The Children's Ward (11 page)

Forty-five

“Doctor Logan?” The accent was unmistakably British.

Quinn turned, careful not to spill her coffee.

The man, a tall, distinguished-looking Englishman, extended his hand. “They told me I’d find you here. I’m Dr. Campbell. Ian Campbell.”

“You’re the psychiatrist who examined Tessi Vincent yesterday.”

“None other. I spoke briefly with Dr. Fuller and he suggested that I meet with you.” He looked around the busy cafeteria. “Is there somewhere we could talk?”

She nodded. “My office…let me just pay for this.”

“I’ll take care of it,” he said, and before she could object, he had done so.

“I’ve only done a preliminary examination of Tessi,” he began when they were in her office. “And my review of the family history has been somewhat perfunctory. But I can make some basic assumptions based on what I’ve observed so far.”

Sensing that he was waiting for her permission to continue, she nodded.

“We have a child who is hypertensive with borderline anemia and episodes of psychogenic vomiting.” He smiled apologetically. “I’m sure you know the medical history better than I. The family is living apart with the child spending six months of the year with either parent. She attends a private school in Los Angeles which allows her to study by correspondence during the time she is in New Mexico. She does well in school although she is considered to be ‘quiet’ by her teachers.

“Her socialization is hampered by the fact that she lives in a locked, restrictive situation in Los Angeles, and while in New Mexico she is isolated by distance. The life styles are radically different—from a rigidly structured environment to a relaxed and…permissive one.

“Tessi is very guarded when questioned about her preference but, describing happy periods in her life, she always talks about New Mexico.” He paused, a hint of a smile on his face. “Running barefoot, hunting for geodes, sleeping out of doors…can’t say I blame her.”

His smile was contagious and Quinn found herself liking Ian Campbell very much.

“As you might suspect, Tessi is a very confused little girl. Her loyalties are divided and she is in a bit of a quandary. She loves her parents and wants them both to be happy. That,” he concluded, “is a very tall order for a ten-year-old.”

“Or for anyone.” Quinn sat back in her chair. “How closely related is her illness to her family circumstances?”

“My fellow psychiatrists would have me kicked out of the profession for answering without months and months of evaluation, but,” his smile was dazzling, “I’d venture they’re one and the same.”

“You’re saying…”

“Eliminate the family problems and Tessi is a well child. Or to put it another way, you’ll be hard put to cure the child without first curing the family.”

“Damn,” Quinn said softly.

“Damn is right.”

Forty-six

Alicia Vincent listened to the phone ring, tapping the bedside table with manicured nails.

Where was he? It wasn’t like Howard not to be in his office at least part of the morning, even if he had to be in court. His office was within walking distance of the courthouse and he often took advantage of delays by going back and forth.

She had been trying to reach him since seven; it was now almost ten. Reluctantly she hung up the phone.

She was getting restless, anxious to take action against James Wolf. Little Wolf.

Rising, she crossed the room to the dresser where the keys were. She opened the small manila envelope and up-ended it, allowing the keys to spill out.

She wondered if she’d even need it; one of the supposed virtues of living in that wasteland was being able to leave the doors unlocked. It was possible that the ranch—unattended—was secure as Fort Knox even with the doors open. It made sense in a twisted way; who would think that there was anything of value in such a place?

Regardless, stealing the keys was, if nothing else, a symbolic act on her part.

She returned them to the envelope.

She turned and went back to the bed, sitting on the edge, her hand resting inches from the telephone. Another attempt to call him might only serve to frustrate her but she’d never get through if she didn’t try.

Or…she could call the regular office number and leave a message with his secretary. She was a client, after all, and she needed his advice.

He didn’t like her to leave messages, implying that his secretary, an efficient but dowdy woman, was not above adding drama to her own life by reporting to Howard’s wife. Frequent calls, cryptic messages, a too-personal reference—all would be mentioned to Mrs. Kraft.

Alicia was not concerned about Mrs. Kraft; a woman who was unable to keep her husband satisfied (James was a different matter) was not worth bothering about. If she found out about them, the most likely result was a divorce.

Besides, this was an unusual situation. She needed to act before her ex-husband returned to the ranch and discovered the absence of his keys.

She had not memorized the office line and she had to look it up in her address book. Then, taking a deep breath, she began to dial.

“Howard Kraft.”

His voice was such a surprise that she was momentarily flustered. “Howard?”

“Yes?”

She was positive that he recognized her voice. “It’s Alicia.”

“Mrs. Vincent…how nice to hear from you.”

Someone was obviously listening to his side of the conversation. “I need to talk to you. I’ve…taken the first step.”

“Really?” From the tone of his voice she knew that he was not pleased.

“I’ve gotten the keys to his kingdom and I want you to hire a photographer…”

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Vincent, I only have a minute. I’m due back in court.”

“Just find someone you trust and have them meet me. I’m flying into Santa Fe on Saturday, arriving at noon…”

“Yes, well, good to talk to you and I’m glad to hear that things are going so well for you.”

“At the airport…Saturday at noon.”

“Goodbye.”

The phone clicked in her ear.

Forty-seven

“Would you like to tell me what happened?” Joshua found it difficult to believe, looking at Russell’s face, that the boy had refused to answer Quinn’s questions.

“I told Dr. Logan,” Russell said, “I just passed out.” His blue eyes held no hint of evasiveness.

“And you don’t remember how it happened. What caused it?”

“How would I know what caused it? I’m not a doctor.”

Joshua smiled in spite of himself. “Yes, well. . . as a doctor, I can tell you that most patients have some indications—dizziness or sudden weakness or they’re light-headed—before they pass out. In most cases, if they recognize the symptoms, they have enough time to call out or even lie down before they lose consciousness.”

“I guess I’m not most cases.”

“The nurse’s notes indicate that you had breakfast before you went to therapy…”

“Yes.”

“All of your blood work is normal, including the blood glucose level. It wasn’t a hypoglycemic episode…”

Russell waited for him to continue.

“You hadn’t been medicated, your blood pressure was normal…it wasn’t a hypotensive or orthostatic hypotensive incident…I’m at a loss to explain what happened to you.”

“Does it matter? I mean, do you have to have a name for it? It just happened.”

“Doctors are funny that way. I like to know what’s going on with my patients.”

Russell shrugged. “I’d tell you if I knew.” His gaze was steady and open.

“Are these all of the videotapes?” Joshua asked, picking up the stack of six tapes.

“No, Dr. Logan has a couple more.” Mary Aguilar finished writing her notation on Russell’s chart and looked up at Joshua. “I don’t envy you, having to look through all those tapes.”

“The scan’s pretty fast. It shouldn’t take too long.”

“That sounds suspiciously like wishful thinking to me.”

“You know me too well.”

She smiled and nodded. “I read you like an open book…by the way, where is Dr. Logan?”

“With any luck she’s starting to review the tapes.” He looked questioningly at Mary. “What is that look for?”

“What look?”

“Your eyes are full of mischief like…oh, I see. You think that Quinn and I…”

“An open book,” Mary said.

Forty-eight

Quinn inserted the videotape into the player/ recorder and pushed the rewind button. According to the label, the first tape covered three hours beginning at 10 a.m. on Wednesday. An incident sheet completed by the nurses recorded their comments or observations for each three-hour period.

While the tape was rewinding she checked the connections from the first video machine to the second and then inserted a blank tape into the second machine. Using two recorders would allow her to make a condensed version of what she judged to be significant events. The second tape, then, would be reviewed by Joshua.

When her preparations were completed, she pushed the scan button on the first machine and sat back to watch. With no sound and at fast speed, the black and white tape reminded her of a silent movie.

If any of the children were aware of the closed-circuit camera, they gave no indication of it. Russell was not on the tape—he was in ICU by the time the recorder was installed—but Tessi in particular seemed oblivious to the watching eye. With her stuffed animals around her, she rubbed her stomach in a circular motion, over and over again. Was she in pain? Impossible to determine, but her face was fierce with concentration.

Courtney might have been dead for all the animation she displayed. Already beginning to run a temperature, according to the nurse’s notes, Courtney exhibited none of the restlessness that might be expected in a febrile state.

Abigail had returned to the ward after having the MR scan—which Joshua hadn’t shown Quinn yet—and appeared to have fallen asleep. Facing out the window, her back to the camera, she was as motionless as Courtney.

“All right, then,” Quinn said to the screen, settling in for what promised to be a long morning.

“How’s it going?”

Quinn turned her head slightly, keeping her eyes on the screen. “Come see for yourself.”

Joshua came up beside her, pulling a chair with him, and sat down. Without commenting, he handed her the six videotapes.

Stifling a groan, she took them and placed them with the second tape; the stack loomed, forbidding.

“Kids eating lunch,” he said after a minute had passed. “Not much action.”

“Are you kidding? This is a veritable frenzy of activity compared to the rest of the tape.”

“Oh my God…”

Quinn leaned forward in her chair. “What? What happened?”

“Look at Tessi…she’s putting ketchup on her mashed potatoes.”

Quinn laughed. “I gather you’ve never watched many kids eat.”

“I don’t have the stomach for it; that’s also the reason I’m not a surgeon, by the way.”

“Besides, I’m pretty sure that those aren’t mashed potatoes.”

“What is it then?”

“I think it’s tapioca.”

“No wonder her stomach hurts.” He leaned forward and pushed the stop button on the video player, then turned to face Quinn. “I talked to Russell just now.”

“And?”

“He says he doesn’t know what happened.”

“Do you believe him?”

“I guess I have to. He’s obviously the only one who knows what might have caused him to black out. I think it would be counterproductive to make an issue out of it at this point.”

Quinn was silent for a moment. “You’re right,” she conceded. “Maybe I made too much of it.” Frowning, she ran a hand through her dark hair. “It’s just…”

“What?”

Her eyes searched his face. “He didn’t seem to put much importance on the fact that he could have died.”

“Kids aren’t as big on ‘could haves’ as adults are,” Joshua observed.

“But…he wouldn’t even look at me.”

“That’s hard to understand.”

Quinn paused, unsure what his meaning was.

“Anyway, I felt that he was hiding something.”

“That doesn’t sound like Russell.”

“I don’t know him as well as you do,” Quinn said, “but I thought he wasn’t himself…sorry, I’m ranting again and it’s probably just an over-reaction.”

“Don’t worry about it,” he said, reaching over and taking her hand in his. “I’m not sure I’d trust a doctor who didn’t rant once in awhile.”

After Joshua left she remembered that she had not seen Abigail’s MR scans. She contemplated the stack of videotapes, knowing full well that she should continue her review of them, then put down the clipboard of the nurse’s incident reports.

The tapes could wait.

Having been warned by Joshua, she left her pager at the radiology department front desk with instructions to call her in the MR room if needed.

The room was like something out of a space fantasy: the scanner like an antiseptic monolith of some future world. A portal to another dimension?

She crossed to the control room, past the lurking machine.

Inside the control room, feet up on the counter, the tech sat reading the local newspaper. His concentration was such that he did not hear her approach and she stood, waiting for him to look up.

“Excuse me,” she said after a minute had passed. She looked at his name tag: Tucker Smith. “I’m Dr. Logan.”

Tucker Smith stood quickly, the newspaper falling forgotten to the floor.

“Ah…can I help you?”

“I’d like to look at Abigail Ballard’s scans.”

“Ballard…yes. I’ll get those for you.” In his haste he managed to catch the hem of his knee length lab coat on the back of his chair. He fumbled to get it free, the back of his neck flushing a dark red.

Quinn waited patiently.

When he had freed himself, he hurried to a filing cabinet and began to look for the folder containing Abigail’s records.

“You’re not doing scans today?” A plastic dust-cover was over the computer console.

“No…engineering is coming down to put in an intercom system.” He located the chart and closed the drawer. “Here you go…Abigail Ballard.”

She took the records and went over to the viewing screen. “Thank you,” she said, and then turned to look at the films.