“No, madam,” the nurse sniffed. “We know what we’re doing.”
Still unnerved from Jon’s ordeal-and now a bit peeved by the nurse’s attitude-Shannon happened to notice the slip of paper in Jon’s shirt pocket. Something prompted her to take it out and read it. “Anyone know what chloral hydrate means?” she asked.
“You bet!” said an intern on duty, who sprang into action, asking, “You’re his wife, I understand? Was he taking any sleep medications?”
“No. Jon sleeps like a baby,” Shannon replied.
“I hate to ask this, but… did he seem depressed recently? Did he have any suicidal inclinations?”
Shannon shook her head emphatically. “He’d be the very last person on earth to try anything like that.”
The intern was joined by Jason Hopkins, MD, the chief internist at Massachusetts General Hospital. Apparently, word had traveled quickly regarding a certain Harvard celebrity in the ER. For once, Shannon was grateful for her husband’s celebrity status.
Hopkins read the slip proffered by the intern and checked Jon’s vital signs while dictating to an attending nurse: “Blood pressure low: 80 over 50. Pulse rapid: 120 beats per… Breathing shallow, apparent hypothermia… Pupils pinpointed. Patient comatose…”
And indeed, Jon had lapsed back into deep sleep.
Shannon and Marylou exchanged a glance. At Shannon’s nod, Marylou informed the doctor about the sedative the nurse had administered.
“What?” he bellowed. “How come it’s not on the record? Which nurse? That one?”
Marylou nodded.
“We’ll discuss this later, ma’am!” he said, glaring at the nurse. “Now get me five hundred milligrams of caffeine sodium benzoate for injection- immediately.”
All the excitement was doing little for Shannon’s nerves. “What’s the situation, Doctor?” she asked, blinking back tears.
He removed his stethoscope and asked, “Was he taking medications of any kind, especially barbiturates?”
“Nothing. Other than an occasional vitamin.”
“Well, all the symptoms are quite consistent with chloral hydrate overdosage-or even poisoning. The slip in his pocket seems accurate in that respect. Strange that it should even have been there.”
“But what are his chances?”
Dr. Hopkins seemed to ignore her as he took Jon’s blood pressure again. “Nurse!” he barked. “It’s only 66 over-what? Can’t even tell. We could be losing him.” He called out, “Gastric lavage! Possible Code Blue! And where’s that caffeine? Oh… thank you, nurse.” He now injected the caffeine into Jon’s arm.
Then he turned to Shannon. “Sorry, Mrs. Weber, first things first. I just ordered a stomach pump that will replace the contents of your husband’s stomach with sterile water. That’s to clear out any remaining toxins.”
“But he will… he will pull through, won’t he?” She heard her voice break with apprehension.
“It all depends on how much toxin he ingested. I understand that one of the paramedics thinks it was in his coffee. Does he use cups or mugs?”
“Mugs,” Marylou interjected.
Hopkins frowned as he made the obvious comment, “They hold more.”
A tube was inserted into Jon’s mouth and down his esophagus. The dual procedure began: infusion and evacuation, much as a dentist treats the mouths of his patients. Jon stirred a bit during the process, which all interpreted as a positive sign.
When the procedure was completed, Dr. Hopkins said, “Now it all depends on his blood pressure, Mrs. Weber.” Again they cuffed Jon’s left arm and pumped.
The pressure released in a welcome hiss. “Good,” Hopkins said. “We’re at 92 over 64. Better than the last. If he keeps this up, he should soon be out of the woods.”
Shannon slumped down onto the couch where Marylou was already seated.
The older woman put a comforting arm around her, and Shannon finally surrendered to her tears.
Jon slowly felt himself coming to. He’d been only vaguely aware of being whisked to the hospital, but there was no doubt now that’s exactly where he was. He shook his head and tried hard to focus on those around him. “Shannon, sweetheart,” he said thickly. “I’ll be okay, I think.”
She threw her arms about him.
Eventually Jon’s mind was clear enough to relate the full story to all present, including a detail from the Boston police who had stood in the background until the medical procedures were completed. The Hub’s finest sprang into action at once. They radioed colleagues at Logan to arrest Osman al-Ghazali but learned that he was long gone. They had only slightly better luck with Waste Management, Inc., of Somerville, which supposedly handled refuse from Cambridge. The dispatcher there wanted to get the details from Jon, particularly the time and place of the garbage pickup, so the police officer handed the phone to Jon, and he was able to respond with reasonable clarity.
“And exactly what is it that you’re looking for?” the man asked.
“A valuable codex… that’s an ancient book of manuscript pages sewn together.”
“Oh. Sorry. That’d be impossible to retrieve, Professor, because Harvard tries to show the world how to recycle-green’s their favorite color, not crimson-but you know that. So your book is probably being recycled, even as we speak.”
A stab of despair hit Jon as he handed the phone back to the officer. Both his hands turned into fists, and if Osman al-Ghazali had been within range, he personally would have throttled the traitor for manuscript murder. “It’s destroyed,” he told the women. “This precious, precious treasure is now being recycled, if you can believe it! Into what? Maybe toilet paper…”
Obviously in despair, Shannon and Marylou appeared to search for appropriate words but found none.
The phone rang. It was the dispatcher again, and he wanted to talk to Jon.
“I had it wrong, Professor,” he said. “Turns out that the recycling plant is shut down for repairs, so as of a couple days ago, they’re trucking all waste to the North Andover landfill so that it doesn’t pile up.”
“That’s wonderful news!” Jon said.
“Well, I’m not sure why… I really hate to tell you this, but our chances of actually finding that thing in the landfill are next to impossible. A needle in a haystack would be easier.”
“Please, please,” Jon said, “I really beg of you. You must try to save one of the most important documents in the history of Western civilization.”
“We’ll do our best, Professor, but I’m afraid… Well, we’ll really try.”
They wanted to keep Jon at Mass General that night, but he would have none of it. His wits had now returned and fury was burning through his brain, yet he was still rational enough to let Shannon take the wheel on the drive back to Weston.
Early the next morning, Waste Management phoned again. “It was truck number 68, Professor Weber, that picked up the waste from Harvard Yard about noon yesterday. Driver was Jim Peabody-a good reliable fellow from Bar Harbor, Maine. That’s pronounced ‘Bah Habah’ up there!”
Ordinarily, Jon would have told him to skip such peripheral details, but now he savored every syllable.
“Anyway, Jim dumped his waste at the landfill in North Andover-oh, it’s about twenty miles from Harvard Square-and I’ll tell you what we’ve done. We’ve cordoned off the area in the landfill where our trucks discharged yesterday, and we’re dumping elsewhere while we try to find that big book you told us about.”
“Thank you. Thank you ever so much,” Jon said.
“Again, though, I hate to tell you, it’s going to be a downright miracle if we find it. And even if we do, three thousand pounds of pressure probably crushed that Kotex thing…”
“That’s ‘codex,’” Jon advised.
“Fine. Codex. But it was probably crushed into pulp.”
Jon winced. The statement was true enough. “Just try, please, try . I’ll be driving out to the landfill to help you look.”