Flashback (1988) (53 page)

Frank felt determined to keep his eagerness in check. He knew that Mainwaring wanted Serenyl at least as much as he wanted Mainwaring’s million. If this was their last skirmish, he was damned if he was going to let the man leave with the upper hand. He crossed to his bookcase and poured himself a
glass of tonic. Then he deliberately set aside Mainwaring’s “Greensleeves” tape, which he’d been listening to, and snapped on a Mantovani in its place.

The surgeon flinched.

“Iverson,” he said, “are you tryin’ to bait me?”

“Hardly, Jason. I just thought that since this might be our last meeting together, I might see if I could change your opinion about Mantovani. This album’s called
Roman Holiday
. What do you think?”

“I think we should get this business of ours over with. That’s what I think.” Irritably, the surgeon rose and shut off the tape.

Frank unlocked a drawer of his desk and withdrew a thick envelope.

“Here it is, Jason,” he said. “Signed, sealed, and ready to be delivered.”

“Just as we had it drawn up?”

“You were there.”

“Well, then …” Mainwaring set his briefcase on his lap and opened it. “Our chemists have approved Dr. Pearl’s work, and my company has authorized payment to you of the sum we agreed upon.”

“That being?”

“That being the sum we agreed upon. Iverson, don’t play games with me, or I swear, I’ll be out that door.”

“In that case, Jason, you’ll be out two years of your life as well.”

Frank was feeling glorious. It was the sort of scene he had watched his father play any number of times over the years. Now, there was a new Iverson pulling the strings—a new Iverson at the top of the heap.

Mainwaring hesitated, then flipped an envelope onto the desk.

“Barclay’s Bank, Georgetown, Grand Cayman Islands,” he said, somewhat wearily. “They won’t release the money to you until they hear from me. But if you have doubts about the account numbers, feel free to call them.”

“That won’t be necessary, Jason. I trust you. Besides, I’ve arranged for my man at the Cayman National Bank to transfer the funds to accounts there as soon as he hears from me. So, if you’ll just check over those papers, we can each make a call.”

“You are quite the most distasteful man I have ever had dealings with, Iverson.”

“Thank you,” Frank said. “From you, I’ll take that as a compliment. Now, if you’ll be so kind.”

He slid the phone across to the surgeon, then sat back as calmly as he could manage and waited. When the calls were completed, he dropped Mainwaring’s envelope in his drawer and watched as the surgeon tucked the bill of sale and the patent rights to Serenyl into his briefcase. A million dollars, Frank was thinking. Just like that—a million dollars.

“I hope this means we’re about to see the last of one another,” Mainwaring said.

“We’ll miss you, Jason,” Frank replied with a straight face. “We surely will.”

The surgeon stood and gave Franks proffered hand an ichthyic shake. Then he whirled and was gone.

Frank walked to his bathroom, washed his face, and studied himself in the mirror.

“Funny,” he said, straightening his tie and then winking at his reflection, “you don’t look like a millionaire.”

Judge, you’re my father. I love you for that—for the things you’ve done for me.… I would give up my life, if necessary, to protect you.…

Lying on his stretcher, Judge Clayton Iverson watched the foliage flash past through the rear windows of the ambulance as he reflected on his son’s words. They had passed through Conway five or ten minutes before, he guessed, so almost certainly they had split off from Route 16 and were heading southwest on 25, toward Moultonborough and the northern rim of Lake Winnipesaukee. Beside him, the paramedic, a woman with Orphan Annie hair and an eager, child’s fece, was carrying on a running conversation with the driver, pausing occasionally to check his pulse and blood pressure.

It was all so painful, the Judge acknowledged; so confusing. One moment, he was on top of the world, the next he was speeding through town to confront his older son with the facts of his dishonesty and embezzlement, and with the reality that, once again, the man had been given every opportunity and had failed. And even more distressing, Frank’s perfidy had, in effect, ripped control of the Ultramed-Davis situation from the community board and handed it to Leigh Baron on a plate.

 … Paralysis may be due to factors other than spinal cord
damage.… Guilt, fear, grief. Only you can fill in the blanks, Judge.…

There was no cause for guilt, the Judge reasoned desperately. Beau Robillard hadn’t done one thing of value his entire life. Clayton Iverson had been elected Sterling Man of the Year six times. Six! Besides, if blame were to be placed, it should go to Frank, not to him. If it weren’t for Frank, there would have been no accident. If it weren’t for Frank, there would have been no drinking, no lapse in concentration, no missed red light.

 … Given the information I had to work with last night, if the same situation arose again, I would make the same choices.…

If it weren’t for Frank, Zachary would never have been put in the position of having to make such a terrible decision. At least Zachary had had the guts to face him—to face him and to hold his ground.
Why hadn’t he appreciated his younger son more before?
Explanations, but no excuses. That was the way of a real man. Frank always had excuses.

Now, because of Frank, Ultramed would have control of Davis forever, and with that control, a stranglehold on Sterling that even Clayton Iverson would be unable to break.

There was no sense lingering over the spilled milk that was Beau Robillard. That milk was soured to begin with. But the hospital was a different story. John Burris had told him that trying to attend the board meeting was out of the question, and in truth, he had wanted to get as far away from both of his sons as possible. But now …

If only he weren’t so damned helpless. If only he could move.…

“Judge Iverson,” the paramedic said.

“Yes, what is it?”

“Sir, you just crossed your legs.”

“What?”

Clayton Iverson looked down at his feet. They were, in fact, crossed—his left ankle resting on his right. Gingerly, he lifted the upper leg and set it down on the stretcher. Then he lifted the other. His pulse began to pound.

“What time is it?” he demanded.

“Eleven, sir.”

“Where are we?”

“Just outside of Moultonborough.”

“Tell the driver to turn around.”

“Excuse me?”

“Turn around, dammit. Turn around. I’ve got to get back to the hospital.”

“Sir, we can’t—”

“Do you know who I am? … Well then, I said turn around. I don’t have time to argue. I’m paying for this ambulance, and I swear, if you don’t do as I say, there will be hell to pay for both of you!”

“But—”

“Now!”

“Y-Yessir.”

The woman knelt beside the driver, and after a brief exchange, the ambulance swung into a driveway and turned around.

“Use your lights and siren, and step on it,” the Judge said.

“But sir, we’re not allowed to—”

“The siren, dammit! I assure you nothing bad will happen if you do, but everything bad will happen if you don’t. Quickly now, lets move.”

The driver hesitated, and then switched on the lights and siren and accelerated.

Behind him, Judge Clayton Iverson crossed and uncrossed his legs again.

“Well, I’ll be damned,” he muttered. “I’ll be goddamned.”

33

Shortly after she had seen the first several office patients of the morning. Suzanne sent word to her nurse to try and reschedule as many of the rest as possible. It was, perhaps, the most killing aspect of private practice that a day’s patients had no way to adjust to their physician having been awake most or all of the previous night. And, indeed, it was doubtful most of them would even want to try. They had waited days or even weeks for their appointments, and they expected—and deserved, as far as Suzanne was concerned—to have their physician be one hundred percent theirs for the short time they had together.

Normally, even after a grueling night she could rev herself up for her office work. This morning, though, try as she might, she simply could not hold her concentration together. A seventy-five-year-old lady who Was taking double the amount of digitalis prescribed, had nearly slipped past her. A housewife had gotten cross with her for not seeming to take her complaints of fatigue more seriously. A pharmacy called because she had neglected to write the strength of a cardiac medicine on one of her prescriptions.

And, she knew, her difficulty was not simply one of fatigue. A child she felt responsible for and a man she was growing to love were both in serious trouble. Her thoughts kept ricocheting from one to the other. Twice, already, she had called the unit to check on Toby’s status, despite knowing that she would be contacted by Owen Walsh or the nurses at the first sign of trouble. Twice, already, she had interrupted the workday of medical staff members to gauge their response to some sort of job action should Frank refuse to back down on his dismissal of Zack.

And overriding even her concern for Zack and Toby Nelms was her growing indignation at the treatment Guy Beaulieu had apparently received from Frank, and the mounting
likelihood that unauthorized chemical experimentation was being conducted at die hospital. For more than two years, gratitude for her salvation from Paul and her legal entanglements had kept her from voicing any criticism of Franks decisions or Ultramed policies. Now it was time to take a stand.

She buzzed her nurse.

“Janice, how are we doing with those reschedulings?”

“You’re clear for the next hour” Dr. Cole,” the woman said. “I haven’t been able to reach Mr. Braddock or that new referral from Hanover, but I’ll keep trying.”

“Excellent. Listen, I’ll be in the unit or on page if you need me. There are a few things I’ve got to get done.”

She left her office and took the glass-enclosed walkway from the Physicians and Surgeons Building to the main hospital. On her way to the ICU, she passed the Carter Conference Room. Two dietary aides were busily arranging the tables for a luncheon meeting—almost certainly, she realized, the meeting of the community board and the people from Ultramed. There could be no better time to confront Frank with her concerns than right now. He would listen, and make some major concessions, or face the embarrassment and conflict of having her present those misgivings to the meeting.

Franks outer office door was closed. Suzanne opened it and stepped into the deserted reception area.

“Hello? Frank?” she called as she tapped on the inner door. “It’s Suzanne Cole.… Frank?”

“It’s open, Suzanne.” She was startled to hear his voice through the intercom on one of the desks behind her. “Come in.” She opened the door and he rose from behind his desk.

“Well, now,” he said, shaking her hand. “This is a pleasant surprise.”

“Thanks, Frank. I’m sorry to barge in on you like this, but I need to talk with you.”

He glanced at the Lucite clock.

“That would be fine, Suzanne, but this just isn’t the time. You see, I have a b—”

“I know what you have, Frank,” she said, taking a seat in one of the pair of oak-armed chairs feeing his desk. “You have a meeting with the community board and the people from Ultramed. Before you go into that meeting, I think you should hear what I have to say.”

“Oh, you do.”

His buoyant expression chilled, perhaps, a degree.

“Yes. But first, I wanted to find out why you fired Zachary.”

“Because I always do what is in the best interests of my hospital, and getting rid of a disruptive, drunken troublemaker was clearly in the best interests of my hospital. Speaking of which, would you like a drink?”

“Frank, listen to me, please. Two years ago you helped me out of a huge jam. I’m grateful for what you did, and ever since I’ve been here, I’ve done my best to support you.”

“And I appreciate it, Suze. You’ve been great. Tell you what: as soon as this board business is taken care of, let’s you and I do dinner on Ultramed and talk about some sort of increase in your pay.”