A night watchman opened the door for them and made them sign in. They boarded the only functioning elevator, and Jack promptly pressed the eleventh floor.
“You really were here,” Chet said.
“I told you I was,” Jack said.
“I thought you were pulling my leg,” Chet remarked.
When the doors opened Chet was as surprised as Jack had been the night before. The studio was in full swing, as if it were still sometime between nine and five, instead of almost nine in the evening.
The two men stood for a few minutes watching the bustle. They were totally ignored.
“Some welcoming party,” Jack commented.
“Maybe someone should tell them it’s after quitting time,” Chet said.
Jack peered into Colleen’s office. The lights were on but no one was there. Turning around, he recognized Alice toiling at her drawing board. He walked over to her, but she didn’t look up.
“Excuse me?” Jack said. She was working with such concentration he hated to bother her. “Hello, hello.”
Finally Alice’s head bobbed up, and when she caught sight of him, her face reflected instant recognition.
“Oh, gosh, sorry,” she said, wiping her hands on a towel. “Welcome!” She acted self-conscious; she’d not seen them arrive as she stood and motioned for them to follow her. “Come on! I’m supposed to take you down to the arena.”
“Uh-oh,” Chet said. “That doesn’t sound good. They must think we’re Christians.”
Alice laughed. “Creatives are sacrificed in the arena, not Christians,” she explained.
Terese and Colleen greeted them with air kisses: the mere touching of cheeks accompanied by a smacking sound. It was the kind of ritual that made Jack feel distinctly uncomfortable.
Terese got right to business. She had the men sit at the table while she and Colleen began putting storyboards in front of them, maintaining a running commentary on what the storyboards represented.
Both Jack and Chet were entertained from the start. They were particularly taken by the humorous sketches involving Oliver Wendell Holmes and Joseph Lister visiting the National Health hospital and inspecting the hospital’s handwashing protocols. At the conclusion of each commercial these famous characters in the history of medicine commerited on how much more scrupulously the National Health hospital followed their teachings than that “other” hospital.
“Well, there you have it,” Terese said after the last storyboard was explained and withdrawn. “What do you men think?”
“They’re cute,” Jack admitted. “And probably effective. But they are hardly worth the money that’s going to be spent on them.”
“But they deal with something associated with the quality of care,” Terese said defensively.
“Barely,” Jack said. “The National Health subscribers would be better off if the millions spent on this were put into actual health care.”
“Well, I love them,” Chet said. “They’re so fresh and delightfully humorous. I think they’re great.”
“I assume the ‘other’ hospital refers to the competition,” Jack said.
“Most assuredly,” Terese said. “We feel it would be in bad taste to mention the General by name, especially in light of the problems it’s been having.”
“Their problems are getting worse,” Jack said. “They’ve had an outbreak of another serious disease. This makes three in three days.”
“Good God!” Terese exclaimed. “That’s awful. I certainly hope this gets to the media, or is this one going to be a secret?”
“I don’t know why you keep making this an issue,” Jack snapped. “There’s no way it can be kept a secret.”
“It would be if AmeriCare had its way,” Terese said heatedly.
“Hey, are you guys at it again?” Chet said.
“It’s an ongoing argument,” Terese said. “I just can’t get over the fact that Jack does not feel it is his job as a public servant to let the media and hence the public know about these awful diseases.”
“I told you I’ve been specifically informed it is not my job,” Jack shot back.
“Wait! Time out,” Chet called out. “Listen, Terese, Jack is right. We can’t go to the media ourselves. That’s the chief’s domain via the PR office. But Jack is no slouch in all this. Today he went flying over to the General and implied right to their faces that these recent outbreaks aren’t natural.”
“What do you mean, not ‘natural’?” Terese asked.
“Exactly that,” Chet said. “If they are not natural, then they are deliberate. Somebody is causing them.”
“Is that true?” Terese asked Jack. She was shocked.
“It’s gone through my mind,” Jack admitted. “I’m having trouble explaining scientifically everything that has been going on over there.”
“Why would someone do that?” Terese wondered. “It’s absurd.”
“Is it?” Jack asked.
“Could it be the work of some crazy person?” Colleen offered.
“That I’d doubt,” Jack said. “There is too much expertise involved. And these bugs are dangerous to handle. One of the current victims is a lab technician.”
“What about a disgruntled employee?” Chet suggested. “Someone with the knowledge and a grudge who’s snapped.”
“That I think is more likely than some madman,” Jack said. “In fact, the director of the hospital lab is unhappy with the management of the hospital. He told me so himself. He’s had to lay off twenty percent of his workforce.”
“Oh my God,” Colleen exclaimed. “Do you think it could be him?”
“Actually I don’t,” Jack said. “Frankly, too many arrows would point to the director of the lab. He’d be the first suspect. He’s been acting defensive, but he’s not stupid. I think that if this series of diseases has been spread deliberately it has to be for a more venal reason.”
“Like what?” Terese said. “I think we’re all jumping off the deep end here.”
“Maybe so,” Jack said. “But we have to remember that AmeriCare is first and foremost a business. I even know something about their philosophy. Believe me, it is bottom-line oriented all the way.”
“You’re suggesting that AmeriCare might be spreading disease in its own facility?” Terese asked incredulously. “That doesn’t make any sense.”
“I’m just thinking out loud,” Jack explained. “For the sake of argument let’s assume these illnesses have been deliberately spread. Now, let’s look at the index case in each incidence. First, there was Nodelman, who had diabetes. Second, there was Hard, who had a chronic orthopedic problem, and lastly there was Lagenthorpe, who suffered from chronic asthma.”
“I see what you’re suggesting,” Chet said. “All of the index cases were the type of patient prepaid plans hate because they lose money on them. They simply use too much medical care.”
“Oh, come on!” Terese complained. “This is ridiculous. No wonder you doctors make such horrid businessmen. AmeriCare would never risk this kind of public relations disaster to rid itself of three problem patients. It would make no sense. Give me a break!”
“Terese is probably right,” Jack admitted. “If AmeriCare was behind all this, they certainly could have done it more expeditiously. What truly worries me is that infectious agents are involved. If these outbreaks have been deliberate, the individual behind them wants to start epidemics, not just eliminate specific patients.”
“That’s even more diabolical,” Terese said.
“I agree,” Jack said. “It kind of forces us back to considering the improbable idea of a crazy person.”
“But if someone is trying to start epidemics, why hasn’t there been one?” Colleen asked.
“For several reasons,” Jack said. “First of all, the diagnosis has been made relatively rapidly in all three cases. Second, the General has taken these outbreaks seriously and has taken appropriate steps to control them. And third, the agents involved are poor choices for creating a
n epidemic here in New York in March.”
“You’ll have to explain,” Colleen said.
“Plague, tularemia, and Rocky Mountain spotted fever can be transmitted by airborne spread, but it is not their usual route. The usual route is through an arthropod vector, and those specific bugs are not available this time of year, especially not in a hospital.”
“What do you think of all this?” Terese asked Chet.
“Me?” Chet asked with a self-conscious laugh. “I don’t know what to think.”
“Come on,” Terese prodded. “Don’t try to protect your friend here. What’s your gut reaction?”
“Well, it is New York,” Chet said. “We see a lot of infectious diseases, so I suppose I’m dubious about this notion of a deliberate spread. I guess I’d have to say it sounds a little paranoid to me. I do know that Jack dislikes AmeriCare.”
“Is that true?” Terese asked Jack.
“I hate them,” Jack admitted.
“Why?”
“I’d rather not talk about it,” Jack said. “It’s personal.”
“Well,” Terese said. She put her hand on top of the stack of storyboards. “Dr. Stapleton’s disdain for medical advertising aside, you men think these sketches are okay?”
“I told you, I think they’re great,” Chet said.
“I imagine they will be effective,” Jack grudgingly agreed.
“Do either of you have any other suggestions we could use regarding preventing hospital infections?” Terese asked.
“Maybe you could do something concerning steam sterilization for instruments and devices,” Jack said. “Hospitals differ in their protocols. Robert Koch was involved with that advance, and he was a colorful character.”
Terese wrote down the suggestion. “Anything else?” she asked.
“I’m afraid I’m not very good at this,” Chet admitted. “But why don’t we all head over to the Auction House for a couple of drinks. With the proper lubricant, who knows what I might come up with?”
The women declined. Terese explained that they had to continue working on the sketches. She said that by Monday they had to have something significant to show to the president and the CEO.
“How about tomorrow night?” Chet suggested.
“We’ll see,” Terese said.
Five minutes later Jack and Chet were heading down in the elevator.
“That was the bum’s rush,” Chet complained.
“They are driven women,” Jack said.
“How about you?” Chet asked. “Want to stop for a beer?”
“I think I’ll head home and see if the guys are playing basketball,” Jack said. “I could use some exercise. I feel wired.”
“Basketball at this hour?” Chet questioned.
“Friday night is a big night in the neighborhood,” Jack said.
The two men parted company in front of the Willow and Heath building. Chet jumped into a cab, and Jack undid his medley of locks. Climbing on his bike, Jack pedaled north on Madison, then crossed over to Fifth Avenue at Fifty-ninth Street. From there he entered Central Park.
Although his usual style was to ride fast, Jack kept his pace slow. He was mulling over the conversation he’d just had. It had been the first time that he’d put his suspicions into words; he felt anxious as a result.
Chet had suggested he was paranoid, and Jack had to admit there had to be some truth in it. Ever since AmeriCare had effectively gobbled up his practice, Jack felt that death had been stalking him. First it had robbed him of his family, then it had threatened his own life with depression. It had even filled his daily routine with the second specialty he’d chosen. And now death seemed to be teasing him with these outbreaks, even mocking him with inexplicable details.
As Jack rode deeper into the dark, deserted park, its gloomy and somber views added to his disquietude. In areas where he’d seen beauty that morning on his way to work, now he saw ghastly skeletons of leafless trees silhouetted against an eerily bleached sky. Even the distant sawtooth skyline of the city seemed ominous.
Jack put muscle into his pedaling, and his bike gained speed. For an irrational moment he was afraid to look back over his shoulder. He had the creepy feeling that something was bearing down on him.
Jack streaked into a puddle of light beneath a lonely streetlight, braked, and skidded to a stop. He forced himself to turn around and face his pursuer. But there was nothing there. Jack strained to see into the distant shadows, and as he did, he understood that what was threatening him was coming from inside his own head. It was the depression that had paralyzed him after his family’s tragedy.
Angry with himself, Jack began pedaling again. He was embarrassed by his childlike fear. He thought he had more control. Obviously he was letting this episode with the outbreaks affect him far too much. Laurie had been right: He was too emotionally involved.
Having faced his fears, Jack felt better, but he noticed that the park still looked sinister. People had warned him about riding in the park at night, but Jack had always ignored their admonitions. Now, for the first time, he wondered if he was being foolish.
Emerging from the park onto Central Park West was like escaping from a nightmare. From the dark, scary loneliness of the park’s interior he was instantly thrust into a rallylike bustle of yellow cabs racing northward. The city had come alive. There were even people calmly walking on the sidewalks.
The farther north Jack rode the more the environment deteriorated. Beyond 100th Street the buildings became noticeably shabbier. Some were even boarded up and appeared abandoned. There was more litter in the street. Stray dogs plundered overturned trash cans.
Jack turned left onto 106th Street. As he rode along his street the neighborhood seemed more depressed than usual to him. The minor epiphany in the park had opened Jack’s eyes to just how dilapidated the area was.
Jack stopped at the playground where he played basketball by grabbing onto the chain-link fence that separated it from the street. His feet remained snug in his toe clips.
As Jack had expected, the court was in full use. The mercury vapor lights that he’d paid to be installed were ablaze. Jack recognized many of the players as they surged up and down the court. Warren, by far the best player, was there, and Jack could hear him urging his teammates to greater effort. The team that lost would have to sit out, since a bevy of other players waited impatiently on the sidelines. The competition was always fierce.
While Jack was watching, Warren sank the final basket of the game and the losing team slunk off the court, momentarily disgraced. As the new game was being organized Warren caught sight of Jack. He waved and strutted over. It was the winning team walk.
“Hey, Doc, whatcha know?” Warren asked. “You coming out to run or what?”
Warren was a handsome African-American with a shaved head, a groomed mustache, and a body like one of the Greek statues in the Metropolitan Museum. It had taken Jack several months to cultivate Warren’s acquaintance. They had developed a friendship of sorts, but it was based more on a shared love of street basketball than anything else. Jack didn’t know much about Warren except that he was the best basketball player and also the de facto leader of the local gang. Jack suspected that the two positions went hand in hand.
“I was thinking about coming out for a run,” Jack said. “Who’s got winners?”
Getting into the game could be a tricky business. When Jack had first moved to the neighborhood, it had taken him a month of coming to the court and patiently waiting until he’d been invited to play. Then he’d had to prove himself. Once he’d demonstrated he was capable of putting the ball in the basket on a consistent basis, he’d been tolerated.
Things got a bit better when Jack had paid to have the lights installed and the backboards refurbished, but not a lot. There were only two other honkies besides Jack who were allowed to play. Being Caucasian was a definite disadvantage on the neighborhood playground: you had to know the rules.
“Ron’s got winners and the
n Jake,” Warren said. “But I can get you on my team. Flash’s old lady wants him home.”
“I’ll be out,” Jack said. He pushed off from the fence and rode the rest of the way to his building.
Jack got off his bike and hefted it up onto his shoulder. Before he entered his building he looked up at its facade. In his current critical state of mind he had to admit it wasn’t pretty. In fact, it was a downright sorry structure, although at one time it must have been rather fancy, because a small segment of highly decorative cornice still clung precariously to the roofline. Two of the windows on the third floor were boarded up.
The building was six stories, constructed of brick, and had two apartments per floor. Jack shared the fourth floor with Denise, a husbandless teenager with two children.
Jack pushed the front door open with his foot. It had no lock. He started up the stairs, careful to avoid any debris. As Jack passed the second floor he heard the sorry sounds of a vehement argument, followed by the noise of breaking glass. Unfortunately, this was a nightly occurrence.
With the bike balanced on his shoulder, it took Jack some maneuvering to get himself situated in front of his apartment door. He was fumbling in his pocket for his key when he noticed he didn’t need it. The doorjamb opposite his lock was splintered.
Jack pushed his door open. It was dark inside. He listened but only heard renewed yelling from 2A and the traffic out in the street. His apartment was eerily quiet. He put his bike down and reached in and turned on the overhead light.
The living room was in shambles. Jack didn’t have much furniture, but what he had was either tipped over, emptied, or broken. He noticed that a small radio that usually stood on the desk was gone.
Jack wheeled the bike into the room and leaned it against the wall. He took off his jacket and draped it over the bike. Then he walked over to the desk. The drawers had been pulled out and dumped. Amid the rubble on the floor was a photo album. Jack bent down and picked it up. He opened the cover and breathed a sigh of relief. It was unscathed. It was the only possession he cared about.
Jack placed the photo album on the windowsill and walked into the bedroom. He switched on the light and saw a similar scene. Most of his clothes had been pulled from his closet and from his bureau and tossed onto the floor.