Michael Palmer - Flashback

Frank shook his head. "You're holding out on me, Zack-o. It's written all over your face. Now, what's going on?"

"I said, nothing" Zack felt the skin tighten across the back of his neck. Some of what is happening is simply wrong Some of it is evil…

Guy Beaulieu's words, his anger and his sadness, took hold. Your old friend Beaulieu is a little short of allies in this place "All right, Frank, " Zack suddenly heard himself saying. "You want to know what's wrong? I'll tell you what. I believe Guy, that's what. I listened to him, and I looked in his eyes, and I know he's telling the truth. That's what's wrong. I don't know if it's Ultramed, or that pompous ass Mainwaring, or what. And I sure as hell don't know why. But I think Beaulieu is being railroaded out of practice, just like he says. And if that's true, then it pisses me off. It pisses me off a lot, and it makes me want to do whatever I can to help the man out. There, is that what i you wanted to hear?"

Frank laughed out loud. Then he lit up a cigar and sent a smoke ring swirling toward the ceiling. "Let's just say it's what I expected to hear, " he said. "You always were something of a bleeding heart, Zack-a sucker for anybody's cause. Vietnam, Timmy Goyette's supposedly-stolen Junior Olympics entry fee, women's rights, not enough mashed potatoes in the school lunches. Give the boy a sob story, and he gives you his guts … and his allowance. Remember all that? I sure do. So why should Guy Beaulieu and his paranoid stories be any different, right?"

"Frank, you can really be a bastard, do you know that?"

"Careful, boy, " Frank said, launching another perfect ring. "That's your mother you're talking about. Besides, this time you're wrong. Dead wrong."

"What?"

"This is one cause you'd best steer clear of, brother. Beaulieu's on his way off the plank, and if you're hanging onto him when he goes, then you're going to get awfully wet. I promise you that."

He opened his desk drawer, withdrew an envelope, and slid it across.

"I've been keeping this letter quiet because I still hoped Beaulieu would back off. Now, I'm afraid, I have no choice but to present it to the ethics committee. There are people on the staff who wanted to do something months ago to limit or cut off his privileges, but I kept putting them off. Like the Judge said, the old guy did save my life.

Here, have a read."

The letter was handwritten and carried no heading other than the date, June 17. Dear Mr. Iverson, I am writing to share with you some allegations against Dr. Guy Beaulieu by myself and several other nurses on the emergency ward. Over the past several months, he has become increasingly inconsistent and indecisive in his dealings with patients.

He has been quite forgetful, at times issuing the same set of orders more than once, and at other times, neglecting to order certain studies which we would consider routine and basic. In addition, on more than one occasion his speech has been slurred and his manner inconsistent enough to raise the question of drugs, alcohol, small strokes, or some combination of the three. Fortunately, his case load has been small enough so that no one has been harmed-at least no one that we know of.

Still, we feel some sort of investigation and action is called for. I would welcome the chance to meet with you and discuss this matter further. Meanwhile, I feel you should have a talk with Dr. Beaulieu.

Sincerely yours, Maureen Banas, R. N. Head Nurse Zack read and reread the letter in stunned silence, trying to match the charges with the eloquent, dedicated man he had listened to at the staff meeting and, later, over lunch. There was nothing in Beaulieu's manner, speech, or the content of his words that bore out the nurse's claims. Still, there was no way such charges could be dismissed. Across the desk from him, Frank sat in smug silence, obviously savoring the moment. "This is terrible, " Zack murmured, trying, as he read the letter for a third time, to get a fix on the nurse, Maureen Banas… colorless, but efficient… distant… knowledgeable… he simply hadn't spent enough time around her yet to have any real handle. "Terrible, but true,

" Frank said. "I had hoped to spare the old duffer any more humiliation, but after hearing his little speech the other morning, and seeing the way he's gotten to you, well, it seems I have no-"

"Frank, does anything about this letter strike you as strange?"

Frank set his cigar aside and leaned forward. "What are you talking about?"

Zack slid the letter back across the desk. "Well, for one thing, this woman doesn't substantiate her charges with one specific example."

"Well, there's no doubt she has them. Zack, don't you think you're grasping at straws?"

"And for another, the whole damn thing is just too… too sterile."

"What?"

"Just look at it, Frank. Not one bit of sensitivity or poignancy.

Not one indication that she understands the charges she's making could quite possibly send a man's life down the drain-a man who has practiced surgery in this town for thirty years. Christ, for all the awareness she's showing, she might just as well be writing to complain that a neighbor's poodle is shitting in her flower bed. The more I think about it, the more this letter smells. I think that woman should be spoken with, face to face."

"You don't think I've done that?"

"Well, then, I want to. It's the only way I'm going to even begin to believe all this."

"You go to her or anyone else about this business, " Frank said, jabbing a finger at him, "and you'll be out on your ass quicker than you can say scalpel. This is my affair-mine and Ultramed's. You really have it in your mind to fuck things up for me around here, don't you?"

"Frank, that's nonsense."

"Is it?"

For several frozen moments, Zack couldsonly sit and stare at his brother. Despite his tan, Frank looked pallid, his expression a disconcerting amalgam of anger and-what? Fear? They had had their differences over the years, true, and from time to time, some magnificent arguments. But Zack sensed something far more powerful at work here. "Frank, please, " he managed. "Stop sounding like I'm your goddamn enemy. I'm not. I just care about Beaulieu and I want to see that he gets a fair shake, okay?"

A margin of color returned to Frank's cheeks. "Okay? " Zack asked again.

Frank smiled. "Sure, sport, " he said, far too amicably. "I understand.

I'll tell you what, why don't we just leave it that I'll keep you posted and you'll keep an eye on things… from a distance. That way I get to do what I'm paid to do, and you get to keep from taking a fall. I promise you, Beaulieu will get every break that's coming to him. Yes?"

Zack gauged the intensity in his brother's eyes, and then nodded. Their session had gone far enough. "So, that's taken care of, " Frank said, tilting back in his chair and folding his hands in his lap. His tone and expression gave no hint of their disagreement. "Listen, how about we have dinner sometime this weekend? I'll have Lisette give you a call."

"Sure, Frank. That'd be fine."

"Excellent. Oh, and by the way, " he added, getting up from his chair as Zack stood to go, "tell that new squeeze of yours that we're all praying everything goes well for her tomorrow."

Now Zack felt the color drain from his face. "How did you-" His brother patted him on the shoulder. "Sport, if someone who works for me so much as farts anywhere in this hospital, sooner or later I get a whiff.

That's worth remembering. Trust me on that one and you'll be doing both of us a favor. She's a terrific lady. I'm glad she's finally coming out of her shell. I hope things work out between you."

With that, he shook Zack's hand and ushered him out the door.

Disturbed by a cart clattering past the door of her hospital room, Suzanne Cole rolled onto her back, floating in the twilight world between sleep and wakefulness. For a time, she struggled to complete a dream she had been having — a romantic, storybook dream, in which Jason Mainwaring, dressed head to foot in ebony armor, sitting astride a coal-black stallion, was jousting with a knight clad equally spectacularly in gold. Again and again, the men sped past one another, their lances exploding off their opponent's shield. With each encounter, one or the other came close to falling from his mount, but each time, the stricken knight recovered and swung about for another pass. Suzanne herself was seated in the grandstand, wearing a flowing gown of pink silk and clutching a single white rose. Who are you? she called again and again to the gold knight. Who are you? What do you want from me?