words aren’t literally toxic, we may open the way for effective treatment.”
“And how do you propose to do that?”
“I’m working something out with Nate.”
“Nate?” John’s face fairly split open with obvious joy. “I’m so glad you’re finding an effective use for him. If it works, don’t keep it secret.”
“All right.” Now that she had completely dispelled the sorrow she had forced on him by asking questions about her mother’s death, Susan attempted to cheer him even further. “Nate and I are working on another project together. A research project with Ari Goldman and Cody Peters involving nanorobot technology.”
The grin disappeared as abruptly as it had come. “You’re on the nanorobot project?”
“Uh-huh. Cool, isn’t it?”
John Calvin’s fingers threaded through one another in obvious discomfort. “It’s a great project, but . . .”
Susan waited for him to finish the thought. When he did not, she prodded. “But what? It seems amazing.”
“Amazing,” John repeated, with little of Susan’s enthusiasm. “Yes, but a bit . . . dangerous.”
Susan supposed injecting anything into the cerebrospinal fluid brought the risk of injury or infection. Anytime particles were introduced directly into circulatory fluids, the risk of thromboses, sludging, and rejection arose. She felt certain the researchers had considered all of those risks and decreased them as much as the experiment allowed. She looked at her father, the concern in his eyes, the worried creases in his face, and realized he had meant something quite different with his warning. “Dangerous? In what way?”
“The Society for Humanity.”
Susan almost laughed.
“They may seem harmless, but they can mount a startling offense when pushed.”
Susan did not doubt him. “They have a legal injunction against treating the patient we’ve been talking about. I know they’re serious and organized. But dangerous?”
“Dangerous.” John stressed the word. “If they feel pushed, they will stoop to murder. The same way a few of the most rabid and fanatical of the antiabortionists slaughtered doctors in the late twentieth century. The way the Weather Underground attempted to blow up government buildings with the workers still in them. People wholly committed to a single agenda do not always act in a rational fashion.”
Susan appreciated that pharmaceutical abortions had taken doctors wholly out of the crosshairs. Now, people who needed the procedure could order the necessary preparations from the privacy of their own computers. They shipped in unmarked packages, and those who disagreed with the process had no central location to protest. “Assuming they even know about the study —”
“They’ll know.”
“They’re not going to target the equivalent of a janitor. Killing the person who does the scut work isn’t going to postpone the project for a second.”
“But if you’re in the room when they go after the others, they’ll kill you, too.”
Susan could scarcely believe the discussion had gone this far. “Dad, you’re being ridiculous. Goldman and Peters have done about a thousand studies, including, according to them, all of the medical ones involving the use of robotics. They’re a common target of protestors; I’ll give you that. But no one has tried to murder them.”
“Yet.”
The qualifier seemed unnecessary. “Fine, ‘yet.’ Just like I haven’t sprouted a tail . . . yet.” Susan studied her father’s face, waiting for the realization of how ridiculous he sounded, watching for the wrinkles to smooth. “Dad?”
Gradually, John Calvin’s features returned to normal, and he even managed a tight smile. “Perhaps I am going overboard. Just promise me you’ll be careful.”
It seemed to mean so much to him, Susan could hardly refuse. “I promise.”
Chapter 13
A casual aura accompanied Friday rounds, as most of the residents looked forward to their first chance at substantial downtime. On the weekend, everyone would come in early to stabilize patients and have a short rounds. Then only the on-call resident would remain, Clayton on Saturday and Susan on Sunday. Susan did not mind. The six-day call rotation would mean she worked next Saturday as well, but that would open up her next six weekends. She had always preferred to get the hard stuff out of the way early rather than have it hovering overhead.
Aside from the occasional personal tirade, Dr. Kevin Bainbridge demanded orderly rounds. On Monday, Susan had presented her patients first simply because she had taken call that night. Since then, Bainbridge continued to have the residents present their patients in the same order: Susan, then Kendall, Sable, Monk, and Nevaeh last. It seemed more than coincidence that they always tended to run out of time when Nevaeh started talking about some outlandish fad diet or described some new article in
To Susan’s surprise, Bainbridge was not nearly as rigid as she had expected. He had no difficulty accepting alternative forms of medicine, so long as the person who presented it brought concrete evidence of scientific testing and results rather than testimonials or half-baked theories or anecdotal stories. Now that Susan had demonstrated two successes, he seemed willing to listen to anything she wished to try, which boded well for the odd request she intended to make.
Busy with her morning work, Susan had not had a chance to talk with Kendall. As they gathered for rounds, he flashed her a thumbs-up, followed by a jerk of his hand toward Connor Marchik’s room.
Susan smiled back at Kendall.
The moment Susan arrived, Bainbridge waved for her to begin, and she obliged. “Starling Woodruff was discharged yesterday from the Neurosurgery service.”
On the outskirts of rounds, several smiling nurses bobbed their heads.
Susan continued. “Diesel Moore will go home today with outpatient follow-up in two weeks.” She looked directly at Bainbridge. “I’d like permission to take one of my other patients off the unit.”
A spattering of applause followed the question, which startled Susan. Bainbridge gave the nurses a sour look from beneath his glasses. “This is rounds, not a performance.”
The grins disappeared, and red tinged several cheeks. One of the older nurses spoke for the rest. “We’re sorry, Doctor. It’s just that Dr. Calvin met with Sharicka’s parents yesterday. They’ve been reluctant to take their daughter on a home visit, and we’re just happy she’s talked them into it. It would be wonderful to discharge the poor little girl.”
“Discharge!” The word was startled from Susan, and she spoke it too loud. “To juvie or Mars?”
It was the first inappropriate thing Susan had exclaimed at rounds, and it resulted in utter silence. She thought it best to apologize before anyone else found his tongue. “I’m sorry, sir. It’s just that I can’t believe anyone could speak casually about discharging Sharicka Anson. Especially the day after she attempted another murder.”
The nurses all started talking at once, but the upshot seemed to be they had no idea of the incident to which Susan referred. “Don’t you all remember the Heimlich Alicia had to perform on Kamaria Natchez?”
The silence continued, but all eyes rested directly on Susan now. One voice came through the crowd. “You’re blaming that on a four-year-old?”
Susan reached into her pocket, pulled out the piece of red balloon, and dropped it on the desktop. “That’s the culprit. Shortly before Kamaria choked, I saw Sharicka hovering around the medicine cups. Shortly before that, she was skipping around the unit with a red balloon.” Susan spread her hands to signify the conclusion was obvious.
The owner of the single voice stepped forward, a nurse named Shaden. “That’s pretty circumstantial evidence.”
Susan could not deny it. “Yes. But when I put it together with this” — she hefted her palm-pross, then set it down for all to see — “the hospital records of one Misty Anson, Sharicka’s sister, I get the full story. Misty spent months in the PICU after a near drowning Sharicka confessed to.”
Shaden had become Sharicka’s staunch defender. “I think her father put her up to that.”
