Storm Island: A Kate Pomeroy Mystery (The Kate Pomeroy Gothic Mystery Series Book 1)

by Linda Watkins

  I shook my head. “Hear what? All I heard was my phone going off. And, if you don’t mind, let go of my arm. You’re hurting me.”

  He dropped my arm like he’d been touched with a red-hot poker.

  “Sorry,” he mumbled, then stood aside to let me pass.

  Once out in the hallway, I double-timed it to the elevators. Whatever was going on, I wanted nothing to do with it. If Conway was taking kick-backs from Big Pharma, more power to him. It wasn’t my business.

  On my way to the first floor, I texted Seth that I was back on service, then checked my messages. Nothing urgent appeared. I was due in clinic in another twenty minutes, so I decided to grab a quick shower before my first patient.

  As I stood under the hot spray, I wondered if Conway had bought my act or if I’d now have to watch my back from here on out. Residents are vulnerable and Conway was an attending and Vice-Division Chief. In a war of words, his would be gospel and mine would be toast.

  As I quickly toweled off and dried my hair, I decided to put it out of my mind for the time being. I had surgery in a couple of hours and needed all my faculties concentrated on one thing – Mr. Petersen’s gall bladder.

  Dressed in scrubs and a white lab coat, I pulled my long chestnut hair up into a bun and left the dressing area. I was due in the clinic in five minutes.

  As I approached the entrance, I felt a hand on my arm.

  “Dr. Pomeroy.”

  I turned. It was Alistair.

  He grinned, then pulled me into the supply closet outside the clinic. Reaching up and unpinning my hair, he leaned over and kissed my neck while his other hand moved over my body.

  “Mmmm,” he murmured as he pulled me close. “You smell like soap.”

  “And you smell like antiseptic,” I quipped as I reached up and draped my arms around his neck.

  He laughed, then slipped one hand under the top of my scrubs.

  I closed my eyes and tilted my head back expecting to be kissed.

  But, abruptly, he pulled away.

  “You’re going to be late for clinic,” he laughed.

  Then, without a word, he opened the closet door and walked down the hall.

  I watched him leave, trying to catch my breath. Hastily, I pulled my hair back up into a bun, and, noting the time, quickly hurried to the clinic.

  I was examining my third patient when the door swung open, surprising me.

  It was Alistair again.

  Smiling, he strode into the room. He was carrying a Starbucks cup and, after introducing himself to my patient, leaned against the wall.

  “Dr. Pomeroy, would you please present the patient to me.”

  I quickly reverted to “rounds” mode and rattled off a brief history and physical on the forty-five-year-old female I was examining. When I finished, Alistair nodded, then put the cup on the counter, stepped forward and completed the exam himself, thoroughly charming the woman.

  “Good work, Dr. Pomeroy,” he said. Then he turned toward the patient. “You’re in good hands, young lady. Dr. Pomeroy’s one of our best residents.”

  I grinned, surprised at the compliment. “Thank you, sir.”

  He winked at me and turned toward the door.

  “Dr. Redbone,” I said, pointing to the counter. “You forgot your coffee.”

  “Oh, that’s for you,” he replied. “A latté. Hope you enjoy it. See you in surgery.”

  Shaking my head in amazement, I focused my attention back on my patient. When I was finished, I picked up the Starbucks latté and left the room.

  I stopped at the nurses’ station, relaying some orders, then glanced down at the coffee cup I held in my hand. Such an unusual gesture from Alistair. Maybe he’s coming around…

  I put a halt to that thought before it went anywhere else and took a sip from the cup.

  Ah, mocha … my favorite.

  The Surgical Suite

  I QUICKLY FINISHED my few remaining patients, then headed for the O.R. As I scrubbed, I couldn’t help but think about the latté and how out of character Alistair’s gesture was.

  Maybe I am finally getting to him, I mused as I backed through the O.R. doors into the operating theater.

  Dr. Harvey, the anesthesiologist, was already in place and at work, putting Mr. Petersen under, as the scrub nurses prepped the incision site. Alistair was nowhere around, but this did not alarm me. He would make his entrance just before the surgery began so that all eyes were on him.

  I exchanged a couple of words with my patient, patting his hand, then, as his eyelids fluttered, turned to Dr. Harvey. “Let me know when he’s ready. His vitals look good.”

  “Will do, Dr. Pomeroy,” he responded. “Any minute now.”

  I smiled then glanced toward the double doors leading to the scrub room. Where was Alistair?

  Harvey gave me the go-ahead.

  “We’ll wait a couple of minutes longer,” I said.

  I didn’t need to say more, everyone in the room knew who we were waiting on.

  Five minutes passed. The O.R. team was getting antsy.

  Sighing, I turned toward the scrub nurse. “He probably had an emergency. We’ll begin. Scalpel, please.”

  I prepared to make the incision to remove Mr. Petersen’s gall bladder, but as I moved the knife toward his body, something strange began to happen.

  The room tilted ever so slightly.

  I blinked twice, holding my hand steady over the incision site. Everything looked normal. Again, I lowered my hand to cut.

  The room tilted again, this time more sharply. My body wavered as I tried to maintain my balance.

  “Dr. Pomeroy, is something wrong?”

  Those words, coming from the scrub nurse standing next to me, echoed menacingly around the room and, for a moment, I thought I could actually see them hanging in the air, drops of blood dripping from the final question mark. The walls were now undulating, moving in and out, and with each breath I took, the room became smaller and smaller. I gasped for air, afraid I would suffocate.

  The scalpel I was holding fell to the floor, clattering loudly, and I began to hyperventilate.

  “Make it stop,” I whispered, dropping to my knees. “Make it stop.”

  The nurse leaned over, trying to help me, but I pushed her off. I needed to get out of that room … out to the open air … away from those walls that were threatening to crush me.

  The swinging doors opened and someone strode into the room.

  “What’s going on here? What’s the matter with Pomeroy?”

  “We don’t know. She just collapsed and started muttering gibberish.”

  “Well, get her out of my operating room! And, do it now!”

  Hands grabbed at me.

  I tried to fight them off, but I was so dizzy my attempts were fruitless. They dragged me from the O.R. and the next thing I remembered was a needle being plunged into my arm.

  I woke up strapped to a bed in the Emergency Room.

  “Glad to see you back with us, Dr. Pomeroy.”

  I looked to my right. Walking toward me, grinning, was Dr. Conway, the psychiatrist.

  When he reached my bed, he took my hand, checking my pulse. Then peered into my eyes with his little pen light.

  “Pupils still dilated,” he said.

  “What’s going on?” I asked. “What happened to me?”

  “Why don’t you tell me?”

  “Can you unstrap me, please?”

  Conway smirked. “Not just yet. You fought us like a tiger. Tell me what happened and, after, maybe I’ll loosen the straps.”

  I glared at him, then took a deep breath. “Okay. I was getting ready to begin surgery on my patient when … now, this is going to sound bizarre … the room started moving.”

  I closed my eyes, remembering how the walls closed in on me causing irrational fear.

  “Go on, Dr. Pomeroy. What do you mean by the room moving?”

  “The … the walls began to move in and out, coming closer and closer. I got scared.
And, that’s about all I remember except that Dr. Redbone came in and ordered me out. I feel fine now.”

  Conway smiled. “Let me be the judge of that. I think you need some more rest. We’re going to run some tests, then admit you. But first, let’s give you a little something to help you sleep.”

  He pulled a syringe from his pocket and, before I had a chance to protest, injected whatever it held into my IV line.

  He barked some instructions to an orderly and, without further ado, as my consciousness faded away, my bed was wheeled out of the room.

  I found out later that, after leaving the E.R., I was taken to Radiology where all the appropriate x-rays and scans were performed. In addition, I had the usual routine laboratory tests. Dr. Conway was named my physician-of-record and, apparently, he did everything according to normal operating procedure.

  My father was informed of my status and I spent that night in a hospital bed on the Medical Ward, heavily sedated. The next day, Dad came to see me and told me that all my tests were negative and that, maybe, it was time to consider a psychogenic cause for my symptoms.

  “Well, what do you think?” he asked. “Shall we try that route?”

  I was sitting on the side of my bed, staring at the floor, my mind once again beset with sinister visions.

  “Katherine, I asked you a question. Can’t you hear me?”

  I didn’t answer, unable to comprehend what he was saying.

  My father moved in front of me and placed his hands on my shoulders, forcing me to look at him.

  “Katherine, answer me,” he demanded.

  “I can’t,” I finally whispered. “If I do, they’ll get me.”

  “Who’ll get you, Katherine? What are you talking about?”

  “They’re everywhere, Dad, and they’ll get me just like they got Mom.”

  At the mention of my mother, his grip on my shoulders tightened painfully and my fear escalated.

  “You’re being paranoid,” he said, sharply. “There’s no one out to get you. Now, snap out of it! You’re a physician for God’s sake!”

  His words shook me and I tried to pull myself together, but the walls, once again, began undulating and I was consumed by an irrational fear.

  I wrenched myself out of his grasp and ran for the door. I had to get out of there.

  “Katherine!” he shouted after me.

  I paid him no mind, threw open the door, and ran out of the room. Once in the hallway, I became confused. Everyone was staring at me. Terrified, I fell to the floor and curled myself into fetal position.

  Someone was screaming.

  I later found out it was me.

  My father knelt beside me, yelling at one of the nurses to page Dr. Conway, STAT.

  Conway arrived a few minutes later, trusty syringe in hand, and injected me with something to calm me down.

  The last thing I remember of that day is my dad holding me and saying over and over that everything was going to be okay and that I was in good hands.

  Then, without further ado, I was transferred to the Psych Unit.

  The Looney Bin

  THE NEXT FEW days were a blur. I continued to experience hallucinations like those that occurred in the O.R., only worse. I was kept isolated in a private room on the psych ward with no TV, radio, books, or magazines. When I was awake, which wasn’t often, I paced in an effort to keep the demons at bay. I vaguely remember my father coming to see me, his stern visage burned into what was left of my memory.

  A nurse came by frequently with my medications. I didn’t have the foggiest idea what they were giving me … in my lucid moments, the pills looked unfamiliar. I tried to refuse them, but the nurse wouldn’t take “no” for an answer.

  On what was either my fifth or sixth day there, my father returned. As Chief of Staff at Memorial, his presence on any ward could be likened to a visit from the Pope. I was semi-sedated but, out of the corner of my eye, could see Dad standing with Conway next to my bed. They made no effort to keep their voices down. Conway groveled and smiled as he explained his treatment plan to my dad.

  “Dr. Pomeroy,” he began. “It is my recommendation that Katherine be transferred to a full-service psychiatric facility. She has suffered a complete breakdown and her grasp on reality is slim.”

  My father took a deep breath. “An asylum? Is that what you’re suggesting?”

  Conway fidgeted nervously. “That’s kind of an outdated term, but, yes, an asylum. There’s a very nice facility just south of here, Riverside Psychiatric Hospital.”

  “And, you’re recommending shock therapy, too. Is that correct?”

  “Yes.”

  My father paced the room. “And, you’ve completed all the tests and found nothing organic? No brain lesion? Nothing?”

  Conway nodded. “I sent you the report from Neurology. She’s clean. I’m sure the scans can be made available, should you like to see them yourself.”

  My dad frowned. “That won’t be necessary. I’ve already gone over them. I’m going to call to Hal Bloomberg – he’s Chief of Neuro at Stanford – and see if he can take a look at the MRI and CT. Perhaps there’s something we missed.”

  “Good idea. But, if he can’t find anything, will you approve the transfer?”

  My father was silent for a moment. He glanced over to the bed where I lay, then turned back to Conway.

  “We’ll wait another five days. And, get her off all this medication. I want to see what she’s like when her brain’s not loaded with drugs. Are we clear on this, Conway?”

  Conway only hesitated a moment. “Crystal clear, sir. Five more days.”

  My father nodded, then abruptly turned and left the room.

  Conway watched him go, then walked over to my bed. I squeezed my eyes shut as he stared down at me.

  “Five days,” he murmured as he turned to go. “Then we’ll be rid of you for good.”

  After he’d left the room, I forced myself out of bed and began to pace in an effort to clear my head. As I walked, I tried to recall the conversation I had overheard in more detail.

  Riverside Psychiatric. I knew of that facility. It had the reputation of leaning heavily on a pharmaceutical approach to therapy with the occasional electro-shock thrown in. I knew that if I were transferred to that place, there would be little chance of my returning to the real world anytime soon.

  But my father had given me a reprieve – five days. And, he’d insisted I be taken off the drugs. That would help. But would it be enough?

  I continued pacing and thinking until an orderly brought my dinner tray. Beside the water glass were two pills … pills I now knew quite well. Conway was apparently not complying with my father’s directive.

  “Okay, Dr. Pomeroy,” said the orderly. “Take your meds, then I can leave you alone to eat.”

  I took a deep breath, then smiled at him, picked up the capsules, and tossed them into my mouth followed by a big swallow of water.

  He grinned. “Good girl. I’ll be back in twenty minutes for your tray.”

  As soon as he closed the door, I spit out the pills, which I had tucked under my tongue, and hid them under the mattress.

  Then I ate.

  After two days of hiding my meds, my mind was back. Of course, whenever Conway or one of the nurses were around, I kept up the pretense of being a blithering idiot. I hoped my father would come back and get me out of here, but he remained absent.

  On day three, I did get a visitor – Seth Rampling. I tried to hide my surprise from the orderly when he escorted my fellow resident into my room.

  The orderly handed Seth a communicator. “If she gets violent or even upset, you press the alarm button and we’ll come running.”

  Seth smiled as he stuffed the device in his lab coat pocket. “I think I can handle her. Now, may I have a few minutes with Dr. Pomeroy alone?”

  Reluctantly, the orderly nodded, then left the room, but I could tell by his expression he was not altogether sure he should be letting Seth stay alone with me. />
  Staring at the door for a moment, Seth then turned and sat down beside my bed.

  “Kate?” he asked. “Are you still in there?”

  I quickly put my finger to my lips. “Shhh,” I said. “They could be listening. I’m okay.”

  As soon as I spoke, I knew I sounded paranoid, so I quickly reached under my mattress and pulled out a handful of pills.

  “Take these,” I said. “These are the meds they’ve been forcing on me. Find out what they are. I don’t know what happened to me in that O.R., but I do know what’s been going on since I was admitted to this fucking ward. It’s these meds. I stopped taking them three days ago and, finally, I’m in control of my faculties again.”

  Seth stared at the pills. “They don’t look familiar. There’s no markings on them. Could they be experimental? Did they put you on a protocol?”

  I shook my head. “Not that I know of. And, I don’t think my father knows either. Get these pills, especially the black and white capsules, to Pharmacy. See if they can ID them. If they can’t, take them to my dad. And, Seth, this has to be done fast. They’re transferring me to Riverside Psych in forty-eight hours. Once I’m down that rabbit hole, I’m gone for good.”

  Seth nodded. “I’ll do it today. Are you going to be okay?”

  “Yeah, I’m good at faking insanity. Just find out and talk to my dad.”

  Again, he nodded, pocketing the pills.

  “Okay,” I said, grinning at him. “And thanks for coming by. You’re a lifesaver. Now, hit that alarm and let them think I pitched a fit, then hightail it to Pharmacy.”

  Seth grinned. “You got it.”

  I reached out and grabbed his hand and squeezed. “You’re my lifeline.”

  He squeezed back. “You ready?”

  I nodded.

  Grinning, he hit the alarm.

  Twenty-four hours passed with no word from Seth or my father. I was on my final day. I knew, if I didn’t want to end up in an asylum, I had to drop my nutcase façade now and let it be known on the Ward that I was sane. I began with the nurse who brought me breakfast.