Extreme Measures (9 page)

“You don’t have to say that.”

“It’s true.… Well, at least, it
might
be true.”

“I wonder what in the hell they’re doing in there,” Eric said.

“Two-on-one with Grendel?”

“God, what a prospect! If so, my money’s on Teagarden. Say, listen, does the name
Caduceus
mean anything to you?”

“Aside from the obvious?”

“Aside from the obvious.”

Reed Marshall shrugged and shook his head. “No bells,” he said. “Why?”

“Nothing. Maybe later we can—”

The door to the conference room opened and Dr. Joe Silver stepped out. A ferretlike man in his late forties, Silver stood no more than five foot five in the two-inch lifts that, rumor had it, he wore even to bed. He had been the chief of emergency services for five or six years, and ran his office in an autocratic manner that would have made Napoleon proud. He was knowledgeable enough, but he had no sense of people’s needs or how to deal with them straightforwardly. And over their years of association with the man, neither Eric nor Reed Marshall had been able to develop anything approaching a warm relationship with him.

“Gentlemen,” Silver said, “we apologize for keeping you waiting. If you’ll both come in please.…”

Both?
Eric wondered why the committee would do something so insensitive. Surely, after three months, and interview upon interview, it would have been more appropriate to speak with the losing candidate alone. He thought back to the eerie call. The caller, whoever he—or she—was, seemed so confident
of being able to affect the selection process.
Was Joe Silver Caduceus?
It was so like the man to play control games with people.

The committee was seated at a massive hardwood table, with Sara Teagarden at the head. She was a large, androgynous woman with close-cropped auburn hair and gold-rimmed granny glasses. That day she was dressed in a royal-blue suit with a large pearl-and-diamond brooch on the lapel. It was an outfit that somehow made her appear even more intimidating than usual. As she welcomed them Eric tried unsuccessfully to match the cadence of her voice with that of the caller.

Joining the heads of surgery and emergency medicine on the search committee was Dr. Haven Darden, the chief of medicine. The highly publicized demise of Craig Worrell, the former associate director of emergency services, had bathed White Memorial in an intensely unfavorable light, and the high-powered makeup of the search committee underscored the hospital’s determination to put the whole matter to rest. Silver, Teagarden, Darden—Eric had not faced a panel such as this one since his internship application days. He wondered if the triumvirate was about to take the WMH pyramid philosophy to the limit by grilling the two of them in a medical quiz-down.

As if reading Eric’s mind, Haven Darden said, “Now don’t get worried, you two. We’re not about to start firing clinical problems at you.”

Of the three committee members, Darden, a tropical medicine specialist, was the one Eric felt was least in his corner. Like Reed Marshall, he had come straight up through the Harvard system. Unlike Marshall, though, he had risen from abject poverty. His life, from his illegitimate birth in a ghetto in Port-au-Prince, Haiti, through his escape to the United States and his subsequent adoption by a wealthy black physician, had been chronicled in various Harvard publications. There was a rumor that somewhere not far
down the line, Darden was slated to become the first black dean in the history of the university. His detractors, and there were a number, pointed to his inability to make any major research contributions to his field. But his reputation for clinical brilliance kept all but the most vociferous enemies at bay, and residents often jockeyed their schedules to be on the wards when Darden visited.

Darden’s English was clipped and precise, with just the hint of an accent. And unless he could change his speech radically, Eric decided, there was no way he could have been the caller. He struggled to force thoughts of Caduceus from his mind and to concentrate on the business at hand. In a minute or two the committee’s decision would be known, and the whole bizarre affair would most likely be exposed as a hoax.

“Gentlemen,” Sara Teagarden began, “we don’t wish to drag this business out any more than you do. However, I am sure you know that we are trying to recoup some pretty heavy losses in the public’s confidence in our hospital, and in particular in our emergency service. I would like Dr. Silver to explain how and why we have arrived at our decision. But first, I would like to be certain that both of you are still interested in becoming his associate. Dr. Marshall?”

“I’m still in.”

“And Dr. Najarian?”

“Yes.”

“Very well. Dr. Silver, will you please explain our current position.”

Eric gripped the edge of his chair as Joe Silver straightened his notes and adjusted his reading glasses.

“Reed, Eric,” he began, “I first want to congratulate each of you for the impression you’ve made on this committee, and also to thank you on behalf of President Mortensen, the trustees, and all of White Memorial for the marvelous years of service you’ve rendered here. As you know, the previous associate
E.R. director brought us more ill will and bad ink than any hundred other doctors who have ever worked here combined.…”

Despite the tension of the moment, Eric and Reed exchanged amused glances. Craig Worrell had gone to the well of his perversion once too often, and had been videotaped soliciting sex from a young woman emergency-room patient in exchange for a hefty narcotics prescription. He was arrested soon after in his BMW in the hospital garage as he urged the undercover policewoman to hurry up and get on with her part of the deal so that he could return to duty. The entire Boston press and TV corps seemed to have been present for the bust. A month later, while free on bail, Worrell vanished. Since then there had been rumored sightings of the man, but nothing more.

“… Well,” Silver continued, “we three are—understandably, I think you’ll agree—reluctant to make a final choice if there is the slightest uncertainty. We know that you expected a decision today, and we appreciate that this may seem cruel, but we have voted to, ah, put off making our selection for perhaps another two or three weeks. If this decision puts either of you in a position where you need to withdraw your application, please tell us at this time.”

Silver’s pronouncement hit Eric like an uppercut.
No decision
—the one option he hadn’t considered. But the committee
had
made a definite choice. At least, that was what Silver himself had intimated not two days before.
What in the hell is going on?

Eric stared at his chief and then, one at a time, at the others on the committee. Their faces seemed plastic, unreal.

“… Eric? Excuse me, Eric?”

“Huh? Oh, sorry.”

Silver looked at him oddly.

“Eric, Reed here has indicated that he is willing to put matters on hold for two or three more weeks.
We’re waiting to hear whether or not you can do the same.”

Eric battled to bring his thoughts together.

“Of course,” he heard himself say. “It’s fine with me to wait.”

The plastic faces grinned approvingly.

“Excellent,” Sara Teagarden said. “Dr. Darden, have you any comments?”

The internist looked first at Reed, and then at Eric.

“I would only beg you gentlemen’s forgiveness and understanding in this matter. If it were possible, I believe we would choose to keep both of you. However, things being as they are, and with the trustees and press watching our every move, there are a few more avenues we wish to explore, a few more inquiries to make. If either of you has problems or questions, I am sure any of us would be happy to meet with you.”

Without further comment, Sara Teagarden hoisted herself to her feet, shook hands with the candidates, and adjourned the meeting.

“You okay, Eric?” Marshall asked after the others had left. “You look green.”

This is bullshit. Absolute, insane bullshit
, Eric wanted to holler. Instead he just shrugged.

“Sure, I’m fine,” he said. “I … I had just prepared myself for a decision today one way or the other.”

“Me too. I ran into Teagarden just yesterday, and she made it sound as if it was all over. I even had the feeling from things she said that you had gotten the job. I didn’t want to say so out there, but it’s the truth. Well, listen, I’m due back at the E.R., so I’ll see you later. It’s only another couple of weeks.” He punched Eric lightly on the arm. “You keep your nose clean now, ya hear?”

“You too,” Eric said. “You never know when big brother—or big, big sister—may be watching.”

Eric stood motionless as Marshall hurried off. The two of them had never spent any real time together
outside of the hospital. Now, as their time at WMH was nearing an end, he wished they had.

Susan, the receptionist, was watching Eric as he approached.

“How’d it go?” she asked.

“It didn’t. Nothing happened.”

“Well, committees are like that. I’ve taken minutes at some meetings, and you wouldn’t believe how little a group of M.D.’s can get done.”

“You said it. Well, see you in a couple of weeks.”

“Wait,” she said. “I have something for you.”

She handed him a plain envelope. D
R
. E
RIC
N
AJARIAN
was printed on it in a meticulous hand. Eric’s knee-jerk reaction was that the envelope was a note from her, but he quickly realized from her expression that it was not.

“A candy striper dropped this off for you a little while ago,” Susan said. “She was real cute, but a little too young for you, I think.”

Eric was too distracted to pick up the woman’s cue. He fingered the envelope for a moment.

“Thanks,” he mumbled, and headed off.

“I’m here all day,” Susan said.

Eric turned into the main corridor of the hospital, and then leaned against a wall and tore the envelope open. The note inside was printed in the same hand as was his name.

W
EAR THIS, AND WE WILL KNOW
was all it said.

Wedged in one corner of the envelope was something metallic.

His fingers stiff and cold, Eric pulled out the object and held it so that no passerby could see. It was a stickpin bearing a black oval stone, possibly obsidian. Inlaid in the stone was a finely tooled gold caduceus.

APRIL 9

“N
ame?”

“Laura Enders. I already told you that.”

“No, ma’am. I have
your
name. I need the name of the guy who’s missing.”

“Oh. It’s Scott Enders. But he’s also called himself Scott Shollander.”

“A.k.a. Shollander,” the desk sergeant mumbled as he pecked out the name on his typewriter.

Laura was just a few minutes into her session with the Boston policeman, but already she wished she could leave. Although he hadn’t introduced himself, his name tag read
SGT. THOS
. C
AMPBELL
. He was a red-faced, potbellied man, probably in his late fifties, obviously burnt out and totally unenthusiastic about his job. And the more she listened to her own answers to his questions, the more she knew there was no chance he would be of any help.

“Last seen?”

“Well, actually, I haven’t seen him for five months.”

“Five … months …” the officer said as he typed. For all the inflection in his voice, he might have just written
five days
. His manner made it clear that over his years on the force, he had seen and heard everything—which was to say, he had seen and heard enough. “I guess it doesn’t make much difference what he was wearing when last seen,” he said.

“No,” Laura said, her sarcasm ill-disguised. “I think you can leave that line blank.”

Boston Police Headquarters was about as far from the clear, crisp beauty of Little Cayman as she could ever have imagined a place could be. The floor in the old building was filthy, and the dim lighting succeeded only in keeping the stains on the walls from being definable. But most unpleasant of all was the smell. Odors of people—hundreds of them, it seemed—hung in the air like a miasma.

It was just half past four in the afternoon of a somber, drizzly day. A day before, almost to the minute, Laura had left Communigistics and taken her cab to the D.C. address Neil Harten had given her. She’d been unable to find anyone in the small apartment complex who had ever seen or heard of Scott. She’d then checked into a downtown hotel and called Neil Harten at home to find out if he, or anyone he knew, had ever visited Scott at the apartment. Not surprisingly, his answer was no.

Finally, after toying with the idea of trying to track down the landlord of the building, she had decided she would get a good night’s sleep and then stop by the closest police station to file a missing-person report. After that, she would head to Boston to begin her search in earnest.

“Recent photo?”

“Pardon?”

“Do you have a recent photo?”

“Oh. Only this one.”

She handed over the photograph of herself and
Scott. After barely a glance, the officer set it on his desk.