“It is surprising,” Mitt agreed. Now that the excitement was over, the reality of the situation was sinking in. Another patient he’d been assigned had died under what seemed to be inexplicable circumstances. Latonya Walker had had no history of cardiac disease, and her obesity notwithstanding, there’d been no reason to suspect she’d have cardiac problems despite having undergone general anesthesia and a reasonably extensive operation.
“I’m assuming you’ll handle the paperwork,” Madison said. Her usually crystalline voice had lost some of its sparkle. Like Mitt, she was feeling drained after the excitement and the less-than-optimal result on top of a long day.
“I will,” Mitt responded, although he wasn’t looking forward to it.
“Try to get it done ASAP,” Madison said. “And then get yourself back to the on-call room. Let’s hope that’s all the excitement for tonight.”
“I’ll do my best,” Mitt said. “Thanks for encouraging me to put in the dialysis catheter and then talking me through actually doing it. I appreciate it.”
“You did a superb job and nailed it first try. Bravo!”
When they reached the nurses’ station, Madison said a quick good night before waving and heading down the darkened corridor toward the elevators. For a few beats, Mitt watched her recede, half-wishing that the blond girl would make an appearance ahead of her so that Madison would see her, too. But it wasn’t to be.
Taking a deep breath to give himself a new semi-burst of energy, Mitt went behind the counter. There he was greeted by the head night nurse who, without being asked, handed him the paperwork required for the death. With a sigh of resignation and now armed with the appropriate forms, he took a seat at the counter. He then unclipped a pen from his jacket pocket and got down to work. But as he worked, he couldn’t stop thinking about the blond girl and wondering why the apparition was hounding him and whether he’d have to again confront her and the others on his way back to his on-call room. And the rats: That was something new. All in all, it was one hell of a nerve-wracking situation having his own imagination haunt him, especially considering the stress he was under starting a surgical residency.
Chapter 21
Thursday, July 4, 12:35 a.m.
When his phone rang, Mitt wasn’t even certain he’d had the opportunity to fall asleep, especially since he was holding his phone and the last thing he could remember was debating whether to put it on the night table next to the head of the bed or to slip it into his jacket pocket. When he’d gotten back from Latonya Walker’s cardiac arrest a few minutes earlier, relieved to have done so without any repeat hallucinations, he’d immediately stretched out on the bed fully clothed without even kicking off his loafers. It seemed like the next second the phone rang.
“Yes?” Mitt said into the phone after connecting the call. He sensed he wasn’t fully awake, so he must have been asleep.
“This is Carl Higgens, the ICU ward clerk. I’m calling about Elena Aguilar to let you know that she’s just had a cardiac arrest and the resuscitation team is on its way.”
“Thank you,” Mitt said by reflex, and immediately sat up. He could tell the clerk had hung up, so he pocketed his phone. Although it wasn’t surprising that Elena Aguilar had had a cardiac arrest since her course had been steadily downhill since her surgery, it was still a blow, particularly after just returning from Latonya Walker’s even more surprising arrest and death.
Mitt got to his feet and waited a beat for his cardiovascular system to adjust. He knew that of all places in the hospital, the ICU was the most attuned to handling a cardiac arrest and that the resuscitation team was on its way, so he didn’t feel the need to break a speed record getting there. There was no doubt in his mind that, as with Latonya Walker, he’d be more of an observer than a participant, so he took a moment to duck into his bathroom and splash some cold water on his face. The shock of it did wonders, and he felt much more capable of facing the reality that Elena Aguilar might be yet another death, which seemed almost inevitable considering her progressively downward course. After also taking the time to push his hair into a semblance of order to try to counterbalance appearing like “death warmed over,” with his dark circles and pale complexion, Mitt left the on-call room.
As he passed through the deserted on-call lounge area, he didn’t run, but he didn’t take his time, either. He needed an opportunity to think more about Elena Aguilar’s potential passing, remembering his thoughts that afternoon after Bianca Perez’s death. As incredible as it might seem, if there was another death that night, then six out of the first seven patients he’d been assigned would have passed away. It was an incredibly high percentage, and as he had agonized that afternoon, the chances of it happening simply by bad luck were incredibly small, nearly untenable. And if the deaths weren’t being caused by chance, what could possibly be the explanation? Mitt had no idea... none, even though in the back of his mind his sixth sense was suggesting there was.
Upon reaching the empty elevator lobby, Mitt pressed the call button and positioned himself in the middle of the room to wait for whichever of the ten elevators might arrive. While he waited, he struggled to stop agonizing over his apparent personal patient-death rate, vaguely imagining that if future patients had any idea of his atrocious record, he’d be shunned for certain. No one would want him to be involved with their case in any capacity.
With a warning chime from the elevator that was about to arrive, Mitt hustled over and positioned himself inches from the appropriate door. His plan was to jump on even before the door completely opened and quickly hit the button for the tenth floor as well as the close button. The sooner he did, the sooner the door would reverse direction, and he’d be on his way.
As the elevator door began to open, Mitt moved even nearer, his nose now practically resting against the cream-colored metal as it slid past in front of him. The actual moment the door cleared his face on its way to collapse into the wall, he started forward as he’d planned. But in the blink of the eye, he froze. To his horror, he found himself within inches of a ghostly pale man with bloodshot eyes and wild hair who was balancing on a single leg and dressed in what looked like a colonial costume. In his arms was his amputated leg with its bloody, severed thigh muscles, blood vessels, nerves, and sawed-off femur in plain sight.
As Mitt reeled back, he saw that this pitiful person was not alone. The entire elevator was thronged with similar wretched figures, everyone appearing as if they were in agonizing pain although no one cried out and total silence reigned. Completely taken aback, Mitt froze, unable to move a single muscle. For the first time with any of his hallucinations he was close enough to reach out and touch one of the miserable human beings or be touched by them. Thankfully, no one moved. And the people weren’t the only ghastly occupants. The entire floor of the elevator was a writhing mass of rats in constant motion, climbing all over one another and trying to clamber up the legs of the surgerized people.
For what seemed like an eternity although it must have been only seconds, the elevator door remained open. Finally, it began to close, and as it did so, the image of the crowd of sorry human beings progressively disappeared until it was gone, and Mitt found himself staring at a closed elevator door.
Then, before he could recover from the shock, another elevator arrived. As its door collapsed back into the wall, Mitt hesitantly checked its interior and, with tremendous relief, saw that it was empty.
With great strength of will and needing more time than he would have liked, Mitt finally managed to break free from his shocked paralysis. By then he had to lunge for the empty elevator and bang against the closing door to get it to reverse itself.