is all but over in this country. But I issue to you, in his name, and in the name of those on this petition, one final plea that you do what you can to stop the juggernaut of technology and profit from robbing medicine of so much of its dignity, compassion, and sacred trust. Thank you, and God bless you for listening so patiently to this old woman.”
Several members of the board applauded lightly, and Bill Crook, seated on Clothilde’s right, patted her on the arm.
Whitey Bourque, who had unabashedly checked his watch half a dozen times during the final few minutes of her speech, sighed audibly and tapped his gavel on the table as he stood by his chair.
Flashback (1988) Page 40
