The Network

by L. C. Shaw

  I shake my head.

  “Of course not,” she says. “And you would find it absurd if a male patient refused to let you examine him because you are a woman.” Her hand sweeps across the room. “It is no different here. This is where you all sleep, no matter your sex.” Then she laughs. “Trust me, at the end of the day, the only thing that will be on your mind is sleep.”

  * * *

  Today is the first day of classes. We are awakened early, though I don’t know the exact time, as I no longer have my watch. There are about thirty of us in the room, and I dress silently in my black jumpsuit and slippers, averting my eyes to avoid looking at the other half-naked bodies in the room and hoping they are doing the same. Despite my conversation with Evelyn, I am still unnerved to be quartered with the men and didn’t sleep well last night. I whisper to Amelia, the woman assigned to the cot next to me. “Don’t you think they should separate the men from the women?”

  She doesn’t turn to look at me but casts a glance in my direction out of the corner of her eye and answers, her words barely audible, “Shh. They’ll hear you.”

  I bite back my retort, disappointed to realize that she’s a rule follower, and that I won’t be finding any companionship in her. We were told during initiation to keep to ourselves and focus on one thing only—being chosen as one of the final twenty. The competition is going to be fiercer than anything we’d experienced at medical school. Our ability to display a singular focus and to shut out everything around us is one of the things we will be judged on. I can see that Amelia is as serious as I am about being admitted to phase two.

  The bell rings, and we walk single file behind our training coordinator to begin a day filled with lectures. I am excited, wondering when I will get to meet him. We are taken in groups of five to the elevator and back up six floors, where we are ushered into a classroom. It is nothing special, could be any classroom in any high school, with a large screen at the front. But then a man walks in the room, and I bite my cheek to refrain from gasping. It is him—Dr. Strombill. He is shorter than I expected, almost diminutive, and I wonder if this can be the man who has written with such passion and brilliance. He stands in front of us, silent, assessing, and seems to examine each of us before he finally opens his mouth to speak. When he does, all my doubts dissolve, and his passion is so palpable I almost believe I can reach out and touch it.

  “Welcome. The fact that you are here is evidence of your extraordinary talent and dedication.” His Austrian accent is slight, melodic. “But more will be required. Innovation. Three-dimensional thinking. You must be able to see into the future and stride into the unknown. You have spent years being indoctrinated into the established way of viewing medicine. But we are to revolutionize the face of medicine, to see the big picture and make the difficult decisions that will advance medicine and treatment far above where it is today.”

  He walks from the front of the room, pushes a tape into the VCR and presses play. Without another word he turns off the lights. The screen comes alive, and we are looking at an older man lying in a hospital bed. I watch as the man on the screen gasps and wheezes in a vain attempt to get air into his lungs. His sallow skin is stretched tautly over his skeletal face, and his pained grimace reveals brown teeth. He croaks out a hoarse request.

  “Nurse.” It comes out as a whisper.

  His bony fingers press repeatedly on the call button as a look of distress fills his face. When there is no response, he sags backward, and his head hits the pillow in despondent resignation. The nurse finally appears, then frowns when she sees that the sheets are wet. She sighs.

  “Let’s get you cleaned up, Mr. Smith. Lemme get some help in here.”

  Two medical aides appear with another bed, and together they move the frail body into it. The man she called Mr. Smith grimaces in agony as they jostle him, and he cries out.

  “Leave me in peace! Why can’t someone make the pain stop?” His anguished cries are punctuated with bouts of coughing and gasping.

  The screen goes black, and light floods the room.

  “What you have just seen can be prevented.” Dr. Strombill leans forward and peers over the dais at the students in the front row.

  His voice rises. “You must be the voice of that poor man. It is up to you to make sure that a human being does not endure that kind of suffering. It is your moral imperative, your sacred duty as doctors, as purveyors of mercy, to spare your patients from this degree of pain and indignity.”

  He scans the faces and looks pleased. “Who of us wants to spend our last days on earth filled with pain, fighting in vain for every breath? No. It is indecent. We cannot allow people to linger indefinitely until their disease-ridden bodies finally give up and free them from their torment and anguish.”

  A timid hand waves.

  “Yes, you.” He points at Amelia.

  “What is the alternative? If we don’t give any treatment, the patient will still suffer from the effects of the disease.”

  He looks at her, and a frown pulls at his mouth. “I assume you have heard of euthanasia?”

  A look of shock appears on her face. “Are you suggesting that we actually kill people? Put them down like dogs?”

  “And are you suggesting that a dog has more right to compassion than a human being? What is the benefit in prolonging the life of someone who will be left with nothing but pain and indignity?”

  I hold my breath. Can’t she see she’s making him angry?

  Her cheeks are flushed. “But it’s illegal.”

  He walks toward her. “It is now. But that is changing, and we must lead the charge.”

  “But sometimes a terminal patient does recover. How are we to know which are hopeless cases and which are not?” She looks around the room, waiting, I think, for someone to come to her defense. No one does.

  Dr. Strombill’s cheeks grow red, and a vein throbs in his forehead. He shakes a finger at her.

  “That is what is wrong with this country. Overindulged children who grow up to be spoiled adults. The world does not have at its disposal the resources to squander on lost causes. Have you considered the financial and emotional toll on the family? Do you have any idea how difficult it is to watch someone you love wither before your eyes until they are nothing but an empty shell?” Spittle flies from the corners of his mouth, and his eyes are slits.

  Every eye in the room is on her. With tears streaming down her face, she stumbles to her feet and runs to the door, leaving her notebook on the desk.

  Dr. Strombill turns back to the class. “She won’t be needing this anymore.” He knocks the book to the floor. “I trust no one else has any questions?”

  Chapter Fourteen

  JACK TOOK BACK ROADS TO HIS SISTER’S HOUSE IN NEWTON and they arrived at eight o’clock. They stopped behind a pickup truck parked in front of a Cape Cod.

  “That’s it?” Taylor asked.

  “Yeah. Time to ditch the Mustang.”

  “Aren’t you going to at least go in and see Sarah?”

  He shook his head. “We need to keep moving. And I don’t want to involve her any more than necessary.” He hesitated a moment. “She did ask me to give you her love.” Taylor and his older sister had always liked each other growing up.

  They quickly moved everything from the car to the white Chevy pickup truck; then Jack told Taylor to get behind the wheel of the truck. Beau jumped out of the Mustang and went with Taylor.

  “Follow me,” Jack instructed.

  She drove behind him until they reached the Charles River, where they pulled into a secluded clearing set back from the road, and she put the truck in park and got out.

  “What are you doing?” she cried at the sight of him positioning his beloved Mustang on the precipice of the hill, aimed at the river below.

  “Got to get rid of it or they’ll know where we are. I can’t very well leave it at my sister’s and implicate her.”

  “Oh, Jack! You love this car. You’ve spent hours and hours working on
it and now you’ve got to get rid of it because of me.”

  “It’s not your fault.”

  “If Malcolm hadn’t involved you in this, we wouldn’t be here right now.”

  “Don’t blame yourself” was all he said. He couldn’t bring himself to admit what he was really thinking: she would never have married Phillips if Jack hadn’t been such a fool.

  She turned around and placed a hand on the roof of the car.

  “I still remember when you brought it home. Your father had a fit, said it was a death trap.” She laughed. “By the time you were finished with it, he loved it almost as much as you did.”

  He swallowed the lump in his throat. His best memories with his father, whom a heart attack had taken right after his fiftieth birthday, were because of this car. Their Saturday mornings working on it were the only times the two had really connected.

  Taylor looked at Jack. “Do you really have to get rid of it? Can’t we hide it somewhere?”

  He shook his head. “No, it has to be this way.” He stood straighter. “It’s just a car. Step back.”

  Taylor took a last look, squeezed his hand, and stood back.

  He leaned down and pushed. The car ran slowly down the hill until it reached the water. Jack held his breath as it began to sink, and when it was no longer visible, he opened his mouth and exhaled. Time to keep moving.

  “Keep an eye out while I do one more thing.” He walked to the front of the truck and opened the hood. After a few minutes, he returned, holding a small chip.

  “What’s that?”

  “A device placed on all cars made after 2000. It’s an internal GPS, so that the car can be located. The government’s been installing them on cars ever since 9/11. Of course, the dealers have turned it to their advantage. They sell it as a way to find your car if it’s stolen. What they don’t tell you is that it’s automatically on every car anyway.”

  Taylor studied Jack. “And you know this how?”

  He shrugged. “If I told you, I’d have to—”

  “Not funny,” she interrupted.

  “A few years back, I took a break from life and did a piece on the cartel kidnappings in Colombia. I got a job as a bodyguard, made some connections with some other guys who worked in security. One was ex-military intelligence. Let’s just say I learned a lot.”

  She was looking at him like he’d lost his mind.

  “You took a break from life by going to Colombia and protecting people from drug lords? Don’t you need training for something like that? Why would they hire a journalist?”

  “Aw shucks. Thanks for the vote of confidence.” He gave her a wry smile.

  “You know what I mean.”

  He didn’t want to get into all of it with her. “I do have a black belt, and I took one of those civilian training courses.”

  “To train as a bodyguard?”

  “Something like that. I needed to do something different for a while.” He didn’t tell her that it was what saved his sanity, that if he hadn’t been able to get out of the country, away from everything and everyone he knew, he probably wouldn’t have made it.

  Her eyes widened. “Was this after . . .” She couldn’t bring herself to say it.

  He looked away and started the truck. “Let’s hit it.”

  After an uncomfortable silence, Taylor finally spoke. “How long till we get to the cabin?”

  “Maybe three hours.”

  She ran a hand through her hair. “I hope there’s running water. I’m in desperate need of a shower.”

  Jack nodded. “It’ll have everything we need.”

  “Jack, listen. I really need to get word to my dad that we’re okay.”

  “There’ll be an untraceable phone waiting there for us.”

  “Good.”

  “But, Taylor, I’m not so sure anything you say to him will make him feel okay about your being with me.”

  She raised her eyebrows. “I’ll make it clear that it’s temporary. He knows I would never be with you again.” Her tone was sharp, and she turned in her seat toward the window, as if she couldn’t get far enough away from him.

  An hour later, Jack realized they were low on gas and pulled into a rest stop. His sister had probably been so busy with the arrangements for Taylor that she’d forgotten to fill up the truck. Sarah had tucked the progesterone oil with a supply of alcohol packets and syringes in the glove compartment, though, and now Jack followed Taylor into the cramped bathroom, arousing looks of curiosity and a few disapproving glares, so that he could give her the shot. The thick viscous liquid necessitated a large-gauge needle, and Jack cringed looking at the size of it.

  “I’m used to it, Jack. It’s no big deal.”

  She winced as the needle went in, and he slowly plunged the needle into the area right above her buttock. She rubbed the spot, then gamely smiled and thanked him for helping her.

  They grabbed some bottles of water and granola bars and got back on the road. Jack reached into the bag behind him and took out two canisters of Mace, which he handed to Taylor. He wished Taylor knew how to use a gun, but there was no way he could bring her up to speed that quickly.

  “Keep these with you. You never know when they’ll come in handy. Maybe if I’d given them to you sooner, that guy wouldn’t have been able to grab you.”

  She took them and put one in her purse, the other in her jacket pocket. “Thanks.” She went back to reading the bill on the laptop, but after a while, he saw she’d leaned her head back and fallen asleep. She was snoring, and he chuckled to himself. She would die of embarrassment if she knew. His attraction to her was still strong, and though it had made him feel like a heel, he had enjoyed the glimpse of her slim hips when he gave her the shot. Being with her again made him wonder, for the thousandth time, how he had ever walked away from her. He had sacrificed her happiness as well as his own, and he hadn’t even had the guts to tell her himself. It still shocked him to remember how selfish he’d been.

  After the art show, he had gone home and berated himself for flirting with Dakota. What was wrong with him? He was in love with Taylor—she’d been the only one for him from the time he was old enough to think about girls that way. Their relationship was storybook—next-door neighbors since childhood, high school sweethearts. So when there was a buzz on his intercom at 3:00 a.m., he should’ve known better than to answer it. Half-asleep, he pushed the button, and her throaty voice floated into his room.

  “Hey, Jack. Whatcha doing?”

  “Sleeping,” he’d mumbled.

  A laugh came over the speaker. “The night is young. Buzz me up, I have champagne.”

  Against his better judgment, he had. He’d intended to tell her that he was involved already, then send her on her way.

  She’d walked into his apartment, gone straight to the kitchen, opened the cabinet, and gotten two glasses, all like she’d lived there forever. She poured them each some champagne, leaning against his counter, her full lips shiny with gloss, just begging to be kissed.

  He took the glass from her and threw it back in one gulp.

  “Listen, Dakota. I like you, but I’m—”

  She moved toward him and put a finger on his lips. “Shh.” He caught a whiff of her perfume, something spicy, musky.

  And then they were kissing, and he was lifting her shirt off. The whole thing felt like a dream, and he half expected to wake up in the morning alone. When the bright light of day shone through the curtains, he’d realized with a sinking feeling that he’d screwed up. Seeing the long, red hair fanned out on the pillow next to him—the pillow where Taylor’s head should have been resting—made him sick with guilt. He’d never been with anyone but Taylor before that night. Dakota had rolled over and looked at him, the expression in her eyes taking his breath away. There was something in those eyes that said, I know you—you belong with me, and he was torn in two, paralyzed by confusion. She closed the space between them, folding her body into his, and he felt himself respond. Like a drug, he had
wanted more, needed more, and there was no turning back.

  After that, he and Dakota became inseparable. He was bewitched. She was fascinated by everything Jack had to say, loved to read his articles, would look at him like he was the only person in the world.

  After a month, he still hadn’t told Taylor. He didn’t know how. For the first time in his life, he lied to her and told her he would be away on assignment on the weekend of her next planned visit. He knew he had to break the news, but how?

  He had planned on going up to Boston on Friday and telling her in person. Dakota was cooking dinner when he mentioned it.

  “I need to tell Taylor about us.”

  She’d turned from the counter and sat down across from him, taking his hand in hers.

  “Of course. Do you want me to go out for a while, so you can talk in private?”

  He rubbed her hand. “No, I have to do it face-to-face. I owe her that.”

  A frown marred her face, and her lips turned up in a tight smile. She withdrew her hand and stood, turning her back to him. “Oh. When are you planning on going?”

  Jack came up behind her and wrapped his arms around her waist. “Don’t be mad. We have a long history together. I can’t just call her up and tell her I’ve fallen in love with someone else.”

  She turned around and pressed against him, cupping his face in her hands. “I know. But I can’t stand the thought of losing you.”

  “You’re not going to lose me. Not ever.”

  “Of course, you have to go. I was just having a moment.” Her tone became light. “I would expect nothing less from you, my knight in shining armor.”

  He smiled, relieved, and she reached out and grabbed his hand.

  “Dinner won’t be ready for another half an hour. I know what I want for an appetizer.”

  They fell on the sofa together, limbs tangled, lips locked, and he could think of nothing else but the way she made him feel.

  When Dakota got the phone call on Thursday inviting them to a last-minute anniversary celebration in Las Vegas for her aunt and uncle that weekend, he’d modified his plans and made arrangements to go up to Boston the following weekend instead.