Better in the Dark (9 page)

“And what do the diagnostic samples say? Or doesn’t Mark Howland do yours, either?”

Jim looked flustered, his normally pink face turning red as he answered. “Type unknown. Damn it all, you should know. You’re the one who’s been ordering tests. Howland’s been a little high-handed, but he’s right. The lab’s too valuable to do routine. Don’t mind telling you that Justin is pretty unhappy about you. Not that it isn’t his job to keep track of things, but you’re pushing him. He’s a busy man,” he added hastily. “Hard to tell about Peter sometimes. Noticed how he likes having the records straight. Damned strange fellow when he’s crossed.”

“Am I being taken off the case?” Harry asked, as calmly as he could. He studied the residue in the bottom of his cup. Some people used to tell the future with coffee grounds, he remembered. But with fake coffee, there would be a fake future.

“Taken off?” Jim Braemoore said, horrified. “What for? You know the field. Just a little advice, that’s all. Help you keep your perspective. This overconcern, preoccupation—that can happen to anybody. Happened to me once, oh, long time ago. Took quite a while to set myself straight again. What I wanted to do was let you see how it is, help you to understand.” He pushed back from the table. “Sorry to leave you so soon, but must scrub for a CA. You’d think people would remember to get their immunizations, wouldn’t you?” He sighed a ponderous sigh. “Mastectomy. Pity. One inoculation every five years and there’s nothing to worry about. But they forget, and then we have them up on thirteen.” He broke off, beaming at Harry. “Delighted to have seen you, Smith. Don’t have nearly enough time to talk these days. Just remember—one child, even half a dozen—doesn’t make that much difference. Not worth the bother, Harry.” With that as a parting remark, he strode to the door and bellied through it.

“Brian shows three broken ribs and an improperly healed fracture of the left wrist, as well as bruises and blisters on the ankles,” the new intern reported. She was long, lanky and the color of caramel apples. “We found nylon fibers in the infected areas.”

“Okay. So they kept him tied up. What else?”

“Bruises on the side of the face, recent. Burn scars on the left and right forearm. He is suffering from exposure and psychological shock, but will probably pull through.”

“And Stephanie?” Harry found it more and more difficult to keep the detached professional attitude that was required of him. Yet he dared not show greater interest in this woman, obviously a plant from Justin or Braemoore. Or both. He wanted to chide himself for paranoia, to reassure himself that he was borrowing trouble; he found he could not do it. He sensed he was being watched and he looked up at the woman, challenging her eyes.

“The girl,” the intern went on, smiling blindingly at him, “is in somewhat better condition, at least outwardly. She does have a fever complaint and general stiffness in the body. Her head is particularly sore and she is moderately disoriented.”

The first sensation of alarm began to nag at Harry. “She probably tried to keep her brother warm and has had more exposure,” he suggested, covering his dread, which was turning into a cold fist in his guts. What if Natalie Lebbreau were right? She claimed she had had a patient with polio, and these symptoms, the aches, fever, muscle stiffness...

“I’ve taken photos of her back for the police records. Ian Parkenson had a look at her earlier. He said that the scars were probably caused by lashings with an old-fashioned electric cord. So many are. Electric cords are easy to come by.”

“I see,” said Harry. “Why did you call Dr. Parkenson in on the case? Is there anything wrong with the way I’ve handled it?”

“Dr. Justin sent him over. He said that he was checking up on virus admits in pediatric cases. I understand that was your idea, Dr. Smith,” she went on. “But as you see, neither of these children have serious bronchial inflammation.”

Justin is checking on me, Harry realized. What for? Was Justin just gathering figures for his blessed charts, or was this more sinister? He told himself to stop it, to put his mind on his patient. Aloud, he said, “He must be watching pediatric admits pretty carefully, then.”

“Oh, yes,” said the intern. Then she giggled.

Harry scowled at her. “What was your name again, Doctor?”

“Gloria Powell,” she said, straightening her name badge over one unrealistically firm breast. She pointed. “See? Powell.”

“Thanks,” he said dryly. “I want to see the boy first and then the girl. Get Parkenson’s report for me, will you?”

“Certainly, Dr. Smith.” All business, Gloria Powell led the way to the pediatric units.

Brian lay on his side, restless. He had reached that stage of fatigue when normal sleep is impossible. As Harry stepped through the door, Brian succeeded in twitching his blanket off the bed. He gave a low whine and wriggled onto his side.

“Hello, Brian,” Harry began, forcing himself to smile.

“Go ’way.” He squinted up at Harry. “I don’t like you.”

Harry bent to pick up the blanket, noticing that Gloria had leaned over him, obviously too near. He stepped back as he stood up, knocking her off balance. “Here, Brian. You’ll want this later on.” He held out the blanket.

The boy took it, wadded it and held it.

“Look,” Harry began again, “so long as I’m here, why not let me check you over?”

“ ’Nother doctor already did.”

“Yes, I know,” Harry said, becoming impatient. “But I am
your
doctor and I would like to examine you. It won’t take long, Brian.”

“Where’s Stephie? They said I could see her.” The boy twisted in his sheet, then sat up. “She said we’d be okay, just us together. We’d be fine. What have you done with her?” His face turned red as he started to cry.

Gloria Powell looked disgusted and started to tap on her chart board.

Harry had to admit that the puckered, scarlet face buttoned with a runny nose was not very appealing. He also knew he was clumsy with children. Reluctantly he sat on the side of the bed and put his arm around the wailing Brian.

“It’s okay, Brian. Really. Don’t worry about your sister. I saw her earlier and she was just as anxious about you as you are about her.” He remembered he had shown her how to use the phone screen and wondered why she hadn’t. “She probably thinks you’re sleeping now and doesn’t want to wake you up. And she’s right, you know. If you have some sleep you’ll feel much better. I can give you some hot chocolate that will help you sleep. You’ll feel better, and the sooner you feel better, the sooner you can go home...” He stopped. Abandoned children did not go home. “The sooner you can leave here,” he amended,

“I want Stephie!” Brian yelled.

“Doctor, really.” Gloria shook her head impatiently, her pretty mouth set in a disapproving line.

“Why hasn’t this child been sedated?” Harry demanded, feeling the tension in Brian’s slender shoulder. “In this condition he could develop complications from simple lack of sleep.”

Gloria was nicely confused, but the confusion did not reach to her eyes. Whatever she was sent to do, she was doing it. “I didn’t think we gave sedatives to children. I didn’t order any for him.”

“Well, what’s stopping you from doing it now?” And what stopped Ian Parkenson from doing it when he had examined Brian? “Never mind. I’ll handle it when we leave.” He turned his attention back to the child, whose sobs had become short, jerky sighs. “Come on, Brian, a few more minutes and then you can sleep. When you wake up I’ll take you to Stephie, myself.” He glanced at Gloria and saw distress imposed on her lovely features.

“What is it?” he asked her sharply,

“Not here, Doctor,” she replied, and let herself out of the unit.

Shortly afterward he joined her in the hall. “Will you explain about this? What is the matter with his sister?”

“Come with me,” she said, quite professional once more.

But Harry didn’t move. “Not until you tell me why.”

She gave him a cool stare. “I am about to show you why, Doctor. If you’ll come with me.” Without a backward glance she led the way to Stephanie’s unit.

“I think it’s dreadful about those children,” she said severely.

“Yes,” Harry nodded, pleasantly surprised to hear her so sympathetic. “It’s criminal the way the parents are allowed to abandon them.”

Gloria opened startled eyes at him. “I meant that they were allowed to have them.”

In Stephanie’s unit the girl lay under a breathing-assist console. The machine squatted over her body like a large, profane bird. The gauge registered
LIGHT RESPIRATION
. The vital signs monitor read
NEAR CRITICAL
.

“I see,” Harry said, fear coming into him. “When did this happen?”

“About an hour ago,” Gloria said. She had come no farther into the unit than was absolutely necessary. “One of the orderlies noticed the irregularity on the monitor and rang for an assist. She’s pretty serious. She might die.”

Harry bit back a retort. “Is it too much to hope that there’s a record of what’s been done for her and her progress?”

“Oh, yes, here.” She traced through the slips on the case board and finally handed him one, retreating to the doorway immediately.

“Thanks.” He read, stopping suddenly. “This authorizes transfer.”

“Hum? Yes it does.” She nodded.

“There’s no indication where she’s going. Which hospital is taking her, do you know?”

She looked at her copy of the report. “No, there’s no mention here.” She frowned, then brightened. “They’re probably short of beds and don’t know which facility they’ll be using yet. It’ll be filled in later. Check it with administration in the morning.”

“What’s wrong with keeping her right here? It isn’t good to transfer patients in her condition,” Harry persisted. “This child should not be moved.”

“Dr. Parkenson signed the authorization,” she stated, her mouth narrowing.

“I know. I saw the report.” It frightened him, but he did not say so. “I’ll check this with Ian. He can’t have seen her since they brought the assist in. He’ll see that she mustn’t be moved. He’ll change the order.”

Gloria Powell stared at him, her bosom up-thrust, then she turned and walked away. No intern would do that, but she did.

Harry watched her go, anger growing in him. “Tell Justin. Tell Parkenson. Tell Braemoore. Tell Wexford. I don’t give a damn who you tell if it will save this child.”

He studied the monitor as his anger cooled. After five minutes he knew that Stephanie was number seventeen.

The voice on the phone was tired, still husky from sleep. “Yes? Dr. Howland here.”

“Dr. Howland, is Dr. Lebbreau available?”

“No,” growled the voice.

Harry gritted his teeth and went on. “Can you tell me when you expect her?”

“I don’t.” The line went dead.

Alone in the visitor’s lounge Harry stood, stupidly clinging to the receiver. What could have become of her? Where had she gone? He could put out a hospital alert—and rejected the idea as soon as he thought of it. There was a risk if Justin and his cronies found out. He tried her floor with no success. No one on the eleventh floor had seen her for hours.

On an off chance he tried the cafeteria and was startled to find her there sitting in the far corner, alone. He picked up two cups of coffee and went to her.

“Like another one?” he asked her when he reached her. He made a tentative smile, the offering of a truce.

“Oh. Thank you.”

Putting down the cups he said, “Mind if I join you? You look kind of lonely all by yourself.” Since there were only three other men in a room designed for two hundred, this could be said of any of them. She gestured to the opposite chair. “Please.”

“I’ve been hoping to run into you. After the other day I owe you an apology.”

“Why?” Eyes listless, hands shaking slightly, she looked squarely at him. “You didn’t believe me the other day, so it doesn’t matter.”

“But I believe you now,” he said, pulling his chair closer. He leaned forward, speaking quietly, “I have a patient right now, a girl, nine years old, abandoned with her brother. She has polio.”

Natalie’s face sharpened. “When was she admitted?”

“City Patrol brought her in yesterday. The initial diagnosis for her was exposure.”

“Where is she now? Can we run some tests on her? Unofficially?”

Harry sighed, defeated. “No. The labs can’t be bothered with sore throats and runny noses. And Parkenson authorized transfer for her. She’s on breathing assist and she’s being transferred.”

Although her voice was no louder, it had taken on intensity. “Do you know where they’re sending her? Can we get someone on that end? Do you think we can follow her, at least her records?”

“There was no destination on the authorization card.”

Now her faded-green eyes were nerve-bright. “It’s going to get worse. It’s going to get bad so fast. Dave Lillijanthal got a tetanus. A real one. They can’t claim that’s a mutant virus.”

Harry stared at her. “How old is the patient?”

“An adult. Late twenties. They’ve got him in a decompression chamber.”

“What’s going on? Tetanus. Do you know what’s happening?”

“Mark knows,” she said, not allowing her voice to change.

“Then, why the hell...” He made an effort and tried again. “Why don’t they tell people, warn them? Why aren’t you doing something about it?”

For the first time she looked ashamed. “Because I can’t. They’d say I’m an hysterical woman who can’t adjust to the loss of her own child. And then they’d fire me because I’m obviously not responsible for myself.”

“Come off it,” he said annoyed.

“I have it on excellent authority that that is exactly what would happen to me. I know they mean it. And I haven’t got the courage to quit.”

The room was very quiet. One of the other men left the cafeteria.

“Believe me, they’ll do what they say. And that would mean I’d have to stop practicing. I can’t do that, not now!” In her outburst she leaned forward. “They’re going to need every doctor they can get.”

“What’s happening, Natalie? What’s really going on?”

For an answer she shook her head. “Not here. If we talk much longer we’ll be noticed, and then you’ll be in trouble, too.” She glanced at the clock. “It’s one-twenty. Do you have to be on the floor just now?”