Flashback (1988) (42 page)

One hell of a guy
. Those had been Bourque’s exact words.
Smart, well prepared, and persuasive as the Dickens …

It was almost like the old days—the reporters, the TV people, the calls from friends every week.…

Judge, that’s one hell of a kid you’ve got there.… One hell of a kid … Judge, can we get a shot of the two of you together? … What were you thinking when your boy took off and headed for the end zone like that? …

As far as the Judge was concerned, the moment Annie Doucette had tumbled off the end of her bed, the fate of the Ultramed Hospitals Corporation in Sterling had been sealed. But speaking to Bourque had helped him see that although the company had to go, there was no reason Frank had to go with it.

A few calls to select trustees had convinced him that the board would go along with him in keeping Frank on as administrator.

Now, he had only to convince Frank.…

The Judge had sped a hundred or so yards beyond the oversized silver mailbox marking the dirt drive to his farm before he realized that he had missed it

“Damn you, Iverson,” he cursed out loud.

He slowed, giving momentary thought to a U-turn or to backing up. Then, before he could talk himself into chancing either maneuver, he accelerated over the five hundred additional yards to the next driveway. Twice, trying turnarounds on that stretch of narrow road, he had backed into the drainage ditch. The last thing he needed at that moment was to spend a sweltering hour perched on the split-rail fence, waiting for Pierre Rousseau and his damn tow truck.

He had a date with a shower and a gin-and-tonic, and then with a lovely businesswoman who would try, unsuccessfully, to get him to reconsider his decision.

Leigh Baron wasn’t all that tough, but she was bright and certainly diverting. And she would surely provide a decent warm-up for the encounters to come with the real heavy hitters.

Once again, he felt the scintillation—the rush—at the prospect of what lay ahead. It was hardly difficult for him to understand why generals gave up their commands so reluctantly.

Retirement? … Nonsense
, he thought.

The game was on, and Clayton Iverson was right in the middle of it.

As he eased the Chrysler to a stop by his barn, stepped out, and surveyed his land and the mountains beyond, the Judge made a mental note to send a renewal off to their Florida tenant before Cinnie realized that the mans lease had run out.

The atmosphere in the intensive care unit was somber and extremely tense. A child was in trouble—serious trouble.

The nurses moved from one patient cubicle to another efficiently, but more quietly than usual, stopping from time to time at the doorway to number 7 to see if the nurse working on Toby Nelms needed any assistance.

Behind the nurses station, next to the bank of monitors, Zack checked over the latest set of laboratory figures with the boys pediatrician, Owen Walsh, a soft-spoken man in his late fifties with close-cropped, graying hair, and deep crows feet at
the corners of his eyes which gave him a perpetually cheerful expression.

Across from them, in cubicle 7, Toby lay thrashing on a cooling blanket, totally unresponsive to his environment. His core temperature, despite aggressive measures, remained well above 104.

The fire/rescue squad had broken into the Nelms’s bathroom and found the boy draped over the side of the tub, barely conscious, with multiple, self-inflicted slices and stab wounds on his arms, abdomen, and legs.

Barbara Nelms, conscious but in shock, lay in the bedroom, blood still oozing from the gashes in her arm.

Zack had arrived at the house in time to help with the first aid and the insertion of intravenous lines in both mother and child. Then he had accompanied the ambulance to the hospital and had turned Barbara Nelms, whose blood pressure had responded nicely to a fluid push, over to the general surgeon, Greg Ormesby.

Finally, after getting Toby up to the ICU and onto the cooling blanket, Zack had begun to repair his wounds, none of which involved tendons or vital structures. And, frightening as the lacerations appeared, Zack knew that they were of little importance compared to the fever and the deterioration of the boys central nervous and cardiovascular systems—a constellation of signs that were almost certainly a reflection of brain swelling.

“Do you think Boston?” Owen Walsh asked.

Like many community pediatricians, especially older ones, Walsh was far more comfortable dealing with patients in his office than in the hospital, and was not comfortable at all with a critically ill child in the intensive care unit.

“At this point, I’m not even sure he could make it,” Zack said. “Although I guess that’s what we should be shooting for.”

“He’s been a patient there in the past, you know.”

“I know, Owen, I know. And I know you’re nervous about having him here. The truth is, I’m not so comfortable with it myself. But believe me, as someone who a month ago might have been called in to see this kid
after
his transfer to Boston, our fluids are just as good as theirs. So’re our cooling blanket and our Tylenol and our steroids. And we’ve got a hell of a cardiologist in Suzanne Cole. So it’s not like we’re doing nothing. I think we should alert the people down there about
what’s happening and put one of the chopper teams on standby. But there’s something we ought to attend to first.”

“The anesthetic?”

“Exactly.”

Zack had shared Toby’s history with the pediatrician, withholding only his suspicion that some sort of secret anesthetic might have been used during his hernia operation.

“Can you explain it to me again?” Walsh asked.

“Sure. In a second.”

Zack stood and peered across at Toby. Swathed in bandages, surrounded by the monitor, the clipboards, the intravenous, gastric, and oxygen tubings, and the large cooling blanket console, the child looked terribly frail and vulnerable.

“Any change?” Zack called out to the nurse attending him.

“Temp’s down to 104, Doctor,” she said. “No other change.”

“Pupils?”

“Still equal and reactive, but sluggish.”

“Thank you …”

He glanced at the monitor in time to catch several ominous, premature heartbeats.

“See if you can locate Dr. Cole, please,” he said to the unit secretary. “Ask her if she can come down here.”

He turned back to the pediatrician.

“Okay, Owen. Now, if what we’re seeing is some sort of central, toxic reaction to an anesthetic, then as far as I’m concerned, the actual molecules of the drug, or at least their chemical imprints, are still there in Toby’s brain, clogging up neuro pathways and periodically firing off messages without any warning or control from him.”

“The seizures.”

“Or flashbacks, or whatever you want to call them. Somehow, the messages these molecules are transmitting are violent ones—ones related to the surgery.”

But why?
Zack found himself asking for perhaps the millionth time.
Why do they happen when they do? Why not to every patient, or at least to more of them?
The answer, he felt certain, had to be some sort of neuroactivator—a trigger, or more likely, given the rarity of the condition, a specific sequence of triggers. No other explanation made sense.…

“Zack, you were saying?” Owen Walsh was looking at him curiously.

“Oh, sorry.” Zack made a mental note to go over with Barbara Nelms the minute details of the events preceding
Toby’s attacks. He would also write down his best recollection of the minutes preceding and following Suzanne’s bizarre episode. “Do you follow all this?”

“So far,” Walsh said.

“Okay …”

Zack drew a sketch of several nerve endings on a piece of scratch paper, and used the diagram to illustrate his theory.

“So, what we might consider doing, is putting Toby back under again in a perfectly controlled, sensory-deprived situation. One of those isolation tanks would be ideal, but I understand that’s just not possible with him being so sick. Anyhow, we just make things as dark and as quiet as we can, and we administer the same anesthetic he received originally.”

“And what we’d be trying to do,” Walsh said, “would be literally to wash out the molecules that are sending violent sensory messages, and replace them with molecules transmitting—what, blanks?”

“Precisely.”

“You just thought of this?”

“Actually,” Zack said, “there was some work done in the late sixties and early seventies using the isolation tank technique on patients who had become psychotic from recurring LSD flashbacks.”

“You mean they treated LSD psychoses with LSD?”

Zack nodded. “A neurologist in Europe. Scotland, I think.”

“Successfully?”

“Successfully enough to be encouraging.”

This time, it was Walsh who stood and gazed in at their patient. The crow’s feet by his eyes deepened with what he saw.

“Dangers?” he asked.

“Given the disaster you’re observing in there,” Zack said, “I don’t see how giving the child some anesthesia can do much harm, as long as the anesthesiologist is standing by to intubate him if necessary.”

“Will Jack Pearl go along with it?”

“That, my friend, may well turn out to be the sixty-four-dollar question. He and I haven’t exactly seen eye to eye on this anesthesia business.”

Owen Walsh nibbled at the edge of one fingernail.

“Perhaps we should present this to the boy’s parents, and get their consent,” he said.

“I can do that, provided his mother is still stable.”

“And maybe your brother ought to know what’s going on, too. He’s a good man, and an excellent administrator, but he doesn’t like surprises.”

Zack felt the prickle of irritation and impatience. He reminded himself that one of the reasons he had opted to become a surgeon, while others, like Walsh, had chosen pediatrics or internal medicine, was the speed with which they went about making decisions. More often than not, the primary care people and the surgeons ended up at the same spot. They simply arrived there by different routes. He motioned toward Toby’s cubicle.

“Owen,” he said, “we don’t exactly have a lot of time to play around with this thing. I can understand your reluctance, but we either do this or we don’t.”

Again, the man hesitated.

“Okay, Zack,” he said finally. “You deal with Pearl and Barbara Nelms, and I’ll take care of alerting Boston, getting the helicopter people on standby, and notifying your brother. We’ll meet back here at, say, six-thirty.”

“Six-thirty it is. And, Owen?”

“Yes?”

“It’s the right decision.”

26

Although Clayton Iverson deeply appreciated his wife of nearly forty years, and had actually endured a recent series of nightmares revolving around her premature death, the truth was that he had never had great use for any woman.

The oldest of five children, and the only boy, he had attended an all-male prep school and college, and had known no woman intimately before his wedding night, nor any other than Cinnie Iverson since.

Long before his wife had become pregnant, he had selected the names of his sons, and once suggested to her that, should the unimaginable come to pass, that they consider naming their daughter Ruth after Rutherford B. Hayes.

Despite his pride in describing himself as “an emerging liberal on the subject of women’s rights, the Judge still had difficulty taking women seriously in any business dealings of substance. And with no woman was that difficulty more intensely manifested than with Leigh Baron.

Evening had settled in around the farm, bringing with it a persistent, windswept drizzle. The Judge sat with Leigh in his study, sharing coffee and some of Cinnies apple pie and talking in only the vaguest terms about Ultramed and its plans for the future.

It was nearing eight o’clock. The conversation with the woman was, in his opinion, becoming somewhat tedious. In addition to Ultramed, they had touched on the stock market (her ideas were innovative, but charmingly naive, he thought); children (she and her husband, who spent most of his work week in New York, had decided not to have any!); criminal justice (her notions about the issues surrounding capital punishment were rather simplistic and poorly substantiated); and sports (she had the temerity to compare golf to croquet, and to state that she would consider taking up the game only after she was physically no longer able to play tennis!).