Robin Cook - Godplayer

She paused, beginning to perspire with anxiety.

“I think the real problem is that Thomas has been taking too many pills. I mean lots of people take an occasional Dexedrine or sleeping pill, but Thomas may be overdoing it.” She paused again, looking up at Ballantine.

“I have heard one or two things,” mused Ballantine. “One of the residents commented on a tremor. He didn’t realize I was behind him in the hall. What exactly has Thomas been taking?”

“Dexedrine to keep awake and Percodan or Talwin to calm down.”

Dr. Ballantine strode over to the window and stared into the surgical lounge directly opposite. Turning back to Cassi, he cleared his throat. His voice had not lost any of its warmth.

“The availability of drugs can be a severe temptation for a doctor, particularly if he is as severely overworked as Thomas.” Ballantine moved back to his desk and eased into his chair.

“But availability is only part of the story. Many physicians also have a sense of entitlement. They take care of people all day and feel they deserve a little aid themselves if they need it. Drugs or alcohol. It’s an all-too-common story. And since they have been trained to be self-sufficient, instead of talking to another doctor, they medicate themselves.”

Cassi was enormously relieved that Dr. Ballantine absorbed the news about Thomas with such composure. For the first time in days she felt optimistic.

“I think the most important thing is that we keep this to ourselves,” said Dr. Ballantine. “Gossip could be detrimental to both your husband and the hospital. What I will do is have a diplomatic talk with Thomas and see if we can’t take care of the problem before it gets out of hand. Having seen this kind of thing before, I can assure you, Cassi, that Thomas’s difficulties are minor. He has been carrying his usual surgical load.”

“You’re not worried about his patients?” asked Cassi. “I mean, have you seen him operate recently?”

“No,” admitted Dr. Ballantine. “But I would be the first to hear if something were amiss.”

Cassi wondered.

“I’ve known Thomas for seventeen years,” Ballantine said reassuringly. “I’d know if there was something seriously wrong.”

“How will you bring up the subject?” asked Cassi.

Dr. Ballantine shrugged. “I’ll play it by ear.”

“You won’t mention that I spoke with you, will you?” asked Cassi.

“Absolutely not,” said Dr. Ballantine.

Carrying a handful of irises that she’d purchased in the hospital flower shop, Cassi walked down the eighteenth floor corridor to room 1847. The door was open about halfway. She rapped and peeked in. A figure was lying in the single bed holding a sheet up to his eyes. He was shaking in apparent terror.

“Robert!” laughed Cassi. “What on earth…”

Robert bounced out of the bed dressed in his own pajamas and robe. “I happened to see you coming,” he said. Eyeing the flowers, he asked, “Are those for me?”

Cassi surrendered the small bouquet. Robert took the time to arrange them carefully in his water pitcher before placing them on the nightstand.

Glancing around the room, Cassi could see she wasn’t the first. There were a dozen bouquets blooming on every surface.

“Kinda looks like a funeral,” said Robert.

“I don’t want to hear that kind of humor,” said Cassi, giving him a hug. “There is no such thing as too many flowers. It means you have a lot of friends.” She settled down on the foot of the bed.

“I’ve never been a patient in a hospital,” said Robert, pulling up a chair as if he were the visitor. “I don’t like it. I feel so vulnerable.”

“You get used to it,” said Cassi. “Believe me, I’m a pro.”

“The real problem is that I know too much,” said Robert. “I can tell you, I’m terrified. I’ve convinced the anesthesiologist to double up on my sleep meds. Otherwise I know I’ll be up all night.”

“In a couple of days you’ll wonder why you were nervous.”

“It’s easy for you to say, dressed in street clothes.” Robert held up his wrist with its plastic name tag. “I’ve become a statistic.”

“Maybe it will make you feel better to know that your courage has prodded me into action. I’m being admitted tomorrow.”

Robert’s expression changed to one of compassion. “Now I feel foolish. Here I am worried sick over a couple of teeth while you face eye surgery.”

“Anesthesia is anesthesia,” said Cassi.

“I think you are doing the right thing,” said Robert. “And I have a feeling that your operation is going to be a hundred percent successful.”

“What about your own chances,” teased Cassi.

“Um… fifty-fifty,” said Robert, laughing. “Hey, I got something to show you.”

Robert stood up and went over to the nightstand. Picking up a folder, he joined Cassi on the edge of the bed. “With the help of the computer, I collated the data we have on the SSD cases. I found some interesting things. First of all, as you suggested, all of the patients were on IVs. In addition, over the past two years, the cases increasingly involved patients who were in stable physical condition. In other words, the deaths have become more unexpected.”

“Oh God,” said Cassi. “What else?”

“I played around for a while with the data, punching in all the parameters for our study except surgery. The computer spat out some other cases, including a patient by the name of Sam Stevens. He died unexpectedly during cardiac catheterization. He was retarded but in excellent physical condition.”

“Was he on IV?” asked Cassi.

“Yup,” said Robert.

They stared at each other for several minutes.

“Finally,” said Robert, “the computer indicated that there was a preponderance of males. Curiously enough, where the information was available, the computer pointed out an unusually high number of homosexuals!”

Cassi looked up from the papers to Robert’s friendly gaze. Homosexuality had never been mentioned between them, and Cassi felt a reluctance to discuss it.

“I went to pathology to visit you this morning,” she said, changing the subject. “I missed you, but I did find some of Jeoffry Washington’s slides. When I looked at the sections taken from the IV site, I found white precipitate along the inside of the vein. At first I thought it was artifact, but they were present on all but one of the sections. Do you think they might be significant?”

Robert pursed his lips. “No,” he said finally. “Doesn’t ring any bells. The only thing I can think of is that when calcium is inadvertently added to a bicarbonate solution, it causes a precipitation, but that would be in the IV bottle, not the vein. I suppose the precipitation could run into the vein, but it would be so apparent in the bottle that everyone would see it. Maybe I’ll have an idea when I look at the section. Meanwhile, enough of this morbid stuff. Tell me about the party last night. What did you wear?”

Cassi glossed over the evening. There was a chance Robert would hear what had happened on the hospital grapevine, but she didn’t want to bring it up. In many ways Cassi was surprised Robert hadn’t noticed her reddened eyes. He was usually so observant. She decided he was understandably preoccupied with his admission to the hospital. Promising to visit the next day, Cassi left before she was tempted to burden him with her own troubles.

Larry Owen felt like a piano wire drawn out to its limit, ready to snap at the slightest increase in tension. Thomas Kingsley had arrived late that morning and was furious that Larry had waited for him to physically appear before beginning to open the first patient’s chest. Even though Larry completed the procedure with record speed, Thomas’s foul mood had not changed. Nothing pleased the surgeon. Not only had Larry done a piss-poor job, but the scrub nurses weren’t handing him the instruments properly; the residents weren’t giving him adequate exposure, and the anesthesiologist was an incompetent son of a bitch. As chance would have it, Thomas was given a faulty needle holder, which he’d thrown against the wall with such force it had snapped in two.