Michael Palmer - Natural Causes

"This place is a pit, Ben," he said. "I just don't understand it. She could buy her own goddamn hospital, and she ends up in a place like this."

Grayson's people had reported Lisa's room as 515. With his physician several paces behind, Grayson hurried past the nurses' station, oblivious to the woman who was seated there, writing notes.

The stocky young nurse, whose name tag identified her as Janine Curtis, R.N., M.Sc.N., called out to them. "Excuse me. May I help you?"

"No," Grayson growled over his shoulder. "We're going to room five fifteen."

"Please stop," she demanded.

Grayson stiffened. Then, his fists slowly opening and closing at his sides, he did as she requested. Behind him, Dr. Ben Harris breathed an audible sigh of relief.

"Lisa Summer's real name is Lisa Grayson," Grayson said with exaggerated patience. "I'm her father, Willis Grayson, and this is her private physician, Dr. Benjamin Harris. Now may we proceed?"

Confusion darkened the nurse's face and then just as quickly vanished.

"Our visitors' hours don't begin until two," she said. "But if Lisa approves, I'll make an exception just this once."

Grayson's fists again clenched. But this time they remained so.

"Do you know who I am?" he asked.

"I know who you say you are. Look, Mr. Grayson, I don't want to be-"

"Ben, I just don't have time for this," Grayson snapped. "You stay here and explain to this woman who I am and why we're here. If she gives you any problem, call the goddamn director of this excuse for a hospital and get him up here. I'm going to see Lisa."

He stalked off without waiting for a reply.

One of the slide-in labels on the door of room 515 read "L. Summer." The other was blank. Willis Grayson hesitated. Had he done the right thing by not sending flowers or calling first? If, as he suspected, others had poisoned her against him, there was no telling what she was thinking. No, he decided, it was better to make this visit unannounced.

After she had been coerced into leaving home by Charlie or Chuck, or whatever the hell his name was, Grayson had spent tens of thousands of dollars trying to find her. The trail went cold in Miami. Then suddenly the boy showed up at home without her and with no idea where she had gone. For months afterward Grayson had him followed and his mail screened. But nothing came of it. Eventually the boy had just drifted away, with no clue as to how close he had come to having both his legs broken-or worse.

No, Grayson thought angrily, it will take more than a few flowers.

He tapped lightly on the door, waited, and then tapped again. Finally he eased it open. The olio of powder and lotion, starch and antiseptic was familiar and unpleasant. He had not been in a hospital room since the evening nearly eight years ago when he and Lisa sat together, holding his wife's hand as she surrendered to the malignancy she had battled for over a year.

Now his daughter sat motionless in a padded, high-backed chair, staring out the window. The sight of the bandages covering what remained of her right arm brought bile to Grayson's throat. He stepped around and sat down on the marble sill. Lisa glanced at him momentarily, then closed her eyes and looked away.

"Hi, honey," he said. "I'm so glad I found you. I've missed you so much."

He waited for a response, but knew from her expression and the set of her shoulders that there would be none.

Damn them, he thought, lumping her friends, roommates, lovers, and doctors-real and imagined-into an ill-defined object of molten hate. Damn them all to hell for bringing you to this.

"I'm sorry for what you've been through." He tried again. "Please, Lisa. Please talk to me… I want to get you out of here. Dr. Harris flew up with me. You remember him. He's right outside. His staff is waiting for you at the medical center back home. He'll check you over, and if he says it's safe, we'll have you there in ninety minutes. Tim's on the roof with the helicopter. He's missed you, too, hon. Everybody's missed you. Lisa?"

Lisa continued looking away. Grayson stood and paced about the room, searching for the words that would begin to open her heart to him.

If only you had listened to me in the first place, he wanted to scream. If only you had listened to me, none of this would have happened.

"I know you're angry with me," he said instead, "but everything can be all right now. You're all I have, and I'll do anything to have you with me again… Please, Lisa. I know you're hurting. I want to help you fight back. I want to help you find out why this horrible thing happened to you and… and to my grandson. And if anyone is responsible, I want more than anything to be the hammer that helps you strike them down… All right, all right." He took a calming breath and moved back to the window. "I understand that it might not be easy for you after all this time. Listen, I'll be staying at the Bostonian. The number will be right by your phone. I'm going to arrange for a private nurse to take care of you, and I'm going to have Ben Harris get in touch with your doctors. Please, baby. I–I love you. Please let me back in your life."

He hesitated, and then turned and headed for the door.

"Come back later, Daddy," she said suddenly.

Grayson stopped. Were the words only in his mind?

"This afternoon," she said. "Three o'clock. I promise to talk with you then."

Her soft monotone held neither anger nor forgiveness.

Willis Grayson turned back and stared at her. Lisa was again sitting motionless, gazing out the window.

"Okay," he said finally. "Three o'clock."

He gently kissed his daughter on the top of her head. She reacted not at all.

"I'll be here at three," he whispered. "Thank you, baby. Thank you."

He paused by the door and looked back once again at the stump that had been her hand and arm.

Someone was going to pay.

Sarah followed Glenn Paris through the front entrance to the amphitheater and up onto the stage. Only the last few rows of the hall were empty, and people were still trickling in. The three Boston television stations, representing the big three networks, each had a pod of lights, a video man, and a reporter set between the low stage and first row of seats. Although Sarah rarely watched television, she recognized two of the newspeople. Clearly, the possibility of the outbreak of some rare disease held more than a little public allure.

The podium, covered with wine-color velvet, was festooned with microphones, a dozen or more. Behind it were five folding chairs, three to one side and two to the other. Eli Blankenship and Randall Snyder were already seated, with one empty chair between them. Paris motioned Sarah to that seat.

If Paris was nervous about the event or the absence of a representative from the Centers for Disease Control, it did not show in his face or manner. He measured the hall for a time, then buttoned his jacket and crossed over to the three physicians.

"Well, we certainly can't cry apathy about this one," he said softly. "This whole show would have been a bit tighter if the CDC could have gotten someone up here, but we'll just have to make do. I'll make a few introductory remarks, then you Eli, you Randall, and finally you, Sarah. I would suggest keeping your statements brief and filling in as questions are asked. The only advice I would give you is to remember that the less you say, the harder it will be for them to misquote you. I'm going to limit each of you to ten minutes, including questions. If it seems appropriate at the end, I'll allow a few more. And don't worry, you'll all do fine."

Sarah knew the "all" was aimed directly at her.

"He really loves this stuff, doesn't he," she said as Paris approached the podium.

"He should," Blankenship responded. "He's very good at it. You, on the other hand, look a little peaked. Are you going to make it?"