Robin Cook - Fatal Cure

"Any idea what it is?" Angela asked.

"We'll have to wait for the microscopic," Walt said as he carefully removed the material and dropped it into specimen jars. Each was labeled according to which finger it came from.

The autopsy itself went quickly; it was as if Angela and Walt were an established team. There was plenty of pathology to make things interesting, and, as promised, Walt enjoyed his didactic role. Hodges had significant arteriosclerosis, a small cancer of the lung, and advanced cirrhosis of the liver.

"I'd guess he liked his bourbon," Walt said.

After the autopsy was completed, Angela thanked Walt for his hospitality and asked to be kept informed about the case. Walt encouraged her to call whenever she wanted.

On the way back to the hospital, Angela felt in a better mood than she had for days. Doing the autopsy had been a good diversion. She was glad that Wadley had let her go.

Pulling into the hospital parking lot, she couldn't find a space in the reserved area near the back entrance. She had to park way up in the upper lot instead. Without an umbrella, she was quite wet by the time she got inside.

Angela went directly to her office. No sooner had she hung up her coat than the connecting door to Wadley's office banged open. Angela jumped. Wadley loomed in the doorway. His square jaw was set, his eyes narrowed, and his customarily carefully combed silver hair was disheveled. He looked furious. Angela instinctively stepped back and eyed the door to the hall with the thought of fleeing.

Wadley stormed into the room, coming right up to Angela and crowding her against her desk.

"I'd like an explanation," he snarled. "Why did you go to Cantor of all people with this preposterous story, these wild, ridiculous, ungrounded accusations? Sexual harassment! My God, that's absurd."

Wadley paused and glared at Angela. She shrank back, not sure if she should say anything. She didn't want to provoke the man. She was afraid he might hit her.

"Why didn't you say something to me?" Wadley screamed.

Wadley paused in his tirade, suddenly aware that Angela's door to the hall was ajar. Outside, the secretaries' keyboards had gone silent. Wadley stomped to the door and slammed it shut.

"After all the time and effort I've lavished on you, this is the reward I get," he yelled. "I don't think I have to remind you that you are on probation around here. You'd better start walking a narrow path, otherwise you'll be looking for work with no recommendation from me."

Angela nodded, not knowing what else to do.

"Well, aren't you going to say anything?" Wadley's face was inches from Angela's. "Are you just going to stand there and nod your head?"

"I'm sorry that we've reached this point," she said.

"That's it?" Wadley yelled. "You've besmirched my reputation with baseless accusations and that's all you can say? This is slander, woman, and I'll tell you something: I might take you to court."

With that, Wadley spun on his heels, strode into his own office, and slammed the door.

Angela let out her breath unevenly as she fought back tears. She sank into her chair and shook her head. It was so unfair.

Susan poked her head into one of the examining rooms and told David that the ICU was on the line. Fearing the worst, David picked up the phone. The ICU nurse said that Mr. Tarlow had just gone into cardiac arrest and the resuscitation team was working on him at that very moment.

David slammed the phone down. He felt his heart leap in his chest, and he instantly broke out in a cold sweat. Leaving a distressed office nurse and receptionist, he dashed over to the but he was too late. By the time he arrived it was over. The ER physician in charge of the resuscitation team had already declared John Tarlow dead.

"Hey, there wasn't much point," the doctor said. "The man's lungs were full, his kidneys shot, and he had no blood pressure."

David nodded absently. He stared at his patient while the ICU nurses unhooked all the equipment and IV lines. As they continued to clean up, David went over to the main desk and sat down. He began to wonder if he were suited to be a doctor. He had trouble with this part of the job, and repetition seemed to make it more difficult, certainly not easier.

Tarlow's relatives came and, like the Kleber family, they were understanding and thankful. David accepted their kind words feeling like an impostor. He hadn't done anything for John. He didn't even know why he'd died. His history of leukemia wasn't a real explanation.

Even though he'd now been informed about the hospital autopsy policy, David asked the family if they would allow one. As far as David was concerned, there was no harm in trying. The family said they'd consider it.

Leaving the ICU area, David had enough presence of mind to check on Mary Ann Schiller and Jonathan Eakins. He wanted to be certain that they had been settled and their respective treatments started. He particularly wanted to be sure that the CMV cardiologist had visited Eakins.

Unfortunately, David discovered something that gave him pause. Mary Ann had been put in room 206: the room that John Tarlow had so recently vacated. David had half a mind to have Mary Ann moved, but he realized he was being irrationally superstitious. What would he have said to admitting: he never wanted one of his patients in room 206 again? That was clearly ridiculous.

David checked her IV. She was already getting her antibiotic. After promising he'd be back later, David went into Jonathan's room. He too was comfortable and relaxed. A cardiac monitor was in place. Jonathan said that the cardiologist was expected imminently.

When he returned to his office, Susan greeted David with word that Charles Kelley had called. "He wants to see you immediately," she said. "He stressed immediately."

"How many patients are we behind?" David asked.

"Plenty," Susan said. "So try not to be too long."

Feeling as if he were carrying the world on his shoulders, David dragged himself over to the CMV office. He wasn't exactly sure what Charles Kelley wanted to see him about, but he could guess.

"I don't know what to do, David," Charles Kelley said once David was sitting in his office. Kelley shook his head. David marveled at his role-playing ability. Now he was the wounded friend.

"I've tried to reason with you, but either you're stubborn or you just don't care about CMV. The very day after I talk to you about avoiding unnecessary consults outside of the CMV community, you do it again with another terminal patient. What am I going to do with you? Do you understand that the costs of medical care have to be considered? You know there's a crisis in this country?"

David nodded. That much was true.

"Then why is this so hard for you?" Kelley asked. He was sounding angrier. "And it's not only CMV that is upset this time. It's the hospital too. Helen Beaton called me moments ago complaining about the enormously expensive biotechnology drugs that you ordered for this sad, dying patient. Talk about heroics! The man was dying, even the consults said that. He'd had leukemia for years. Don't you understand? This is wasting money and resources."

Kelley had worked himself up to a fevered pitch. His face had become red. But then he paused and sighed. He shook his head again as if he didn't know what to do. "Helen Beaton also complained about your requesting an autopsy," he said in a tired voice. "Autopsies are not part of the contract with CMV, and you were informed of that fact just recently. David, you have to be reasonable. You have to help me or…" Kelley paused, letting the unfinished sentence hang in the air.

"Or what?" David said. He knew what Kelley meant, but he wanted him to say it.

"I like you, David," Kelley said. "But I need you to help me. I have people above me I have to answer to. I hope you can appreciate that."