Robin Cook - Godplayer

Pamela Breckenridge watched his progress through the doorless opening of the chart room. She’d become accustomed to his appearances over the past two nights. To save money she’d been brown bagging it rather than using the cafeteria, and Jeoffry would appear just as she was ready to eat.

“Is it possible for me to have another sleeping pill?” he called.

Pamela swallowed, told him it was, and directed the LPN to get Jeoffry another Dalmane. Dr. Sherman had obliged by adding a “repeat × 1” after his initial order.

As if he were standing at a bar, Jeoffry accepted the pill and the miniature paper cup of water the LPN extended toward him over the counter of the station. Jeoffry popped the pill and tossed off the water. God, what he wouldn’t have done for a few tokes of grass. Then he began the slow trip back up the corridor.

The hall darkened as he moved away from the nurses. Presently he saw his shadow appear in front of him on the vinyl floor, growing as he walked. The IV pole made it look as if he were some prophet clutching a staff. To open his door he thumped it with the wheeled footplate. Inside he hooked the door with his foot and shoved it closed. If there were any chance of dropping off to sleep, he had to shield himself from the noise and lights from the corridor.

Arranging the pole next to the bed, he turned and sat down, intending to lift his feet and stretch out. Instead he stifled a scream.

Like an apparition, a white-clad figure emerged from the bathroom.

“My God!” said Jeoffry, letting out his breath. “You really startled me.”

“Lie down, please.”

Jeoffry complied immediately. “I never expected you at this hour.”

Jeoffry watched as the visitor pulled out a syringe and started to inject the contents into Jeoffry’s IV bottle. He seemed to have some difficulty in the darkness as Jeoffry heard the bottle clank repeatedly against the pole.

“What kind of medication am I getting?” asked Jeoffry, unsure if he should say anything but sufficiently confused as to what was going on to overcome his hesitancy.

“Vitamins.”

To Jeoffry it seemed like a strange time to be getting vitamins, but the hospital was a strange place.

Jeoffry’s visitor gave up trying to get the needle into the base of the IV bottle and switched to the injection site in the plastic tubing close to Jeoffry’s wrist. This was far easier and the needle immediately slipped through the small rubber cap. Jeoffry watched as the plunger was rapidly depressed, causing the fluid to back up in the tubing, raising the level in the chamber above his head. He felt a twinge of pain but assumed it was just the rise in pressure in the IV.

But the pain did not disappear. Instead it got worse. Much worse.

“My God!” cried Jeoffry. “My arm! It’s killing me!” Jeoffry could feel a white-hot sensation that began at the IV site rise up in his arm.

The visitor grabbed Jeoffry’s hand to keep it still and opened the IV so it ran in a steady stream.

The pain that Jeoffry thought had been unbearable got worse and spread like molten lava into his chest. He swung his free hand over to grasp his visitor.

“Don’t touch me, you friggin’ faggot.”

Despite the pain, Jeoffry let go. To his bewilderment was added fear… a terrible fear that something awful was happening. Desperately Jeoffry tried to free his arm with the IV from the intruder’s grip.

“What are you doing?” gasped Jeoffry. He started to scream, but a hand was clamped roughly over his mouth.

At that moment Jeoffry’s body experienced its first convulsion, arching up off the bed. His eyes rolled up and disappeared inside his head. Within seconds the spasms increased to become a grand mal seizure, rocking the bed back and forth. The intruder dropped Jeoffry’s arm and pulled the bed away from the wall to reduce the banging. Then he checked the corridor and ran back to the stairwell.

Jeoffry convulsed in silence until his heart, which had begun to beat irregularly, fibrillated for a few seconds, then stopped. Within minutes Jeoffry’s brain ceased functioning. He continued to convulse until his muscles exhausted their depleted store of oxygen…

• • •

Thomas felt as though he’d just closed his eyes when the nurse bent over and shook him awake. He rolled over in a daze and looked into the woman’s smiling face.

“They need you in the OR, Dr. Kingsley.”

“Be right there,” he said thickly.

Thomas waited while the nurse beat a hasty retreat, then swung his feet to the floor. He paused a few minutes for the dizziness to clear. Sometimes, thought Thomas, sleeping for too short a time was worse than no sleep at all. He steadied himself at the entrance, then stumbled over to his locker. Getting out a Dexedrine, he washed it down with water from the drinking fountain. Then he changed into a fresh scrub suit, but not before he’d rescued the half pill he’d left in the soiled shirt’s breast pocket.

By the time Thomas got down to OR 18, the Dexedrine had cleared his head. He considered scrubbing right away but then decided it was better to find out first what he was up against.

The residents were standing around the anesthetized patient, their gloved hands resting within the sterile field. The scene did not look auspicious.

“What’s the…” began Thomas, his voice hoarse. He hadn’t spoken since awakening except for the few words to the nurse. He cleared his throat. “What’s the problem?”

“You were right about the hemopericardium,” said Peter with respect. “The knife penetrated the pericardium and cut the surface of the heart. There’s no bleeding, but we wondered if we should close the laceration.”

Thomas had the circulation nurse locate a stool and put it behind Peter. From that vantage point, he could see into the incision. Peter pointed to the laceration and bent to the side.

Thomas was relieved. The laceration was inconsequential, having missed any significant coronary vessels.

“Just leave it as is,” said Thomas. “The marginal benefits of suturing it aren’t worth the possible problems the suture might cause.”

“Good enough,” said Peter.

“Leave the pericardium open, too,” warned Thomas. “It will reduce the chances of running into a problem with tamponade in the postoperative course. It will serve as a drainage point if there is any bleeding.”

An hour later Thomas crossed from the hospital to the Professional Building. When he entered his office he felt unpleasantly wired from the Dexedrine. Over and over he kept worrying about Ballantine and Sherman’s presence in the hospital that night. It was obvious they were having some kind of secret meeting, and, as he wondered what they were plotting, he felt his anxiety mount. Now he knew he would be unable to sleep unless he took something.

He rarely got such a surge from a single Dexedrine but decided it was probably due to his general exhaustion. Going over to his desk, he gobbled another Percodan. Then, fearful that he might have trouble waking up in the morning, Thomas called Doris. He had to let the phone ring a long time. Mentally he retraced the complicated route from her bed to the phone by the bay window. He wondered why she didn’t get an extension.

“Listen,” said Thomas when she answered. “You’ve got to come into the office at six-thirty.”

“That’s only a couple hours from now,” protested Doris.

“Jesus Christ,” shouted Thomas angrily. “You don’t have to tell me what time it is. Don’t you think I know? But I have three bypasses starting at seven-thirty. I want you over here to make sure I’m up.”

Thomas slammed the phone down in its cradle, seething. “Goddamn selfish bitch,” he said out loud as he punched his pillow into submission.