Michael Palmer - Side Effects

"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. 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 Sandler? " 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, 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.

"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.

Paquett'e 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 then, as he did again this day, if somewhere in the hundreds of manila folders locked in Cyrus Redding's files was one containing a Stein study of Arlen Paquette. Two older brothers… high-school cheerleader… ribbon-winning equestrian… art department award for sculpture, Mt. Holyoke College… one piece, Search #3, still on display on campus grounds… fourteen-day hospitalization for depression, junior year… Paquette added the information to what he already knew of the woman. "In conclusion," Stein wrote, "it would appear that in Dr. Bennett we have a woman of some discipline and uncommon tenacity who would make a valuable ally or a dangerous foe under any circumstances. Her principles appear solidly grounded, and I would doubt seriously that she can be bought off a cause in which she believes.