Natural Causes (15 page)

“I’ve heard rumors of massive layoffs pending at MCB. Doesn’t that suggest the financial problems are getting worse?”

“There’s a big difference between rumors and done deeds, Andy. People may be talking about layoffs, but my sources say that MCB has actually begun some
hiring
. And there’s more. For several years now I’ve had a pipeline into some of the really big creditors of the hospital, including the bank that holds one of its mortgages. They tell me that recently Paris and his financial advisor, Colin Smith, have stopped scrambling for money. They’ve even started paying off some bills. I think it’s got to be that foundation Paris talked about in the speech you recorded.”

“That was the first time I ever heard him mention it,” Truscott said.

“And you’re sure he never gave the name?”

“You heard the tape.”

“I want that name, Andy, and quickly. If we know
what we’re up against, chances are we can come up with some sort of countermeasure. If Paris and Smith manage to get that place out of the hole, we’ll probably never get another shot at it. Remember how much I said is at stake for us.”

“Assuming I get you the name,” Andrew heard himself say, “I expect a small portion of those millions will find its way in my direction.”

Mallon’s eyes flashed.

“Do yourself a favor, Andy,” he said with chilling calm, “and don’t try and put the screws to me. Okay? Just come up with that name. Let me choose the reward. We both know you have no future at Crunchy Granola General. Zip. And need I remind you that except for a few hospitals way out in the boonies, the market is already glutted with general surgeons? It’s a safe bet that those few who
are
getting hired for decent jobs were chief residents in their training programs. That’s something you’re never going to be putting on your résumé. Your future is with us, Andy. You know it, and we know it. So just help us out where you can, and get me that name.”

Truscott reddened. Clearly he was out of his league. Mallon was a pro at manipulation and control. All Andrew could do was hang in there and learn from the man. His own day would come.

“Point made,” he said.

“Excellent. Now, what have you got for me in that briefcase?”

Andrew handed over the sheet Sarah had given him, along with Xeroxes of the three hospital records and also some notes he had made.

“This involves Sarah Baldwin,” he said.

“Ah, yes. Another major thorn in our side. The woman has certainly become a media darling.”

Andrew remembered Sarah, the next chief resident in obstetrics, seated across from him in the cafeteria,
smugly lecturing him on the power of alternative healing.

“Well, your friend Devlin may be in a position to change that,” he said.

Mallon scanned Sarah’s prenatal information sheet. “Bloodroot … moondragon leaves … elephant sleeper. These are all herbs of some sort?”

“They are. They’re boiled and drunk as some sort of tea. As you can see, each item has several names. Baldwin recommends them over the standard supplements pregnant women are required to take. She claims a study done in the jungle somewhere proved the herbs are superior to what she calls ‘processed vitamins.’ ”

“Fascinating. Go on, Andy.”

“Well, most everyone at MCB thought the Summer girl was the second DIC case at our hospital. She wasn’t. She was the third.” He slid across the letter from the New York medical examiner. “As you will see from studying the hospital records I’ve copied, all three women who got DIC—the two who died, and the one who is still in the hospital—have one definite thing in common besides the fact that they all were MCB patients. All three opted to take Baldwin’s herbal porridge.”

It was clear from Mallon’s expression that no further explanation was necessary.

“Does any other obstetrician prescribe these?” he asked.

“No.”

“Where does she get them?”

“From some herbalist in Chinatown. Do you want me to find out who?”

“Absolutely. There’s no time tonight, though. As soon as we’re done, I’m going to fax these over to Devlin. And don’t worry. No one else will lay hands on those records. Tell me, do you think taking these herbs could have caused that blood problem?”

“Not by themselves, I don’t. But there are examples—many
examples, actually—of an allergy to one substance sensitizing patients to the action of something else.”

“Give me an example,” Mallon said, scratching notes on a pad.

“Well, let’s see. A number of antibiotics—tetracycline is probably the best known—cause extreme sensitivity to sunlight in certain patients. The reaction is not completely understood and can be very, very severe. We have no idea which tetracycline users are going to get it. Many don’t. So we just tell everyone who gets put on the drug to stay covered up.”

“Yes, I remember that now. Have you had a chance to study this list?”

“I’ve looked it over. None of it makes much sense to me. I tried looking up some of the herbs.”

“And?”

“It’s going to take someone with more time than I have, and access to a better library. The various names—scientific, western, Asian—make the whole thing pretty complicated.”

“The more complicated the better,” Mallon said. “There are potential problems of miscommunication all over the place. Language problems, fouled-up shipping orders …”

“Lack of consistent dosage control,” Andrew added. “Contamination with other herbs or pesticides.”

“Scary stuff—especially if any of these herbs has potential effects on blood clotting.” Mallon spent half a minute absently tapping his eraser on the table. “Well, the whole thing would pack more punch if we knew more of the biology,” he said finally. “But until we do, I suspect Devlin will be able to get a few miles out of what we have here. This material has potential, Andy. Big potential.”

“I agree.”

“Tell me. What’s your relationship with this Sarah Baldwin?”

Truscott thought a bit, then said simply, “I don’t have one.”

“Well, then, do what you can to dig up anything else on her, Andy. Anything at all.” Mallon took two envelopes from his desk. “A reward for your loyalty and for this information,” he said, passing one of them over. “And here’s the letter you requested from the medical director at Everwell. The position it promises assumes that Everwell will be taking over MCB. No takeover, no position. Clear?”

“Clear.”

“Good. I like clear. You’re doing fine, Andy. Just fine.” Mallon slipped the material into his briefcase and snapped it shut. “Rather than try to fax all this to Devlin, I’m going to drop it off myself. Sorry to seem as though I’m rushing you out, but my wife is waiting for me.”

“No problem,” Truscott said as they headed out. “I’m about a week behind in sleep, and I ought to try to get at least a little caught up—especially seeing as how I’m scheduled to meet with Willis Grayson tomorrow morning.”

“The
Willis Grayson?”

“Yes. Didn’t I mention that? God, that was dumb of me. I meant to tell you about that when I got here, and I got so involved with—”

“Tell me about what?” Mallon had stopped walking.

“The girl who survived the DIC, the one who’s still in the hospital—”

“Yes?”

“She turns out to be Grayson’s daughter.”

“What?”

“I don’t know the whole story, but apparently she’s been living this hippie existence for years as Lisa Summer. Grayson showed up by helicopter this morning. He’s made appointments with every doc who had anything to do with her case.”

“Why?”

“I don’t really know. I guess he wants to find out exactly what happened. I’m scheduled to meet with him at eleven.”

Mallon rubbed at his chin.

“Do you know where he’s staying?” he asked.

“Grayson? Nope. No idea.”

“It doesn’t matter. I can find that out. What kind of shape is his daughter in?”

“She’s depressed as hell. But medically she’s doing pretty well. Her arm—what’s left of it—is healing nicely.”

“And she lost her baby?”

“That’s right.”

“Willis Grayson’s grandchild.…”

“Pardon?”

“Nothing. Nothing.” Suddenly oblivious to Andrew, Mallon snatched up the phone from a nearby desk, called Axel Devlin, and alerted him that a messenger would be by shortly with a special package for him. Then he dialed another number. “Who’s this, Brigitte?… Oh, Luanne, how’re you doing? This is Jeremy Mallon speaking.… Fine, I’m just fine, thank you. Listen, you know the reception?… Yes, well, Mrs. Mallon is there right now, and she’s expecting me. Would you find her please and tell her I’m going to be late. In fact, tell her that if I’m not there by ten I won’t be there at all. Do you have that?… Thank you, Luanne. Thanks very much. I’ll catch up with you later in the week.” He set the receiver down. “I don’t think Mary Ellen would trash seventeen years of marriage over one missed reception,” he said as much to himself as to Truscott. “Listen, Andy, I’m going to stay here and make some calls. You know the way out, yes?”

“Sure. Are you going to try to contact Grayson?”

“The man’s got a ton of lawyers, I’m sure. But I doubt any of them are M.D.’s. Men like Grayson want the best. I’ve just got to find a way of educating him as to
who, in this type of legal business, the best is. You take care now.”

Without waiting for Truscott to leave, he hurried back into his office.

S
ARAH STOOD IN THE OPERATING ROOM BENEATH AN
icy, blue-white light. She was delivering an infant by cesarean section before a gallery of observers that included, it seemed, every person with whom she had had any contact over the eventful week just past.

“Too bad, your baby’s dead,” she said to the patient, whose face was covered with a sheet. She turned to the gallery and bowed. “Too bad, everyone, her baby’s dead. Too bad.”

Glenn Paris smiled down at her approvingly, as did Randall Snyder and Annalee Ettinger. Alma Young, in uniform, applauded and blew her kisses. Several reporters from the press conference gave her A-okay signs. Others photographed her. Then, with a flourish, she whisked the sheet aside only to see herself. Her eyes were bloody hollows; her mouth was agape in a silent scream of death.

Sarah awoke shrieking, bathed in a chilling sweat. It was four-thirty in the morning.

Trembling, she pushed herself out of bed and pulled on her robe. Then she put on some tea and drew a hot
bath. She was terrified, she knew, not only by the disturbing content of her dream, but by the fact that she had experienced it at all. For much of her early life, she had been a slave to all manner of nightmares. The most consistent scenario, often recurring as many as two or three times a week, revolved around her being bound, gagged, and totally helpless. From there, on any given night, she would be stabbed repeatedly, beaten, smothered, thrown from a great height, or hurled into the sea. Never in the horrible dreams did she actually see the face of her assailant. On rare occasions, the man—she never doubted it was a man—would burn her with cigarettes. At times the vivid nightmares so haunted her, so dominated her life, that she would simply refuse to go to sleep.

In her mid-teens, at the suggestion of a concerned teacher, she began seeing a psychologist. It seemed obvious to the woman that some event in Sarah’s past—isolated or recurrent—was at the core of her terror. The therapist did what she could to get at that source. But Sarah’s mother, already drifting deeper and deeper into her dementia, could supply little useful information.