As I prepared to ride up to Five, sounds from the far end of the hospital caught my attention. Lots of white coats. A squadron of people moving across my line of sight, rushing toward the patient-transport elevator.
Wheeling a child on a gurney, one orderly pushing, another holding an I.V. bottle and keeping pace.
A woman I recognized as Stephanie. Then two people in civvies. Chip and Cindy.
I went after them and caught up just as they entered the lift. Barely squeezing in, I edged my way next to Stephanie.
She acknowledged me with a twitch of her mouth. Cindy was holding one of Cassie’s hands. She and Chip both looked defeated and neither of them glanced up.
We rode up in silence. As we got off the elevator Chip held out his hand and I grasped it for a second.
The orderlies wheeled Cassie through the ward and through the teak doors. Within moments her inert form had been lowered to the bed, the I.V. hooked up to a drip monitor, and the side rails raised.
Cassie’s chart was on the gurney. Stephanie picked it up and said, “Thanks, guys.” The orderlies left.
Cindy and Chip hovered near the bed. The room lights were off and slivers of gray morning peeked through the split of drawn drapes.
Cassie’s face was swollen, yet it appeared drained — an inflated husk. Cindy took her hand once more. Chip shook his head and wrapped his arm around his wife’s waist.
Stephanie said, “Dr. Bogner will be by again and so should that Swedish doctor.”
Faint nods.
Stephanie cocked her head. The two of us stepped out into the hall.
“Another seizure?” I said.
“Four A.M. We’ve been in the E.R. since then, working her over.”
“How’s she doing?”
“Stabilized. Lethargic. Bogner’s doing all of his diagnostic tricks but he’s not coming up with much.”
“Was she in any danger?”
“No mortal danger, but you know the kind of damage repetitive seizures can do. And if it’s an escalating pattern, we can probably expect lots more.” She rubbed her eyes.
I said, “Who’s the Swedish doctor?”
“Neuroradiologist named Torgeson, published quite a bit on childhood epilepsy. He’s giving a lecture over at the medical school. I thought, why not?”
We walked to the desk. A young dark-haired nurse was there now. Stephanie wrote in the chart and told her, “Call me immediately if there are any changes.”
“Yes, Doctor.”
Stephanie and I walked down the hall a bit.
“Where’s Vicki?” I said.
“Home sleeping. I hope. She went off shift at seven, but was down in the E.R. until seven-thirty or so, holding Cindy’s hand. She wanted to stay and do another shift, but I insisted she leave — she looked totally wiped out.”
“Did she see the seizure?”
Stephanie nodded. “So did the unit clerk. Cindy pressed the call button, then ran out of the room, crying for help.”
“When did Chip show up?”
“Soon as we had Cassie stabilized, Cindy called him at home and he came right over. I guess it must have been around four-thirty.”
“Some night,” I said.
“Well, at least we’ve got outside corroboration of the seizures. Kid’s definitely grand mal.”
“So now everyone knows Cindy’s not nuts.”
“What do you mean?”
“Yesterday she talked to me about people thinking she was crazy.”
“She actually said that?”
“Sure did. The context was her being the only one who saw Cassie get sick, the way Cassie would recover as soon as she got to the hospital. As if her credibility was suspect. It could have been frustration, but maybe she knows she’s under suspicion and was bringing it up to test my reaction. Or just to play games.”
“How did you react?”
“Calm and reassuring, I hope.”
“Hmm,” she said, frowning. “One day she’s worrying about her credibility; then all of a sudden we’ve got something organic to work with?”
“The timing is awfully cute,” I said. “Who else besides Cindy was with Cassie last night?”
“No one. Not constantly. You think she slipped her something?”
“Or pinched her nose. Or squeezed her neck — carotid sinus pressure. Both came up when I was scanning the Munchausen literature and I’m sure there are a few more tricks that haven’t been documented yet.”
“Tricks a respiratory tech might know... Damn. So how in blazes do you detect something like that?”
She pulled her stethoscope from around her neck. Looped it around one hand and unwrapped it. Facing the wall, she pressed her forehead to it and closed her eyes.
“Are you going to put her on anything?” I said. “Dilantin or phenobarb?”
“I can’t. Because if she doesn’t have a bona fide disorder, meds can do more harm than good.”
“Won’t they suspect something if you don’t medicate her?”
“Maybe... I’ll just tell them the truth. The EEG tracings are inconclusive and I want to find the exact cause for the seizures before I dose her up. Bogner’ll back me up on that — he’s mad because he can’t figure it out.”
The teak doors swung open and George Plumb shot through, jaw leading, white coat flapping. He held the door for a man in his late sixties wearing a navy-blue pin-stripe suit. The man was much shorter than Plumb — five six or seven — stocky and bald, with a rapid, bow-legged walk and a malleable-looking face that appeared to have taken plenty of direct hits: broken nose, offcenter chin, grizzled eyebrows, small eyes set in a sunburst pucker of wrinkles. He wore steel-rimmed eyeglasses, a white shirt with a spread collar, and a powder-blue silk tie fastened in a wide Windsor. His wingtips gleamed.
The two of them came straight to us. The short man looked busy even when standing still.
“Dr. Eves,” said Plumb. “And Dr. Delaware, was it?”
I nodded.
The short man seemed to be opting out of the introductions. He was looking around the ward — that same measuring appraisal Plumb had conducted two days ago.
Plumb said, “How’s our little girl doing, Dr. Eves?”
“Resting,” said Stephanie, focusing on the short man. “Good morning, Mr. Jones.”
Quick turn of the bald head. The short man looked at her, then at me. Intense focus. As if he were a tailor and I were a bolt of cloth.
“What exactly happened?” he said in a gravelly voice.
Stephanie said, “Cassie experienced an epileptic seizure early this morning.”
“Damn.” The short man punched one hand with the other. “And still no idea what’s causing it?”
“Not yet, I’m afraid. Last time she was admitted we ran every relevant test, but we’re running them again and Dr. Bogner’s coming over. There’s also a visiting professor from Sweden who’s arriving any minute. Childhood epilepsy’s his specialty. Though when I spoke with him on the phone he felt we d done everything right.”
“Damn.” The puckered eyes turned on me. A hand shot out. “Chuck Jones.”
“Alex Delaware.”
We shook hard and fast. His palm felt like a rasp blade. Everything about him seemed to run on fast-forward.
Plumb said, “Dr. Delaware is a psychologist, Chuck.”
Jones blinked and stared at me.
“Dr. Delaware’s been working with Cassie,” said Stephanie, “to help her with her fear of needles.”
Jones made a noncommittal sound, then said, “Well, let me know what goes on. Let’s get to the bottom of this damned folderol.”
He walked toward Cassie’s room. Plumb followed like a puppy.