Coma (39 page)

Maybe the coma victims were the targets of some gangland vendetta? Susan dismissed the idea instantly, remembering Berman and even Nancy Greenly. No, that couldn’t be. Maybe extortion was involved; perhaps the families hadn’t paid off and—wham! But that seemed unlikely. It would be too hard to keep the coma business secret. It would be easier to kill people outright, outside the hospital. There had to be some reason for these comas happening in the hospital. There must be some pattern for each victim, some common denominator.

As Susan mused, she lifted the phone onto the bed. She dialed the medical school and asked for the dean’s office.

“Is this Dr. Chapman’s secretary? . . . This is Susan Wheeler . . . that’s right, the infamous Susan Wheeler. Look, I’d like to leave a message for Dr. Chapman. There’s no need to bother him. I was supposed to start a surgery rotation at the V.A. today, but I’ve spent a terrible night and I’ve got some abdominal cramps that won’t quit. I’ll be better by tomorrow morning, I’m sure, and I’ll call if I’m not. Would you please see that Dr. Chapman is informed of this, and the Department of Surgery at the V.A.? Thanks.”

Susan replaced the receiver. The time was quarter to ten. She dialed the Memorial and asked for Dr. Stark’s office.

“This is Miss Susan Wheeler calling. I’d like to speak to Dr. Stark.”

“Oh, yes, Miss Wheeler. Dr. Stark expected your call at nine. He’ll be with you shortly. He was worried when you didn’t call.”

Susan waited, twisting the cord to the phone between her thumb and index finger.

“Susan?” Dr. Stark’s voice was concerned. “I’m very glad to hear from you. After what you described happening to you yesterday afternoon, I became concerned when you didn’t call. Are you all right?”

Susan hesitated, wondering if she should use the same cover with Stark as she used for Chapman. Stark might have dealings with Chapman. She decided she’d best be consistent.

“I have some abdominal cramps which have kept me in bed. Otherwise I’m fine.”

“The rest will do you good. As for your requests: I have some good news and some bad news. What do you want first?”

“I’ll take the bad.”

“I’ve talked with Oren, then Harris, and finally Nelson about getting you reinstated here at the Memorial, but I’m afraid they are adamant. Obviously they don’t run the Surgery Department, but we do depend on cooperation around here and, to be truthful, I was not overly insistent. If they had wavered, I would have been more forceful. But they didn’t. You certainly stirred the fire, young lady!”

“I see. . . .” Susan was not surprised.

“Besides, if you came back here, I think it would be hard for you to overcome your reputation. It would follow you. It’s best to let things cool off.”

“I suppose. . . .”

“The V.A. program is a popular affiliated program and you’ll get to do more surgery there than you would here.”

“That may be true, but as for teaching, it’s far inferior to the Memorial.”

“But on your other request about the Jefferson Institute, I had some luck. I managed to speak to the director, and I told him about your special interest in intensive care. I also told him you were particularly interested in visiting his hospital. Well, he has obligingly agreed to allow you to come, if you come after the busiest part of the day, sometime after five. But there are some conditions. You must go alone, since only you will be permitted inside.”

“Of course.”

“And since I have really extended myself and have gone off channels, so to speak, I would prefer that you don’t mention your visit to anyone. I must admit, Susan, that I really had to make an effort to get you invited. I’m telling you this not because I want you to feel indebted or anything, but rather as partial atonement for my not getting you reinstated here at the Memorial. The director of the institute told me categorically that he would not allow any others to visit with you. They do allow group visits when they have time to supervise them. It’s a rather special place, as I believe you’ll see. It would be somewhat embarrassing if you wanted to bring someone else. So you must go alone. You can understand that, I presume.”

“Of course.”

“Well, then, let me know what you think of the facility. I haven’t been there myself yet.”

“Thank you very much, Dr. Stark. Oh, there’s one other thing. . . .” Susan considered telling Stark about the second experience with D’Ambrosio. She decided against it, because he had wanted Susan to go to the police yesterday; now he’d be insistent. Susan did not want the police, not yet. If it were some large organization behind the whole affair, it was naive to think they didn’t have a contingency plan to allow for police probes.

“I’m not sure,” continued Susan, “if it’s significant, but I found a valve on the oxygen line into room No. 8 in the OR. It’s near to the main chase.”

“Near the what?”

“The main chase where all the piping in the hospital courses from floor to floor.”

“Susan, you’re pretty remarkable. How did you find out about that?”

“I went up into the ceiling space and traced the gas lines to the ORs.”

“Ceiling space!” Stark’s voice rose in irritation. “Susan, that’s carrying this affair a bit too far. I cannot condone your climbing around in the ceiling spaces over the operating rooms.”

Susan waited for the ax to fall as it had with McLeary or Harris. Instead there was a pause. Stark broke it. “Anyway, you say you found a valve in the oxygen line to room No. 8.” His voice was almost back to normal.

“That’s right,” said Susan cautiously.

“Well, I think I know what that’s for. I’m chairman of the OR Committee, as you might have guessed. That valve is probably the bleed valve for getting rid of air bubbles when the system is charged up. But one way or another, I’ll have someone check it and make certain. By the way, what is the name of the patient you wanted to see at the Jefferson Institute?”

“Sean Berman.”

“Oh yes, I remember the case. It was just the other day. One of Spallek’s. A meniscus case, as I recall. Tragedy . . . the man was about thirty. A real shame. Well, good luck. Tell me, are you off to the V.A. today?”

“No, my stomach condition will keep me in bed, at least for the morning. I’m quite sure I’ll be able to get back to work tomorrow, though.”

“I hope so, Susan, for your sake.”

“Thank you for your time, Dr. Stark.”

“Not at all, Susan.”

The line disconnected and Susan hung up.

The soiled gloves fell into the wastebasket beside the sponge rack. On the rack was a group of blood-stained sponges hanging like dirty clothes on a line. A nurse passed behind Bellows and undid the string at the neck of his operating gown. Bellows tossed it into the hamper by the door and left.

It had been an uncomplicated gastrectomy, a procedure Bellows usually liked to perform. But on this particular morning Bellows’s mind had been somewhere else and the double-layer closure of the stomach pouch and the small bowel had been tedious rather than enjoyable. Bellows could not stop thinking about Susan. His thoughts ran the gamut from tender concern, accompanied by remorse for the words that had driven Susan away the night before, to self-righteous pleasure in the comments he had felt justified in making. He had already gone too far, gambled too much, and it was quite apparent that Susan had no intentions of easing up on her idiotic drive in the direction of career suicide.

On the other hand, the sweetness of the evening before last was still very much in Bellows’s mind. He had responded to Susan in a way that had been so natural, so fresh. He had made love with her in such a manner that orgasm had been a mere part, not a goal. There had felt something so wonderfully equal, a communion of sorts. Bellows realized that he cared for Susan very much, despite the fact that he knew so little about her, and despite the fact that she was so blasted stubborn.

Bellows dictated his operative note on the gastrectomy case into a tape recorder with the usual medical monotone, ending each sentence with a vocalized “period.” Then he went into the dressing room and began to change back to his street clothes.

Acknowledging affection for Susan put Bellows on guard. His rationality persuaded him that such
feelings would diminish his objectivity and sense of perspective. He could not afford that, not now, when his career opportunities were in the balance. Since Susan had been transferred to the V.A., things had already quieted down. Stark had been civil on rounds, even to the extent of semiapologizing for his ungrounded implications concerning Bellows’s association with the drugs found in locker 338.

Bellows completed dressing and walked over to the recovery room to check the post-op orders on his gastrectomy patient.

“Hey, Mark,” called a loud voice from the recovery room desk. Bellows turned to see Johnston coming toward him.

“How the hell are those students of yours? I understand that the girl’s a piece of ass.”

Bellows didn’t answer. He waved his hand in a questioning fashion. The last thing he wanted to do was get into some idiotic conversation with Johnston about Susan.

“Did your students tell you what happened at the med school this morning? It’s one of the funniest stories I’ve heard in a long time. Some guy broke into the Anatomy Building last night. He must have been some kind of a nut because he discharged a fire extinguisher, unveiled all the first-year students’ cadavers, shot up the place, got himself locked in the freezer, and then had a brawl with the bodies. He knocked a bunch of the corpses down and shot up some of them. Can you imagine?” Johnston erupted in gusts of laughter.

The effect was just the opposite on Bellows. He looked at Johnston but thought about Susan. She had told him that she had been chased again, that someone had tried to kill her. Could that have been the same man? The freezer? Susan was rapidly becoming a total mystery. Why hadn’t she told him more?

“Did the guy freeze?” asked Bellows.

Johnston had to pull himself together in order to talk.

“No, at least not all of him. The police had been tipped off by an anonymous phone call in the middle of the night. They thought it was a med school prank so they didn’t check it out until the morning shift came in. By the time they got there the guy was unconscious, sitting in the corner. His body temperature was ninety-two degrees, but the medical boys succeeded in thawing him out without any trouble with acidosis. I
think that’s pretty commendable for those assholes. The only trouble was that they waited for two hours before calling me on consult. Hey, you know what the nurses in the ICU call him?”

“I can’t guess.” Bellows was only half-listening.

“Ice Balls.” Johnston broke down in laughter again. “I thought that was pretty clever. It’s a takeoff on Hot Lips from
M*A*S*H.
What a pair, Hot Lips and Ice Balls.”

“Is he going to make it?”

“Sure. I’m going to have to amputate some. At the very least he’s going to lose part of his legs. How much will be determined over the next day or so. The poor bastard might even lose those ice balls.”

“Did they find out anything about him?”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, his name, where he was from, you know.”

“Nothing. It turned out he had some I.D. which proved to be fake. So the police are very interested. He mumbled something about Chicago. Weird!” Johnston mouthed the last word as if it were some important secret message, as he went back to the recovery room desk.

Bellows went over and checked his gastrectomy patient. Vital signs were stable. Then he checked the chart. The orders had been written by Reid, and they were fine. He thought about the man in the freezer. The story seemed so bizarre. He wondered again if it really was the man that had been chasing Susan. But how could she have locked him in the freezer? Why the hell hadn’t she mentioned it? Maybe he had never given her the chance. If she had locked the man in the freezer, she was now definitely in trouble legally. Could she have been the anonymous phone caller?

Bellows examined the dressing on the patient. It was still in place and not blood-soaked. The I.V. was running well.

Then he thought about Susan again and decided that the nut in the freezer must have been the man who chased her. And if he was, then it would be important for her to know that he was hospitalized and in critical condition.

Bellows dialed the medical school and asked to be connected to the dorm. He let Susan’s phone ring
twelve times before giving up. Then he called back the dorm switchboard and left a message for her to call when she came back to her room.

After that, Bellows went to lunch.

February 26

4:23 P.M.

Thirty-six dollars plus tax seemed to Susan an awfully high price for the tasteless room at the Boston Motor Lodge. But at the same time it was worth it. Susan felt refreshed and rested—and safe. She had spent the time during the day rereading her notebook. All the information she had about the OR cases fit the idea of carbon monoxide poisoning. The information about the medical cases fit with the idea of succinylcholine poisoning. But still she had no motive, no rhyme or reason. The cases were too disparate.

Susan made a number of calls to the Memorial to try to learn Walters’s home address, but she was unsuccessful. At one point she had called the Memorial and had Bellows paged, but she hung up before he could answer. Slowly but inexorably, Susan began to comprehend that she was at a dead end. She thought that it was probably time to go to the authorities, tell what she had learned, then take a vacation. She had a month’s vacation coming to her as part of her third year and she was sure that she would be able to get permission to take the time immediately. She’d leave, get away, forget. She thought about Martinique. She liked things French, and she longed for the sun.

The doorman of the motel whistled a cab for her and she got in. She told the driver the address: 1800 South Weymouth Street, South Boston. Then she settled back.

It was stop and go down Cambridge Street, a little better on Storrow Drive, but worse on Berkeley. The cab driver took her through the nicer sections of the South End to avoid traffic. At Mass. Ave. he turned left and the surroundings deteriorated. Once into South Boston, Susan knew she was lost. The housing became monotonous, the streets badly littered. Soon the cab entered an area of warehouses, deserted factories, and dark streets. Nearly every streetlamp had a broken bulb.