Better in the Dark (7 page)

“Mommy, I feel funny,” he whineti, putting his hand into Natalie’s. His fingers were cold, the palm hot and dry.

Despite her stern mental orders to herself, Natalie’s voice broke as she said, “Philip, will you sit there just a moment. Mommy’s going to turn on the light and have a real doctor look at you. All right?”

She felt her son nod.

And in the light she saw that his face was waxen and gray, that his movements were fever-restless, and she saw what she had feared from the start. “Oh, Philip...” It was too late. If she had known two, three days ago, if she had not learned what was happening to her county.

Philip looked at his mother uncomprehendingly. “Mommy, what’s the matter?” he asked, then started to cough again. “Mommy?”

“It’s nothing, Philip. Mommy’s tired, that’s all,” she lied, taking Philip nearer the window and rocking him gently. Yes, his face was gray, and his eyes were becoming affected. Only three years old and now this was happening to him. He was dying of diphtheria. It was such a stupid waste. “You lie back and get some rest. Everything is going to be fine.”

As she phoned the hospital she felt desolate. There was no hope for Philip, and there was no hope for her now. It was too late.

“It’s going to be fine,” she said to Philip as she went back to him. She had told the admit desk that he had croup, not diphtheria. Maybe if she went along with them, they’d let her see her son before he died. Perhaps if she really worked at it, found a way around the red tape, she might be able to save him, even yet. There was a slim, slim chance. She put her hand to her eyes. They would not give her permission, not after what she had been through with Mark this morning. They would treat Philip the way they had treated the other children and he would be dead shortly. Nothing short of heroic measures would save him, and she would not be allowed the heroic measures.

“Don’t worry, Mommy,” Philip said once as Natalie rocked him through the afternoon. “Daddy’ll fix everything.”

For one dreadful moment Natalie thought she might laugh. “Yes,” she said when she could trust herself to speak. “Daddy certainly will fix everything. He’s a great fixer.” She looked down into Philip’s pinched face, seeing Mark and diphtheria there. “A great fixer.”

And when the ambulance left later with Philip, Natalie went back to the hospital alone.

“N
EVER MIND
,” D
R
. S
MITH SNAPPED
at the intern. “He’s dead.” Angrily he jerked the feeder lines from the support module, bitter exhaustion showing in his face. Another dead kid.

“But what happened?” asked the intern. He was both hurt by the death of the child and frustrated by how little had been authorized to save the boy.

Dr. Smith finished closing down the monitor display before he answered. At last he said, “That child was admitted with minor bronchial inflammation, possible croup.” He looked down at the ashen face, the tension fading from the features as the little body surrendered. “Fever developed long before he got here and his chest was badly congested. We performed a tracheotomy.” He fingered the disconnected tube that dangled from the boy’s thin neck. “We did not get permission to use the intensive care units on five, which might have helped. So we did the best we could with precautionary support. About ten minutes ago the monitor picked up trouble and now we have cardiac arrest. That’s what happened. That’s the official record.”

The intern shook his head, feeling helpless. “But don’t you know what did it? This wasn’t croup. The computer diagnosed unknown viral infection. You’d think they’d let us have space downstairs.” He knew that units in Intensive Care were hard to come by, and that they were particularly difficult for their floor, the sixth floor, which was General Medicine, the catch-all for the hospital. “Unknown viral infection. Don’t you have any idea what killed this kid?”

“No, I don’t.” With that, Dr. Smith stepped out of the room and rang for the removal units.

As he walked away from his intern he was scowling. No, he didn’t know what had killed the boy, but he knew that the child should not have died, not in his hospital. He had not known what had killed the other fourteen children he had seen. Fourteen dead in less than a week. He had run every sample he could think of through the diagnostic computer and he had got the same answer every time: virus, unknown.

“Dr. Smith, Dr. Smith,” the paging system called idiotically. “Dr. Smith to floor sixteen. Dr. Smith to Statistics on floor sixteen.”

“Damn,” he said. He did not want to deal with Justin and his crowd. He knew the epidemiologist well enough to dislike the cool statistical mind that lay behind the politic smile and large gray-green eyes. Halfway down the hall he picked up an emergency phone long enough to say, “This is Harry Smith. Tell Justin I’m on my way.”

Peter Justin had his smile on automatic when Harry walked in. He waited until Harry had chosen a seat, then flung a stack of diagnostic printouts on the desk.

Harry Smith’s eyes flickered between the charts and Dr. Justin’s face, settling on the latter. “Yes?”

“Would you kindly explain these? You and Dr. Lebbreau have been busy.”

“Dr. Lebbreau?” He didn’t know any Dr. Lebbreau, which was not surprising at this hospital, which employed seven hundred thirty-odd doctors and almost two thousand on staff: paramedics, nurses, interns, lab personnel and the tremendous bureaucracy of the administration. Harry considered denying his part in the investigation and letting Lebbreau, whoever he was, take the blame. But he did want some answers. He laced his fingers together over his knees. “Just checking,” he said.

“Do you seriously call this checking? There are fourteen different post morts in full series here. I think you have some explaining to do.”

“Do you?” Harry asked, smiling genially. “In the last week I have lost fifteen patients under the age of ten. All were admitted for unknown viral infections. They all died. I want to know why, and since your department doesn’t seem to be doing anything about it...” Harry felt his voice rise; he forced himself to take a deep breath. “I thought someone ought to check it out.”

Peter Justin’s elegant brows drew together, his wide lips pursed. “Yes, I see. Fourteen on your service, did you say?”

“Fifteen, as of twenty minutes ago,” Harry corrected.

“Fifteen. And you indicate here,” he tapped the printouts, “that all these were in roughly one week’s time. That’s quite a large number for so short a period. All children, too, apparently.”

“All under ten,” Harry said, a sardonic smile touching his mouth.

Peter Justin drummed his slender fingers on the high gloss of his masonite desk. “That is a significant increase.”

That was Justin. Give him death or a disease and he would try to fit it onto a graph and make statistical comparisons. Harry forced himself to keep these thoughts private.

“Fifteen. And Dr. Lebbreau reports something around a dozen.” Peter Justin muttered. “Yours were most bronchial? Very unusual.” He looked up, the smooth smile returning to his face. “Yes. I am glad you brought this to my attention, Smith. Ordinarily your actions would warrant a board review, but under the circumstances...”

Under the circumstances, thought Harry, you don’t want to get caught in a neglect suit. The smile he directed at Justin was thinly veiled rage.

“Yes. You must let me know if you get another one. Any viral admits, particularly bronchial, in the next two weeks, provided the patient is within the proper age bracket, should be reported to this office. I really must thank you for calling this to my attention. I don’t know how I could have overlooked it.”

Harry had a retort to this, but left it unsaid. He was very tired and was due back on the floor in less than six hours. So he rose, saying, “Anytime. It looked suspicious and I thought it should be checked.”

Justin nodded. “You were right. Although you should have contacted me before you went ahead with this check. We don’t like this sort of unauthorized research.”

Harry raised his brows. “We do have a certain responsibility to our patients. And if you find out what the unknown virus is, you’ll let me know, won’t you?”

“Certainly, certainly,” Justin said blithely. “A thing like this takes some tracking. I’ll get the labs on it right away. It might be a while but we’ll get results. You know what a stickler Howland is. Good afternoon, Dr. Smith.”

“Good afternoon, Dr. Justin.” He closed the door with a bang.

Number sixteen was waiting for him when he came on night duty. This time the child was very young, no more than three or four, and the only son of another doctor. Harry was surprised when he saw that the father was Mark Howland, Chief Pathologist. How ironic that Howland’s kid should get the unknown virus.

“He’s the son of
two
doctors,” the intern corrected him. “Dr. Howland and Natalie Lebbreau are married.”

“Lebbreau?” he repeated, remembering the name from his interview with Peter Justin. “What floor is she on?”

“Eleven, I think. General/Pediatric service. The kid’s name is Philip Howland. Age three years, seven months. He’s underweight and his eyes need correction. He was hospitalized last year with a broken wrist.”

Broken wrist? Was that his parents’ doing? There were more and more of them being brought in: children beaten, starved, maimed, burned, tortured. Harry had seen too much of it and it sickened him.

“The wrist was broken at his day-care center. He fell from a ladder,” the intern said, as if reading his thoughts.

“Thanks. What’s been ordered so far?”

“The usual. IV, oxygen unit, standard monitor hookup and support systems.”

“Good,” Harry said absently. “I don’t suppose we can get an intensive care unit from five?” He didn’t expect an answer. He was already checking over the boy, touching, listening, probing for some clue of the disease that was wasting him and had killed fifteen others. He looked in the throat. “I could swear the kid has diphtheria, and pretty advanced.”

“Diphtheria?” the intern asked.

“Yeah. Look at the throat. It’s classic. What tests have you run?”

“Standard series.”

“I wonder if his father has seen them. Post the results in Dr. Justin’s office.” There was grim satisfaction in being able to upset the urbane Peter Justin and his staff of number keepers.

“How long has his breathing been augmented? Has the breath therapist been to see him yet?”

“Not yet. There’s an emergency on eight, in quarantine. But he’s had a breathing unit for roughly two hours...” The intern frowned at his information as he read it. “Two hours? He isn’t going to make it, is he?”

“No,” Harry said shortly. “Not now. Not in this condition. Not without intensive care.” He stepped back from the fragile child on the bed. “I think you’d better notify his parents. Get them over here if you can.”

The intern was only too glad to have this chance to escape. He did not want to see the child die, not after the fight to save him.

Left alone with Philip Howland, Harry found himself helpless. There was only so much he could do now, only so much he was authorized to do, then the case would be decided by the administration. Harry wanted more equipment, more medication, an intensive care unit and all the help that brought. But he could not get it. Not now.