career?'
Mark started to answer, then seemed to think better of it. It was an absurd theory and they all knew it.
'You have to agree, Dr. Hodell, that a conspiracy is pretty farfetched,' said Susan.
'Not as farfetched as what's already happened to me,' said Abby. 'Look at what VictorVoss has already done. He's mentally unstable. He assaulted me in the SICU. Putting bloody organs in my car is something only a sick mind would think of. And then there are the lawsuits — two of them already. And that's just the beginning.'
There was a silence. Susan glanced at Parr. 'Doesn't she know?' 'Apparently not.'
'Know what?' said Abby.
'We got a call from Hawkes, Craig and Sussman just after lunch,' said Susan. 'The lawsuits against you have been dropped. Both of them.'
Abby reeled back in her chair. 'I don't understand,' she murmured. 'What is he doing? What is Voss doing?'
'If Victor Voss was trying to harass you, it appears he's stopped. This has nothing to do with Voss.'
'Then how else do we explain this?' said Mark.
'Look at the evidence.' Susan pointed to the vial.
'There are no witnesses, nothing to link that particular vial with the patient's death.'
'Nevertheless, I think we can all draw the same conclusion.'
The silence was suffocating. Abby saw that no one was looking at her, not even Mark.
At last Wettig spoke. 'What do you propose to do, Parr? Call in the police? Turn this mess into a media circus?'
Parr hesitated. 'It would be premature…'
'You either make your accusations stick, or you withdraw them. Anything else would be unfair to Dr. DiMatteo.'
'My God, General. Let's keep the police out of this,' said Mark.
'If you people want to call this murder, then the police should be involved,' said Wettig. 'Call in a few reporters as well, put your PR
people to work. They could use a little excitement. Get it all out in the open, that's the best policy.' He looked directly at Parr. 'If you're going to call this murder.'
It was a dare.
Parr was the one to back down. He cleared his throat and said to Susan, 'We can't be absolutely certain that's what it is.'
'You'd better be certain it's murder,' said Wettig. 'You'd better be damn certain. Before you call the police.'
'The matter's still being looked into,' said Susan. 'We have to interview a few more nurses on that ward. Find out if there's something we've missed.'
'You do that,' said Wettig.
There was another pause. No one was looking at Abby. She had faded from view, the invisible woman no one wanted to acknowledge.
They all seemed startled when Abby spoke. She scarcely recognized her own voice; it sounded like a stranger's, calm and steady. 'I'd like to return to my patients now. If I may,' she said. Wetfig nodded. 'Go ahead.'
'Wait,' said Parr. 'She can't go back to her duties.'
'You haven't proved anything,' said Abby, rising from her chair. 'The General's right. Either you make the charges stick, or you withdraw them.'
'We have one charge that's indisputable,' said Susan. 'Illegal possession of a controlled substance. We don't know how you obtained the morphine, Doctor, but the fact you had it in your locker is serious enough.' She looked at Parr. 'We don't have a choice. The potential for liability is sky-high. If something goes wrong with any of her patients, and people pounds d out we knew about this morphine business, we're dead.' She turned to Wetfig. 'So's the reputation of your residency programme, General.'
Susan's warning had its intended effect. Liability was something they all worried about. Wettig, like every other doctor, dreaded lawyers and lawsuits. This time, he didn't argue.
'What does this mean?' said Abby. 'Am I being fired?'
Parr rose to his feet, a signal that the meeting was over, the decision now made. 'Dr. DiMatteo, until further notice, you're on suspension. You're not to go on the wards.You're not to go anywhere near a patient. Do you understand?'
She understood. She understood perfectly.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Yakov had not dreamed of his mother in years, had scarcely thought of her in months, so he was bewildered when, on his thirteenth day at sea, he awakened with a memory of her so vivid he could almost smell her scent still lingering in the air. His last glimpse of her, as the dream faded, was her smile. A wisp of blonde hair tracing her cheek. Green eyes that seemed to be looking through him, beyond him, as though he was the one who was not real, not flesh. Her face was so instantly familiar to him that he knew this must surely be his mother. Over the years he had tried hard to remember her, but her face had never quite come to him. Yakov had no photographs, no mementoes. But somehow, through the years, he must have carried the memory of her face stored like a seed in the dark but fertile soil of his mind. Last night, it had finally blossomed. He remembered her, and she was beautiful.
That afternoon, the sea turned flat as glass and the sky darkened to the same cold grey as the water. Standing on the deck, looking over the railing, Yakov could not tell where the sea ended and the sky began. They were adrift in a giant grey fishbowl. He'd heard the cook say there was bad weather ahead, that by tomorrow no one would be keeping down much more than bread and soup. Today, though, the sea was calm, the air heavy and metallic with the taste of rain. Yakov was finally able to coax Aleksei from his bunk to go exploring.
The first place Yakov took him was Hell. The engine room. They wandered for a while in the clanking darkness until Aleksei complained the smell of fuel was making him sick. Aleksei had the stomach of a baby — always puking. So Yakov took him up to the bridge, where the Captain was too busy to talk to them. So was the Navigator. Yakov could not even demonstrate his special status as a regular and accepted visitor.
Next they headed to the galley, but the cook was in a cranky mood and did not offer them even a slice of bread. He had a meal to prepare for the aft passengers, the people no one ever saw. They
HARVEST
were a demanding pair, he complained, requiring far too much of his time and attention. He grumbled as he set two glasses and a wine bottle on a tray and slid it into the dumbwaiter. He pressed a button and sent it whirring upwards, to their private quarters. Then he turned back to the stove where a pan was sizzling and pots were steaming. He lifted one of the pot lids, releasing the fragrance of butter and onions. He stirred the contents with a wooden spoon.
'Onions have to be cooked slowly,' he said. 'It makes them sweet as milk. It takes patience to cook well, but no one has patience these days. Everyone wants things done at once. Stick it in the microwave! Might as well eat old leather.' He closed the pot lid, then lifted the lid to the frying pan. Browning inside were six tiny birds, each one no bigger than a boy's fist. 'Like morsels from heaven,' he said.
'Those are the smallest chickens I've ever seen,' marvelled Aleksei.
The Cook laughed. 'They're quail, idiot.'
'Why do we never eat quail?'
'Because you're not in the aft cabin.' The cook arranged the steaming birds on a platter and drizzled them with chopped parsley. Then he stepped back, his face red and sweating as he admired his creation. 'This they cannot complain about,' he said, and slid the platter into the dumbwaiter, which by then had returned empty. 'I'm
