“Damn.”
“What is it?”
“The board meeting … Do you know what happened there?”
She squeezed his hand.
“I think your father wants to talk to you about that. I’ll see you after your test.”
“Sure. Meanwhile, stay away from the radio.”
Suzanne smiled.
“Not to worry,” she said. “Sooner or later, though, I’m going to have to, urn, face the music.”
She motioned to Bernice Rimmer, who brought a wheelchair over, took her IV pole and wheeled her from the room.
Moments later, the Judge appeared at Zack’s bedside.
“You were right about my legs,” he said.
“I’m glad.”
“Zachary, don’t feel bad about Frank.”
“I do. Judge, he hurt a lot of people. He’s very sick.”
“I know. He stole a great deal of money from the hospital. Apparently this business with Jack Pearl and that Mainwaring was an attempt to replace it.”
“Lord.”
“I found out about it for sure yesterday, but I’ve suspected he was in trouble for some time. Frank never could put anything over on me. I … I just don’t know where he could have gone so wrong.”
Try at birth, Zack wanted to say. He looked at the bewilderment in his fathers face, and knew that there was no percentage in responding.
“Judge, the board meeting,” he said. “Did you go?”
“I went. They had already voted to sell out, but I had just enough time to turn things around. After the vote Frank had the temerity to ask me if we might keep him on as administrator. Much as it hurt me, I told him absolutely not.”
“Great,” Zack said with no enthusiasm.
“He should have known better than to try and hide the truth from me. He was always trying. He never could. I have no tolerance for his kind of deceit. No tolerance at all.” He sighed. “I had such hopes for him. I gave your brother every chance, Zachary. Every chance. You know that, don’t you?”
Zack closed his eyes, and instantly he was on the slalom run, tumbling over and over again down the snowy mountainside, his knee screaming with pain. The accident had eliminated him from competitive sports and, it seemed, from much of his father’s interest as well. At the time it was the worst thing that had ever happened to him. Now, he could see, it well might have been his salvation.
“Of course you did, Judge,” he said, looking away. “Of course you did.”
EPILOGUE
As if they could quantitate a miracle leaf by leaf, the meteorologists had proclaimed October 10 the peak day of the foliage season in northcentral New Hampshire. And in fact, as the day—a Wednesday—evolved, with acre upon acre of crimson, orange, burgundy, and gold sparkling beneath a cloudless, azure sky, not even those old-timers who always had a different opinion of such things could argue.
In the small, atriumlike auditorium of the Holiday Inn of Sterling, sunlight streamed through glass panels, bathing the hundred or so hospital officials, board members, and physicians in a warmth that made the northern New England winter seem still remote. Throughout the hall, there was an air of excitement and history. They had come together from communities across the northern part of the state, and had met for three days around conference tables and in back rooms, hammering out the framework of a new consortium of hospitals.
Now, in minutes, the fruits of those efforts would be presented to the gathering, and a new era in community medicine would begin. The hospitals involved—seven in all—would be banded together in a way that would give them enormous purchasing power without the sacrifice of one bit of autonomy.
Judge Clayton Iverson, his wife at his side, wandered about the milling crowd, exchanging greetings and handshakes with the other attendees, most of whom knew that he was about to be announced as the first chairman of the board of the consortium. His selection for the post had been virtually unanimous. The search committee had established experience and absolute integrity as the prime qualifications for the post, and through his handling of the Davis Regional-Ultramed disaster, the Judge had proven himself amply endowed with both.
Most impressive to the group had been the Judges refusal to intervene in the trial and sentencing of his son Frank on myriad charges ranging from co-conspiracy in testing the unauthorized drug, Serenyl, to assault with intent to murder.
Then there was his handling of the surgeon, Jason Mainwaring. After demanding and obtaining the surrender of Mainwaring’s medical license, the Judge had gotten the charges against the man diminished in exchange for the liquidation of his pharmaceutical company; from the proceeds a fund would be set up to aid those patients found to have been harmfully affected by the anesthetic.
And finally, there was the leadership role he had played in the reclamation of Davis Regional Hospital from Ultramed. Not only had the Judge supervised the transition back to community control, but, dissatisfied with the amount raised from the sale of Mainwaring’s beleaguered drug firm, he had convinced the Ultramed directors of the sagacity of augmenting the Serenyl settlement fund with a multimillion-dollar contribution of their own.
Though he was constantly smiling, and seemed relaxed, in between handshakes the Judge continued to glance toward the doors at the rear of the hall.
“Do you see him?” Cinnie asked.
“No. You did speak to his girlfriend, didn’t you?”
“Yes, dear, I did. I told her you had been selected, and asked her to try and convince Zachary to be here for the announcement.”
“And?”
“And she said she’d try, but that she doubted he would come.”
She drew him off to one side, away from the crowd.
“Clayton, please,” she said. “There’s still time. Please reconsider this, and let’s go to Florida. Just for the winter.”
“No.”
“But why? Lisette has moved away with the girls, and Zachary almost never comes by anymore. We haven’t had a Sunday dinner in I don’t know how long. We have friends down there. I … Clayton, I don’t want to spend another winter here. Please.”
“Absolutely not. Zachary will come around. You’ll see.”
“I don’t know. He’s been so distant since that terrible business with Frank. I ask him why almost every time we speak, and all he ever says is that there are things he has to work out. He says he’s not even sure yet that he’s going to stay in Sterling.”
“Oh, he’ll stay. He’s moved in with that Suzanne. Does that sound like he’s planning to leave?”
“No,” she said. “No, I suppose it doesn’t.”
“Take your seats, everybody. Please take your seats,” the conference chairperson announced, tapping on her microphone. “This is what you’ve all been waiting for.”
“He’ll be here, Cynthia,” the Judge said. “You’ll see. His brother never appreciated the things I did for him, but in the end, Zachary will. He’ll be here to share this.”
“Clayton, please …”
“No. And not another word about it.”
“Ladies and gentlemen, it gives me great pleasure to officially announce the birth of the Northern New Hampshire Community Hospital Consortium.”
There was a burst of applause. Again, the Judge turned toward the rear doors.
“Face it, Clayton,” Cinnie said. “He’s not coming.”
“Damn him,” Clayton muttered. “The ungrateful … Damn them both.”
“… And as our first order of business, I would like to introduce to you the man chosen by our search committee to head our new consortium. He is a man of accomplishment and integrity, a man known to many in this room for his tireless work on behalf of his community and his hospital. He is a devoted man, dedicated uncompromisingly to the principles of fairness.…
Six miles south of the Holiday Inn, resting on the deserted field know as the Meadows, the engine of a crimson model plane screeched to life. A young boy raced across the golden autumn grass, hand in hand w
ith a young girl.
“Jennifer wants to learn, Zack,” he said, clutching the radio control box. “Can I show her? All by myself. Can I show her how to fly it?”
“How about another quick coin trick first?”
“Oh, no—I mean, how about later on? Zack, she really wants to learn.”
Zack leaned back on his elbows and breathed in the fragrant mountain air. Then he turned to Suzanne and brushed his lips against her ear.
“I think the kid’s got a crush on your daughter,” he whispered.
“So it would seem,” she replied. “Toby, do you have a license to fly that thing?”
“A what?”
“Nothing, nothing.”
“Can I, Zack?” the boy asked again.
“Sure, kiddo,” Zack said. “Of course you can.”
With Jennifer Cole watching intently, Toby Nelms eased back on the tiny control stick. Instantly, the Fleet shot forward, across the field and up into the perfect noonday sky.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
MICHAEL PALMER, M.D., is the author of Fatal, The Patient, Miracle Cure, Critical Judgment, Silent Treatment, Natural Causes, Extreme Measures, Flashback, Side Effects, and The Sisterhood. His books have been translated into thirty languages. He trained in internal medicine at Boston City and Massachusetts General Hospitals, spent twenty years as a full-time practitioner of internal and emergency medicine, and is now an associate director of the Massachusetts Medical Society’s physician health program.
Turn the page for an exciting preview of
Michael Palmer’s medical thriller
FATAL
available from Bantam Books
It was the second straight day of unremitting rain. Nikki Solari hated running in this kind of weather, but today she was considering doing it anyway. It had been more than a week since her roommate and close friend, Kathy Wilson, had stormed from their South Boston flat. A week without so much as a word—to her or to their mutual friends. The police had been surprisingly little help. Nikki had filled out the appropriate forms and brought in some photographs, but so far nothing.
“Miss Solari, try to relax. I’m sure your friend will turn up.”
“It’s Doctor Solari, and why are you so sure?”
“That’s the way it is with cases like this. Everyone worries and the missing person just shows up.”
“Well, this missing person is an incredibly talented musician who would never leave her band in the lurch, which she has. She is a wonderfully dependable friend who would never do anything to upset me, which she has. And she is an extremely compassionate and kind woman who would never say anything abusive to anyone, yet before she disappeared she had become abusive to everyone.”
“Doctor Solari, tell me something honestly. Were you and Miss Wilson lovers?”
“Oh, Christ …”
Nikki desperately needed to wrest the worry from her brain, if only for a while, and the only ways she had ever been able to do so were running, making music, and performing autopsies.
It was eleven in the morning. One more hour until lunch. She could go out and splash through a few miles then. She stood by the window of her office watching the cars creep down Albany Street past the modern building that was the headquarters of the chief medical examiner and his staff. This was her third year as an associate in ME Josef Keller’s office. She was fascinated by the work and absolutely adored the man. But the past week had been hell. She glanced over at her desk. There were reports to read, dictations to do, and several boxes of slides to review, but the concentration just wasn’t there.
“Hey there, beautiful, you’ve got a case.”
Without waiting for an invitation, Brad Cummings strode into the office. Divorced, with a couple of kids, Cummings was the deputy chief medical examiner. He was athletic, urbane, and, in the eyes of perhaps every woman in the city except Nikki, handsome. She found him smug, self-absorbed, and way too pretty—quite possibly the absolute antithesis of what she was looking for in a man.
“Where’s Dr. Keller?” she asked.
“Away until one. That means I’m the boss until then, so I get to say who gets what case, and you get this tubber.”
“This what?”
“Sixty-six-year-old guy had a coronary getting into his Jacuzzi, smacked his head on the side, and went for the eternal swim. He’s just eight months post-bypass surgery. I spoke to his doctor, who said he was on mucho cardiac meds and undoubtedly had an MI. So he’s really just a “view.” You don’t have to cut on him at all. And that means we have time to go have lunch at that place on Newbury Street I’ve been telling you about.”
“Brad, I don’t want to go out with you.”
“But I thought you broke up with that drip you were dating.”
“Correction, that drip broke up with me. And I’m not interested in starting up with another one.”
“She digs me. I can tell.”
In the best of times Nikki had precious little patience for the man.
“Brad, you have more than enough scalps hanging on your lodgepole without mine. And I’m sure there are plenty more where those came from. We’ll keep getting along fine so long as you keep things on a business or collegial basis. But I promise you, Brad, call me beautiful again, or sweets, or honey, or babe, or anything other than Nikki or Dr. Solari, and I’ll write you up and hand it over to Dr. Keller. Clear?”
“Hey, easy does it.”
Nikki could tell that he stopped himself at the last possible instant from adding “Babe.”
“I’m going to get started on the new case,” she said.
“I told you, this is a straightforward view. No scalpel required, just eyeball him and sign off.”
“If it’s all the same to you, I’ll make that decision after I’ve seen the guy.”
Nikki didn’t add that there wasn’t a chance in the world she would pass on this case regardless of how open and shut it was. Here was the perfect opportunity to get her mind off Kathy for a few hours without getting soaked on the streets of Boston.
“Suit yourself,” Cummings said. “Three days,”
“What?”
“Three days. That’s how long the dude’s been in the water. He’s a little, um, bloated. Sure you don’t want to just view and then skiddoo?”
“Have a good lunch, Brad.”
Nikki changed into scrubs and located the remains of Roger Belanger on the center of three stainless steel tables in Autopsy Suite 1. The daughter of an Italian and an Irishwoman, she could easily trace her thick, black hair and wide (some said sensuous) mouth to her father, and her fair skin, sea-green eyes, slender frame, and caustic wit to her mom. At her father’s urging, she had tried to follow his rather large footsteps into surgery. But after a year of residency, she switched to pathology, realizing that her desire to have a life outside of medicine was precluded by spending most of it in the OR or on rounds. Not once had she regretted her decision.
Belanger was hardly the most unsightly corpse Nikki had ever examined, but neither was he at all pleasant to look at. Overweight and nearly egg bald, he was extremely bloated and discolored, with purplish marbling of his skin. His flaccid limbs were well past rigor mortis. The white scar from his bypass ran the length of his breastbone.
Good-bye for now, Kath, she thought as she began to focus in on the details of the body. I’ll let you back in in two hours.
“No matter how obvious a case is,” Joe Keller had reminded her on more than one occasion, “no matter how apparently open and shut, you must make no assumptions. Process is everything. If you stick to process, step by step, you will seldom have to explain having missed something.”
Step one: Read over as much information as you can lay your hands on about the subject. Step two: Inspect every millimeter of the skin.
Nikki used the foot-activated dictation system as she went.
“There is a well-healed three-inch scar in the right lower abdominal quadrant, possibly from an appendectomy; a ten-inch scar les
s than a year old down the midr anterior chest; a ten-inch scar of about the same age on the inner right thigh, probably from harvesting a vein for his bypass; and a well-healed two-inch scar just below the left patella, probably from the repair of a laceration many years ago.
“There is a single contusion just above and behind the right ear, with discoloration and some swelling but no depression of the bone beneath. There is a nickel-size abrasion just beneath the right mandible that—”
Nikki peered at the innocent-looking scrape. It was the only place on Belanger’s waterlogged body where skin was actually scraped off. She put on a pair of magnifying goggles and illuminated the area with a gooseneck lamp. The abrasion was actually a perfect hexagon. And in the center of the shape were ten tiny bruises perfectly forming the letter H. She photographed the area, then proceeded with her meticulous examination.
Process is everything.
An hour later she had accomplished two major things. She had in fact managed temporarily to drive her concerns for Kathy Wilson from her mind, and she had come within one final step of proving that’ Roger Belanger had been murdered. She stripped off her gloves, grabbed the Boston Yellow Pages, and made a call. Minutes later she paged Brad Cummings.
“Jesus,” he said, the dishes clinking in the background, “this pager goes off so infrequently, it scared the heck out of me.”
“You almost done?”
“We were just waiting for our flans.”
Nikki didn’t want to go anywhere near who “we” was.
“I need you to pick something up for me and come back to the office, Brad.”
“But—”
“No buts, no flans. Just go to Mulvaney’s Pool and Patio on Route nine, right after the mall. You know where that is?”
“Yes.”
“They’ll have a package waiting in your name. Eleven ninety-five plus tax. I’ll pay you back. Hurry.”
For the next forty-five minutes Nikki finished collecting her specimens and waited. Inexorably her concerns for her friend reemerged. The two of them had met almost three years ago at a folk dub in Cambridge. Nikki had been a classical violinist from age three, when her father enrolled her in a Suzuki method class. She played in chamber music groups right through college and medical school when time allowed, and was reasonably satisfied with what she got from her music—that was, until she heard Kathy Wilson and the Lost Bluegrass Ramblers play. Kathy sang lead and played strings—mandolin, guitar, and bass—with astounding deftness and heart.
Flashback (1988) Page 44
