Still troubled by his meeting with Thomas, Ballantine decided to drop down to OR to see if he could find George. Sherman may have lacked Thomas’s genius, but he was a consistently excellent surgeon and an evenhanded and unflappable administrator. The house staff admired him, and Ballantine was increasingly considering backing George as chief when he himself stepped down. For a long time, the trustees had pushed to get Thomas to switch to full-time so he would be eligible for the post, but now Ballantine had doubts even if Kingsley would agree.
   Unfortunately George was still in surgery. Ballantine was surprised and hoped there was no trouble. He knew George had had only one seven-thirty case that morning. The fact that he was still in the OR in the middle of the afternoon was not auspicious.
   Ballantine decided to use the time to visit Cassi on Clarkson Two. Even if he wasn’t totally sanguine about her husband’s future, Ballantine wanted to offer what reassurance he could. Despite the years Dr. Ballantine had been on the staff of the Boston Memorial, he’d never once set foot on Clarkson Two, and when he pushed through the heavy fire door, he felt as if he’d entered another world.
   In a lot of ways it did not seem like a hospital at all. It had more the feeling of a second-class hotel. As he passed the main lounge, he could hear someone plunking atonally on the piano, as well as some mindless television game show. There were none of the sounds that he traditionally associated with the hospital, like the hiss of a cycling respirator or the characteristic clink of IV bottles. Perhaps the thing that made him the most uncomfortable was that everyone was dressed in street clothes. Dr. Ballantine could not be sure who was a patient and who was on staff. He wanted to find Cassi but was afraid of approaching the wrong person.
   The only place he could be sure of knowing who was who was the nurses’ station. Dr. Ballantine walked to the counter.
   “Can I help you?” asked a tall, elegant black woman whose name tag said simply, Roxane.
   “I’m looking for Dr. Cassidy,” said Dr. Ballantine self-consciously.
   Before Roxane could respond, Cassi’s head appeared around the door to the chart room.
   “Dr. Ballantine. What a surprise!” Cassi stood up.
   Ballantine joined her, again admiring her fragile beauty. Thomas must be crazy to spend so many nights in the hospital, he mused.
   “Can I talk to you for a moment?” asked Ballantine.
   “Of course. Would you like to go to my office?”
   “Here’s fine,” said Ballantine, indicating the empty room.
   Cassi pushed some of the charts away. “I’ve been writing summary notes on my patients for the other doctors to use while I’m in for my eye surgery.”
   Ballantine nodded. “The reason I stopped down was to tell you in person that I’ve already spoken with Thomas. We had a very good talk. I feel he’s been pushing it a bit, and he admitted a small reliance on Dexedrine to keep him awake, but he pretty well convinced me that he only took the pain-killers for his migraine headaches.”
   Cassi didn’t reply. She was certain Thomas hadn’t had a migraine since he was in his teens.
   “Well,” said Ballantine with forced joviality. “You get your eye taken care of and don’t worry anymore about your husband. He’s even offered to have his prescription roster audited.” He stood up and patted Cassi on the shoulder.
   Cassi wanted desperately to share Dr. Ballantine’s optimism. But he had not seen Thomas’s pupils or his staggering gait. And the chief was not the recipient of his unpredictable moods.
   “I hope you’re right,” said Cassi with a sigh.
   “Of course I’m right,” said Dr. Ballantine, annoyed that his pep talk hadn’t worked. He started to leave.
   “And you didn’t mention our conversation,” Cassi added, seeing Ballantine was becoming impatient.
   “Of course not. Anyway, Thomas’s jealousy makes it obvious he adores you. And with good reason.” Ballantine smiled.
   “Thanks for coming down,” said Cassi.
   “Don’t mention it,” said Ballantine, waving. He headed down toward the fire door, glad to be leaving Clarkson Two. He had never understood why anybody would take up psychiatry.
   Getting on the elevator, Ballantine shook his head. He hated getting mixed up with family problems. Here he had been trying to help both Kingsleys. He’d sought out Cassi in order to put her mind at ease. But she hadn’t seemed willing to listen. For the first time he began to question Cassi’s objectivity.
   Getting off the elevator, Ballantine decided to see if George was out of the OR.
   He found Sherman surrounded by house staff in the recovery room. When George caught the chief’s eye, he excused himself and followed Ballantine out into the hall.
   “I had a disturbing conversation with Kingsley’s wife this morning,” Ballantine said, getting straight to the point. “I thought she had wanted to see me to apologize about the incident last night. But that wasn’t it. She was worried that Thomas might be abusing drugs.”
   George opened his mouth to reply, then hesitated. The residents had just been describing Kingsley’s behavior in the OR that morning before George himself had taken over. If he told the chief that would mean real trouble for Kingsley. And it was always possible that Thomas had just drunk too much the night before, upset as he obviously was after the fight. George decided to keep his thoughts to himself for the time being.
   “Did you believe Cassi?” he asked.
   “I’m not sure. I spoke with Thomas, who had some very good answers, but even I have found his temper unusually erratic.” Ballantine sighed. “You always said you didn’t care about being chief of service, but even if Kingsley agrees to come full-time, he may not be right for the department when we are done reorganizing. He certainly opposes the new patients we’re scheduling on the teaching service.”
   “Yes,” said George. “And I can’t see Thomas accepting the idea of free surgery for the mentally retarded in order to train new teams of vascular surgeons.”
   “His point of view isn’t necessarily wrong. These new expensive procedures should be made available first to the patients with the best chances for long-term survival. But practically speaking, the residents rarely get such cases. And as far as the hospital favoring patients most valuable to society, who’s to judge? As you said, George, we’re just physicians, not God.”
   “Maybe he’ll calm down,” said George. “If our plans go through, we certainly will be needing him on the teaching staff.”
   “Let’s hope,” said Ballantine. “I’ve suggested he take a vacation with his wife. By the way, I assume his accusations were pure paranoia as far as you’re concerned.”
   “Unfortunately yes. But I’ll tell you, if she ever gave me a chance, I’d still fight for her. Aside from those amazing looks, she’s one of the most caring women I’ve ever met.”
   “Just don’t upset our genius any more than you have to,” said Ballantine with a laugh. “In the meantime, do you think I should review Thomas’s prescriptions?”
   “How can it hurt? But there are other ways doctors can get hold of drugs,” said George, thinking of Thomas’s collapse in the OR.
   “Let’s just hope he takes his vacation soon and comes back his old self.”
   “Right,” said George, though he personally had not been that fond of Thomas in happier days.

Nine

   Cassi was in a state of shock. She couldn’t believe the change that had come over Thomas. At around five o’clock he’d called her saying his surgery for that evening had been canceled and that he was free. He then offered to drive her home in the Porsche, saying she should leave her car at the hospital.
   For the first time in months, dinner was a pleasant affair. Thomas had suddenly become his old charming self, the man Cassi had married. He tolerated Patricia’s usual complaints with easy humor and was openly loving and affectionate toward Cassi.
   Cassi was infinitely pleased although a little confused. It was hard to believe that Thomas had forgotten the wrenching events of the previous evening, but she watched in amazement as he hurried his mother back to her apartment and solicitously poured Cassi a Kahlua. He fixed himself a cognac. They settled on the oval couch in front of the fire.
   “I got a call from Dr. Obermeyer,” he said, sipping his drink. “But by the time I called him back he’d left for the day. What’s happening about your eye?”
   “I saw him today. He said that since my vision hasn’t cleared I must have the surgery.”
   “When?” Thomas’s voice was mellow. He was swirling his cognac.
   “As soon as possible,” said Cassi hesitantly.
   Thomas absorbed the news with apparent equanimity, and Cassi continued. “I guess Dr. Obermeyer was trying to reach you because he scheduled me for the day after tomorrow. Unless, of course, you object.”
   “Object?” asked Thomas. “Why would I object? Your eyesight is far too important to take chances with.”
   Cassi let out a sigh of relief. She had been so concerned about Thomas’s response she hadn’t realized she was holding her breath.
   “Even though I know it’s a minor operation, I’m still frightened to death.”
   Thomas leaned over and put his arm around her. “Of course you’re scared. It’s a natural reaction. But Martin Obermeyer is the best. You couldn’t be in better hands.”
   “I know,” said Cassi, with a weak smile.
   “And I made a decision this afternoon,” Thomas said holding her tighter. “As soon as Obermeyer gives you the green light, we’ll take a vacation. Some place like the Caribbean. Ballantine convinced me that I need some time off, and what better time could there be than while you’re recuperating. What do you say?”
   “I say that sounds wonderful.” She turned her face up to kiss him as the phone rang.
   Thomas got up to answer it. She hoped he wasn’t being called back to the hospital.
   “Seibert,” said Thomas into the phone. “Nice to hear your voice.”
   Cassi leaned forward and carefully set her glass on the coffee table. Robert had never called her at home. This was just the kind of interruption that could throw Thomas into a frenzy.
   But he was saying calmly, “She’s right here, Robert. No, it’s not too late.”
   With a smile he handed the phone to Cassi.
   “I hope it’s all right that I called you at home,” said Robert, “but I managed to sneak up to pathology and look at Jeoffry Washington’s vein sections. After I got back to my room, I remembered where I’d seen such precipitates before. I had been doing the post on a man killed in an industrial accident. He had spilled concentrated sodium fluoride onto his lap. Even though he’d rinsed himself off, enough of the substance had been absorbed to prove fatal. He had the same kind of precipitation in his veins.”
   Cassi lowered her voice, turning her back to Thomas. She did not want him to know she was still following the SSD study. “But sodium fluoride isn’t used as a medication.”
   “It is on teeth,” said Robert.
   “But it’s not given internally,” Cassi whispered. “And certainly not by IV.”
   “That’s true,” said Robert. “But let me tell you how this accident victim died. He had grand mal seizures, and finally acute cardiac arrhythmia. Sound familiar?”
   Cassi knew that six patients in the SSD series had died with the same symptoms, but she didn’t say anything. Sodium fluoride wasn’t the only thing that could cause them, and there was no sense jumping to conclusions.
   “As soon as I get back in the lab,” said Robert, “I’ll be able to analyze these precipitates. I’ll find out if they are sodium fluoride. If they are, you know what that means, don’t you?”
   “I have an idea,” said Cassi reluctantly.
   “It means murder,” said Robert.
   “What was that all about?” asked Thomas when Cassi had rejoined him on the couch. “Does Robert have some new brainstorm about his SSD series?” To Cassi’s surprise Thomas only seemed curious, not upset. She decided it was safe to tell him a little about Robert’s progress.
   “He’s still working on it,” she said. “He’d begun to collate the data just before he was admitted to the hospital. He got a computer printout that showed some rather interesting results.”
   “Like what?” asked Thomas.
   “Oh, any number of possibilities,” Cassi said evasively. “He can’t rule out anything. I mean, all sorts of things can happen in hospitals. Remember those poor people in New Jersey who were given curare?” Cassi laughed nervously.
   “Surely he doesn’t suspect murder?” said Thomas.
   “No, no,” said Cassi, sorry she said so much. “He just noticed an odd precipitate at the last autopsy that he wanted to track through the data.” Thomas nodded and appeared to be thinking. Hoping to restore his good humor, Cassi added, “Robert really appreciated your intervening on his behalf.”
   “I know,” said Thomas, suddenly smiling. “I didn’t do it for his benefit, but if he insists on seeing it that way, it’s fine with me. Now I think we should go to bed.”
   As he tenderly guided her upstairs, Cassi wasn’t sure just what she read in his extraordinary blue eyes. She shivered, not entirely sure if it was with pleasurable expectation.

Ten

   Cassi had not been a hospital inpatient since college. Now with medical school and internship behind her, it was a very different experience, just as Robert had suggested. Knowledge of all that could happen made the process far more frightening. Since she’d ridden into the hospital with Thomas, she was there far too early to be admitted. In fact, she’d been told she would have to wait until ten before the proper clerks were available. When Cassi protested that people were admitted all night long through the emergency room, the secretary just repeated that Cassi had to come back at ten.
   After spending three unproductive hours in the library, much too nervous to concentrate on anything more demanding than Psychology Today, Cassi went back to admitting. The personnel had changed, although their attitude hadn’t. Instead of smoothing the way through the admitting procedure, they seemed intent on making it as harrowing as possible, as if it were a rite of passage. Now Cassi was informed that she had no hospital card, and without one she could not be admitted. A disinterested clerk finally told her to go to the ID office on the third floor.
   Thirty minutes later, armed with a new ID which looked suspiciously like a credit card, Cassi returned to admitting. There she was confronted with another seemingly insurmountable problem. Since she used her maiden name, Cassidy, in the hospital because it was the name on her medical degree, and since Thomas had taken out her health insurance under Kingsley, the secretary claimed they needed her marriage certificate. Cassi said she didn’t have it. It wasn’t something she’d imagined she’d need to be admitted to the hospital, and surely they could just call Thomas’s office and get it straightened out. The clerk insisted the computer had to have the certificate. She was only the machine’s handmaiden, or so she said. This impasse was finally solved by the admitting supervisor who somehow got the computer to accept the information. Finally Cassi was assigned a room on the seventeenth floor, and a pleasant woman in a green smock, with a badge that said MEMORIAL VOLUNTEER, escorted Cassi upstairs.
   But not to seventeen. First Cassi was taken to the second floor for a chest X ray. She said she had just had one six weeks ago during a routine physical and did not want another. X ray claimed anesthesia would not anesthetize anyone who was not X-rayed, and it took Cassi another hour to get the chief of anesthesia to call Obermeyer, who in turn called Jackson, the chief of radiology. After Jackson checked Cassi’s old film, he called Obermeyer back, who called back the chief of anesthesia, who called back the radiology clerk to say that Cassi didn’t need another chest film.
   The rest of Cassi’s admission went more smoothly, including the visit to the lab for standard blood and urine analysis. Finally Cassi was deposited in a nondescript light blue hospital room with two beds. Her roommate was sixty-one and had a bandage over her left eye.
   “Mary Sullivan’s the name,” said the woman after Cassi had introduced herself. She looked older than her sixty-one years because she wasn’t wearing her dentures.
   Cassi wondered what kind of surgery the woman had had on her eye.
   “Retina fell off,” said Mary, as if noting Cassi’s interest. “They had to take the eye out and glue it back on with a laser beam.”
   Cassi laughed in spite of herself. “I don’t think they took your eye out,” she said.
   “Sure did. In fact, when they first took my bandage off I saw double and thought they’d put it back in crooked.”
   Cassi wasn’t about to argue. She unpacked her things, carefully storing her insulin and syringes in the drawer of her nightstand. She would take her normal injection that evening, but after that she was not to medicate herself until she was cleared to do so by her internist, Dr. Mclnery.
   Cassi changed into pajamas. It seemed a silly thing to do at that time of day, but she knew why it was a hospital rule. Putting the patients into bedclothes psychologically encouraged them to submit to the hospital routine. Cassi could feel the change herself. She was now a patient.
   After all her years at the hospital, she was amazed at how uncomfortable she felt without the status of her white coat. Just leaving her assigned room made her feel uneasy, as if she were possibly doing something wrong. And when she emerged on the eighteenth floor to visit Robert, she felt as if she were an intruder.
   There was no answer when she knocked on 1847. Quietly she pushed open the door. Robert was flat on his back, snoring gently. At the corner of his mouth was a single drop of partially dried blood. Cassi went alongside the bed and gazed at him for a few moments. It was obvious he was still sleeping off his anesthesia. Like a true professional, Cassi checked the IV. It was dripping smoothly. Cassi kissed the end of her finger and touched it to his forehead. On her way to the door, she noticed a pile of computer printouts. She went over and glanced at the first page. As she expected it was the data from the SSD study. For a moment she considered taking it with her, but the thought of Thomas’s finding it in her room made her hesitate. She’d read it with Robert later.
   Besides, it she were to take her friend’s new theory seriously, it was not the sort of evidence she cared to have in her room the night before an operation.

   Thomas opened the door to his waiting room and crossed to the inner office. He nodded a greeting to the patients and mentally cursed the architect for not providing a separate entrance. He’d prefer to be able to get to his office unseen. Doris smiled as he approached but didn’t leave her seat. After the episode the day before, she felt a little gun-shy. She handed him his messages.
   Inside his office, Thomas changed to the white coat he liked to wear when he saw his patients. He felt it encouraged not just respect but obedience. Sitting at his desk, he ran quickly through the multitude of phone calls until he got to Cassi’s. He stopped and stared at the pink slip. Room 1740. Thomas frowned; it was a semiprivate directly opposite the nurses’ station.
   Snatching the phone off the hook, Thomas put in a call to the director of admissions, Grace Peabody.
   “Miss Peabody,” said Thomas with irritation. “I’ve just learned that my wife has been admitted to a semiprivate. I really wanted her to have her own room.”
   “I understand, but we are a little crowded right now, and she was classified as a semi-emergency.”
   “Well, I’m sure you can find her a private room since I feel it’s important. If not, I’ll be happy to call the hospital director.”
   “I’ll do the best I can, Dr. Kingsley,” said Miss Peabody with irritation.
   “You do that,” said Thomas and slammed the phone down.
   “Damn!” He hated the pea-brained bureaucrats who were running the hospital these days. They seemed intent on creating maximum inconvenience. He had trouble imagining how anyone could be so shortsighted not to give the wife of Memorial’s most famous surgeon a private room.
   Glancing at the schedule that Doris had placed on his desk, Thomas massaged his temples. His head had begun to pound.
   Hesitating only briefly, he yanked open the second drawer. After three bypasses and with twelve office patients on the agenda, he deserved a little help. He got out one of his peach-colored tablets and gulped it down. Then he pressed the intercom button and told Doris to send in the first appointment.
   Office hours went better than Thomas had anticipated. Out of the twelve patients there were two postop visits that required no more than ten minutes each. Of the other ten, Thomas signed up five bypass cases and one valve replacement. The other four patients weren’t operative and should not have been sent to Thomas in the first place. He got rid of them quickly.
   After signing several letters, Thomas called Miss Peabody back.
   “How does room 1752 sound?” asked Miss Peabody haughtily.
   Room 1752 was a private corner room at the end of the corridor. Its windows faced west and north with a fine view of the Charles River. It was perfect, and Thomas said so. Miss Peabody hung up without saying good-bye.
   Thomas changed back to his suit coat and, after telling Doris he’d see her later, left for the Scherington Building. He made a brief stop in X ray to see some films before going to visit Cassi.
   When he reached seventeen, he was surprised to find his wife still in 1740. He pushed in without knocking.
   “Why haven’t you moved?” he demanded.
   “Moved?” asked Cassi, confused. She’d been talking with Mary Sullivan about having children.
   “I made arrangements for you to have a private room,” said Thomas irritably.
   “I don’t need a private room, Thomas. I’ve been enjoying Mary’s company.”
   Cassi tried to introduce Thomas, but he was already pressing the call button.
   “My wife is going to be treated properly,” said Thomas, glancing down the hall to see where the nursing staff was hiding out. “If any of these supposedly indispensable hospital administrators have a member of their family in this hospital, they always make sure they have a private room.”
   Thomas succeeded in causing an uproar and acutely embarrassing his wife. She had not wanted to bother the nurses when she was feeling well, but for almost a half hour, the entire staff was kept busy moving Cassi to her new room.
   “There,” said Thomas finally. “This is much better.”
   Cassi had to admit the room was more cheerful. From her position in bed she could see the wintry sun touching the horizon. While she hadn’t liked all the fuss, she was touched by Thomas’s apparent concern.
   “Now I have some good news,” he said, sitting on the edge of the bed. “I talked with Martin Obermeyer, and he said you should feel fine in a week for sure. So I went ahead and reserved a room in a small hotel on the beach in Martinique. How does that sound?”
   “That sounds wonderful,” said Cassi. The idea of a vacation with just the two of them was something to look forward to even if for some reason it didn’t work out.
   There was a knock at the partially opened door, and Joan Widiker peered around the edge.
   “Come in,” said Cassi, and introduced her to Thomas.
   “I’m pleased to meet you,” said Joan. “Cassi has spoken of you often.”
   “Joan is a third-year psychiatry resident,” explained Cassi. “She’s been a big help to me, especially in building up my confidence.”
   “It’s nice to meet you,” said Thomas, feeling an instant antipathy. He could tell she was one of those women who wore their femininity up front like a badge of privilege.
   “I’m sorry to barge in like this,” said Joan, sensing she was interrupting. “I really just stopped by to tell Cassi that all her patients are being well taken care of. They all wished you the best, Cassi. Even Colonel Bentworth. It’s the strangest thing,” laughed Joan. “Your having a medical problem seemed to have had a therapeutically beneficial effect on them all. Maybe all psychiatrists should have surgery once in a while.”
   Cassi laughed, watching her husband straighten his coat.
   “I’ll come back another time,” he said. “I’ve got rounds.” Turning back to Cassi he gave her a kiss. “I’ll see you in the morning before surgery. Everything is going to be fine. Just get a good night’s sleep.”
   “I can’t stay either,” admitted Joan after he left. “I have another consult on the medical floor. I hope I didn’t chase your husband away.”
   “Thomas is just being wonderful,” beamed Cassi, eager to share the good news. “He’s been so considerate and supportive. We’re even going on a vacation. I guess I was wrong about the extent of his drug taking.”
   Joan questioned Cassi’s objectivity, remembering the degree of her dependency on Thomas. But she kept her thoughts to herself and just told Cassi how glad she was that things were working out well. Wishing her all the best, Joan departed.
   For a while Cassi lay in her bed watching the sky change from pale orange to a silvery violet. She wasn’t sure why Thomas was being so nice to her. But whatever the reason, Cassi was infinitely thankful.
   As the sky finally became dark, Cassi began to wonder how Robert was doing. She didn’t want to call in case he was still asleep. Instead she thought she’d run up there and see for herself.
   The stairwell was conveniently opposite her room, and Cassi climbed quickly to the eighteenth floor. Robert’s door was closed. She knocked quietly.
   A sleepy voice told her to come in.
   Robert was awake but still groggy.
   In response to Cassi’s question, he assured her that he had never felt better. His only complaint was that his mouth felt like a hockey game had been played in it.
   “Have you eaten?” asked Cassi. She noticed the computer printout had been moved to his night table.
   “Are you kidding?” asked Robert. He held up his arm with his IV. “Liquid penicillin diet for this guy.”
   “I’m having my surgery in the morning,” said Cassi.
   “You’re going to love it,” said Robert, his eyelids resisting his attempts to keep them open.
   Cassi smiled, squeezed his free hand, and left.

   The pain was so intense Thomas almost cried out. He’d stumbled against the antique trunk Doris kept at the foot of her bed. He was searching for his underwear in the dim light. Deciding he didn’t care if he did wake her up, he switched on the lamp. No wonder he hadn’t been able to find his shorts. She’d thrown them all the way across the room, where they had caught on one of the knobs on her bureau.
   After finding all his clothes, Thomas switched off the light and tiptoed into the living room, dressing rapidly. Being as quiet as possible, he let himself out. When he reached the street, he checked his watch. It was just before 1:00 A.M.
   He went directly to the surgical locker room, took off the clothes he’d just put on, and donned a scrub suit. Walking down the corridor, he paused outside the one OR that was in use. He tied on a mask and pushed through the door. The anesthesiologist told Thomas that the patient had suffered a dissecting aneurysm following a catheterization attempt that afternoon.
   One of the staff abdominal surgeons was the attending on the case. Thomas went up behind him.
   “Tough case?” asked Thomas, trying to see into the incision.
   The doctor turned around and recognized Thomas. “Awful. We haven’t determined yet how far up the aneurysm goes. May extend into the chest. If it does, you’d be a Godsend. Will you be available?”
   “Sure,” said Thomas. “I’ll probably catch a little sleep in the locker room. Give me a call if you need me.”
   He left the OR and wandered back down the hall to the surgical lounge. Three nurses who’d just finished a case were taking a break there. Thomas waved at them and continued on to the locker room.

   Cassi’s evening had passed pleasantly enough. She’d given herself her insulin, eaten a tasteless dinner, showered, and watched a little television. She’d tried to read her psychiatry journal but finally had given up, realizing she could not concentrate. At ten o’clock she’d taken her sleeping pill, but an hour later she was wide awake trying to analyze the consequences of Robert’s findings. If there really was sodium fluoride in Jeoffry Washington’s vein, then someone in the hospital was a murderer. Given the fact that she would be coming back from the OR tomorrow groggy and helpless, it was not surprising the thought kept her from sleeping.
   She was restlessly turning from side to side in the dark when she heard a sound. She wasn’t positive but she thought it had been the door.
   Cassi lay on her side, holding her breath. There were no more noises, but she felt a presence as if she were no longer alone in the room. She wanted to roll over and look, but she felt irrationally terrified. Then she heard a very definite noise. It sounded like a glass object touching her night table. Someone was standing directly behind her.
   Breaking the paralysis her terror engendered took every ounce of mental strength Cassi possessed. But she forced herself to turn toward the door.
   She gave a muffled cry of fright as she found herself staring at a shadowed figure in white. Her hand shot out and flipped on her bedside reading lamp.
   “My God! You startled me!” said George Sherman, pressing a hand to his chest in a theatrical demonstration of distress. “Cassi, you’ve just taken ten years off my life.”
   Cassi saw a huge bouquet of dark red roses in a vase on her night table. Attached to the side was a white envelope with “Cassi” written on it.
   “I’m sorry. I guess we scared each other,” said Cassi. “I had trouble falling asleep. I heard you come in.”
   “Well, I wish you’d said something. I expected you’d be asleep and didn’t want to wake you.”
   “Are the beautiful roses for me?”
   “Yes, I thought I’d be through much earlier, but I got tied up at a meeting until a few minutes ago. I’d ordered these flowers this afternoon and wanted to be sure you got them.”
   Cassi smiled. “That was so kind of you.”
   “I heard you were to be operated on in the morning. I hope everything goes well.” He suddenly seemed to realize she was sitting up in her nightgown. He reddened, whispered a fast goodnight, and beat a hasty retreat.
   Cassi smiled in spite of herself. The vision of him knocking her wine into her lap came back to her. She detached the envelope from the roses and slipped out the card. “All the best from a secret admirer.” Cassi laughed. George could be so corny. At the same time she could understand his reluctance to sign his name after the scene Thomas had pulled at Ballantine’s.
   Two hours later Cassi was still wide awake. In desperation she threw back the covers and slid out of the bed. Her robe was draped over the chair, and she pulled it on, thinking maybe she’d see if Robert was awake.
   Talking to him might finally calm her down enough to sleep.
   If Cassi had felt out of place walking the hospital dressed as a patient that afternoon, now she felt positively delinquent. The corridors were deserted, and within the stairwell there wasn’t a sound. Cassi hurried up to Robert’s room hoping no one in authority would spot her and send her back to seventeen.
   She ducked inside the darkened room. The only light came from the bathroom whose door was slightly open.
   Cassi could not see Robert but she could hear his regular breathing. Silently moving over next to the bed, she got a glimpse of his face; he was still fast asleep.
   She was about to leave when she again noticed the computer printout on the night stand. As quietly as possible she picked it up. Then she moved her hand blindly over the surface of the table to search for the pencil she’d seen that afternoon. Her fingers found a water glass, then a wristwatch, and finally a pen.
   Retreating to the bathroom, Cassi tore a blank sheet from the printout. Pressing against the edge of the sink she wrote: “Couldn’t fall asleep. Borrowed the SSD material. Statistics always knock me out. Love, Cassi.”
   When she came out of the lighted bathroom, Cassi found it even harder to see as she made her way back to the night stand. Feeling her way, she propped her note on the water glass and was about to leave when the door slowly swung open.
   Suppressing a cry of fright, Cassi nearly collided with a figure coming into the room. “My God, what are you doing here?” she whispered. Some of the computer papers slipped from her hands.
   Thomas, still holding the door, motioned for Cassi to be quiet. Light from the corridor fell on Robert’s face, but he did not stir. Convinced he was not going to wake up, Thomas bent to help Cassi gather her papers.
   As they stood up, Cassi whispered again, “What on earth are you doing here?”
   In answer, Thomas silently guided her out into the hall, pulling the door shut behind them. “Why aren’t you asleep?” he said crossly. “You’ve got surgery in the morning! I stopped by your room to make sure everything was in order only to find an empty bed. It wasn’t hard to guess where you might be.”
   “I’m flattered you came to see me,” whispered Cassi with a smile.
   “This is not a joking matter,” said Thomas sternly.
   “You’re supposed to be asleep. What are you doing up here at two A.M.?”
   Cassi held up the computer sheets. “I couldn’t fall asleep so I thought I’d be industrious.”
   “This is ridiculous,” said Thomas, taking Cassi’s arm and leading her back to the stairs. “You should have been asleep hours ago!”
   “The sleeping pill didn’t work,” explained Cassi as they went downstairs.
   “Then you’re supposed to ask for another. My word, Cassi. You should know that.”
   Outside her room, Cassi stopped and looked up at Thomas. “I’m sorry. You’re right. I wasn’t thinking.”
   “What’s done is done,” said Thomas. “You get into bed. I’ll get you another pill.”
   For a moment Cassi watched Thomas resolutely walk down the corridor toward the nurses’ station. Then she turned into her room. Putting the SSD data on her night table, she tossed her robe onto the chair and kicked off her slippers. With Thomas in charge she felt more secure.
   When he returned with the pill, he stood by the bed watching as she swallowed it. Then, half-teasing, he opened her mouth and pretended to search inside to see if it was gone.
   “That’s a violation of privacy,” said Cassi, pulling her face away.
   “Children must be treated like children,” he laughed.
   He picked up the printout, carried it over to the bureau, and dumped it into a lower drawer. “No more of this stuff tonight. You’re going to sleep.”
   Thomas pulled the chair over to the bed, switched off the reading light, and took Cassi’s hand.
   He told Cassi he wanted her to relax and think about their upcoming vacation. Quietly he described the untouched sands, the crystal water, and the warm tropical sunshine.
   Cassi listened, enjoying the images. Soon she felt a peace settle over her. With Thomas there she could relax. Consciously she could feel the sleeping pill begin to work, and she realized that she was falling asleep.

   Robert was caught in the netherworld between sleep and consciousness. He’d been having a terrifying dream: he was imprisoned between two walls that were relentlessly closing in on him. The space where he stood became smaller and smaller. He could no longer breathe.
   Desperately he pulled himself awake. The entrapping walls were gone. The dream was over, but the awful sense of suffocation was still there. It was as if the room had been sucked dry of its air.
   In panic he tried to sit up, but his body would not obey. Flailing his arms in terror, he thrashed around looking for the call button. Then his hand touched someone standing silently in the dark. He had help!
   “Thank God,” he gasped, recognizing his visitor. “Something’s wrong. Help me. I need air! Help me, I’m suffocating!”
   Robert’s visitor pushed Robert back onto the bed so roughly the empty syringe in his hand almost dropped to the floor. Robert again reached out, grabbing the man’s jacket. His legs kicked at the bed rails setting up a metallic clamor. He tried to scream, but his voice came out muffled and incoherent. Hoping to silence Robert before anyone came to investigate, the man leaned over to cover his mouth. Robert’s knee flew up and thumped the man on the chin, snapping his teeth on the tip of his tongue.
   Enraged by the pain, the man leaned his entire weight on the hand clamped over Robert’s face, pushing his head deep into the pillow. For a few minutes more Robert’s legs jerked and twitched. Then he lay still. The man straightened up, removing his hand slowly as if he expected the boy to struggle anew. But Robert was no longer breathing; his face was almost black in the dim light.
   The man felt drained. Trying not to think, he went into the bathroom and rinsed the blood out of his mouth. Always before when he dispatched a patient, he had known he was doing the right thing. He gave life; he took life. But death was only administered to further the larger good.
   The man remembered the first time he had been responsible for a patient’s death. He had never doubted it was the right thing to do. It had been many years ago, back when he was a junior resident on thoracic surgery. A crisis had arisen in the intensive care unit.
   All the patients had developed complications. None could be discharged, and all elective cardiac surgery in the hospital had come to a halt. Every day at rounds the chief resident Barney Kaufman went from bed to bed to see if anyone was ready to be transferred, but no one was. And each day, they stopped last by a patient Barney had labeled Frank Gork. A shower of emboli from a calcified heart valve had been loosed during surgery and Frank Gork, formally Frank Segelman, had been left brain-dead. He’d been on the unit for over a month. The fact that he was still alive, in the sense that his heart was beating and his kidneys were making urine, was a tribute to the nursing staff.
   One afternoon Kaufman looked down at Frank. “Mr. Gork, we all love you, but would you consider checking out of this hotel? I know it’s not the food that’s keeping you here.”
   Everyone snickered but the man who had continued to stare into Frank’s empty face. Later that night, the man had gone into the busy intensive care unit and walked up to Frank Gork with a syringe full of potassium chloride. Within seconds Frank’s regular cardiac rhythm degenerated with T waves peaking, and then flattening out. It had been the man himself who called the code, but the team only made a halfhearted attempt at resuscitation.
   After the fact everyone was pleased, from the nursing staff to the attending surgeon. The man almost had to restrain himself from taking credit for the event. It had been so simple, clean, definite, and practical.
   The man had to admit that killing Robert Seibert had not been like that. There wasn’t the same sense of euphoria of doing what had to be done and knowing that he was one of the few with the courage to do it. Yet Robert Seibert had had to die. It was his own fault, dredging up all the so-called SSD series.
   Returning from the bathroom, the man quickly searched the room for any papers relating to Robert’s research. Finding none, he moved to the door and opened it a crack.
   One of the night nurses was coming down the hall with a small metal tray. For a terrifying moment the man thought she might be coming to see Robert. But she turned into another room, leaving the corridor free.
   His heart pounding, the man slipped into the hall. It would be a disaster to be seen on the floor. When he was a resident, he had reason to be in the corridors or patients’ rooms or even the intensive care unit at all hours of the night. Now it was different. He had to be more careful.
   When he reached the safety of the stairwell, panic overtook him. He plunged down three floors without pausing for breath and kept up this frantic descent until he’d passed the twelfth floor. Only then did he begin to slow down. At the landing on five, he stopped, flattening his back against the bare concrete wall, his chest heaving from his exertion. He knew he had to collect himself.
   Taking a deep breath, the man eased open the stairwell door. Within a few moments he felt safe, but his mind wouldn’t stop racing. He kept thinking about the SSD data, realizing that Robert probably had a source in his office, very likely a floppy disc. With a sigh the man decided he’d better visit pathology right away, before Robert’s death was known. Then the only problem would be Cassi. He wondered exactly how much Robert had told her.

Eleven

   Cassandra woke up with a start, looking into the smiling face of a lab technician who was calling “Dr. Cassidy” for the third time.
   “You do sleep soundly,” she said, seeing Cassi’s eyes finally open.
   Cassi shook her head, wondering why she felt drugged. Then she remembered getting the second sleeping pill.
   “I’ve got to draw some blood,” apologized the technician. “You’ve got a fasting blood sugar ordered.”
   “Okay,” said Cassi equably. She let the technologist have her left arm, remembering that for the next couple of days she would not be administering her own insulin.
   A few minutes later a nurse came in and deftly started an IV in Cassi’s left arm, hanging up a bottle of D5W with ten units of regular insulin. Then she gave Cassi her preop medication.
   “That should hold you,” said the nurse. “Try to relax now. They should be coming for you presently.”
   By the time Cassi was picked up and wheeled down to the elevator she felt a strange sense of detachment, as if the experience were happening to someone else. When she reached the OR holding area, she was only vaguely aware of the profusion of gurneys, nurses, and doctors. She didn’t even recognize Thomas until he bent over and kissed her, and then she told him that he looked silly in his operating paraphernalia. At least she thought she told him so.
   “Everything is going to be fine,” said Thomas, squeezing her hand. “I’m glad you decided to go ahead with your surgery. It’s the best thing.”
   Dr. Obermeyer materialized on Cassi’s left. “I want you to take good care of my wife!” she heard Thomas say. Then she must have fallen asleep. The next thing she was aware of was being pushed down the OR corridor into the operating room itself. She didn’t feel at all scared.
   “I’m going to give you something to make you sleepy,” said the anesthesiologist.
   “I am sleepy,” she murmured, watching the drops fall into the micropore chamber of the IV bottle hung over her head. In the next second, she was fast asleep.
   The OR team moved swiftly. By 8:05 her eye muscles had been isolated and tapes had been passed around them. As soon as complete immobilization had been achieved, Dr. Obermeyer made stab wounds in the sclera and introduced his cutting and sucking instruments. Using a special microscope, he sighted through the cornea and pupil to the blood-stained vitreous. By 8:45 he began to see Cassi’s retina. By 9:15 he found the source of the recurrent bleeding. It was a single aberrant loop of new vessel coming from Cassi’s optic disc. With great care, Dr. Obermeyer coagulated and obliterated it. He felt very encouraged. Not only was the problem solved, there was no reason to expect it to recur. Cassi was a lucky woman.
   • • •
   Thomas had finished his only coronary bypass for the day. He’d canceled the next two. Happily the case had gone tolerably well although he again had trouble sewing the anastomoses. Unlike the previous day, though, he was able to finish, but the moment Larry Owen began to close, Thomas changed into his street clothes. Normally he waited until Larry brought the patient to the recovery room, but this morning he was too nervous to sit around with nothing to do. Instead he stopped down in the OR to see how things were going.
   “Just fine,” shouted Larry over his shoulder. “We’re closing the skin now. The halothane’s been stopped.”
   “Good. I’ve been called on an emergency.”
   “Everything under control here.”
   Thomas left the hospital, something he rarely did during a working day, and climbed into his Porsche. It thrilled him to hear the powerful engine as he turned on the ignition. After the frustration of the hospital, the car provided an enormous sense of freedom. Nothing on the road could touch him. Nothing!
   Driving across Boston, Thomas left the car in a No Parking zone directly in front of a large pharmacy, confident his MD license plate would save him from a ticket. Entering the store, he went directly to the prescription counter.
   The pharmacist, in his traditional high-necked tunic, emerged from behind the high counter.
   “Can I help you?”
   “Yes,” said Thomas. “I called earlier about some drugs.”
   “Of course. I’ve got it right here,” said the pharmacist, holding up a small cardboard carton.
   “Do you want me to write a script for it?” asked Thomas.
   “Nah. Let me see your M.D. license. That’ll be adequate.”
   Thomas flipped open his wallet and held it out for the pharmacist who just glanced at the license, then asked: “That’ll be all?”
   Thomas nodded, putting his wallet away.
   “We don’t have much call for that dosage,” said the pharmacist.
   “I’ll bet,” said Thomas, taking the parcel.

   Cassandra awoke from her anesthesia, unsure of what was dream and what was reality. She heard voices, but they seemed to be far away, and she couldn’t make out what they were saying. Finally she realized they were calling her name. She heard them tell her to wake up.
   Cassi tried to open her eyes but found that she couldn’t. A sense of panic gripped her, and she attempted to sit up only to be immediately restrained.
   “Easy now, everything is okay,” said a voice by her side.
   But everything wasn’t okay. Cassi could not see. What had happened? Suddenly she remembered the anesthesia and the operation. “My God! I’m blind!” shouted Cassi, trying to touch her face. Someone grabbed her hands.
   “Easy now. You have patches on your eyes.”
   “Why patches?” Cassi yelled.
   “Just to keep your eyes quiet,” said the voice calmly. “They’ll only be on for a day or so. Your operation went smoothly. Your doctor said you are a lucky woman. He coagulated a troublesome vessel, but he doesn’t want it to bleed again, so you must stay quiet.”
   Cassi felt a little less anxious, but the darkness was frightening. “Let me see, just for a moment,” Cassi pleaded.
   “I can’t do that. Doctor’s orders. We’re not supposed to touch your bandages. But I can shine a light directly at you. I’m sure you’ll see that. Okay?”
   “Yes,” said Cassi, eager for any reassurance. Why hadn’t she been warned about this before the operation? She felt as if she had been cast adrift.
   “I’m back,” said the voice. Cassi heard a click and saw the light immediately. What’s more, she perceived it equally with both eyes. “I can see it,” she said excitedly.
   “Of course you can,” said the voice. “You’re doing fine. Do you have any pain?”
   “No,” said Cassi. The light was switched off.
   “Then just relax. We’ll be right here if you want us. Just call.”
   As Cassie let herself relax, she listened to the various nurses as they moved about their patients. She realized she was in the recovery room and wondered if Thomas would come down to see her.

   Thomas finished seeing his office patients early. By 2:10 he had just one appointment left at 2:30. While he waited he checked the OR to see which attending was on call that night for the thoracic service. Learning it was Dr. Burgess, Thomas gave him a call.
   Thomas explained that he was planning to sleep in the hospital anyway to be near Cassi and suggested he take call as well. Dr. Burgess could pay back the favor when the Kingsleys were away.
   Thomas hung up and, seeing he still had fifteen minutes to spare, decided to visit Cassi. She had just been brought up to her room, and Thomas could not tell if she was asleep or not. She was lying quietly, her face covered with bulky eye patches secured with heavy elasticized tape. An IV dripped slowly into her left arm.
   Thomas went silently to the side of her bed.
   “Cassi?” he whispered. “Are you awake?”
   “I am,” said Cassi. “Is that you, Thomas?”
   Thomas grasped Cassi’s arm. “How do you feel, honey?”
   “Pretty well. Except for these patches. I wish Obermeyer had told me about them.”
   “I talked with him,” said Thomas. “He called me right after the surgery. He said everything went better than he could have anticipated. Apparently only one vessel was involved. He took care of it, but it was a large one and that made him opt for the patches. He didn’t expect to use them either.”
   “It doesn’t make this any easier,” said Cassi.
   “I can imagine,” said Thomas sympathetically.
   Thomas stayed for another ten minutes, then said he had to get back to the office. He gave her hand a squeeze and told her she should get as much sleep as possible.
   To her surprise Cassi did doze and didn’t wake up until late in the afternoon.
   “Cassi?” someone was saying.
   Cassi jumped, startled by the unexpected voice so close to her.
   “It’s me, Joan. I’m sorry if I woke you.”
   “It’s all right, Joan. I just didn’t hear you come in.”
   “I heard your operation went well,” said Joan, pulling up a chair.
   “So I understand,” said Cassi. “And I’m going to feel a lot better when these patches come off.”
   “Cassi,” said Joan. “I have some news. I’ve debated all afternoon whether I should tell you or not.”
   “What is it?” asked Cassi anxiously. Her first thought was that one of her patients had killed themselves. Suicide was a constant worry on Clarkson Two.
   “It’s bad news.”
   “I guessed that from the tone of your voice.”
   “Do you think you’re up to it? Or should I wait?”
   “You have to tell me now. If you don’t I’ll just keep worrying.”
   “Well, it’s about Robert Seibert.”
   Joan paused. She could guess what effect the news was going to have on her friend.
   “What about Robert?” demanded Cassi instantly. “Dammit, Joan, don’t keep me in suspense.” In the back of her mind she knew what Joan was going to say.
   “Robert died last night,” said Joan, reaching out and grasping Cassi’s hand.
   Cassi lay motionless. Minutes went by; five, ten. Joan wasn’t sure. The only sign of life from Cassi was her shallow breathing and the force with which she gripped Joan’s hand. It was as if Cassi were holding on for her own life. Joan didn’t know what to say. “Cassi, are you all right?” she finally whispered.
   For Cassi the news seemed like the final blow. Sure, everyone worried when they went into the hospital, but with no more seriousness than one expected to win the lottery if he bought a ticket. There was a chance, but it was so infinitesimally small that it wasn’t worth thinking about.
   “Cassi, are you all right?” Joan repeated.
   Cassi sighed. “Tell me what happened.”
   “They don’t know for sure,” said Joan, relieved to hear Cassi speak. “And I don’t know all the details. He apparently just died in his sleep. The nurses told me the autopsy showed that he had more severe heart disease than anyone suspected. I suppose he had a heart attack, but I don’t know for sure.”
   “Oh God!” said Cassi, fighting tears.
   “I’m sorry to bring you such sad news,” said Joan. “I just felt if it were the other way around I’d want to know.”
   “He was such a wonderful man,” said Cassi. “And such a good friend.”
   The news was so overwhelming that Cassi suddenly felt devoid of emotion.
   “Can I get you anything?” asked Joan solicitously.
   “No, thank you.”
   There was a silence that made Joan feel acutely uncomfortable. “Are you sure you’re all right?” she asked.
   “I’m fine, Joan.”
   “Do you want to talk about how you feel?” asked Joan.
   “Not now,” said Cassi. “I don’t feel anything right now.”
   Joan could sense that Cassi had withdrawn. She questioned the advisability of having told Cassi, but what was done was done. She sat for a while holding Cassi’s hand. Then she left, turning at the door to wish her a good night.
   On her way out, she stopped at the nurses’ station and spoke to the head nurse. She said she’d seen Cassi as a friend, not a consult, but she felt she should point out that Cassi was extremely depressed over the death of a friend. Maybe the nurses should keep an eye on her.
   Cassi lay motionless for a long time. She’d not objected when Joan left, but now felt very much alone. Robert’s death had triggered all her old fears of abandonment. She kept remembering the nightmare she had as a child that her mother would send her back to the hospital in exchange for a healthy child.
   In a panic Cassi groped for the call button. She hoped someone would come soon and help her.
   “What is it, Dr. Cassidy?” asked a nurse coming into the room a few minutes later.
   “I feel panicky,” said Cassi. “I can’t take the patches. I want them off.”
   “As a doctor, you know we can’t do that. It’s against orders. I’ll tell you what I’ll do,” said the nurse. “I’ll go call your doctor. How does that sound?”
   “I don’t care what you do,” said Cassi. “I don’t want eye patches.”
   The nurse left and Cassi was again plunged into darkness. Time dragged. When she allowed herself to listen, she could hear reassuring sounds of people moving up and down the corridor.
   Finally the nurse came back. “I talked with Dr. Obermeyer,” she said cheerfully. “He said to tell you he’d be stopping by shortly. He also told me that your operation went fantastically well but it is imperative that you rest. He ordered another sedative, so if you’ll just roll over, I’ll give it to you.”
   “I don’t want another sedative! I want these patches off!”
   “Come on now,” urged the nurse. She pulled back Cassi’s covers.
   For a moment Cassi hovered between defiance and compliance. Then she reluctantly rolled over and got the shot.
   “There,” said the nurse. “That should make you feel a little calmer.”
   “What was it?” asked Cassi.
   “That’s a question you’ll have to ask your doctor. Meanwhile, lie back and enjoy poor health. How about your television. Want it on?” Without waiting for an answer she turned on the set and went out.
   Cassie found the voice of the newscaster reassuring. Soon the sedative began to have an effect and Cassi fell asleep. She woke briefly when Dr. Obermeyer stopped in to tell her in person how well her operation went. He said that he expected the vision in her left eye to be about normal when the patch came off, but that the next few days were critical and that she should try and be patient. He also told her that he’d left a standing order for sedatives and that she should ask for medication whenever she felt anxious.
   Feeling better, Cassi drifted back to sleep. When she awoke some hours later, she could hear voices whispering in her room. Listening, she recognized one of them.
   “Thomas?” she said.
   “I’m here, dear.” He picked up her hand.
   “I’m afraid,” she said, shocked to feel tears running out from under the bandages.
   “Cassi, why are you crying?”
   “I don’t know,” said Cassi, remembering that it was because Robert was dead. She started to tell Thomas but began to weep so hard she couldn’t talk.
   “You have to get control of yourself. It’s important for your eye.”
   “I feel so alone.”
   “Nonsense. I’m here with you. You have a bevy of attentive nurses. You’re in the best hospital. Now just try to relax.”
   “I can’t,” said Cassi.
   “I think you need more sedatives,” said Thomas. Cassi could hear Thomas talk to the other person in the room.
   “I don’t want another shot,” she said.
   “But I’m the doctor and you’re the patient,” said Thomas.
   Afterward Cassi was glad he’d insisted. She felt herself drift off into merciful sleep while Thomas was talking to her.
   Thomas pressed the nurse’s call button. When the nurse arrived, he stood up from his perch on the bedside. “I want you to give her two sleeping pills this evening. She was wandering the halls last night after one dose, and we certainly don’t want her up tonight.”
   The nurse left, and Thomas waited a little longer to make sure Cassi remained asleep. Within minutes her mouth fell open and she began a throaty, uncharacteristic snoring. Thomas walked to the door, hesitated, then returned to the bureau and opened the bottom drawer. As he’d expected, the SSD data had not been touched. Under the circumstances he didn’t want Cassi to be pulling it out as soon as her patches came off.
   Quickly he picked up the computer printout and slipped it under his arm. With a final glance over at Cassi, Thomas left the room and walked down to the nurses’ station. He asked for the head nurse, Miss Bright.
   “I’m afraid that my wife is not standing up too well to the stress,” said Thomas apologetically.
   Miss Bright smiled at Dr. Kingsley. She knew him professionally very well. It was a surprise to hear him admit anyone might have a human weakness. For the first time she felt sorry for him. Obviously having his wife in the hospital was a strain on him, too.
   “We’ll take good care of Cassi,” she said.
   “I’m not her doctor and don’t want to interfere, but as I told the other nurse, I think for psychological reasons she should be kept under pretty heavy sedation.”
   “I’ll see to it,” said Miss Bright. “And don’t you worry.”

  Cassi could not remember having had dinner, although the nurse who brought in sleeping pills assured her that she had.
   “I don’t remember it at all,” said Cassi.
   “That’s not a very good recommendation for the hospital kitchen,” said the nurse. “Nor for me. I fed it to you.”
   “What about my diabetes?” asked Cassi.
   “You’ve been doing fine. We gave you a little extra insulin after your meal, but otherwise it’s all in here.” The nurse knocked the IV bottle with her knuckle so Cassi could hear. “And here’s your sleep meds.”
   Cassi dutifully put out her right hand and felt two pills drop into her palm. She put them in her mouth. Then, reaching out again, she felt the glass of water.
   “Do you think you need a sedative too?”
   “I don’t think so,” said Cassi. “I feel like I’ve slept all day.”
   “It’s good for you. Now your night table is right here.”
   The nurse took the glass from Cassi, then guided her hand over the bedside rail so she could feel the water glass, pitcher, telephone, and call button.
   “Is there anything else?” asked the nurse. “Do you have any pain?”
   “No, thank you,” said Cassi. She was surprised she’d had so little discomfort from the operation.
   “Do you want me to switch off the TV?”
   “No,” said Cassi. She liked the sound.
   “Okay, but here’s the switch.” The nurse guided Cassi’s hand to the button by the side of the bed. “Have a good night’s sleep, and if you want anything, give us a call.”
   After the nurse left, Cassi did a little exploring of her own. Reaching out, she touched the side table. The nurse had pulled it away from the wall so it would be slightly more accessible. With some difficulty she pulled out the metal drawer and felt for her watch. Thomas had given it to her, and she wondered if she should have it put in the hospital safe. She didn’t find it immediately. Her hand touched her own vials of insulin and a handful of syringes. The watch was under the syringes. It was probably safe enough.
   She pulled her hand back under the covers. As the medicine took hold she realized why people were tempted to misuse it. It made reality recede. The problems were there, but at a distance. She could think of Robert without feeling the pain of his loss. She remembered how peacefully he had been sleeping last night. She hoped his death had been as calm.
   Cassi suddenly pulled herself back from the abyss of sleep. With a jolt she realized that she must have been one of the last people to see Robert alive. She wondered at what time he’d died. If only she’d been there maybe she could have done something. Thomas certainly might have saved him.
   Cassi stared into the darkness of her eyelids. The memory of Thomas coming into Robert’s room replayed itself slowly in her mind. She remembered her shock at seeing him. Thomas had said that when he hadn’t found Cassi in her room, he’d assumed she was visiting Robert. That had satisfied her at the time, but now Cassi wondered why Thomas would have been visiting her in the middle of the night.
   Cassi tried to imagine what the autopsy on Robert showed, wondering specifically if a definitive mechanism of death was found. She didn’t want to think about such things, but she found herself worrying if Robert had been cyanotic or if he’d convulsed at the time of his death. All at once Cassi began to fear that Robert might have been a candidate for his own study. He could have been case twenty. What if the last person to see Robert alive had been Thomas? What if Thomas had gone back to Robert’s room after he’d left her? What if Thomas’s sudden change of behavior was not as innocent as it appeared?
   Cassi began to shake. She knew she was being paranoid, and knew how self-fulfilling delusions could be. She understood the stress she’d been under, and she’d had an enormous amount of drugs, including the sleep medication that she could already feel sapping her ability to think.
   Yet her mind would not give up its horrifying thoughts. Involuntarily she found herself recognizing the fact that the first SSD case occurred at the same time as Thomas’s residency. Cassi wondered if any of the deaths coincided with the nights Thomas had spent in the hospital.
   All at once she became aware of her utter dependency and vulnerability. She was alone in a private room with an IV running, blindfolded and sedated. There was no way for her even to know when someone came into the room. There was no way for her to defend herself.
   Cassi wanted to scream for help, but she was paralyzed with fear. She drew herself up into a ball. Seconds passed, then minutes. Eventually Cassi remembered the call button. Ever so slowly she inched her hand in its direction, half expecting her fingers to encounter some unknown enemy. When she touched the plastic cylinder, she pressed the button, holding it down with her thumb.
   No one came. It seemed as if she had been waiting for an eternity. She let the button out and pushed it again several more times, praying for the nurse to hurry. At any second she expected something terrible to happen. She didn’t know what, just something terrible.
   “What is it?” asked the nurse curtly, pulling Cassi’s hand away from the call button. “You only have to ring once, and we’ll come as soon as we can. You have to remember there are a lot of patients on this floor and most are sicker than you are.”
   “I want to change rooms,” said Cassi. “I want to go back to a semiprivate.”
   “Cassi,” said the nurse with exasperation. “It’s late at night.”
   “I don’t want to be alone!” shouted Cassi.
   “All right, Cassi. Calm down. As soon as we finish our medication records, I’ll see what I can do.”
   “I want to talk to my doctor,” said Cassi.
   “Cassi, you do know what time it is, don’t you?”
   “I don’t care. I want to talk with my doctor.”
   “All right. I’ll put in a call if you promise to lie still.”
   Cassie allowed the nurse to straighten her legs.
   “There, that must feel better. Now you relax and I’ll call Dr. Obermeyer.”
   By the time the nurse left, Cassi’s panic had lessened. She realized she was behaving irrationally. She was acting worse than her own patients. Thinking of Clarkson Two reminded her of Joan. She was the one person who would understand and wouldn’t be angry at being awakened. Groping with her hand, Cassi found the phone and lifted it onto her stomach. With the receiver propped up between her shoulder and the pillow, she got the hospital operator. After Cassi explained who she was, the operator put the call through to Dr. Widiker.
   The phone rang for a while, and Cassi began to worry that Joan had a late date. She was about to hang up when Joan answered.
   “Oh, thank God,” said Cassi. “I’m so glad you’re home.”
   “Cassi, what’s the matter?”
   “I’m terrified, Joan.”
   “What are you terrified of?”
   Cassi paused. With Joan on the line, she realized exactly how silly her fears were. Thomas was the most respected cardiac surgeon in the city.
   “Has it something to do with Robert?” asked Joan.
   “Partly,” Cassi admitted.
   “Cassi, listen to me,” said Joan. “It’s natural you’re upset. Your best friend has just died and you’ve undergone surgery. Your eyes are bandaged. You mustn’t let your imagination run riot. Ask the nurse for a sleeping pill.”
   “I’ve already had a lot of drugs,” said Cassi.
   “Either you had too little or the wrong kind. Don’t try to be a hero. Do you want me to call Dr. Obermeyer?”
   “No.”
   “Is there anything I can do?”
   “Do you know if Robert Seibert was cyanotic when he was found or if there was evidence he convulsed?”
   “Cassi, I don’t know! And it’s not the sort of thing you should be torturing yourself over. He’s dead. That’s more than enough for you to deal with right now.”
   “I guess you’re right,” said Cassi. “Just a minute, Joan. Someone’s here.”
   “It’s Miss Randall,” said the nurse. “Dr. Obermeyer is trying to call you.”
   Cassi thanked Joan and hung up. The receiver was barely back in the cradle when it rang again.
   “Cassi,” said Dr. Obermeyer, “I got a call from the nursing office staff that you were upset. I don’t know how to convince you that everything is fine. Your surgery went extremely well. I’d expected to find the usual diabetic pathology but I didn’t. You should feel relieved.”
   “I think it’s the patches over my eyes,” said Cassi apologetically. “I feel terrified of being alone. I’d like to be transferred into a room with another patient. Now.”
   “I think that’s asking a bit much from the nursing staff, Cassi. Perhaps tomorrow we can think about transferring you. For now I’m more interested in getting you relaxed. I’ve advised the nurses to give you another sedative.”
   “The nurse is here right now,” said Cassi.
   “Good. Take the shot and go to sleep. I guess I should have expected this. Doctors and doctors’ wives always make the worse patients. And you, Cassi, are both!”
   Cassi allowed herself to be given yet another shot. She felt Miss Randall give her a final pat on the shoulder. Cassi was alone again, but it didn’t matter. Drug-induced sleep descended like a silent avalanche.

   Cassi awoke from a violent dream filled with wild noise and clashing colors. Despite the heavy sedation, a faint throbbing pain in her left eye reminded her immediately that she was in the hospital.
   For a moment she lay perfectly still, her ears straining to pick up the slightest sound. Behind the bandages wild colors continued to dance before her eyes, presumably caused by the pressure of the bandages. Cassi heard nothing save for the distant, muffled sounds of the sleeping hospital. Then she thought she felt something. She waited and felt it again. It was the plastic tube of her IV line. Her pulse quickened. Was it her imagination?
   “Who’s there?” called Cassi, suddenly finding the courage to speak.
   There was no response.
   Cassi lifted her right hand and swung it over the left side of the bed. No one was there. Reaching down, she felt the tape that secured the IV to her arm. Quickly she traced her finger up the plastic tube and pulled gently. The sensation was exactly the same twitch she’d felt. In the darkness someone had touched her IV line!
   Trying to control her mounting fear, Cassi groped on the night table for the call button. It wasn’t there. She touched the pitcher, the phone, the water glass, but nothing else. She felt over a larger area, moving her hand faster, feeling her sense of isolation and vulnerability mounting. There was no call button. It was gone.
   Cassandra found herself frozen by the power of her own imagination. Someone was in her room. She could sense a presence. Then she smelled something familiar. Yves St. Laurent cologne.
   “Thomas?” called Cassi. Pushing herself up with her right elbow, she called again. “Thomas!”
   There was no answer.
   Cassi felt herself break out in a profuse sweat. In seconds her entire body was drenched. Her heart, which had already been beating quickly, began to pound. Cassi knew instantly what was happening. It had happened before, but never with such devastating swiftness. She was having an insulin reaction!
   Desperately she grabbed for the patches, trying to get her fingers under the plastered-down edges of the adhesive. Her left hand, previously immobilized because of the IV, also tore at the bandages.
   Cassi tried to call out, but her voice had no strength. The bed began to spin. She threw herself to the side, against the raised rail. Thrashing wildly, she again tried to find the call button. Instead she inadvertently tipped over the bedside table sending the phone, the pitcher of ice water, and the glass crashing to the floor. But Cassi didn’t hear. Her body was already locked into the grip of full-fledged grand mal seizure.

   Carol Aronson, the night charge nurse on seventeen, was in the medication room drawing up an antibiotic when she heard the distant tinkle of breaking glass. She hesitated for a moment, then stuck her head into the chart area where she exchanged a questioning glance with Lenore, the LPN. Together the two women left the nurses’ station to investigate. Both had the uncomfortable feeling that someone had toppled out of bed. They’d advanced only a short way down the hall when they heard the clatter of Cassi’s side rails.
   The women rushed into the room. Cassi was still convulsing wildly, her arms jammed through the rails, banging them back and forth.
   Carol, who was aware Cassi was diabetic, knew immediately what was happening.
   “Lenore! Call a code and bring me an ampule of fifty-percent glucose, a fifty cc syringe, and a fresh bottle of D5W.”
   The LPN ran out of the room.
   Meanwhile Carol managed to pull Cassi’s arms from between the rails. Next she tried to get a tongue depressor between Cassi’s clenched teeth but that was impossible. Instead she stopped the rapidly running IV, and concentrated on keeping Cassi from hitting her head against the top of the bed.
   Lenore returned and Carol took the D5W and immediately changed the IV bottle. She put the old bottle aside, knowing the doctor would want to check the insulin level. Then she opened the IV all the way and transferred the fifty-percent glucose from the ampule to the large syringe. When she finished, she debated using it. Technically she was supposed to wait for a doctor to arrive, but Carol had spent enough time in crisis medicine to know that under the circumstances the glucose should be the first thing tried and that it certainly couldn’t hurt. She decided to give it. The amount of perspiration on Cassi’s body suggested a severe insulin reaction.
   Carol stuck the needle into the IV and depressed the plunger. Even before she’d injected the last few cc’s, the result was dramatic. Cassi stopped convulsing and seemed to regain consciousness. Her lips opened and sounded as if she were trying to say something.
   But the improvement didn’t last. Cassi sank back again into unconsciousness, and, although she did not convulse again, the isolated muscles continued to contract.
   When the code team arrived, Carol reported what she had done. The senior resident examined Cassi and began issuing orders.
   “I want you to draw blood for electrolytes, including calcium, arterial blood gases, and a blood sugar,” he said to the junior resident. “And I want you to run an EKG,” he said to the medical student. “And Miss Aronson, how about another ampule of fifty-percent glucose?”
   While the team fell to work, Lenore picked up the bedside table, replacing the phone. With her foot she pushed the shards of glass from the broken pitcher into the corner. The drawer had come out of the table and Lenore replaced it. It was then she found several used vials of insulin. Shocked, she handed them to Carol, who in turn handed them to the resident.
   “My God,” he said. “Was she supposed to give herself insulin blindfolded?”
   “Of course not,” said Carol. “She had insulin in her IV and was being supplemented according to the amount of sugar in her urine.”
   “So why did she give herself insulin?” asked the resident.
   “I don’t know,” admitted Carol. “Maybe she was confused with all her sedatives and gave herself the medicine by rote. Hell, I don’t know.”
   “Could she do that blindfolded?”
   “Sure she could. Remember, she’s been injecting herself twice a day for twenty years. She couldn’t get the dose right, but she could certainly inject herself. Besides, there’s another possibility.”
   “What’s that.”
   “Maybe she did it on purpose. The day nurse said she was depressed, and her husband said she’d been acting strangely, I guess you know who her husband is.”
   The resident nodded. He didn’t like to think of the case being a suicide gesture because he hated psych cases, especially at three o’clock in the morning.
   Carol, who had been filling another syringe with glucose while talking, handed it over. The resident injected it immediately. As before, Cassi improved for a few minutes, then again lost consciousness.
   “Who’s her doctor?” asked the resident, taking a third syringe of glucose from Carol.
   “Dr. Obermeyer, Ophthalmology.”
   “Somebody give him a call,” said the resident. “This isn’t a case for a house officer to fool around on.”

   The phone rang and rang before Thomas groggily reached out and picked up the receiver. He had taken two Percodan before stretching out in his office, and he found it very hard to concentrate.
   “You’re a hard one to wake up,” said the cheerful hospital operator. “You had a call from Dr. Obermeyer. He wanted to be put through immediately, but I told him you’d left specific orders. Do you want the number?”
   “Yes!” said Thomas, fumbling on the desk for a pencil.
   The operator gave Thomas the number. He started to dial and then stopped. Noticing the time, he was concerned. Obviously it was about Cassi. Going into the bathroom he splashed water on his face, trying to gather his wits.
   He waited until some of the drug-induced fog receded before dialing.
   “Thomas, we had a complication tonight,” said Dr. Obermeyer.
   “A complication?” asked Thomas anxiously.
   “Yes,” said Dr. Obermeyer. “Something we didn’t expect. Cassi gave herself an overdose of insulin.”
   “Is she all right?” asked Thomas.
   “Yes, she seems to be fine.”
   Thomas was stunned.
   “I know this must be a shock for you,” Dr. Obermeyer was saying, “But she is okay. Dr. McInery, her internist, is here and thanks to the quick thinking of the charge nurse, he says Cassi will be fine. We’ve moved her to the ICU for the time being just as a precaution.”
   “Thank God,” said Thomas, his mind whirling. “I’ll be right over.”
   As soon as he reached the hospital, Thomas rushed to Cassi’s bedside. She seemed to be resting peacefully. He noticed that the patch on her right eye was gone.
   “She’s sleeping but she’s arousable,” said a voice at his side.
   Thomas turned to face Dr. Obermeyer. “Do you want to talk with her?” he asked, reaching to shake Cassi’s shoulder.
   Thomas caught his arm. “No thanks. Let her sleep.”
   “I knew she was upset tonight,” said Dr. Obermeyer contritely. “I ordered extra sedatives. I never expected anything like this.”
   “She was panicky when I saw her,” said Thomas. “A friend of hers died last night, and she’s been very upset. I hadn’t planned to tell her, but I learned one of the psych residents had the poor judgment to do so.”
   “Do you think this was a suicide attempt?” asked Dr. Obermeyer.
   “I don’t know,” said Thomas. “She could have just been confused. She is accustomed to giving herself insulin twice a day.”
   “What do you think about a psychiatry consult?” asked Dr. Obermeyer.
   “You’re the doctor. I can’t be very objective. But if I were you, I’d wait. Obviously she’s safe in here.”
   “I took the patch off her right eye,” said Dr. Obermeyer. “I’m afraid the bandages may have been a large factor in her anxiety reaction. I’m happy to say her left eye is still clear. Considering the fact she just had a grand mal seizure, which is probably the severest test imaginable for my coagulation of that vessel, I don’t think we have to worry much about further bleeding.”
   “What’s her blood sugar?” asked Thomas.
   “Pretty normal right now, but they’re going to follow it closely. They think she gave herself a whopping dose of insulin.”
   “Well, she’s been careless at times in the past,” said Thomas. “She’s always tried to minimize her illness. But this seems like more than carelessness. Still, it’s possible she just didn’t realize what she was doing.” Thomas thanked Obermeyer for his good work and walked slowly out of the ICU.
   The nurses at the desk looked up as he went by. They had never seen Dr. Kingsley so depressed and anxious.

Twelve

   Cassi became conscious of her surroundings around five o’clock in the morning. She could see the large wall clock over the nurses’ station and thought she was in the recovery room. She had an awful headache, which she attributed to the eye surgery. Indeed, when she tried to look from side to side she got a sharp pain in her left eye. Gingerly she felt the bandage over the operative site.
   “Well, Dr. Cassidy!” said a voice on her left. She slowly turned her head and looked into the smiling face of one of the nurses. “Welcome back to the land of the living. You gave us quite a scare.”
   Bewildered, Cassi returned the smile. She stared at the nurse’s name tag. Miss Stevens, Medical ICU. That confused Cassi further.
   “How do you feel?” asked Miss Stevens.
   “Hungry,” said Cassi.
   “Could be your blood sugar is a bit low again. It’s been bouncing up and down like a rubber ball.”
   Cassi moved slightly and felt an uncomfortable burning sensation between her legs. She realized she’d been catheterized.
   “Was there a problem with my diabetes during surgery?”
   “Not during surgery,” said Miss Stevens with a smile.
   “The night after. As I understand it, you gave yourself a little extra insulin.”
   “I did?” said Cassi. “What day is it?”
   “Five A.M., Friday morning.”
   Cassi felt very confused. Somehow she’d lost an entire day.
   “Where am I?” she asked. “Isn’t this the recovery room?”
   “No, this is the ICU. You’re here because of your insulin reaction. Don’t you remember yesterday at all?”
   “I don’t think so,” said Cassi vaguely. Somewhere in the back of her mind she began to remember a sensation of terror.
   “You had your operation yesterday morning and were sent back to your room. Apparently you’d been doing fine. You don’t remember any of that?”
   “No,” said Cassi without conviction. Images were beginning to emerge from the haze. She could recall the horrid sensation of being enclosed within her own world, feeling acutely vulnerable. Vulnerable and terrified. But terrified of what?
   “Listen,” said Miss Stevens. “I’ll get you some milk. Then you try to go back to sleep.”
   The next time Cassi looked at the clock it was after seven. Thomas was standing by the side of her bed, his blue eyes puffy and red.
   “She woke up about two hours ago,” said Miss Stevens, standing on the other side. “Her blood sugar is slightly low but seems stable.”
   “I’m so glad you’re better,” said Thomas, noticing Cassi had awakened. “I’d visited you in the middle of the night, but you were not completely lucid. How do you feel?”
   “Pretty good,” said Cassi. Thomas’s cologne was having a peculiar effect on her. It was as if the smell of Yves St. Laurent had been part of her devastating nightmare. Cassi knew that whenever she’d been unlucky enough to have an insulin reaction, she’d always had wild dreams. But this time she had the sensation that the nightmare wasn’t over.
   Cassi’s heart beat faster, accentuating her pounding headache. She could not tell the difference between dream or reality. She was relieved a few minutes later when Thomas left, saying, “I’ve got surgery. I’ll be back as soon as I’m done.”
   By noon, Cassi had been visited by Dr. Obermeyer and her internist, and released from the unit. She was taken back to her private room at the end of the corridor, but she raised such a fuss about being alone that they finally moved her to a multibed unit across from the nurse’s station. She had three roommates. Two had had multiple broken bones and were in traction; the other, a mountain of a woman, had had gallbladder surgery and was not doing too well.
   Cassi had had one other insistent request. She wanted her IV out. Dr. McInery tried to reason with her, arguing that she’d just had a severe insulin reaction. He told her that had she not had the IV originally and gotten the sugar when she had, she might have slipped into irreversible coma. Cassi had listened politely but remained adamant. The IV was removed.
   In the middle of the afternoon Cassi felt significantly better. Her headache had settled down to a tolerable level. She was listening to her roommates describe their ordeals when Joan Widiker walked in. “I just heard what happened,” she said with concern. “How are you?”
   “I’m fine,” said Cassi, happy to see Joan.
   “Thank God! Cassi, I heard that you’d given yourself an insulin overdose.”
   “If I did, I can’t remember it,” said Cassi.
   “You’re sure?” asked Joan. “I know you were very upset about Robert…” Her voice trailed off.
   “What about Robert?” asked Cassi anxiously. Before Joan could respond, something clicked in Cassi’s mind. It was as if some missing block fell into place. Cassi remembered that Robert had died the night after his surgery.
   “You don’t remember?” asked Joan.
   Cassi let her body go limp, sliding down into her bed. “I remember now. Robert died.” Cassi looked up into Joan’s face, pleading that it wasn’t true, that it was part of the insulin-induced nightmare.
   “Robert died,” agreed Joan solemnly. “Cassi, have you been dealing with your sorrow by trying to deny the fact?”
   “I don’t think so,” said Cassi, “but I don’t know.” It seemed doubly cruel to have to learn such news twice. Could she have suppressed it or did the insulin reaction just remove it from her disturbed memory?
   “Tell me,” said Joan, pulling over a chair so she could talk privately. The other three women pretended not to be listening. “If you didn’t give yourself the extra insulin, how did it get in your bloodstream?”
   Cassi shook her head. “I’m not suicidal, if that’s what you’re implying.”
   “It’s important you tell me the truth,” said Joan.
   “I am,” snapped Cassi. “I don’t think I gave myself the extra insulin even in my sleep. I think it was given to me.”
   “By accident? An accidental overdose?”
   “No. I think it was deliberate.”
   Joan regarded her friend with clinical detachment. Thinking that someone in the hospital was trying to do you harm was a delusion that Joan had heard before. But she had not expected it from Cassi. “Are you sure?” Joan asked finally.
   Cassi shook her head. “After what I’ve been through it’s hard to be sure about anything.”
   “Who do you think could have done it?” asked Joan.
   Cupping her hand over her mouth, Cassi whispered. “I think it might have been Thomas.”
   Joan was shocked. She was not a fan of Thomas’s, but this statement smacked of pure paranoia. She wasn’t sure how to react. It was becoming obvious that Cassi needed professional help, not just advice from a friend. “What makes you think it was Thomas?” Joan finally asked.
   “I awoke in the middle of the night and smelled his cologne.”
   If Joan had had the slightest concern that Cassi was schizophrenic, she would not have challenged her. But she knew Cassi was an essentially normal person who’d been placed under extreme stress. Joan felt it was advisable not to let Cassi build on her delusional thought patterns. “I think, Cassi, that smelling Thomas’s cologne in the middle of the night is awfully weak evidence.”
   Cassi tried to interrupt, but Joan told her to let her finish.
   “I think that under the circumstances, you are confusing a dream state with reality.”
   “Joan, I’ve already considered that.”
   “Furthermore,” said Joan, ignoring Cassi, “insulin reactions include nighmares. I’m sure you know that better than I. I think you experienced an acute delusional psychosis. After all, you’ve been under enormous stress, what with your own surgery and Robert’s unfortunate death. I think in that state it’s entirely possible you gave yourself the injection and then afterward suffered all sorts of nightmares you now think may be real.”
   Cassi listened hopefully. She’d had trouble sorting out the real from insulin-induced dreams in the past.
   “But it is still very difficult for me to believe that I could have given myself an overdose of insulin,” she said.
   “It might not have been an overdose. You could have just given yourself your usual dose. You may have thought it was time for your evening shot.”
   It was an attractive explanation. Certainly an easier one to accept than that Thomas wanted her to die.
   “My real concern,” Joan went on, “is whether you are depressed now.”
   “I guess a little, mostly about Robert. I suppose I should be happy about the results of the surgery, but under the circumstances, it’s difficult. But I can assure you, I don’t feel self-destructive. Anyway, they’ve taken away all my insulin.”
   “It’s just as well,” said Joan, standing up. She was convinced Cassi was not suicidal. “Unfortunately I’ve got two legitimate consultations to do. I’ve got to get a move on. You take care and call if you need me, promise?”
   “I promise,” said Cassi. She smiled at Joan. She was a good friend and a good doctor. She trusted her opinion.
   “Was that lady a psychiatrist?” asked one of Cassi’s roommates after Joan left.
   “Yes,” said Cassi. “She’s a resident like I am, but further along in her training. She’ll be finishing this spring.”
   “Does she think you’re crazy?” the woman asked.
   Cassi thought about the question. It wasn’t as stupid as it sounded. In a way Joan did think she was temporarily crazy. “She thought I was very upset,” said Cassi. Euphemisms seemed easier. “She thought that I might have tried to hurt myself in my sleep. If I start doing anything weird, you’ll call the nurses, won’t you?”
   “Don’t worry. I’ll scream my bloody head off.”
   Cassi’s other roommates, who had been listening, enthusiastically concurred.
   Cassi hoped she hadn’t scared the three women, but in a way it made her feel more comfortable that they would be watching her. If it were true that she had given herself an overdose without knowing it, she could use a little nervous concern.
   She closed her eyes and wondered when Robert’s funeral was. She hoped she’d be released in time to go. Then she thought of the SSD project and wondered what would happen to it. Remembering the printouts she’d taken from his room, she decided to see if someone could locate them for her.
   She rang for the nurse, who promised to check Cassi’s former room. A half-hour later, the nurse returned and said that the two LPNs who had helped move Cassi had not seen the computer printout. The nurse added that she’d checked all the drawers herself without success.
   Maybe the SSD data had been a hallucination, too, thought Cassi. She seemed to recall going into Robert’s room, picking up the material, and then bumping into Thomas. But perhaps it was all a dream. Cassi wondered how she could check. The easiest way would be to ask Thomas, but she wasn’t sure she wanted to do that.
   Glancing around the room, Cassi was glad to see her three roommates getting ready for dinner. Just having them there made her feel safe.

   Thomas stopped short of the bridge over the marsh inlet. He switched off the engine and checked for any traffic before opening the door. Getting out of the car, he walked out onto the arched wooden bridge, his shoes making a hollow noise on the old planks. The tide was on its way out and the current rushed beneath the small bridge, swirling in frenetic eddies about the support pilings.
   Thomas needed a breath of air. The two Talwin he’d taken before leaving the office had had disappointingly little effect on his mood. He’d never felt such anxiety before. The Friday afternoon conference had been a disaster. And on top of that were the mushrooming problems with Cassi.
   Thomas stood on the deserted bridge for almost half an hour, letting the damp breeze chill him to the bone. The discomfort was therapeutic, making it possible for him to think. He had to do something. Ballantine and his cohorts were intent on destroying everything Thomas had carefully built. In his hand he gripped a drug vial, intending to throw it into the water. But he didn’t. Instead he returned it to his coat.
   Slowly Thomas felt better. He had an idea, and as the idea took form, he began to smile. Then he laughed, wondering why he hadn’t thought of it before. With a new surge of energy he returned to his car and warmed his fingers by holding them over the defroster vent.
   After pulling into the garage, he crossed the courtyard to the house at a run. He moved the drug container to his suit pocket when he took off his coat and, feeling better than he had all day, went in to greet his mother.
   “I’m so glad you’re on time,” she said. “Harriet is just putting dinner on the table.” She took his arm and led him into the dining room. He knew she was in a good mood because she had him to herself, but she managed to inquire politely about Cassi before serving herself from the platter of Yankee pot roast.
   When Harriet had gone back into the kitchen, she began asking about Thomas’s day.
   “Are things going better at the hospital?”
   “Hardly,” said Thomas, not eager to discuss the worsening hospital situation.
   “Have you spoken with George Sherman?” asked Patricia with disgust.
   “Mother, I don’t want to talk about hospital politics.”
   They ate in silence for a few minutes, but Patricia could not contain herself and again spoke up. “You’ll know what to do with the man when you become chief.”
   Thomas put down his fork.
   “Mother, can’t we talk about something else?”
   “It’s hard to avoid the issue when I can see how much it is bothering you.”
   Thomas tried to calm himself with a series of deep breaths. Patricia could see him tremble.
   “Look at you, Thomas, you’re like a spring wound too tightly.” Patricia reached over to stroke her son’s arm, but Thomas evaded her touch by pushing back his chair and standing up.
   “The situation is driving me crazy,” admitted Thomas.
   “When do you think you’ll be chief?” asked Patricia, watching her son begin to pace back and forth like a caged lion.
   “God, I wish I knew,” said Thomas through clenched teeth. “But it better be soon. If not, the department will be in shambles. Everyone seems to be going out of their way to destroy the cardiac vascular program I set up. Boston Memorial is famous because my operating team made it so. Yet instead of letting me expand, they are constantly cutting down my time in the OR. Today I learned that my surgical time is being reduced again. And you know why? Because Ballantine made arrangements for the Memorial Teaching Service to have free access to a large state mental institution out in the western part of the state. Sherman went out there and said the place was a cardiac surgical gold mine. What he didn’t say was that the average mental age of the patients was less than two years. Some of them are actually deformed monsters. It makes me furious!”
   “Well, won’t you be backing the house staff on those cases?” asked Patricia, trying to think of the positive side of the issue.
   “Mother, they are mentally defective pediatric cases, and Ballantine plans to recruit a full-time pediatric cardiac surgeon.”
   “Well, then, that won’t affect you.”
   “But it will,” shouted Thomas. “It will put more pressure on me to cut back my OR time.” Thomas felt his temper rising. “My patients will either have dangerous delays before surgery or will have to go elsewhere.”
   “But surely your patients will be scheduled first, dear.”
   “Mother, you don’t understand,” said Thomas, making an effort to speak slowly. “The hospital doesn’t care that I only take on patients who not only have a good chance of survival but are worth saving. To build the reputation of the teaching school, Ballantine would rather sacrifice valuable OR time for a bunch of imbeciles and defectives. Unless I become chief I won’t be able to stop them.”

  “Well, Thomas,” said Patricia. “if they don’t give you the position, you’ll just have to go to another hospital. Why don’t you sit down and finish your dinner?”
   “I can’t just go to another hospital,” shouted Thomas.
   “Thomas, calm down.”
   “Cardiac surgery requires a team. Don’t you understand that?” Thomas threw his napkin into his half eaten food.
   “You’ve upset me!” he shouted irrationally. “I come home for once expecting a little peace and you upset me!” He stormed out of the room, leaving his mother wondering what on earth she had done.
   Walking down the upstairs corridor, Thomas could hear the surf breaking on the distant beach. The waves must be four to six feet high. He loved the sound. It reminded him of his childhood.
   Snapping on the light in the morning room, he looked around. The white furniture had a harsh, cold appearance. He hated the way Cassi had insisted on redecorating the room. There was something brazen about it despite the lace curtains and flowered cushions.
   He stayed for only a short time before going back to his study. With trembling hands he found his Percodan. For a while he entertained the idea of returning to town to see Doris. But soon the Percodan began to make him feel calmer. Instead of going out into the frigid night, he poured himself a Scotch.

Thirteen

   Cassi had hoped that she’d become accustomed to the opthalmologist’s light, but each time Obermeyer examined her was as uncomfortable as the last. It had been five days since her surgery, and except for the insulin reaction, the postoperative course had been smooth and uneventful. Dr. Obermeyer had come by each day to peer into her eye for a moment, always saying that things were looking good. Now on the day of her scheduled discharge, Cassi had been escorted over to Dr. Obermeyer’s office for one last “good” look, as he called it.
   To her relief, he finally moved the light away.
   “Well, Cassi, that troublesome vessel is in good shape, and there’s no rebleeding. But I don’t have to tell you that. Your vision has improved dramatically in that eye. I want to follow you with fluorescein studies and at some point in the future you may need laser treatments, but you’re definitely out of the woods.”
   Cassi was not certain what laser treatments involved, but it didn’t dampen her enthusiasm for getting out of the hospital. Convinced that her fear of Thomas had been imaginary and that a good deal of their problems were at least partially her own fault, she was anxious to get home and try to put her marriage back on course.
   Although Cassi was entirely capable of walking, the green-smocked volunteer who came to escort her back to her room in the Scherington Building insisted that she ride in a wheelchair. Cassi felt silly. The volunteer was almost seventy and had a disturbing wheeze, but she wouldn’t give in, and Cassi had to allow the woman to push her back to the room.
   After she was packed, Cassi sat by her bed and waited for her formal discharge. Thomas had canceled his office hours and was going to drive her home around one-thirty or two. Since she had been admitted, his loving attention had not faltered. Somehow he’d managed to find time to visit four or five times a day, often eating dinner in the room along with Cassi’s roommates, whom Thomas had charmed. He’d also completed plans for their vacation, and now with Dr. Obermeyer’s blessings they were to leave in a week and a half.
   The thought of the vacation alone was enough to make Cassi feel enormously happy. Except for their honeymoon in Europe, during which Thomas had taken time out to operate and lecture in Germany, they’d never been away together for more than a couple of days. Cassi was anticipating the trip like a five-year-old waiting for Christmas.
   Even Dr. Ballantine had visited Cassi during her hospital stay. Her insulin overdose seemed to have particularly unnerved him, and Cassi wondered if he felt responsible because of their talks. When she tried to bring up the subject, he refused to discuss it.
   But what really made the rest of the hospitalization so pleasant was Thomas. He had been so relaxed the last five days, Cassi had even been able to talk to him about Robert. She had asked Thomas if she really had met him in Robert’s room the night Robert died or if she’d dreamt it. Thomas laughed and said that he indeed did find her there the night before her surgery. She had been heavily sedated and hadn’t seemed to know what she was doing.
   Cassi had been relieved to know she had not hallucinated all the events that night, and although she still questioned certain vague memories, she was willing to ascribe them to her imagination. Especially after Joan made Cassi comprehend the power of her own subconscious.
   “Okay,” said Miss Stevens, bustling into the room to see if Cassi was ready. “Here are your medicines. These drops are for daytime use. And this ointment is for bedtime. I also tossed in a handful of eye patches. Any questions?”
   “No,” said Cassi, standing up.
   Since it was a little after eleven, Cassi carried her suitcase down to the foyer and left it with the people at the information booth. Knowing that Thomas would be busy for at least another two hours, Cassi took the elevator back up to pathology. One of the vague memories she’d not wished to discuss with Thomas concerned the SSD data. She could remember something about the data, but it wasn’t clear, and the last thing she wanted to do was suggest to Thomas she was still interested in the study.
   Reaching the ninth floor, Cassi went directly to Robert’s office. Only it was no longer Robert’s. There was a new name plate in the stainless steel holder on the door. It said Dr. Percey Frazer. Cassi knocked. She heard someone yell to come in.
   The room was in sharp contrast to the way Robert had kept it. There were piles of books, medical journals, and microscopic slides everywhere she looked. The floor was littered with crumpled sheets of paper. Dr. Frazer matched the room. He had unkempt frizzed hair that merged into a beard without any line of demarcation.
   “Can I help you?” he asked, noting Cassi’s surprised reaction to the mess. His voice was neither friendly nor unfriendly.
   “I was a friend of Robert Seibert,” said Cassi.
   “Ah, yes,” said Dr. Frazer, rocking back in his chair and putting his hands behind his head. “What a tragedy.”
   “Do you happen to know anything about his papers?” asked Cassi. “We’d been working on a project together. I was hoping to get hold of the material.”
   “I haven’t the slightest idea. When I was offered this office, it had been completely cleaned out. I’d advise you to talk to the chief of the department, Dr.…”
   “I know the chief,” interrupted Cassi. “I used to be a resident here myself.”
   “Sorry I can’t help you,” said Dr. Frazer, tipping forward again in his chair and going back to his work.
   Cassi turned to go, but then thought of something else. “Do you know what the autopsy on Robert showed?”
   “I heard that the fellow had severe valvular heart disease.”
   “What about the cause of death?”
   “That I don’t know. They’re waiting on the brain. Maybe they haven’t finished.”
   “Do you know if he was cyanotic?”
   “I think so. But I’m not the one to be asking. I’m new around here. Why don’t you talk to the chief?”
   “You’re right. Thanks for your time.”
   Dr. Frazer waved as Cassi left the office, closing the door silently behind her. She went to look for the chief but he was out of town at a meeting. Sadly Cassi decided to sit in Thomas’s waiting room until he was ready to go. Seeing Robert’s old office already occupied had brought his death back to her with unpleasant finality. Having been forced to miss the funeral, Cassi sometimes had trouble remembering her friend was gone. Now she wouldn’t have that problem anymore.
   When Cassi reached Thomas’s office she found the door locked. Checking her watch, she realized why. It was just after twelve and Doris was on her lunch break. Cassi got security to open the door to the waiting room and settled herself on the rose sofa.
   She tried flipping through the collection of outdated New Yorker magazines, but she couldn’t concentrate. Looking around, she noticed that the door to Thomas’s office was ajar. The one thing Cassi had been effectively denying for the past week was Thomas’s drug taking. With the change in his behavior, she wanted to believe that he’d stopped. But when she was sitting in his office, curiosity got the better of her. She got up, walked past Doris’s desk, and entered the inner office.
   It was one of the few times she’d been there. She glanced at the photos of Thomas and other nationally known cardiac surgeons that were arranged on bookshelves. She couldn’t help noticing that there were no pictures of herself. There was one of Patricia, but that was with Thomas Sr. and Thomas himself when he was in college.
   Nervously, Cassi seated herself behind the desk. Almost automatically her hand went to the second drawer on the right, the same one where she’d found the drugs at home. As she pulled it out, she felt like a traitor. Thomas had been behaving so wonderfully the last week. Yet there they were: a miniature pharmacy of Percodan, Demerol, Valium, morphine, Talwin, and Dexedrine. Just beyond the plastic vials was a stack of mail-order forms for an out-of-state drug firm. Cassi bent over to look more closely. The firm’s name was Generic Drugs. The prescribing doctor was an Allan Baxter, M.D., the same name that had been on the vials she’d found at home.
   Suddenly she heard the waiting room door shut. Resisting a temptation to slam the drawer, she quickly eased it shut. Then, taking a deep breath, she walked out of Thomas’s office.
   “My God!” exclaimed Doris with a start. “I had no idea you were here.”
   “They let me out early,” said Cassi with a smile. “Good behavior.”
   After recovering from her initial shock, Doris felt compelled to inform Cassi that she’d spent the entire previous afternoon canceling today’s office patients so that Thomas could take her home. Meanwhile, she glanced at the inner office, then closed the door.
   “Who is Dr. Allan Baxter?” asked Cassi, ignoring Doris’s attempt to make her feel like a burden.
   “Dr. Baxter was a cardiologist who occupied the adjoining professional suite that we took over when we added the extra examination rooms.”
   “When did he move?” asked Cassi.
   “He didn’t move. He died,” said Doris, sitting down behind her typewriter and directing her attention at the material on her desk. Without looking up at Cassi, she added, “If you’d like to sit down, I’m sure that Thomas should be along soon.” She threaded a sheet of paper into her machine and began to type.
   “I think I’d prefer to wait in Thomas’s office.”
   As Cassi passed behind her desk, Doris’s head shot up. “Thomas doesn’t like anyone in his office when he’s not there,” she protested with authority.
   “That’s understandable,” returned Cassi. “But I’m not anyone. I’m his wife.”
   Cassi went back through the door and closed it, half expecting Doris to follow. But the door didn’t open, and presently she could hear the sound of the typewriter.
   Going back to Thomas’s desk, she quickly retrieved one of the mail order forms, noting that it was not only printed with Dr. Baxter’s name, but also his DEA narcotics number. Using a direct outside line, Cassi placed a call to the Drug Enforcement Administration. A secretary answered. Cassi introduced herself and said she had a question about a certain physician.
   “I think you’d better talk with one of the inspectors,” said the secretary.
   Cassi was placed on hold. Her hands were trembling. Presently one of the inspectors came on the line. Cassi gave her credentials, mentioning that she was an M.D. on the staff at the Boston Memorial. The inspector was extremely cordial and asked how he could be of assistance.
   “I’d just like some information,” said Cassi. “I was wondering if you keep track of the prescribing habits of individual physicians.”
   “Yes, we do,” said the inspector. “We keep records on computer using the Narcotics and Drugs Information Systems. But if you are looking for specific information on a particular physician, I’m afraid you can’t get it. It is restricted.”
   “Only you people can see it, is that right?”
   “That’s correct, Doctor. Obviously we don’t look at individual prescribing habits unless we are given information by the board of medical examiners or the medical society’s ethics committee that suggests there is an irregularity. Except, of course, if a physician’s prescribing habits change markedly over a short period of time. Then the computer automatically kicks out the name.”
   “I see,” said Cassi. “There’s no way for me to check a particular doctor.”
   “I’m afraid not. If you have a question about someone, I’d suggest you raise it with the medical society. I’m sure you understand why the information is classified.”
   “I suppose so,” said Cassi. “Thanks for your time.”
   Cassi was about to hang up when the inspector said, “I can tell you if a specific doctor is duly registered and actively prescribing, but not the amount. Would that help?”
   “It sure would,” said Cassi. She gave Dr. Allan Baxter’s name and DEA number.
   “Hang on,” said the inspector. “I’ll enter this into the computer.”
   As Cassi waited, she heard the outer door close. Then she heard Thomas’s voice. With a surge of anxiety she stuffed the drug order form into her pocket. As Thomas came through the door the inspector came back on the line. Cassi smiled self-consciously.
   “Dr. Baxter is active and up-to-date with a valid number.”
   Cassi didn’t say anything. She just hung up.

   Thomas was both talkative and solicitious as he drove Cassi home. If he’d been angry at her presence in his office, he’d hidden the fact beneath a welter of questions about how she was feeling. Although Cassi insisted she felt fine, Thomas had made her wait by the hospital entrance so that he could run and bring the car around.
   Cassi was thankful for Thomas’s attentiveness, but she was so upset by what she had just learned from the Drug Enforcement Administration that she remained silent most of the way home. She now understood how Thomas managed to procure his drugs without detection. He’d supply Allan Baxter’s narcotics registration. All he had to do was fill out a form every year and send in five dollars. With the number and some idea of the level at which Dr. Baxter had been prescribing before he died, Thomas could obtain plenty of drugs. Probably more than he could consume.
   And the fact that he had resorted to such deception made it clear that his problem was more extensive than Cassi had allowed herself to believe. His behavior had been so normal this last week she let herself hope that he had already begun to control his abuse. Perhaps they could talk further when they were away.
   “I have some bad news,” said Thomas, breaking into her thoughts.
   Cassi turned. She saw his eyes flick over at her for the briefest instant as if to make certain he had her attention.
   “Before I left the OR today I got a call from a hospital in Rhode Island. They’re bringing in a patient for emergency surgery tonight. I tried to get someone else to take the case because I wanted to be with you, but there was no one available. In fact, after I make sure you’re comfortable, I’ll have to be on my way.”
   Cassi didn’t respond. She was almost glad Thomas would stay over at the hospital. It would give her a chance to decide what to do. Maybe she could document the amount of drugs Thomas was taking. There was still the chance he’d stopped.
   “You do understand?” asked Thomas. “I didn’t have any choice about it.”
   “I understand,” said Cassi.
   Thomas drove up to the house, insisting on getting out and opening the car door for Cassi. It was something he hadn’t bothered to do since their first dates.
   As soon as they were inside, Thomas insisted that she go directly up to the morning room.
   “Where is Harriet?” asked Cassi when Thomas followed her with a pitcher of ice water.
   “She took the afternoon off to visit her aunt,” said Thomas. “But don’t worry. I’m sure she made something for you to eat.”
   Cassi wasn’t worried. She could certainly make herself dinner, but it seemed odd not to have Mrs. Summer bustling about.
   “What about Patricia?” asked Cassi.
   “I’ll take care of everything,” said Thomas. “I want you to relax.”
   Cassi lay back on the chaise and allowed Thomas to settle a comforter over her lap. With her backlog of psychiatric reading at her fingertips, she had plenty to do.
   “Can I get you anything else?” asked Thomas.
   Cassi shook her head.
   Thomas bent and kissed her forehead. Before he left he dropped a travel folder in her lap.
   Cassi opened it and found two American Airlines tickets.
   “Something for you to look forward to while I’m gone. Meanwhile, get a good night’s sleep.”
   Cassi reached up and put her arms around Thomas’s neck. She hugged him with as much force as she could muster.
   Thomas disappeared into the connecting bathroom, being careful to close the door quietly. Cassi heard the toilet flush. When he reappeared, he kissed her again and told her he’d call after surgery if it wasn’t too late.
   After a quick stop in the study as well as the living room and kitchen, Thomas was ready to go.
   With Cassi back home from her stay in the hospital, Thomas felt better than he had for many days. He even looked forward to surgery, hoping it would be a challenging case. But before he could be on his way, he had one more job: to see his mother.
   Thomas rang her bell and waited while Patricia came down the stairs. She was pleased to see him until he told her he was returning directly to the hospital.
   “I brought Cassi home today,” he said.
   “Well, you know Harriet’s off. I hope you’re not expecting me to look after her.”
   “She’s fine, Mother. I just want you to leave her alone. I don’t want you going over there tonight and upsetting her.”
   “Don’t worry. I certainly won’t go where I’m not wanted,” said Patricia, contrary to the last.
   Thomas walked away without saying anything more. A few minutes later, he climbed into his car and, after wiping his hands on the rag he kept under the front seat, started the engine. He looked forward to the drive back to Boston, knowing there would be very little traffic. Carefully he eased the powerful car out into the crisp afternoon air.
   Arriving at the hospital. Thomas was pleased there was a spot next to the attendant’s booth. He called a loud hello as he climbed from the car. He went into the hospital and took the elevator directly up to surgery.