Of Flesh and Blood (28 page)

“Bummer, huh?” Chow nodded. “Can’t even test for the spores, if someone
doesn’t have diarrhea. That was the problem in Quebec. And we’re facing the same strain here.”

William tilted his head. “Quebec?”

“In 2003, a big hospital in Montreal had an outbreak of
C. diff
on their wards. Same aggressive subtype as we’re seeing now. It’s multiresistant and less responsive to antibiotics. A superbug.” Chow chuckled again. “ ‘Superbug’ always makes me think of a little bacterium wearing a mask, cape, and tight pants.”

“Did they manage to eradicate it in Montreal?”

“They have it under control.” Chow sighed. “Not sure they can ever eradicate it.”

“How long did it take them?”

“About a year.”

“
A year?
” William’s heart sank. “We don’t have a year,” he said, more to himself than Chow, wondering if he would live to see the Alfredson’s outbreak controlled. “How many cases did they have total in Montreal?”

“About fourteen hundred,” Chow said matter-of-factly. “Around a hundred deaths.”

A hundred dead!
William envisioned the potential
New York Times
headline. The Alfredson could not afford that kind of publicity, especially with the hospital’s future hanging on the next board meeting. “That will not happen at the Alfredson!” he said definitively.

“If you say so.” Chow scratched his head again. “Meantime, you might have bigger fish to fry.”

“How so?”

“Didn’t you hear about the senator?”

Confused, William shook his head. “Wilder?”

Chow nodded. “He’s our latest
C. diff
victim.”

William shot to his feet. The pain fired up his spine as though he had been speared. “
Victim?
Is he dead?”

“Not too far off, from what I hear,” Chow said. “They moved him to the ICU this morning.”

Ignoring the searing ache in his back, William headed for the door, Normie right behind him. Unlike Princess Catherina, if Senator Calvin Wilder died from a superbug acquired at the Alfredson, it would not be kept secret; the headlines would be plastered on the front page of every major newspaper.

Marching almost half a mile from his office to the Henley Building, William had to stop twice to catch his breath. The second time, Chow remarked, “Tai chi, Bill. That’s the ticket. My grandma could run this route with a sack of rice strapped to her back.”

William was too concerned about Wilder, and too winded, to respond. He kept his head down and trudged on for the Henley Building.

Inside, William and Normie had to clear a Secret Service checkpoint set up in the ICU. After donning sterile gowns, gloves, and masks, they stepped into the isolation room where Wilder was confined. Dr. David Leaven-worth, an internationally renowned intensive care specialist, was already at the bedside. Pale and soft-spoken, the middle-aged doctor had two hoop earrings and a ponytail that in William’s opinion clashed with every other aspect of his meek appearance and temperament.

Senator Wilder lay unconscious on the bed with a respirator tube jutting between his lips. His waxy skin was almost translucent. A number of intravenous lines converged at the central line inserted into his neck, delivering crucial fluids. Several wires connected him to a flat-screen monitor above his bed. William saw at a glance that all the electronic readings boded poorly—the senator’s heart rate was dangerously rapid and his blood pressure critically low.

Leavenworth nodded at the monitor. “We’ve got him on antibiotics and multiple meds to try to support his circulation, but . . .”

“It’s still not good,” William said.

“Not good at all.” Leavenworth clasped his gloved hands together and laid them over his prominent belly. “On top of his
Clostridium difficile
colitis, he has developed a significant urinary tract infection. The dehydration from his
C. diff
and the sepsis from his urinary infection have tipped him into severe shock. His heart is struggling. And now his kidneys have shut down, so we need to start him on dialysis.”

Sweating behind his mask, William turned away from Wilder to look Leavenworth in the eyes. “What is the prognosis, David?”

“Guarded, at best.” Leavenworth’s gaze drifted off somewhere beyond William’s shoulder. “If we can control his fluid loss, rehydrate him, eliminate his urinary infection, deal with the
C. diff
, and support his cardiac and kidney function throughout . . . then he
might
have a chance.”

Chow shook his head and exhaled as though he were blowing out candles.
“Holy crap, Dave, I don’t think I’ve ever heard so many ‘ifs’ squeezed into a single sentence.”

William squinted at the intensivist. “David, what are the odds of his pulling through?”

“The man is relatively young but he has organ failure on top of two infections,” Leavenworth continued emotionlessly. “If I had to put a number on it, I would say Senator Wilder has less than a fifty percent chance of surviving.”

“Less than fifty percent,” William muttered to himself, estimating that the Alfredson’s odds were no better. He had visited Wilder three times since the senator’s admission. He liked the man and felt genuine admiration for the dignity with which he faced his disease, but now William focused solely on damage control. If the senator were to die, William wondered how he could stall the public revelation of the
C. diff
infection and the Alfredson’s culpability until after the pivotal board meeting.

William was still mentally wrestling with the potential public relations fallout as he stepped back into his office. Eileen Hutchins, the chairperson of the Alfredson’s board of directors, was already waiting in his office. She pushed away her coffee cup and rose from her chair when she saw William enter the room. The attractive sixty-year-old widow had the same fair complexion as her great-grandfather, Marshall Alfredson. An impeccable dresser, Eileen wore a stylish teal suit with an open-neck white blouse complemented by a simple, tasteful gold-and-silver chain necklace.

Eileen smiled warmly as William neared. She met his hand with both of hers and clasped it for an extra second or two. “Ah, William, always a pleasure. The telephone never does you justice,” she said in her slight Bostonian inflection.

Eight years after Jeannette’s death, William missed his wife—and the little romantic moments they had shared throughout their more than thirty years of marriage—as much as or more than ever. He still experienced bouts of stark loneliness whenever the hectic pace of his administrative work slowed. He had not dated another woman since; none had even caught his eye. Except Eileen Hutchins. He sensed interest on her part, too. But despite how eagerly he anticipated their meetings, William thought that in light of his illness, it would be futile, potentially cruel, to act upon his attraction.

He inhaled her lilac-scented perfume. “Thank you for coming in, Eileen,” he said, conscious of the stiffness in his tone.

“Any excuse, William.” She smiled. “I want to show you something.” She sat back down in her chair, reached down for a file, and opened it on his desk.

Ignoring the throb in his back, he hurried around the other side of the desk and sat down across from her. She pulled a page out of the file and pushed it toward him. He noticed her short, impeccable nails and the understated diamond solitaire ring she wore on her right hand. Eileen looked up and caught him viewing her. She smiled again.

Flushing, William quickly diverted his eyes to the page. He recognized the long list of Alfredson family members. “Are all of the Alfredsons coming to this extraordinary board meeting?” he asked.

“We have confirmed that sixty of the possible sixty-three voting family members will attend.”

“Sixty?” William said with alarm. “That many?”

“It will be the largest meeting in the board’s history, but I think that works in our favor.”

He looked back up at her. “I don’t understand, Eileen. How does such a large turnout help us?”

“For the motion to pass, it will require the vote of a simple majority of those present. In other words, fifty percent plus one.”

“Or thirty-one votes in favor.”

“Exactly.” She tapped the list with her index finger.

William had met almost half of the people listed and recognized the names of several more. He saw that beside each name someone had penciled in a plus sign, a minus sign, or a question mark.

“Are those your marks?” he asked.

She smiled bashfully. “Some of them are just guesses, of course.”

“What is your count, Eileen?”

“Right now, it stands at twenty-six in favor of selling, twenty-nine against, and five unknowns.”

William nodded. “So all of the unknowns would have to vote in favor for this motion to pass?” he asked.

Eileen shrugged. “Providing I’m correct about the other family members’ intentions.”

William glanced over the list again. Of the ones he knew well enough to quantify, he agreed with Eileen’s categorization. “How confident are you, Eileen?”

Eileen pursed her lips, deep in thought. “I cannot deny that some of my extended family—arguably an entire branch—see this motion as a huge financial opportunity.” She shook her head. “Did you ever hear of my uncle, Tommy Alfredson?”

“From California?”

“Yes.” Eileen sighed. “The second of Marshall’s five grandchildren. The black sheep of the family. Tommy took his share of his inheritance to Hollywood in the forties. Dreamed of becoming a movie producer. Instead, he whittled away the money in no time.” She scoffed. “Still, Tommy tore through three loveless marriages, thoughtfully leaving the board with a total of sixteen voting members, so far, and several more on the way as soon as they reach the age of twenty-one.”

“I take it those will be sixteen votes in favor?”

“Two won’t be coming, but of the other fourteen, twelve yesses and two unknowns.” Eileen’s smile faded. “One of Tommy’s grandchildren is promoting the ludicrous notion that we can sell the Alfredson and still capitalize on its name.”

“How so?”

“I’ve heard from a few board members that my second cousin, Jason Alfredson, has been looking for partners in a venture to set up a string of private Alfredson clinics. He wants to take advantage of our surname’s association with excellence in health care.”

“He seriously thinks that the family can gut the real Alfredson and still bastardize its name for profit?” William grumbled.

“I wouldn’t worry too much,” she reassured. “Jason has never been particularly successful or reliable in his previous schemes. I doubt anyone in my family will trust him with a dime of their money.”

But William did feel worried. He leaned forward to relieve the pressure in his back. “Eileen, do you honestly believe we have enough votes to block this motion?”

“It will be close.
Very
close.” Eileen reached for the page and turned it back to face her. She ran a finger down the list and then, satisfied, nodded. “I think we’ll come out okay.”

The pressure eased in his back and William smiled at Eileen. She reciprocated, and he noticed again how lovely her dark green eyes were.

“Of course, it will help if all stays calm and quiet until the meeting,” she said. “Speaking of, is that infectious outbreak under control?”

He broke off eye contact. “No.” He cleared his throat. “In fact, we have a bit of a situation.”

“Situation, William?”

“It’s . . . Senator Wilder.”

“What about the senator?”

“He’s become infected.”

Her eyes widened and her mouth fell open. “Not with the superbug?”

William nodded. He updated Eileen as to Wilder’s brittle condition.

“This is not good, William. Not good at all.” She shook her head gravely. “He has to recover,” she said, as if William somehow controlled the man’s outcome.

“But if he doesn’t?”

“Can you imagine the news stories? It would be a huge embarrassment to the Alfredson.” She tapped the list on the desk. “Maybe enough to sway the undecided. I’m not sure my predictions will still be valid if the senator were to die.”

A moment of gloomy silence fell between them. Finally, William said, “You know, we have lost a real opportunity here. Senator Wilder was on the verge of enrolling in one of my daughter-in-law’s MS studies that is showing real promise.”

“Yes, I meant to discuss that with you,” Eileen said in a cooler tone.

William frowned. “Senator Wilder’s enrollment?”

“No. Dr. Laidlaw’s stem cell research.”

“What about it?” His tone was more defensive than he intended.

“A number of my cousins—all of whom support our side in the vote—are quite religious. Stem cell research does not sit well with them.”

William folded his arms across his chest. “Being on the board does not give them the power to dictate the research direction of this center.”

“William, I know that,” she said with a trace of irritability. “But maybe it would be best not to mention your daughter-in-law’s research right now. We have enough to deal with, as is.”

William sighed. “More than enough.”

Eileen rose from her chair. She extended her hand and shook his. Unlike
before, the gesture was purely businesslike. “Please keep me up to date about the senator and this outbreak.”

As Eileen strode out of the room, William felt a twinge of regret. He reached a hand behind his searing back and began to rub, but it did no good. He fished in his desk drawer for the bottle of painkillers, realizing they would provide only minimal relief and possibly make him groggy.

A voice drifted in from the doorway. “Dad.”

William dropped the pill bottle back into the drawer and slammed it shut. “Hello, Tyler.”

“Bad time?” his son asked.

“No worse than others.” William cocked his head. “I thought you broke out in a rash the moment you stepped foot inside an administrative building.”

“I took an antihistamine before I came.” Tyler walked toward him and sat in the chair that Eileen had just vacated. “Dad, you’ve got a little more color than last time I saw you.”

William counted on the fact that, with his gradually dropping blood count, people closest to him were often the last to pick up on his draining color. His children tended to only notice after he had received another blood transfusion. “I got stuck in my car yesterday with the sunroof open. Maybe I got some sun.”