Michael Palmer - Natural Causes

"What can I do? Can you stop labor? I–I don't have any health insurance. Peter's been paying for… Sarah, I think another one's coming."

"Okay, easy does it, Annalee," Sarah whispered again, stroking her forehead. "One contraction at a time and one question at a time."

She glanced at the clock. Six and a half minutes since the last contraction. This time, responding perhaps to Sarah's reassurance, Annalee closed her eyes and quietly breathed her way through the contraction.

"Annalee, don't worry about the insurance," Sarah said. "Don't worry about anything. I'm going to get you admitted here, and I'm going to get one of our staff obstetricians to care for you. In fact, I think I can get the chief of the service. His name's Dr. Snyder."

"What will he do?"

"Well, my guess is he'll put you on an IV and give you some medication to try to stop these contractions and prolong your pregnancy. That depends, though. There are ways we have for finding out not only how far along you are, but how far along the baby is in terms of its lung development. The status of the lungs is the key to when a woman in premature labor should be allowed to deliver."

"You can measure the baby's lungs before its born?"

"We can," Sarah said. "Actually, we're pretty good at it."

Annalee pushed herself up and threw her arms around Sarah's neck.

"I knew I did the right thing in coming to you," she said. "I knew it."

Sarah called the hospital operator and put in a page for Randall Snyder. Then she called admissions and asked to have someone sent up to the obstetrics unit. Finally she took a fetoscope from a hook on the door and listened to Annalee's belly.

"The baby's doing great," she said after half a minute or so. "Just great."

"That's wonderful. I can feel it kicking. Listen, Sarah, please don't call Peter."

"Hey, kid, I work for you. That means you give the orders. You may want to find a way to call and let him know you're okay, though. You don't have to say where you are. I know he really loves you a lot. It's me he can't stand."

"Well, that's his problem. You know, while you were on the phone, I was looking at you and thinking about the incredible things you can do. And I was remembering what you were like when you first came to live with us."

"And?"

"Let's just say you've come a long way, baby. A hell of a long way."

Sarah hugged the woman once again. Save for her moderately prominent abdomen and engorged breasts, there was virtually no bulge on her body-no loose skin; no fat whatsoever.

"You're a member of the Long Way Club, too, Annalee," she said, taking pains to mask her concern. "One more thing. When did you take that weight loss powder of Peter's, and for how long?"

"About four years ago, and for about three months. Dr. Singh had already tested the powder someplace on a number of people. But before Peter would allow himself to be associated with it, he arranged for ten or twelve people he knew to take it. Altogether, we lost about a half a ton. Why? Is there something wrong with it?"

"No, no. I was just wondering. Nothing's wrong with it. Nothing at all."

"Well, I hope not," Annalee said. "Because according to the last figures I saw, since they began marketing the powder about seven months ago, a few hundred thousand people have done exactly the same thing."

"I know," Sarah said, flashing on a stainless steel surgical pan and the dusky, severed arm of a young woman. "I know."

October 26

Matt arrived at his office at 7:15 A.M. feeling the sort of nervous energy he had once associated with game day. Earlier in the morning, he had run three miles-part of the fitness regimen he had instituted after being so badly outclassed by Sarah in Chinatown. He had also read several sections of the Globe and the sports section in the Herald, and spent fifteen minutes of intense practice on Nintendo baseball-the impressively realistic game at which he was determined, at least once in his lifetime, to beat Harry.

After four arduous, confusing months, pieces in the bewildering puzzle of Grayson v. Baldwin were beginning to come together. Rosa Suarez and a virologist from the CDC had identified the genetically altered virus circulating in Lisa Grayson's bloodstream and had traced it to a company across the river in Cambridge. The virus, labeled CRV113 by the BIO-Vir Corporation, had been developed to enhance the clotting of blood and the healing of wounds. Later that morning, Rosa and Ken Mulholland would be meeting with the director of the lab. The BIO-Vir bug still might prove to be a red herring in terms of Lisa Grayson's DIC. But given the purpose of its creation, that possibility seemed remote.

And with any luck, before the hour was out, yet another piece of the jigsaw would be set in place. Matt had done what homework he had time for and had rehearsed the scenario in his mind. Now it was showtime. Unless he was way off base, Roger Phelps had two Achilles' heels-arrogance and greed. The trick was to expose one or both of them without alerting the man. Failing to accomplish that, there was always Plan B-the frontal assault approach he had used with such mastery against Tommy Sze-to. His groin ached at the memory. He was reaching nervously for his glove and ball when, with a soft knock, Phelps entered the outer office.

"Daniels?"

"In here, Roger. Come on in."

The claims adjuster, wearing a three-piece suit, tapped playfully on Matt's office door and then entered. Despite his dandyish appearance, Matt knew he was calculating and intelligent-a man to be dealt with carefully. Matt offered him coffee and then motioned him to the seat across the desk from his.

"So," Phelps said, settling in, "it's a change of heart we've had, is it?"

"Dr. Baldwin's getting cold feet about going to court."

"You can call her Sarah. I've heard rumors that the two of you know each other on-um-shall we say a first-name basis."

"Now, Roger, what in the hell am I supposed to say in response to that remark?"

"Nothing. She's very attractive-in a tomboy sort of way. I really wouldn't blame you if you were carrying on with her."

Right away an assertion of power and control, Matt thought. The man is good. Damn good.

"To tell you the truth, Roger, the thought has crossed my mind. But believe me, nothing's going to happen on that front until this case is resolved."

"Smart. Is that perhaps a reason you want to settle?"

"Perhaps. I told you that I honestly think we can win."

"Well, obviously we're not as sure of that as you are. A pretty young girl with a dead baby and a stump for an arm makes a damn persuasive argument to a jury. And when juries decide for plaintiffs, they tend to decide big."

"I understand."

"I'm glad. So, then, what's your pitch?"

"On behalf of my client, I'm prepared to agree to your offer of a settlement with no admission of guilt. But I'm a bit concerned about my reputation in this whole business. Grayson versus Baldwin has been a high-visibility case. If I go to trial and win, I'm probably set for business for years to come-if not from the MMPO, then either from the other malpractice carrier or even from plaintiffs. Goodness knows there's a pile more money to be made from suing doctors than from defending them."

"So?"

"So, I'd like some guarantee of referrals from you. Perhaps a retainer of some sort."

"Mr. Daniels, you know we don't do that."

"There's always a first time. Believe me, for the right amount, I can be as good or as bad as you want me to be."

Matt could see that his remark, delivered more or less offhandedly, struck a nerve. Phelps paled visibly, but then just as quickly regained his composure.

"I think you'd best stop right there," he said.

Matt pushed back from behind his desk and rubbed wearily at his eyes.