She went upstairs with them after dinner, packed her bag for the trip to the West Coast, and went to bed early. Grant called her just after she turned the light out, and asked her how his list of doctors had worked out that morning.
“None of them would help, but research gave me Peter Hallam's number. I called him in L.A. and we're all flying out tomorrow.”
“You and the kid?” He sounded surprised.
“And her mother and a nurse, and a camera crew.”
“The whole circus.”
“I think that's how Hallam felt about it.” In fact he had even used the same word.
“I'm surprised he agreed to do it.”
“He sounds like a nice man.”
“So they say. He certainly doesn't need the publicity, although he keeps a lower profile than the others. But I think that's by choice. Will he let you film the surgery on the kid?”
“Nope. But he promised me an interview afterward, and you never know, he may change his mind once we get there.”
“Maybe so. Call me when you get back, kiddo, and try to stay out of trouble.” It was his usual warning and she smiled as she turned off the light again a few minutes later.
At the opposite end of the country, Peter Hallam wasn't smiling. Sally Block had gone into massive rejection, and within an hour, she had slipped into a coma. He stayed with her until almost midnight, emerging from her room only to speak to her mother, and at last, he allowed the sorrowing woman to join him at Sally's side. There was no reason not to. The fear of infection no longer mattered, and at one o'clock that morning, L.A. time, Sally Block died without ever regaining consciousness to see her mother or the doctor she had so greatly trusted. Her mother left the room in bereft silence, with tears pouring down her cheeks. Sally's war was over. And Peter Hallam signed the death certificate, and went home to sit in his study in total darkness, staring out into the night, thinking of Sally, and Anne, and others like them. He was still sitting there two hours later when Mel left her apartment to go to the Jones apartment in New York. Peter Hallam wasn't even thinking of Pattie Lou Jones at that moment, or Mel Adams … only of Sally … the pretty twenty-two-year-old blond girl… gone now … gone … like Anne … like so many others. And then, slowly, slowly, feeling the weight of the world on his shoulders, he walked up to his bedroom, closed the door, and sat on his bed in the silence.
“I'm sorry …” The words were whispered, and he wasn't even sure to whom he spoke them … to his wife … his children … to Sally … to her parents … to himself … and then the tears came, falling softly as he lay down in the darkness, sorrowing in his soul for what he hadn't been able to do this time … not this time … but next time … next time … maybe next time … And then at last, Pattie Lou Jones came to mind. There was nothing to do but try again. And something deep within him stirred at the prospect.
CHAPTER 4
The plane left Kennedy airport with Mel, the camera crew, Pattie Lou, the nurse, and Pattie's mother all safely ensconced in a segregated first-class section. Pattie had an I.V., and the nurse seemed highly skilled in the care of cardiac patients. She had been recommended by Pattie's own physician, and Mel found herself praying that nothing untoward would happen before they reached Los Angeles. Once there she knew that they would be in the competent hands of Dr. Peter Hallam, but before that, Mel's idea of a nightmare was having to land in Kansas with a dying child, suffering from cardiac arrest before they could reach the doctor in California. She just prayed that that wouldn't happen, and as it turned out they had a peaceful flight all the way to Los Angeles, where Hallam had two members of his team and an ambulance waiting, and Pattie Lou was whisked off to Center City with her mother. By previous agreement with Dr. Hallam, Melanie was not to join them. He wanted to give the child time to settle in without disruption, and he had agreed to meet Mel in the cafeteria at seven o'clock the following morning. He would brief her then on Pattie Lou's condition, and how they planned to treat her. She was welcome to bring a notepad and a tape recorder, but there was to be no camera crew at that meeting. The official interview would come later. But Mel found that she was grateful for the reprieve from the medical tension, and she went to her hotel and called the twins in New York, showered, changed, and walked the area around her hotel in the balmy spring air, her mind constantly returning to Peter Hall am. She was desperately curious to meet him, and at six the next morning, she rose swiftly, and drove her rented car to Center City.
Melanie's heels clicked rhythmically on the tiled floor as she turned left down an endless hall, and passed two maintenance men dragging wet mops behind them. They watched her back recede into the distance with an appreciative glance, until she stopped outside the cafeteria, read the sign, and pushed open the double doors. Her nostrils were assailed with the rich aroma of fresh coffee. And as she looked around the brightly lit room, she was surprised at how many people there were at that hour of the morning.
There were tables of nurses having coffee and breakfast between shifts, residents taking a break, interns finishing a long night with a hot meal or a sandwich, and one or two civilians sitting bleakly at tables on the sidelines, undoubtedly people who had been up all night watching for news of critically ill relatives or friends. There was one woman crying softly and dabbing at her eyes with a hankie as a younger woman dried her own tears and tried to console her. It was an odd scene of contrasts, the silent fatigue of the young doctors, the mirth and chatter of the nurses, the sorrow and tension of people visiting patients, and behind it all the clatter of trays, and steaming water being splashed on dirty dishes in efficient machines. It looked like the operations center of a strange modern city, the command post of a spaceship floating through space, totally divorced from the rest of the world.
As Melanie looked around, she wondered which white-coated figure was Peter Hallam. There were a few middle-aged men in starched white coats, conferring solemnly at one table over donuts and coffee, but somehow none of them looked the way she expected him to, and none of them approached her. At least he would know what she looked like.
“Miss Adams?” She was startled by the voice directly behind her, and she wheeled on one heel to face it.
“Yes?”
He extended a powerful, cool hand. “I'm Peter Hallam.” As she shook his hand, she found herself looking up into the sharply etched, handsome, well-lined face of a man with blue eyes and gray hair and a smile that hovered in his eyes but didn't quite reach his lips. Despite their conversation on the phone, he wasn't at all what she had expected. She had painted a totally other mental picture of him. He was much taller, and so powerfully built, his shoulders were pressed into the starched white coat he wore over a blue shirt, dark tie, and gray trousers, and one instantly guessed he had played football in college. “Have you been waiting long?”
“Not at all.” She followed him to a table, feeling less in control than she would have liked. She was used to having a certain impact on her subjects, and here she had the impression of simply being dragged along in his wake. There was something incredibly magnetic about him.
“Coffee?”
“Please.” Their eyes met and locked, each one wondering what they would discover in the other, Mend or foe, supporter or opponent. But for the moment they had one thing in common. Pattie Lou Jones, and Mel was anxious to ask him about her.