Robin Cook - Fatal Cure

"It might have," Beaton said hesitantly.

"What do you mean?" Traynor demanded.

"The assault occurred in the upper lot, where there are no lights. As you remember, we illuminated only the lower lot to save money."

"Who knows about this rape?" Traynor asked.

"Not very many people," Beaton said. "I took it upon myself to contact George O'Donald at the Bartlet Sun, and he's agreed to keep it out of the paper. So we might get a break. I know the victim's not about to tell many people."

"I'd like to keep it away from CMV if it's at all possible," Traynor said.

"I think this underlines how much we need that new garage," Beaton said.

"We need it, but we might not get it," Traynor said. "That's my bad news for tonight's executive meeting. My old nemesis, Jeb Wiggins, has changed his mind. Worse still, he's convinced the Board of Selectmen that the new garage is a bad idea. He's got them all convinced it would be an eyesore."

"Is that the end of the project?" Beaton asked.

"It's not the end, but it's a blow," Traynor admitted. "I'll be able to get it on the ballot again, but once something like this gets turned down, it's hard to resurrect it. Maybe this rape, as bad as it is, could be the catalyst we need to get it to pass."

Traynor turned to Robertson. Traynor could see two bloated images of himself in Robertson's mirrored sunglasses. "Can't the police do anything?" he asked.

"Short of putting a deputy up there on a nightly basis," Robertson said, "there's not much we can do. I already have my men sweep the lots with their lights whenever they're in the area."

"Where's the hospital security man, Patrick Swegler?" Traynor asked.

"I'll get him," Robertson said. He jogged off toward the pond.

"Are you ready for tonight?" Traynor asked once Robertson was out of earshot.

"You mean for the meeting?" Beaton asked.

"The meeting and after the meeting," Traynor said with a lascivious smile.

"I'm not sure about after," Beaton said. "We need to talk."

"Talk about what?" Traynor asked. This was not what he wanted to hear.

"Now isn't a good time," Beaton said. She could already see Patrick Swegler and Wayne Robertson on their way over.

Traynor leaned against the fence. He felt a little weak. The one thing he counted on was Beaton's affection. He wondered if she were cheating on him, seeing someone like that ass Charles Kelley. Traynor sighed; there was always something wrong.

Patrick Swegler approached Traynor and looked him squarely in the eye. Traynor thought of him as a tough kid. He'd played football for Bartlet High School during the brief era that Bartlet dominated their interscholastic league.

"There wasn't much we could have done," Swegler said, refusing to be intimidated about the incident. "The nurse had done a double shift and she did not call security before she left as we'd repeatedly instructed nurses to do whenever they leave late. To make matters worse, she'd parked in the upper lot when she'd come to work for the day shift. As you know, the upper lot is not illuminated."

"Jesus H. Christ!" Traynor muttered. "I'm supposed to be supervising the running of a multimillion-dollar operation, and I've got to worry about the most mundane details. Why didn't she call security?"

"I wasn't told, sir," Swegler said.

"If we get the new garage, the problem will be over," Beaton said.

"Where's Werner Van Slyke of engineering?" Traynor said. "Get him over here."

"You of all people know Mr. Van Slyke doesn't attend any of the hospital's social functions," Beaton said.

"Dammit, you're right!" Traynor said. "But I want you to tell him for me that I want that upper parking lot lit just like the lower. In fact, tell him to light it up like a ballfield."

Traynor then turned back to Robertson. "And why haven't you been able to find out who this goddamn rapist is, anyway? Considering the size of the town and the number of rapes all presumably by the same person, I'd think you'd have at least one suspect."

"We're working on it," Robertson said.

"Would you like to head over to the tent?" Beaton asked.

"Why not?" Traynor fumed. "At least I'd like to get a few clams out of this." Traynor took Beaton by the arm and headed for the food.

Traynor was about to get back to the subject of their proposed rendezvous when Caldwell and Cantor spotted them and approached. Caldwell was in a particularly cheerful mood.

"I guess you've already heard how well the bonus program is working," he said to Traynor. "The August figures are encouraging."

"No, I haven't heard," Traynor said, turning to Beaton.

"It's true," Beaton said. "I'll be presenting the stats tonight. The balance sheet is okay. August CMV admissions are down four percent over last August. That's not a lot, but it's in the right direction."

"It's warming to hear some good news once in a while," Traynor said. "But we can't relax. I was talking with Arnsworth on Friday, and he warned me that the red ink will reappear with a vengeance when the tourists leave. In July and August a good portion of the hospital census has been paying patients, not CMV subscribers. Now that it's past Labor Day, the tourists will be going home. So we cannot afford to relax."

"I think we should reactivate our strict utilization control," Beaton said. "It's our only hope of holding out until the current capitation contract runs out."

"Of course we have to recommence," Traynor said. "We don't have any choice. By the way, for everyone's information, we have officially changed the name from DUM to DUC. It's now 'drastic utilization control.' "

Everyone chuckled.

"I have to say I'm disappointed," Cantor said, still chuckling. "As the architect for the plan I was partial to DUM." Despite the long, sunny summer his facial pallor had changed very little. The skin on his surprisingly slender legs was paler still. He was wearing bermuda shorts and black socks.

"I have a policy question," Caldwell said. "Under DUC, what's the status of a chronic disease like cystic fibrosis?"

"Don't ask me," Traynor said. "I'm no doctor. What the hell is cystic fibrosis? I mean, I've heard the term but that's about all."

"It's a chronic inherited illness," Cantor explained. "It causes a lot of respiratory and GI problems."

"GI stands for gastro-intestinal," Caldwell explained. "The digestive system."

"Thank you," Traynor said sarcastically. "I know what GI means. What about the illness; is it lethal?"

"Usually," Cantor said. "But with intensive respiratory care, some of the patients can live productive lives into their fifties."

"What's the actuarial cost per year?" Traynor asked.

"Once the chronic respiratory problems set in it can run twenty thousand plus per year," Cantor said.

"Good Lord!" Traynor said. "With that kind of cost, it has to be included in utilization considerations. Is it a common affliction?"

"One in every two thousand births," Cantor said.

"Oh, hell!" Traynor said with a wave. "Then it's too rare to get excited over."

After promises to be prompt for the executive board meeting that night, Caldwell and Cantor went their separate ways. Caldwell headed over to a volleyball game in the process of forming on the tiny beach at the edge of the pond. Cantor made a beeline for the tub of iced beer.

"Let's get to the food," Traynor said.

Once again they set out toward the tent that covered the rows of charcoal grills. Everyone Traynor passed either nodded or called out a greeting. Traynor's wife was right: he did love this kind of public occasion. It made him feel like a king. He'd dressed casually but with decorum; tailored slacks, his elevator loafers without socks, and an open-necked short-sleeved shirt. He'd never wear shorts to such an occasion and was amazed that Cantor cared so little about his appearance.