Weapon of Choice (25 page)

“Tim, you just have to keep pushing them.”

“If I were in Philly, maybe. I've got no clout here, but—I mention your name and everybody jumps. Don't worry, Natalie's getting plenty of attention. Your friend Roxanne stopped by and lots of others. Right, kiddo?” he asked Natalie. “And Kellerman, the ID doctor. Said to make sure you knew that he was here.”

“Nicole keeps calling,” Natalie interrupted. “She wants to come and see me.”

“Natalie, of course she does. I wish she could, but because of this infection, they're not letting anybody in. They might even close down the hospital—keep everybody who's here, but not let anybody else in.”

“That bad?” Tim asked. “Guess I'm stuck here then. No leftover turkey.”

Laura wished she knew more about infectious diseases. While well versed in post-op wound infections, she'd referred most of her infectious disease complications to the internists and deferred to their treatment plan. Now she needed to be sure that her daughter was getting the optimum care. Then she remembered. Of course, one of the world's top infectious disease experts was right here in this hospital. Stacy had been so inundated with ICU cases and protecting the hospital that she had not yet stopped by to see Natalie. Laura needed to find Stacy now and get her to check on her daughter. How had she not done that earlier? Where were her priorities?

“Mom, I still have a question,” Natalie ended Laura's introspection.

“Yes, sweetie?”

“How old were you when you married Dad?”

Laura looked from Natalie to Tim, as his eyebrows lifted quizzically. She wanted to say, “Not now, Natalie; you're too sick. Later, once you and my patients are healthy again.” The plaintive look in her daughter's green eyes, eyes the exact color of her own, persuaded her otherwise.

“Nineteen. I was a freshman at Michigan State and your dad was a sophomore.”

“Not much older than me,” Natalie said. “As soon as Trey gets better and I graduate, we're getting married.”

“And look what happened to Steve and me,” Laura wanted to say.

“You don't talk much about Dad,” Natalie said. “Did you love him?”

“Yes,” Laura said, not elaborating. She'd told the truth. She had loved him. They didn't need to know the rest.

“I don't remember too much about him,” Natalie said.

This interrogation had to stop. “Natalie, when you get better, we'll reminisce about me and Dad. Anything you want to know. But, you're right, I never do talk about your father much and maybe that's not fair to you.”

Laura thought she heard Tim say, “Or me either.”

“Did you call the other kids?” Natalie asked, seeming fine with Laura's evasion.

No, Laura hadn't and she should. For all these years, she'd compartmentalized her life: either totally with family, or totally with patients. Now the two were intermixing, and she felt off kilter.

When a nurse came in to replenish Natalie's intravenous solution, Laura said goodbye to Natalie and Tim, and headed for the ICU, determined to stop on her way and call her mom and let the other four kids know that she would not see them soon.

F
RIDAY
, N
OVEMBER
29

Waiting in line to pay his respects to Russell's wife, Charles realized he had to stop in front of the open casket, kneel for a minute, and move on to mingle with a crowd he didn't know. He couldn't remember Russell's wife's first name. Social graces were not his strong suit despite his mother having made him go to charm school. His social discomfort, added to the proximity of a corpse, made the bile rise in his throat.

But he needed to be there, Banks had insisted on that. Russell's wife would expect the man her husband “played cards with” on a regular basis to show up to mourn the loss of his buddy. Charles felt his knees start to quake. He was next in line to view the body. Russell was dead because he'd displeased The Order. Banks had been clear about that. Maybe that was why he made sure Charles came here tonight. To witness the fatal side effect of noncompliance.

Charles felt a nudge from the woman in back of him. “Your turn,” she whispered over his shoulder.

He moved up to face the coffin, knelt, and felt the uncontrollable urge to reach out and touch Russell's hand. Russell looked as if he were asleep, not so much as a scab visible, despite the massive injuries he'd suffered when the pickup truck sent him flying. He let his hand linger on Russell's, fascinated by the coolness, the pallor, the waxy feel. Then he heard the whisper, “Sir, the whole line is waiting.”

Charles rose from the kneeler and found himself on what he could have mistaken for a wedding reception line. He saw Russell's
wife standing next to an older couple, perhaps Russell's parents. For a moment he pictured his parents if the body in the coffin was his. What would they say to these people? Then he noticed the two youngsters. Four and two years old. A boy and a girl. What was he supposed to say to them?

He felt her touch his arm before he'd formulated some words of condolence. “Charles, how could this have happened? He took a step off the curb and—”

“Accident. Best not to try to understand.” He wanted to add: Don't start asking questions, just go on with your life, get through this safely with your children.

“Can I talk to you for a moment?” Russell's wife turned back toward the older couple holding the children's hands. “Russell's parents,” she said. “They're devastated.”

“How are the children?” Charles asked, relieved that he did not have to speak to them.

“They're the only reason I'm trying not to fall apart.”

She led Charles to the far corner of the viewing room, and they sat on a low bench half hidden by an enormous potted plant. “Thanks for coming, Charles. Russell always respected you. That's why I want to share something with you. You and I know about The Order's vow of secrecy, but in our marriage nothing was secret. I knew what Russell was doing when he went to your place. Playing cards? Please, he hated card games. But what I want to tell you is, something important is about to happen.”

Charles felt her red-rimmed eyes study him as she waited for a response. He never could manage a poker face and struggled not to flinch.

“Like what?” he asked, trying for innocent curiosity.

“Not nuclear unless they have somebody else Russell never mentioned. Maybe something to do with water contamination. Maybe an explosion. But a lot of people will be killed when this happens. Russell was worried about it, but he didn't know the details. I can't tell you, Charles, how much he wanted out of The Order after they became so violent. For him, I think having kids of his own helped him realize we are all human beings, anyone's kids are
kids, all life is precious. I think if Russell knew more about The Order's plan, he might have gone to the police or the FBI.”

“No, your husband was loyal,” Charles said. But The Order had not trusted him. What if Russell had warned the authorities before his accident?

Charles needed to get out of the funeral parlor and think. Should he tell Banks about this conversation? But Banks had vanished. It was all on Charles now. No turning back. By tomorrow night, Atlanta would be burning, afire with his lethal staph.

F
RIDAY
, N
OVEMBER
29

The Goode family had gathered at the restaurant off the lobby of the Palace Hotel. Counting her children, and grandchildren, twenty-nine of them sat around four tables near the piano bar. They chose their own seats, no place cards. Three generations, Emma, the matriarch and the closest living kin of the founder of
The Atlanta Daily Reporter
, rejoiced in the presence of every one of her direct descendants. Unaffected by all the big-name folks dining at neighboring tables, the family mood was as relaxed as it was festive; the children caught up with each other's lives, the grandchildren enjoyed their cousins. Emma sat back with a satisfied smile. She had done well. She'd kept the newspaper together during difficult times, and she'd raised seven productive, happy children.

Dignitaries in town for the Saturday night gala kept stopping at Emma's table to congratulate her. Some she knew well; others, among the political and civil rights crowd, she never had met personally. Hard to believe how many leaders of the civil rights movement had come to Atlanta to honor her. Amazing that Joe Frank Harris, the governor of Georgia, and Coretta Scott King had strolled over to chat. That Rosa Parks came by to introduce her boss, Congressman John Conyers from Michigan. With all the lovely interruptions, Emma hardly managed to eat a bite of the beautiful food. If only her Edward could be with her. And how proud her father would be of the newspaper he pioneered to give a voice to his people.

After that handsome Julian Bond had left her table, one of
Emma's daughters leaned in to say, “Ma, I see you're warming up to all this attention, but just you wait until the big party tomorrow night.”

Finally, the family gathering broke up, her kids drifting off in different directions. Emma declined a cup of coffee, knowing that with all the excitement she'd have trouble enough sleeping. She'd skipped dessert, and tomorrow night she'd have her favorite—the house special, a heavenly profiterole.

She rose from the table as Karen came over to give her a hand with her chair.

“Grandma, do you know all those people who talked to you?”

Emma nodded. Most. Almost fifty years in journalism, you had to meet a lot of people.

“You better get some rest. Wait here and I'll get Dad to drive you home. You're going to need your sleep.”

Emma smiled, ignoring the nagging pain in both knees. “I can manage,” she said. “You run along with your cousins and have a wonderful evening together.”

F
RIDAY
, N
OVEMBER
29

Natalie hadn't realized that the phone had slipped from her hand, but when she woke, it was to a flurry of voices and bustling noises around her bed.

She must have drifted off while talking to Nicole. Her twin sister had been telling her about the family's day. Beach volleyball, teaching their little cousin to swim in Grandma's pool, leftover turkey for lunch, Mr. Bone's ribs for dinner.

“But everybody's worried about you, Nattie. Are you going to be okay?”

Natalie's head pounded and speaking was a struggle. Thump, thump—with every beat of her heart, racing now, so fast she didn't think that it would hold up. And she was hot and sweaty. Trying to cough, but too weak.

After a pause, Nicole asked, “How about Mom? Is she going to get out of that hospital and come back tonight?”

“I don't think so,” Natalie said.

“Is she there right now?”

“No. She's in the ICU. That's where Trey is.”

“Did you tell Mom?” Nicole asked. “That you're not really sick.”

“I don't feel too good.” Natalie's voice sounded like a moan.

“Uh-oh. Mom must have just come in,” Nicole guessed. “Did you tell her about Trey? Just say yes or no.”

Natalie just wanted to lie there and she wished Nicole would hang up. That must have been when she'd dropped the phone.

“I don't care how busy Laura is,” she heard Tim saying. “Get her here. Now!”

“Mama,” she heard herself groan. Her mouth was dry, her head a raging throb.

Another male voice, vaguely familiar. “Pressure's dropping, turn up the fluid volume. Electrolytes and blood gases STAT. I need a portable x-ray. STAT.”

“Dr. Kellerman, Radiology is swamped. I'll try, but—” The female voice faded out.

“This is Laura Nelson's daughter,” the male voice insisted. “Go find the tech and drag him up here. STAT.”

Natalie had known that her mother was important in this hospital, but not until now had she realized that everybody was scared of her. She'd found that amusing and was anxious to tell the other kids. To them, Mom was Mom. Supposed to be there for them, and she usually was.

Every once in a while, one of her friend's mothers would make a remark, like, “it must be terrible for you that your mother gets called to the hospital so much.” She figured those women were jealous of her mother. Her mom was pretty, had an important job, and often was even in the newspaper when people had medical questions. She and Nicole and her brothers often discussed Mom. They agreed that even if she was single, raising them on her own, she outperformed most of their friends' mothers. What was important to us that Mom has missed? Natalie and her twin occasionally had this discussion. Between them they came up with a dance recital—but they detested that dance studio, anyway. Their seventh grade school play, but that was because she was sick. There was the time Mom was in jail, but only for a couple of days. For some reason they'd never understood, their dad once had taken them to their other grandpa's in Traverse City in Michigan for a couple of weeks, and they'd really, really missed her. And after that, Dad had died and Mom was all they had, all five of them.

And now lying there, slipping in and out of consciousness, Natalie knew that her doctor mother would make sure that both she and Trey got better.
But what's wrong with me? And why isn't Mom with me?

Tim said, “I'm going to get Laura. Stay with Natalie until I get back.”

“Naturally,” a voice she now recognized as Dr. Kellerman's said, “if Dr. Jones is with Laura, get her in here, too. She's trying to obtain ticokellin, and when it comes in, I want it for Natalie. But I'll need Laura's consent. I just hope the FDA didn't cut the eligibility at age eighteen.”

Natalie heard Tim leave, just as they came to take more blood. She needed to stay awake until her mother got there. She had to know about Trey. But she could not hold off the darkness.