spent all morning doing, collecting this pile of paper. She was a physician who could no longer practise, a surgeon banished from the OR.The nurses and house staff didn't know what to make of it all. She was sure the rumours were already swirling thick and furious. This morning, when she'd walked through the wards looking for Dr. Wettig, the nurses had all turned to look at her. What are they saying behind my back? she wondered.
She was afraid to find out.
The whap, whap had ceased. She realized the librarian had stopped stamping her book covers and was now eyeing Abby.
Like everyone else in this hospital, she, too, is wondering about me.
Flushing, Abby gathered up her papers and carried them to the librarian's desk.
'How many copies?'
'They're all for Dr. Wettig. You can charge them to the residency office.'
'I need to know the exact count, for the copier log. It's our standing policy.'
Abby set the stack of papers down and began counting pages. She should have known the librarian would insist. This woman had been at Bayside forever, and she'd never failed to inform each new crop of interns that, in this room, things were done her way. Abby was getting angry now, at this librarian, at the hospital, at the mess her life had become. She finished counting the last article.
'Two hundred fourteen pages,' she said, and slapped it down on the pile. The name Aaron Levi, &ID seemed to jump out at her from the top page. The article's title was: 'Comparison of cardiac transplant survival rates between critically ill and outpatient recipients?The authors were Aaron, Rajiv Mohandas, and Lawrence Kunstler. She stared at Aaron's name, shaken by the unexpected reminder of his death.
The librarian, too, noticed Aaron's name and she shook her head. 'It's hard to believe Dr. Levi's gone.'
'I know what you mean,' Abby murmured.
'And to see both those names on the same article?The woman shook her head.
'Excuse me?'
'Dr. Kunstler and Dr. Levi.'
'I'm afraid I don't know Dr. Kunstler.'
'Oh, he was here before you came.' The librarian closed the copier log and primly slid it back onto her bookshelf. 'It must have happened six years ago, at least.'
'What happened six years ago?'
'It was just like that Charles Stuart case.You know, the man who jumped off the Tobin Bridge. That's where Dr. Kunstler jumped.'
Abby focused again on the article. On the two names at the top of the page. 'He killed himself?.'
The librarian nodded. 'Just like Dr. Levi.'
The clatter of mahjongg tiles being stirred on the dining table was too loud to talk over. Vivian shut the kitchen door and went back to the sink, where she'd set the colander of beansprouts. She resumed snapping off the shrivelled tails and throwing the tops into a bowl.
Abby didn't know anyone bothered to snap off beansprout roots. Only the goddamn nitpicky Chinese, Vivian told her. The Chinese spent hours labouring over some dish that's devoured in minutes. And who noticed the tails, anyway?Vivian's grandmother did. And her grandmother's friends did. Put a dish of beansprouts with the tails still attached in front of those ladies, and they'd all wrinkle their noses. So here was the obedient granddaughter, the gifted surgeon soon to be opening her own practice, concentrating on the weighty task of snapping sprouts. She did it swiftly, efficiently, every movement vintage Vivian. The whole time she listened to Abby's story, those graceful hands of hers never fell still.
'Jesus,' Vivian kept murmuring. 'Jesus, you are screwed.'
In the next room the clatter of tiles had stopped, the new round of play begun. Every so often, through the buzz of gossip, there'd be a clunk as someone tossed a tile into the centre. 'What do you think I should do?' said Abby. 'Either way, DiMatteo, he's got you.'
'That's why I'm talking to you. You've been screwed by Victor Voss. You know what he's capable of.'
'Yeah.' Vivian sighed. 'I know too well.'
'Do you think I should go to the police? Or should I ride this out and hope they don't dig any deeper?'
'What does Mark think?'
'He thinks I should keep my mouth shut.'
'I agree with him. Call it my inherent distrust of authority. You must have more faith in the police than I do, if you're thinking of turning yourself in and hoping for the best.' Vivian reached for a dish towel and dried her hands. She looked at Abby. 'Do you really think your patient was murdered?'
'How else do I explain that morphine level?'
'She was already getting it. And probably tolerant enough to need sky-high levels just to stay comfortable. Maybe the doses finally accumulated.'
'Only if she got an extra dose. Accidentally or intentionally.'
'Just to set you up?'
'No one ever checks morphine levels on terminal cancer patients! Someone wanted to make sure her murder didn't slip by unnoticed. Someone who knew it was murder. And sent that note to Brenda Hainey.'
'How do we know Victor Voss did it?'
'He's the one who wants me out of Bayside.'
'Is he the only one?'
Abby stared atVivian. And wondered: Who else wants me out? In the dining room, the thunderous clatter of mahjongg tiles signalled the end of another round. The noise startled Abby. She began to pace the kitchen. Past the rice cooker burbling on the counter, past the stove where steam wafted, spicy and exotic, from cooking pots. 'This is crazy. I can't believe anyone else would do this, just to get me fired.'
'Jeremiah Parr's got his own neck to save. And Voss is probably breathing down it right this minute. Think about it. The hospital board is packed with Voss's rich buddies. They could have Parr fired. Unless he fires you first. Hey, you're not paranoid, DiMatteo. People really are out to get you.'
Abby sank into a chair at the kitchen table. The noise from the game in the next room was giving her a headache. That and all the old-lady chatter. This house was full of noise, visitors talking Cantonese at a near- shout, friendly conversation raised to argument pitch. How could Vivian stand having her grandmother live with her? The din alone would drive Abby crazy.
'It still all comes back to Victor Voss,' said Abby. 'One way or the other, he'll have his revenge.'
'Then why did he drop those lawsuits? That part doesn't make sense. He sends steamrollers coming right at you. Then suddenly, they all stop.'
'Instead of being sued by everyone, I'm accused of murder. What a wonderful alternative.'
'But you do see that it doesn't make sense?Voss probably paid a lot to get those lawsuits rolling. He wouldn't just drop them. Not unless he was concerned about some possible consequence. A countersuit, for instance. Were you planning something like that?'
'I discussed it with my lawyer, but he advised against it.'
'So why did Voss drop the lawsuits?' It didn't make sense to Abby, either.
She considered that question all the way home, driving back from Vivian's house in Melrose. It was late afternoon, and the traffic was heavy as usual on Route 1. Though it was drizzling outside, she kept her window open. The stench of rotting pig organs still lingered in her car. She didn't think the smell would ever disappear. It would always linger, a permanent reminder of VictorVoss's rage.
The Tobin Bridge was coming up — the place where Lawrence Kunstler had chosen to end his life. She slowed down. Perhaps it was a morbid compulsion that made her glance sideways, towards the water, as she drove onto the bridge. Under dreary skies, the river looked black, its surface stippled by wind. Drowning was not a death she would choose. The panic, the thrashing limbs. Throat closing against the rush of cold water. She wondered if Kunstler had been conscious after he hit the water. Or whether he had struggled against the current. She wondered, too, about Aaron. Two doctors, two suicides. She'd forgotten to ask Vivian about Kunstler. If he had died only six years ago, Vivian might have heard of him.
Abby's gaze was so drawn to the water, she didn't notice that the car in front of her had slowed down, that traffic had backed up from the toll booth. When she glanced up at the road, she saw that the car in front was stopped dead.
