Shadow of Eden (12 page)

The next afternoon, Shirley’s screams met Steve as he entered the ICU. Fortunately, the closed sliding-glass ICU doors muffled much of the sound. Jeanne, Shirley’s nurse, and Edith stood by her bed, trying to calm her. The Ativan IV, twice increased overnight, clearly wasn’t working any better than the Haldol.

He sat down heavily at the counter and pulled Shirley’s chart out of the rack. The lab results so far were mostly normal, which didn’t surprise him. The FedEx package of Captain Palmer’s records had arrived that morning and after reviewing them, he found, true to Marty’s predictions, the two patients had little in common. And so far, her work up—and lack of positive findings—paralleled Captain Palmer’s. How then, were they related?

He pulled out the sheet of yellow legal paper on which he had written the major categories of neurologic disease: infectious, immunologic, demyelinative, degenerative, vascular, traumatic, neoplastic, and toxic. Under each he had listed every possible diagnosis for Shirley, which by now had grown to about forty diseases in all. After reviewing the lab tests, he crossed out the incompatible ones. He looked at the remainder of the list. It still had entries under toxins, immune diseases, demyelinating diseases, and diseases related to cancers or infections.

Last night, after initially falling asleep, he had awakened in a sweat. He had again dreamed of being crushed against the ceiling of the 747, with the streets below rushing up at him. Only this time he was paralyzed, unable to move, and awoke just as they slammed into the ground.

His movements must have disturbed Anne, for she had moved over to hold him and rock him gently. But, like the previous three nights, he had waited until she fell back asleep before gently extricating himself; lying in bed fully awake, until finally dozing off around four in the morning.

Staring at the paper, he tried to muster the energy to analyze the remaining possibilities, but the words became just so many letters dancing on the paper. He folded the paper and shoved it into his black bag. He just had to get more sleep tonight.

He went into Shirley’s room. She was lying on her back with her eyes closed. Beads of perspiration dampened her forehead and she moaned slightly. There was a slight acid smell that Steve recognized as ketones. He made a mental note to ask about her food intake.

Steve leaned over the bed. “Shirley?”

“Yeah?” Her voice was slurred.

To Jeanne, he remarked, “She’s too sedated. Let’s hold the Ativan unless we really need it.” Turning back to Shirley he asked, “How’s the headache?”

“Terrible.” Shirley’s face began twitching with irregular, tic-like movements that jerked her mouth repeatedly to one side in an irregular grimace. Steve completed his examination and then motioned Edith outside the room.

“Edith, I’m going to start a new medicine to try and control her nightmares. The ones we’ve tried so far obviously have not worked. Hopefully, we can find something that is more effective. Her tests haven’t shown anything yet, but the key tests won’t be back for several days.” He pursed his lips. “Right now, I am not sure of the cause of her problem, but I expect we’ll know soon.”

“But you can treat her?” Her question was more of a statement.

Steve shrugged, feeling uncomfortable. “If it’s a virus, I’m already giving her the best medicine we have, but it won’t help if the problem is from something else. My only other course would be high doses of cortisone. I may do that soon, but I’d like to have a better idea about what’s going on first.”

“But she’s going to be okay?” Edith clutched his shirtsleeve.

Steve shook his head. “I don’t know.”

Chapter 23

E
ven though he was expecting it, the sharp rap on the door made Dr. Green jump. He looked up from the chart he was reviewing. “Come in.”

A blue-suited man entered and, folding up his dark glasses, looked around like an interior decorator appraising a house. He walked over to Green and stuck out his hand.

“Rhodes. Secret Service. We met yesterday. He’ll be here in just a minute.” Rhodes moved about, re-familiarizing himself with the room. It was a typical physician’s office, dominated on one side by a coffee-stained wooden desk piled with medical journals, and on the other by dark wooden bookcases laden with heavy texts and more piles of journals. A wood and vinyl examination table covered by thin white paper stood against a wall with a blood pressure cuff mounted above. Dr. Green watched Rhodes make his systematic scrutiny of the office for the second time in two days.

Thomas Green was used to the routine. A sturdy black man with salt and pepper hair and a trim, nearly white beard, he had been President Dixon’s personal physician for the three years of his presidency. Green and Dixon had met in undergraduate chemistry at the College of William and Mary where Dixon had registered pre-med to follow in his grandfather’s footsteps. The class had been difficult for the gregarious Dixon, but with Green tutoring him, Dixon had passed and the two had formed an unlikely, but lasting friendship. Dixon later switched to political science and then finished a Masters in economics before he entered politics. Once he got to Washington, it was only natural for Green, now a physician and on the faculty at Bethesda, to take over his care.

Rhodes stared out the windows for several minutes before whispering into his hand. After a moment he announced, “He’s coming down the hall now.” Moments later, Robert Dixon walked in.

“Hello, Tom.” President Dixon’s personality filled the room as it had even back in college. Dixon shook his old friend’s hand warmly, but Dr. Green saw an uncharacteristic edge in Dixon’s tired expression. Rhodes retreated following a final look around and closed the door. Dixon was dressed in a navy suit, but in a departure from the standard white shirt and tie, he wore a golf shirt underneath, a subdued dusky orange. His straight dark hair had a distinctive gray splash on his right temple. “So, Tom,” he said, “Have you been following the news?”

“Hong Kong?”

“Yeah.”

“Terrible—”

“The worst sort, the bastards.”

The outburst surprised Green. They never talked politics, particularly during his annual physicals. He pointed for Dixon to sit on the exam table. “What are we going to do about it?”

Dixon slid onto the table and took off his jacket. “Crap, that’s what. Nothing.”

Green cleared his throat. “Well, let’s talk about something good. Your tests are back.”

Dixon brightened. “OK, what’ve you got?”

Dr. Green pursed his lips as he scanned the paper. “Well, they’re good. Normal. Your cholesterol and triglycerides are back to normal, even your glucose.”

The President’s face relaxed for the first time since he had come in. “How about that?” He did not look in the least surprised.

“Robert,” Dr. Green continued looking at the chart, “You’ve dropped almost thirty pounds since the last visit. How did you do that? I thought any diet or exercise changes were reported in the Post.”

“Thirty? I didn’t think I’d lost that much. Been feeling great, though.” Dixon’s lips lifted in a faint smile. “I stopped the Prilosec you put me on. I didn’t need it anymore. Never felt better.”

Dr. Green cocked his head. “So what’s your secret? I’d like to pass it on.”

Dixon leaned over and whispered conspiratorially, “I’m a first termer, remember old chap?”

Green’s eyebrows shot up. “Of course, I should have realized.”

Dixon winked and flashed a grin, a semblance of the old Dixon Green knew, the Dixon from college, full of mischief and passion. “Gotta look good for the cameras.”

Chapter 24

“H
ow do you spend your free time?” People Magazine reporter Sherry Fontaine asked. She sat in a sumptuous suede leather chair in Vicktor Morloch’s office, high above the streets of Philadelphia, enjoying a spectacular view of the Delaware River. She was in the midst of a daylong interview with the CEO of Trident Pharmaceuticals, which included tailing him at work and then following along as he went out on the town that evening.

Marcus Hinojosa, her photographer, snapped off several pictures while Morloch sat at his desk, answering her questions.

“I play competitive tennis and polo,” Morloch said, pushing back his chair and standing up. “But you probably already know that.”

“No, tell me.” She played innocent, hoping for some new information not printed in any of his previous interviews she had read.

He walked over to inspect several pictures on the wall. One showed him astride a tall roan horse. “I played polo as soon as my dad would let me ride by myself.”

Morloch smiled and, on cue, Hinojosa snapped off a few more candids. “I wish I could spend more time playing, but,” he spread his hands, “I love my job here at Trident. My apartment is on the penthouse floor here, so I’m never far from my work.” Sherry knew he was reciting. They were crafted phrases, but for some reason, he could pull it off. His lean, sinuous movements actually resembled the horses he rode.

Vicktor Morloch was very rich and very eligible, and People Magazine had assigned her to interview him for their World’s Richest Bachelors feature. Initially, she had wished her editor had assigned her to one of the younger, hunkier men, but while researching this fifty-something captain of industry, her opinion evolved. He was a legendary ladies’ man and after meeting him in person, she felt drawn in by his monied allure.

“I understand you had some controversy at a championship polo match.” Morloch had allegedly swung his mallet at the hind leg of the rival team’s horse during a sprint for the ball. The impact broke the horse’s leg and it fell, injuring its rider. Morloch’s team won the match after a bitter dispute over the incident.

Morloch turned back with the faintest irritation in his voice. “An accident, as it was finally adjudicated. I was trying for the ball and hit Sloan Thompson’s horse by mistake. It’s all in the record.”

“They had to put the horse down,” Fontaine probed.

“Of course.” He shrugged indifferently, “It was unfortunate all the way around, but it’s part of the danger and risk that I love about the game.”

“But now that your drug’s such a phenomenal success,” she asked, “why don’t you take more time for your polo?”

Morloch’s answer was smooth and rehearsed. “Sir Winston Churchill said, ‘The price of greatness is responsibility’ and I take the responsibility for our shareholders and patients very seriously.”

“But then, how do you find time for your women?” People’s readership was sixty-eight percent women and this was an important topic.

“Ahh, but women are a priority.” He flashed a quick, boyish smile. “And there is always time for a priority. Women are truly a gift from heaven and should be treated as such.”

She knew that he had dated many women, including some celebrities, but none of the ones she had contacted would say a bad word about him. His reputation for treating women very well was apparently true—or he had blackmailed every one of them. Fontaine smiled at that last thought, although it had just popped into her head. But, with his kind of money, anything was possible. Actually, surrounded by the luxury of his office and knowing how much money he made, Fontaine found herself understanding the seductive power of great wealth. She shivered.