Sisterhood (20 page)

“As is our way, I submitted my belief to a vote. I was defeated. As is my way, I accepted the wishes of our Sisterhood. I promise you now that if we do not act tonight to protect this woman from the threats against her, I shall move ahead with that plan rather than risk a debasing, distorted, sensationalist disclosure by the: police and the press. I will release the tapes. I have them—all of them—and
I will do it.”

Looks darted from one to another around the table. The reports were the blood oath that bound them together. Once given—once the first report was completed by a nurse—there could be no turning back from her commitment to the movement. Since the very beginning it had been that way. Reports at first in writing and later by voice. All of those present had made them—some many times—and now Peggy would make them public. What defiance remained among the directors melted.

Peggy turned to Barbara Littlejohn. “Barbara, I would like a vote giving me authority to do whatever is necessary to insure the guilt of Dr. David Shelton and to protect the interests of Christine Beall and The Sisterhood of Life. ”

Barbara knew that further argument was fruitless. The expressions around the table echoed her feelings. With a shrug she called the question. To her left, Sara Duhey slowly lifted her hand. In order Barbara’s eyes called on each one, and like a ripple their hands came up. The vote of support was unanimous.

Breaking the silence that followed, Dotty Dalrymple cleared her throat and spoke for the first time. “Peggy, as you well know, Christine Beall is a nurse on my service. I have come to know her fairly well, although I have not yet chosen to tell her of my commitment to
The Sisterhood. She is, as you have described, a remarkable nurse, devoted to the ideals we all share. Can we be certain she’ll allow this man to answer for what she has done, regardless of our decision here tonight?”

The question had been on everyone’s mind.

“That, Dorothy, must be our responsibility—yours and mine. When the time is right, you must go to her. Explain the situation as only you can. I know that you will make her understand. You may have to share your secret with her, but I think she has earned that confidence. If necessary, I and the rest of those here will share our secret with her as well. Is that acceptable to you?”

Dalrymple smiled. “I’ve known you far too long and too well to ask if I have a choice. I’ll talk to her.”

Peggy nodded and returned the smile.

Dorothy Dalrymple did indeed know Peggy well. From the beginning Dotty had followed her rise—had even been party to her decision to enter medical school at a time when it was difficult enough for a woman, let alone a nurse, to do so. She had followed Peg’s astounding success in the field of cardiology and her marriage to one of the most famous scientists and human rights advocates in the world. She had watched her assume the leadership of the medical staff of one of the largest hospitals in the country.

She knew, as surely as she knew sunrise, that Margaret Donner Armstrong could accomplish anything. The sentence they had voted for David Shelton was as good as carried out.

With a few parting words Barbara Littlejohn dismissed the meeting. As she said her good-byes, Dotty paused by the lavish bouquet, bending to inhale its strong perfume and briefly touch a feathery petal. Then, with a final glance at Peggy, she left.

The room emptied quickly. Soon only two remained—Peggy Donner, gazing serenely out the window, and
Sara Duhey, who paused outside the doorway, then returned. She was still ten feet away when, without turning, Peggy said, “Sara, how nice of you to stay. We so seldom get a chance to talk.”

The willowy black woman froze, then noticed her own reflection in the glass.

“So this is how Peggy Donner earns the reputation for having eyes in the back of her head.”

“One of the ways.” Margaret Armstrong turned and smiled warmly. Sara had been a personal recruit of hers. “I see a troubled look in those beautiful eyes of yours, Sara. Are you concerned about what happened here tonight?”

“A little. But that’s not what I stayed to talk to you about.”

“Oh?”

“Peggy, a few days ago Johnny Chapman died at your hospital of a massive allergic reaction—probably to some medicine, they’re saying. Had you heard of him and the work he’s done?” Armstrong nodded. “Well, I’ve known Johnny for years. Served on so many committees with him I’ve lost count.”

“And?”

“Well, I’ve talked to a few people about his death—you know, people from my community. At least one of them felt there was nothing accidental about it. You can probably guess that Johnny’s been a thorn in the side of a lot of important people over the years.”

“My dear, every time an important or influential person dies, someone has a theory about why it couldn’t have been a natural or accidental occurrence. Invariably their theories are nonsense.”

“I understand,” Sara said, “and I hope you’re right in this case. We’ll never know for certain, because Johnny’s church forbids autopsies. His wife told me that. She had it written in big red letters on the front of his chart, along with a list of the things he was allergic to.”

Armstrong shifted uncomfortably. “Just what is it you’re driving at?”

“Peggy, this man told me he had heard ahead of time that Johnny Chapman would not leave Doctors Hospital alive. He didn’t. Then, two days after Johnny suddenly goes into anaphylaxis and dies, Senator Cormier has a fatal cardiac arrest on the operating table. The papers said it was a heart attack, but they also said that because the attack was instantly fatal there was no definite cardiac damage on his autopsy.”

“Sara, I still don’t see what—”

“Peggy, two of the cases I have handled through The Sisterhood involved intravenous ouabain. Both of them looked like heart attacks. The drug is impossible to detect. Isn’t it possible that someone could be—”

“Young lady, I think I’ve heard enough. Your insinuations are in poor taste and way off base. Worse than that. They come at a time when our movement needs total unity.”

Sara Duhey stiffened. “Peggy, please. Don’t lash out at me. I don’t want to stir up any hornet’s nest. All I’m asking is whether it’s possible that someone in your hospital is using our methods. There are still more Sisterhood members on the staff of Boston Doctors than at any other single hospital.”

“And I know every one of them personally,” Armstrong said. “They are all superb nurses and completely honorable human beings. Now, unless you have something much more concrete than what you have presented me here, I would suggest—no, I will insist—that you keep your farfetched notions to yourself. We have much more pressing concerns, you and I, starting with the man who is posing a threat to our entire movement.” Armstrong sensed the impact of her outburst and softened. “Sara, after this Shelton business is cleared up, we can discuss your concerns in more detail. All right?”

Sara Duhey studied the older woman, then nodded. “All right.”

“Thank you,” Armstrong whispered.

The two women left Room 133 together. Outside, the storm had intensified and wind gusted with a fury that shook buildings.

“A
crack that had the habit of looking like a rabbit …” David repeated the words over and over as he studied the series of thin lines that gerrymandered his living room ceiling.

“…  had the
funny
habit of looking like a rabbit.” Where had he read that? What were the exact words? No matter, he decided. None of the cracks looked anything like a rabbit. Besides, the super had promised they would be plastered over, so it was a fruitless exercise anyhow.

He rolled to one side, tucked an arm under his head and stared out the window. The outlines of buildings across the alley undulated through a cold, driving rain.

It had been nearly two days since the nightmarish session with Dockerty. The morning after the inquiry David had tried to conduct his affairs at the hospital as usual. It was like working in an ice box. No virus could have spread through the wards faster than news of the tacit indictment brought against him. Most of the nurses and medical staff took special pains to avoid him. Some whispered as he walked past and one nurse actually pointed. Those few who spoke to him picked their
words with the deliberateness of soldiers traversing a mine field.

By early afternoon he could take no more. Aldous Butterworth and Edwina Burroughs were the only two patients he had in the hospital. Butterworth was essentially Dr. Armstrong’s problem again. The circulation in his operated leg was better than in his other one. Edwina Burroughs was anxious to go home and probably as ready for discharge now as she would be in the morning. David wrote a note in Butterworth’s chart instructing Dr. Armstrong to arrange for his sutures to be removed in three days; then he made out a list of directions for Edwina Burroughs and sent her home.

He was walking, head down, toward the main exit when he collided with Dotty Dalrymple. They exchanged apologies, then Dalrymple said, “Heading to the office?”

David fought the impulse to brush aside her courtesy with a lie. “No,” he said. “I’ve canceled the rest of the day. Actually, I’m going home.”

He was surprised at the interest and concern in her eyes. Although the two of them were acquainted, they had never talked at length.

“Dr. Shelton, I want you to know how distressed I am about last night.” She was, David realized, the first person all day who had openly said anything to him about the session.

“Me too,” he muttered.

“We haven’t had the chance to get to know one another very well, but I’ve heard a great deal about your work from my nurses—all of it highly complimentary.” David’s face tightened in a half-smile. “My praise plus a dime gets you a phone call. That’s what you are thinking, isn’t it?” she said. David’s smile became more open and relaxed. Dalrymple rested a fleshy arm against the wall. “Well, I’m afraid I don’t have much in the way of cheery news for you, but I can tell you that Lieutenant Dockerty was in to see me this morning. Your name
came up only briefly and, for what it’s worth, I think he is not at all convinced of your guilt despite that circus last night.”

“From the reaction around the wards this morning, Miss Dalrymple, I’d say that if that’s the case he’s in a tiny minority. All of a sudden, I feel about as much control over my life as a laboratory mouse. At the moment Lieutenant Dockerty is very low on my list of favorite people.”

“I guess if I were in your position I’d probably be feeling the same way,” Dalrymple said. She paused, as if searching for words to prolong their conversation. Finally she shrugged, nodded a “Good day,” and headed off.

She was several steps down the hall when David started after her. “Miss Dalrymple, please,” he called out. “If you can spare another minute, there is something you might be able to help with.” The nursing director slowed, then came about like a schooner, smiling expectantly. “You had Charlotte Thomas’s chart last evening,” David said. “If it would be possible, I’d like to borrow it for a day. I have no idea what to look for, but maybe there’s something in there that won’t read just right to me.”

Dalrymple’s expression darkened. “I’m sorry, Dr. Shelton,” she said. “The chart I had last night was only a copy. The lieutenant has the original.” She hesitated. “Now, I don’t even have the copy.” David looked at her quizzically. He felt uneasy with the way she was weighing each word. “I … ah … gave it away, Doctor … this morning … Wallace Huttner and the woman’s husband … and a lawyer. They came to me with a court order for my copy of the chart. Apparently it was the only one the lieutenant would allow to be made.”

David’s hands went cold. A damp chill spread from them throughout his body. He had little doubt as to
what they were doing: malpractice. No other explanation made sense. He carried a million dollars in liability. Peter Thomas wanted to be prepared to move as soon as any action was taken against him. David shuddered. On top of everything else, Thomas was going to sue him for malpractice. And his own chief of surgery was helping him do it.

Dalrymple reached out to touch his shoulder and then seemed to change her mind. “I’m sorry, Doctor,” she said coolly. “I wish I could make it better for you, but I can’t.”

David tightened his lips against any outburst. Thanks,” he mumbled, then hurried toward the exit.

By the time he arrived home his emotions were blanketed by a pall of total frustration. He paced the apartment several times. Then, overwhelmed by feelings of impotence, he threw himself across his bed and grabbed the telephone. He would call Dr. Armstrong, or Dockerty, or even Peter Thomas. Anyone, as long as it felt as though he was doing something. Indecision kept him from dialing. His address book lay on the bedside table. He opened it and flipped through the pages, hoping halfheartedly that someone’s name would leap out at him. Anyone’s who might help.

Most of the pages were blank.

His brothers were listed—one in California and one in Chicago. But even if they were next door, he wouldn’t have called them. After the accident, after the alcohol and the pills and, finally, the hospital, they had quietly separated him from their lives. Christmas cards and a call every six months or so were all that remained.

A few associates from his days at White Memorial were listed. From time to time over the past eight years some of them eyen invited him to parties. He was fun to be around … as long as he was fun to be around. The more he had chanced talking about the course his life had taken, the fewer the invitations had
become. There would be no real help from any of them.

In a doctors life, fragmented by college and medical school and internship and residency and marriage and children and setting up a practice, firm friendships were rare enough. For David, having to retrace so many steps had made close ties impossible.

The shroud of isolation grew heavier. There was no one. No one except Lauren, and she was five hundred miles away, probably having lunch with some congressman and … Wait! There
was
somebody. There was Rosetti. For ten years, whenever he was down or needed advice, there had always been Joey Rosetti. Joey, and Terry, too. Over the months with Lauren he hadn’t seen them very much, but Joey was the kind of friend to whom that really didn’t matter.