Flashback (1988) (56 page)

Forty-nine years
.

Had Guy lived, Clothilde Beaulieu suddenly realized, they would have celebrated their forty-ninth anniversary in just one week. How strange that now, standing behind her chair, surveying the room of blank, bored, and patronizing faces, she should feel as close to her husband as she had at any time during those five decades.

He had stood in rooms like this one many times over the past two years, confronting these faces, or faces like them. And although she had never been there with him, Clothilde knew that she was feeling exactly as he had. She knew, too, that even though there was little or no chance she would prevail, he was, at that moment, by her side, and he was proud.

“… For many years after my husband opened his practice in Sterling,” she was saying, “he was one of only three doctors in town, and the only surgeon for almost a hundred miles. He was a kind and skilled and caring man, who did nothing—nothing—to deserve the kind of treatment he was to receive from the administration of this institution and the corporation whose philosophy it has adopted.…”

Seated across from the woman, Frank Iverson shaded in portions of the geometric design he was developing on a napkin, and checked the time. It would be a laughable irony if Guy Beaulieu’s widow were allowed to drone on past the twelve o’clock deadline, rendering the vote of the board legally meaningless, regardless of its outcome. No, not laughable, he decided—perfect. It was all he could do to keep from smiling at the notion.

The Carter Room was set up in its conference mode—thirty chairs arranged around an open rectangle of sandlewood tables. At the back of the room, near the gallery of past medical staff presidents, a serving table was set with coffee, Danish, and bowls of fruit.

Hidden beneath the draping linen cloth of that table,
awaiting the inevitable, several bottles of premium French champagne were chilling in sterling silver ice buckets.

The magic number was ten. Of the twenty-two members of the Davis Hospital’ board of trustees, nineteen were present. Absent from the group were a real estate agent who was vacationing in Europe; the CEO of the Carter Paper Company, who had never attended a board meeting since his first one years before; and Board Chairman Clayton Iverson. In the Judge’s absence, Whitey Bourque had been presiding over the meeting.

Frank sat beside Leigh Baron at the corner of the arrangement farthest from Bourque. They were flanked by a trio of lawyers, two representing Ultramed and the third, the hospital.

Across from them stood Clothilde Beaulieu.

“… Someone must realize that in a civilized society such as ours,” she was saying, “the best available medical care must not be doled out as a privilege. The right to live ones life as free from disease as possible must be extended to all, regardless of their ability to pay. It was my husband’s belief, and it is mine, that the Ultramed Hospitals Corporation has failed in that sacred obligation. By selecting only those who can pay for treatment, by influencing the therapeutic decisions of physicians who have studied many years to develop their craft, the corporation has reduced the delivery of medical care to the level of … of automobile mechanics.…”

Frank glanced over at Gary Garrison, proprietor of Garrisons Chevrolet Sales and Service, just in time to see the man smile and whisper a remark to the board member seated next to him. More irony. Garrisons vote was one of those that Frank had not absolutely locked up. Given enough time, it was possible that Clothilde Beaulieu could insult enough members on the board to make the vote unanimous.

Frank made his fifth head count of the session. When he had left his fathers office, less than a week before, he was certain of only five votes, six at the most. Now, thanks in large measure to the Judges absence and his refusal to use his influence on the board, he had eleven—one over the magic number. Gary Garrison would make twelve. And with the closed ballot Whitey Bourque had promised him, there might even be one or two more.

“You look concerned,” Leigh whispered.

Frank smiled.

“No sweat,” he whispered back.

“I hope so, Frank. We’re counting on you.”

“That’s the way I like it.”

“… Over the past two years, Guy Beaulieu fought back against the attempts of Ultramed to drive him from practice. Unfortunately, as I said earlier, much of the evidence he accumulated is not available today. I have done my best without it to present our position to you. I leave you now with this petition, signed by sixty-seven residents of this area, requesting the return of our hospital to community control.

“I greatly appreciate the opportunity you have given me to represent my husband’s interests this day. I know, just as he did, that the age of the country doctor making house calls and sharing the most intimate details of his patients’ lives is all but over in this country. But I issue to you, in his name, and in the name of those on this petition, one final plea that you do what you can to stop the juggernaut of technology and profit from robbing medicine of so much of its dignity, compassion, and sacred trust. Thank you, and God bless you for listening so patiently to this old woman.”

Several members of the board applauded lightly, and Bill Crook, seated on Clothilde’s right, patted her on the arm.

Whitey Bourque, who had unabashedly checked his watch half a dozen times during the final few minutes of her speech, sighed audibly and tapped his gavel on the table as he stood by his chair.

“So,” he said. “There you have it. Frank has had his say, and now Mrs. Beaulieu has had hers. Any other comments in the few minutes we have left? … Good enough. Well, in view of the seriousness of this repurchase matter, it has been suggested, and I agree, that we vote on the issue by closed ballot. Any objections? … Okay, then. You’ll each find a ballot in your folder. Just mark whatever you think is right, and pass your vote over to me.”

Across the room, Frank subconsciously nodded his approval. Beneath the table, his leg was jouncing in nervous anticipation. After immobilizing Suzanne Cole, he had called Annette Dolan and insisted that she stay home for the remainder of the day. Next, he had worked out an exquisite scenario for Zack and Suzanne, which would take both of them out of his hair for good and place the blame for their accident squarely on the shoulders of his brother.

He couldn’t have scripted things better. First Mainwaring’s
million, now the vote, and later, a call to Zack and one final test of Serenyl—this time at the edge of the four-hundred-foot drop-off at Christmas Point. It would be the perfect ending to a perfect day. The game hadn’t been easy, but he had met and overcome every obstacle. And now, at long last, Frankie Iverson was about to be on top again.

In the back of his mind, the cheerleaders’ chant had begun to build.

Frank, Frank, he’s our man.…

With Henry checking the corridors and stairways ahead of him, Zack moved easily through the kitchen and up the north stairway to the ICU. The pain from his shoulder, while tolerable, was continuing to make its existence known, especially when he tried to raise his arm.

“Good luck in there, Doc,” the guard said, barely able to contain his enthusiasm at the decision he had made. “I’ll be around the hospital if you need me. Just have me paged.”

Zack shook his hand gratefully.

“You’ve done a good thing, Henry,” he said. “A really good thing. I’ll page you if I need you.…”

Readying himself for the struggle ahead, he turned and entered the ICU.

The unit was virtually as he had left it two hours before, except that neither Suzanne nor Owen Walsh was there. Half of the glass-enclosed cubicles were empty, and what activity there was continued to center about Toby Nelms.

The nurses eyed him uncomfortably as he approached. Off to his right, he saw the unit secretary snatch up the receiver of her phone and then slowly set it back down again, as if unwilling to take sole responsibility for reporting his appearance in the hospital.

Bernice Rimmer, the nurse assigned to Toby’s care, had actually been a classmate of Zack’s from early childhood through high school. She was the mother of three children now, but still looked nearly as slim and buoyant as she had during her teens. She was also a nurse’s nurse, tough on the outside, but with a core of honey—and smart. Her presence this day was, Zack realized, no less fortunate for him than his encounter with Henry. If any nurse would give him a break, it was she.

As he approached, Bernice, almost as if reading his
thoughts, sent the aide who was working with her out of Toby’s cubicle.

“Hi, Bernie,” Zack said.

“Funny,” she responded, “you don’t look like public enemy number one.”

“I’m not.”

“Tell that to your brother. I never thought the two of you got along all that well, but this is something else.”

She took a folded sheet of paper from her uniform pocket, smoothed it out on Toby’s bed, and passed it over.

Zack was not surprised at the content of the memo, only at its viciousness. In essence, Frank had outlined a set of charges against him that would have made Attila the Hun proud, and had threatened summary dismissal for anyone not immediately reporting his presence in the hospital.

“Frank and I are having a few problems,” he said.

“I guess.”

“How’s Toby doing?”

“About the same. His temp’s staying around 101. Pupils are still equal. No change in his consciousness.” She gestured at the memo. “You do all those things?”

Zack shook his head.

“Frank doesn’t want to believe that the anesthesia this child received for his hernia operation is responsible for his problem.”

“Is it?”

“Yes.”

Bernice Rimmer studied him for a time, and then she gazed down at her charge, reached over, and stroked the boy’s forehead. Finally, she looked past Zack to the unit secretary and shook her head.

“So, what do you propose to do about it?” she asked.

Zack started to thank her, but the look in her eyes stopped him. She wanted action, not platitudes.

He conducted a brief neurologic check of Toby.

“I need to have a few words with Jack Pearl,” he said.

“He’s to the O.R.”

“That’s okay. But before I see him, I need to go over some things with Suzanne. Do you know where she is?”

“No idea. She called a while ago to say she’d be down here shortly, but she hasn’t showed. I think Dr. Walsh paged her once, but as far as I know, she never answered. He’s gone to his office.”

“Could you have her paged again, please? Also, try the E.R., just in case she’s tied up there.”

They waited several minutes for Suzanne to answer. Then, once again, Zack tried calling her at home.

“This is very weird,” he said. “Does she fail to answer pages often?”

“Never.”

“Hmm. Bernice, could you do me one more favor and page Henry Flowers, the security guard. Ask him to come here.”

“You
want
security?”

“Not security—Henry. It’s okay. And please thank the rest of the staff for holding off on reporting me.”

Henry Flowers arrived at the unit in less than two minutes.

“How’m I doing?” Zack asked.

The massive guard shrugged.

“As far as I can tell, no one knows you’re here.”

“I’m trying to find Dr. Cole. You know her?”

“Of course. I just heard her paged.”

“That was me. She didn’t answer.”

“So?”

“So I’d like you to start looking around for her, if you could. I don’t think I’d last very long out there.”

“Okay.”

“Check her office in the P and S building first. Then maybe the cardiac lab.”

Henry stroked his pocked cheeks.

“I saw her,” he said thoughtfully.

“When? Where?”

“Not too long ago. I … I can’t remember where, though, Doc.”

“Try.”

“Let’s see.… I started my rounds on the front lawn, and then crossed through the lobby, and then …” Suddenly, he brightened. “I remember, now. I remember where I saw her.” Then, just as suddenly, his expression darkened.

“Henry, where?” Zack asked.

“It was in the west wing,” he said distantly. “She … she was going into Mr. Iverson’s office.”

Zack felt an instant chill.

“Henry, get me there,” he said. He turned to the nurse. “Bernie, could you please find out who’s on for anesthesia beside Dr. Pearl? Call whoever it is and ask them to stand by. Don’t tell them it’s for me.”

With Henry resuming his role as scout, they left the unit and made their way down to the sub-basement, then across the hospital to the west-wing staircase and up. Zack flattened himself against the stairwell wall.

“Henry,” he whispered, “I think my brother is in a meeting, but he has two receptionists.”

“Yeah, I know. The knockout twins.”

“Exactly. Talk to them. See if they remember when Suzanne left, or better still, where she might have gone. Also, find out if Frank was with her when she went.”

Subconsciously, the huge guard straightened his tie, adjusted the lapels on his uniform, and pushed his massive shoulders back a notch. Then he slipped out the stairway door to confront the knockout twins.

Half a minute later, he was back.

“No one there,” he said.

“No one?”

“Nope.” He appeared disappointed. “Not the blonde. Not the dark-haired one. No one. I even took a chance because there was music playing inside, and unlocked the outer office door and listened at Mr. Iverson’s door for voices.”

“Music?”

“Violins. Pretty music, but it must be on awful loud to be able to hear it through two closed doors.”

“Henry, I want to go back there.”

“Okay, but—”

Zack was already through the stairway door. The guard shrugged and followed closely.

Just outside Franks outer office, Zack stopped and listened. As Henry had said, the music coming from the inner office was quite audible.

It took just a few seconds for Zack to recognize the piece.

“Jesus, Henry, open this up, please!”

The guard did as asked.

The music, much louder now, brought a sickening tightness to Zack’s gut. He knocked on the door and called out once, but knew there would be no answer.