her, struggled to sit up. She clawed at the oxygen mask. She pounded her fists on the bed. Finally, exhausted, she sank back, still trying with all her strength to get in even a tiny bit of air.
“I’m going to try and intubate her.”
“Have you done it before?”
“In Advanced Life Support class. Never in an emergency like this. What else can I do?”
Grace felt her head being tilted back. A metallic rod was being jammed into the back of her throat.
“Everything’s swollen back there. I can’t make out any landmark. Dammit, where’s the rescue squad?”
Grace knew she hadn’t said the words-knew she couldn’t. She felt herself stop struggling. She felt herself stop trying to suck in air. Overhead, the lights dimmed. Her panic lessened. The words of the nurses became garbled and distant.
A veil of darkness settled over her, accompanied by a growling, low-pitched drone.
The droning sound grew softer.
Softer.
Finally, there was silence.
CHAPTER 18
Spurred by an unseasonably cold, rainy spring, near record numbers of meals were being served at the Open Hearth Kitchen almost every night. For Will, the place had always been an island in his often furiously paced life. Tonight, he knew, asking for any kind of significant diversion from the place was probably asking too much. Last night, as he sat in his apartment with Patty Moriarity, someone had walked into a motel room on the South Shore and fired three lethal shots into one of the leading neurosurgeons in the country-a man who just happened to be one of the partners in an expanding, highly successful HMO. Victim number four. Four out of. . out of how many? Even worse, the killer had made the point of calling Will essentially to announce that he was going to do it.
“Hey, you. You gonna just stand there staring into the flames, or are you gonna stir that pasta?”
Benois Beane, his gentle face crinkled in a trademark grin, stood, hands on hips, just a few feet away.
“Hey, Beano. Sorry. In case you couldn’t tell, I’m a little distracted. Here, look, all stirred.”
“You do that very well. We’ll have to see about bringing in more surgeons on pasta night. It’s hard going for you, huh?”
“Yeah, you might say that. Beano, what’s been happening to my life is absolutely insane. I want to fight, but there’s nothing to push against. I want to lash out, but there’s nothing even to hit. I don’t know who framed me, I don’t know why, I don’t know what to do about it. And as if that craziness wasn’t enough, this frigging killer thinks I’m his spiritual brother, joined at the ideological hip by our mutual hatred for HMOs.”
“I heard about that brain surgeon.”
“What you may not have heard was that the murderer called me ahead of time to proclaim his intention to kill another one of our enemies. ‘The piper’s on the loose and he must be paid,’ he said.”
“Lord. The cops been any help?”
Will conjured up images of last evening’s embryonic connection with Patty, but couldn’t even manage a smile. For nearly an hour the two of them had sat together on his couch, his arm around her, her head resting on his shoulder. Neither of them was willing to speak or break the mood in any way. Will sensed that their bond was forged as much by exhaustion and frustration as by their attraction to each other, and he was determined not to read too much into the moment. Still, they were together, touching. Then suddenly, having spoken barely a word, Patty had stood, kissed him first on the cheek, then briefly on the mouth, mumbled an apology, and left. Just like that.
“They seem to be doing the best they can, Beano,” Will said, “but the guy is good. He knows handguns, he knows explosives, he knows surveillance electronics. He studies his victims and finds ways to get at them without any witnesses.”
“And why is he doing this?”
“He only shares things with me a bit at a time. It’s like a game. But from what he’s let me in on so far, someone close to him-his mother, it appears-was killed by what he perceives was managed-care policy. I’m guessing she was discharged prematurely from an ER or a psych ward and went ahead and killed herself.”
“She wouldn’t be the first. I’ve lost two clients whom we couldn’t get into a detox because of refusal by their HMO.” Beane donned a padded mitt and helped pour a mountain of spaghetti into a giant colander. “Well,” he said, “I don’t want to make things any worse for you, but there is something I need to talk to you about.” He turned to a gangly teenager who was moving dishes out to the serving area. “Arielle, can you take over for Will, please? Get some help emptying those two other pots into this strainer, rinse the pasta, then fill up two of the deep serving pans.”
“Glad to.”
Beane put his arm around Will’s shoulder and guided him to his office.
“I’m not sure whether or not you know it, Will, but after Grace Davis ran into you at your office, she and her husband, Mark, began coming in here to volunteer. Three times so far, I think. Maybe four. Coming back completed a circle for her. I was seriously considering hiring her part time to help out our counseling staff, as soon as her chemotherapy was over. Although she was before my time when she used to be a client here, her story and the way she carries herself now certainly impressed me.”
“Me, too. I felt terrible having to tell her I couldn’t do her surgery, and even worse having to tell her why.” Beane’s grave expression brought a sudden chill. “Is she all right?” Will asked.
“Her husband called just a little while ago. She had an allergic reaction during her first dose of chemotherapy.” He pulled a pink telephone-message pad sheet from his pocket and read the words. “He said it was shock. Ana-fil-ack-tic shock.”
Will felt ill. Anaphylactic shock was the most fearsome of allergic reactions. Massive histamine release causing hives, precipitous blood-pressure drop due to widespread pooling of blood in dilated vessels, and airway obstruction due to swelling of the membranes in the throat and bronchial tubes. It was a terrifying medical emergency that was often fatal.
“Did she die?” he managed, dreading the answer.
“According to her husband, almost. One of the rescue-squad people performed an emergency tracheotomy in the cancer clinic. She’s in intensive care at your hospital. I’m not sure whether or not she’s regained consciousness.”
“Thanks for telling me. I can call the unit for information.”
“Are you going to go over there?”
Will pictured Sid Silverman, puffed with anger, insisting that he not set foot in the hospital. There was no legal order to back up the demand, but Will had seen no reason to make his situation worse by putting Silverman to the test. Now there was one.
“In the morning,” he said. “I’ll go in and see how she’s doing first thing in the morning.”
Given the choice this night between table cleanup, which was his usual job, and staying behind the counter to serve, Will chose the latter. He was in no shape for much contact with the public. Gina, the full-time staff person in charge of scheduling and deploying volunteers, put him on salads. The line of clients, a number of whom still had their own home but could afford neither food nor fuel, seemed endless. Will recalled the early days when the Open Hearth was more of a food pantry than a kitchen, and marveled at the energy of the place. Tonight, four paid staff were working alongside fifteen or so volunteers, ranging from ten years old to seventy. It was a good bet that none of those volunteers knew Will was one of the founders, and that was certainly the way he wanted it. What he didn’t want, however, was the notion that before long, without a medical license, he and the twins might end up in the line on the other side of the counter.
“Hey, there, mister, am I allowed two salads if I pass on the spaghetti and meatballs?”
Patty eyed him from over the food-protection hood. She had on her worn leather jacket and a floppy black and
