The Children's Ward Page 4

  Abigail, six months old, slept through it in a corner of the room.

  For a time, after she knew what had happened, she was terrified. Afraid to sleep at night, afraid even more to show her anger in case she should fly into a rage, as her grandmother said, and hurt herself. When she was five and starting school, she heard for the first time about a murder, and was paralyzed with fear. Someone else could decide for you, that it was time you should die.

  But gradually, her fears passed.

  Gradually, she came to understand that what it really was…was escape.

  Now she waited in the dark.

  TUESDAY

  Sixteen

  “Ballard?” The X-ray department secretary consulted an appointment schedule. “For today, right?”

  The transportation orderly nodded, leaning over the counter and pointing to an entry. “There…Ballard, seven-thirty a.m.”

  “I thought you said an x-ray; she’s having a scan.”

  “All the same to me,” he replied.

  “There’s a big difference. Anyway, the technician isn’t here yet, so put her in the waiting room. She can watch TV.”

  “Whatever.”

  Abigail watched the morning news with the sound turned off; it was better that way. It also allowed her to listen for conversations of interest, although so far, with only the secretary and orderly in the office, the news might be more exciting.

  Complaints about the holiday work schedule, cafeteria food, and a doctor named Carter who ordered every single procedure stat…

  She yawned. As soon as this was over, she was going to go back to bed. It had taken a long time to get back to sleep last night.

  She didn’t feel any different this morning— except for being tired—but she thought she should feel something. If she’d been near death, shouldn’t she be…weaker?

  Every time her grandmother had a spell with her heart, it would be days before she could do more than sip tea and fan herself. That had been going on for as long as Abigail could remember and she expected that almost dying should be the same for everyone.

  She didn’t feel weak, though, nor did she think that she wanted any tea. If anything, she was ravenously hungry. She’d slept through breakfast but she had saved a corn muffin from dinner and she always hid a candy bar or two in her suitcase. It would hold her until lunch…

  The electronic doors opened and a man in a white lab coat walked purposefully up to the desk.

  “Oh, Dr. Carter,” the secretary smiled. “Can I help you?”

  “I need a stat CAT-scan on a patient of mine, up in 311.”

  Stat cat, Abigail thought, smiling to herself.

  “Well, it’ll be a least forty-five minutes; the technician isn’t here yet and we’ve got a patient waiting already.”

  From where she was sitting, Abigail could see the man stiffen.

  “Stat means immediately,” he said. “Where is the technician?”

  “Her car wouldn’t start this morning…I’m sure she’ll be here as soon as she can. But Dr. Fuller’s patient is already here, waiting, and…”

  “Dr. Fuller’s patient can continue to wait.” He looked around, spotting Abigail. “She’s obviously in no distress.”

  “I’ll have to call Dr. Fuller before I can put your patient first…I can’t…I’m not…”

  “My patient is on the way down,” he said, turning as the doors opened. “And now your technician is here.”

  The technician, a woman in her forties, winced when she saw the doctor. Then she attempted a smile.

  “Dr. Carter, good morning.”

  Carter was facing the technician and Abigail watched as the secretary made a gesture behind his back.

  “I need a stat…”

  The doors opened once again, and two nurses pushed a gurney into the room. All that was visible of the patient was a balding head. Neither of the nurses was smiling.

  “Okay.” Carter rubbed his hands together. “Let’s get moving.”

  Abigail watched as everyone crowded through a door into what she supposed was the room where the scans were done. They had apparently forgotten about her.

  She looked back at the television. The weather was on and she watched as the weatherman placed a black storm cloud on California.

  She could feel a headache building behind her eyes.

  Seventeen

  Alicia Vincent woke up angry.

  He was not going to get away with it. He had endangered their daughter’s life by taking her—for six months every year—to live so far away from medical help.

  He knew as well as she did that Tessi was not a healthy child, that she could take sick in the wink of an eye. Yet he persisted in living on that Godforsaken excuse for a ranch.

  The blinding anger that he had provoked yesterday had festered as she slept.

  It was time to act…past time.

  She tossed back the covers, anxious to get on with it. She reached for the phone and listened to the line click until the motel operator answered.

  “Long distance,” she said, “Los Angeles.”

  It was early yet, only eight, but Howard was often in his office early, wanting to always be a step ahead of everyone else.

  Howard Kraft was the attorney who had handled the divorce and who handled her affairs ever since then. He was everything that James Wolf was not: a brilliant, ambitious, ruthless man who knew how to get what he wanted.

  Their celebratory drink after the final divorce decree was awarded had led them to her apartment and bed, something she had wanted from the first day she saw him in court. His certain arrogance matched her own; he deferred to no one, not even the judge. And he got away with it.

  He had initially advised her against fighting the joint custody petition, reminding her of how often total freedom from responsibility for Tessi would be an advantage. Her position as publicity director for a banking conglomerate required a fair amount of travel and there were occasions when Howard’s wife went off to visit one relative or another.

  And, with more men demanding their parental rights, it was very possible that the judge would grant the petition no matter what the argument against it.

  Unless James Wolf could be proven to be an unfit parent.

  Which was exactly what Alicia intended to prove. Her fingers were actually shaking as she dialed Howard’s private office line.

  There was no answer. She hung up the phone.

  She would call again later, after she had a chance to talk to Tessi. The stories that Tessi had told her in the past had always just irritated her and, in fact, she hardly listened. But now she needed ammunition against James and so she would listen this time. Listen for the faintest hint that he had acted recklessly.

  This time she would teach him, once and for all, that it was not wise to cross her.

  Eighteen

  Midway through the CAT-scan, the patient, a fifty-three-year-old insurance salesman, stopped breathing.

  For a few moments, no one noticed. One of the nurses had gone back to the floor to finish morning report while the other was writing quickly as Dr. Carter listed a series of tests he wanted to be done.

  The radiologist had arrived and was standing, drinking a cup of coffee, watching the scan images on the monitor screen.

  The technician, mindful of the proximity of both the radiologist and the patient’s physician, was working swiftly and silently.

  Then Dr. Carter glanced absent-mindedly at his patient while searching his medical repertoire for any tests he might not have ordered yet. It took a second look before it registered that his patient was turning blue.

  Carter had made a career based on covering up his lack of skill as a doctor, ordering test after test to confirm his uncertain diagnoses, and relying on consultations to back him up. He knew, as he looked at his patient’s dusky color, that he was not a good man in a crisis.

  “Damn,” he said, “get the radiologist in here and call a code.”

  Following his gaze, the nurs
e’s first instinct was to go to the patient and start resuscitation. But Carter’s reputation was as a by-the-book doctor and one who did not tolerate a nurse taking the initiative. So she turned to follow his orders.

  “Damn,” Carter said again, crossing to the patient and praying that the man would start breathing again on his own. He searched for a carotid pulse and was unable to find it. He kept his fingers on the man’s neck, hoping that any second the radiologist would come through the door and take over.

  He looked over his shoulder at the door. No such luck.

  Gingerly, he tilted the patient’s head back, hyperextending the neck to clear an airway and leaned over, listening for breath sounds. Nothing.

  “God damn,” he swore, raising his voice. Where was everyone?

  He realized that he couldn’t wait any longer, that to do so would leave him wide open for a malpractice suit. He had to start CPR…

  Sweat was dripping off his forehead by the time they came to relieve him.

  “Let me take over, doctor,” a voice said.

  Gratefully, he stepped back from the table. Immediately the patient was surrounded by the emergency team who within seconds had intubated him, established intravenous lines and were administering the appropriate medications.

  Carter moved further back from the line of fire, leaning against the wall. He felt light-headed—he’d probably hyperventilated while breathing air into the patient—and more than a little shaky. His heart pounded.

  “Okay, he’s stable; let’s get him to ICU,” someone said.

  Carter closed his eyes, smiling faintly. He had done it, then. He had kept his patient alive until help had arrived. All those years since he’d practiced resuscitation techniques and he was still able to save a man’s life.

  The voices in the room faded…

  He became aware of a dull ache across his chest; he probably had pulled some muscles while doing the chest compressions. He was a little out of shape to be a hero, he thought ruefully.

  Well, the excitement was over and he had other patients to see. Opening his eyes, he saw that he was alone in the room. The door had been left open and a little girl watched him from across in the waiting room.

  He straightened up and took a step. Pain exploded in his chest with such intensity he was unable to cry out. Eyes wide in amazement, he fell to the floor.

  Across the hall, Abigail turned up the sound on the TV.

  Nineteen

  “What in the world?”

  Radiology was swarming with people. The crash cart—resembling a large mechanic’s tool chest but loaded with emergency medical equipment and supplies—was being pushed out of the CT room. Just in view was a shrouded figure on a gurney.

  Simon Harrington crossed the room toward them, his face grim.

  “What happened here?” Joshua asked when Simon reached them.

  “Jim Carter collapsed and died…no one knows for sure what happened. He was alone in the room and apparently he had a massive heart attack. He was dead when they found him.” Simon ran a hand through his graying hair. “I’ve got to call his wife…”

  “Where’s Abigail?” Quinn asked, looking around the department.

  “We sent her down to the lobby. Carter bumped her scan for his patient. Then this happened and I thought she’d be better off out of the line of fire, so to speak.”

  They watched in silence as an orderly pushed the gurney bearing Carter’s body past them and out the double doors. The members of the emergency team began to disperse as well, until they were alone in the department lobby.

  Simon frowned. “I’d better make that call.” He shook his head. “I’ve never gotten used to making these calls.”

  Twenty

  It was his worst nightmare: drawing blood from children. He looked in disbelief at the order slips. Three of them. Three kids with tiny, elusive veins. Three kids who would instinctively jerk their arms at the first sting of the needle. And all three of them in the same ward, eliminating any possibility that he’d have a chance to recover his sanity between sticks.

  For a moment he contemplated switching the order slips with one of the other techs, something he had done on other occasions with limited success, but decided against it. The supervisors tended to become a little annoyed with unauthorized work changes, which ultimately resulted in retaliation by scheduling; if he got caught, he could count on working every holiday and weekend for at least three months.

  Grabbing the venipuncture tray, he started out the laboratory door. He would stick the kids first, get it over with. Maybe he’d get lucky and hit the veins on the first try. Maybe.

  Aguilar was the nurse on duty at the ward and he breathed a sigh of relief; she was very good at holding a struggling child still.

  “Delano, White, and Vincent,” he said, reading the lab slips.

  Aguilar handed him a clipboard with a dated sheet which indicated scheduled lab work. He wrote his initials in the box beside three of the names. There was a fourth child, Ballard, but no morning lab work had been ordered, thank God. Four would kill him for sure.

  “I’ll be with you in a minute,” Aguilar said, phone in hand.

  “I’ll wait,” he said, and sat on a corner of the desk.

  The boy had good veins and the needle slid in effortlessly. Dark blood began to fill the first tube.

  “How are you doing?” he said to the boy, whose eyes were closed tightly.

  A slight nod. “Okay.” Perspiration beaded his forehead.

  “Almost done,” he lied, grabbing the second of five tubes. He did not like the kid’s color at all. The last thing he needed was for the kid to pass out on him. It would be a lousy beginning to a long day.

  The third tube and the blood was flowing slower. With his free hand he tugged the tourniquet a little tighter.

  “Pump your fist,” he instructed the boy. Better.

  The boy’s skin was cool and clammy as he started the fourth tube. He could see the pulse throbbing in the kid’s thin neck.

  “Almost done,” he said again, looking over his shoulder for the nurse, who had apparently left the ward. The fourth child had returned and she was sitting on her bed, watching him.

  He looked back at the boy. The last tube. “Hold on,” he said under his breath. He could feel the girl watching him.

  Finally the last tube was filled. He extracted the needle and held pressure on the puncture wound.

  “Done,” he said, leaning closer to the boy.

  “Piece of cake,” the kid said, but he did not open his eyes.

  The blond girl surprised him by offering no resistance as he maneuvered the needle in search of her vein. She lay as if dead, staring up at the ceiling, while he probed under her skin.

  The morning was getting worse by leaps and bounds. Where in the world was the kid’s vein? It didn’t help that he was drawing from the left side of the bed and was facing the fourth child— Ballard?—who watched him through narrowed eyes.

  Just as he was ready to pull out the needle and try another spot he found it; a gentle thrust and he was in the vein. Blood swirled into the tube.

  At least this was a small draw, two tubes. And he’d be two down, one to go. A few more minutes and he’d be out of the children’s ward.

  He looked at the girl’s face. Very pretty, delicate features, striking in spite of her blank expression. A heartbreaker, for sure.

  “Finis,” he said, certain that a child who looked like this one did would appreciate his choice of words.

  No response. Either she had not heard him or she chose, as had every beautiful female he had ever known in his life, to ignore him.

  His luck did not hold. The third child began to cry before he even unwrapped the venipuncture needle.

  “No, no…” she whimpered pathetically.

  “Just a little stick and you won’t feel a thing.” He was suddenly very tired. This was too much.

  “I’m gonna be sick,” she cried and began to gag.

  “No, you
won’t,” he said.

  She leaned over the bed and vomited on his shoes.

  He finally managed to draw the blood with Aguilar’s help. He could smell his shoes which did not make him happy, so he was not as gentle as he might have been. The kid cried through the entire procedure.

  “Fun and games in the children’s ward,” he said when he was done.

  Aguilar was soothing the little girl and did not answer.

  He grabbed the tray and turned to leave, glancing in the direction of the fourth child. He could swear that her eyes had not left him since she returned to the ward. There were no words to express how glad he was that he didn’t have to stick her, too.

  She smiled at him.

  Twenty-one

  Abigail pretended to be asleep. She turned onto her side, facing away from the others. She could hear Tessi sniffling behind her, still upset about having her blood taken, and she would have liked to comfort the other child, but she needed time to think about what had happened while it was still fresh in her mind.

  She wasn’t even sure what had happened. Sitting in the waiting room in Radiology, she had been angry at the doctor, Carter, who had disregarded her so easily. He should not have done that. She was there before he and his patient arrived, and she had an appointment, making her doubly entitled to being first.

  Then the headache had started.

  The oddest thing—when she closed her eyes, it was like she was in the room with those people. Details were a little hazy but she could make out who was who. The sounds were distorted, too. It was sort of like listening to a conversation through a wall; she could hear just enough to keep her interest.

  At first she just observed. She was able, somehow, to move about the room and she circled the smaller room where the CT images were reconstructed on a video monitor. The air was cushiony and warm and it took some effort to pass through it.