Flashback (1988) (60 page)

He heard the doors to the darkened ICU glide open. Then there were footsteps.

“Fifteen seconds.”

He turned and peered through the darkness, past Mainwaring, toward the doors. Just inside the glass, he could see the silhouette of a woman in a business suit. Barreling past her was Frank.

“Wake him up, Jack!” Zack whispered urgently. “Quick! Wake him up.”

“What in the hell is going on here?” Frank bellowed. “Turn these lights on! Turn them on right now!”

Jack Pearl stepped back from Toby’s bed. The plastic syringe slipped from his fingers and clattered to the floor just as the lights in the unit came on.

Frank, his fists balled at his side, stood beside the nurses’ station.

“You’ve been fired,” he snapped at Zack. “Get the fuck out of this hospital before I call the police.”

“No way, Frank.”

Frank turned to the unit secretary.

“Call security, and then call the police. Tell them that a physician who has been fired from this hospital is refusing to leave.”

The woman did not move.

“Do it!”

Beneath his tan, Frank was livid.

One nurse rushed to close the glass partitions to other patients’ rooms.

Zack stepped from Toby’s cubicle to confront his brother.

“Frank, listen,” he said.

“Shut up!” Frank shouted, looking wildly about.

Leigh Baron moved a few steps closer. Behind her, a wheelchair appeared.

“I tried to tell you, Frank,” Jack Pearl whined. “I tried to tell you we should have waited.…”

“Jack, shut up …”

“… We should have been doing a retrospective study.

“Goddamn you, Jack!”

“… But you wouldn’t listen. You wouldn’t give me a chance to fix my Serenyl.”

Frank stepped forward and punched the anesthesiologist squarely in the face. Pearl’s head shot back. Blood sprayed across his face as he dropped to the floor.

Frank’s fine features were twisted and distorted with rage.

“Get out!” he screamed. “All of you. You’re fired! This is my hospital, dammit! You’re all fired!”

“Frank, stop,” Zack said quietly. “It’s over. Stop and listen. You’ve done terrible things here—sad and very terrible things.… Frank, don’t you see? Look around. Look at all these people. Don’t you see that it’s over for you now? It’s over.”

“Damn you!” Frank shrieked as he hurtled over a chair and leapt at his brother. “I’ll kill you! I swear, I’ll fucking kill you!”

The force of his attack sent both men smashing through the plate-glass partition of an empty cubicle. A nurse screamed. Zack’s injured shoulder struck the floor, exploding with nauseating pain. Dazed, he rolled to one side, over a mass of broken glass that cut into his arms and back. He stumbled to his feet, staggering drunkenly. Before his vision could clear, Frank was on him again, snarling like an animal, his hands viselike around Zack’s throat, driving him backward.

Powerless, Zack’s arms went limp. The pressure of Frank’s thumbs against his windpipe was inexorable, and he knew, as he listened for the snap of his own larynx, that he was going to die.

At the moment that his legs gave out, he soiled himself. The pain gave way, and he sensed himself falling, drifting. Then the back of his head slammed against the corner of the metal bedframe. There was a blinding, searing flash. And then, instantly, there was nothing.

The light, a soft, warm glow, washed over the darkness in waves. One by one, faces began floating through the void. Zack followed the images with a detached curiosity, pleased when he was able to spot an old teacher or relative or classmate among them. Gradually, the faces grew more defined—and more current. An anatomy professor at Yale … a Wellesley coed from—from where? … a climbing partner in Wyoming.… Then Annie Doucette … Toby … Suzanne … and finally, Frank, his face, pinched and crimson with hatred, spinning through the glow like a dervish.

I’ll kill you.… I’ll kill you.…

“I’ll kill you. I’ll kill you.”

At first the voice was Frank’s. Then, it was Zack’s own, moaning the words over and over again.

“Iverson. Iverson, open your eyes. It’s all right. You’ve had a concussion.”

“Concussion?”

“That’s right, Iverson. Look up here.”

Zack’s eyes fluttered and then opened.

For several seconds, the face above him remained blurred. Then its features grew more distinct.

“Ormesby?”

The surgeon nodded.

“You hit your head. You’ve been out for over an hour.”

“An hour? Suzanne …” He struggled to rise, but quickly fell back.

“Easy, Iverson. Easy.”

Ormesby put a calming hand on his arm.

Zack’s thoughts began to clear. He was in bed, on a monitor, in the intensive care unit. An IV was draining into his arm.

“Did I have a seizure?”

“From what I hear, you did. Probably from the concussion. The CT scanners warmed up and waiting for us right now.”

“Don’t need one.”

“Iverson, you’re the patient here, not the doctor. Got that? I’ve changed my mind about your being a nut case. Don’t make me change it back.”

Zack nodded meekly. His head was throbbing, and jabs of pain were beginning to spark from half a dozen other places on his body. The discomfort helped clear his mind.

“Suzanne …” he said. “Did she—”

“Right there, Iverson. Just turn your head to the right.”

Through a brief, machine-gun burst, Zack did as the surgeon asked. Suzanne, wrapped in a blanket, her IV on a transport pole, waved at him from a chair not four feet away. She looked pale, but otherwise seemed none the worse for her ordeal.

“Hi, Doc,” she said. “You come here often?”

“God bless you, Clarkin,” Zack murmured.

“What?”

“Oh, nothing. How’s Toby?”

“Still out, Zack. But he’s lighter. I think he may be coming around, but it’s hard to tell. The people from Boston are due here any minute to get him.”

Behind Suzanne, near the nurses’ station, Zack could see the Judge watching intently.

“Listen,” Ormesby said. “I’m going to get them ready for
your scan. Afterward, I have a few dozen stitches to put in you.”

“My shoulder, I think its—”

“We know. Sam Christians already seen you. Now just relax, will you?”

“Where’s Frank?”

“In jail by now, I would guess. You owe that big guard over there a hell of a thank-you, Iverson. Apparently everyone was sort of paralyzed. If he hadn’t pulled Frank off you when he did, I think your ticket might have been canceled.”

“Bless you, Henry,” Zack rasped, rubbing at the soreness in his neck.

“Now, just stay put. I’ll be back.”

“Stay put,” Zack echoed.

He waited until the surgeon had left and then reached over for Suzanne’s hand.

She inched her chair closer to him.

“Sorry I can’t get up,” she said. “I get dizzy when I try.”

“Why don’t you go back to bed. We’ll talk later.”

“You okay?”

“I feel like shit, if you want to know the truth. But I’m okay. Fucking Frank nearly killed us both.”

“Almost. But it’s over now, Zack.”

“What time is it, anyway?”

“Two. Almost two.”

“Damn.”

“What is it?”

“The board meeting … Do you know what happened there?”

She squeezed his hand.

“I think your father wants to talk to you about that. I’ll see you after your test.”

“Sure. Meanwhile, stay away from the radio.”

Suzanne smiled.

“Not to worry,” she said. “Sooner or later, though, I’m going to have to, urn, face the music.”

She motioned to Bernice Rimmer, who brought a wheelchair over, took her IV pole and wheeled her from the room.

Moments later, the Judge appeared at Zack’s bedside.

“You were right about my legs,” he said.

“I’m glad.”

“Zachary, don’t feel bad about Frank.”

“I do. Judge, he hurt a lot of people. He’s very sick.”

“I know. He stole a great deal of money from the hospital. Apparently this business with Jack Pearl and that Mainwaring was an attempt to replace it.”

“Lord.”

“I found out about it for sure yesterday, but I’ve suspected he was in trouble for some time. Frank never could put anything over on me. I … I just don’t know where he could have gone so wrong.”

Try at birth, Zack wanted to say. He looked at the bewilderment in his fathers face, and knew that there was no percentage in responding.

“Judge, the board meeting,” he said. “Did you go?”

“I went. They had already voted to sell out, but I had just enough time to turn things around. After the vote Frank had the temerity to ask me if we might keep him on as administrator. Much as it hurt me, I told him absolutely not.”

“Great,” Zack said with no enthusiasm.

“He should have known better than to try and hide the truth from me. He was always trying. He never could. I have no tolerance for his kind of deceit. No tolerance at all.” He sighed. “I had such hopes for him. I gave your brother every chance, Zachary. Every chance. You know that, don’t you?”

Zack closed his eyes, and instantly he was on the slalom run, tumbling over and over again down the snowy mountainside, his knee screaming with pain. The accident had eliminated him from competitive sports and, it seemed, from much of his father’s interest as well. At the time it was the worst thing that had ever happened to him. Now, he could see, it well might have been his salvation.

“Of course you did, Judge,” he said, looking away. “Of course you did.”

EPILOGUE

As if they could quantitate a miracle leaf by leaf, the meteorologists had proclaimed October 10
the
peak day of the foliage season in northcentral New Hampshire. And in fact, as the day—a Wednesday—evolved, with acre upon acre of crimson, orange, burgundy, and gold sparkling beneath a cloudless, azure sky, not even those old-timers who always had a different opinion of such things could argue.

In the small, atriumlike auditorium of the Holiday Inn of Sterling, sunlight streamed through glass panels, bathing the hundred or so hospital officials, board members, and physicians in a warmth that made the northern New England winter seem still remote. Throughout the hall, there was an air of excitement and history. They had come together from communities across the northern part of the state, and had met for three days around conference tables and in back rooms, hammering out the framework of a new consortium of hospitals.

Now, in minutes, the fruits of those efforts would be presented to the gathering, and a new era in community medicine would begin. The hospitals involved—seven in all—would be banded together in a way that would give them enormous purchasing power without the sacrifice of one bit of autonomy.

Judge Clayton Iverson, his wife at his side, wandered about the milling crowd, exchanging greetings and handshakes with the other attendees, most of whom knew that he was about to be announced as the first chairman of the board of the consortium. His selection for the post had been virtually unanimous. The search committee had established experience and absolute integrity as the prime qualifications for the post, and through his handling of the Davis Regional-Ultramed disaster, the Judge had proven himself amply endowed with both.

Most impressive to the group had been the Judges refusal to intervene in the trial and sentencing of his son Frank on myriad charges ranging from co-conspiracy in testing the unauthorized drug, Serenyl, to assault with intent to murder.

Then there was his handling of the surgeon, Jason Mainwaring. After demanding and obtaining the surrender of Mainwaring’s medical license, the Judge had gotten the charges against the man diminished in exchange for the liquidation of his pharmaceutical company; from the proceeds a fund would be set up to aid those patients found to have been harmfully affected by the anesthetic.

And finally, there was the leadership role he had played in the reclamation of Davis Regional Hospital from Ultramed. Not only had the Judge supervised the transition back to community control, but, dissatisfied with the amount raised from the sale of Mainwaring’s beleaguered drug firm, he had convinced the Ultramed directors of the sagacity of augmenting the Serenyl settlement fund with a multimillion-dollar contribution of their own.