Right there, right now!"
Startled, Zack stumbled forward, slamming heavily against the brick facing and nearly falling as he spun toward the voice. Standing not ten feet away, brandishing a heavy nightstick, was the security guard, Henry, the pockmarked behemoth who had been present at Guy's death and again at his funeral. "I been following you, Doc, " he said, rubbing a hand over the side of his nearly nonexistent neck. "From that window right there, I been following you all the way across."
"Jesus, Henry, you just scared the hell out of me, " Zack said, still gasping for breath. His shoulder was throbbing viciously at the point where it had collided with the building. Gingerly, he raised his arm.
Pain stopped it just below a horizontal position. He'd almost dislocated it. A first-degree separation at least, he guessed. "Didn't mean to scare ya, Doc, " the huge guard said, lowering his stick nearly, but not completely, to his side. "Just to stop ya."
"Henry, I've got to get in there, " Zack said. "Mr. Iverson left strict orders not to let you. That's why I was called in."
"There's a kid dying in there, Henry. A kid that only I can help.
You've got to let me pass."
"Can't, " the man said simply. "If I do, it's my job. No discussion, no excuses. That's what my boss said. I got three kids, and nothin' to support em with exceptin' what God gave me from the neck down. Jobs like this one don't come along that often to a man like me."
Zack started to argue, but then, just as quickly, stopped himself. He pictured the guard at Guy's funeral-his ill-fitting blue suit, his quiet, anxious little wife. The man was right. The job probably was a godsend to them and their children. And too many people had been hurt already. He would find another way to contact Suzanne, or perhaps a way to lure Jack Pearl outside the protection of the building. "All right, Henry, " he said. "I won't try to argue with you."
He turned and started back toward the woods. "Doc, wait…"
Zack looked back over his injured shoulder. "How old's the kid?"
"He's eight, Henry."
"I see… My Kenny's almost nine… Doc, what in the heck happened between you and your brother, anyhow?"
Zack laughed ruefully. "It's a long story, Henry."
"You know, he's not a very nice man, your brother."
"No, Henry, " Zack said. "I guess he isn't."
"He doesn't think much of people like me."
"Perhaps he doesn't." For a few moments, there was only the sound of the wind through the leaves overhead. "Doc, " the guard said suddenly, "why don't you just go ahead on in there and do whatever it is you have to do."
Zack eyed the man. "You mean that?"
"Talking to me and my wife the way you did at Doc Beaulieu's funeral-that was a really nice thing to do."
"Henry, your job may be on the line."
"I'll find another one if I have to.
You know, I really did think I was responsible for Doc Beaulieu's death.
I'm big, and I'm tough when I have to be, but I'm not mean. I couldn't eat or sleep after he died-that is, until you talked to me."
"If anyone was responsible, Henry, " Zack said, "it was my brother. He's the one who started all those rumors about Dr. Beaulieu."
"I believe it. You go on in there." Zack started toward the door. "You sure? " he asked. "Do it for Doc Beaulieu, " Henry said. Fony-nine years. Had Guy lived, Clothilde Beaulieu suddenly realized, they would have celebrated their forty-ninth anniversary in just one week. How strange that now, standing behind her chair, surveying the room of blank, bored, and patronizing faces, she should feel as close to her husband as she had at any time during those five decades. He had stood in rooms like this one many times over the past two years, confronting these faces, or faces like them. And although she had never been there with him, Clothilde knew that she was feeling exactly as he had. She knew, too, that even though there was little or no chance she would prevail, he was, at that moment, by her side, and he was proud."… For many years after my husband opened his practice in Sterling, " she was saying, "he was one of only three doctors in town, and the only surgeon for almost a hundred miles. He was a kind and skilled and caring man, who did nothing-nothing-to deserve the kind of treatment he was to receive from the administration of this institution and the corporation whose philosophy it has adopted…"
Seated across from the woman, Frank Iverson shaded in portions of the geometric design he was developing on a napkin, and checked the time. It would be a laughable irony if Guy Beaulieu's widow were allowed to drone on past the twelve o'clock deadline, rendering the vote of the board legally meaningless, regardless of its outcome. No, not laughable, he decided-perfect. It was all he could do to keep from smiling at the notion. The Carter Room was set up in its conference mode-thirty chairs arranged around an open rectangle of sandlewood tables. At the back of the room, near the gallery of past medical staff presidents, a serving table was set with coffee, Danish, and bowls of fruit. Hidden beneath the draping linen cloth of that table, awaiting the inevitable, several bottles of premium French champagne were chilling in sterling silver ice buckets. The magic number was ten. Of the twenty-two members of the Davis Hospital board of trustees, nineteen were present. Absent from the group were a real estate agent who was vacationing in Europe, the CEO of the Carter Paper Company, who had never attended a board meeting since his first one years before, and Board Chairman Clayton Iverson. In the Judge's absence, Whitney Bourque had been presiding over the meeting.
Frank sat beside Leigh Baron at the corner of the arrangement farthest from Bourque. They were flanked by a trio of lawyers, two representing Ultramed and the third, the hospital. Across from them stood Clothilde Beaulieu."… Someone must realize that in a civilized society such as ours, " she was saying, "the best available medical care must not be doled out as a privilege. The right to live one's life as free from disease as possible must be extended to all, regardless of their ability to pay. It was my husband's belief, and it is mine, that the Ultramed Hospitals Corporation has failed in that sacred obligation. By selecting only those who can pay for treatment, by influencing the therapeutic decisions of physicians who have studied many years to develop their craft, the corporation has reduced the delivery of medical care to the level of… of automobile mechanics…"
Frank glanced over at Gary Garrison, proprietor of Garrison's Chevrolet Sales and Service, just in time to see the man smile and whisper a remark to the board member seated next to him. More irony. Garrison's vote was one of those that Frank had not absolutely locked up. Given enough time, it was possible that Clothilde Beaulieu could insult enough members on the board to make the vote unanimous. Frank made his fifth head count of the session. When he had left his father's office, less than a week before, he was certain of only five votes, six at the most.
Now, thanks in large measure to the Judge's absence and his refusal to use his influence on the board, he had eleven — one over the magic number. Gary Garrison would make twelve. And with the closed ballot Whitey Bourque had promised him, there might even be one or two more.
"You look concerned, " Leigh whispered. Frank smiled. "No sweat, " he whispered back. "I hope so, Frank.
We're counting on you."
"That's the way I like it."
"… Over the past two years, Guy Beaulieu fought back against the attempts of Ultramed to drive him from practice. Unfortunately, as I said earlier, much of the evidence he accumulated is not available today. I have done my best without it to present our position to you. I leave you now with this petition, signed by sixty-seven residents of this area, requesting the return of our hospital to community control.