Extreme Measures (43 page)

“Dammit, Eric, where are you? Where the hell are you?”

Laura Enders listened as the phone in the office where Eric was supposed to be continued to ring. Finally she set the receiver down and finished dressing. Her hands were shaking and she could barely focus on what she was doing. Five minutes, she decided. She would try once more in five minutes. Then she had to do something.

It was only boredom, really, that had led her to check in with the desk at the Carlisle. Now she wondered if the force at work was something much stronger than that. The message, which she had copied down verbatim after three repetitions by the Iranian desk clerk, had come in during the early morning.

It was nearing nine o’clock. Laura struggled to
keep her hopes in check. More likely than not, the call was a hoax—or worse, a trap. Under no circumstances would she give anyone the number at Bernard’s apartment; nor would she go anywhere alone. At two minutes before the hour, she tried Dave Subarsky’s office once more. Once more there was no answer. She watched the seconds march off on her watch until another minute had passed, and then dialed. A man answered on the first ring.

“This is Rocky,” he said.

“Rocky, this is Laura Enders.”

She held the receiver with both hands to keep it steady.

“I got yer brother at my place. You still offerin’ a reward?”

Laura’s immediate sense was of an older man with not much education. In the background she could hear traffic noises.

“Yes, Rocky,” she said. “If you really have him, I’ll pay.”

“How much?”

“First tell me, is he all right?”

“He’s not so good, no.”

“What’s the matter?”

“How should I know? I ain’t no doctor. Now, how much are we talkin’ here?”

His voice had the deliberation and thickness of a drinker’s.

“Five hundred dollars,” Laura heard herself say.

“Six.”

“Okay, okay, six. But no deal until you tell me something. My brother has a tattoo on his left hip. Describe it.”

“If I have to go back and check, it’ll cost you another fifty.”

“That’s fine. I’ll call this number in five minutes.”

“Better make it ten,” Rocky said.

He hung up without waiting for a reply.

During the minutes that followed, Laura remained
by the phone, moving only twice to try the number at the hospital. At nine-fifteen she called once again.

“Mom, Dad, Laurie, three flowers,” Rocky said immediately.

Laura felt the muscles in her body go lax. She struggled to keep from dropping the phone.

“Where are you?” she demanded.

“Do we got a deal?”

“Yes, we have a deal. Now where are you?”

“Six-fifty?”

“Yes, yes. Now please, just tell me where to go.”

“East Boston. There’s a big vacant lot that starts on Bow Street. You’ll see a couple a rusty barrels in one corner. Be there in an hour with the money, and come alone.”

“I’ll have to have a driver.”

“Just keep him the hell away from me. Once I get the money, I’ll tell you where you can find yer brother. Don’t fool with me neither, lady. I ain’t no dummy.”

“I won’t. I promise.”

It could still be a trap. Laura tried desperately to think through the possibilities of how the man could have learned of Scott’s tattoo. Finally, she knew there was no choice but to go and see. She opened the Yellow Pages to
TAXIS
, then just as quickly she stopped and put the book aside. There was a better, safer way. After writing a lengthy note explaining to Eric everything that was happening, she picked up the phone and dialed 911.

“My name is Laura Enders,” she said. “I must speak with Captain Wheeler, Captain Lester Wheeler. It’s an emergency.”

T
he neurosurgical service occupied the eighth and ninth floors of the Fox Building, the newest—and in Eric’s opinion the most appealing—of White Memorial’s twelve buildings. The broad, well-lit corridors, pastel decor, and airy rooms seemed as perfect a setting for recovery as a hospital could offer. Eric had done two rotations on neurosurgery, and knew the floors well. Norma Cullinet’s room, 814 according to patient information, was quite far from the nurses’ station—down a separate corridor, in fact. The location suggested that she was quite stable, at least as post-op neurosurgical patients were measured.

Still wary of his uncertain status in the hospital, Eric stopped by the laundry in the subbasement, signed out a knee-length clinic coat, and made his way up the staircase he remembered as opening almost across the hall from 814. As he climbed, he tried to sort out what he had come to know of the woman over the five years of their professional association.
She had always impressed him as being conscientious enough, but now that he thought about it, there had always been a hard edge to her, a distance that kept many of the nurses and residents from calling her by her first name.

Still, a hard edge was one thing, murder quite another. And the evidence Eric had amassed left little doubt in his mind that Norma Cullinet had administered a powerful metabolic poison to nearly a hundred unsuspecting patients, and then had calmly waited for them to be brought back to White Memorial clinically dead. Hard edge or not, it was difficult to imagine her doing the things he suspected. But then again, it was difficult to imagine
anyone
in the healing arts doing them.

As Eric neared the eighth floor, a plan began to take shape. If, in fact, Caduceus was behind the pseudo-deaths, and if in fact Norma was one of them, it was reasonable to assume that she knew he had been approached to join their cabal. If he could now convince her that over the days since her accident, he had undergone a change of heart and signed on, there was every reason to believe she might slip up.

What he wanted most from her was confirmation of his theories about Caduceus and its makeup, and some kind of affirmation that one of the search committee members was the powerful central figure in the secret society. And of course, what he also wanted desperately to learn were the reasons why—why a group so totally empowered by society would callously destroy the lives entrusted to them.

Once on the eighth-floor landing, Eric paused to catch his breath and compose himself. If, as was possible, Norma Cullinet was unwilling or unable to provide the information he needed, so be it. There would be other ways. The important thing was, he was finally on the offensive.

He opened the heavy door a crack and peered out. Except for an aide engrossed in her linen cart, the
corridor was deserted. A final deep breath, and he crossed the hall. There was a sign in red on Norma’s door:
NO VISITORS. PLEASE CHECK AT NURSES’ STATION
. Eric hesitated a beat, and then slipped inside and closed the door behind him. The room was in near darkness, the only light leaking through a small gap in the drapes. Norma Cullinet, her head swathed in bandages, lay on her back, asleep.

Eric cleared his throat loudly and then took two steps toward the bed.

“Norma?” he said softly. “Norma, it’s Eric Najarian.”

In that instant, as his eyes adjusted to the darkness he noted the unnatural tilt of her head and the wide, static opening of her mouth.

“Oh, Jesus!” he cried, racing to the bedside. “Norma! Norma, wake up!” He simultaneously pulled the light and nurse’s call cords as he checked her neck for a pulse. “Oh, damn!” he heard himself murmur.

He checked her airway with his finger, shoved her pillow down between her shoulders to throw her head back, and gave her chest a quick thump. Then he gave her two mouth-to-mouth breaths.

“Help! Code Ninety-nine in Eight-fourteen!” he screamed as he began cardiac compressions. “Code Ninety-nine in Eight-fourteen.”

He did a cycle of compressions and another pair of breaths, and then reached for the phone with one hand as he continued closed-chest compressions with the other. The operator answered on the fifth ring.

“This is Dr. Najarian,” he rasped. “Code Ninety-nine, Fox Building, room Eight-fourteen. Call it!”

He slammed the receiver down and once again screamed for help. He heard the commotion and footsteps in the hall at the moment the operator’s droning voice began sounding through the overhead page: Code Ninety-nine, Fox Eight-fourteen … Code Ninety-nine, Fox Eight-fourteen.

A nurse rushed in, followed moments later by another with the crash cart. The overhead lights were turned on.

“Dr. Najarian,” the nurse exclaimed, “what are you—?”

“She coded,” Eric cut her off. “Get a line in her. You, give me an Ambu bag please.”

A third nurse arrived. Now Eric had all the hands he needed. In less than a minute, an IV line and breathing tube were in, and the defibrillator was charged.

“Three-sixty,” Eric said, ordering the voltage he wanted. “Everybody clear!”

A breathless resident raced into the room as Eric, holding electrode paddles on the side of Norma’s breastbone and beneath her left breast, depressed the red button on the paddle in his right hand. Norma’s body arched off the bed and her limp arms shot upward like a puppet’s.

“Resume compressions, please,” he ordered.

“This woman’s my patient,” the resident said. “Could you please tell me what’s going on?”

“I came here and found her dead in bed,” Eric said. “Could someone please get the EKG hooked up. I need an amp of epi now. Everyone get back—we’re going to shock her again.”

“What were you doing in here?” the bewildered resident asked.

Eric ignored the question, and twice more administered high-voltage shocks.

“Keep pumping, please,” he ordered. “Give the epi. Have we got a tracing yet?”

Several medical students, the respiratory therapist, and a medical technologist added to the crowd that was building in the room. Seconds later Joe Silver raced through the door.

“Najarian, what the hell?”

Eric raised his hand, trying to calm his chief
while at the same time scanning the EKG tracing. There was no cardiac activity whatever.

“Give her an amp of bicarb, please,” he said. There was an edge of panic in his voice.

Joe Silver’s eyes were blazing as he pushed through the crowd to the bedside. Eric felt a suffocating tightness building in his own chest.

“What in the hell are you up to?” Silver demanded.

“I came here to see Norma, found her dead in bed, and called a code.”

“She was checked less than an hour ago and she was fine,” a nurse offered.

“What are you doing in that?” Silver said, gesturing at Eric’s white coat.

Around the bedside there was a mounting air of confusion. The nurse kneeling on the bed continued her compressions, and the respiratory therapist continued manual ventilation. But both of them, as well as the nurse drawing meds, were staring at the two emergency physicians, awaiting instructions.

To Eric the entire scene seemed like a grotesque tableau. Then Joe Silver inserted himself between Eric and the bed.

“Dr. Gordon,” he said to the neurosurgical resident, “take over the resuscitation at the bedside. I’ll handle the EKG. Dr. Najarian, please wait outside. I’ll deal with you when we’re through.” He checked Norma’s pupils, then turned his back to Eric and checked the EKG. “She’s fixed and dilated and straight-line, everyone. Could I have a milligram of atropine IV. Keep pumping there, but switch if you’re tired. You’re doing a nice job, but things don’t look good … not good at all. Has anyone notified her family? If she’s Catholic, better call a priest too.”

Eric stared at his chief. At another time, just a few short days ago, he would have felt totally lost and humiliated. Now, he felt only anger. Heedless of the
many eyes still fixed on him, he turned away from the bedside and stalked from the room.

The resuscitative effort lasted another twenty minutes, although Eric had correctly sensed the futility of it from the moment his fingers touched the side of Norma Cullinet’s neck. He stood in the hallway, listening to the fruitless battle within room 814 and wondering whether Norma’s death was a post-operative complication or in some way the result of her connection with Caduceus. He also began debating whether it was worth waiting to face the almost-certain onslaught against him by Joe Silver, or whether he should simply march across the hall to the stairway and leave.

He was on the verge of selecting option two when room 814 began to empty. Most of those leaving pointedly avoided looking in his direction. Those who inadvertently made eye contact with him either shook their heads or quickly looked away. The upshot of this latest chapter in his nightmare was going to be bad—very bad.

“That woman was one hell of a nurse.”

Joe Silver, his eyes about level with Eric’s chin, stood hands on hips, glaring up at him.

She was a murderer
, Eric wanted desperately to say.
Are you one, too?
But he knew that until he held proof far more irrefutable than the notes that were folded in his hip pocket, any attempt at attacking Norma Cullinet would merely be adding Joe Silver’s shovel to those already trying to bury him.