John Lutz - Night Victims

“Praise be it!” shouted everyone beyond the door. “The kings of heaven!”

“The flesh of the rich shall be rent with disfigurement and the pain of their sins! The green of their money and gleam of their possessions shall be as the black of dust. The small and the crawl shall reap the reward. And the reward shall be ours and then theirs.”

“Ours and then theirs! Ours and then theirs!”

The chanting had started. He knew that soon they would be singing. And dancing. Wild voices.

“The psalm of the mandible!” his mother said. “The psalm of the hive and the wing! The small and the crawl!”

“The small and the crawl.”

The singing began. The boy felt his heart jump and jump. The dancing started, the shouting and tromping on the old plank floor-the rhythm of God, his mother had called it- making the whole house shake. The old house shake. The pots and pans rattle in the kitchen. His room, the closet, everything felt it. Everyone felt it. Maybe God felt it and paid notice. Or Satan. His mother talked and screamed so much of Satan while she made the house bounce, the whole house shake, while she beat and beat with the belt.

She loved him. The boy knew she loved him. She would kiss his forehead and make him feel better when he cried; she told him nothing was his fault. And sometimes at night she would read to him from the Bible till he went to sleep.

If she loved him, why did she lock him in the closet? Why did she beat him with the belt?

What did it all mean?

In the dark, the spiders began to move.

New York, 2003

Anne nodded good morning to people she passed in the wide, cork-tiled hall of Kincaid Memorial Hospital as she made her way to Radiology. Hospitals were depressing to some people, but she’d always liked the efficiency and order of them, the practiced routine, even the antiseptic scent. Except for the patients, everyone knew more or less what to expect in such an environment.

At least it had been that way until lately.

She glanced in through glass doors lettered radiology to see how many people were in the waiting rooms. This was the time for morning-appointment imagery and, sometimes, the last pre-op X rays or scans for patients scheduled for early surgery.

About half the chairs and upholstered benches were occupied in the waiting area. It appeared to be a busy morning.

Ida, Anne’s fastidious, graying assistant, was already at her desk when Anne pushed through the unmarked gray door that led to the reception area of her private office. Sun was pouring through the window and the printer was clicking and humming industriously. The morning light was golden and seemed thick and tangible.

When Ida saw her, she stopped typing and turned away from her computer keyboard. She and Anne had worked together for five years. They’d reached the point where they communicated silently if there was anyone nearby they might not want to overhear them. With a sideways motion of her head, Ida let Anne know that someone was waiting in her office. Anne knew it would be hospital personnel or somebody she was expecting. Probably the rep from Central Medical who wanted to talk to her about the new PET scan equipment the hospital had on order.

But her caller was a tall, long-jawed man with flowing gray hair and wearing an elegant brown silk suit. Dr. Herbert Finlay, Kincaid’s chief of administration-hospitalese for CEO. He was half sitting with his rump against the edge of Anne’s desk and leaning back. His arms were crossed so his marble-sized gold cuff links glinted in the sunlight streaming through the window. When he looked up from studying his polished oxblood loafers and saw Anne, he smiled.

Anne wasn’t fooled by the smile as she said good morning.

“I hate to make it not such a good morning,” Finlay said, standing up straight and turning to face her as she laid her attache case on her desk and pulled out her chair. She hadn’t sat down.

“The Vine complaint?”

“I’m afraid so, Anne. It’s no longer a complaint. Now it’s a lawsuit. Our attorneys called. The family filed this morning.”

Now Anne did sit down. She felt flushed, resentful. And, God help her, at the same time guilty. I’ve done nothing. Why can’t I shake this? Why can’t I escape the guilt? “Do they really think a momentary, after-the-fact mix-up in CAT scan images caused their son to be comatose? The operation was completed when the mistake was noticed and mentioned. It might have been a serious screwup, but in this case it wasn’t. It simply wasn’t a factor.”

“It doesn’t matter what the family thinks,” Finlay said. He was standing with one hand in his pocket now, weight on one foot. A familiar casual pose. Finlay’s posturing often irritated Anne. “It’s what the family says that’s important.”

“The boy had a reaction to the anesthetic,” Anne said. “It’s rare, but it happens. If they want to sue someone, it should be the anesthesiologist.”

“You know anesthesiologists here aren’t on staff, Anne. They’re contract workers. Besides, hospitals have deeper pockets.”

“Justice!” Anne said disgustedly. “My husband used to be in the justice business, and he tells me it’s rare and often occurs outside the system.”

“Yes, I suspect he’s right.”

“Outside the family, no one feels worse about the boy than the people who were in the OR during the operation. No one feels worse than I do. But it isn’t a perfect world. Those infrequent side effects listed in fine print actually do happen to some people.” Listen to me. . Don’t I sound like a coldhearted bitch? But I’m not! I’m not! I went to visit the boy! He didn’t know I was there!

“I don’t need convincing, Anne. And I certainly don’t hold you or anyone else on staff even slightly responsible.”

“We offered the family a fair settlement even though it isn’t the hospital’s liability.”

“That was a mistake,” Finlay said. “The Vines’ attorneys are now characterizing our offer as an admission of guilt.”

Anne sank farther back in her black leather desk chair and sighed. “Once the lawyers get hold of something like this, compensation can become financial rape. What does Legal say about it?”

“They haven’t had time to study it yet.” Finlay smiled slightly. “Their preliminary observation was something like yours.” He uncrossed his arms and smoothed his coat sleeves down over the bulky cuff links. Anne now saw that they were in the form of elaborate lions’ heads and had tiny rubies for eyes. “Something else you should know, Anne.

The complaint names the hospital, attending surgeon and additional OR personnel, and you.”

She looked up sharply. “Me?” She’d expected to be named in a potential lawsuit but hearing that she had been was still a shock.

“As the chief administrator of radiology, you would be technically responsible for anything that happens in your department, including imagery mix-ups. At least the Vines’ attorneys hope the law will define it that way.”

“You didn’t mention the anesthesiologist,” Anne said.

Finlay shrugged like an actor onstage, a gesture he’d long practiced and made elegant. “The other side wants to remain on good terms with the anesthesiologist.”

“Of course! They don’t want what happened to be his fault.”

Finlay used his shrug again. “Legal maneuvering, Anne. . ”

She rocked this way and that in her chair for a moment. The other side. Battle lines had been drawn. “The sad part is I actually feel as if I’ve done something wrong, that I should pay for it.”

“You mustn’t feel that way. It was the anesthetic reaction, Anne. We all know that.”