The Judge continued to stare at the ceiling. "Judgment, Dad… that's what you have to rely on, too, now that I think about it. Maybe in time, that will help you understand the dilemma I was in… "Judge, you're my father. I love you for that-for the things you've done for me, for the kind of person you've helped me become. I would never want to see you hurt. Never. I honestly believe that I would give up my life, if necessary, to protect you. But that's my life… "Anyhow, I guess what I really want you to know is that although I'm sorry as hell for the way everything turned out, given the information I had to work with last night, if the same situation arose again, I would make the same choices.
That's the sort of person my parents raised me to be, and the sort of surgeon I was trained to be. I came up here to ask for understanding, not absolution."
He paused, hoping for some sort of reply. There was none. In that moment, he decided to say nothing of what had transpired with Frank.
Soon, the Judge would learn it all anyhow, but this was not the time to attack the man's myth of his quarterback son. "Well, then, " he said. "I guess that's that." He rose. "Oh, except for one other thing. I'm going to that meeting today to present Guy's case to the board. I don't expect to sway many votes, but I think Guy was right. I think we need to take a hard look at what we're willing to give up in exchange for a few shiny pieces of equipment and some black ink on the bottom line. So if you could just talk to me enough to tell me where that folder of his is, I'll-"
"It's gone, " Clayton Iverson said flatly, still not looking at his son.
"What!"
"I said the folder is gone. I… I gave it to the Ultramed people to examine. They have it. Now please, go."
Zack sighed. "You certainly underwent one heck of a change of heart there, Dad, " he said. "I asked you to leave."
"I'm going. I'm going."
As he turned, Zack's hand brushed against the instruments in his pocket.
He hesitated, took several steps toward the door, and then turned back.
"Judge, I know you want me out of here, " he said, "but… but I'd like to examine a couple of things on you if I could before I go."
Tentatively, he returned to the bedside, waiting for the man's outburst.
There was none. He lifted the sheet off his father's legs. "Thank you, Dad, " he whispered, gauging the muscle tone of one calf with his fingertips. "Thank you for trusting me this much. This will only take a minute."
In fact, Zack's examination, carried out mostly with his touch and reflex hammer, took just over five minutes. Clayton Iverson watched him work in stony silence, although there was a spark of curiosity in his eyes. By the time Zack had finished, by the time he had dropped down on a corner of the bed, shaken and mentally drained, the loose-fitting pieces of the clinical puzzle had been pulled apart and rearranged in the strangest of patterns. "Mom, can you come in here, please?" he called out, after he had regained some composure. "There's something I want both of you to hear together."
Cinnie Iverson entered, took the chair next to the Judge, and held his hand. Zack paced from one side of the room to the other, choosing each word carefully, suddenly frightened that the tendon and muscle activity he had detected were not true neurologic indicators at all, but rather the phantoms of his own hopes. "Judge, Mom, " he began, "have either of you ever heard of a conversion reaction?"
Cinnie Iverson shook her head. Clayton did not move. "An older term for it was conversion hysteria, but I never liked that phrase, because hysteria implies craziness, and a conversion reaction is much more an intense, involuntary focusing of emotional energy than it is a sign of anything crazy."
"Zachary, what are you saying?
" Cinnie asked. "I'm saying that there are certain reflexes that disappear when the spinal cord is damaged, and others that show up. The pattern I'm finding now isn't consistent with that."
"I'm not sure I understand, " Cinnie said. "Judge, I know this may not make total sense to you at the moment, but I'm picking up signs-fairly strong signs-that your paralysis may be due to factors other than spinal cord damage-emotional factors."
"Emotional factors?"
Cinnie sounded incredulous. The Judge showed no reaction at all. "I know it sounds far out, " Zack said, "but believe me, it isn't. It happens all the time. One of my first cases on my neurology service was a man with psychologically induced blindness. There was absolutely nothing wrong with his eyes, yet he positively couldn't see. In fact, after hypnotherapy, much of his vision returned. "Heart attacks in Type A personalities, gastric ulcers in situations of high stress-our emotions have power over every organ in our bodies. There's even a well-documented condition called pseudocyesis in which a woman who desperately wants to become pregnant has her periods stop, her breasts grow large, and her abdomen swell. Only a blood test or an ultrasound or X ray can prove she's not pregnant."
"And you think your father may be having one of these-what are they called?"
"Conversion reactions. Yes, Mom, I do. Judge, your neurologic findings simply don't jibe well with any other explanation." The Judge looked away. "But why? " Cinnie asked. Zack shrugged. "I'm not certain, " he said. "Anger at me is the most likely possibility. There are other factors that could be at work, too, I guess, fear, grief, guilt. Only you can fill in the blanks, Judge. But whatever it is, isvery powerful stuff. At the moment, even you might not know. Many times, though, as soon as the source of the conversion is identified, the symptoms begin to resolve."
"Are you sure about this? " Cinnie asked. "No, Mom, I'm not. It's just that the other diagnoses don't fit with the operative findings and Dad's clinical picture, and conversion reaction does. I might be wrong. All I can do is hope that I'm not, and tell you what I think."
"Clayton? " she asked. The Judge, tight-lipped, would not answer.
"Zachary, " she said, "perhaps you'd better go now. We can talk about this again soon." She rose and kissed him on the cheek, her expression begging him to leave them be-to allow them the chance to digest what he had said. "Sure enough, " he said. "When is the ambulance due?"
"Any time now, I think."
"Fine… Dad, I-" He looked down at his father's pallid, emotionless face. "I'll be thinking of you."
As he reached the doorway, Zack checked the corridor for his brother or a security guard, and then headed for a room at the far end of the hall.
If, as it seemed, he was running out of time within the walls of Ultramed-Davis, he would use what little he had left to make one last run at a clinical puzzle that was no less perplexing than his father's, and far more lethal. "I knew it, " Barbara Nelms said as Zack finished recounting his interview with her son and the theories he had developed as a result. "You are not a very good liar, Dr. Iverson. I could see it in your eyes that night in your office. I should have called you on it then, dammit. You know, holding out on me like that was a very cruel thing to do."
"I know, and I'm sorry, But I had no proof."
"Dr. Iverson, Toby is my son."
"I understand."
Barbara was propped up in her hospital bed by several pillows. Her right arm was in a sling and her left was fixed to an intravenous line that was infusing a potent antibiotic. Despite her pallor and the heavy shadows engulfing her eyes, her glare was piercing. "I'm not sure that you do, Dr. Iverson, " she said after some thought.
"But I'm willing to give you the benefit of the doubt-at least for now."
"Thank you."
"You said that you held back information from me and my husband because you had no proof of your theories. Am I to assume that situation has changed?"
Zack hesitated. "Dr. Iverson, please, " she said. "Don't try to lie to me again. My son nearly stabbed me to death yesterday without even knowing I was there."