Читаем Do No Harm полностью

The rest of the staff gleaned the fact that he didn't want to interact with them. Except for essential exchanges, the nurses left him alone. The interns went to Don to present cases and have their orders signed. Don spent his time alternating between gloating over his newfound popularity and sulking like a scorned girl.

When David stopped by the CWA later, the room quieted as he entered. He glanced at the board. Aside from an MI and a severed finger, things appeared to be quiet, so most of the staff were hanging out on the stools or leaning on the counters, catching up on paperwork.

Don's hand rasped over the stubble he kept Miami Vice length. His eyes, beneath his perfect brow, were intensely angry. Jill touched David's arm, a gesture he thought was apologetic. The others ignored him.

He nodded at Jill, a bit awkwardly, and walked from the room. Before heading to his lunch meeting, he went to check on Clyde. He was just about to turn the corner when he overheard Jenkins talking to the two LAPD cops stationed outside the closed door to Clyde's room. They looked tall and hard in their uniforms, their black belts laden with tools and weapons. Yale stood by also, silent and seemingly uninvolved in the conversation.

"-business end of my nine-millimeter," Jenkins was saying. David peered around the corner and saw him remove his pistol and aim it at an imaginary victim, execution-style. The hall was momentarily deserted; David had decided to direct new patients to the rooms off Hallway Two until Clyde was moved.

One of the uniformed cops muttered something, though David picked up only snatches. "… doc releases him… get your hands on.. . "

"That's right," Jenkins said. "We'll file it under DSAF: Did Society a Favor."

David was unsure how to gauge the severity of Jenkins's grandstanding, but he felt his face tingling with the panic mixture of anger and sudden dread. Yale leaned against the door but didn't comment. Was he complicit in Jenkins's scheming, or did he believe Jenkins was simply venting?

David pulled silently back from the corner and headed to his meeting. It took him nearly ten minutes to negotiate the cafeteria lines and locate two opposing seats at a table, and he found himself fondly recalling the days of the separate physicians' dining room. He had already finished eating when he spotted Sandy Evans crossing the cafeteria toward him, juggling a soft leather briefcase and a forest-green tray covered with a mound of food. She wore a well-tailored charcoal suit, and wore it well for a sixty-five-year-old. Her hair, chestnut with auburn highlights, was shag-styled down around her neck.

He was glad to have pinned her down for lunch; the last time he'd needed to speak to her on short notice, he'd had to scrub in and catch up to her in the OR. Speaking through surgical masks tended to blur the words, and though surgeons never seemed to mind, David had always found a certain stark irreverence in discussing unrelated issues over an opened patient. To accent her points, Sandy had pointed at him with a Kelly-clamped segment of resected bowel.

David rose slightly in the black cafeteria chair, and he and Sandy touched cheeks in a semblance of a kiss. Aside from her husband, David was the only person she permitted closer than a handshake, an indulgence granted him only because she'd had an exceedingly close relationship with his mother. She was much like David's mother in many regards-the stern attractive looks, the insatiable ambition, the aggressive set of the shoulders. Even their faces sometimes blended in David's memory; both had a hard-shelled, resilient cast, the result of weathering myriad broadsides early in their careers from male colleagues and superiors. But David felt Sandy's similarity to his mother most keenly in something unexpected and unsettling-his desire to please her.

Sandy dropped her briefcase on an empty chair and lowered the tray to the table, a bottle of Gatorade rolling toward the edge until David grabbed it. Her voice was deep and throaty, a smoker's voice, though she'd never smoked a single cigarette. "The Board of Directors wants a complete media blackout, and rightly so. One suture untied, and we'll have a scandal on our hands. ABC, CNN, MSNBC, and Fox News are all pressing my office for comment, and they're expecting me to roll over. Little do they know." Her vivid green eyes gleamed. "They'd better gear up for one hell of a dogfight, 'cause this old bitch don't roll over unless she's in the mood." Her eyebrows, lightly penciled, rose beneath her bangs. "Oh, it's true. You can ask Stephen."

David absentmindedly bent a plastic fork in half. "I'll take your word."

Sandy opened two containers of yogurt, unwrapped a burrito, and lifted the lid of a cardboard box from the grill. Sandy still jogged five miles every morning, and ate like an NFL linebacker. "Sounds like you've had your hands full today," she said around a mouthful of chickwich.

"More than you know," he muttered.

"What?"