F Paul Wilson - Novel 02 (6 page)

 
          
"Hmmm?"

           
"I said, what is it exactly
that so irks you about the joint committee?"

 
          
Gin's
dark, dark eyes were fixed on him expectantly, as if his answer mattered very
much to her. Under that cap and mask was a sultry Mediterranean beauty with
wild, glossy black hair, full lips, high cheekbones, and flawless skin. A
narrow waist and a perfect bust.

 
          
Nothing
at all like the pimply, pudgy adolescent who'd worked in his file room a dozen
or so years ago. In fact, when she'd shown up last June looking for part-time
work as a physician, and told him who she was, he'd half considered having her
investigated as an impostor.

 
          
The
ugly duckling had returned as a swan. A dark swan. A cygnet.

 
          
But
if he had been twenty minutes later in getting to that emergency room nineteen
years ago, she wouldn't be anywhere now. That had been the great perk of his
former life, saving someone who might make a difference in the world.

 
          
And
he loved the way she'd started coming up with new words for him.

 
          
One
day she'd stump him, but that was all right.

 
          
Seems
I did us all a favor when I put your insides back together, Gin.

 
          
Not
for the first time, he questioned having changed his field of practice, but
only for a heartbeat. The choice had been made for him.

 
          
No
going back.

 
          
But
where was Gin going with all her brains and hard won education?

 
          
"What
irks me?" he said slowly as he began restructuring Vincent's trimmed
platysma. "I don't think too much of the Joint Committee on Medical Ethics
and Practice Guidelines." He made a point of enunciating the committee's
name in its entirety. Simply saying the joint committee didn't do justice to
the pretentiousness of its title.

 
          
"I
don't like its name, I don't approve of its mission, and I think it is staffed
with arrivistes, parvenus, Pecksniffs, and bumptious ... yahoos." He
watched Gin's dark eyes crinkle at the corners.

 
          
I
made her smile.

 
          
'"Hey,
don't hold back," she said. "Tell me what you really think." He
would have liked to tell her the truth about what they did to his life, his
family, but that would serve no purpose.

 
          
Never
complain, never explain.

 
          
"Do
you know what they're up to?" he said.

 
          
"Well,
I understand it was the president's idea to revive the old McCready
committee."
Duncan
straightened and paused in his suturing.

 
          
He
didn't trust himself with a scalpel in his hand and McCready on his mind.

 
          
"Alas,
our dear president didn't get his health-care plan, so he's taking it out on
the medical profession. A medical guidelines bill wasn't good enough, wasn't
broad enough. No. Now it's mandates on medical ethics."
Duncan
closed his eyes to control his fury.

 
          
"Can
you imagine it? Mark Twain said there's no distinct American criminal class
except for Congress. And yet this collection of edacious, minatory pharisees is
going to deliver ethical guidelines to a profession'that has had a code of
ethics since the time of
Babylon
."

           
"We're not all so perfect, either,"
Gin said.

 
          
'"If
all you've got is larceny in your heart, you don't spend four years in premed,
four years in med school, three to ten years in postgraduate training working
hundred-hour weeks at slightly more than minimum wage, all for the privilege of
being six figures in debt by the time you hang out your shingle."

 
          
"Of
course not," Gin said. "You do it so you can work seventy-hour weeks
for the rest of your life."
Duncan
smiled and felt his muscles relax. My dear
cygnet. It's good to have you around.

 
          
He'd
finished resecting and tightening the platysma. Time to close.

 
          
He
asked for 6-0 gut on a curved needle. Using a continuous subcutaneous
technique, he began suturing.

 
          
"Anyway,"
she said, "since Senator Marsden is McCready's successor, he's been asked
to chair the joint committee. Got any dirt on him?" Why was she so
interested?

 
          
"Actually,
no."
Duncan
said. "But he hasn't been around all
that long. Give him time You know what the committee's up to, don't you?"

           
"Holding public hearings to
gather information to help them write the bill?"

           
"Their stated purpose, at the
president's behest, is to set rigid standards for medical practice. What
they're really out to do is parade a bunch of horror stories before the public
present a lot of one-sided testimony on the worst cases of negligence and
medical malfeasance they can find and paint the whole medical profession as a
cartel of reckless, irresponsible, knife-happy, money-grubbing brigands who
must be brought to heel."

 
          
"Um?
don't you think you sound just a little paranoid?" With good reason, he
thought.

 
          
"Even
paranoids have real enemies, Gin. They're out to get us, pure and simple. I
know how that sounds, but that's how I see it. They're at the bottom of the
heap in public confidence, and they want to draw attention away from their own
unwillingness to police themselves."

           
"But their ethics committees
go after people all the time"
Duncan
laughed. "Congressional ethics,
there's an oxymoron for you. Only on those rare occasions when the press turns
up the heat, only when their backs are to the wall and they have to do
something."

 
          
"Well,
whether we like it or not, I kind of think the shape of medical practice in the
future is going to be decided at these hearings. So I'd like to be an aide on
that committee. In fact, I had an interview at Senator Marsden's office
yesterday morning."

 
          
Duncan
froze and stared at her, and found Gin
staring right back.

 
          
Gin's
insides were wound into a Gordian knot. She'd waited until he'd almost closed
the incision before mentioning this.

 
          
Why
did I tell him? she wondered. I may not even get the job.

 
          
Duncan
said nothing as he finished closing the
incision, leaving not a single stitch on the surface. Only a hair-thin line
remained along the underside of the chin.

 
          
Gin
had seen him do this a hundred times at least, but still it awed her.

 
          
When
he was done he looked up at her again.

 
          
"You
what?"

 
          
"I,
I had an interview with,"

 
          
"You
are incomprehensible. You have a brilliant mind? an excellent medical
education? and you want to be a Hill rat?"

 
          
"Only
part-time. I just,"

           
"How can you even think of cooperating
with that committee?"

           
"Doesn't someone have to make
sure the read their facts straight?"

           
"Facts? Since when is Congress
interested in facts?" He stepped back from the table and began ripping off
his gloves. "I thought I was working with a doctor, not a Hill-rat wannabe."
That hurt, stung like a slap in the face.

 
          
"
Duncan
,"

           
"You can't have it both ways,
Gin. When you decide which one you want to be, let me know." He tossed his
gloves on the floor and stormed out.

 
          
Gin
had feared he might be a little upset, but she hadn't expected anything like
this. She stood in the suddenly silent OR, with Marie and Joanna avoiding eye
contact. She wondered what would have happened if she'd mentioned her
appointment with Congressman Allard tomorrow morning. As it was she felt as if
the floor had opened beneath her.

RECOVERY

           
WITH THE MORNING'S TRUNCATED
SURGERY SCHEDULE finished, the halls were quiet. Too quiet. Gin's stomach was
still tight as she completed her dictation on Thursday's scheduled procedures.

 
          
Why
did you open your big mouth?

 
          
Because
he had to know sooner or later. . . especially when she began asking for extra
time off.

 
          
But
you may never get the job.

 
          
Right.
Too right.

 
          
She
finished the last H and P, logged off her terminal, and sat there.

 
          
Now
what?

 
          
She
had to face him. Had to clear the air. Had to find out where she stood. Was she
still welcome here as a pre-op evaluator and surgical assistant? or was she to
be cast into the outer darkness?

 
          
Only
one way to find out.

 
          
She
gathered her courage and hurried upstairs to the main floor. From there a short
walk down the hall.

 
          
Duncan
's slim, pretty, blond
receptionist-secretary guarded the door to his office.

 
          
"Hi,
Barbara. Is he in?"

           
She smiled up at Gin. "Just
missed him. Said he was going to look in on the senator, then,"

           
"head for the golf course,"
Gin said. That was
Duncan
's routine.

 
          
"He
may still be here. If you hurry,"

 
          
"Thanks,
Barb." She hurried toward the V.I.P recovery room. Along the way she saw
Sharon Collins, the recovery RN, standing in the hall and talking to Joanna.
She slowed as she passed.

 
          
"Excuse
me, Sharon. Aren't you,?"

           
"Doing recovery on the V.I.P?"
She was short, dark, and built like a Ninja turtle, but one sharp nurse.
"Yeah. Dr. D. told me to take a break while he double-checked his
needlework. I'm just about to head back."

 
          
"Good.
Maybe I can catch him."

 
          
"You
sure you want to?" Joanna said.

 
          
Gin
flashed her a smile. "No." She scooted around the corner to the V.I.P
recovery room, a plain, unmarked door, and knocked gently.

 
          
When
there was no answer she tried again.

 
          
"
Duncan
?"

 
          
She
pushed the door open.

 
          
Noon
brightness filtered through the full-length
beige drapes across the picture window. Carpeting instead of linoleum, mahogany
instead of Formica. A veneer of luxury for the sort who craved it, but very
functional beneath.

 
          
In
the bed, Senator Vincent snored softly, sleeping off the general anesthetic.
But no
Duncan
.

 
          
Damn.
She'd missed him. He couldn't have got that far.

 
          
She
was half turned to leave when she saw Senator Vincent move his leg.

 
          
An
unfolding length of sheet revealed a spot of red on the white over his thigh.
She leaned closer.

 
          
Blood.

 
          
Just
a tiny spot. No more than a drop. But there shouldn't have been any blood down
by his leg. On his pillow, maybe, but not there.

 
          
She
lifted the sheet and looked at the senator's leg. A small, semicircular
puncture wound, less than a quarter inch in length on the outer aspect of the
thigh, slightly toward the rear.

 
          
She
probed the area around it and the senator moved again. Within the bandages his
lids struggled open. His glazed eyes stared at her, then closed again.

 
          
"Shot,"
he mumbled.

 
          
"What?"

           
"Gave me shot."

 
          
"Who
gave you a shot?"

           
"Docker Lafram." He
opened his eyes again and smiled. "Summin special. Only choice
patients." The senator smacked his lips and closed his eyes. He began to
snore.

 
          
Gin
stood over him. A shot? Since when did
Duncan
give injections?

 
          
Never.
It was unheard of.

 
          
Vincent
had to be wrong . . . and yet there definitely was a puncture wound in his
thigh.

 
          
She
adjusted the covers back over him.

 
          
Weird.
Very weird.

 
          
A
noise behind her made her turn. Collins was slipping through the door. She
glanced around. "He's gone?"

           
"Gone when I got here. Did Dr.
Lathram say anything about giving the senator an injection?"

           
Collins checked the order sheet.
"No. Just the usual, Tylenol, two P-O every four hours P-R-N."

 
          
"No,
I mean himself, giving the senator an injection himself."

 
          
Collins's
wide face broke into a grin. "Dr. D.? Giving meds personally? No way.
That's what us RNs are for. Where'd you get an idea like that?"

           
"There's a puncture on his
thigh and he said something about Dr. Lathram giving him a shot." Collins
stepped over to the bed and examined his thigh.

 
          
"Hmmm.
Where'd that come from? Looks more like a tiny cut than a needle mark."

 
          
"He
said," Collins gave Senator Vincent's shoulder a gentle shake.

 
          
"Senator?
Are you awake?" He snorted and his eyes fluttered but didn't open.

 
          
"Okay,
Mom," he said.

 
          
Collins
grinned again. "You see? I'd sooner believe the Man in the Moon gave him
an injection than Dr. D. And besides, where's the syringe? Where's the
injection vial?" She had a point.

 
          
"You're
right." Gin turned and headed for the door. "I'm out of here. See you
Thursday." It was strange, it didn't add up, but Gin pushed it out of her
mind.

 
          
She
had other things to think about. Like her appointment with Congressman Allard
tomorrow morning. Another of
Duncan
's patients, by the way. She'd assisted on
his abdominal liposuction a while back.

 
          
And
if he didn't work out, she could come back to Senator Vincent.

 
          
She
hadn't realized it when she signed on here, but here was one of the perks of
working with
Duncan
, If they had juice and they wanted cosmetic surgery, Duncan Lathram was
the man to see.