Ford didn’t know what to say. He felt as if he were staring into the headlights of an oncoming truck but couldn’t step out of the way.
“Her … her concerns?” he managed to say.
“There’s to be an investigation. Apparently your handling of the Denny case will be the main issue. The fact that we may face a high-profile legal action makes that essential. The county has to be seen to be taking the matter seriously, especially at such a delicate time with respect to our funding, as I’ve explained. They’ll also look at how the whole Code Yellow team has been operating and its response to the infection threat. The CEO here’s being as supportive as he can, but this is a clinical matter and not his direct concern.”
Ford couldn’t believe his ears. He tried, but he could not understand how all this could have come about. Somehow everything had been blown up out of proportion. It was insane.
“Russell. As I explained to Dr. Patou, what killed Raymond Denny was not the way his MAST pants were deflated, for God’s sake, but an entirely new strain of—”
Haynes held up his hands. “I know, I know. It doesn’t make sense. But this whole thing is beyond my control now. It’s an issue, a public issue, and part of that is your responsibility, whether you like it or not.”
Ford found himself staring at the marble plaque on the edge of Haynes’s desk: God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change.
“In the meantime, I have to tell you it’s likely—I believe they’re going to reach a decision tomorrow morning—it’s likely that they’ll want you suspended from your duties, at least for the time being. Until this whole thing is sorted out. It’s tough, I know, and I don’t like it. But I have no choice.”
Ford could not speak, caught between different emotions—fear, anger, disbelief.
“I’m just letting you know this in advance so that, well, so that you needn’t be here when the news comes through tomorrow. If it does. We can let you know by phone. That way your colleagues won’t have to see—”
“I’m coming in,” said Ford. “I still have students to teach.”
“I just wanted to save you any embarrassment. I—”
“I’m coming in, Russell. This is my job. If they want to suspend me, that’s up to them. I’m staying at my post until I’m told to leave.”
He stood up.
“Is there anything else?” he asked.
“Look, the chances are we’ll have to shut down most of the Emergency Department anyhow, at least for a couple of weeks. The CDC will see to that. Their advisers are already on their way.”
“So Dr. Patou finally gets what she’s always wanted: a hospital without any sick people.”
“Marcus, I think it would be best if you avoid Dr. Patou for the time being. Any further confrontation can only make things worse.”
“Worse for whom?”
“For all of us.”
“I’ll talk to you tomorrow, Russell. You’ll find me on my rounds.”
He opened the door.
“Marcus, listen, I know how you must feel. I…” Ford turned around. “I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”
Returning to his office, Ford found a memorandum from Lucy Patou in his wire in box. Copies had been sent to all members of the department, including support staff. It outlined special measures being taken in response to the superstaph outbreak. Starting at eleven o’clock that morning—it was already half past—all Code Yellows would be diverted to other hospitals. The Intensive Care Unit was to be shut down as soon as practicably possible, pending investigation of the outbreak by the CDC. Two special wards were to be set aside for the isolation of the patients already infected with the staph. These patients would be barrier-nursed and supervised by a special unit whose members would be strictly prohibited from entering other wards in the hospital or any other medical facility in the county. The memorandum ended by listing the individuals who would make up this unit. Half of them were drawn from Ford’s own team, including Mary Draper and third-year resident Peter Ozal. Dr. Patou, it seemed, no longer thought it necessary to consult the director of Trauma on the disposition of his own people. Probably because, if she had her way, they were not going to be his people much longer.
Ford slumped down behind his desk. He felt breathless, stunned. How could this be happening? After all he’d done, after all the years of giving—to his patients, to the Willowbrook, to the whole damned city—suddenly he was on the stand. Suddenly he was a scapegoat for bureaucrats and politicians he’d never even met. And instead of supporting him, his colleagues were just standing by and letting it happen, as if it had been bound to happen and there was nothing they could do about it. Grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change … Maybe he should have seen it coming. Maybe for seven years he had just been fooling himself: he just didn’t belong there. As Conrad Allen had said, South Central was a war zone—by implication one where middle-class white people simply did not belong, however good their intentions. Where they were not welcome.
He needed to talk to Peter Ozal. He’d been present when they deflated the MAST pants. If there was an inquiry, what he said would be important. He reached for the phone, but before he could pick it up, it began to ring.
He hesitated before picking up the receiver. What was he going to say if it turned out to be Lucy Patou? Or one of his colleagues in Trauma. What would he say if it was Conrad Allen?
“Marcus? It’s Helen.”
Her voice sounded as if it came from another world: fresh, clean, sweet, a world on the other side of the universe.
“Oh, hello. How … How are you?”
“I’m fine. Are we still on for a drink tonight?”
They’d arranged to go down to Venice. He was picking her up at around seven o’clock. Sunny was doing rehearsals for a school play until half past eight. It had seemed like a convenient window. But what sort of company was he going to be now? He couldn’t expect Helen to share his burdens so early on. It was asking too much.
“Yes, sure. If you want, only…”
“What’s the matter? You sound terrible.”
“Well, I’ve had some … Things have taken a turn for the worse down here.”
“Not your friend Loulou, I hope.”
“How did you guess?”
“She’s gunning for you again, huh?”
“And how.”
And then his side of the story came out: Raymond Denny’s death, the newspaper article, the inquiry, the shutdown of the Trauma Unit, and his likely suspension. He needed to tell someone, and she seemed anxious to hear all about it.
“So Haynes just wants you to crawl away and keep your mouth shut,” she said at last.
“That’s it. As he sees it, my big mouth is what’s landed me in this spot. I’m just supposed to cure people. I’m not supposed to have opinions about why they get sick in the first place.”
“And if the inquiry goes against you?”
“It can’t. I mean, I haven’t done anything wrong, at least not medically. It’s just a lot of political posturing, Haynes says.”
“Posturing that could still damage your career. Even if you’re exonerated.”
“Well, it isn’t exactly a vote of confidence from the health department, that’s for sure.”
“Exactly. That’s why you need to start calling in favors, just in case. They have to know that you’re not going to take this lying down.”
Ford was surprised to find Helen so interested, so anxious to help. She wasn’t just sympathizing, either; she was coming up with ideas, strategies. Already he felt that he was not facing the crisis alone.
“I’m going to talk to the people on my team this afternoon, the ones that treated Raymond Denny. They know what happened.”
“That’s a good start. But you should go beyond that. The health department is pissed off about the things you’re supposed to have said, right? Well, it can’t do any harm if you establish that those things were actually true.”
“But how do
I do that?”
“You can start with Professor Novak. He said he was on the same wavelength as you, didn’t he? If he came and supported what you’ve said, it could only strengthen your position.”
“You think so?”
“Of course. They can’t crucify you if all you’ve done is alert the public to a genuine danger. At the very least he’d upstage you. He’s still someone they’d have to take seriously.”
“Okay. I’ll give it a shot. I’ll call him. The trouble is, I don’t think I’ve even got his number.”
Helen hesitated.
“Somebody here must have it. Just hang on. I’ll get it for you.”
The tape hiss told him he was talking to an answering machine. The outgoing message gave no name, but the voice sounded as if it could be Novak’s. As he waited for his cue, Ford tried to think up the right kind of message.
“Hello, Professor Novak, this is Marcus Ford. I wonder if you wouldn’t mind calling me back as soon as possible. There have been some developments which I’d like to—”
There was a loud clunk on the line.
“Dr. Ford? This is Charles Novak.”
“Oh, good morning. I hope I’m not disturbing you. I thought—”
“I do screen my calls sometimes. Just a habit I’ve gotten into. I’ve just been reading about your problems at the Willowbrook.”
“My problems?” Ford couldn’t believe that Novak could already have heard about the inquiry. “You mean—?”
“The staph outbreak. Are the reports true?”
Of course, the staph outbreak. In the wake of his meeting with Haynes, Ford had only been concerned about himself. He had almost forgotten about the infected patients. Except, of course, that his services were no longer required as far as they were concerned.
“Essentially, yes.”
“The bacteria are showing resistance to vancomycin?”
“Yes, to everything we’ve tried so far. The CDC’ll be turning up any day now.”
“To do what exactly, do you know?”
Ford frowned. The truth was Lucy Patou had been solely responsible for reporting to and liaising with the Centers for Disease Control. He hadn’t been asked to comment upon their exact brief, nor was he likely to be.
“I assume they’ll look for the source of the problem and advise on appropriate medication for the infected.”
“If there is any.”
There was something unfamiliar in Novak’s voice, a terseness, a touch of defiance, which Ford did not know how to interpret.
“If there is any,” he repeated. “Look, Professor Novak. The reason I’m calling is, well, you may be aware that some of my comments at the conference have been reported—or misreported—in the press. I’m afraid that’s caused me some problems, I mean with my employers.”
“I’m not surprised. Are you?”
“Frankly, yes. I am.”
Novak laughed.
“You’ve been rocking the boat, Dr. Ford. Several boats, in fact. You surely didn’t expect it to make you popular.”
“I didn’t … All I know is, it would be helpful if some of those things, the things I’ve said, received some support. I mean about the source of the resistance problem, about antibiotic misuse in South Central and its consequences. Because at the moment all attention is being focused on the Willowbrook. As if that’s where the problem was created.”
“As if it was all your fault? Is that what you mean?”
Ford sighed.
“Yes. That’s exactly what I mean. I know there’s no reason why you should take any interest. You’re certainly under no obligation. But if you read the situation the same way I do, now would be a good time to say so, publicly.”
There was silence on the line. Ford could hear the faint sound of music. He thought he recognized Beethoven, a late sonata.
“Professor Novak?”
“Yes,” he said, seeming distracted now. “I’m here. I’m sorry, but if you’re asking me to talk to the press, I’m afraid … I’m afraid that’s impossible. Besides, I don’t think anyone would be interested in hearing what I have to say.”
“You’re a leading figure in your field. I’m sure you still—”
“According to whom?”
Ford thought about mentioning Helen Wray. After all, Novak had met her at the conference. But then he remembered how unsettled he had been around her. Maybe it was something to do with the Stern connection. Helen had said that all the Helical Systems people had left very quickly after the company was sold. Maybe there had been bad feelings.
“Just people here, at the hospital.” Ford seized on a credible lie. “Our in-house pharmacy people, in particular.”
Novak seemed to accept it, but he was not persuaded. “The fact remains, I’m retired. I intend to stay that way. But there may be…”
“May be what?”
“Something else I can do to help. Provided my name is kept strictly out of it. Can you guarantee that?”
“Yes, of course, if that’s your wish.”
“Good. We’ll need to meet. Give me … let’s say, a week from now. Next Friday. Can you make it, let’s say, nine o’clock Friday night?”
“Yes. You want me to come to your home?”
“No. I’m a long way out of town, hard to find. Besides there’s some material I want to show you at the apartment.
Information, research. If you use it in the right way, it could be very helpful. It could be helpful for both of us.”
“Research?”
“I’m going to give you an address and a number. It’s a new apartment block, just finished. I work there sometimes. The entry phone system isn’t connected up yet, but this number will get you into the lobby. There’s a keypad by the door. Do you have a pen?”
8
Lincoln Boulevard looked different after sundown, swept clean of people by the dark. Ford switched off the engine and sat quietly looking across to number 940, where lights were burning on every floor. He sat like that for a minute, watching, trying to guess which drapes hid Helen Wray, trying to imagine her moving around inside, getting ready for their date. Or maybe she was already dressed, sitting in a chair with a drink, checking her watch with the beginnings of irritation. It was now just after seven-thirty, and he was running late.
The front door of the building opened, and the woman Ford had seen before tending her roses came out, dragging a dachshund by its leash. Afraid of being recognized, he lowered himself in the seat, and for a second considered turning on the ignition and getting the hell out of there. Why? Didn’t he want to go in? He forced himself to focus on Helen, to recall the moment—only four nights before—in which they had said good-bye. Electric light had lit strands of reddish brown in her dark hair as she leaned forward to kiss him on the corner of the mouth. He remembered that moment as having seemed perfectly right. But now, sitting in the Buick, still in the clothes he had worn to work—he hadn’t had time to go home and change—it all felt alien to him. He was overwhelmingly conscious of how little he knew about the woman he was getting involved with. He was so depressed and tired he didn’t know what he wanted.
The dog lady started towards the car. He would have to move now. Either go or stay. He shoved open the door and climbed out.
The dachshund gave a little querulous bark as Ford made his way across the lawn.
“Good evening,” he said, waving, trying to sound as hearty and unthreatening as possible.
The woman gave him a steady look.
“I thought that was you,” she said. “In the car.”
She went back to her companion, coaxing him to do his business.
“Come on, Webster. We’re not moving until you do it.”
Watched by Webster, Ford scanned the list of names on the keypad and pressed Wray.
“She’s in,” said the woman, still staring down at her dog. “Came back about an hour ago.”
The first impression Ford had of Helen’s apartment was of intense luminosity and
a lack of furniture bordering on the impractical. She was holding the door open when he reached her floor and greeted him with a winy kiss—on the corner of the mouth again, but more than just friendly. Ford was guided through to the stylishly bare living room, where blond light bounced off the stripped pine floor, hurting his eyes.
“I’m sorry I’m late,” he mumbled. “What with all this trouble, it’s been…”
But she was gone again.
“Don’t worry about it,” she called from the kitchen, returning immediately with a bottle of chilled white wine. She poured two glasses, holding her free hand flat against her stomach.
“I got the picture on the phone. It sounds like the whole hospital is coming apart at the seams.”
She was wearing a red cocktail dress and looked, as usual, terrific, stripped to the essentials like her apartment: no earrings, no necklace, not even a wristwatch. Involuntarily Ford looked down at the baggy knees of his pants.
“It’s Vouvray,” she said, handing him a glass. “I hope that’s okay. People are so used to chardonnay out here they find the chenin blanc a little peculiar.”
“As long as there’s wine in it,” said Ford.
He sipped, found the chenin blanc a little peculiar, and smiled, taking in Helen’s chic decor. The only provision for seating seemed to be a black leather couch.
“It’s nice,” Ford ventured. “Kind of minimalist. Or have you recently been burgled?”
Helen smiled, but Ford could see he was making her uncomfortable. He had probably carried his hangdog, doomed look from the hospital. He’d have to shape up or the evening was going to be a disaster.
“I hate clutter,” said Helen. She sipped her wine. “I go through a long period of careful accumulation and then wake up hardly able to breathe. I end up giving everything away.”
“Oh, really? Does that mean I can have the couch?” asked Ford, making an effort now.
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