Terminal

by Robin Cook

  Recognition dawned swiftly as Sean realized that it was Hiroshi Gyuhama who stood before him, equally as startled. Sean remembered meeting the man the day before when Claire had introduced them.

  “Very sorry,” Hiroshi said with a nervous smile. He bowed deeply.

  “Quite all right,” Sean said, feeling an irresistible urge to bow back. “It was my fault. I should have looked through the window before opening the door.”

  “No, no, my fault,” Hiroshi insisted.

  “It truly was my fault,” Sean said. “But I suppose it is a silly argument.”

  “My fault,” Hiroshi persisted.

  “Were you coming in here?” Sean asked, pointing back into his lab.

  “No, no,” Hiroshi said. His smile broadened. “I’m going back to work.” But he didn’t move.

  “What are you working on?” Sean asked, just to make conversation.

  “Lung cancer,” Hiroshi said. “Thank you very much.”

  “And thank you,” Sean said by reflex. Then he wondered why he was thanking the man.

  Hiroshi bowed several times before turning and climbing the stairs.

  Sean shrugged and walked back to his lab bench. He wondered if the movement he’d seen originally had been Hiroshi, perhaps through the small window in the stairwell door. But that would mean Hiroshi had been there all along, which didn’t make sense to Sean.

  As long as his concentration had been broken, Sean took the time to descend to the basement to seek out Roger Calvet. Once he found him, Sean felt uncomfortable talking to the man whose back deformity prevented him from looking at Sean when he spoke. Nonetheless, Mr. Calvet managed to isolate a group of appropriate mice so that Sean could begin injecting them with the glycoprotein in hopes of eliciting an antibody response. Sean didn’t expect success from this effort since others at the Forbes Center had undoubtedly tried it already, yet he knew he had to start from the beginning before he resorted to any of his “tricks.”

  Back in the elevator Sean was about to press the button for the fifth floor when he changed his mind and pressed six. He wouldn’t have guessed it of himself, but he felt isolated and even a bit lonely. Working at Forbes was a distinctly uncomfortable experience, and not simply because of the bevy of unfriendly people. There weren’t enough people. The place was too empty, too clean, too ordered. Sean had always taken the academic collegiality of his previous work environments for granted. Now he found himself needing some human interaction. So he headed for the sixth floor.

  The first person Sean encountered was David Lowenstein. He was an intense, thin fellow bent over his lab bench examining tissue culture tubes. Sean came up to his left side and said hello.

  “I beg your pardon?” David said, glancing up from his work.

  “How’s it going?” Sean asked. He reintroduced himself in case David had forgotten him from the day before.

  “Things are going as well as can be expected,” David said.

  “What are you working on?” Sean asked.

  “Melanoma,” David answered.

  “Oh,” Sean said.

  The conversation went downhill from that point, so Sean drifted on. He caught Hiroshi looking at him, but after the stairwell incident Sean avoided him. Instead he moved on to Arnold Harper who was busily working under a hood. Sean could tell he was doing some kind of recombinant work with yeast.

  Attempts at conversation with Arnold were about as successful as those with David Lowenstein had been. The only thing Sean learned from Arnold was that he was working on colon cancer. Although he’d been the source of the glycoprotein Sean was working with, he didn’t seem the least interested in discussing it.

  Sean wandered on and came to the glass door to the maximum containment lab with its No Entry sign. Cupping his hands as he’d done the day before, he again tried to peer through. Just like the previous day, all he could see was a corridor with doors leading off it. After glancing over his shoulder to make sure no one was in sight, Sean pulled open the door and stepped inside. The door shut behind him and sealed. This portion of the lab had a negative pressure so that no air would move out when the door was opened.

  For a moment Sean stood just inside the door and felt his pulse quicken with excitement. It was the same feeling he used to get as a teenager when he, Jimmy, and Brady would go north to one of the rich bedroom communities like Swampscott or Marblehead and hit a few houses. They never stole anything of real value, just TVs and stuff like that. They never had trouble fencing the goods in Boston. The money went to a guy who was supposed to send it over to the IRA, but Sean never knew how much of it ever got to Ireland.

  When no one appeared to protest Sean’s presence in the No Entry area, Sean pushed on. The place didn’t have the look or feel of a maximum containment lab. In fact, the first room he looked into was empty except for bare lab benches. There was no equipment at all. Entering the room, Sean examined the surface of the counters. At one time they had been used, but not extensively. He could see some marks where the rubber feet of a countertop machine had sat, but that was the only telltale sign of use.

  Bending down, Sean pulled open a cabinet and gazed inside. There were a few half-empty reagent bottles as well as assorted glassware, some of which was broken.

  “Hold it right there!” a voice shouted, causing Sean to whirl around and rise to a standing position.

  It was Robert Harris poised in the doorway, hands on his hips, feet spread apart. His meaty face was red. Dots of perspiration lined his forehead. “Can’t you read, Mr. Harvard Boy?” Harris snarled.

  “I don’t think it’s worth getting upset over an empty lab,” Sean said.

  “This area is off limits,” Harris said.

  “We’re not in the army,” Sean said.

  Harris advanced menacingly. Between his height and weight advantage, he expected to intimidate Sean. But Sean didn’t move. He merely tensed. With all his street experience as a teenager, he instinctively knew what he’d hit and hit hard if Harris threatened to touch him. But Sean was reasonably confident Harris wouldn’t try.

  “You are certainly one wiseass,” Harris said. “I knew you’d be trouble the moment I laid eyes on you.”

  “Funny! I felt the same way about you,” Sean said.

  “I warned you not to mess with me, boy,” Harris said. He moved within inches of Sean’s face.

  “You have a couple of blackheads on your nose,” Sean said. “In case you didn’t know.”

  Harris glared down at Sean and for a moment he didn’t speak. His face got redder.

  “I think you are getting entirely too worked up,” Sean said.

  “What the hell are you doing in here?” Harris demanded.

  “Pure curiosity,” Sean said. “I was told it was a maximum containment lab. I wanted to see it.”

  “I want you out of here in two seconds,” Harris said. He stepped back and pointed toward the door.

  Sean walked out into the hall. “There are a few more rooms I’d like to see,” he said. “How about we take a tour together?”

  “Out!” Harris shouted, pointing toward the glass door.

  JANET HAD a late morning meeting with the director of nursing, Margaret Richmond. She used the time from Sean’s wake-up call until the moment she had to leave to take a long shower, shave her legs, blow-dry her hair, and press her dress. Although she knew her job at the Forbes hospital was assured, meetings such as the one she was anticipating still made her nervous. And on top of that, she was still anxious about Sean’s potential for heading back to Boston. All in all she had plenty of reason to be upset; she had no idea what the next few days would bring.

  Margaret Richmond was not what Janet anticipated. Her voice on the telephone had conjured up an image of a delicate, slight woman. Instead, she was powerful and rather severe. Yet she was still cordial and businesslike, and conveyed to Janet a sincere appreciation for Janet’s coming to the Forbes hospital. She even gave Janet her choice of shifts. Janet was pleased to opt for
days. She had assumed she’d have to start on nights, a shift she disliked.

  “You indicated a preference for floor duty,” Ms. Richmond said as she consulted her notes.

  “Correct,” Janet said. “Floor duty gives me the type of patient contact that I find the most rewarding.”

  “We have an opening for days on the fourth floor,” Ms. Richmond said.

  “Sounds good,” Janet said cheerfully.

  “When would you like to start?” Ms. Richmond asked.

  “Tomorrow,” Janet said. She would have preferred a few days’ delay to give herself a chance to find an apartment and get settled, but she felt an urgency about delving into the medulloblastoma protocol.

  “I’d like to use today to try to find a nearby apartment,” Janet added.

  “I don’t think you should stay around here,” Ms. Richmond said. “If I were you I’d go out to the beach. They’ve done a nice job restoring the area. Either that or Coconut Grove.”

  “I’ll take your advice,” Janet said. Assuming the meeting was over, she stood.

  “How about a quick tour of the hospital?” Ms. Richmond asked.

  “I’d like that,” Janet said.

  Ms. Richmond first took Janet across the hall to meet Dan Selenburg, the hospital administrator. But he wasn’t available. Instead, they went to the first floor to see the outpatient facilities, the hospital auditorium, and the cafeteria.

  On the second floor Janet peered into the ICU, the surgical area, the chemistry lab, the radiology department, and medical records. Then they went up to the fourth floor.

  Janet was impressed with the hospital. It was cheerful, modern, and appeared to be adequately staffed, which was particularly important from a nursing point of view. She’d had her misgivings about oncology and the fact that all the patients would be cancer patients, but given the otherwise pleasant environment and the variety in the patients she saw—some old, some gravely ill, others seemingly normal—she decided the Forbes hospital was definitely a place in which she could work. In many ways, it wasn’t dissimilar to the Boston Memorial, just newer and more pleasantly decorated.

  The fourth floor was arranged in the same configuration as other patient floors. It was a simple rectangle with private rooms on either side of a central corridor. The nurses’ station was situated in the middle of the floor near the elevators and formed a large U-shaped counter. Behind it was a utility room and a small closet-like pharmacy with a dutch door. Across from the nurses’ station was a patients’ lounge. A housekeeping closet with a slop sink was across from the elevators. At either end of the long central hall were stairways.

  Once their tour was completed, Ms. Richmond turned Janet over to Marjorie Singleton, the head nurse on days. Janet liked Marjorie immediately. She was a petite redhead with a smattering of freckles across the bridge of her nose. She seemed in a constant flurry of activity and never without a smile. Janet met other staffers as well, but the profusion of names overwhelmed her. Aside from Ms. Richmond and Marjorie, she didn’t think she’d remember a single person to whom she’d been introduced except for Tim Katzenburg, the ward secretary. He was a blond-haired Adonis who looked more like a beach boy than a hospital ward secretary. He told Janet he was taking pre-med courses at night school since discovering the limited utility of a philosophy degree.

  “We’re really glad to have you,” Marjorie said when she rejoined Janet after taking care of a minor emergency. “Boston’s loss is our gain.”

  “I’m happy to be here,” Janet said.

  “We’ve been short-handed since the tragedy with Sheila Arnold,” Marjorie said.

  “What happened?”

  “The poor woman was raped and shot in her apartment,” Marjorie said. “And not too far from the hospital. Welcome to big city life.”

  “How terrible,” Janet said. She wondered if that was the reason Ms. Richmond had warned her against the immediate neighborhood.

  “Currently we happen to have a small contingent of patients from Boston,” Marjorie said. “Would you like to meet them?”

  “Sure,” Janet said.

  Marjorie bounded off. Janet practically had to run to keep up with her. Together they entered a room on the west side of the hospital.

  “Helen,” Marjorie called softly once she stood beside the bed. “You have a visitor from Boston.”

  Bright green eyes opened. Their intense color contrasted dramatically with the patient’s pale skin.

  “We have a new nurse joining our staff,” Marjorie said. She then introduced the two women.

  The name Helen Cabot immediately registered in Janet’s mind. Despite the mildly jealous feelings she’d had back in Boston, she was pleased to find Helen at the Forbes. Her presence would undoubtedly help keep Sean in Florida.

  After Janet had spoken briefly with Helen, the two nurses left the room.

  “Sad case,” Marjorie said. “Such a sweet girl. She’s scheduled for a biopsy today. I hope she responds to the treatment.”

  “But I’ve heard that you people have had a hundred percent remission with her particular type of tumor,” Janet said. “Why wouldn’t she respond?”

  Marjorie stopped and stared at Janet. “I’m impressed,” she said. “Not only are you aware of our medulloblastoma results, you made an instantaneous and correct diagnosis. Are you endowed with powers we should know about?”

  “Hardly,” Janet said with a laugh. “Helen Cabot was a patient at my hospital in Boston. I’d heard about her case.”

  “That makes me feel more comfortable,” Marjorie said. “For a second there I thought I was witnessing the supernatural.” She began walking again. “I’m concerned about Helen Cabot because her tumors are far advanced. Why did you people keep her for so long? She should have been started on treatment weeks ago.”

  “That’s something I know nothing about,” Janet admitted.

  The next patient was Louis Martin. In contrast to Helen, Louis did not appear ill. In fact, he was sitting in a chair fully dressed. He’d only arrived that morning and was still in the process of being admitted. Although he didn’t look sick, he did appear anxious.

  Marjorie went through introductions again, adding that Louis had the same problem as Helen, but that thankfully he’d been sent to them much more swiftly.

  Janet shook hands with the man, noting his palm was damp. She looked into the man’s terrified eyes, wishing there was something she could say that would comfort him. She also felt a little guilty realizing that she was somewhat pleased to learn of Louis’s plight. Having two patients on her floor under the medulloblastoma protocol would give her that much more opportunity to investigate the treatment. Sean would undoubtedly be pleased.

  As Marjorie and Janet returned to the nurses’ station, Janet asked if the medulloblastoma cases were all on the fourth floor.

  “Heavens no,” Marjorie said. “We don’t group patients according to tumor type. Their assignment is purely random. It just so happens we’ll currently have three. As we speak we’re admitting another case: a young woman from Houston named Kathleen Sharenburg.”

  Janet hid her elation.

  “There’s one last patient from Boston,” Marjorie said as she stopped outside of room 409. “And she’s a doll with an incredibly upbeat attitude that’s been a source of strength and support for all the other patients. I believe she said she’s from a section of town called the North End.”

  Marjorie knocked on the closed door. A muffled “Come in” could be heard. Marjorie pushed open the door and stepped inside. Janet followed.

  “Gloria,” Marjorie called. “How’s the chemo going?”

  “Lovely,” Gloria joked. “I’ve just started the IV portion today.”

  “I brought you somebody to meet,” Marjorie said. “A new nurse. She’s from Boston.”

  Janet looked at the woman in the bed. She appeared to be about Janet’s own age. A few years earlier, Janet would have been shocked. Prior to working in a hospital she’d been under th
e delusion that cancer was an affliction of the elderly. Painfully, Janet had learned that just about anyone was fair game for the disease.

  Gloria was olive-complected with dark eyes and what had been dark hair. Presently her scalp was covered with a dark fuzz. Although she’d been a buxom woman, one side of her chest was now flat beneath her lingerie.

  “Mr. Widdicomb!” Marjorie said with surprised irritation. “What are you doing in here?”

  Her attention focused on the patient, Janet had not realized there was another person in the room. She turned to see a man in a green uniform with a mildly distorted nose.

  “Don’t go giving Tom a bad time,” Gloria said. “He’s only trying to help.”

  “I told you I wanted room 417 cleaned,” Marjorie said, ignoring Gloria. “Why are you in here?”

  “I was about to do the bathroom,” Tom said meekly. He avoided eye contact while fidgeting with the mop handle sticking out of his bucket.

  Janet watched. She was fascinated. Tiny Marjorie had been transformed from an amiable pixie to a commanding power-house.

  “What are we to do with the new patient if the room is not ready?” Marjorie demanded. “Get down there at once and get it done.” She pointed out the door.

  After the man had left, Marjorie shook her head. “Tom Widdicomb is the bane of my existence here at Forbes.”

  “He means well,” Gloria said. “He’s been an angel to me. He checks on me every day.”

  “He’s not employed as part of the professional staff,” Marjorie said. “He’s got to do his own job first.”

  Janet smiled. She liked working on wards that were well run by someone capable of taking charge. Judging by what she’d just seen, Janet was confident she’d get along fine with Marjorie Singleton.

  SOME OF the soapy water sloshed out of his bucket as Tom raced down the corridor and into room 417. He released the doorstop and let the door close. He leaned against it. His breaths came in hissing gasps, a legacy of the terror that had flashed through him when the knock had first sounded on Gloria’s door. He’d been seconds away from giving her the succinylcholine. If Marjorie and that new nurse had happened by a few minutes later, he would have been caught.