Of Flesh and Blood (36 page)

With his hat tucked under his arm and leaning heavily on his cane, Marshall limped into the room. Evan recognized that Marshall’s chronic gout must have flared up, but he did not comment as the giant squeezed himself into the chair on the other side of the desk. “I think I was very clear when I told you that I am not Andrew Carnegie,” Marshall said.

“I do not believe I have ever confused you for him.”

“Is that so? And yet you expect me to provide this clinic with a seemingly bottomless source of charitable funding.”

Evan shuffled the pages on his desk. “Mr. Alfredson, I thought you understood the initial expense of establishing this clinic—”

“I was here for the ribbon-cutting seven months ago. The clinic
is
established!”

“In the next few years, it will only become more entrenched and self-sufficient. In the meantime, we have Miss Iles’s endowment—”

Marshall slapped the desktop irritably. “That woman’s donation represents a fraction of my investment. Also, it was merely a onetime gift. Meanwhile, every month you are incurring more costs than I dreamed imaginable.”

Evan pointed toward the still-shaking window. “But look how the clinic has grown in stature in just a few short months. The Alfredson is drawing patients from all over the state and beyond. It is becoming known as the premier—”

Marshall interrupted with a dismissive wave of his hairy knuckles. “As best as I can tell, you are primarily attracting idlers and indigent opportunists who recognize a handout when they see one.”

Evan clenched his fist under his desk as he struggled to control his tone. “We have an agreement, Mr. Alfredson. One of this clinic’s founding principles was that we would never turn away patients because they were unable to pay.”

“Maybe so, but I was not aware that you intended to actively solicit such patients.” Marshall shook his head gravely. “It must be quite easy to hold such lofty principles when you are not the person who has to pay for them.”

Evan fought to remain calm. “You are the businessman, Mr. Alfredson,” he said evenly. “Do you have suggestions for improving our situation?”

“In fact, I do.” Marshall interlocked his fingers and extended them with
a series of loud cracks. “We need to attract more of the right sort of people to the Alfredson for treatment.”

“The ‘right sort of people.’ Who would that be, Mr. Alfredson? The aristocracy?”

Marshall nodded as though the doctor were serious. “More members of society like Miss Iles. The donations will surely follow them. And, of course, the word of mouth will spread among the proper circles. To that end, you should employ more people like that eye man, Dr. Nilsson.”

“There is no other eye surgeon as good as Howard Nilsson.”

Marshall shrugged. “Then you need to find the leading people in other areas. The right fields, of course.”

Evan grimaced. “The
right
fields?”

“As I understand it, you have here a women’s specialist, a laboratory scientist, and another man who focuses on disorders of the brain.”

Evan didn’t bother attaching the correct names to those specialties. “Among others, yes.”

“The Alfredson doesn’t need those kinds of doctors. They will never bring in decent income.” Marshall blew out his lips with rumbling disdain. “What we want is a good bone man or two who can help with rheumatism and joint problems. Perhaps someone who is capable of treating consumption. Or shingles. The sorts of afflictions that might be of interest to the desirable class of Seattleites.”

Evan folded his arms across his chest. “That is not what the clinic is about.”

“This clinic has
my
family name on it, not yours. Only my money has made it possible. So please do not try to tell me what it is or is not about.”

Realizing it was futile to argue with the pigheaded man, Evan said nothing.

Marshall smiled and his tone took on a sudden conciliatory note. “Besides, Dr. McGrath, I have not come to squabble with you. I am here to help find solutions.”

Evan stiffened, more wary of Marshall’s uncharacteristic friendliness than his wrath. “What else do you have in mind?” he asked.

“There is a doctor in Seattle who has done quite well for himself. I believe he is the right person to elevate the Alfredson’s reputation among certain circles. I have already approached him about coming to the clinic. He has expressed interest.”

Evan felt uneasy. “Which doctor?”

“His name is Sibley. Garth Sibley.”

Sibley!
Evan’s stomach turned. The same man who had drawn the McGraths to Seattle with his empty promises and then ended up nearly poisoning Virginia with his vile elixir. Evan shot up from his chair. “
Never!
The man is a dangerous quack.”

Marshall shrugged in his chair. “I am not seeking your permission, Dr. McGrath.”

“I will never work with Sibley.”

Marshall’s smile assumed a malicious quality. “Then perhaps you will need to look for work elsewhere.”

As Evan gaped at Marshall, he suddenly realized that none of this was a coincidence. He distinctly remembered telling the lumber baron about Sibley and his contempt for the snake oil salesman. Marshall must have sought out Sibley for that very reason. “Why are you doing this?” Evan demanded.

The smile left Marshall’s lips. His face darkened as he rose to his towering height. He pointed a finger accusingly at Evan’s chest. “Did you or did you not promise to never see my daughter again?”

Suddenly, Evan understood. “It was a chance encounter.”

“A chance encounter?” Marshall’s voice rose. “
Here?
In the middle of nowhere?”

Evan was not about to incriminate Olivia to her father by pointing out that he did not know of her plans to visit. “I wanted her to see the Alfred-son,” he lied. “She has worked hard to see it realized.”

“She did, indeed,” Marshall grumbled, almost under his breath. He shook his finger harder at Evan. “You, sir, swore a promise to me—”

“Mr. Alfredson!” a voice called frantically from the doorway.

Evan and Marshall looked over simultaneously to see the squat private detective, Wellsby, fidgeting to the point of writhing where he stood just inside the door. He still wore his bowler hat, but he was panting heavily and sweat dripped along his brow and over his ghostly pale face. He looked around in every direction but avoided eye contact with his boss.

“What is it, Wellsby?” Marshall demanded.

“It is . . .,” Wellsby stammered. “Out in Puget Sound. This morning . . . in the storm.”

“Out with it!”

Wellsby pulled off his hat and clutched it to his chest. His gaze dropped to the floor. Sudden foreboding flooded Evan. “Mr. and Mrs. Grovenor,” Wellsby said. “They were out sailing . . .”

Marshall’s face blanched and his eyes dilated widely. “My Olivia!
No!
”

“Sir, their boat capsized.” Wellsby swallowed. “No one made it to shore.”

“No, no, no!” The words tumbled from Evan’s lips almost in unison with Marshall’s.

By 6:45, the sun had crested over the peak of the mountain and bathed the trail below in a golden-orange glow. Birds chirped noisily in the trees above Erin and Tyler, and the air was thick with the scent of pine and fir. Only the slight chill at the base of the trail reminded Erin that fall had already arrived, but by the time she had hiked up a half mile even that was a distant memory and she was drenched in sweat from the demanding climb. She glanced over to Tyler and saw that he’d stripped down to a T-shirt and shorts, his sweater tied around his waist.

As children, Erin and Tyler had hiked the same trail with their grandfather, Maarten Vanderhof. Erin cherished those memories. Nothing was as refreshing as the swims in the glacier-fed lake at the top of the hike. And little could compare to the picnic lunches Liesbeth used to pack with mouthwatering roast beef and turkey sandwiches along with the kind of sugary snacks and drinks that their mother never allowed at home. The path was known locally as the Ravine, but Erin still thought of it as Opa’s Trail.

For the past few summers, Erin and Steve had taken the twins up Opa’s Trail—even allowing them junky snack food that never graced their cupboards at home—but she had not climbed it with her brother in over twenty years. Erin had suggested the excursion as a chance for them to catch up, but they had hardly spoken a word since launching into the hike.

Erin was still mentally grappling with the article in the newspaper that had waylaid her over her morning coffee. It concerned the family of a deceased patient who was suing the Alfredson and her brother. Erin had not yet broached the topic with Tyler, and nothing in his demeanor suggested he had even seen it. On the contrary, he was in a brighter mood than she had seen in a while. And, though she considered herself to be in relatively
good shape, she huffed and puffed struggling to keep up with him as he bounded up the trail.

Two-thirds of the way up, they stopped near a cluster of towering trees for a drink of water. Pulling the bottle from his lips, Tyler wiped the sweat off his brow with a sweep of his wrist. “Was this hike always so damn steep?”

Erin chuckled. “Opa never had any trouble with it. And he was well into his sixties when he used to take us.”

Tyler leaned back against a tree. “Opa’s personal trainer must have been better than mine.”

“No doubt,” Erin said as she sprayed him with a stream from her water bottle.

“Feels good,” he said, shaking the water out of his hair. The grin vacated his lips. “Speaking of Maarten, Liesbeth let me in on an incredible family secret last week.”

“About Opa and the camps?”

Tyler squinted at her. “You knew, too?”

“Liesbeth called me after your lunch. She wanted me to hear it directly from her.”

“Amazing, huh?”

“Remember that funny blocklike tattoo Opa had on his forearm? I once asked him about it. He laughed it off saying he always wanted to be a sailor, but I bet it covered up those numbers the Nazis used to tattoo on the inmates.”

Tyler shook his head. “I remember him as so upbeat. And yet he endured a Nazi extermination camp and then treated kids with cancer at a time when few of them survived.”

“God, he must have had some kind of inner strength.”

“Superhuman, I’d say.”

Erin nodded. “It’s kind of weird to find out you have a whole heritage you never knew about. It’s amazing to think we’re part Jewish.”

“I know. I’m completely off bacon.”

Erin rolled her eyes.

He thumbed at the trail. “How about we race the rest of the way up, like old times?”

He began moving toward the trail, but Erin stayed put. “Tyler, did you see the paper this morning?”

He stopped in his tracks. With his back still to her, he nodded.

“I’m sorry,” she said.

He turned slowly back to face her. “I knew it was coming.”

“What they said in the article . . .”

“Most of it is true.” Tyler went on to summarize the Stafford case for her.

“I don’t dwell on every single potential complication to my preop cardiac patients, either.” Erin shook her head. “Your case still sounds like informed consent to me.”

“Nate was dying.” Tyler’s gaze drifted to the trees above her. “That drug was the very last thing I had to offer him, but it’s no excuse. I should have told his parents that the spinal fluid route carried a higher risk.”

“Easy to say now.”

His eyes found hers again. “Erin, I was arrogant. I downplayed the side effects because I didn’t want to give them a chance to back out.”

She viewed him for a long moment. “Don’t think I would have done it any differently, Pip.”

“Not sure if that testimony will help much in court.” He ran a hand through his damp hair and grinned. “Still, thank you.”

She cocked her head. “Tyler, are you as . . . okay with this as you seem?”

“Probably not.” He looked down and ran the toe of his hiking boot over an exposed tree root. “But I have to be.”

“For the other kids you treat?”

“Them. And Jill.”

“Jill?” Erin frowned. “Is this publicity an inconvenience to her?”

“Jill has her own publicity disaster to worry about.”

“She does?”

He told her about Jill’s tainted study data. “She’s convinced she will be ruined when the truth gets out,” he said.

“Oh, crap! Poor Jill. Those academics can be the worst cutthroats of all, huh? So much professional jealousy among them.”

Tyler dropped to the ground, sat on his sweater, and hugged his knees. “Ironic part is that her new treatment seems to really work. They just haven’t had enough cases or time to prove it yet.”

“What’s she going to do?”

Tyler dropped his chin to his knees and shook his head.

Erin sat down on the lumpy dirt beside him. They sat without speaking for a long while. “Poor Dad,” Tyler finally said.

“You mean his back pain?” Erin asked, confused.

“No.” He frowned. “The motion before the Alfredson’s board. He’s worried sick about that vote.”

“Can’t blame him. If some private interest takes over the Alfredson, he’ll lose the one thing that matters most to him.”

Tyler sighed heavily. “And Jill and I are only hurting his cause with our public debacles.”

“Me, too.”

“You? How?”

Erin stared affectionately at Tyler. The naked angst swam in his eyes, and she realized he had been mounting a brave face for her all morning. Suddenly, she had second thoughts about adding her problems to his already full load.

“What is it, Erin?” he pressed.

“Nothing.”

“Come on. It’s just me.” He held out a hand. “How are you hurting Dad’s cause?”

“I’ve had to take a leave of absence from the OR.” She was prepared to recycle the lie about carpal tunnel syndrome, but something in her little brother’s gaze moved her to the truth. “Ty, I’ve been having panic attacks.”

“
Panic?
” Tyler did a double take. “You’re the fearless one, Erin. Remember those late nights when we were home alone? I was the one cowering behind the couch. You used to laugh through those slasher films.”

“I’m not laughing now.”

“Wow.” He shook his head. “When do they hit you?”