Robin Cook - Terminal

“It’s only for a couple of months,” Janet said. “Come in the bathroom and look at the ocean.”

“There it is!” Sean said as he peered through the slats of the jalousie window. “At least I can say I’ve seen it.” A narrow wedge of ocean was visible between two buildings. Since it was after seven and the sun had already set, the water looked more gray than blue in the gathering darkness.

“The kitchen’s not bad either,” Janet said.

Sean followed her, then watched as she opened cabinets and showed him the dishes and glassware. She’d changed out of her nurse’s uniform and had on her tank top and shorts. Sean found Janet incredibly sexy, particularly when she was so scantily clad. Sean felt himself at a distinct disadvantage with the way she was dressed, especially as she bent over showing him the pots and pans. It was difficult to think.

“I’ll be able to cook,” she said, straightening up.

“Wonderful,” Sean said, but his mind was concerned with other basic appetites.

They moved back into the living room.

“Hey, I’m ready to move in tonight,” Sean said. “I love it.”

“Hold on,” Janet said. “I hope I haven’t given you the impression we’re moving in together just like that. We’ve got some serious talking to do. That’s the whole reason I came down here.”

“Well, first we have to get going on this medulloblastoma thing,” Sean said.

“I didn’t think the two issues would be mutually exclusive,” Janet said.

“I didn’t mean to imply that they were,” Sean said. “It’s just that it’s hard for me at the moment to think about much beyond my role here at Forbes and whether I should stay. The situation is kind of dominating my mind. I think it’s pretty understandable.”

Janet rolled her eyes.

“Besides, I’m starved,” Sean said. He smiled. “You know I can never talk when I’m hungry.”

“I’ll be patient to a point,” Janet conceded. “But I don’t want you to forget I need some serious communicating. Now, as far as dinner is concerned, the real estate person told me there’s a popular Cuban restaurant just up Collins Avenue.”

“Cuban?” Sean questioned.

“I know you rarely venture from your meat and potatoes,” Janet said. “But while we’re in Miami we can be a bit more adventuresome.”

“Groan,” Sean murmured.

The restaurant was close enough to walk so they left Sean’s 4 x 4 where they’d found a parking spot across from the apartment. Walking hand in hand, they wandered north up Collins Avenue beneath huge silver- and gold-tipped clouds that reflected the reddened sky over the distant Everglades. They couldn’t see the ocean, but they could hear the waves hit against the beach on the other side of a block of recently renovated and refurbished Miami art deco buildings.

The entire beach neighborhood was alive with people strolling up and down the streets, sitting on steps or porches, roller blading, or cruising in their cars. Some of the car stereos had the bass pumped up to a point that Sean and Janet could feel the vibration in their chests as the cars thumped past.

“Those guys aren’t going to have functional middle ears by the time they’re thirty,” Sean commented.

The restaurant gave the impression of frenzied disorganization with tables and people crammed everywhere. The waiters and waitresses were dressed in black pants or skirts and white shirts or blouses. Each had on a soiled apron. They ranged in age from twenty to sixty. Shouting back and forth, they communicated among themselves and to the steam table in expressive bursts of Spanish while they ran and weaved among the tables. Over the entire tumult hung a succulent aroma of roast pork, garlic, and dark roasted coffee.

Carried along by a current of people, Sean and Janet found themselves squeezed among other diners at a large table. Frosted bottles of Corona with lime wedges stuck in their mouths appeared as if by magic.

“There’s nothing on here for me to eat,” Sean complained after studying the menu for a few minutes. Janet was right; he rarely varied his diet.

“Nonsense,” Janet said. She did the ordering.

Sean was pleasantly surprised when their food came. The marinated and heavily garlic-flavored roast pork was delicious, as was the yellow rice and the black beans covered with chopped onions. The only thing he didn’t care for was the yucca.

“This stuff tastes like potato covered with mucoid exudate,” Sean yelled.

“Gross!” Janet exclaimed. “Stop sounding so much like a medical student.”

Conversation was almost impossible in the raucous restaurant, so after dinner they wandered over to Ocean Drive and ventured into Lummus Park where they could talk. They sat under a broad banyan tree and gazed out at the dark ocean dotted with the lights of merchant ships and pleasure boats.

“Hard to believe it’s still winter in Boston,” Sean said.

“It makes me wonder why we put up with slush and freezing rain,” Janet said. “But enough small talk. If, as you said, you can’t talk about us for the moment, then let’s talk about the Forbes situation. Was your afternoon any better than your morning?”

Sean gave a short, mirthless laugh. “It was worse,” he said. “I wasn’t on the second floor for five minutes before the director of nursing burst into the room like a raging bull, yelling and screaming because I was looking at Helen’s chart.”

“Margaret Richmond was mad?” Janet asked.

Sean nodded. “All two hundred and fifty snarling pounds of her. She was out of control.”

“She’s always been civil with me,” Janet said.

“I’ve only seen her twice,” Sean said. “Neither time would I describe her as civil.”

“How did she know you were there?” Janet asked.

“The Marine commando was with her,” Sean said. “They must have picked me up on a surveillance camera.”

“Oh, great!” Janet said. “Something else I have to worry about. I never thought of surveillance cameras.”

“You don’t have to worry,” Sean said. “I’m the one who the head of security can’t abide. Besides, the cameras are most likely only in the common areas, not patient floors.”

“Did you get to talk with Helen Cabot?” Janet asked.

“For a moment,” Sean said. “She doesn’t look good at all.”

“Her condition’s been deteriorating,” Janet said. “There’s talk of doing a shunt. Did you learn anything from her chart?”

“No,” Sean said. “I didn’t have time. They literally chased me back over the bridge to the research building. Then, as if to cap off the afternoon, that Japanese guy appeared again, sneaking around, watching me in the lab from the stairwell. I don’t know what his story is, but this time I got him. I scared the living willies out of him by sneaking up behind him and letting out this bloodcurdling yell. He nearly dropped his pants.”

“The poor fellow,” Janet said.

“Poor fellow nothing!” Sean said. “This guy’s been watching me since I arrived.”

“Well, I’ve had some luck,” Janet said.

Sean brightened. “Really! Great! Did you get some of the miracle medicine?”

“No, no medicine,” Janet said. She reached into her pocket and pulled out the computer printout and the sheet with her hastily scribbled notes. “But here’s the list of all the medulloblastoma patients for the last ten years: thirty-eight in all; thirty-three in the past two years. I’ve summarized the data on the sheet.”

Sean eagerly took the papers. But to read them he had to hold it over his head to catch the light coming from the streetlights along Ocean Drive. As he looked it over, Janet explained what she’d learned about the sex and age distribution. She also told him that the computer files were abridged and that there had been a notation to consult the charts themselves for more information. Finally, she told him what Melanie had said about obtaining those charts in as little as ten minutes providing, of course, you had the proper authorization.