perhaps than with any other single discovery since anesthesia. Had life rewarded the inventor? Was he rich? Was he at peace? Or had controversy, illness, or the machinations of others made things hard for him?
Sarah had inserted a bipolar cautery instrument through a small incision just over Kristen's pubis. Now, watching through the laparoscope, she guided the tips of the cautery unit around the narrow fallopian tube. Next she traced along the tube from where it entered the uterus to its fimbriated tip-the fringed end next to the ovary.
'Okay, Kristen, your tube's completely freed up. I'm going to grasp it with the little pincher on the cautery unit and burn it closed. If you still want to watch, you might actually see the fat cells in the tissue sizzle and pop. Then, just to be sure there are no little surprise tax deductions in your future, I'm going to repeat the procedure in a second spot as well, a bit closer to your uterus. The burns we're going to make will deaden the sensory nerves along with the tubal tissue, so there won't be much pain from that area after we're all done-if there's any pain at all…'
We're going to make… after we're all done… The phrases, used reflexively, now sounded as awkward as Sarah was feeling. She glanced over at the nurses. They used to love working with her; they'd talk and joke with her during cases. Now, whether they intended it or not, there was distance.
She and Matt had reported Andrew's murder to the police. But the one detective assigned to the case had failed to find Andrew's body or any evidence at all of foul play. He couldn't locate Tommy Sze-to or even turn up a witness willing to corroborate any part of their story. The malpractice case against her was proceeding along and, fueled by her unsubstantiated account of the night in Chinatown, was still receiving a goodly amount of media attention. There were any number of rumors circulating around the hospital grapevine. One of them had Andrew leaving his wife for Sarah, and then leaving for Australia when Sarah jilted him for another man. Another had Sarah killing Andrew after a lovers' quarrel and then making up the Chinese gang tale in case his body was ever found. It was terribly frustrating to know that without concrete proof of some sort, she was powerless to convince any doubter of the truth.
In the press, the publicity about Sarah and the Medical Center of Boston had ranged from disruptive to brutal. A nasty letter from the president of the Chinatown Neighborhood Association had been published in the Globe, calling her allegations about tongs and violence damaging to his community. In various publications and broadcasts, her motives had been questioned, as well as her morality, and even her sanity. Worst of all, nothing had changed. Absolutely nothing.
Desperate to clear Sarah's name, and his own suddenly shaky reputation, Matt had hired a private detective. After nearly three weeks and more than $2,000, the man had come up with essentially no more information than that Tommy Sze-to was no longer in Boston and possibly no longer in the country. Nobody in Chinatown to whom he spoke knew anything about Dr. Andrew Truscott.
'That's it, Kristen. A couple of Band-Aids and you're off to recovery,' Sarah said. 'Thank you all. Thank you very much.'
There were a few mumbled replies, but no praise for a job that was, in fact, exceptionally well done. Sarah stripped off her gloves and rushed into the nurses' locker room, feeling quite alone and perilously close to tears. She still felt committed to staying at work and to seeing things through-more so than ever since Andrew's death. But it was doubtful she would ever again feel comfortable at MCB. Being up on pedestals the way most M.D.s were made them easy targets. She would never have believed how fragile a physician's reputation and professional respect could be. It was incredibly painful to realize that more than two years of consistently good work-of always staying the extra hour, of always helping out when help was needed-were no real match for baseless rumor and innuendo.
She changed into fresh scrubs and her clinic coat, and stopped by the mail room to check her cubby. Among the pathology reports and copies of operative dictations, there was a note from Rosa Suarez, dated that morning, asking Sarah to get in touch with her. There was also a letter from the chairman of the hospital board of trustees, sent out via a computer-generated mailing sticker. The envelope was indistinguishable from those she frequently received announcing a staff/trustee tea, or requesting an update on her continuing education activities. The contents of the envelope, however, were hardly routine. The letter, signed by some typist in lieu of the board chairman, politely informed Sarah that due to the confusion and uncertainty surrounding her and her future, the professional conduct subcommittee of the board had requested OB/Gyn department head Dr. Randall Snyder to submit an alternate recommendation for the position of next year's chief resident.
'Damn!' Sarah shoved the letter in her clinic coat pocket and pounded her fist on the counter.
'Damn what?'
Eli Blankenship, his massive pate gleaming beneath the fluorescent light, smiled down at her. The sight of him immediately softened Sarah's anger. Throughout her ordeal, the medical chief had been one of the few constants at the hospital-always upbeat and encouraging; always applying his incredible intellect to her problems. There was no doubt, he had told her, that the story she and Matt told about Tommy Sze-to and Andrew Truscott was perfectly true. Any real student of mysteries would have known that, he said. Their account was simply too far out, too rough around the edges, to be anything other than fact.
'Mornin', Dr. Blankenship,' the mail clerk said, handing over a huge stack of announcements, lab reports, journals, and magazines.
'G'morning to you, Tate. How's the Mrs.?'
'Still doin' great, thanks to you.'
Blankenship smiled his pleasure and led Sarah away from the window.
'What's going on?' he asked.
She pulled out the letter from the hospital trustees and passed it over.
Blankenship read it in seconds.
'This is ridiculous,' he exclaimed. 'Rob McCormick and the rest of those fops on the board of trustees spend so much time worrying about appearances that they forget about accomplishments. Ergo, they have none. Idiots. Sarah, don't we have a meeting scheduled with you and your lawyer?'
'Yes, sir. Tomorrow evening.'
'Well, I promise you I shall have spoken with McCormick by then. I can't guarantee you a reversal of his position, but I can be very persuasive when I must be. I also promise you a lengthy dissertation on DIC. I've become quite an expert on the condition. I feel strongly that some force other than or in addition to your prenatal supplements is at work. And I swear, we're going to find out what it is.' He studied the anger and frustration in her eyes. 'Sarah, you must keep your chin up through all this. You have a good deal more support around this hospital than you might think, including, as far as I can tell, Dr. Snyder. I'd be surprised if he had anything to do with this letter.'
'How could he not?' Sarah asked. 'Just a few months ago he was offering me a partnership. Now he's as chilly and formal as can be. I get the feeling that most folks around here, including Dr. Snyder, would be happy if I would just dry up and blow away.'
'But you're not going to, right?'
'No, Dr. Blankenship, I'm not. I'm not because regardless of what most people seem to be thinking, I don't believe I've done anything wrong-not to those three women, and not to Andrew.'
Blankenship put a reassuring arm around her shoulders.
'We are going to get to the bottom of all this,' he said with firm conviction. 'We are going to find out what afflicted those women, and we are going to find out who was responsible for Andrew Truscott's death. Something is going to break for us soon, Sarah. I sense it in my gut.' He patted his sumo wrestler's midsection. 'Which, incidentally, is hardly the most sensitive part of me. And meanwhile, I intend to do what I can to ensure that no one in this hospital takes action against you because of what they believe might be true.'
'Thank you,' Sarah said. 'Thank you for everything.'
'Okay, then,' Blankenship said. 'I'll see you tomorrow evening-hopefully with some good news from that damn board of trustees. Where are you headed now?'
'To give Rosa Suarez a call. Apparently she's got something she wants to talk to me about.'
'Well, you can report on whatever it is tomorrow night,' Blankenship said. 'Or better still, perhaps you can talk our secretive epidemiologist into coming and reporting to us herself.'
'Perhaps I can,' Sarah mused, feeling more centered and determined than she had in weeks. 'Perhaps I can at that.'
