Side Effects (18 page)

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"People, I guess." She shrugged. "You know, you wake up in the morning, you get dressed, you march off for another encounter in the battle of life--all you want to do is grow a little, try your best, and grab some little morsel of peace and contentment along the way. No big deal. Every day you do that, and every day you think that everyone else is doing the same thing, trying for that same smidgen of happiness. It makes so much sense that way."

"Ah, yes, my child, but therein lies the rub. You see, what makes sense and what is are seldom the same thing.

The stew you propose cooking up would taste just fine, but it's a bit short on the condiments of reality--greed, envy, bigotry, insecurity, to say nothing of that of' standby, just plain craziness. No matter who you are, no matter how hard you try to tend your own little garden, no matter how kind you try to be to your fellow man, there's always gonna be someone, somewhere tryin' to stick it to you. You can count on it."

"Terrific."

"It all boils down to priorities."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, I know I have the reputation around here for being too passive. My door is always open. Bring in your troubles and problems whenever you want ... as long as you bring in the solutions to them at the same time. I wasn't always like that, Kate. There was a time when I would have gone to the mat with the toughest of them.

And I did. Many times in the early days before you came on board. Then I started getting the pains beneath the of"

sternum, and I started visiting all those eager young cardiologists. Gradually, my priorities began to shift away from playing with the stick-it-to-you fanatics. I went back to basics. My wife, my children, my grandchildren, my health--physical and mental. I couldn't see how a new microscope or an extra technician or a refurnished room could measure up against any of them."

"But Stan, your work is important. It's your job to fight for the department. Don't you agree?"

"Yes."

"Well then, how do you resolve that fact with what you just said?" Stanley Willoughby leaned over and kissed her gently on the forehead. "I can't, Kate. Don't you see?

That's why I'm stepping down. See you at the conference." With a smile that held more wistfulness and sadness than mirth, he turned and entered the office that, if he had his way, Kate would occupy within a few months.

Kate's office, half the size of her chiefs, was on a side corridor next to the autopsy suite. There was room only for a desk and chair, a file cabinet, a small microscope bench, and two high stools. On one of the stools sat Jared.

"Well, hi," she said, crossing to kiss him.

"Hi, yourself."

His response was chilly, perfunctory.

"How's your belly?"

"As long as I don't try to sit down, get up, or walk, it's only painful as hell," he said. "But not nearly as painful as this." He slid a handbill across to her. "Copies of this have been circulating all over South Boston and are beginning to work their way up into the city."

"Damn," she whispered, staring at the paper in disbelief. "Jared, I'm sorry. I really am." The flyer, printed on an orange stock bright enough to offend even the least political Irish Catholic, was headlined PARTNERS IN COMPASSION. Beneath the words were Kate and Jared

arm in arm in a photograph she could not remember ever having posed for. It was labeled

"Atty. J. Samuels and Dr. K. Bennett." At the bottom of the page was a photograph of Bobby Geary in the midst of his picture-perfect swing.

It was captioned simply

"Bobby, R. I.P."

"Finn?" she ventured.

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"Maybe. Maybe not. He's hardly the only Irish Catholic around who'd like to firebomb us. The name Bobby Geary seems set to take its place right next to Chappaquiddick and Watergate in the list of political death knells.

For all I know, Mattingly or his sleazy campaign manager decided to make sure I was no problem for them in the next election."

"I'm sorry." "You already said that." Kate sighed and sank down on her desk chair. "Jared, things aren't really going very well for me right now. Do you have to make them worse?"

"Things aren't going well for you? Is that all you can think of?"

"Please, honey. I've got this damn news conference in half an hour; I've got a biopsy due from the OR. Don't you remember saying yesterday how you were going to try to be more understanding?" She clenched her teeth against any further outburst.

"I remember getting laid out by a policeman I'd never seen before that moment. That's what I remember. My father tells me that Martin Finn is numero uno in power and influence in certain quarters of the BPD. With him for an enemy, it's possible that I might end up having my car towed while it's stopped for a red light."

Kate's eyes narrowed. Suddenly, Jared's appearance in her office made sense. Win Samuels. One of the man's countless sensors, scattered about the city and throughout the media, must have reported that his daughter-in-law was scheduled to meet the press. "Jared, did your father tell you to come here this morning to make sure I didn't disgrace anyone at the news conference?"

"We're just trying to avoid any more of this stuff." He held up the orange handbill. Kate glared at her husband for a moment; then her expression softened. "You know, when you are yourself, you are the funniest, nicest, gentlest, handsomest man I have ever known. I swear you are. Given a build-it-myself husband erector set, I don't think I could have done any better. But when you start operating with that man in the Braxton Building, I swear ..."

"Look, let's leave my father out of this, shall we? I'm the one who's watching a political career go down the toilet, not him."

"I'm not so sure."

"What?"

"Nothing, Jared. Look, I've got some work to finish, and any moment I have to diagnose the biopsy of a woman's thyroid gland that one of the other pathologists is having trouble with. I can't talk about this any more right now."

"How about you just ..."

His outburst was cut short by the arrival of a technician carrying a stainless steel specimen tray and cardboard slide holder, which she set on the microscope bench.

"Please tell Dr. Huang I'll call him in a few minutes with my diagnosis," Kate said. Jared watched the young woman leave and then checked his watch.

"Look," he said coolly, "I've got to go. I have an appointment with Norton Reese in two minutes."

"What for?"

"Apparently he's been contacted by a lawyer friend of the Gearys. They're thinking of some kind of action against the hospital based on invasion of privacy." "Jesus," Kate said, pressing her fingertips against the fatigue burning in her eyes.

Jared stood to go. "Don't forget about the Carlisles' cocktail party tonight." Kate groaned. "I guess you already have, huh?"

"I'm sorry. What time?"

"Seven-thirty."

"Okay, Jared, I ..."

"Yes?"

She shook her head. "Never mind." It wasn't, she decided, the moment to tell him that she felt she was losing her mind. Please hold me, Jared, she wanted to say. Come over here and hold me and tell me everything's going to be all right. Instead, she waved weakly and turned to the slide and tissue in the specimen dish.

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Before Jared had crossed to the door, the telephone began ringing. Reflexively, he turned back.

"Hello? ... Oh, hi," Kate said. "How're you holding up? ... How long? ... Have you tried pressure? ... Ice? ... Ellen, please. Just calm down and get a hold of yourself. Have you ever had any trouble like this before?

... Any bruising you can't explain? ... Your whole thigh?

... Why didn't you call me? ... Ellen, a few years ago, I helped get you accepted into the Omnicenter. Are you still going there? ... All right. Now listen carefully. I want you to come up to the emergency ward here, but I don't want you to drive. Can you get someone to bring you? ... Fine. Pack an overnight bag and ask your sister or someone to cover the girls, just in case ... Ellen, relax. Now I mean it. Coming apart will only make things worse. Besides, it raises havoc with your mascara ... That's better. Now, maintain pressure as best you can, and come on up here. I'll have the best people waiting to see you. You'll probably be home in a couple of hours ... Good. And Ellen, bring your medicines, too ... I know they're only vitamins. Bring them anyway." "Ellen Sandier?" Jared asked as she hung up. Kate nodded, her face ashen. "Her nose has been bleeding steadily for over two hours. Do you know where Sandy is, by any chance?"

"Europe, I think."

Kate stared down at the specimen tray and thought about the woman on the operating table, waiting word on whether the lump in her neck was cancerous or not.

Chances were that the initial biopsy had been done under local, so the woman would be fully awake, frightened. "Jared, there is something you can tell Norton Reese for me. Tell him that I won't be able to make his news conference. Tell him that I didn't do anything and didn't write anything, so I really don't have anything to say anyway."

"But ..."

"Tell him that as my husband for almost five years, you know that whatever I say is the truth, and that if anyone wants to get at me, they'll have to go through you.

Just like last evening. Okay?" She placed a slide under her microscope, and prepared for an encounter with the yellow white light.

Jared moved to respond, but then stopped himself, walked to the door, and finally turned back. "I hope Ellen's all right," he said softly. (

Kate looked up. Every muscle in her body seemed to have tensed at the prospect of what the blood studies on her friend might reveal. "So do I, Jared," she said. "So do I." Relax. Concentrate. Focus in. Center your mind. Center it. It took a minute or two longer than usual, but in the end, the process worked. It always did. Extraneous thoughts and worries lifted from her like a fog until finally all that remained in her world were the cells.

Arlen Paquette sat by the window of his suite in the Ritz, watching the slow passage of pedestrians along the snow-covered walks of the Public Gardens. His schooling had been at Harvard and MIT, and no matter how long he lived in Kentucky, coming to Boston always felt like coming home. Watching the students and lovers, the vagrants and executives, Paquette found himself longing for the more sheltered, if much more improverished, life in a university. Over the seven years with Redding, he had gained much. The land, the house, the tennis court and pool, to say nothing of the opportunities for his children and lifetime security for himself and his wife. Only now was he beginning to appreciate fully the price he had paid.

More and more, especially since the Arthgard recall, he avoided looking at himself in mirrors. More and more, as his self-respect dwindled, his effectiveness as a lover also declined. And now, a thousand miles from his exquisitely manicured lawn and the country club he was about to direct, two women had bled to death. As he looked out on the gray New England afternoon, Paquette prayed that the connection of the dead women to the Omnicenter was mere coincidence.

At precisely three o'clock, a messenger arrived with the large manila envelope he had been expecting. Paquette tipped the man and then spread the contents on the coffee table next to the dossier he had brought with him from Darlington. The thoroughness with which Cyrus Redding approached a potential adversary surprised him not in the least. The Warlock kept his edge, honed his remarkable intuitiveness,
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through facts--countless snatches of data that taken individually might seem irrelevant, but which, like single jigsaw-puzzle pieces, helped construct the truth; in this case, the truth that was Kathryn Bennett Samuels, MD.

Paquette found the volume of information amassed over just a few days both impressive and frightening. Biographical data, academic publications, medical history from a life insurance application, even grades and a yearbook picture from Mount Holyoke. There were, in addition to the photostats and computer printouts, a dozen black-and-white photographs--five-by-seven blowups of shots obviously taken with a telephoto lens. Instinctively, the chemist glanced out the window of his eighth-floor suite, wondering if there were a spot from which someone might be taking photographs of him. One at a time, Paquette studied the carefully labeled photographs. "K. B. and husband, Jared Samuels."

"K. B.

and pathologist Stanley Willoughby. (See p. 4B.)"

"Samuels/ Bennett residence, Salt Marsh Road, Essex."

"K. B. jogging near home." The woman had a remarkable face, vibrant and expressive, with the well-defined features that translated into photogenicity. Her beauty was at once unobtrusive and unquestionable, and as he scanned the photos, Arlen Paquette felt the beginning pangs of loneliness for his wife.

"Pay special attention to Dr. Stein's report," Redding had instructed him. "The man has done this sort of thing for me before, on even shorter notice and with even less data than he has had to work with here. If you have questions, let me know and I'll have Stein get in touch with you." The report was typed on stationery embossed

"Stephen Stein, Phd; Clinical Psychologist." There was no address or telephone number. Paquette mixed himself a weak Dewar's and water and settled onto the brocaded sofa with the three, single-spaced pages.

Much of the report was a condensation of the data from the rest of the dossier. Paquette read through that portion, underlining the few facts he hadn't encountered before. Actually, he was familiar with Stein's work. Nearly seven years before, he had studied a similar document dealing with Norton Reese. He had wondered th en, as he did again this day, if somewhere in the hundreds of manila folders locked in Cyrus Bedding's files was one containing a Stein study of Arlen Paquette.