Michael Palmer - Side Effects

"Well then, it appears we've got a Mexican standoff, doesn't it?

I'll tell you this much, " her voice grew cold. "Two women have died and a third may be dying. If I find out the Ashburton Foundation is connected in any way with what has happened to them, and you have kept significant information from me, I promise that I won't rest until everyone who matters knows what you have done. Is that clear? " Her uncharacteristic anger had, she knew, been prodded by the sight of Ellen Sandler mutely watching the plastic bag dripping blood into her arm and by the knowledge that this was, in all likelihood, just the first of many transfusions to come. Reese checked his watch in a manner that was as inappropriate as it was unsubtle. It was as if he had left a message to be called at precisely nine-twelve and was wondering why the phone hadn't rung. "Mr. Reese?"

The administrator shifted his gaze back to her. His face was pinched and gray with anger-no, she realized, it was something deeper than anger.

Hatred? Did the poor man actually hate her?

"You really think you're something, don't you, " he rasped in a strained, muddy voice. "I beg your pardon?"

"Who made you the crusader? Do you think that just because you have an MD degree and all that old family money you can ride all over people?"

"What? Mr. Reese, I nev-"

"Well, let me tell you something. You don't intimidate me like you do some around here. No, sir, not one bit. So you just ride off on that high horse of yours and let me and the department heads-the official department heads-worry about grants and foundations and such."

Kate watched as the man sat there, panting from the exertion of his outburst. For five seconds, ten, her green eyes fixed on him. Then she rose from her chair and left, unwilling to dignify Reese's eruption with a response. Now, alone in her office, Kate sat, trying to crystallize her thoughts and doodling a calligraphic montage of the words "Reese" and "Asshole." After finishing four versions of each, she began adding "Ashburton" and "Paquette." First there was the bribery of Ian Toole, an act which seemed to her equivalent to shooting a chipmunk with an elephant gun. She would have been quite satisfied with an admission by Redding Pharmaceuticals that they had somehow allowed a batch of their generic vitamins to become contaminated and would gladly recall and replace them. Their illogically excessive response had to have been born out of either arrogance or fear. But fear of what?

"Omnicenter" made its first appearance in the montage. The Ashburton Foundation had endowed an entire ob-gyn department and subsidized a massive, modern women's health center. Philanthropic acts? Perhaps, she thought. But both of her calls to the foundation had gone unanswered by Dr. Thompson, the director, and her efforts, though modest, had failed to come up with an address for the place. Then there was Reese's refusal to discuss the organization that had been, at least in part, responsible for the resurgence of his hospital. At that moment, almost subconsciously, she began adding another name to the paper. Again and again she wrote it, first in the calligraphic forms she knew, then in several she made up on the spot. "Horner." Somehow the cantankerous, eccentric computer genius was involved in what was going on. The notion fit too well, made too much sense. But how? There really was only one person who could help her find out.

Another minute of speculation, and she called William Zimmermann.

Fifteen minutes later, she was on her way through the tunnel to the Omnicenter when Tom Engleson entered from the cutoff to the surgical building. "Hi, " she said, searching his face for a clue as to how he was handling the abortive end to their evening together. "H'lo, " his voice was flat. She slowed, but continued walking. — "Going to the Omnicenter?"

Tom nodded. "I have a clinic in twenty minutes."

"You all right?"

"Yeah, sure. Great."

"Tom, I-"

"Look, Kate, it's my problem, not yours."

"Dr. Engleson, you weren't exactly alone on the couch last night, " she whispered, glancing about to ensure that none of the tunnel traffic was too close. "I feel awful about giving out such mixed messages.

But you are an incredibly comfortable and understanding man. With all the trouble at the hospital I'm afraid I just allowed myself to hide out in your arms. It was wrong and unfair-more so because I really care very much for you. I'm sorry, Tom."

They reached the stairwell leading up to the Omnicenter. "Wait, " Tom said. "Please." He guided her to a small alcove opposite the staircase.

"You know, considering the nature of the Metro grapevine, we'll probably be an item by…" Two nurses chattered past them and up the stairs.

"Hell, " she said, following them with her eyes, "we most likely are already."

"Do you really mean that, about caring for me?"

"Tom, I love my husband very much. We've had some trouble getting our lives back in sync since the election, but my feelings for him haven't changed. Still, you're very special to me. Believe me, if my home situation, my marriage, were any different, we would have been lovers last night."

"Yeah? " The muscles in his face relaxed, and some measure of energy returned to his voice. "Yes, " she said. Tom Engleson might have been nine years Jared's junior, but they still had much in common, including, it now appeared, the need for strong reassurance about such things. "I said it last night, and I'll say it again. Jared is a very lucky man."

Acceptance had replaced the strain in Tom's voice. "I know, " Kate said.

"Tom, seriously, thank you for not making it any harder for me. Between the wretched business with Bobby Geary, the disappearance of my chemist, and some incredible crap from Norton Reese, I feel like I need all the friends-all the help-I can get."

She glanced at her watch. "Say, do you have a few minutes?"

"Sure, why?"

"I'm going to see Bill Zimmermann to discuss the Ashburton Foundation.

I'd love to have you come along if you can."

"Rocket Bill? I do have a little time if you think he wouldn't mind."

"Hardly, " Kate said. "He knows how much help you've been to me through all this. Okay?"

During the four-flight climb, Tom reviewed for her the protocols for patient care in the Omnicenter. On arrival, both new and returning patients met with a specially trained female intake worker, who blackened in the appropriate spaces in a detailed computer-readable history sheet. Medications, menstrual history, new complaints, and side effects of any treatment were carefully recorded. The worker then slid the history sheet into a computer terminal on her desk, and in thirty seconds or less, instructions as to where the patient was to go next would appear on the screen along with, if necessary, what laboratory tests were to be ordered. "Do you feel the system is a bit impersonal?"

Kate asked. "You're a patient here. Do you?"

"No, not really, I guess, " she said. "I can remember when a visit to the gynecologist consisted of sitting for an hour in a ten-foot-square waiting room with a dozen other women, having my name called out, stripping in a tiny examining room, and finally having the doctor rush in, thumbing through my chart for my name, and then as often as not telling me to put my heels in the stirrups before he even asked why I was there."

"See, " Tom laughed, "no system is perfect. But seriously, the one here is damn good. It frees me up to do a careful exam and to answer as many questions as my patients have."

The system might be great, Kate thought, but something, somewhere inside it, was rotten. Something was killing people. Large, colored numbers marked each floor. The 3, filling half a wall at the third-floor landing, was an iridescent orange. Kate reached for the handle of the door to the corridor, but then stopped, turned to Tom, and kissed him gently on the cheek. "Thank you for last night, my friend, " she said.