The Society (22 page)

He stepped back from the table to allow the resident to take his place, then dramatically stripped off his gown and gloves and strode out of the OR, reveling in the gazes he knew were fixed on him.

Leaf was as talented a surgeon as he was flamboyant, and as handsome as he was talented. From his earliest days of awareness in grammar school, he knew he was special. Through his years as class president and all-state athlete, he had come to know that he was destined to do great things. Now, at forty-five, wealthy by most people’s standards and world renowned for his skill as a neurosurgeon, his remarkable life was becoming even more so.

Hub Health Care, the HMO he and three other physicians had started just six years ago, was on the verge of making a public offering. The moment the stock went public, Richard Leaf would instantly go from wealthy to rich. Hub Health’s money people were estimating that, for starters, each of the founders would increase his net worth by thirty to forty million—and that was a lowball projection.

Leaf showered. Then, breathing deeply just to keep himself in check over what his life held in store, he entered the busy main corridor of the hospital and headed for his office. Just two days ago, in about this very spot, he was leaving the OR when he literally collided with the library cart being pushed by Kristin O’Neill. Nothing—not the ugly salmon-colored volunteer’s jacket, not her conservative skirt and loose-fitting blouse, not the barrettes with which she controlled her reddish-blond hair, not her wire-rimmed glasses—could negate her natural beauty. As she presented herself, there were some who might pass her by without even noticing how rarely fine her features were, how sensual her movements, or how incredibly full her breasts, especially compared to her narrow waist. But that group would certainly not include Richard Leaf.

She was in her twenties and wore no wedding ring—no jewelry of any kind, in fact; not that adornment was needed on this woman. By the time they had laughed over the incident and had spoken a bit, she had accepted Richard’s invitation to coffee. His fantasies at that moment would have put a July Fourth fireworks display to shame. Over coffee he learned that she was home in Boston helping to care for her invalid mother while taking some time from a Hollywood acting career that was about to break through. The idea for her to do some volunteer work at the hospital had come from her mother, who had been a salmon-coated information lady for years before her diabetes and kidney failure made it impossible to continue.

By the time he had handed a twenty to the waitress for their six-dollar bill and waved off receiving any change, a rendezvous had been set at the Scandinavian Motor Inn south of the city. With Kristin’s gaze threatening to set his white coat on fire, Leaf went through information to call the manager of the hotel and book a room.

“It sounds like you do this often,” she said, her expression suggesting she might be even more intrigued if that were true.

“No way,” Leaf lied, unwilling to take any chances. “Taking out people’s brain tumors is my style. It just so happens that Maury Gross, the manager, is a former patient of mine. A few years ago he had a tumor the size of a golf ball. Couldn’t walk. Had trouble speaking. Now he runs and does the Sunday
Times
crossword in ink.”

“It must be really wonderful to be able to cure someone of cancer,” she sighed.

Eyes closed, Leaf stretched out on the king-size bed in room 181 of the Scandinavian Motor Inn and imagined what it would be like to see Kristin O’Neill ease open the door and step inside. The woman was perfect in every respect—and an actress to boot. It would be really something to have slept with her and then to have her become a big star. She had the looks, so it certainly seemed possible. He checked the time and then took the painkiller-and-tranquilizer combination that experience had taught would keep him from coming too soon.

The room was candlelit in exactly the way it had been for the other trysts he had arranged there. Champagne was chilling in a silver ice bucket on the desk. Velvety-voiced Morgana King was singing “A Taste of Honey” on his CD player. On the bureau, sandalwood incense was smoldering alongside an envelope containing a couple of tabs of ecstasy, just in case Kristin wanted it at some point. He surely didn’t need anything, even ecstasy. Of all the women he had ever slept with, this one was possibly the hottest. His marriage wasn’t in any trouble, and Cindy was certainly decent enough in bed, but she wasn’t nearly enough. John Kennedy had been quoted as saying that he got a terrible headache unless he had a woman every other day—or maybe it was every third? No matter. Kennedy was a remarkable, powerful man, and so was Richard Leaf. And for Kennedy, even Jackie wasn’t enough.

Leaf slipped his hand down his boxer briefs and gently massaged himself while he waited. Time passed, during which he thought about the night ahead but also reflected on the incredibly rapid rise of Hub Health. Exclusion was the key, he had told his partners when they were first starting out—careful screening of applicants and their lab work, and rejection for any reason of those likely to cost Hub significant sums in the short or long haul.
Preexisting condition
was their watchword. The finance people had told him that Hub stock absolutely couldn’t miss, and he was going to have a bundle of it.

At precisely the time they had agreed upon, there was a light knock on the door. Leaf’s lingering fear that the young beauty might not show instantly evaporated.

“Come in, it’s open,” he said, trying for a cadence and tone of voice that was something of a cross between Bill Clinton and Sting.

The door swung open. A man slipped into the room and closed the door quickly behind him. He was wearing a black motorcycle jacket and a baseball cap with the brim pulled low enough to obscure his eyes, and he was carrying a small orange pillow.

Leaf, hardened against panic by years in the neurosurgical OR and convinced that, whatever the situation, money could cure it, glared at the intruder.

“What the fuck is this? Where’s Kristin?”

“Kristin is back where I found her, turning tricks for rich, horny men like you.”

“So what is this, some sort of shakedown? How much do you want? Take what’s in my wallet, then get the fuck out of here.”

“What this is, you self-centered jerk, is payback time.”

“Wait . . . do I know you?”

The man merely shook his head.

“You do now,” he said. “That’s for sure, and I don’t think you’ll ever forget me.”

Calmly, he withdrew a pistol from his waistband and jammed it into the pillow.

“No! Please, wait. I can pay you anything—anything y—”

The three rapid shots, from eight feet, were deadly accurate. Heart, throat, forehead—straight up the line.

Leaf saw the hole materialize in the pillow and felt the scalding heat of the shots as they entered his body. But slumped back against the bloody pillow, his head twisted grotesquely to one side, he never saw the man extract a plain white business envelope and carefully set it beneath the palm of his right hand.

CHAPTER
17

EXCELSIUS HEALTH CANCER CENTER

Cancer
. The word, while carved into the granite archway identically to the other three words, and highlighted in gold like the others, stood out as if the others did not exist. In spite of herself, Grace Peng Davis paused on the sidewalk and stared up at the letters through a raw drizzle.

Sticks and stones can break my bones, but names can never hurt me. Well
, she thought viciously,
this one can.

It was Grace’s first day of chemotherapy for the cancerous nodule that Susan Hollister had removed from her breast. Dr. Max D’Antonio, the oncologist, had assured her that there was really no rush to begin the treatments, but both she and her husband wanted the tumor out and gone and any remaining vagabond cells blasted with poison as soon as was possible. IV Adriamycin and Cytoxan every three weeks, Dr. D’Antonio had told them—two drugs that were toxic to every cell in the body, but more so to those that were rapid multipliers, especially cancer cells. In between visits to the clinic, she would be taking oral medication, as well.

God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change,

Courage to change the things I can,

And the wisdom to know the difference.

Grace had been exposed to the Serenity Prayer at her first AA meeting more than a decade ago but had never paid it more than lip service until, with Dr. Will Grant’s help, she finally connected with people who helped her get honest with herself about her alcoholism. Now, although her life was in remarkable order, it wasn’t unusual for her to recite the prayer to herself every ten minutes when she needed to get through difficult situations.

God grant me the serenity . . .

Mark Davis took his wife’s arm and guided her into the building.

“You’re doing great,” he whispered.

They both knew how fearful she was and always had been of doctors and hospitals. And although the cancer center was a glittering, modern outpatient clinic, with comfortable furniture and dazzling artwork on the walls, it was more of a hospital than she would ever care to see.

Only Mark would ever fully appreciate how anxious she had been about having her surgery done by a doctor she didn’t even know. It was such a blessing that day to have run into Dr. Grant the way they did, and later such a terrible blow to learn that his license had been suspended because of drugs. But Dr. Hollister had helped soften the blow by being kind and patient with both Grace and Mark, and best of all, she unabashedly supported Dr. Grant’s claim that he was innocent.

The receptionist, a prim young Hispanic woman with
Carla
on her name tag, greeted her warmly, then handed her a clipboard with some forms attached.

“I already filled these out,” Grace said, “when I came here to meet Dr. D’Antonio.”

“Oh, I remember who you are,” the woman said, “but these aren’t our registration forms. They have to do with transferring your insurance from Steadfast Health to Excelsius Health.”

“Transferring my insurance?”

“I guess you hadn’t heard. Excelsius has taken over your insurance company. We were told that the change has been in the works for a long time, and that Steadfast Health had sent out a mailing.”

“We had heard there might be a change when we were initially sent here for Grace’s mammogram,” Mark said, “but we had no idea Steadfast Health had actually been taken over already, and we certainly didn’t get a mailing. You didn’t know anything about this, Grace, did you? . . . Grace?”

“Huh? . . . Oh, no. No, I didn’t know Steadfast Health had actually been taken over already. We had heard there might be a change.”

Grace, battling a sudden wave of anxiety, was unaware that she had used her husband’s exact words. At three that morning she had been awakened by a similar episode of panic, but after half an hour or so, she was able to fall back to sleep.

God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change . . .

She tried to ignore the perspiration in her groin and soaking into her dress beneath her arms. No big deal, she told herself. Dr. D’Antonio had given her medication to help her relax for her treatment. Phyllis, her AA sponsor, had assured her that taking the sedation was definitely the right thing to do. If this was as bad as her anxiety was going to get, she could handle it. Nobody told her getting chemotherapy was going to be pleasant.

“Well, that’s what we’ve been informed,” Carla was saying cheerfully. “As of today, Steadfast Health is part of Excelsius. We have lots of Steadfast Health clients here. All of them are being given the choice of switching to Excelsius or changing to another company. If you choose to go to another company, your chemotherapy will be turned over to whatever doctor your new HMO allows you to select.”

“Thank you,” Mark said.

They retreated to seats in the waiting area and filled in the form authorizing the transfer of their coverage to Excelsius.

“Good thing we checked into this last week,” Mark said. “I would have hated to have to change doctors. . . . Hon, are you all right? You don’t look good.”

“I’m fine, fine. Just a little apprehensive.”

“You should tell the doctor.”

“He already told me to expect this first day to be frightening.”

“I still think—”

“Mark, please! I know you mean well, but I just want to get this over with. Besides, they have a nurse practitioner in there or nearby while the drugs are going in. There’s absolutely nothing to worry about.”

Her husband, generally not at all demonstrative about his feelings, merely nodded that he understood and, after an appropriate pause, looked at his watch.

“You go ahead to work,” Grace said. “Phyllis will be here later on to take me home and fix dinner. I’m fine, honey, really. Don’t worry. Here, gimme a kiss for luck. Not one of those pecks on the lips; I want the wet, juicy kind you’re so good at. Mmmmm. Now, be gone. The students need you. I’ll call you when I get home.”

Grace watched as her husband hesitated at the doorway, then left for his office. Of all the unmerited gifts made possible by her sobriety, he was by far the greatest. She returned the clipboard to the receptionist. The worst thing about all this, she was thinking, was that she wasn’t the least bit sick when this whole nightmare started. Logically, she was grateful for the early detection of her cancer and the fact that the tumor was small and there was no evidence for spread. But emotionally, all she could think about was that she was feeling fine when she was called into the radiologist’s office for the bad news. No symptoms whatsover. How could anyone improve upon no symptoms?

“I know you’re feeling fine,” the radiologist, Dr. Newcomber, had said, “but trust me and this X-ray here, you’re not.”

Grace scanned the waiting area.
Who are all these people?
she wondered.
What’re their stories? How had they reacted the first time they heard the word
cancer
applied to them?