Robin Cook - Godplayer

In addition to the Dexedrine, there were two other types of pills, and Cassi carefully took one of each. She replaced the vials in the stationery box and closed the drawer. Switching off the flashlight, she reopened the curtains and walked quickly back to her room. When she got out her Physician’s Desk Reference and compared the pills to the identification pictures, she realized that her suspicions were right. “Oh God!” she said out loud. “Dexedrine for exhaustion is one thing. Percodan and Talwin are something else entirely.”

For the second time that day Cassi burst into tears. This time she did not even try to check her sobs. She flung herself down on the bed and wept uncontrollably.

Despite his interlude with Laura, Thomas decided to keep his planned visit with Doris. He was disappointed enough that the man in cardiac cath had suffered a second heart attack and couldn’t be scheduled for surgery. He certainly wasn’t going to ruin the night further by the long drive home.

Doris buzzed him in the minute he touched the bell. When he reached the second floor, he found her peering coyly around the door. When she opened it, he realized why she’d stayed inside. She was dressed in a diaphanous, short black camisole that laced up the front and snapped between her legs. It covered about the same area as a one-piece bathing suit.

“Glenlivet with Perrier,” said Doris, handing Thomas a tumbler and pressing herself up against him before he could get his coat off.

Thomas took the drink in one hand and put the other on Doris’s backside. The only light in the room came from a Scandinavian-style oil lamp that painted the room with warm, golden tones. The coffee table was also laid for dinner with an uncorked bottle of wine standing nearby.

When Doris retreated to the kitchen, Thomas called the hospital page operator. He gave her Doris’s number along with the admonition it was for the thoracic resident-on-call only. She was not to give it to anyone else, and if there were a question she should call herself.

“I gotta be moving,” said Clark Reardon. My woman told me not to be late.” Clark had pulled a straight-back metal chair over to Jeoffry Washington’s bed.

“Well, it was great to see you, man,” said Jeoffry. “Thanks for coming in. I really appreciate it.”

“No problem,” said Clark, standing up. He raised his hand, and when Jeoffry put his out, he slapped it affectionately.

“So when you breaking outta here?” asked Clark.

“Pretty soon. Maybe in a couple days. I’m not sure. I still got this IV.” Jeoffry raised his left arm, indicating the coiled plastic tubing. “I had some inflammation in my legs right after the operation. At least that’s what Dr. Sherman told me, so they started giving me antibiotics. It was a little rough for a couple days, but it’s better now. The best thing that happened to me was when they took away the cardiac monitor. I tell you, the beep from that mother drove me crazy.”

“How long you been in here so far?”

“Nine days.”

“That ain’t bad.”

“Not from this end. But I tell you, I was pretty scared in the beginning. But I had no choice. They told me I was going to die if I didn’t get operated on. So what can you do?”

“Nothing! I’ll see you tomorrow night and I’ll bring in those books you wanted. Anything else?”

“I’d love a little grass.”

“Come on, man.”

“I’m just joking.”

Clark turned and waved at the door before disappearing down the hall.

Jeoffry surveyed his room. He was glad that he was leaving soon. The other bed in the semiprivate room was empty. His roommate had been discharged that day and no new patient had arrived. Jeoffry was sorry to be alone, especially now that Clark had left and he had nothing to look forward to. As far as Jeoffry was concerned, a hospital was not a place to be alone. There were too many frightening machines and procedures to face without support.

Jeoffry switched on the miniature TV set connected to the head of the bed. Toward the end of the second situation comedy, Miss DeVries, a spunky LPN, entered. Pretending she had some delectable treat for Jeoffry, she insisted he close his eyes and open his mouth. As he did so, he had a pretty good idea of what was coming, and he was right. It was a thermometer.

Ten minutes later she returned and exchanged the thermometer for a sleeping pill. Jeoffry took the pill with water he had on the side table while the LPN examined the thermometer.

“Do I have a temperature?” asked Jeoffry.

“Everybody has a temperature,” said Miss DeVries.

“How could I forget,” said Jeoffry. They’d been through this before. “Okay, do I have a fever?”

“That’s classified information,” said Miss DeVries.

Jeoffry never could understand why the nurses could not tell him if he had a temperature; correction, a fever. They always said that was up to the doctor, which was crazy. It was his body.

“What about this IV?” asked Jeoffry as Miss DeVries started for the door. “When’s it coming out so I can take a real shower?”

“That’s something I know nothing about.” She waved before disappearing.

Jeoffry twisted his head and looked up at the IV bottle. For a moment he watched the regular fall of each drop in the small chamber. Turning back to the TV and the evening news, he sighed. It was going to be a relief when his tether was removed. He reminded himself to ask Dr. Sherman about it in the morning.

When the phone first rang, Thomas sat up, confused as to where he was. On the second ring, Doris turned over to face him in the half-light of her apartment.

“Do you want to get it or should I?” Doris’s voice was thick with sleep. She pushed herself up on one elbow.

Thomas looked at her in the semidarkness. She appeared grotesque with her thick hair radiating from her head as if a thousand volts of electricity had passed through her body. Instead of eyes she had black holes. It took him a moment to remember who she was.

“I’ll get it,” said Thomas, staggering to his feet. His head felt heavy.

“It’s in the corner near the window,” said Doris, flopping back onto the pillow.

Groping with his hands, Thomas went along the wall until he got to the open doorway of the bedroom. In the living room, the bay window let in more light.

“Dr. Kingsley, this is Peter Figman,” said the thoracic resident when Thomas picked up the receiver. “I hope you don’t mind my calling, but you asked me to let you know if any service cases were going to the OR. We have a stab wound of the chest that’s due within the hour.”

Thomas leaned on the small phone table. The chill in the room helped organize his mind. “What time is it?”

“A little after one A.M.”

“Thank you,” said Thomas. “I’ll be right over.”

As Thomas stepped out of Doris’s vestibule to the street, the icy December wind sent a chill through his body. Pulling the lapels of his coat more tightly around his neck, he set off toward the Memorial. Every so often sudden gusts would swirl down the street, moving a line of papers and other debris against his feet, forcing Thomas to turn and walk backwards for a few steps. He was relieved when he rounded the corner and could see the complex of buildings that comprised Boston Memorial.

Approaching the main entrance, he passed the parking garage on his left. It was a cement structure, open to the elements. Although it was jammed during the day, now it was almost deserted. As he glanced in to admire his Porsche, he noticed another familiar car. It was a Mercedes 300 turbo diesel painted puke green. There was only one person in the whole hospital whose taste was that bad. The car belonged to George Sherman.