Authors: Michael Palmer
'
Papa, the floor! I can't stand up! Papa, help
!…'
CHAPTER 8
Night—post-midnight morning, really—had always been Thea's favorite time in the hospital. During her residency she had often signed up for extra duty as the night float, relieving the other residents from 10
P.M.
to 8
A.M.
so they could get caught up on their paperwork and their sleep.
It was nearly 3
A.M.
when she wandered through the glassed-in causeway that connected the venerable Clark Pavilion, where the reconstructed medical ICU was housed, to the third floor of the ultramodern Sperelakis Institute for Diagnostic Medicine. The situation with the founder of the institute was gratifyingly stable. After Niko removed a significant amount of bloody fluid from Petros's pericardial sac, he was electrically converted from ventricular fibrillation to a normal rhythm on the first try, and there he had remained, with his blood pressure gradually returning to effective levels.
Thea ambled past the closed and open doors of the Beaumont Clinic in-patients, taking in the night sounds of labored breathing, coughing, and restless shifting in bed. Regardless of the politics and the personality clashes and the empire building, this was a special place. She had done a month of study here during med school, following her father and his retinue of house officers and students from room to room, listening to him cajoling the young doctors to be their best, employing a wit and patience he seldom used at home.
Later, during her residency, she had come back for two more rotations.
Her thoughts this night kept drifting back to her brother Dimitri's computer-graphic depiction of Petros's accident. Could someone really have tried to kill the nearly seventy-year-old icon—a man who had done so much for so many over the years? Of course, she acknowledged, no matter how brilliant a physician was, there were bound to be disgruntled patients and their families. In addition, her experience with hospital politics exposed her to the passionate mesh of allies and enemies that characterized every medical staff, with each specialty protecting its turf, its OR time… and its income.
It was hard to believe that Selene and Niko refused to pay any attention to Dimitri's theory. If the physics behind it were correct, the depiction of the alleged accident was compelling. And knowing her brother's massive intellect, regardless of how eccentric he might be, it was difficult not to at least consider what he had to say.
From the third floor, Thea took the stairs up to traverse the fourth, then the fifth. Not surprisingly, every room was occupied. She was on the sixth floor when a sudden, mountainous wave of fatigue washed over her. No surprise. After spending time with Dimitri, she really should have stayed home. But she was still wired from the resuscitation and the clash with the twins, to say nothing of the long flight to Boston, the lack of any food in the house, and the spirit of Petros and her own often painful past, which seemed to pervade every corner of the creaky old place.
Trying to drive the ten miles back to Wellesley now was out of the question. There would be a tree trunk or telephone pole waiting at every corner. Barely able to lift her feet from the floor, Thea made her way back to the ICU. Four hours later, she awoke stiff and sore on the couch in the family room, remembering only that she had stopped in for a final check on her father before lying down. Someone, one of the nurses most likely, had thrown a blanket over her.
After another quick visit to the unit, she washed her face and brushed her teeth in the restroom, and headed across campus to the cafeteria. The Lion's vital signs were stable, and the drainage from the fine plastic catheter Niko had left in the pericardial space was minimal. Saving the man's life wasn't what the twins had wanted, but in truth, thanks to logic and following process, it had been quite simple.
'The hard part is figuring out what to do,' Petros was often quoted as saying when trying to convince medical students to choose internal medicine over surgery. 'The easy part is doing it.'
It just wasn't the man's time yet,
Thea thought now, recalling any number of medical 'pearls' from her father. The twins' arguments not withstanding, it just wasn't time.
The cafeteria was on the far side of the hospital campus. Thea took the brightly lit basement-level tunnels, following solid blue guide lines artfully tiled on the walls, along with at least a dozen other colors coded for various laboratories and clinical buildings. Signs posted at every tunnel intersection made it almost impossible to get lost. Whoever had designed the system was thoughtful—and clearly well funded.
Over the past decade or so, the Beaumont had grown from being a decent-sized medical center to being one of the largest, most influential hospitals in the country, on a par with the Mayo, and well beyond Boston's revered White Memorial. Every specialty was represented by giants in their field. The nursing service had won countless awards and was viewed in the press as the paradigm of what such services could and should be, as well as the ultimate plum job for any aspiring nurse. Where once there had been a floor of operating suites, now there were several buildings, with every one of the ORs booked solid—often long into the night. Thea had read online not long ago that the endowment of the Beaumont was in the tens of billions and growing—this at a time when 25 percent of hospitals were reported to be losing money.
Several of the offshoots of the Beaumont tunnels had no color coding, only signs that read
RESTRICTED ACCESS
—
AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY.
During her rotation at the hospital, the medical students and new residents had been taken on a tour that included some of these areas. At the end of the unlabeled tunnels were gates blocking off stairs down to the subbasement, and in many spots a sub-subbasement as well. At the deeper levels, the walls went from bright tile to time-blackened brick. In spots, moss had overgrown the cement grout. Bare incandescent lights battled to a draw with the darkness, and a number of metal doors along the corridors were corroded and barred.
In such a litigious society, Thea was surprised that the old tunnels hadn't been permanently sealed off in some way. Then she and the others were shown a number of facilities down there still in use: a primate lab and storage area, a similar room for smaller animals, a laundry annex in full operation, and a backup furnace space with equipment that was still functioning but appeared to date back into the nineteenth century. Eventually, they were given a tour of the laundry room annex by a Hispanic woman who looked as if she hadn't seen daylight in years.
It was nearing eight when Thea entered the bustling cafeteria. The vast space was compartmentalized by creative carpentry and lighting, as well as different food groups and ethnicity, giving the area a remarkably cozy, homey feel. Still, at this time of the day, there was little that could be done about the crowds. The central bank of cashiers had queues six or seven deep.
Thea put together a tray of fresh fruit and yogurt, plus a croissant and black coffee with a single ice cube, a throwback to her days as a resident when there was never time to wait for coffee to cool down. Then she found a seat in one of a pod of small tables for two and settled down gratefully, her mind pierced by the double-horned questions of how much validity there was to Dimitri's theory about the hit-and-run accident, and how he would do when Petros was gone.
There was no doubt that the twins would want to sell the Wellesley house as soon as possible. The family home, several acres in one of the most desirable of the west suburbs, needed some serious refurbishing, but several years ago she had heard Selene quote a value of five million. Was there any way they would consider separating the carriage house off and selling just the main house? She had no idea what Petros's will said about the house and the executors of his estate, or in fact, if a will even existed, but she felt certain that if she took Dimitri's side in any carriage house negotiations, the lawyers for the twins would have a field day. Then she reminded herself that the death of the owner of the house was still far from foregone.
Thea had just pulled the tip off her croissant when a boy caught her eye. He was eleven or so, with a rebellious look to him. A shock of dark hair protruded from beneath a baseball cap, which was pulled twenty degrees or so off center. His black T-shirt advertised the cities of some sort of band tour on the back, and his baggy jeans were pulled low—very low. He was approaching the queue of one of the cashiers, carrying a tray piled with pastries, several bananas, a plate of scrambled eggs, fried potatoes, and three cartons of chocolate milk. Thea had no idea what it was about the boy that attracted her attention, but she knew from the moment she first saw him that he had no intention of paying for his meal.
The literal approach to life characterizing many people's Asperger syndrome allowed little room or tolerance for lying or other forms of dishonesty. In an earlier time, Thea would have been so disturbed by a person treating the rules with such disregard that she would have become severely agitated until she could point out the thief to someone. But after sessions on the subject with Dr. Carpenter, and her experiences in poverty-swept countries, she had mellowed considerably.
She followed the youth with her gaze, looking to see if, perhaps, he was there with an adult, but he was no more than ten yards away from her, and clearly looking for an empty table. She viewed him as underprivileged and quite possibly underfed. The mighty Beaumont Clinic with all its billions could certainly absorb the loss. Still, a largely dormant part of her wanted to confront him or report him to—
Off to the right, she spotted a blue-uniformed security guard, a tall man with close-cropped brown hair, striding purposefully toward the table where the thief had settled down. Thea's breakfast remained untouched as she watched the drama unfold. The approaching guard was even bigger than she had first thought—six-three, she guessed, with a broad chest that suggested he was or had once been an athlete. She couldn't see the man's expression, but knowing how seldom most security guards actually got to thwart crime, she suspected it was ravenous.
The man encountered his prey just as the boy was opening the first of his cartons of chocolate milk. Thea expected to see a paw clamp onto the youth's neck, lifting him to his feet as easily as if a bear were pulling up a carrot. Instead, the man knelt down, setting his arm across the back of the boy's chair and speaking softly into his ear. The youth, staring straight ahead, shook his head vehemently. Again, a whisper from the guard. This time the boy shrugged and nodded, resigned to having been caught.
Ah, the pinch,
Thea thought.
Bannedfrom the Beaumontjor life!
But there was no pinch. Instead, the solidly built man withdrew his wallet from his hip pocket, extracted some bills, and handed them to the boy. Then, without looking back, the guard went to the coffee bar and poured himself a cup. Thea kept her eyes on the boy, certain that he was going to pocket the money and bolt. Instead, he carried his tray to one of the lines, patiently waited his turn, and paid for his breakfast.
If there were others who had observed the drama, Thea did not notice them. She watched until the boy had returned to his table and begun to attack his meal. It wasn't until she had turned her attention back to her own breakfast that she realized the hero of the piece had sat down at the table next to hers.
CHAPTER 9
Thea knew she was staring over at the security guard, but didn't see anything particularly embarrassing about doing so. He had absolutely beautiful kind blue eyes, which seemed to be smiling even when he wasn't. From this close, his broad shoulders looked capable of pushing a mountain.
'G'morning,' he said, glancing over, his voice as gentle as his eyes.
'Good morning to you… That was quite a nice thing you did with that boy.'
'Huh? Oh, thanks. It seemed like what was called for. He's been in here a few times before. I figured he needed the little bit of food he took each time and I just let it go, but this time he went a little overboard.'
'There's a lot of taking things where I work, but the children don't have much, so it's understandable.'
'And where's that?'
'Where's what?'
'Where you work.'
Thea knew she was having trouble concentrating, and wondered if it was due to being so tired, the underlying ADD that coexisted with her Asperger's, or something else—something about the man.
'Oh, the Democratic Republic of the Congo,' she replied as if she were saying,
Oh, just down the street.
I see.
The guard didn't look as if he totally believed her. He took a sip of coffee, peered into his cup, and appeared to be ready to end their conversation right there.
'I saw everything that happened. You were very kind. I don't have any children… Well, I'm not even married… But there are a lot of children where I work.'
'In the Congo.'
'The Democratic Republic of the Congo. Yes, exactly. It's in Af-rica.
'I know.'
'It used to be called Zaire.'
'I guess I knew that, too.'
Thea sensed she might be annoying the man, but she didn't want the conversation between them to end.
'Do you have children?' she asked.
'Um… yes… one… a son.'
'But he doesn't live with you?'
The question triggered Thea's Aspie alarm, but too late.
'No,' he said. 'No, he doesn't. How did you—?'
'Oh, I don't know. Just something about the way you answered.'
'Oh.'
There was a protracted silence during which Thea sensed that anything she chose to say at this point would be the wrong thing. It would have been nice to have Dr. Carpenter around to confirm that, and to cue her as to what to say next.
'So why do you think he keeps coming to the hospital?' she suddenly heard her voice asking.
'Who?'
'The boy. The boy you just helped.'
The big man sighed and turned toward her as if he really didn't want to. In just the few seconds that followed, Thea took in a great number of things about him: the thin scar through his right brow, the fine, early crow's-feet at the corners of his wonderful eyes, the absence of a wedding ring, a rubber bracelet with the word
DARFUR
on it on his right wrist, and the name tag that read
OFFICER DANIEL COTTON, SECURITY.
There was also a slight redness to his cheeks—a touch of rosacea, she diagnosed.
'He says his mother is a patient here.'
'Have you checked?'
Daniel Cotton sighed and glanced down at his watch with a lack of subtlety that even Thea picked up on.
'The truth is, I haven't been on this job very long. Once I learn the ropes, maybe I'll have the chance to get involved with some of the people I bust.'
'Were you a policeman?'
This time, Cotton turned completely toward her. Thea tried to get a fix on what his odd expression might mean, but it was a skill she had never been even close to mastering.
'I… was. How can you possibly have known?'
Thea felt relieved that their conversation wasn't going to end. She spoke as she often did, with no great planning, no editing, and no firm idea as to what was going to come out.
'Well, the word
bust
is used all the time by almost everyone, but it has fewer nonslang meanings than people might suspect. In fact, according to Kornetsky's
Origin of Words and Slang,
page twenty-two or twenty-three, I think, bust has only two acceptable definitions: a sculpture of a person's head, shoulders, and upper chest, and also, a woman's bosom. There are many other meanings of the word, but they are all slang, such as to smash or break; to cause to come to an end such as to bust up the union; to demote in rank; to punch, usually in the face or mouth; to become bankrupt or short of money; to be a failure or a flop; to lose at blackjack; and finally, two slang meanings used primarily by police, and meaning to place under arrest or to make a raid. Oh, yes, and there's also a somewhat vulgar use of the word, to bust one's ass, meaning to work very hard.'
Cotton was wide-eyed.
'Do you rattle off things like that often?' he asked.
'Not really that often, but I could.' My name's—
'I know. Officer Daniel Cotton.'
She pointed to his name tag.
There was a silence that Thea found vaguely uncomfortable until she realized that Cotton was waiting for her to give her name.
'I don't have the benefit of your name tag,' he said before she could.
'Oh, I suppose that's because I don't have one. But if I did, and if it was accurate, it would say Doctor Alethea Sperelakis, like yours says Officer Daniel Cotton. Alethea means
truth
in Greek. Everyone has always called me Thea, though, just like everyone probably calls you Dan, or maybe Danny.'
She sensed it was nervousness that was making her speak so rapidly and so much, and cut herself off.
'Dan is right. I was Danny until I started towering over my parents, then Dan. Sometimes Daniel. It really doesn't matter to me. So is that Sperelakis, as in—'
'Yes. He's my father.'
'Are you the one who… who saved his life last night? They talked about his close call at report this morning.'
'I suppose so. My brother Niko helped by doing the pericardiocentesis—that's sticking a needle into the space around someone's heart—but I guess I did most of it. At a resuscitation, it's important for everyone involved to know who's in charge. Last night that was me.'
'You just say it like it is, huh?'
'Is there another way to say it?'
Dan looked at his watch again.
'Listen, Dr. Sperelakis—Thea—my break is over. I… um… I hope you don't think I'm being too forward, but I would enjoy getting together maybe for dinner or… or for coffee sometime after your father is… better.'
'That's a nice way to put it, Officer Dan Cotton, but the truth is, unless there's a miracle, I don't think he's going to get better. My brother and sister don't think even a miracle would help him make it back to any decent quality of life. If they had their way, there would have been no resuscitation last night and he would already be dead.'
'Aren't you something,' Dan said, as much to himself, it seemed, as to her. 'You just say it like it is.'
'You already said that. The answer is yes.'
'Yes what?'
'Yes I would enjoy having dinner or coffee with you, but I think you should consider giving coffee up.'
'Why?'
'That redness on your cheeks is a condition called rosacea. Women get it quite a bit more often than men, but men get it, too, and you've got it. It's not really curable, but there are some fairly effective treatments for it. Your case is very mild and may just get better if you stay away from hot liquids like coffee. And alcohol, too.'
'That's it?'
'Well actually, no. Most doctors who know about rosacea, and I'm one of those, feel that stress is causative as well. Merriman and Bla-lock published a paper in 2004—April, I think, in the
Journal of
Dermatology
—where they applied a stress scale to rosacea patients and pretty well proved it. So, since you've got to be under stress from your change in jobs from the police force to here, that could be contributing to your outbreak. Maybe a nice dinner will be just what the doctor ordered, so to speak. Do you still want to go?'
'Of course I do.'
Thea sensed from Dan's expression that she might have said something wrong, but he still wanted to have dinner with her, so it couldn't have been that wrong.
'Great,' she said.
'You seem very… serious.'
'Lots of people think that at first because I don't really try and hide the fact that I know a lot of things. But the people I work with think I'm very funny. Smart but funny. My brother Dimitri tells me I'm one of the funniest people he's ever met. Speaking of Dimitri, there's a favor you could do for me.'
Thea didn't come close to picking up on the astonishment in the man's eyes.
'Name it,' he said. 'I owe you for the medical consultation.'
'This involves putting on your policeman's hat—I mean your
former
policeman's hat.'
'Go on.'
'Our father was the victim of a hit-and-run driver.'
'I heard that.'
'Well, my brother Dimitri is very bright—smarter than me. He has a theory that whoever hit Father did it on purpose. He's made some computer animations that seem to prove his point. But apparently no one, including our twin brother and sister, seems interested in what they show. Could you come by sometime soon and look at the animation and talk about Dimitri's theory with him?'
'If you want. I suppose I could do that.'
Why would I ask you to do something unless I wanted you to do it?
Thea wondered.
Just as quickly, she answered her own question. 'If you want' was sort of a figure of speech—a polite confirmation that Dan Cotton respected her and would be happy to do what she asked.
Dr. Carpenter would be pleased.