Джеймс Паттерсон - The Midwife Murders

I walk about ten yards and run into Caspar, the hospital guard who usually sits weekdays at the employees’ entrance.

“Morning, Caspar,” I say. But this is serious business.

Caspar, who is usually full of jokes and smiles and weather predictions, is stern. “May I please see your identification card, Ms. Ryuan?” He usually would have just called me Lucy, but these are clearly dangerous times.

I smile. Caspar does not. I realize that Caspar’s only doing what he’s been told to do, and that it makes no difference that fifteen seconds ago I presented my ID to two New York City police officers.

Caspar looks at my ID. He says, “Thank you, ma’am.”

“‘Thank you, ma’am’?” I ask. “Caspar, it’s me. Lucy.”

“Sorry, orders from Dr. Katz. We gotta do it all by the book.”

I walk a few more yards and … Hold on, what the hell is this?

At the end of the entrance corridor stands Dr. Barrett Katz himself, the pompous, self-important, arrogant, despicable—Am I making my feelings clear?—CEO of Gramatan University Hospital. Katz has been called the Invisible CEO. He is almost always in a meeting, in conference, with an important donor, out of town . Right now he is flanked by two other physicians: Dr. Rudra Sarkar, one of the hospital’s few male ob-gyn doctors, and Dr. Maureen Mahrlig, a radiologist who may or may not be on track to becoming the fourth Mrs. Katz.

A short line has formed in front of this gang of three. The line moves quickly, and whatever Katz is telling each individual brings a serious expression and a strong nod of the head from each person. Most of us never see Dr. Katz regularly, and until today, none of us, I venture, has ever been greeted by him on our way into work.

My turn.

“Ms. Ryuan,” Katz says. “I’m telling every employee that it’s very important that there be no communication with the press about the absent patient.”

I can’t resist. “You mean the missing baby or are you referring to the ‘absent patient’ that somebody kidnapped?”

“Do not try to corral me into an angry, sarcastic discussion, Ms. Ryuan, and in the future, I’d ask you to leave your bad attitude in the parking lot. Whatever the circumstances,” he says, his eyes filled with the irritation that always shows up during our very rare encounters. “Discretion is very important while the police investigate the absence.”

Again, I can’t resist. But this time I’m serious. So serious that I ignore my buzzing cell phone. “I’m no expert, Dr. Katz, but I’d think the more information that’s out there, names and photos and facts, then the better the chances of somebody who knows something coming forward and helping us find—”

“Thank you for your thoughts, Ms. Ryuan, but as I just said, there’s no need for a discussion. Right now everything is in the very capable hands of—”

“Lucy!” I hear someone shout. Then almost immediately again, even louder, “Lucy!”

Within seconds Tracy Anne Cavanaugh is standing next to me. Young and blond and almost too perfectly pretty, Tracy Anne completely ignores Katz.

“I’ve been trying to reach you. I’ve been calling and calling. Val is ready to go. And Troy is with her. But there’s a problem, a real problem, with Val.”

Great. Now my problem is that Val has a problem.

Tracy Anne and I take off. If we had left a cloud of dust, Barrett Katz would be covered with it.

CHAPTER 4

“WHAT THE HELL IS this?” I shout as Tracy Anne and I rush into Valerina Gomez’s birthing room. I am truly struck by the horror of what I see before me. Val has been shackled with wrist and ankle restraints. She looks like a woman forced into admission at a mental hospital during Victorian times. Val is screaming, sweating, struggling. Her wrists and ankles are red from the shackles. Her hospital gown is way up above her breasts.

I look at Troy Jackson. He’s a strong, hefty African American guy, and both my assistant and one of the best midwives I’ve ever worked with. He’s efficient, organized, and kind, and he can be as tough as a large pit bull when he decides to.

“How the hell could you let them do this, Troy?” I yell at him.

The tone of his voice matches the anger in mine. “You think I let this happen? Don’t you think I did everything but punch them to prevent it? And by ‘them’ I mean that nurse over there. She said if we didn’t restrain the patient, she’d call Security. You sure as hell didn’t think this was my idea, didja?”

Troy is pointing at floor supervisor Nurse Deborah Franklin.

“Get her undone. Get my patient undone,” I yell. “Hurry up. Jesus, leave someone alone with general hospital staff and this is what happens.”

Troy and Tracy Anne begin removing Val’s restraints. They know the nurse isn’t going to mess with me.

Val is yelling with delivery pain. I take two giant steps toward Deborah Franklin, who stands with her arms folded.

“What the hell were you thinking?” I say to her. I practically spit the question out.

“I ordered the restraints as a precaution,” Franklin says.

“GUH staff should not be anywhere near midwife services unless they are requested. What are you even doing in here? Get out. Just get the hell out,” I yell.

Franklin doesn’t move. I could continue my battle with Franklin or I could shut up and work with my patient. That’s an easy decision for me. If the decision is easy, the execution takes a lot of willpower on my part. Okay, get strong, Lucy. Be the best there is. From this moment on my concern is completely aimed at Val.

“Let’s relax, Val. Let’s just relax,” I say. I take Val’s hand. She’s shaking, not quite uncontrollably but way more than a woman in labor should be. Tracy Anne dabs at Val’s face with a damp lavender-scented cloth. Lavender is about as hippie as we get at GUH Midwifery.

Then, through barely clenched teeth, Troy speaks to me softly, “Lucy, I did everything to stop Franklin.”

“I’m sure you did, Troy,” I say. And I mean it. “Let’s stay focused now. This is going to be tough, and we are off to a very bad start.”

Tracy Anne pulls up a screenshot of Val’s most recent sonogram on the bedside PC. Nothing new. Twins. The second baby is in complete breech position. That means the feet want to come out first, and the head wants to come out last. We knew this for the past two months. There was not much we could do except fight off anyone who said we should perform a C-section. But any discussion and planning are in the past. Now the difficult circumstances are nonnegotiable. Now we’ve got to deal with them in real time. First things first: I need to have a very intense discussion with the very screwed-up mother-to-be.

Tracy Anne is helping Val with her breathing and her counting. The tremors from Val’s hands have spread to her arms and shoulders. She is shaking even worse than before. All the lavender cloths in the world are not going to absorb the perspiration that’s streaming out of her.

I hear Deborah Franklin say, “Now perhaps you can see why I ordered restraints. Your patient is going through withdrawal. She should be delivering under general anesthesia. I’m going to call OB for help.”

“You call OB, lady, and you better call orthopedics, too. You’re gonna have some broken bones to tend to,” Troy says.

“Ditto,” I say.

Honestly, I don’t think Nurse Franklin is frightened of me. But Troy, one of the nicest, gentlest people I know, can look absolutely terrifying, weighing in at just under 300 pounds, and with steely eyes that look as if they could flash fire if he wanted them to blaze.

“You people are living in another world,” says Franklin. She can rant all she wants. All I know is that she’s not moving to call OB. And I wouldn’t put it past Troy to try to stop her physically.