'Okay, Sherm,' Marianne said, 'it's chowtime.'
'Bring Jessica's gruel in when you come,will you?' Sherry Hiller asked.
'Sure thing. Does anything need to beadded?'
'Nope.'
The formulas were in labeled bottlescalled Grad-u-feeders — a one-day supply for each of the infants. Some of thefeeders contained supplemented mother's milk. Others were prepared fromscratch. Each was sealed with a tamper-resistant seal that was essentiallyextra-sticky cellophane tape. Marianne gloved before handling the bottles.Then, breaking the seals, she unscrewed the cover of Sherman's bottles andinserted the glucose supplement that had been ordered by the neonatologist.Next she resealed all but one bottle, using a roll of the tamper-resistantsealer that she picked up from the counter. As usual, she wondered why thedepartment bothered with the tape when it was so easily accessible to so manypeople. She checked and double-checked the labels and placed all but one ofJessica Saunders's and Sherman O'Banion's formula bottles in the refrigerator.Then she returned to the warmers.
'How do you handle a hungry man?' she sangas she administered the newborn's feeding down his tube. 'The Manhandler.'
She held the formula over the infant untilit had drained in completely.
'Marianne, could you do Jessica for me?'Sherry asked. 'Little Moonface Logan's monitor alarm keeps going off. I thinkthe leads are loose. I want to replace them all.'
'Sure thing,' Marianne said again.
Marianne was focused on delivering formulato the tiny girl when she heard the alarm from one of the nearby cardiacmonitors. For half a minute, she ignored it, certain that it was coming fromthe loose leads on the infant they called Moonface. The alarm persisted.
'Sher, that's Moonface, isn't it?' shesaid, without looking up.
For a moment, there was only thecontinuing drone of the alarm.
'Holy shit!' Sherry cried suddenly.'Marianne, it's Sherman.'
Sherman's cardiac monitor was showing anabsolutely flat line. Marianne detached the feeding bottle and hurried back tohis warmer. The two-week-old's chest rose and fell in response to hismechanical ventilation. He looked as he always did, except that his dusky colorhad deepened considerably. Now the oxygen saturation alarm was sounding aswell. Marianne checked the leads. None loose. She slipped her stethoscope on tothe infant's chest. Nothing. Not a beat. Quickly, she sped up the ventilatoryrate and began cardiac compression.
'He's coded, Sher,' she said withcontrolled urgency. 'Call it for me and get Laura over here. Damn it all.'
In less than a minute, the resuscitationof Sherman O'Banion was manned by neonatologist Laura Pressman, two pediatricresidents, and two nurses. Marianne delivered meds as they were called for, butshe had a sinking, ominous feeling from the very beginning. Sherman's heartrate had gone from an acceptable 130 straight down to zero. No slowing, noirregular beats. It was the equivalent of a car decelerating from sixty to zeroby hitting a brick wall. Clearly, something within the infant's defective hearthad blown — possibly a muscle band, or one of the fragile dividing walls.Continuing the external cardiac compressions, the NICU team began administeringmedications. Epinephrine. . atropine. . more epi. . bicarbonate. Theyworked on the baby for more than half an hour. But with each passing minute,Marianne became more convinced of the hopelessness of the situation. Finally,Laura Pressman stopped her cardiac compressions. She stepped back from theradiant warmer, looked about at the staff, and shook her head. 'I'm sorry,' shesaid. 'You all did a great job.' Marianne Rodriguez accepted a consoling hugand a few words from Sherry Hiller. Then, battling back the tears she knewwould come sooner or later, she set about disconnecting Sherman O'Banion'stubes and wires. The radiant warmer would be wheeled away and replaced with afreshly cleaned one. And before long, another newborn would be brought in.
Six stories below the NICU, in thesubbasement, the stout dietary worker, her mask, gown, and hair cover still inplace, knocked on the door of a little-used staff men's room, waited, thenslipped inside, locked the door, and turned on the light.
The cardiac toxin she had used was sopowerful that only a miscroscopic amount had been needed. Even if ShermanO'Banion's formula was analyzed, which it almost certainly would not be, no onewould know what to look for, and nothing would be found.
The canvas gym bag was concealed beneath amound of used paper towels in the tall trash basket. Ten minutes later, a manemerged from the restroom carrying the gym bag. In it were the surgical gown,hair cover, and surgical mask, as well, as a pillow, a woman's wig, and acontact lens case. The man had close-cropped brown hair and was dressed injeans, a loose sweatshirt, and well-worn Nikes. His height, weight, and generalappearance were quite unremarkable.
Chapter11
St. Anne's was filled to overflowing forEvie's funeral. Outside, the day was as gray and somber as the mood within thechapel. Evelyn DellaRosa, vibrant, beauty-queen lovely, gifted as a writer andreporter, suddenly dead at age thirty-eight. There were few in attendance whoweren't reflecting on the transience of life and the vagaries of illness andchance.
The hundred-and-fifty-year-oldwhite-shingled church fronted on the picturesque village green of Sharpston,the northern New Jersey town where Evie was raised and where her parents stilllived. Today, Harry observed, it held a remarkable collection of people — really quite a tribute to Evie. But with each arrival, Harry felt as though heknew his wife less. In addition to relatives, a number of Harry's friends fromthe hospital, and neighbors from the co-op, there were co-workers from themagazine and various artists and patrons of the arts. There were folks from thestation and network where Evie had not worked in over ten years, and a numberof people whom Harry did not know at all. Shortly before the service, Evie'sfirst husband, John Cox, now a network VP, walked in with a gorgeous youngwoman. As far as Harry knew, Evie hadn't spoken to her ex since shortly aftertheir extremely hostile divorce was finalized. Yet here he was.
The days of mourning following Evie'sdeath had been marred by visits from Albert Dickinson to Harry's neighbors inthe co-op, to his co-workers at the hospital, and to Carmine and DorothyDellaRosa. Dorothy had called Harry as soon as the policeman left, and hadasked about Caspar Sidonis.
'Dorothy, I don't know if this man Sidonisis telling the truth or not,' Harry had said. 'And frankly, I don't care. Iloved Evie, and I'm sure she loved me. Even if she was involved with this otherman, which I strongly doubt, I'm sure we would have worked things out in time.'
'Oh, my,' was all Dorothy could think ofto say.
As the service was about to commence,Harry glanced back and spotted Caspar Sidonis slipping into the last row. Thesight of the man brought a strange mixture of anger and embarrassment. Cuckoldwas a repulsive word and an even more disgusting concept.
'Sidonis just walked in,' he whispered toJulia Ransome, the literary agent who was Evie's closest friend in the city.
'Do you really care?' she asked withoutbothering to look back.
Harry thought about it. Perhaps it was hernature as a literary agent, but Julia always had a way of slicing to theessence of any situation.
'No,' he said finally. 'To tell you thetruth, I guess I really don't.'
From the moment he turned away from Evie'sbody and walked out of her hospital room, Harry had been trying to sort out hisfeelings. He thought about moving, about just leaving his practice and takingoff, perhaps starting over again in one of those eternally warm, low-crimeEdens the medical classifieds were always extolling. But just as he ultimatelycould not trade in his patients for the Hollins/McCue pharmaceutical job, heknew he would not leave them now. Not that Albert Dickinson would let him leaveanyway.