Critical Condition

by Peter Clement

  But not back then.

  She'd noticed early on the special smile Jim Norris kept slipping her during drinks as he explained to her and the others what he had in mind. He sat beside her, and she reciprocated his show of interest, gently laying a hand on his forearm whenever laughing at his jokes or asking him to pass her something. She knew he was at least fifteen years older than her, but his lean body and weatherworn features gave him a robust look that interested her, even if it might just be for a one-time romp between the sheets.

  Why not? she'd thought. Men her own age weren't worth the bother, even for casual encounters. They seemed to be between divorces or finally wanting to settle down. Either way, once they got a taste of her lifestyle— twelve-hour workdays and being on call one in five— they dumped her for women with more time on their hands. She had left the restaurant with Norris that night, expecting nothing more than a little fun.

  "You're a magnificent fuck," he'd told her after they had exhausted themselves in her bed.

  "You sound surprised."

  "Well, it's so at odds with your image at work."

  "My ice-queen persona?"

  "I didn't want to say it, but yes."

  "It keeps the wolves from the door."

  "Ah, you don't like hospital romances?"

  "Despise them. All that gossip."

  "Aha! So you listen to gossip, do you? I can't be bothered. But since you're a devotee, what have you heard about me?"

  "That you're a notorious womanizer."

  "And now that you know me?"

  "I'm praying you won't be a scoundrel and let our secret out."

  "Well, that all depends if you'll see me again."

  And so it had started.

  But over the next weeks it was his maverick intellect and rebellious spirit, not mutual lust that lured her much closer to him than she'd ever counted on.

  "Damn him," she said, walking back into the closet to the line of shoes she kept on the rear wall, and angrily picking up a pair to go with her dress. She never should have become involved with the man, she told herself for the one-thousandth time. Everything seemed so right at first, and had gone so damn wrong.

  Stepping in front of her mirror, she thought about what she'd say at tonight's meeting. Paul Edwards hadn't spelled anything out this afternoon when he phoned and summoned her to be at Lauzon's for eight o'clock, but his voice had the glassy hardness it got whenever he intended to ram what he wanted down everyone else's throat. "Well, good luck," she muttered, having already made up her own mind what to do. But could she count on anyone backing her?

  Lockman would be the weasel he always was.

  Norris wouldn't flinch from his original plan, holding as fast to it as he had from day one.

  That left Adele Blaine. Maybe she'd be the sensible one.

  Dark-haired, average in height, and ebony-skinned, she was so lithe that she was often mistaken for a dancer when she was off the premises of her institute. The Adele Blaine Residential Treatment Center occupied a lavishly renovated building on the upper East Side. In it she'd amassed enough Laura Ashley interiors, potted plants, and computerized rehabilitation equipment to rival any pricey workout emporium in town. But there was a difference: Her domain was the designer equivalent of a revival tent where the lame walked and cripples threw away their crutches.

  "Do you know why I'm so great at what I do, honey?" she'd once asked Francesca when they were seated together during one of the group's more boozy dinners. "It's not the glitzy veneer of my place. I just play the high-society battle-ax because it's good for business. Puts the HMOs and everyone else on notice that they can't nickel-and-dime my black ass to death. No, my secret— and don't tell anybody, or you'll spoil my reputation as a hardnose— is I got a real passion for seeing past the wrecked bodies I inherit from the hospital and seizing on what they can still do. Then I trick the inhabitants of those ruined mortal trappings into believing it's possible. Once that happens, my charges work their butts off, and more often than not, whatever is the 'it' of their objective comes true. So there."

  Francesca never had any qualms about sending her patients to the institute because, whatever the woman's "tricks" were, they must be sound, because she got post-op cardiacs back into form better than anyone. Hopefully she'd be just as practical about the business at hand tonight and see things Francesca's way.

  Turning from the mirror, she rejected the thin belt that came with her outfit and chose instead the widest gold-emblazoned one she had. "You better go along with me, Blaine," she murmured, cinching it tight around her waist. "Because no one is going to take Wonder Woman down!"

  "Goddamn it, Tony, you and Norris had no business taking Sullivan on without speaking to us first," Paul Edwards, chief of gynecology, was screaming when Francesca opened the door.

  He abruptly stopped, and four faces flushed with extreme emotion swung and gaped at her.

  She made her way to one of the two remaining places at the table. Edwards made a show of looking at his watch. "You could have been on time."

  "I'm sorry, but it was hell to get a taxi tonight—"

  "And Where's lover boy?" Edwards added.

  She felt her cheeks grow hot. "If it's Dr. Norris you're referring to, I have no idea."

  His lips parted as if he were about to say something more, yet he remained silent as she took her seat. His mouth always struck Francesca as ironically small compared to the size of the loose jowls and pudgy features surrounding it. Despite his being well past fifty, he reminded her of the baby picture on a popular brand of infant formula. Which seemed fitting she supposed, since he made his living by bringing the little cherubs into the world.

  "Shall we order," she suggested, "to gather our strength?"

  They rang for the waiter and expeditiously handled the process. White and red wines were brought in and poured, then they were alone again.

  "I acted in the best interest of us all!" Hamlin said, picking up where they'd left off when Downs had arrived. He was on her left, and she could feel the anger coming off him. "If Sullivan lives—""Lives!" Edwards's voice immediately hit the decibels she'd heard coming in. "We've all seen her, Tony. She's a gorked, spastic, heart-lung preparation—"

  "You didn't examine her—"

  "And you didn't think! Trying to coerce Steele into helping us, I never heard anything so crazy in my life."

  "But how else can we cover up the DOAs—"

  "He's put me in more jeopardy than he has you, Paul," interrupted Adele Blaine, ignoring Hamlin even though she sat directly opposite him. "Hell, I'm the one who'll have to take her into rehab. Once she's in my institute, I'm implicated. My name's right there on her chart along with our genius neurosurgeon." She slapped her hand on the table with such a smack, Lockman, seated beside her, flinched. "So if he gets caught, I'm in for it, too, goddamn it!" She downed the remains in her wineglass, and finally turned her gaze on Hamlin. "And as for your idea of telling Steele anything, Tony, that's even stupider than what you've already pulled. I'm with Paul, and say no way!"

  Even with the width of the table separating them, her ferocity made the white-haired surgeon cringe away from her. But it didn't diminish the anger in his eyes. "What I did, my dear Adele, was a miraculous piece of surgery on a woman who would otherwise have died—"

  "Better she had, Tony honey, than the can of worms you opened up—"

  "Desperate measures for a desperate problem, Adele. We've all made that call as doctors. This is no different. Sure I took a chance, but everything is absolutely under control. I can keep her drugged until even she will think it was all a hallucination, and for the moment Steele will do what I say, which is keep away from her."

  "How can you be sure of that—"

  "Because he got himself reported to Ingram for his trying to question the woman—"

  "Ingram!" interrupted Edwards. "He's involved now? Oh, my God, this is out of control."

  Blaine looked as if she were about to fly across the table at Ham
lin.

  Downs felt her own heart start to race.

  "No, no," the neurosurgeon said, flapping his hands at everyone to settle down. "It's Steele who's on the carpet. He's even begging me to smooth the whole thing over with Ingram, and in return has promised to stay away from Sullivan. It couldn't be better."

  Blaine rolled her eyes to the ceiling. "Mother of God!" she muttered, just as a discrete knock sounded at the door, which immediately opened so that two waiters could serve them. That done, Blaine said. "Hamlin, you're out of your mind."

  Lockman leaned his pointed face toward hers. "I told him he shouldn't say a word to Steele."

  "Oh, shut up, Lockman. You and Norris both ought to be shot for having gone along with helping him do Sullivan in the first place." Swinging her fury back to Hamlin, she added, "Let me tell you something else, fool! You've been taking far too many risks from the beginning, what with that asshole technique of yours."

  "Couldn't agree with you more, Adele," said Edwards. He turned toward Downs. "And why Norris also went along with him yesterday, I just don't understand. I mean, if anyone should have known better—"

  "Shouldn't you be saying this to Dr. Norris yourself?" she interrupted, refusing to let him or any of them use her as a conduit to Jimmy. It wouldn't be the first time. They seemed to think it went with the turf of her having slept with him, and she resented it. Piss off and deal with the man face-to-face, Francesca wanted to scream at them. She wasn't his keeper or anything of his now, but she'd be damned if she would reveal such a personal thing about herself.

  "We'd like to know where you stand first, honey," said Blaine, reaching for one of the open bottles of red wine. She poured herself a refill, then swallowed a third of it in a single gulp.

  This business was getting to her, Downs thought.

  Edwards delved into the fillet of sole that sat in front of him. "Yes, Francesca. What do you think?"

  No one else showed the slightest interest in their food.

  Hamlin glared hard enough at the middle ground of the table to set it on fire.

  Lockman, always one to gang up on whoever he sensed was about to be picked on by the rest, joined the other two in locking their sights on Downs.

  "What do I think? I think I was on cloud nine until Hamlin's patients started to die," she told them, speaking as if the neurosurgeon weren't even in the room. Hamlin leapt to his feet. "Jesus Christ, I've had it with the lot of you! Like it or not we set out to save lives, and that's what I'm trying to do with Kathleen Sullivan. Now if any of you have a way to protect our work other than forcing Richard Steele to cover for us, then tell me now."

  No one answered.

  As if for good measure he went around the circle, fixing each with a good dose of venom from those black eyes of his. Lockman looked away. Edwards and Blaine gave back as good as they got. Francesca went on watching the others, still trying to pay the neurosurgeon no attention, but it was like attempting to ignore a volcano.

  "Then as far as I'm concerned the matter's settled," Hamlin said, exuding the authority of a man used to imposing his will at meetings. He threw down his napkin as if it were a gauntlet, and strode from the room. His white hair streaming after him reminded Francesca of an era when another of the men present would have met him at dawn by the East River to mark off twenty paces and use their pistols.

  "He's up shit's creek, whatever he does," she said the instant he slammed the door behind him. "By trying to cover up he'll only make matters worse, for him, his patients, and us. As for Steele, you know as well as I do that he's sharp as a whip. But I've probably dealt with him more than any of you over cardiac cases in Emergency, so I've seen for myself how the man won't back off once he gets a whiff of something not quite right. Throw into the mix that Sullivan's his lover, and I think we've got a real problem hurtling right at us. In fact, I've been figuring maybe it's time we all cut our losses and came clean."

  Blaine paused, her wineglass halfway to her lips. Edwards's full fork dangled from his hand. Lockman's little eyes bored into hers. Their faces seemed to hang off them in disbelief.

  "Look," Francesca continued, "I'm getting downright fed up with Hamlin trying to tie his fuckup to us. I didn't kill his patients. And you know my situation's precisely the opposite of his. The technique I used on the cardiacs was exactly the same procedure I'd have elected to follow even if we had approval, not some untested improvisation. My success rates stand for themselves."

  "Hey!" Edwards said. "Don't get any ideas about paring yourself off and somehow avoiding the hammer here, Francesca. If Hamlin goes down, I go down. So does Adele, Lockman, and your boyfriend, Norris. Speaking of whom, does he know you're thinking this way, or is it a surprise you're planning to spring on him?"

  "You asked me what I thought. I told you."

  "Well, here's what I think," the portly man continued. "We're in the same mess together, period. I hear talk like yours, and I start getting afraid that maybe someone's considering making a deal with the cops, going after immunity in return for tossing the rest of us to the wolves. I warn you, I'll no more let that happen than I'll let Hamlin reveal our little secret to Steele." His teeth chiseled sharp edges onto the words, and his eyes grew hard as flints.

  Francesca felt her cheeks grow hot for the second time that evening.

  Blaine carefully set her drink back on the table, folded her hands in front of her as if she were about to say grace, and gave a tight smile. "That's right, sweetie. Don't get any ideas about playing Miss Goody Two-shoes on us. Besides, there's a little matter of your having helped Hamlin modify those customized catheters from the heart lab that he uses."

  "I never touched a patient with them—"

  "You aided and abetted, honey, with full knowledge of what he intended. I'm no lawyer, but you're definitely no Snow White. And may I remind you, whatever scheme you might work out with the police, you'll be finished as a doctor, for life. I'll personally offer testimony to make sure of that."

  The heat in Francesca's cheeks spread to the rest of her face, and sweat formed on the skin between her shoulder blades. She struggled not to lunge at the woman. Blaine smirked, apparently content with the obvious discomfort she'd caused, and took a triple swallow from her wineglass.

  "You've both given me an idea how we can deal with that pompous jerk Hamlin," said Edwards after a few seconds of arctic silence, "and Steele, if necessary . . ."

  A half hour later Blaine was downing her fourth glass of wine. Edwards scowled at his half-eaten fish, shoved it aside, and joined her in ordering a drink. Lockman looked nervously from one to the other, as if unsure who to side with.

  Francesca excused herself, found a toilet, and threw up. Rinsing her mouth out at the sink, she studied her drawn face in the mirror. The thought of rotting in a cell, her life as a doctor over, left her trembling.

  Returning to her table, she saw a man at the bar watching as she passed, his eyes moving sideways like marbles in a slot. Any other time she wouldn't have given his stare a second thought. These days the sight of anyone singling her out was enough to set off her fears that somebody had discovered her secret. That Edwards and Blaine had already made their own deal with the cops to save their skins. That the police had her under surveillance. That they were about to lead her away in handcuffs. Whoa, girl, she told herself, marshaling the same iron discipline she'd used for over a decade to keep her nerves steady in the OR. I can't afford to be paranoid right now.

  The man went back to his drink.

  Chapter 5

  Monday, June 18, 8:15 a.m.

  Dr. Gordon Ingram leaned back in his chair after closing Kathleen Sullivan's chart. His dark suit was immaculate and, like all his other dark suits, had been selected to emphasize the leanness of his physique. Likewise his intellect hadn't an ounce of fat on it. And his prowess at sorting out ethical dilemmas was equaled by the formidable clinical skills he had honed during the decade he'd served as chief of ICU— until a heart attack felled him at the age of fort
y-two, only three years ago. Degrees and commemorative plaques honoring the superb quality of his work during that portion of his career filled the wall behind his desk. They were testimony to his suitability for the other half of his current job— sniffing out other people's screwups. Hanging above the gallery of his own accomplishments was a framed poster with red printing that read INCOMPETENCE KILLS.

  Otherwise his small office was spare, containing no personal mementos and not even a plant. What items the hospital had issued him— a utilitarian metal desk with a modest computer, a laminated bookshelf in imitation oak, and a pair of distinctly uncomfortable visitor's chairs covered with black Naugahyde— were at the low end of the status continuum. There were even snide jokes told behind hands about Ingram decorating the place in "early police station," all the better for "questioning suspects." But nobody felt much like laughing when they found themselves seated across from him, accounting for complaints that had been leveled against their work, or worse, trying to explain away mistakes that he'd discovered during one of his infamous random chart audits. As usual, Ingram delivered his penetrating stare that could unsettle both liars or innocents and exuded the contented aura of a man who liked his work. Liked it too much, as far as Tony Hamlin, the person currently seated across the desk from him, was concerned.

  "I agree with you," Ingram said. "What happened with Dr. Steele was obviously a lapse of judgment, but it certainly doesn't merit an official inquiry. Clearly the man is too emotionally involved, but that's understandable."

  "Thanks, Gordon," Hamlin said, greatly relieved that he'd headed off Ingram before the big snoop could look too closely at Sullivan's case. "Which nurse reported the incident? I'd like to have a word with her, to point out that I merely threatened official action against Steele to drive home that he must follow orders this time. She'd no right to follow through on her own."

  "Sorry, Tony. You know my rules. Anybody who comes forward to report potentially unethical behavior is guaranteed anonymity."