As visitors continued to pour out the front door, Natalie stood halfway between the information desk and the elevator. She was shaking, tears pouring down her cheeks. “My mom,” she tried once more. “I need to go up and see my mom. Dr. Laura Nelson, chief of surgery.” Natalie fumbled inside her purse. “I have something to give her. It’s important.”
“Wait here.” The woman’s eyes narrowed, but she did pick up the phone. “Switchboard says that Dr. Nelson is checked out. Dr. Plant is covering her patients until Monday morning.”
Natalie, turned toward the exit. The other departing visitors ignored her tears. She heard the woman at the information desk, “That girl is the spitting image of her mother.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
WEDNESDAY, NOVEMBER 27
As he did on most Wednesday nights, Charles Scarlett dismissed the household help once they’d finished in the library, making it comfortable for his guests, stocking the bar, setting out the array of food the two other members of his cell of The Order had come to expect.
When Will Banks was in residence, the help knew they were forbidden to go into the basement for any reason. Charles could take no chances: the Feds and about every law enforcement agency in the South were hunting Will. How surprised the FBI would be to unearth the contents of the basement in young Charles Scarlett’s mansion.
In addition to Will, Charles had only one other guest on Wednesday evenings. Russell Robertson had no criminal record. He was a young husband and father, a professor of nuclear physics at Georgia Tech. All three men had been born in the same year, 1952, each was thirty-three. Last year, all had been summoned to a convention in Arlington, Virginia, and while there, personally recruited by a patriot, a friend of all three of their fathers, Dr. William Pierce. Ever since, they’d been a cell, soldiers on call for their cause, the Aryan Resistance Movement—The Order—dedicated to the salvation of the white race.
On leaving Arlington on that September day as chosen members of The Order, they all had been instilled with radical zeal. But for Charles, at least, that excitement had gradually dimmed over the past year; these days, The Order seemed to want from him only money and the use of his home as a safe house for Will.
Will, the munitions expert, had seen action all right. He had seen his own uncle gunned down in a forty-hour battle with the Feds, complete with helicopters and ground troops. After that showdown, Banks, like most in the vanguard, went underground as the FBI cracked down, made arrests—and yet more arrests when The Order’s own yellow-bellied traitors turned informants. The Order’s overt reign of terror had come to a halt a couple of months ago, after they gunned down a cop.
Charles’s father didn’t merely condone his son’s induction into The Order, he actually had arranged it. Chas came from old-school Klan. He’d been a member and his father and father’s father before him. Proud members.
When Brown v. Board of Education reared its ugly head, when the Klan was outlawed and went underground, Chas and his Southern chums founded the White Citizens’ Council, opposed to racial integration, dedicated to protect the European-American heritage. When Charles Jr. was growing up, in the shadow of this organization, the “Uptown Klan” was for the privileged whites, “a white-collar Klan,” “a country-club Klan.” No shame, no stigma—a culturally acceptable way to promulgate racist practices. He remembered when he was a kid, roadside signs had proclaimed, “The White Citizens Council Welcomes You.”
Well, things sure had changed. Over time, the White Citizens’ Council had faded from the scene and Charles’s father joined the new Council of Conservative Citizens, still advocating white supremacy and relying on the support of sitting members of the U.S. Congress. Charles himself had heard U.S. Senator Trent Lott address the group, so for sure their organization had clout. His father, though, doubted that the genteel flavor of white supremacy was enough. Charles Senior became convinced of the need for the violence perpetrated by the movement’s most radical factions. So he threw his surreptitious support and that of his son to various Southern white supremacy groups: The Covenant, The Sword and the Arm of the Lord, Posse Comitatus, as well as to the most vicious bands of Aryan guerillas flush with money from robberies, equipped with weapons, code names, safe houses.
So now here was Charles hosting a safe house, playing hotelier. Is this why his father had introduced him to The Order? Was he testing him like he’d done when Charles was a kid? “What I cannot stomach, Rosabelle,” he’d once heard his father say when he’d walked unnoticed into his parents’ bedroom, “is a coward. Our son is a chicken-shit coward. You know it and I know it. And I pray to God every night he’ll grow a backbone and show some leadership.” Was Chas waiting for his son, for the first time in his cowardly life, finally to take a stand?
Charles, backing out of the room, had heard his mother mumble some reply, but whether she’d spoken up for him or sided with his father he’d never had a way to know. So by default, he bore the shame, nursing an obsession to prove to his father that he was indeed a patriot, that should he be tested, he would risk all for the cause. So far, he stagnated in the Aryan Resistance vanguard, proving nothing. But not for long. Tonight, he’d lay out a plan that would elevate him to the leadership that his father so craved for him.
The door chimes interrupted Charles’s reverie. Russell Robertson had arrived. Charles breathed a sigh of relief. When Robertson had given some flimsy excuse for having missed the last cell meeting, Banks had gone off on a maniacal tear about allegiance to The Order. Tonight all three would be here: Banks with the necessary firepower; Roberts, nuclear access. And Charles, with flesh-eating bacteria.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
THURSDAY, NOVEMBER 28
THANKSGIVING DAY
Thanksgiving morning or not, Laura woke as usual at five a.m. The house was quiet. Her kids were not morning people. The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree: at their age she’d never have gotten out of bed a minute earlier than she had to. But later, a rigorous medical school schedule of a mom with young kids had altered her sleep patterns. For life.
Over a cup of coffee, she said a little prayer that all her plans would go perfectly today, for her mother’s sake. The whole family of world citizens would come together. Her sister, Janet, who lived in Paris with her French husband and her Vietnamese adopted child; her brother Ted, a Jesuit stationed in Rome; and Laura and her five kids. They’d have dinner at Mom and Dad’s on Anna Maria Island, about an hour by car from Tampa. And over the long weekend, everyone could hang out at the beach house Laura had rented on the lovely barrier island. She figured she’d leave about ten to get there in time to help Mom with the last minute dinner details.
After pouring her second cup of coffee, Laura’s hand reached for the phone. Just one call to the ICU. “No,” she said, aloud. Dr. Plant had her practice covered. Her family deserved her total focus today.
Patrick joined her in the kitchen, followed by Mike, and not long after, Kevin. As she went about making their breakfast, they chatted about school, sports, friends. The evolving meal—eggs, sausage, bacon, biscuits, pancakes, Belgian waffles—whatever they wanted—kept the boys in the kitchen talking, just as she’d hoped. Any minute, Laura would have to wake up the girls, but right now she floated happily on the currents of testosterone eddying around the kitchen.
At five after nine, Nicole came downstairs, still wearing her robe.
“You and Natalie better hurry,” Laura said, “or you’ll miss breakfast. I’d like to be on the road about ten.”
“Mom,” Nicole said, “Natalie is sick. Really sick. She was throwing up all night. I could hardly sleep.”
“I’d better go check on her.” Laura felt more annoyed than worried. Her perfect plans had not included a sick child.
Laura found Natalie lying on her back, propped up by pillows, and rocking her chest up and down as if she were in pain. She looked up at Laura, her eyes puffy and bloodshot.
“What’s the matter, sweetie?” Laura asked. Was Nat
alie in so much pain that she’d been crying? “Where does it hurt?”
Natalie pointed to her abdomen, to the center, the umbilical area.
Laura had developed a knack for reading body temperatures with just the touch of her fingers on a forehead. The nurses joked about not needing a thermometer when Dr. Nelson was on-site. She brushed aside long strands of blonde hair and felt her daughter’s brow. Normal. “Lie down flat, okay, so I can feel your belly?” She removed the pillows supporting Natalie.
“This might hurt a little, but do your best to relax. I’ll just move my hand around and push. Palpate, we call it. Do your best to relax.”
Laura placed her left hand over her right and carefully, slowly pushed down on Natalie’s abdomen. No distention—good sign. She started at the right upper quadrant, over the liver and the gall bladder. As she pressed, she concentrated on Natalie’s face. When you palpated an acute abdomen, the face said it all. She remembered that from her general surgical training, before she’d veered off into chest only.
“That hurt, Mom,” Natalie said, but her body did not react, her face did not signal the type of pain that Laura would expect with an acute abdomen. She moved her hands across Natalie’s abdomen, under the ribs. She stopped at the left upper quadrant, over the spleen. So far, the spleen on the left and the liver on the right both felt normal, not enlarged, not particularly tender.
When she moved down to the left lower quadrant, Natalie flinched. “There. That hurt bad.”
Her next move would tell the tale, the right lower quadrant. If Natalie had an acute abdomen, odds would be on an inflamed appendix. Laura hesitated before pressing down, watching Natalie’s face. Nothing. More pain on the left than the right. Not likely an appendix. Good. One last pressure: center abdomen. Where Natalie said she hurt the most.
In the background, Laura had heard the phone ring. She’d signed out for the weekend, so the hospital wouldn’t call. One of these days she was going to order a separate line for the kids. Or was it already too late? Next year the twins would be off to college; one line would work fine for just her and Patrick.
“Mom, it’s for you.” Nicole yelled from the bottom of the stairs.
“Okay, I’ll take it in my bedroom. Natalie, I’ll be right back.”
Laura picked up the phone on the nightstand. She breathed easier in her sanctuary. For the first five years after Steve died, she’d kept the room exactly as he’d left it. In his job as anchor on a Tampa news channel, he’d accumulated a wall of honor plaques, photos of himself with important people, that sort of thing. Then one day, about two years ago, on impulse, she’d assembled all his accolades on the dining room table, gathered the kids, and officiated as they selected their favorite mementos of their dad. She’d done that much for Steve. She’d preserved for the kids an almost devotional memory of him. But a deserved memory? Five kids. Five different answers to that question. With Steve’s memorabilia decorating the kids’ rooms, Laura’s space became her own. She could indulge her taste for Laura Ashley designs, a favorite decadent indulgence.
“This is Laura Nelson.”
“The ravishing doctor, I presume.”
“Happy Thanksgiving, Tim.”
“I’ll be right there,” he said.
“Pardon?” Laura never knew what to expect from her good friend, Tim Robinson, a pediatric heart surgeon. They had met when both were medical students in Detroit. They had a history, more or less. Now Tim was a prominent pediatric cardiac surgeon at Children’s Hospital of Philadelphia. He’d been there for Laura in a professional and personal capacity seven years earlier, when Patrick underwent dangerous heart surgery at Tim’s hospital. That year, they’d spent Thanksgiving together for the first time. Ever since then, she and Tim had carried on a long distance, now-and-then relationship.
“Laura, my dear, I’m on a stand-by flight to Tampa. I should get in by two thirty. I’ll grab a car at the airport and drive to your parents’ place. That is, if I’m still invited. You haven’t replaced me, have you?”
“Tim, that’s wonderful. Mom will be thrilled and the kids, too. There’s just one thing—”
“Uh-oh. I have been replaced.” The disappointment in his voice made Laura giggle. Their friendship was so weird. Close, but not intimate.
“No, nothing like that. You’re still the one. It’s Natalie. She woke up this morning with abdominal pain and vomiting. I was just doing an exam.”
“But you know better—a mom is never objective. You’re going to have to take her to the E.R. or call in one of your surgical buddies.”
“I’m not sure. She doesn’t have a temp and the pain is not localized.”
“I’ve gotta hop on this plane, Laura. But tell you what, if there’s any doubt about Natalie’s abdomen, and you don’t feel comfortable taking her to your mother’s, you go ahead with the other kids. As soon as I get into Tampa, I’ll drive over to your place. If you decide to leave Natalie, I’ll check her. If she’s okay, she can ride to your mom’s with me. If not, I’ll call you and I’ll take her to the E.R. You’re only an hour away. You can meet us and see what’s what. She’s probably got a viral gastritis and she’ll be a lot better in a couple of hours. Make sense? Say yes, because my flight’s boarding.”
What about mom? Laura thought, torn between her mother’s perfect holiday and her desire to stay with Natalie.
“Now would be a good time to say yes,” Tim said. “I’ve got a history of taking good care of your kids.”
“Yes,” Laura said.
Back to Natalie. Nicole was sitting on her own bed, speaking in a voice too low for Laura to hear.
“Hey,” Laura said, “that was Tim. He’s on his way to Tampa.”
“That’s great.” Nicole looked as if she meant it. “Football on the beach is going to be a blast. Tim, Uncle Ted, and us. And Uncle Dale, but being French, he’s not too good. Mom, I think you should leave Natalie home. She’s throwing up like crazy. Marcy will be home later tonight.”
“Yeah, I’ll be okay,” Natalie said. “Marcy will be back from her sister’s. Maybe Mike or Kevin could come and get me in a couple of days so I won’t miss seeing Aunt Janet and Uncle Ted. Or I could drive down in our car. By then, I’m sure I’ll be fine.”
Laura didn’t like the girls driving on their own except back and forth to school.
“We’ll see,” Laura said, resuming the bedside exam position, fingers to the center of Natalie’s abdomen. She pushed gently at first, then harder; holding, then suddenly releasing the pressure. No rebound. Good. Whatever pain she was having did not require rapid surgical attention.
“Ouch,” Natalie said, with a slight flinch.
“Okay, what’s going on with your period? When did your last one start?” Laura noticed that Natalie glanced at Nicole. The girls had started menstruating five years ago and seemed always to be on the same schedule.
“Don’t look at me. I just started mine and I’m not the one who’s sick,” Nicole said.
“I haven’t started my period yet,” Natalie said, “but it’ll probably start soon.”
“In that case, I think you may have Mittelschmerz,” Laura decided.
“What’s that?” Nicole said. “I hope it’s not some kind of, you know, venereal disease?”
Laura expected at least a grin from Natalie, but instead, got a sudden flood of tears.
“Hey, she was just kidding,” Laura said, propping Natalie up on the pillow again. “Mittelschmerz just causes painful ovulation. The pain can be pretty bad, but it’s nothing serious.”
“So, I’ll be okay?” Natalie wiped her eyes with the corner of the sheet. “If only I could stop puking. I’m going to throw up again.”
Natalie climbed out of bed and hurried for the bathroom across the hall.
“Grandma would be so upset,” Nicole said, “if we missed Thanksgiving dinner. And now that Tim’s coming—”
“Tim offered to stop by the house and check on Natalie if she’s still feeling too sick for
the trip. Then he’d drive her up, later.”
“Perfect.” Nicole’s face brightened. “When’s he supposed to get here?”
“About four hours,” Laura said, “but I’m not sure I should leave her.”
Natalie, still in her lavender pajamas, flopped back into bed.
Nicole jumped up. “Mom’s got the perfect solution,” she announced. “Tim’s coming, right? So we can all go and leave you here to rest. And in about four hours Tim will be here.”
“And Marcy will be back this evening,” Laura repeated, smoothing Natalie’s polka-dot sheets. “You sure that’s okay, sweetie, or do you want me to stay here with you and let Mike drive the others to Anna Maria?”
Natalie gave the faintest of smiles. “I’ll be just fine. You go ahead. If I try to go now, I’ll just throw up all over the car. I probably do need rest. Tim’s a doctor, if I get any worse, he’ll know what to do.”
Laura felt Natalie’s forehead. Normal. Just to be by the book, she verified. Thermometer read 98.6.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
THURSDAY, NOVEMBER 28
“Mercer, Matthew is off the critical list,” reported the hospital information clerk.
Back in Tampa last night, Victor had gone straight to the hotel and called the ICU. He’d asked to speak to the nurse, found himself on hold for a long time, and then heard a harried-sounding voice say that, just today, Matthew had rallied.
“Is he awake?” Victor had asked. If so, he would drop everything and get to the hospital.
“No. He’s sedated. Off the respirator, though.”
Did she mean that Matthew had improved so much? Or had the doctors just given up? Once they figured he had AIDS, in their ignorance or even repugnance, would they just take him off the respirator to let him die?
“Should I come in to be with him?” he’d asked.
“Mr. Mercer is stable and he’s quite comfortable. Leave your contact information, Dr. Worth,” the nurse insisted. “I’ll call you if anything changes, I’ll be on until seven in the morning.”
Weapon of Choice Page 8
