Of Flesh and Blood (27 page)

“Excuse me, Dr. McGrath, sir,” Moses rumbled in his low baritone.

“Yes, Moses,” Evan said, trying to portray his usual sense of calm. But the sight of Moses always sent his heart pounding with the anticipation of word from Olivia. Even though Evan had not responded to her last three letters, he had read them countless times, lingering over each phrase and word. Sometimes he would just stare at her looping penmanship or the monogram in the corner of her personal stationery. The familiar scent of the paper alone was enough to conjure the vivid memories of those ethereal hours spent together at the Sherman Hotel.

Evan had not seen Olivia since the day she had shown up unexpectedly at his office. Despite his worry and affection for Virginia, he missed Olivia more than he ever imagined possible.

“How can I help you, Moses?’ Evan asked, reining in his expectation.

“I have a letter,” Moses said in a low voice.

“All right then.”

Discreet as ever, Moses glanced to either side before slipping his hand inside his jacket pocket and withdrawing the envelope.

Even before it reached Evan’s hand, his hopes fell. The tan-colored envelope
looked nothing like the pastel ones from Olivia. He turned it over. On the back was written
DR. MCGRATH
, without an accompanying address. Then Evan spotted the
MA
monogram in the left-hand corner. Instinctively, he reached up and touched the rough scab above his lip that covered the laceration from the beating Marshall had laid on him.

“Did Theodora give you this?” Evan asked.

“No sir, Dr. McGrath.” Moses shook his head. “I have not seen Dora for the best part of a week.”

The disappointment in the man’s tone matched Evan’s crestfallen mood. “Who did, then?”

“A gentleman I’d never seen before, sir. He called himself Mr. Wellsby.”

Evan touched his lip again, remembering the unsavory little man who had spied on Evan and Olivia and later dragged him to face Marshall’s wrath. “Oh,” he mumbled.

Moses’s forehead furrowed. “Dr. McGrath?”

“Thanks for bringing this to me,” Evan muttered as he tucked the envelope in the inner pocket of his jacket. He saw no urgency in opening it. “Is there something else, Moses?”

“Dr. McGrath, do you . . . er . . . expect to receive more . . . um . . . letters?” he stammered, and then hurried to add, “I mean, ones that Dora might bring for you.”

Evan shook his head. He felt a sudden pang of empathy for the man, who was clearly smitten with Olivia’s courier. “No, Moses. I do not expect Theodora to bring any more letters.”

“Oh, well, I best be going,” Moses said, embarrassed at his show of emotions. “I have to fix the second-floor window before the patients get a chill, or worse.”

Evan ran a hand over his jacket pocket and felt the letter again, irrationally wondering if Olivia had borrowed her father’s stationery to write him.
And send Wellsby to deliver it? Don’t be such a lovesick fool!

Once he was alone in his office, Evan reached into his pocket and extracted the envelope. The monogram on the outside stoked his unease. He grabbed the letter opener on his desk, and sliced open the envelope feeling as though he were cutting into an angry abscess. Unfolding the single slip of paper, he noticed that the neat script was composed of short harsh strokes, the
antithesis of Olivia’s wavy fluid penmanship. The note was as short as Olivia’s were long.

Dr. McGrath, I wish to meet to discuss a business proposition. I anticipate your presence at my home tomorrow at four o’clock in the afternoon to discuss the matter further
.

Marshall Alfredson

Evan stared at the page. The impolite invitation had left no recourse for rescheduling or refusal. Frustrated, he balled up the paper and threw it into the wastebasket beside his desk, vowing to simply ignore it.

By noon the following day, his resolve had weakened. He had little appetite to hear Marshall’s proposition, assuming it might be another ultimatum, but the prospect of again being inside the house where he had first met Olivia excited him. He realized Olivia would be nowhere in sight, but the draw was almost irresistible. Ashamed of his lack of restraint, he closed his office early and rode the cable car to the stop nearest the Alfredson home.

As Evan walked the mile from the trolley stop, conflicting thoughts swirled in his head. The still-sizable welt on the back of his scalp ached as he neared the house. His mouth was dry and his palms damp as he reached the door and rapped with the large knocker.

Stanley, the English butler who used to welcome Evan with a polite smile, greeted him with only a stiff nod. “Good afternoon, Dr. McGrath. Please follow me to the drawing room.”

Evan spotted Theodora hurrying down the hallway and his heart skipped a beat. He waved discreetly to her when she looked up. Without slowing, she showed him a trace of a smile.

In all the many times he had visited the Alfredson mansion while Olivia was recuperating from her appendectomy, he had never before been invited into Marshall’s library where Stanley led him now. Poorly lit with high ceilings and the furniture and moldings all constructed of dark heavy wood, the room struck Evan as foreboding.

The imposing mantel clock read five minutes after four, but Evan was kept waiting another fifteen tense minutes before Marshall entered. In a black suit, with the gold chain of his watch dangling from his pocket, the
redheaded goliath limped toward Evan, who rose to his feet. Neither man extended his hand to the other.

“Won’t you please sit down, Dr. McGrath?”

Evan lowered himself into his seat as Marshall lumbered over and sat behind his desk directly across from him. He reached for the cigar box on the desk and offered the open box to the doctor. The rich tobacco aroma didn’t tempt Evan, who declined with a shake of his head. Marshall shrugged and then chose a cigar and lit it with a long match. He took three slow puffs before he pointed the cigar at Evan. “Dr. McGrath, I have been thinking about our previous discussion.”

Evan tensed. The throb in his scalp intensified as he braced for another threat.

“Perhaps your idea is not as far-fetched as I had originally thought.”

Confused, Evan held up a hand. “My idea?”

“I own land sixty miles from here, near the Cascade mountains. I am told there is good building soil there.”

Evan gaped at the man.

“That clinic of yours.” Marshall waved his cigar impatiently. “I am prepared to build it for you.”

Evan was dumbfounded.

Marshall squinted at him. “Do you understand me, Dr. McGrath? That utopian clinic you describe with such fervor. I have decided to finance it. To build it for you.”

“Why would you do that?” Evan blurted.

“That is no concern of yours.” Marshall took another few puffs of his cigar. Then his features softened. “I suppose I have come to realize that you were more helpful in curing my daughter’s ailment than I have credited you for.”

Though he was still dubious of Marshall’s motives, an inkling of excitement sparked in Evan.

“On a more pertinent note, I see tremendous growth in the future of the Pacific Northwest,” Marshall went on. “I think we might need better medical facilities than what the city currently provides.”

Evan sat up straighter. “You say the proposed site is sixty miles away?”

Marshall nodded.

“I find it hard to imagine the roads are well developed between here and there.”

“Good enough for a horse and carriage,” Marshall snorted. “There is a rail line, too.”

“It will keep me a long way from Seattle.”

Bitterness flitted across Marshall’s features. “Forgive me, Dr. McGrath, but I do not view that as a particular disadvantage.”

Of course not
. “I’m thinking of Virginia, my wife,” Evan said, but his exhilaration mounted. If he could establish the clinic he had always envisioned and attract some gifted physicians and experts in their field, then, perhaps, he could find new hope for his wife.

“I see.” Marshall shifted in his seat. “The town of Oakdale is near the site. Perhaps you could find a comfortable home for Mrs. McGrath there?”

“Perhaps,” Evan said, his thoughts already focused on the logistics of building a new hospital. “What size clinic do you have in mind, Mr. Alfred-son?”

Alfredson shrugged again. “I own hundreds of acres in the area, so the land is not an issue. I am a lumberman with my own construction crews, and therefore can control the costs as I see fit. Largely, I would defer to your needs and the plans of our chosen architect.” Then he added, “
Within reason, of course
.”

Evan was stunned by the unexpected opportunity. He suspected there had to be more to Marshall’s proposal, but he was too elated to care. He struggled not to show his excitement. He folded his arms across his chest and eyed Marshall earnestly. “If I accept your offer, will you invest me with the authority to direct the medical care of this clinic? To hire the people I see fit and to choose the manner in which care is offered?”

“Yes, yes,” Marshall snapped. “I am offering you the chance to run this clinic.”

Evan couldn’t keep the smile off his lips.

Marshall yanked the cigar out of his mouth and ground it out aggressively in the ashtray on his desk. “But make no mistake, Dr. McGrath, this will
not
be your clinic. It will always be owned by the Alfredson family.” He glared at the doctor. “Do you understand me?”

“Yes.”

Marshall rose to his feet. “Good. Then I think our business here is done.”

Evan stood up, too, his head swimming with the recent developments. He extended his hand to Marshall, who shook it perfunctorily.

“Good day, Mr. Alfredson,” Evan said as he turned to leave.

“Dr. McGrath?”

Evan turned back to the man. “Yes?”

“I suppose I should inform you that Olivia is to be wed.”

The words hit Evan harder than the blow from the fire log. His breath caught in his throat. The anticipation of seeing his clinic built was washed away by a fresh wave of heartache. “When?” he sputtered.

“New Year’s Eve.” An icy smile crossed Marshall’s features. “Oh, and Dr. McGrath, please do not expect an invitation.”

Blood. What a difference an extra couple of pints made to William McGrath. Since he had slipped into the outpatient department the evening before and received a blood transfusion, he no longer felt light-headed or breathless after a single flight of stairs. But the infusion of energy provided no escape from the crisis swirling like a cyclone around his beloved hospital.

His mood had been even lower since reading the third-page newspaper article on the death of Princess Catherina. According to Reuters, she had died peacefully at her home from complications of kidney failure. Neither the Alfredson nor the superbug was implicated, or even mentioned, just as Catherina would have wanted. However, William was annoyed to see that the brief obituary dredged up a reference to her infamous topless photograph.

And now, as William sat at his desk drumming his fingers on the desktop and listening to Normie Chow describe the Alfredson’s worsening
C. diff
outbreak, his mood steadily blackened. Chow reviewed the situation with the aid of an electronic presentation that included tables, charts, and pie graphs, but not a sliver of good news, as best William could tell. His back throbbed—a harbinger of worse news to come—and his frustration mounted with each new slide.

Chow’s unflinching smile seemed to contradict his bleak news. Not even William’s steady glare dented his grin. “Listen, Bill,” Normie said happily. “This isn’t just a run-of-the-mill case of poopie-pants picked up at the salad bar of some two-star Caribbean all-inclusive. We’re talking about an aggressive pathogen here. If you look at the numbers—”

Showing a rare glimpse of temper, William interrupted Chow with a heavy groan. “Normie, I get it! Six more deaths, forty-five new cases, and we’ve seen further spread of
C. diff
to other wards and buildings despite
our infection-control measures.” He slapped his palm on the desk. The crack was louder than he’d intended. “What the hell is going on?”

Chow scratched his balding head. “This little bugger isn’t playing by our rules.”

“That’s your best answer?” William glowered.

“As good as it’s going to get, methinks,” Chow said.

William took a deep breath, struggling to regain calm. “Humor me, Normie. Explain why we’re having so much trouble controlling the outbreak.”

“
Clostridium difficile
is a hardy bug.” Chow flexed his arm Popeye-style, as if showing off his biceps. “A nasty piece of work, too. It’s from the same family as the anaerobic bacteria that causes gangrene and botulism. Trouble is
C. diff
can live inactive as a spore. These spores can exist on almost any surface.”

William nodded. “And survive all our repeated cleans?”

“The spores are only a few microns in size. They can hide anywhere within this small country you call a hospital. Even the best cleaners in the world can’t get bleach into every nook and cranny.” Chow chuckled. “They’re already doing a helluva lot more than I would for the meager wages you pay ’em!”

The housekeepers were working for overtime now, but William didn’t feel the need to justify that to Normie.

“Besides,” Chow went on, “even if we got the bathrooms clean enough for Martha Stewart to cook in, there are still the asymptomatic hosts to worry about.”

“People like us?”

“Yeah. Or any staff member. Healthy people are the biggest threat of all, because we might be transporting the little devil all over hell’s acre without even knowing it.”

William suppressed another groan. The cancerous ache in his back reminded him that he wouldn’t qualify as healthy. For a moment, he considered letting Chow in on his secret—it would be a relief to share with someone, and Normie was one of the few people he would trust with the news—but he dismissed the idea, deciding now was not the time to discuss his own health problems. “So anyone can carry
C. diff
spores without showing symptoms or even realizing they are contagious,” he summarized.