Godplayer (38 page)

After they’d climbed into the Porsche, Cassi asked Thomas if he felt well enough to drive. Thomas assured her that he was fine. Cassi reached up and pulled down her seat belt. As usual she had the urge to tell Thomas to do the same, but she thought better of it. She had the feeling that his emotions were so volatile, he would explode at the slightest frustration.

Thomas started the car and carefully backed out of the parking lot. After they’d passed through the automatic gate, Cassi asked how Dr. Ballantine had found Thomas so quickly.

“I called him during the night when I couldn’t find you,” said Thomas, stopping for a red light. “I had a feeling you might go to see him. I asked him to call me in my office if he heard from you.”

“Didn’t he think it was a little odd? What exactly did you say?”

The light changed and Thomas accelerated toward Storrow Drive. “I just told him you had another insulin reaction.”

Cassi considered her own behavior. She recognized that her actions would appear irrational, especially signing out of a hospital against medical advice when she had barely been stabilized. Then hiding from everyone.

As usual Thomas drove recklessly, and when they reached Storrow Drive Cassi braced herself against the door for the sharp left turn that would take them toward Weston. Instead Thomas swung the wheel to the right, and Cassi had to grab the dash to keep from falling against him. He must have turned out of habit, thought Cassi.

“Thomas,” she said. “We’re heading home rather than to Vickers.”

Thomas didn’t answer.

Cassi turned to look at him. He seemed to be holding the wheel in a death grip as the speedometer gradually inched upward. Cassi reached over and put her hand on his neck, massaging the tight muscles. She wanted to get him to calm down. She could sense that he was becoming enraged.

“Thomas, what is the matter?” asked Cassi, trying to keep her fear in check.

Thomas did not respond, driving the car as if he were an automaton. They rose up the ramp, banked, and merged into the multiple lanes of Interstate 93. At that time of the morning there was no outbound traffic, and Thomas let the car go.

Cassi turned toward him as much as her seat belt would allow. She let her hand trail down Thomas’s side, at a loss as to what to do. Her fingers hit something sharp in Thomas’s jacket pocket. Before he could react, Cassi reached in and pulled out an opened package of U500 insulin.

Thomas snatched the package away, returning it to his pocket.

Cassi turned and watched the road rush toward her in a bewildering blur. Her mind was racing as she began to understand the cause of her last insulin reaction. There could only be one reason for Thomas to have U500 insulin. It was a rarely used drug. He must have replaced her U100 insulin with the more concentrated drug, forcing her to give herself five times her normal dosage. It would have been easy enough to do, forcing a syringe through the sealed cap in the same way that she drew out her regular dosage. If it had not been for her glucose solution, she’d have been in a coma now, or maybe worse. And the hospital episode? She hadn’t been dreaming when she smelled the Yves St. Laurent cologne. But why?

Because she, like Robert, was analyzing the sudden death data. Suddenly it was clear that Thomas’s performance before they left the hospital had been a trick. With horror she realized that Ballantine must have thought she was the mentally troubled person, not Thomas.

Cassi felt the emergence of a new emotion: anger. For a moment it was directed almost as much at herself as at Thomas. How could she have been so blind?

Turning, she studied Thomas’s sharp profile, seeing it in a different light. His lips looked cruel and his unblinking eyes appeared deranged.

It was as if she were with a stranger ... a man whom she intuitively despised.

“You tried to kill me,” hissed Cassi, tightening her hands into fists.

Thomas laughed with such harshness that Cassi jumped.

“Such clairvoyance! I’m impressed. Did you really think the broken phones and your car not starting were coincidences?”

Cassi looked out at the blur of scenery. Desperately she tried to control her anger. She had to do something. The city was falling behind them.

“Of course I tried to kill you,” snapped Thomas. “Just like I got rid of Robert Seibert. Jesus Christ! What did you think I was going to do, sit and let you two destroy my life?”

Cassi’s head shot around.

“Look,” shouted Thomas, “all I want to do is surgery on people who deserve to live, not a bunch of mental defectives or people who are going to die of other illnesses. Medicine has to understand that our resources are limited. We can’t let worthy candidates wait while people with multiple sclerosis or gays with autoimmunal deficiencies take valuable beds and OR time.”

“Thomas,” said Cassi, trying to control her fury, “I want you to turn this car around immediately. Do you understand?”

Thomas stared at Cassi with unconcealed hatred. He smiled cruelly, “Did you really think I would go to some quack hospital?”

“It’s your only hope,” said Cassi, while she tried to tell herself that he was sick crazy. But all she felt was an overwhelming loathing.

“Shut up!” screamed Thomas, his eyes bulging, his skin flushed with anger.

“Psychiatrists are full of shit, and no one is going to sit in judgment of me. I’m the best goddamn cardiac surgeon in the country.”

Cassi could feel the irrational power of Thomas’s narcissistic rage. She had little doubt as to what was in store for her, especially since everyone thought she’d already given herself two overdoses of insulin.

Ahead, Cassi could see the Somerville exit rapidly approaching. She knew she had to do something. Despite the speed at which they were traveling, she reached across and grabbed the steering wheel, pulling the car sharply to the right, hoping to force them off the interstate.

Thomas struck out and slapped the side of Cassi’s head, throwing her forward with the force of his blow. She released her hold on the steering wheel to protect herself. Thomas, thinking she still had hold of the wheel, jerked it back with all his strength, and the car, which was already out of control, careened wildly to the left. Thomas desperately swung the wheel to the right and the Porsche skidded sideways, then rammed into the concrete abutment in a crescendo of broken glass, twisted metal, and blood.

CHAPTER 15

CASSANDRA COULD HEAR someone calling her name from a great distance. She tried to answer but couldn’t. With a great effort, she opened her eyes.

Joan Widiker’s concerned face emerged as if from a dense fog. Cassi blinked. Slowly glancing upward, she could see a tangle of IV bottles. To her left she heard the incessant beep of a cardiac monitor. She took a deep breath and felt a stab of pain.

“Don’t try to talk,” said Joan. “It may not feel like it, but you’re doing fine.”

“What happened?” whispered Cassi with great difficulty.

“You were in a car accident,” said Joan, smoothing back the hair from Cassi’s forehead. “Don’t try to talk.”

As if recalling a dream, Cassi remembered the nightmare ride with Thomas. She could remember her anger and grabbing the wheel. She had a vague memory of being slapped and then bracing herself against the dash.

But after that, it was as if a curtain had been dropped over the scene. It was blank.

“Where is Thomas?” said Cassi, struggling up in fear.

“He was hurt too,” said Joan, urging her to lie quietly.

Cassi suddenly knew that Thomas was dead.

“Thomas didn’t have his seat belt on,” said Joan.

Cassi hesitated, then said the word aloud. “Dead?” Joan nodded. Cassi let her head fall to the side. But as the tears poured down her cheeks, the memory of her last conversation with Thomas returned. She thought of Robert and all the others. Gripping Joan’s hand, she said, I thought I loved him, but thank God ...”

EPILOGUE

(six months later)

BALLANTINE PUSHED THROUGH the swinging door into the surgical lounge.

He’d finished his only case for the day and it hadn’t gone smoothly.

Perhaps it really was time to slow down. Yet he loved to operate. He loved the triumphant feeling that came at the end of a successful case.

Pouring himself a cup of steaming black coffee, he felt a hand on his shoulder. Turning, he found himself looking into the smiling face of George Sherman.

“You’ll never guess who I had dinner with last night,” said George.

Dr. Ballantine examined George’s worn face. Since Thomas’s death, the inpatient load was taking its toll on all the staff, but George was perhaps the most overworked. Under the pressure he had matured. Although he still had a ready smile and ready joke for his colleagues, he seemed increasingly thoughtful. But now he looked at Ballantine with the old roguish grin.

“So who did you have dinner with?” the chief asked.

“Cassandra Kingsley.”

Dr. Ballantine’s eyebrows lifted in a gesture of admiration. “Very good. How is that one-sided romance coming?”

“I think the opposition is weakening,” smiled George. I have her convinced to go down to the Caribbean come January. That would be wonderful. She really is a fabulous person.”

“How’s that eye of hers doing?” said Dr. Ballantine.

“Just fine. And every one of those bones healed flawlessly. She’s really got courage, especially getting back to work so fast. And she seems to be making quite a name for herself on Clarkson Two. One of the attendings told me she has all the makings of a chief resident.”

“Does she ever talk about Thomas?” asked Dr. Ballantine on a more serious note.

“On occasion. I have a feeling there is part of that story that no one but Cassi knows. She’s still confused as to what she should do, but personally I think she’s going to let it go.”

Dr. Ballantine sighed with relief. “God, I hope so. At our last meeting I thought I’d convinced her that making Thomas’s story public would do more harm than good. But I wasn’t sure.”

“She doesn’t want to hurt the hospital,” said George. “Her main point is that she thinks peer review doesn’t work. People like Thomas are allowed to go on destroying themselves and their patients because their colleagues won’t take action.”

“I know. At least I contacted the Drug Enforcement Administration and suggested they force the medical licensing board to contact them whenever a physician dies. That way no one can abuse a dead physician’s license.”

“That’s a good idea,” said George. “Did they do it?”

Dr. Ballantine shrugged. “I don’t know. To tell you the truth, I never followed up on it.”

“You know,” said George, “the thing about Thomas that bothers me the most is that he seemed so normal. But he must have been taking a lot of pills. I wonder how it got out of hand. I take a Valium now and then myself.”

“So do I,” said Ballantine. “But not every day like Thomas apparently did.”

“No, not every day,” admitted George, shaking his head. “You know I never could understand why he wouldn’t face the fact the whole department was going full-time. Maybe the pills did blunt his sense of reality. After that late-night meeting with the trustees, he could have written his own ticket. The money men were wild to keep him happy. Even if they did want him to give up an independent practice.”

“As good a surgeon as Thomas was,” said Dr. Ballantine, “he had trouble seeing beyond his own nose. He was like the subject of all those jokes. You know, the doctor who plays God.”

George was silent for a minute, thinking they all made decisions affecting their patients’ lives. “What about that triple valve replacement you mentioned last week,” George said, following his train of thought. “What have you decided to do?”

Ballantine took a careful sip of his coffee: “I’m not even going to present the case. The woman’s got questionable kidneys; she’s over sixty; and she’s been on welfare for years. Some of Thomas’s objections to our teaching cases were valid, and I don’t even want the committee to know about her. If that goddamn philosopher hears about this woman, he’ll probably insist we operate.”

George nodded, ostensibly agreeing. But in his mind he recognized they all played God to a degree, and he knew that was Cassi’s real concern. He’d promised her that when he became chief, which he’d already been guaranteed, he’d let such decision-making rest with the committee, including the philosopher.

George broke off from Ballantine and passed through the crowded lounge into the locker room. Passing by the phone he realized he felt more and more uncomfortable concerning Ballantine’s decision about the triple valve case. Abruptly he picked up the phone, called the operator, and put in a page for Rodney Stoddard.