The Children's Ward Read online

  Inside the chamber, Russell massaged his upper thighs.

  He felt it again.

  A tingling in his legs.

  He had felt it the first time yesterday after he’d been transferred out of ICU. His legs had grown increasingly warm and heavy and then the tingling started along the instep of his right foot. In minutes both legs were fully involved.

  He hadn’t said anything to anyone, not wanting to even voice his hopes.

  But now he thought he could feel the pressure of his fingers on his skin. He wanted to try and move his legs but he was afraid. Afraid to try and fail.

  The chamber door opened and the technician stuck his head in.

  “That’s it,” he said. “Ready to come back to the world?”

  It wasn’t a world that Russell had found to be a fair one, but it was one that he suddenly thought he could lick.

  Sixty-five

  “David, you haven’t even started to get ready.” Tiffany stood in the doorway to their bedroom, gazing at her husband in disbelief. He was sitting on the edge of the bed, still dressed in his bathrobe, reading the newspaper.

  “In a minute,” he said, not looking up.

  “We’re due at the hospital at eleven,” she reminded him.

  “Don’t worry about it.” He turned the page, folding the paper noisily.

  “I don’t want to be late.”

  Now he looked up. “You won’t be late, all right? Just give me a minute in peace to finish this article and I’ll be right with you.”

  She turned on her heel and walked out, slamming the door behind her.

  At times like this she could not remember what she had ever seen in David White.

  She walked down the stairs carefully, trying to avert her eyes from the blackened walls.

  The building was structurally sound, they had told her, with the fire damage limited to the surface of the walls. It looked much worse than it was.

  It almost broke her heart to see the house like this.

  Although it was well before noon, she went straight to the bar in the den for an orange juice and vodka. She used a little more vodka than usual but she needed it.

  She was thinking of getting a divorce.

  It was funny how things were beginning to come clear to her. David’s high-handed, insolent manner had somehow always seemed to her to be directed at other people, people he assumed to be inferior. Now she noticed that a lot of it was directed at her. He apparently had forgotten that the money which supplied his superiority was hers. That all of his indulgences were financed by the generosity of his wife.

  Since Courtney had gone into the hospital, Tiffany had become aware of the fact that David considered visits to his child an inconvenience.

  It was for Courtney’s sake that she hadn’t left him before, following the sordid affair he’d had with the red-haired waitress from the country club. Because she’d felt that Courtney needed a father.

  She was coming to realize that, as things stood now, Courtney had a father in name only.

  It wasn’t fair to Courtney.

  Tiffany wanted more for both of them. More of a husband, more of a father. Maybe David could, if forced, change enough to meet their needs, but she wasn’t sure that she wanted him, changed or not.

  She finished her drink and poured another.

  After the meeting at the hospital, she would ask one of the doctors whether they thought it would be bad for Courtney if her parents were to separate. She also needed to get advice on how to tell her daughter about what had happened to the house.

  “Don’t forget,” she said to herself, lifting the glass to her lips.

  “Don’t forget what?”

  David had come into the room and she turned, sloshing a little of her drink out of the glass. He looked pointedly at his watch.

  “A little anesthetic so early in the morning?”

  She did not respond. Instead she tossed back the drink and banged the glass on the bar.

  She prayed that the doctor would tell her what she wanted to hear.

  Sixty-six

  Courtney could not keep her eyes open any longer.

  The ward was quiet except for the sound of the rain being blown against the window.

  Exhausted, she turned onto her stomach, burying her head under the pillow. It felt like the room was revolving, first in one direction, then the other. Behind her closed eyes, specks of light danced in dizzying patterns.

  She hovered on the edge of sleep, aware of a heaviness in her arms and legs.

  Whimpering softly in her throat, she crossed into the dream.

  Her parents were walking to the car, her mother’s heels clicking on the paved driveway.

  It was raining but neither of them seemed to be aware of it.

  She could tell that her mother was angry.

  Her father unlocked the passenger door, pulling it open with a sweeping bow.

  Her mother got into the car without speaking, and yanked the door closed.

  Her father laughed.

  “Don’t worry, Tiff, I’ll get you to the hospital on time,” he said when he was in the car.

  “How, by driving eighty miles an hour in this rain?”

  “I’m a good driver.” He turned the key in the ignition and the car roared to life. He gunned the engine, grinning at her. “And this is a good car.”

  “Just don’t get us killed.”

  “Such little faith,” he said sadly, and pulled away, tires sliding on the wet pavement.

  Sheets of rain poured over the windshield.

  “The wipers,” her mother said.

  “What?”

  “It’s raining. Turn on the windshield wipers.”

  He turned them on.

  They moved slowly back and forth.

  “Isn’t there a faster speed?” her mother asked after a minute.

  “Oh, faster? I thought since you wanted me to drive slower, you’d want them slower too.”

  “Don’t be an idiot.” She glared at him.

  “There’s no pleasing you.” He turned the wipers to a faster speed.

  They had reached the turn-off to the hospital.

  Her father accelerated.

  “What are you doing?”

  “It’s ten to eleven. If I don’t speed up a little, we will be late.”

  The car drifted a little in the turns, the right tires near the shoulder of the road.

  Her father reached over and turned on the heater, pushing the blower up to full blast.

  “A little chilly in here,” he said.

  The windows started to fog.

  “Damn it,” her mother said, leaning forward to turn the heater to defrost.

  Her father knocked her mother’s hand out of the way.

  “David!” her mother screamed.

  The car began to spin in the road.

  “Courtney.”

  Someone was shaking her.

  She opened her eyes. The dream was over.

  “It’s time for your appointment with Dr. Campbell.”

  She sat up in bed, still groggy. The nurse put slippers on her feet and helped her into her robe.

  She noticed that Abigail was looking at her strangely.

  Sixty-seven

  The car had stopped moving.

  Tiffany leaned forward, wiping the fog off the windshield with the arm of her coat.

  “David.” She shook his arm. “We’re sideways in the middle of the road. We’ve got to move before somebody hits us.”

  He looked at her blankly.

  She released her seatbelt and opened the door, then walked quickly around to the driver’s side.

  “Get over,” she said urgently.

  He moved.

  She got into the car, adjusted the seat, and put the car in reverse, backing into the correct lane. Then she inched forward, slowly gathering speed, unwilling to chance another spin.

  Tiffany turned the fan to defrost.

  When the windows had cleared she allowed herself t
o sit back in the seat and took a deep breath.

  It was over, she told herself.

  Her marriage was over.

  She would not stay married to a man who had so little respect for her life as to play foolish games on a rain-slick road.

  She cast a glance in his direction.

  He was sitting there, expressionless.

  She wanted to yell at him, ask him if he knew how close they had come—how close he had taken them—to death. They could have gone off the road entirely. The car could have rolled and burned. Another car could have struck them as they sat helpless in the road.

  She nurtured her anger. She would need it to get her through what had to be done. She could not afford to vent it on him now.

  After the meeting she would go to the house and pack. Her things and Courtney’s. She would stay in a motel until she could find a suitable apartment.

  Funny. It didn’t bother her to think of leaving the house. She had put so much work into it…

  Now she was willing to leave it to him, sign over the deed.

  The hospital parking lot was just ahead. She slowed and made the turn.

  Sixty-eight

  “Dr. Logan?”

  Quinn turned to see Ian Campbell walking toward her.

  “Good morning, Dr. Campbell.”

  “Morning. Are you on your way to the parents’ meeting? Mind if I tag along?”

  “Not at all, but I thought you were seeing Courtney White this morning.”

  “Well, I did see her in a manner of speaking. She was so tired she couldn’t keep her eyes open.

  She’s asleep in my office.”

  “Lucky Courtney. This morning I’d have done anything to have stayed in bed.”

  “Yes…I understand you had a rough day yesterday.”

  She looked at him. “Word gets around.”

  “People like to talk…”

  “And what are they saying?” They reached the conference room door.

  “Have lunch with me and I’ll tell you.”

  “All right,” she said.

  Joshua looked up as they entered.

  “I see we’re all here now,” he said, looking around the table. “I’ve spoken to each of you in private before but I wanted to introduce Dr. Logan,” his eyes met hers, “and Dr. Campbell to you and to give you an opportunity to ask any questions you might have before we go into the second week of the program.” With another glance at Quinn he continued: “Mr. Delano has been out of town for a few days and has had less of a chance to keep up to date, so I’ll start with him. Mr. Delano?”

  Frank Delano leaned forward. “I haven’t even seen Russell since I got back…and the last thing I heard from my sister was that he’d spent a night in ICU. How is he?”

  Joshua inclined his head in Quinn’s direction. “Dr. Logan?”

  She was a little surprised that he wanted her to answer; he hadn’t indicated that she was to do more than observe the session.

  “He’s doing very well. I’m sure your sister told you that he was only in ICU for observation after he fainted in…” she hesitated slightly “. . . physical therapy. He’s back in the ward and in all honesty, he’s shown some improvement since then. He hasn’t complained of pain—”

  “That’s not unusual for Russell,” Joshua interjected.

  Quinn nodded, continuing, “He hasn’t required any medication, and his attitude…” her eyes flicked to Joshua, “. . . has improved.”

  Delano looked from Quinn to Joshua. “Are there any signs that he might…?” He was unable to finish the question.

  “As far as objective findings, no. But subjectively I am hopeful.” Joshua’s smile was genuine. “I saw him this morning in the hyperbaric chamber and he’s still optimistic. He might surprise us yet.”

  “Dr. Fuller, if I may?” Ian addressed Frank Delano. “I’m Dr. Campbell and I’m conducting the psychiatric consultations for the program. I haven’t had a chance to talk with Russell yet—I believe that’s scheduled for this afternoon—but I’ve reviewed his chart and I’ve worked with similar cases in England. In these cases, where the post-traumatic symptoms are more severe than the physiological findings would suggest, there have been some fairly dramatic recoveries.”

  “But he hasn’t walked since the accident.”

  “That’s not to say that he won’t.” He looked around the table. “I don’t want to take any more of the group’s time, I know the other parents must be eager to discuss their own children…but I’d be glad to meet with you after I see your son.”

  “Thank you, Dr. Campbell.” Joshua consulted his notes. “Russell will continue to receive hyperbaric treatments. He also will be undergoing isotonic exercise therapy using a device they’ve had a certain amount of success with back in Ohio. We’ve also scheduled an electromyogram for determining muscle function.”

  Frank Delano nodded, a faint glimmer of hope in his eyes.

  “Now,” Joshua said. Alicia Vincent and James Wolf sat on opposite sides of the conference table. “About Tessi.”

  Quinn had been watching Alicia Vincent. Everything about the woman suggested barely repressed hostility. Even the way she was sitting—back straight and stiff and shoulders squared—was indicative of rage.

  It was directed at James Wolf.

  Joshua was detailing Tessi’s condition and Alicia was listening intently, but not as a mother concerned for her child. Alicia, Quinn felt, was looking for ammunition.

  Quinn thought about what Ian had told her about Tessi; that the child would not be healthy as long as the conflict between her parents continued. She wondered what Alicia Vincent would say if someone told her that?

  Would she be willing to put Tessi’s well-being before her thirst for…vengeance?

  Alicia sat, hands balled into white-knuckled fists, apparently oblivious to her lacquered nails digging into her palms.

  Quinn doubted that anything short of death…Alicia’s or James Wolf’s…would end the bitterness.

  Poor Tessi, Quinn thought.

  “All of Courtney’s blood cultures were negative. She is asymptomatic at this time. She will have an electroencephalogram, but as you know, all of her previous studies have been negative for abnormalities.” Joshua looked up from his notes. “Do you have anything to add, Dr. Logan?”

  “Not at this time.”

  “What you’re saying,” David White said, “is that you still don’t know what’s causing her attacks.”

  “Not exactly. All of the seizures are directly related to a febrile episode. It is not uncommon for children to seizure when they have a significantly high body temperature. But we don’t know why she keeps running fevers.”

  “It seems to me that at these prices—”

  “Dr. Logan,” Tiffany White interrupted her husband, “I wanted to thank you. The nurse told me that you were there when Courtney had her last attack.”

  Quinn smiled lightly. “I’m supposed to be there.”

  “She said you were very gentle with Courtney.” Tiffany looked on the verge of tears. “That means a lot to me.”

  “It’s too bad Abigail’s grandmother couldn’t be here,” Quinn said to Joshua after the parents had left. “I’d like to talk to her.”

  “Why don’t you call her in Baltimore?” Joshua gathered his notes. “Her phone number’s in the chart.”

  “That’s an excellent idea.”

  Ian, who had left the room to talk to Frank Delano in the hall, stood in the doorway. “Ready for lunch?”

  “Yes, I…” she looked at Joshua, “I’ll talk to you later.”

  Sixty-nine

  “Nobody can get into this system,” the engineer said flatly.

  “Somebody has.” Simon Harrington spoke with quiet certainty. “What I want you to do is make sure they can’t do it again.”

  “Look, the problems you’re talking about are penny ante things that can be explained away as human error. Somebody made a mistake, didn’t want to admit it, so all of a sudden
there are mysterious glitches in the system.”

  “Several somebodies have come to me about the problem. Why go to the acting administrator about a ‘penny ante’ problem and call attention to yourself, if in fact the people using the system are the problem?” Simon shook his head. “It’s not reasonable.”

  “I don’t know what to tell you, Dr. Harrington. I really don’t.”

  “I’m not placing fault. I’m not blaming anyone for any of this…yet. But I want you to make sure that no vital functions can be accessed by computer—”

  “You mean take the life support systems offline?”

  “That’s exactly what I mean. All of the equipment can be operated independent of the computer. I know it’ll take a little manpower on your part to do it, but I want those units out of the matrix. And I want it done before something else happens.”

  “You’re the boss,” the engineer said. “If you authorize the overtime…”

  “I will.”

  “Then we’ll get on it.”

  Simon nodded, satisfied.

  Regardless of what the engineer thought, Simon believed that there was someone who not only had gotten into the system but who was selectively sabotaging various operations of the hospital. He had instructed all of his department managers to report any incident, no matter how trivial it might seem on the surface, that involved the computer system.

  What he was seeing was a pattern of tampering. From something as simple as having every one of the computer-run time clocks break down at the same time, to destroying essential financial reports, to potentially life-threatening errors in anesthesia concentration rates, programs were being altered and sometimes eliminated.

  He hated to think what would happen to the patients who were reliant on machines if those machines were affected. Computer-set and monitored parameters suddenly erased, there was no telling what might happen.

  A glitch?

  Did glitches show malice?