Included with many of the names was a paragraph summarizing the professional and/or personal difficulties that had made that physician available. Drugs, alcohol, sexual entanglements, financial improprieties, professional misconduct of one sort or anther-compiling the roster was the full-time job of an obsessively diligent investigator in the home office. Primary among her responsibilities was the weeding out of those physicians for whom there was little or no hope of rehabilitation. Those remaining on the list, many of them excellent practitioners, were of particular interest to the corporation. More often than not, they proved to be devoted employees, grateful for a second chance, totally loyal to the company and its policies, and willing to work for any salary that was reasonable. Steve Baumgarten in the emergency ward had been recruited through Ultr'ma's unique bulletin board. So had Suzanne Cole, a real prize, who almost from the start had generated an income many times greater than her salary. But for Frank, it was the one-two parlay of Jack Pearl and Jason Mainwaring that had made Mother worth her megabytes in gold. For a time when Frank's back was to the wall, when he was becoming so desperate about the $250, 000 that he was actually considering approaching the Judge for help, Jack Pearl's name appeared in item four. The description of Pearl's problem, which Frank eventually had memorized, read, Holds patent on what he has claimed is revolutionary new general anesthe ic. Texas license suspended pending investigation of alleged illegal clinical testing of the substance and falsification of information on experimental drug application. Physician with same name resigned 1984 from Wilkes Community Hospital, Akron, Ohio, because of alleged sexual involvement with a ten-year-old boy. Further information currently being sought.
Mildly intrigued, Frank had made a note to do some checking on the man, but had not put much energy into the project until, not a month later, Ultr'ma served up a brief item on a professor of surgery from Baltimore.
Jason Mainwaring had been found to be an officer and partner in a Georgia pharmaceutical house, and subsequently had resigned his position due to charges of conflict of interest and illegal use of an unapproved drug. It had taken trips to Maryland, Georgia, Texas, and Ohio, an additional twenty thousand dollars in Ultramed-Davis funds to gather information and secure the cooperation of a certain politician in Akron, and finally, a series of the most delicate negotiations with both physicians. But in the end, Frank had forged the key to his future. And now, within the next two weeks, the rest was about to become history.
For several minutes Frank scanned the electronic roster of physicians.
He was amazed, as always, at how so many who held the ultimate ticket to success and prestige could have made such pathetic shamble@s of their lives. A pediatrician from Hartford about to complete four months in an alcohol rehabilitation center, a gynecologist from D. C. who had resigned his hospital appointment amid a cloud of accusations that his "aminations were too prolonged and included house calls, an oral surgeon facing revocation of his license for writing too many narcotic prescriptions for himself, Frank jotted down several names, along with a memo to himself to make some preliminary calls. Ultramed and its parent corporation had the clout to make any physician's background difficulties disappear to all but the most intensive investigation.
However, its administrators had been well warned against using that service indiscriminately. Frank had just terminated with Mother when, with a discreet knock, Jason Mainwaring entered the office. He was dressed in a light cotton suit, monogrammed shirt, and white topsiders, and looked very much like the plantation owner he planned to become as soon as his pharmaceutical company had successfully produced and marketed Jack Pearl's Serenyl. "Drink? " Mainwaring asked, setting his briefcase down and then striding directly to the small wet bar in Frank's bookcase. "Sure, " Frank said, quietly resenting the way the man, as always, stepped into a room and took charge. "Bourbon's fine."
The surgeon gestured at the huge aerial photo of the Ultrameddavis complex. "Nice little operation y'all have here, Frank, " he said. "I think I'm actually going to miss it some. But home is where the heart is, right?"
"Of course, " Frank countered. "Although I knew you had been up here too long when I heard a little Yankee accent creep into that drawl of yours the other day."
Mainwaring snorted a laugh as he scanned Frank's collection of cassettes. "Mantovani, Mantovani, Mantovani, " he said disdainfully, tossing them aside one at a time. "You know, the closest thing you have here to Beethoven is Mantovani."
"I like Mantovani, " Frank said. "I know."
Mainwaring thought for a moment and then snapped opein his briefcase, removed two cassettes, and flipped them onto Frank's desk. "I know I'm prob'ly tossin' pearls to a razorback, " he said, "but here are some examples of real music for you. It's what I listen to in the O. R. Call em a good-bye present. This one's Beethoven's Third. It's called the Eroica. And this one's by an English composer named Vaughan Williams.
It's a fantasia on "Greensleeves. Listen to these two pieces, and I suspect even you will appreciate the difference between real music and the Burger Mng brand you've been listening to."
"Sure thing, Jase, " Frank said, dropping the tapes into his desk drawer. "I'll start my reeducation first thing in the morning."
"I won't hold my breath." Mainwaring settled in on the sofa Frank and Annette Dolan had so recently vacated, and motioned Frank to take the easy chair opposite him. "I hate doin' business with anyone across a desk, " he explained. Unless it's yours, right? Frank thought. He hesitated, and then did as the man asked. There was no sense in making an issue of it at this stage of the game. "So, Jason, " he said. "I assume you're still satisfied."
Mainwaring took a file from his briefcase and opened it. "With this kind of money involved, " he said, "I won't be satisfied until our little anesthe ic is in every operating room of every hospital in the world.
But I am certainly pleased with the"-he consulted the file' four hundred ninety-six cases Jack and I have completed. I must say, Frank, you've done all right. You promised me five hundred cases in two years, and you delivered."
"Like I told you when we first met, Jason, I know this town."
The key to the whole project had been the rapid takeover by Mainwaring of Guy Beaulieu's practice. And only Frank, and to some extent, Mainwaring, knew how skillfully Frank had engineered that feat. Details, that's what it all came down to. Attention to touches like the letter to Maureen Banas threatening his own position should she ever disclose to anyone, including him, what was being done to her. The sort of details he had neglected to attend to three years before., Pity about ol'
Beaulieu," Mainwaring said blandly. Frank could not tell if the man was being facetious or not. Again, he opted to avoid an altercation. In the morning, Mainwaring would be gone. And in a week or so he would be back to officially tender his resignation and to offer proof of a million dollars in Frank's Cayman Islands account and half a million in Pearl's, in exchange for the patent Frank now shared with Pearl and all future rights to Serenyl. And that, Frank knew, was what it was all about. He would, at last, have squared away the $250, 000 shortfall in the Ultramed-Davis books, and there would be a nifty little bundle left over to build on. "Well, " he said dispassionately, "at least the old guy didn't suffer. When my number comes up, I want to go the same way…
So, I assume you have everything you need to conclude this business with your company in Atlanta?"
Mainwaring skimmed through his notes. "It would appear so, Frank.
Here's that, ah, little agreement you insisted upon."
He passed the document over. Frank scanned the page to be certain it included Mainwaring's admission to having illegally used Serenyl on five hundred patients. It was Frank's insurance policy against any kind of deal being made behind his back. In the morning, the two of them would jointly place the confession, along with similar ones from Frank and Jack Pearl, in a safe deposit box at the Sterling National Bank, and upon Mainwaring's return to town, the three of them would retrieve and destroy the do
cuments together. "Remember, Frank, " Mainwaring warned,
"I don't have the final say in all this. My partners are still calculatin' what it's gonna cost us to go backward and do all the animal and clinical trials the FDA insists on, and-" Frank laughed out loud.
"Jason, please, " he said. "It costs tens of millions to develop and test new drugs that you don't even know are going to work, let alone work safety. You've got a gold mine here, and you know it, and I know it, and your partners know it, and even our little fairy friend Pearl knows it. "After five hundred perfect cases without so much as one problem, the only money you're going to spend is whatever it costs to grease a palm or two at the FDA and to put together a few folders of bogus animal and clinical trials. So don't try to shit me, okay? It's unbecoming for a man of your class."
Mainwaring shook his head ruefully. "There are a number of things I'm going to miss around here, Frank, " he said, perhaps purposely intensifying his drawl, "but I confess you won't be among them. Be sure Jack has all the paperwork and formulas ready for me in the morning, y' hear? Assumin' my partners and our chemists give their okay, I'll be back in eight or ten days. Meanwhile, I shall assume that you or Jack'll let me know if any problems crop up."
"Of course, Jason, old shoe, " Frank said. "But after two years and five hundred cases, I don't think you have to camp by the phone waiting to hear from us. Next to birth, death, and taxes, Serenyl is as close as life gets to a sure thing… And you know that, don't you."
Mainwaring's eyes narrowed. "What I know, " he said evenly, "is that this little tate-to-tate has gone on long enough."
Without offering his hand, the surgeon snapped up his briefcase and left. Not until the office door clicked shut did Frank's smile become more natural. In the interests of their deal, he had allowed the pompous ass to walk over him any number of times during the past two years. The son of a bitch even tried to tell him what music to listen to. Now, with the work completed and so successful, there was no longer any reason to defer to him, and Frank felt exhilarated that he hadn't. After years of operating in the shadows of men like Mainwaring and the Judge, it was time to start casting some shadows of his own. His life had finally turned the corner. He was a rising star in a powerful corporation, and soon he would have the independence and prestige that only money could bring. "God bless you, Serenyl," he murmured. Softly at first, then louder and louder, the familiar chant worked its way into his thoughts.
Frank, Frank, he's our man. If he can't do it, no one can… Four miles to the north, Suzanne Cole screamed and leapt up from the couch where she had been dozing. A vicious, searing pain had exploded through her chest from beside her right breast. Bathe in a chilly sweat, she tore open her blouse and ripped apart the clasps on her bra. The scar from her surgery was red, but not disturbingly so, and the tissue beneath it was not the least bit tender. Still, the pain had been like nothing she had ever experienced before. Desperately, she searched her cloudy thoughts for some logical medical explanation. Perhaps a neuritis, she reasoned-the single, violent electrical discharge from a regenerating nerve. Yes, of course, a neuritis. That had to be it. No other diagnosis made sense. Shaken, but relieved, she sank back onto the pillow. Then she checked her watch. Forty-five minutes. That was all she had napped.
She needed more than that-much more-if she was going to catch up with the sleep she kept losing every night. It was lucky she had taken time off after her surgery. The strain of the whole affair seemed to have taken more of a toll on her than she had anticipated. Slowly, her eyes closed. Perhaps she should get up and take something before she slipped off again. An aspirin or even some codeine. At least then, if the irritated nerve fired off again, the pain would be blunted. No, she decided. As long as she knew what it was, there was nothing to be frightened about. It had only lasted ten or twelve seconds, anyhow. If it happened again, she could handle it. For that short a time, she could handle almost anything. What she needed most was sleep. Relax…
Breathe deeply… Breathe deeply… Good… That's it… That's it … Now, she thought, as she drifted off, just what was it she had been dreaming about…?
CHAPTER TWELVE
The White Pines Golf Club course, designed by Robert Trent Jones, was the pride, joy, and status symbol of its select shareholders.
Sculpted along a narrow valley between two massive granite escarpments, the layout was short but exceedingly tight, and members still delighted in recalling the day in sixty-two when Sam Snead, playing an exhibition round from the championship tees, shot an eighty-six and lost two balls.
It was early Saturday afternoon, and for the first time in years, Zack was preparing to play a round of golf-his opponent, Judge Clayton Iverson. Zack had originally planned to spend the morning meeting with Jason Mainwaring and Jack Pearl, and then the rest of the day not between the granite cliffs, but on them, climbing with a small group from the local mountaineering club. However, Mainwaring had signed out for a week to Greg Ormesby, the only general surgeon remaining in Sterling, and Pearl, too, was away until Monday morning. And in truth, as much as Zack had been looking forward to making a climb, he was pleased with the chance to spend a few hours alone with his father for the first time since his return to Sterling. Typically, the Judge's invitation to play had been couched in words that made refusal difficult. He had also intimated that there might be more on his mind than just golf. There would be, he had made it quite clear, just the two of them, although whether Frank was unable to come or had not been invited, he did not say. Earlier in the day, after making rounds, thumbing once again through Toby Nelms's chart, and trying to locate Mainwaring and Pearl, Zack had spent an hour on the practice range. It had been a pleasant surprise to find that some vestige of his swing, developed over dozens of childhood lessons, remained. Like most sports that involve doing something with a ball, golf had never held any great fascination for him. But the rolling fairways, perfectly manicured greens, and even the sprawling Tudor clubhouse with its shaded veranda and oriental rugs, had always brought him a certain serenity, especially on warm, cloudless, summer afternoons. "So, Zachary, " Clayton Iverson said as they approached the first tee, "just how interesting should we make it?"
He was dressed in white slacks, a gold L'Coste shirt, and his trademark-brown and white saddle golf shoes. Although he could hardly be said to be in shape, he carried his husky bulk with the easy grace of a natural athlete. Set off by a gnarled thicket of pure silver hair, his tanned, weathered face exuded confidence and authority. "That depends on how badly you need money, Judge," Zack said, knowing that it was both fruitless and in bad form to argue with his father against a wager of some sort. "Well, then, suppose we make it, say, a dollar a hole with carryovers? I'll give you a stroke on the par fives and the two long par fours."
"Let's see Zack made the pretext of counting on his fingers. "Eighteen dollars. I guess I can handle that. Okay, sir, a dollar a hole it is. I assume you'll take it easy on me, as always."
The Judge set his ball on the tee and looked up at his son with a predatory smile. "Of course, " he said. "Just like always."
It was the most basic truth of the man's relationship with his sons, and almost a standing joke among them over the years, that he had never given them even the slightest quarter in anything competitive, whether gin rummy, at which he was a vicious profiteer, golf, or even business.
Victories were to be earned, or not to be had, loans of even the smallest amounts of money were invariably accompanied by IOUS and were to be paid back in full, and always with some interest. Zack knew that on this day, as always, not one punch would be pulled, not one edge given away. T'he Judge's drive, to the genteel applause of a dozen or so onlookers, split the fairway and rolled to a stop well past the discreet two-hundred-yard marker. Aware that he often felt less tension operating on a brain tumor than he did at that moment, Zack shanked his drive into the goldfish pond. "I hope you don't have any pressing engagements, Judge, " he said, teeing up another ball. "We could be here for a while."
"Slow your backswing and drop your left shoulder a bit," his father said. Zack did as was suggested and hit a bullet that bounced almost on top of the Judge's ball and then rolled several yards beyond. "Thanks for the help, " he whispered, tipping an imaginary cap in response to the applause from the small gallery. "Enjoy it, " the Judge said as they walked off the tee. "At a buck a hole, that's all you get."
By the end of the front nine, Zachary was seven dollars behind and was ettiniz blisters on the sides of both heels from his decade-old golf shoes. Still, the afternoon was warm and relaxing, and he was enjoying a seldom-experienced sense of connection to his father, born largely, it seemed, of casual snippets of conversation and brief flashes to afternoons, long past, like this one. Clayton Iverson had asked about his new practice and shared a few anecdotes from the courtroom, but otherwise had given no real indication that there were any items on the afternoon's agenda other than golf. Following a brief stop in the clubhouse for a beer, the Judge dropped off the motorized cart he had used on the front nine and arrived at the tenth tee pulling his clubs on a two-wheeled aluminum caddy. "I need the exercise, " he explained. "And besides, with me riding and you walking and chasing those shots of yours all over hell and gone, it didn't seem like we had much chance to talk out there."
"Very witty, Judge, " Zachary said. "Well, just watch the out. To quote the words of General Custer at the Little Big Horn, We have not yet begun to fight."
He led off the tenth hole with a decent drive, but his father's shot, sliced badly, flew far to the right and disappeared into a bank of tall rough. While they were scuffling through the heavy grass looking for the ball, the Judge waved the foursome behind them to play through. "If we don't find it by the time those four have putted out, I'll drop one."
"Fair enough."
Zack wondered briefly about the amicable concession, which was out of character for the man. "Zachary, tell me something, " the Judge went on, still searching through the rough. "Have you encountered any problems with Ultramed since you started working at the hospital?"
Flashback Page 19
