NO MEDICINE BUT HOPE	NO MEDICINE BUT HOPE  by Nina Smith Comments are
welcome at snsa@ix.netcom.com. Rated R for language and violence.
INTRODUCTION This novella, the first of three parts, needs a LOT of
introducing. "No Medicine But Hope" is a Chicago Hope/Due South crossover,
partly inspired by the airing of said shows back-to-back for half the
season (I sort of let them run together - results follow). It was written
in the winter of 1994-1995 and completed shortly after the first run of
the Chicago Hope episode "The Quarantine." Both it and its sequels were
written entirely as private fantasies for the amusement of my husband and
myself; I never expected them to be seen by anyone else, and needless to
say, verisimilitude and plausibility were NOT high priorities. Not to
mention that my medical knowledge can politely be described as minimal; I
ask that slack be cut in this regard. The mainspring of the plot is based
on a notion of my husband's. I had written and begun to submit for
possible publication a political thriller with a strongly libertarian
bent, and he had the idea that by doing so I could possibly be putting
myself in danger: Powerful people might get wind of it, be angered or feel
threatened by what I had written, and attempt to silence me. I dismissed
this as the paranoid nonsense it was as far as the real world was
concerned; however, I couldn't dismiss it as a compelling fantasy! And
here it is. The story also draws on assorted unpleasant characteristics of
real-world Chicago, notably its long and inglorious history of municipal
corruption and its current status as a hotbed of youth gang activity and
also as the US capital of ugly antisemitic racial politics. Also included
are long stretches of my own peculiar take on politics and religion.
Collectivists and atheists, please consider yourselves warned in advance.
:) Notes to all unattributed quotes and untranslated foreign phrases
follow each part. (Generally I'm not this pedantic, but my husband
insisted it would be considerate.) DISCLAIMER: Chicago Hope and its
characters are the property of David E. Kelley; Due South and its are the
property of Paul Haggis. Used without permission. No infringement of
copyright intended. I'm not getting any money out of this anyway. I am
sincerely grateful to anyone taking the time to read this. I love to write
(and I hope it shows), but it's a lonely and futile pastime without you.
And now, ladies and gentlemen, for your pleasure ... NO MEDICINE BUT HOPE:
I Even amid the swirl and fury of the trauma center, multiple gunshot
wounds bear their own special horror. They weren't seen often at Chicago
Hope Hospital, and when the paramedics rushed the victim in that morning,
it was as if lightning had struck twice. No one knew who the woman was or
why she had been shot in the head and chest with a .22- caliber pistol and
left to die at the street entrance to the offices of Penumbra Press; nor
did anyone care at the moment. The only concern was getting the victim
prepared and into the operating room in time. In the end it went much more
easily than anyone had feared. Working at the victim's head, Dr. Aaron
Shutt scrutinized the bared wound. "Practically superficial," he observed.
"Small-caliber projectile, left parietal lobe barely scored, clean exit
wound, almost no fragments. This is a lucky lady." "I'm not sure she'd
agree with you after catching two bullets. And here's one of them; good
thing it's intact. I'd hate to see what a hollow-point would have done in
this heart." With agonizing delicacy, Dr. Jeffrey Geiger eased forceps
into the chest wound to withdraw the bullet. "Basin." As a nurse appeared
to accept the slug, he commanded, "Save that for the cops." "Yes, Doctor."
She withdrew the steel bowl of evidence, and the operation inched on.
"Anyone have any idea of whose life we've saved?" asked the resident
working at Geiger's side. "Don't dislocate your arm patting yourself on
the back, Dr. Carney," the senior surgeon said icily. "Suction." Carney
reddened above his mask and dared not reply. "There shouldn't be any
problem answering that question; she had plenty of ID on her," Camille
Shutt broke in, carefully defusing the situation as befitted the chief OR
nurse. "I think Dr. Watters is taking a look at it. I wouldn't mind seeing
it myself; it'd be nice to know who this is." "And that's just the
beginning," said Dr. Shutt, taking up the thread from his wife. "Not only
who she is, but who shot her and why. I heard it happened right on
Michigan Avenue." "I heard she'd just stepped out of a limo when it went
down," Carney added, almost eagerly. "No kidding. Well, we're done here."
Shutt stepped back from the patient as his team wrapped up. Geiger
grunted. "I love a mystery." He glanced at the cardiac monitor. "We got
normal sinus rhythm and pressure. Let's close her up. Notify Dr. Shutt and
myself once she's awake." "You want to monitor her progress, Doctor?"
Camille asked. "That, and I've got a few questions on the side." With
that, both senior surgeons stepped from the OR, shedding masks and gowns
and bloodstained gloves, and were gone. In the bed, under the light, hands
stirred, a bandaged head shifted from left to right. Slowly the brown eyes
opened, struggled to focus on the approaching figures that stopped to
hover alongside. Two of them - men. Tall, dark, clad in white ... no,
draped in white lab coats. Doctors, of course; there had been the gun, the
shots, the pain and then the darkness. One of them smiled at her. It was a
quiet smile, tender, confident. Above it deep brown eyes, high forehead,
raven hair dusted with silver. "Hey," he said softly, his hand brushing
the edge of the bed. His companion also smiled. This one had dark eyes
too, thinning brown hair in waves, arms crossed over his breast, a
demeanor proud as an eagle's. "How are we doing?" he asked. The woman
tried to smile back. "_Baruch Hashem_," she gasped, then added, "You two
are doing great; me, I'm not so sure." Their smiles widened and the second
man said, "Well, if you want my considered medical judgment, you look
pretty good for someone who was shot twice this morning." "Thank God, and
thank you," she said, beginning to gather strength. "Could you tell me
where I am? I mean, I can see it's a hospital, but if I could trouble you
to be more specific?" The first man laughed gently. "No problem. Welcome
to Chicago Hope. I'm Dr. Shutt; this is Dr. Geiger." "It's a pleasure.
'Hope is the thing with feathers that perches in the soul ... '" "Emily
Dickinson, right?" Shutt probed. "Right. Little hermit didn't know times
would change. Now Hope is the thing with doctors." As they chuckled, she
yawned, then asked, "Where was I shot?" Geiger put it briefly. "In the
head and chest. Meaning one bullet for each of us." "Oh, my God," she
gasped. "And I LIVED?" "Sure looks like it." "Obviously. That's me, never
too far out of it to ask a stupid question." But worry quivered in her
voice. "Shot in the head - tell me, Doctor, will there be any - any memory
deficit, or cognitive disability, or anything like that?" Shutt's face
beamed reassurance. "Well, unless you were on your way to Stockholm to
pick up a Nobel Prize before this incident, I would guess from the way
you're talking that you don't have a thing to worry about." She relaxed,
looking almost beatific. "Oh, _baruch Hashem_!" she repeated, even more
heartfelt this time. Her gaze glowed on the doctors. "All healing
ultimately comes from the Almighty ... but He chooses magnificent agents."
Shutt looked proud and sheepish at once; Geiger took it without a blink.
"Thank you. We'd like to know who paid us that compliment." "Oh, of
course, I'm so sorry. At your service, gentlemen: Ruth Lowe. Mother of
two, wife of one, _aishet chayil manque_, aspiring novelist, and proud
possessor of possibly the weirdest frame of reference in the continental
United States." As the doctors laughed appreciatively and the woman took
pride in it, there were two more arrivals at her bedside. Neither wore the
white coats over their suits. The first was shorter than Shutt and Geiger,
older too, with the elegance of a prince and the air of command to match.
His neat beard, bald head, and green eyes keen as a panther's completed
the effect; he was not so much the boss here as the master. Two paces
behind him, as if in deference, came another man. This one was much
shorter than the physicians, a little younger, and looking disinterested,
even indifferent, under his tousled brown curls. A closer look, though,
would reveal the disinterest as a mask; his active hazel eyes were missing
nothing. The older man stopped and smiled to hear the laughter. "Are we
interrupting something?" he said lightly. "Our mysterious patient has a
way with words," Geiger explained. "Mrs. Lowe, meet Dr. Watters, our chief
of staff, and Mr. Birch, our legal counsel." "Oh dear, I'm not in some
sort of trouble, am I?" she asked. "Then again, someone just tried to kill
me; of course I'm in some sort of trouble." "An astute observation,"
Watters began, good humor in his tone, "but I can assure you your
trouble's not with us. You'll have to forgive me, Mrs. Lowe; I took the
liberty of going through your wallet when you were brought in." "Perfectly
understandable, sir." "You certainly came a long way to end up in here.
You're from New York?" "Yes, sir. And no one ever pointed a gun at me
there." "And I can't imagine why anyone pointed a gun at you here."
Watters seated himself on the bed beside her. "The police have been
notified, of course, and one bullet was recovered and saved for evidence."
"I can imagine where it was recovered from." The chief of staff nodded.
"We rarely get this kind of mystery at Chicago Hope; we deal mostly with
the medical kind. Perhaps you can help us get a head start on it before
the police arrive?" "In other words," put in the little lawyer, "we'd like
to know who in Chicago might want you dead." She looked up at three
expectant doctors and one tense attorney. "Truthfully? I have not the
slightest clue, gentlemen. I know absolutely no one in this entire state,
and I hadn't been two hours off the plane when it happened!" "Maybe you
could tell us why you came," Birch suggested. "Okay. Last year I wrote a
book, a trifle really, but I'm very proud of it, and I even managed to
find an agent for it after a while. For about six months I had no word
from him, then he writes me with big news: Penumbra Press here in Chicago
LOVES the thing, wants to make it the centerpiece of their fall list, and
offers me five high figures and a twelve-percent royalty! I don't know how
much any of you know about the publishing industry, but those numbers are
unprecedented for a first novel by an unknown. I was especially surprised
that it was Penumbra; from what I've seen, their list runs mostly to
left-wing policy analysis and this self-conscious, artsy, politically
correct fiction I never bother with. Meanwhile, my book's this noisy,
libertarian genre thriller. "But no way am I questioning their judgment.
Through my agent, Penumbra invites me to visit here, all expenses on them,
to discuss the book and the deal. So I fill up the freezer, break out the
nice clothes, kiss the kids and their father goodbye, I'll be home for
_Shabbat_, and I'm gone. "Plane lands without incident in the Hog Butcher
to the World, and Penumbra has sent a limousine for me, first time I've
ever been in one - " "You mean since the senior prom?" Geiger broke in
apropos of nothing. "_Yeshivot_ don't have proms, Doctor," Ruth replied,
not missing a step. "So I'm getting my first look at the City of the Big
Shoulders, checking to see if it has a nice trim waist to match, when the
car pulls up in front of this clean sterile late-modern high-rise and this
is the place. I get out and stand for a moment like some silly awestruck
tourist, wondering when I'm going to wake up from this dream and have to
change the baby's diaper, when a man - not much beyond a boy, really -
steps up beside me. For some reason, I turn ... and then I see the gun.
You know the rest of my story better than I." Birch considered this
briefly. His eyes had not left her face for a second. "And you have no
idea why he shot you?" "None whatsoever." "You weren't robbed." "Thank
God. If I hadn't had my insurance card on me, paying for your help could
get complicated." "Don't concern yourself with that," Watters reassured
her. "It'll be taken care of. Meanwhile, we should all be ready for a
visit from the police." As the chief of staff returned to his feet, he
thought of one more question. "Mrs. Lowe - you did see his face?" "And I
will never forget it, sir!" "The police will probably be very happy to
hear that," Dr. Shutt commented. "I'm going to schedule you for some tests
later today. If there's anything else we can do for you - " "Not to
overreach, Doctor, but there is: I am utterly desperate to call home. I
don't want my husband to learn about this from Tom Brokaw or someone like
that; I'd better tell him myself so he doesn't worry. Better yet, so he
doesn't come here looking to hunt down the shooter." "Sounds like a
formidable guy," the neurosurgeon said. "Really. Yaacov the killer _ger_.
His personal motto is 'Shoot the wounded.' Of course he's been harmless
since leaving the Army, but he'd welcome a chance not to be. I feel very
safe walking with him at night." She ran her gaze around the four men. "I
hate to monopolize so much of your time, gentlemen. Aren't there other
lives for the saving around here?" "Listening to you is more fun," Geiger
replied, "but I do have a double bypass scheduled for," he looked at his
watch, "right about now." "Very well, then. I'll have your property sent
here; the phone is already hooked up. You will be notified when the police
arrive." With that, Watters called it to a close. "I wish you a very
speedy recovery, Mrs. Lowe." "Thank you, gentlemen, for everything, and I
do mean everything." Shutt seemed reluctant to go. "She's got a great
attitude," he observed to his friend once they'd left the room. "That's
always good. I like the religious ones, too; they may be a little strange,
but usually they're so grateful." "I've never seen a religious one like
her before," replied Geiger. "Never seen anyone like her before, actually.
I don't know about you, but I've got to read that book of hers when it
comes out." Down the corridor in the opposite direction strode Watters and
Birch. The attorney gave his head a single shake and said, "What a story!
Do you believe her?" "You see any reason not to?" "Not really. Any lie
would probably have been a lot more plausible - and less complicated."
Birch shook his head again. "Think about it. Invited halfway across the
country to talk about publishing her book, she steps off a plane into a
limo into a murder attempt. Phillip, try and tell me the word 'trap' isn't
apropos here." "You'll get no argument from me. But I still can't see any
motive." Watters swung along a little faster, Birch keeping up. "Maybe it
has something to do with the book." "What's it about, the JFK
assassination or something?" Birch shrugged, fell behind a step, quickly
caught up again. "Maybe she revealed some unspeakable secret - like Lee
Harvey Oswald acted alone." Thirty stories above the gleaming heart of the
city, the Honorable Alderman Bud Muldrake of Chicago, Illinois, looked
down upon his domain and screamed in a wordless, mindless fury. Finally he
stamped away from the window, whirled to glare again at the thin figure
trembling under the brazen chandelier, and roared, "What the FUCK do you
mean, she's still alive?!" Then, not waiting for an answer, "You dumb
shit! You goddamn stupid little PRICK! Where the fuck did you shoot her,
in the fucking ASS or something?" Back to the vast window, where he
muttered a few more obscenities before concluding, "Well, it's not too
bad; at least the bitch didn't see you." The twentyish man under the huge
brass light shook from the top of his shaven head to the soles of his
unlaced black high-top sneakers. Gripping the tasseled corners of the Arab
scarf that flopped over his shoulders, he bit his lip and whimpered, "The
bitch saw me." "WHAT?!" Muldrake pounced toward his desk with lightning in
his eyes, caught up an ornamental crystal apple (by Tiffany; a gift from
the former Mayor of New York City) and flung it at his agent's head,
narrowly missing as the young man yelped and ducked. Both the crystal and
the Italian marble of the floor cracked on contact. "SHIT!" the honorable
Alderman barked. "Goddamn you little gangbanging street pricks, can't do a
fucking THING without a goddamn babysitter watching you! Now just what the
fuck happened down there, you stupid shit?" "I - I snuck up to her wi' my
piece out, but the bitch must've heard me - she turned, looked at me and I
got scared, so I dusted her off real fast, pop in the head and a tit, and
I RAN. Guess some asshole saw and called 911 - " "Get the fuck out of my
office, you stupid prick, and I ever see you again you a stupid DEAD
prick!" The youth scuttled out, leaving the other to mutter, "Goddamn
little asshole, I better make sure one of his homies pops him before he
thinks of going to the cops ... " Muldrake lowered his bulk into his wide
leather chair and stabbed the desk intercom to life with his middle
finger. "Eric! Goddammit, Eric, you got to come in here, we got some
serious shit going down!" It cost the Alderman about seventeen minutes of
fretting and stewing before the new arrival was shown in. "The delay was
quite unavoidable," explained the tall, slender man, without a semiquaver
of regret. Declining to explain further, he carefully adjusted his silk
tie, smoothed his Kennedyesque white coiffure, and waited for the sweating
Muldrake to spit it out. Muldrake parodied his gesture, rubbing meaty
hands across his thin, gray patches of hair. "What are we gonna do, Eric?
I mean, the writer bitch lived! What the fuck we gonna do?" "I'm fully
aware of the situation, Bud," said the other, his cream-complected face
undisturbed and his eyes the color of steel. "I make it my business to
remain on top of all relevant projects and operations." "Good. Goddammit,
sometimes I feel like I don't know what the fuck is going on." "Then let
me inform you." The pale man seated himself on a low-slung velvet sofa;
even though it left him at least six inches lower than Muldrake in his
leather throne, there was no mistaking who was in command here. "Someone
from inside the building heard the shots and called 911, whereupon an
ambulance brought the woman to Chicago Hope Hospital - a stroke of luck
for her, but most unfortunate for you." "For ME! Shit, Eric, getting her
here to dust her off was all YOUR goddamn idea!" "And a totally necessary
one," came the freezing reply. "I told you what kind of danger Ruth Lowe's
talent could pose in enemy hands. You read those pages I showed you."
"Yeah, I read 'em. Goddamn, I need a line." Muldrake pawed open a desk
drawer, withdrew an ornamental mirror and a gold box. From the box came a
gold blade, a thin gold tube, and a vial of gleaming white powder. The
other watched with only lightly masked scorn as lines of powder were
poured, cut, and inhaled. "Are you quite finished, Alderman?" "Yeah. Man,
I mean like holy hot shit, the pause that refreshes!" As Muldrake clumsily
threw his kit back together and into the drawer, he babbled happily, "So
we gotta finish up, right, Eric? Chicago Hope, huh; I hear in that place
they do all kinds of weird shit. Transplant heads and stuff. WEIRD fuckin'
shit. Got a guy in there tried to bring some old dead bitch back to life
with a machine heart or something." "Coincidentally," said the fair man,
"that guy happens to be one of the surgeons who saved our dear Mrs. Lowe.
There was another, too, who attended to her head wound; he also has a
considerable reputation. Both are rich, of course, rich Jews - but you
probably figured that out yourself already." "Bust my balls! How'd you
learn all this shit, Eric?" A smooth, sharp smile. "You know I make it my
business to have someone inside every institution in this city that
receives public money." "Oh, yeah." Indulgent nodding. "I'd like to be
able to say I own a staff doctor or a top administrator in that
physicians' palace, but thanks to that bastard Watters, none of my people
can get past their selection process. They also have a hell of a lawyer on
retainer; there hasn't been a single crack to jam a discrimination suit
through - yet. So far I've had to make do with two nurses' aides with sons
in the Pharaohs and - quite luckily - a few of their security personnel."
"So we get one of them to sneak in and pop her, right?" Perfect teeth
gleamed in another cool grin. "Oh, Bud, Bud, why aim low? I want to try
something big, something I've been itching to do for years now!" "What?"
Muldrake's eyes were all gaping pupil. "Well, to start, since those
doctors were nice enough to save her ... we capture her alive. And to show
our appreciation for what they did, we capture them too." "What? Who?"
"The doctors, you stupid drug-addled gorilla, the doctors!" Muldrake's
face furrowed as if he had to translate from a foreign language. "But what
the fuck do we do with a writer and a coupla doctors? And sure as shit we
can't bring 'em here - " "They'll be taken to my North Shore place; you
know I've got the right facilities there. Oh, don't look so nervous, Bud!
Don't tell me you're worried about the police. Between your power and
mine, they haven't even moved on the shooting this morning, and we can see
to it that when they DO move, it won't even amount to an inconvenience."
Slowly he rose and approached the Alderman's desk; Muldrake folded a
little down into his chair, with the other towering over him. "Don't you
fret about a thing. I'll handle all the planning, and take all of tomorrow
to set it up so it's sure to go right. I'll have to pick the cream of the
Pharaohs; they'll need floor plans - those are easy to get - and certain
schedules - those will be tougher. They'll bring their own guns." Suddenly
he looked down, steel-colored eyes blazing into Muldrake's dilated orbs.
"This is going to be CLASSIC, Muldrake. This will put the fear of hell
into every arrogant, overpaid bastard in the AMA. And as for what to do
with them ... just leave that to me!" TO BE CONTINUED NOTES to all
unattributed quotes and foreign phrases baruch Hashem - Hebrew idiom, best
translated as "thank God." Hashem, literally "the Name," is the general
term of reference and address to God outside of formal prayer. aishet
chayil manque - a language mix. "aishet chayil" is the Hebrew phrase from
Proverbs 31:10 usually translated as "woman of valor"; "manque" is a
French term meaning "not quite" or "just missed." Shabbat - Hebrew. The
Sabbath. aka Saturday. "Hog Butcher to the World" - after Carl Sandburg's
poem "Chicago." (Ditto for "City of the Big Shoulders" below.) Yeshivot -
Jewish religious schools. Ger - Hebrew. In this context, means "convert."
NO MEDICINE BUT HOPE: II As Alan Birch approached the door of Ruth's room,
he met Camille Shutt coming out. "Morning, Camille; how's Mrs. Lowe
doing?" "Beautifully. She's keeping my nurses in stitches. EVERYONE wants
to read that book. We're all going to miss her when she leaves." "Any idea
when that will be?" "Possibly as soon as tomorrow, if Aaron and Jeffrey
approve a transfer." "Oh, so the police have already spoken to her - I
hadn't heard." Camille suddenly looked confused. "I don't think they have,
Alan. No, I'm quite sure, the police haven't been here yet." "Is that so.
Then I really should talk to her." The head nurse's smile returned.
"You'll enjoy the experience." "Anyone in there with her now?" "Nurse
Atkisson. Have fun, Alan; I've got to go." Poking his head in the doorway,
Birch listened a moment. The patient was saying, "I do regret the loss of
that patch of my hair. I know it's a renewable resource, and I keep it
covered in public anyway, but right now I feel as if the French Resistance
had been punishing me for collaboration and suddenly changed their mind."
A burble of female laughter answered her, interrupted by the attorney's
knock on the door. "Come in," came Ruth's voice. "Oh, good morning, Mr.
Birch." A red-haired RN looked up as he came in, then back to the patient.
"I'll be back later, Mrs. Lowe." "Thanks." Ruth turned her attention to
the new arrival. "What can I do for you, sir?" "I thought we could just
talk a bit, if you feel up to it." "Well ... sure." She made a sheepish
face. "You'll have to forgive my bad manners; I get so nervous at the
prospect of getting entangled in the legal system, and you just happen to
be its local representative." "I know. Sometimes I get lonely, surrounded
by the health care system." He smiled, was gratified to see her smile
back, then settled into the chair by her bed and began. "So how are things
at home?" "Thank God, all well. My mother is having a good time with the
children, and I think I was able to talk my husband out of packing up the
.30-.30 and coming here to find the perpetrator. Everyone misses me. It
looks like I might be transferred to a hospital close to home, or even
released entirely in a few days." "You're looking forward to that." "I am
... but I don't want to go before seeing the police, and they seem to be
taking their own sweet time about it! I'm also suspicious about my
publisher; they haven't returned my calls. You'd think there'd be more
curiosity about this." "I would; that's pretty much why I'm here now. You
understand that it's my job to minimize this hospital's legal exposure,
and we are a bit concerned about your case." "Oh, you have nothing to fear
from me!" She waved a hand airily, dismissing all worries. "I dislike
litigation on principle, and more than that, you saved my life here."
Birch nodded in acknowledgment. "It is strange, though, that the cops
haven't come. We reported the shooting Monday morning as soon as you were
stabilized." "Perhaps they're too busy dealing with a major crime wave or
upsurge?" "Not that I've heard of lately. And a case like yours doesn't
come along very often, if you know what I mean." "I'm not sure. Please
elaborate. Important, I'm not." "But unusual, this is. Most shootings go
down in a violent atmosphere, at least in this city." "In mine, too."
"Right." He leaned forward, caught up in the puzzle. "And usually the
motive is clear: robbery, an argument turns ugly, drugs involved,
something like that. And when you don't have a motive, what you have is
usually a stray bullet hitting some innocent bystander. None of that seems
to hold here." "Except the innocent part. You're right, this IS bizarre.
The guy was stalking me, in broad daylight, in what looked to me like a
beautiful part of town." "Trust me, it is a beautiful part of town." Birch
went silent, considering, and at length said, "Why don't you tell me what
he looked like?" "I hate to admit this ... but he looked like my worst
nightmare. Black teenager, shaven head, with the band of his underwear
showing above his pants, and - I loved this detail, believe me - he was
wearing a _keffiyeh_." "A what?" "A _keffiyeh_ - one of those checkered
tablecloth- looking Palestinian Arab scarves. He had it wrapped around his
shoulders. Does that help?" "It does. He's in the Pharaohs." "The
Pharaohs?" "A local street gang. Notoriously violent, very big in crack
dealing and drive-by shootings. Those scarves are their trademark." The
attorney's eyes went worried. "Why would THEY want to kill you?" "Oh, God.
Do I even want to know?" Birch rose quickly. "If you'll excuse me, Mrs.
Lowe, I think I ought to call the police and share this information. It
might get them to take this seriously." But he got no further before the
noise erupted outside: thundering feet, obscene barks of command, shrieks
of terror from the nurses' station, the cold click of a pistol bolt. Birch
bolted toward the door to see. "My God, what is going on - " "Back off,
asshole!" Birch stumbled back at the point of a gun - a blue-steel 9-mm in
the hand of a hairless youth. A _keffiyeh_ swirled around the invader's
neck and across the lower portion of his face. Behind him were two more
identical gunmen; one had his weapon jammed to the temple of a shaking,
pale Nurse Maggie Atkisson. Behind the roaring, cursing thugs, the shrieks
and tumult in the corridor escalated. Birch looked into the face of the
terrified nurse, and his spine stiffened. He stood between Ruth Lowe's bed
and the boiling mass of the gang, his eyes locked on the hostage, and
somehow said, untrembling, "Let her go." "I said BACK OFF, you little
cracker bastard!" the leader snarled. "Lemme at that goddamn bed!" His
finger tightened on the trigger; behind him Nurse Atkisson screamed and
saved Birch's life - the thug whirled half around to bellow, "Shut the
fuck up, bitch!" The gun hand dropped to the right, the bullet striking
Birch under the chest, tearing cleanly through his liver. As he fell, he
heard two women's cries cutting through shock and pain. The lead goon
stepped over his victim to touch the barrel of his gun against Ruth's
forehead. Behind him, the one holding the nurse rumbled, "All right,
bitch, pull those tubes out!" But petrified with fear, she only whimpered,
then screamed as he yanked out a fistful of her red hair. "Pull all that
doctor shit out, bitch, NOW!" Under the gun, patient's and nurse's eyes
met. Ruth, silent and white in terror, managed the smallest nod, trying to
say with her eyes, *It's all right, do it, save your life.* Trembling,
Atkisson stammered, "Yes, yes, all right, just please - please give me
some room." They drew away from the bed, guns readied and eyes wary,
watching as her training took over and steady hands began detaching Ruth
from drips and monitors. As the last needle was withdrawn a thug pounced,
grabbing Atkisson and flinging her back to stumble and fall over Birch's
prone, bleeding body. "Now! Get the bitch and run!" The others obeyed,
dragging the wounded patient from her bed; as she was flung heavily over a
bony shoulder draped in the Arab colors, Ruth let out a howl of agony
before unconsciousness rescued her from the pain. Over in the radiology
department, Jeffrey Geiger watched coolly as one of his residents hung up
a series of chest films. "So what do you make of it, Dr. Geiger?" she
asked. "That isn't the issue, Dr. Smythe; I know what to make of it. I
need to know what YOU see, before I tell you where to look." He watched
her wince, and casually leaned against an equipment shelf to consider her
answer. At that moment the door crashed open, spilling three armed men
into the room. Their shaven skulls gleamed in the pale glow of the viewing
wall; the black metal of their guns sucked up the light. From behind his
masking _keffiyeh_, one roared, "Where's Geiger?" As Dr. Smythe gasped in
horror and shrank back, silhouetted on the bright glass, Geiger stepped
between her and the invaders. "I'm Dr. Geiger," he said calmly. "What the
hell is this?" A second youth waved his gun in his right hand, a pair of
handcuffs in his left. "You coming with us, doc!" he leered. Undisturbed,
the surgeon crossed his arms and fixed them with a look of utter contempt.
"Excuse me, but just who do you think you are, and what are you doing
here?" The first thug stamped forward, thrusting his weapon almost into
Geiger's face. "Shut your fucking mouth and come easy, you ugly kike
bastard - " His voice cut off in a choke as Geiger's hands locked around
his throat, thumbs jammed into the walnut of his Adam's-apple. The others
charged; the black mass of a pistol crashed against the doctor's head.
Pain and light exploded behind Geiger's eyes; stunned, he released his
grip and staggered away, easy prey for the one who seized his wrists,
twisted them behind his back and locked the handcuffs on. Then they were
upon him, half leading and half dragging him away, leaving Smythe behind
to scream helplessly. Pandemonium came shrieking and howling down the
corridor from the neurosurgery ward; Camille Shutt stopped in her tracks,
listening in horror to a too-familiar voice protesting, drowned by harsher
voices, bodies scuffling, the awful click of closing handcuffs, of
readying guns ... She raced toward the tumult. There was Daniel Nyland
from the ER, trying to calm and hold a knot of terrified people, and just
beyond him she saw the horror - that man, his hands shackled behind him,
surrounded by three masked gunmen even now hustling him toward the
stairwell ... "Aaron!" Camille cried, launching herself suicidally towards
Dr. Shutt and his abductors; as a pistol came up, Dr. Nyland caught her,
swung himself between the woman and the gun, prayed that the thug wouldn't
think him worth the bullet. "Camille?" Shutt twisted around in his
captors' grip, saw her; cold sweat dewed his ashen face. "Camille, I love
you!" "Oh, dear God - AARON!" But the exit gaped open, swallowing men and
guns, and Aaron Shutt was gone. Detective Ray Vecchio couldn't stop
shaking his head. "Why the hell are they giving this case to ME?" he
muttered to his companion. "A high-profile shooting? An out-of-towner? On
Michigan Avenue? In broad daylight? They barely want me tracing lost dogs
... " Beside him, Constable Benton Fraser, RCMP, strode along
nonchalantly. "Did Leftenant Welsh tell you anything specific about how
you're expected to proceed?" "Yeah. Specific. He said, quote, get this
goddamn out- of-towner back out of town ASAP or it's your badge, unquote.
Real helpful. Thanks, Welsh." He gave the car door an opening yank that
would have pulled it off into the hand of a stronger man. "That's odd,"
the handsome Canadian remarked as he slid into the car beside Vecchio.
"One wouldn't expect hostility to be directed at the victim, particularly
a visitor." "Yeah, well, welcome to Chicago, we got our own inimitable
style of greeting tourists." The aging vehicle snarled to life. Fraser
shrugged and straightened his hat. "Have you ever been to Chicago Hope
Hospital before?" "No, lucky me. I hate hospitals. Smell of formaldehyde
and nasty nurses. Well, here goes." "What the hell happened here?" Vecchio
wondered out loud as the two officers crossed the main threshold. A din of
scared and angry voices rang everywhere, security personnel darted back
and forth like bees in summer, confused and apprehensive people were four
deep at the main desk. "I mean, hospitals aren't your most laid-back
places, but this is pushing it - " "Hey, are you the police?" Fraser and
Vecchio turned toward the fiery soprano voice. The woman was impressively
tall, more impressively furious, her red-gold hair in a tangle around a
face hard with indignation. She held the hand of a crying boy about six
years old. "He is," Fraser said helpfully, gesturing toward his companion.
She appraised Fraser and his uniform, kept herself from smiling, and began
snarling at Vecchio. "You sure took your time! Like they say: call for a
cop or a pizza, see which comes first - we called you clowns on MONDAY!"
"Listen, ma'am, this is the - " She didn't stop for him. "I've got a lot
more to say, you creep, but first I have to help little Jason here find
his mommy. He ran away and got lost when the gun got pointed at him." She
glared death at the detective. "He was here to visit his granddad." A toss
of her hair, the choke of tears held back. "And then there's a lot more
scared people to help. Meanwhile the chief of staff wants to give you a
piece of his mind - and I hope he tears your big stupid ears off!"
Suddenly her face was thrust almost into Vecchio's. "If you'd been doing
your job, you stupid asses, they'd be safe, but God only knows where they
are now!" She fought more tears, then swiftly was off, child in tow. "What
was THAT about? Better yet, what is all this about?" Vecchio didn't know
which direction to head in. "Something tells me we're gonna be talking
about a lot more than a shooting ... " "Are you from the police?" "Uh-oh,
here we go again." Vecchio looked up wearily to see the owner of the iron
voice; it was an iron man, compact and authoritative, with green fire in
his eyes. He was attended by a small honor guard of hospital personnel,
and wore an expression Vecchio had seen before: on the face of a man whose
wife had been raped. "Yeah, I'm from the police. Detective Ray Vecchio - "
"I'm Dr. Phillip Watters, chief of staff of this hospital, and I have
something to show you!" He clamped a hand onto the detective's shoulder;
his grip was iron too. "Hey, let go of the jacket!" Watters added an iron
push to the iron grip. "Come." The other had little choice but to go
along, and Fraser fell politely into step with them. So far the Mountie
had barely uttered a word. The uncomfortable procession ended in the
viewing gallery above an operating room. Vecchio rubbed his aching
shoulder as Watters fairly threw him aside. Holding his hat in both hands,
Fraser peered down at the surgery in process. Vecchio only cast a glance
before groaning, "Oh jeez, that is gross!" "LOOK," commanded Watters, and
Vecchio didn't dare disobey. "Do you see the patient's face, Detective?"
"Sort of." "The patient on that table happens to be this hospital's
attorney, a man of extraordinary skill and loyalty, and my virtual right
hand. He was shot through the abdomen with a highly illegal automatic
pistol less than a hour ago while trying to protect a nurse taken hostage
by invading street gang members. Fortunately, with Dr. Thurmond working,
he's in very good hands." "Oh." Vecchio looked for the surgeon. "You mean
that little old gnome?" Crimson rose in Watters' face. "'That little old
gnome' is possibly the finest general surgeon in the entire United States.
If you are ever shot - which given your general air of utter incompetence
seems highly likely - pray you receive attention even half as good as
his." The physician turned to his attendants. "Get this idiot out of my
sight and out of my hospital - I don't care if he's the last cop in the
state, help like this we don't need!" Fraser stepped forward, a placating
hand extended. "Dr. Watters," he began, "please let me apologize for
Detective Vecchio's unfortunate choice of words. I also want to apologize
in behalf of the international law enforcement community for whatever
terrible thing happened here in your hospital." Watters' glance was cold
and dubious, but he held his peace. His eyes softened as he turned his
gaze back down towards the operation. As if feeling his colleague's eyes,
Arthur Thurmond looked up to meet them. Between surgical mask and hood,
the old man's keen gaze was weary but encouraging, speaking in the
wordless language of hope. Watters responded with a sigh of relief:
"Alan's safe." "Thank goodness," Fraser echoed sincerely. The chief of
staff turned to him, a bit of grudging respect showing. Seizing the
moment, the Canadian officer asked, "Could you tell us what happened here,
Doctor?" "We'll talk in my office." Watters led the way, all his attention
on Fraser. Vecchio followed along like a calf trailing the herd. "I don't
think I caught your name." "Constable Benton Fraser, Royal Canadian
Mounted Police." "I see. Are you attached to the consulate?" "Yes, I am."
"They say the Mounties always get their man. We could use results like
that, after what happened today." "Which was, Doctor?" By now they had
arrived at Watters' office. Vecchio had to move quickly to keep the door
from closing in his face. Once everyone had settled down amid black
leather and chrome, Watters wasted no words. "Chicago Hope first notified
the police - " here an ugly glare at Vecchio "when a patient was brought
in Monday morning with gunshot wounds to the head and chest. There was no
response until now. Meanwhile, about an hour ago three groups of - I guess
'youths' is the fashionable term - somehow bypassed our security and
abducted three people from this hospital at gunpoint. One was the patient
I mentioned; the others were two of my best surgeons. Both of those
surgeons, incidentally, had operated on that patient. Furthermore, as you
saw, our attorney, Alan Birch, was shot and I don't know how many
visitors, patients, and hospital personnel were frightened out of their
wits." Vecchio was writing all this down. "I get it, doc. If I could talk
to some of the witnesses?" Watters' lips formed a thin hard line within
his beard, but he nodded. "You can talk to Mr. Birch in Recovery. I'll
have the others meet you in the committee room." For once things were slow
in the emergency room of Cook County General Hospital, and as in every
other such institution across the city, there was only one topic of
discussion among the staff. "You've all heard?" chief resident Dr. Mark
Greene was saying to some colleagues. "Two staff doctors and a patient at
Chicago Hope - kidnapped. At gunpoint." "Yeah, I heard," replied a weary
Dr. Susan Lewis, sounding bored. "They think it was some street gang that
did it." She yawned. "Better there than here." "You got that right," said
Dr. Peter Benton, a dash of relish in his voice. He slouched in his chair
like a house cat. "WHAT?" Greene turned to the surgical resident with
horror on his face. "Peter, Susan, are you nuts? This is a catastrophe!"
Behind Greene, John Carter's curiosity finally overcame his trepidation,
and he entered the room to ask, "Why, Dr. Greene?" "Yes, why?" demanded
Benton, coming erect in his seat. "Why don't you tell our eager med
student there why we should get all wet-eyed over a couple of Chicago
Hope's overpaid, undertrained prima donnas? It's about time real life
broke in at that place!" Greene's eyes narrowed. "Dr. Benton, that is
appalling. Don't you see what this means - not just for Chicago Hope, but
for us too, for every hospital and doctor in this city?" Lewis' fatigue
was forgotten; she too came to attention to ask, "What are you getting at,
Mark?" Greene found a chair, landed in it heavily. "The patient they
abducted had been treated for gunshot wounds by the two doctors who were
taken with her. This may have been a case of the gang coming to finish the
job AND deciding to take revenge on the people who stopped them the first
time." Benton sighed and rolled his eyes heavenward. "So if you would be
so kind as to enlighten us, Doctor: What in hell has any of this to do
with us?" Greene's voice was a dagger. "Have you ever taken a bullet out
of someone, Doctor? Sewn up a knife-slash? Given aid and comfort to an
abused spouse?" "All the time," Benton snapped. "We all do. They don't do
half as much of it at Chicago Hope - " Suddenly shaken, Lewis cut him off.
"I - I think I see Mark's point." "Yes." Greene nodded as he turned to
her. "Until now the gangs and the thugs have been content to send us their
victims and leave us alone to do our job. But if they've decided to widen
their net - to send a message to every doctor and nurse, paramedic and
social worker in Chicago that helping their victims, undoing their dirty
work will no longer be tolerated ... well, I guess even you, Peter, can
see the implications! The next time some poor guy is brought into the ER
after a drive-by shooting, just what are you going to do?" The chief
resident rose to his feet. "As for me, I'm changing nothing. But I remind
all of you that I have a wife and child." As Greene stepped out, John
Carter looked after him with wide, worried eyes. The student found himself
wondering: what had become of the poor battered girl he'd attended to that
morning, who'd claimed that her boyfriend had beaten her? What if the
brute came back seeking vengeance? Here was yet another little detail of
his education that he couldn't share with his parents. He looked
beseechingly over at Dr. Lewis, but she was lost in her own reverie. With
his shoulders a bit more slumped than usual, Carter stepped out in
Greene's footsteps and returned to work. "Jesus," Dr. Carney exclaimed to
a scattering of fellow residents, "Geiger kidnapped! What with everyone
he's pissed off, it was only a matter of time." "You should've seen him,"
said Dr. Smythe. "I just told everything to that cop - how Geiger grabbed
one of those guys by the throat and damn near killed him." "Fit of panic?"
"No, the guy had called him a 'kike bastard'." "Oh, wow." Carney
considered this for a moment. "That wasn't too smart." "They didn't look
too smart. Just street scum. If they didn't have guns, nobody would ever
look at them twice." "That's probably why they got the guns." The ghost of
a smile floated over Carney's face. "I hate to admit this, but it almost
seems like hard justice on Geiger." The door of the on-call room swung
slowly open to pass an exhausted Dr. Nyland. "Not justice," he groaned to
Carney. "Not justice. They took Dr. Shutt, too." "Aaron Shutt?" gasped
Carney. "That pussycat? Why him?" Nyland pushed sweat-slick dark hair out
of his eyes. "I don't know, but I saw it all. Just finished telling a
cop." Smythe rubbed her temple. "I heard they also took that patient with
the gunshot wounds - the one Geiger and Shutt operated on. What if that's
it?" Carney went white. "Oh, Christ ... I assisted in that operation! What
if they come back?" Wiping away more perspiration with one hand, Nyland
waved away Carney's panic with the other. "You don't have to worry; they
aren't coming back." His head sank into his hands. "None of them will be
coming back." At the window of Watters' office, Nurse Camille Shutt gazed
out into the gathering night. The police were gone, her shift was long
over, but she hadn't the energy to leave. "What now, Phillip?" she asked
softly. "I don't know," Phillip Watters answered, just as softly. She
turned to look at him as he came up behind her, their reflections dim in
the glass of the window. "Do you think they'll send a ransom demand?"
Watters could not answer. How could he share with her this terrible
instinct, this certainty that Aaron and Jeffrey were in mortal danger,
that their abductors wanted not money but blood? That an innocent woman
with a young family a thousand miles away was the heart of this mystery -
a heart soon to be stilled? Gently he touched her shoulder. "Please,
Camille, it's late. Let me take you home." TO BE CONTINUED NO MEDICINE BUT
HOPE: III Prodded by the guns, Aaron Shutt and Jeffrey Geiger
half-stumbled out of the back of the black van. They had been forced below
the hospital, into a dark corner of the vast parking garage, where the
vehicle had been lurking, waiting for them and for the limp, insensate
Ruth Lowe. The ride had been too fast, too long; it was impossible not to
worry about her. A quiver of fear ran through the neurosurgeon as he
thought about the shaking she'd suffered on the floor of the van; he
remembered how he'd pleaded with the Pharaohs to release his and Geiger's
manacled hands, to let them care for their patient. All it had gotten him
was a slap in the face and a run of ugly verbal abuse. Now they had
arrived at - where? At wherever their captors wanted. They emerged onto a
gravel drive before the portico of an immense house, a clean-lined,
asymmetrical, modern affair, set in parklike grounds obviously far from
the heart of the city. Not far away could be heard the lapping of the
lake. "Move," grunted one of the armed men surrounding them, jabbing his
pistol into Geiger's back. "Watch that thing!" the physician snarled back,
moving toward the house. He cast a glance back at his friend and at his
patient. Shutt was coming slowly behind him, still in handcuffs like
Geiger himself, also with a weapon against his back; Ruth remained
unconscious, and a gunman bore her over his shoulder. At least they were
all still alive - so far. And the door of the great house was swinging
open to take them. Once inside, neither man bothered to gape at the lavish
interior; they were too used to luxury, and too indignant, to be
impressed. Silently they let themselves be led down a long corridor, to
emerge into dim light and the presence of the enemy. The wide,
high-vaulted room had its heavy velvet curtains drawn as if to hide shame
inside. The carpets, though thick and soft, were colored the rust of old
blood, and the heavy, blocklike furniture was upholstered in black. Amid
all this darkness stood a few more of the bald street soldiers in their
Arab scarves, attending upon two men who were seated in black armchairs,
waiting. "Welcome, gentlemen," said the fairer and thinner of the two, "I
trust that we need no introduction." Geiger rose to the bait at once. "No,
you don't, but I definitely want an introduction to your decorator, just
in case I need a stage design for an all-star revival of MARAT/SADE. In
the meantime, just what the hell are we doing here?" The pale, slender man
laughed - not a pleasant laugh. "You're all my informants told me and
more, Dr. Geiger! And I've been waiting for this opportunity for - "
"Maybe you didn't hear me. I'll ask again: Why are we here?" The other
man, heavy and slow, lumbered to his feet and over to the prisoner. "We'll
ask the questions, asshole! Do you know who I am?" "Yeah, I do. You're
that Alderman Whatsisname, Muldrake, whom I've had the honor of never
voting for. What's going on here, a bill just passed saying kidnapping
isn't a crime for fat politicians?" Muldrake's face darkened while Shutt's
paled, but Muldrake's companion laughed again. "Relax, Bud, I'll handle
this." Now he rose to approach Geiger. "And who am I, Doctor?" When Geiger
looked lightning at him and did not answer, the man only turned toward the
other physician. "Perhaps you know me, Dr. Shutt?" Shutt sighed and gave
in. "I've seen your picture. Pentecost, isn't it?" "Quite right. Eric
Pentecost, chairman of the Excelsior Foundation. You know our work?" "Sort
of," Shutt answered warily. Pentecost's face softened, although Geiger
thought he could still detect a cunning glint in the gaze directed at his
colleague. "Come, Doctor, don't hold back. I give you permission to speak
freely. What do you think of Excelsior?" Still no reply. "I really want to
know, Dr. Shutt." An edge of command had crept into the voice. Now the
neurosurgeon shrugged and responded. "I can't figure it out," he began.
"You're all over the map. You tried to take Chicago Hope to court in class
action suits both for animal experimentation and for NOT participating in
a fetal tissue research project. How inconsistent can you get?" "Not at
all. Excelsior's position is - never stated in public in so many words, of
course, but we're among friends - is that, with the world facing crises of
human overpopulation and animal extinction, human life at any stage is
more expendable for scientific or any other purposes. We're trying to help
establish a precedent." Now Geiger spoke again, voice venomous. "You are
sick." "But you're in no position to cure me, Doctor," Pentecost replied
cheerfully. He turned to address the Pharaoh still holding the limp form
of Ruth Lowe. "Don't be stupid, boy, you can put her down now!" As he
obediently approached a couch, the goon was addressed again. "No, no, on
the floor! The Jew bitch isn't here to be pampered." "You had her shot,"
Shutt accused calmly, in spite of a rage that brought him close to
trembling. "Why?" "Why did it take you so long to deduce that?" Pentecost
needled him. "After all, this isn't brain surgery." He tittered at his own
joke; Muldrake guffawed. Pentecost then resumed. "Let me explain. It's not
widely known that Penumbra Press is owned by the Excelsior Foundation;
it's even less known that I personally review a number of the more
interesting manuscripts it receives. When this young lady's showed up, it
was sent to me at once, and I read it through in a single night." "It
must've been pretty bad for you to want to kill her," Geiger commented.
"On the contrary. If it had been bad, I'd never have seen it. It was
excellent ... and that's why I decided she must die. I personally extended
a contract offer to bring her to me, and also dispatched one of these fine
young men you see around you. With a gun." Shutt shook his head. "But I
still don't understand." "This novel was GOOD, Doctor, a potential
best-seller, possibly even a major film. And it eloquently expressed some
of the most dangerous ideas in the air. Fortunately, the dissemination of
such ideas had been generally limited in recent decades ... but another
successful popular articulation of them could reach millions and undo
years of Excelsior's work." "So why not just reject the book and not
publish it? Why kill her, for God's sake?" A note of desperation cracked
in Shutt's voice. "What if some other publisher picked it up? No, I
couldn't risk that." Pentecost turned, paced the dark carpet. "Every year
my foundation disburses millions to progressive causes everywhere, trying
to dismantle this cancerous society before it's too late! Through all
this, many of my closest allies have been in the culture industries,
educating the masses through entertainment. But now, with those ranters on
the radio, and there are some books, too, and a few of the movie stars now
openly supporting the other side, and our grip may even be slipping on a
couple of television shows ... and suddenly a new literary voice shows up,
with serious ability, only working for the enemy! There was no question of
what had to be done." "Oh, this is great." Geiger's words dripped scorn.
"The Excelsior Foundation - you're the big anti-censorship cheerleaders.
Every time some bunch of parents complains about their kids' schoolbooks,
you're there to call them book-burning Nazis. But here comes a writer YOU
don't like, and you're judge, jury, and especially executioner!" "How dare
you!" Pentecost whirled on the doctor in fury. "This isn't censorship,
it's preemptive self-defense! She could do irreparable harm to the cause
with her crap about liberty and virtue! Damn you both, can't you see what
I'm trying to do here?" The steely eyes were hot; color had risen in the
pale, angular face. "Not just me and Excelsior, but hundreds of groups,
thousands of people, the cream of the elite. We're using the power of the
state to undo the mistakes of the past, all of them! Mark my words, there
are no defeats in the battle for true equality, only delayed successes;
it's just a matter of time before we establish a system so perfectly
designed that no one will need her goddamned liberty and virtue!" He
directed a deadly glare at the woman's motionless body. Shutt rolled his
eyes. "They already tried that, Mr. Pentecost; it was called the Soviet
Union. Didn't work too well, as I recall." "Be quiet!" growled Pentecost.
"You damn doctors think you're so clever. You know that in a society
without stress and exploitation you'd all be out of business - no more
sick people to extort money from. We'll deal with you greedy bastards in
good time. The health-care system WILL be reformed - forcing all of you
under direct government control will be the first step." "Yeah!" Alderman
Muldrake now enthusiastically joined in. "Out in the street, everyone
knows how you Jew doctors invented AIDS, gave it to kids in those measles
shots to destroy the community!" Around him, the scarved goons were
nodding. "That's right!" Muldrake agreed with himself. "You won't be
strutting around in your white coats with your big hooked noses in the air
for much longer. And in the meantime, there's this writer bitch to take
care of ... " He sauntered over to Ruth, stood above her supine form,
prodded at her with his shoe - "Don't do that!" Shutt protested. "If she
starts bleeding again in her head or chest, she'll die!" Muldrake laughed.
"Didn't you hear Eric? That's the idea!" He considered the unconscious
captive. "Bleeding in her chest, eh? It's a hell of a chest." He raised a
heavy foot over her bosom. "One good stomp ought to do it ... " "My God,
NO!" cried the neurosurgeon, lunging at Muldrake; two of his Pharaoh
guards seized his bound arms and easily held him back. Geiger glanced
quickly around. His own hands were shackled as well. There were at least a
dozen of the keffiyeh-draped thugs, and as many feet between himself and
Muldrake. Pentecost was also watching intently, a small cold smile on his
lips. The heart surgeon felt hatred boiling in his viscera - and suddenly
his answer came to him. "That's right, asshole!" he snarled at the
Alderman. "Go ahead, kick her good and hard, watch her die ... but
remember that's my patient, and I don't like it when anyone damages my
work." Muldrake had stopped and lowered the foot, watching him; they were
all watching him. Good. "And also remember that unless you've got your own
canteen from the Fountain of Youth, Alderman, you're going to need a
doctor someday. One of OUR colleagues ... and we look out for our own.
Keep that in mind when you're lying on that cold steel gurney on your way
to the OR, when the anesthesiologist places the mask over your face, what
you did to Jeffrey Geiger and Aaron Shutt's patient ... and wonder if
you'll ever wake up!" Now Geiger ran his gaze around the room again.
Pentecost's expression was unchanged ... but Muldrake's eyes were wide and
fearful, and his lips trembled. Some of the gang kids looked pretty
shaken. Geiger nodded his satisfaction. "That's right. Don't ever mess
with the men in the white coats." Shutt carefully kept admiration from
showing on his face. *Jeffrey Geiger, MD,* he thought, *you fear nothing.*
The quaking Muldrake looked helplessly to Pentecost for guidance. That one
nodded. "It's all right, Bud, we can spare her for now." Calmly he issued
his orders to his goons. "Take them down to the holding cell." Two of them
obediently approached Ruth, but Shutt's bark stopped them. "Don't touch
her, you stupid oafs; don't even think of touching her!" With bovine eyes
they looked blankly at Shutt. "We're doctors," he explained hotly, "we
know how to handle injured people." "Again, it's all right," said
Pentecost, an odd satisfaction on his face. "Release their hands." The
fetters came off, leaving the two free to approach their patient and
ascertain how safe it was to move her. All the while Pentecost watched
intently, and as the two carefully raised Ruth from the floor, he spoke to
them once more. "Incidentally, gentlemen, don't think for a moment that
you and your woman owe your continued existence to anything other than me.
That blow to her chest has probably only been postponed, and as for you
two, there's always room at the bottom of the lake for a couple of chained
bodies." To the Pharaohs: "Take them away." "I don't BELIEVE this," Ray
Vecchio groaned, "I don't believe any of it! No backup, no uniforms on the
scene, no help at all! I had to take every damn witness statement myself,
not to mention all the flak from that mean little doctor Watters - promise
me, if I'm ever sick or shot, leave me in the gutter but don't send me to
Chicago Hope!" He picked up a pencil, dropped it back to his desk with a
clatter, and looked helplessly at Constable Fraser. "So what do we do now,
Benny?" As always, the Mountie remained unruffled, with Vecchio wondering
how he pulled it off. "I understand that kidnapping is a federal crime in
the United States in most instances. The logical next step is to contact
the FBI." "Which Welsh specifically told me NOT to do. Said the higher-ups
would take care of it." Another toss of the pencil. "Look at what we've
got here. The Pharaohs take a break from hustling crack, sticking up
stores and blowing away their fellow thugs to raid the fanciest hospital
in town. They leave with what, money or drugs? Nope, a couple of big-shot
surgeons and one of their patients - some woman from New York who was shot
by some other Pharaoh right after riding in from O'Hare. And the
department just doesn't seem to give a damn! What the hell is going on?"
"Correct me if you think I'm wrong, Ray, but my impression is not so much
that the department is uninterested as that a conscious decision has been
made not to go all out on this case." "Then they're not afraid of being
surrounded by scared angry doctors real soon." "They must be more afraid
of something else. Something more formidable." Fraser went silent a
moment, thinking. "If you ask me, this case can't possibly begin and end
with the Pharaohs. They must be working for someone - someone powerful,
who doesn't want to be known." Vecchio rolled his eyes at the loose
ceiling tiles. "You know what I think? The victims would've been a lot
luckier if they'd simply disappeared." "Why, Ray?" "Because then the case
would go to Missing Persons, and Lieutenant McAuliffe would have it. And
he'd find them. The higher-ups could tell him to lay off, and Ray
McAuliffe would just tell 'em to go piss up a rope and send his team out
to comb the city." Vecchio sighed. "It's not like McAuliffe is Mother
Theresa or something. I'm sure he can be bought. It's just that there's
not enough money in the world to meet his price." "A good man." "A good
cop. With a squad of good cops under him." "Are you Detective Vecchio?"
The unexpected voice snapped them both to attention. It belonged to a
tall, slender man in his thirties, his mouth set hard within a neat blond
beard and his blue eyes electric under his black military beret. "Yeah,
I'm Vecchio," that one answered. "Who wants to know?" The man strode over,
moving like a denim-clad cougar. "Yaacov Lowe. I'm just in from New York
City. When I learned that my wife had been shot, I flew in to surprise
her, but when I got to the hospital, they told me she'd been kidnapped! I
came here. You're the detective on the case?" "Yeah - " "SO WHERE THE HELL
IS MY WIFE?!" Fraser rose, trying to calm the stranger. "Mr. Lowe, let me
assure you that - " Lowe looked at him suspiciously and cut him off. "And
since when do the Canadian Mounties have jurisdiction in Illinois?" "They
don't; he's just trying to help." Now Vecchio was standing. "Look, pal,
I'm doing all I can. It's not just your wife that's gone, and I've got no
backup on this case ... " "You do now." "Huh?" "I want to help with the
investigation. Yes, I know what you're going to say, and I don't want to
hear it! I left two little children in New York waiting for me to bring
their mother back, and I'm not going to let them down." Vecchio groaned.
"Listen, Mr. Lowe, I appreciate your feelings about this, but you can't
just barge in and join an official police investigation!" "What about
him?" Lowe indicated the Mountie. "He's a lawman. He's got skills that
make him valuable on a case like this." "Fine. I'm a former US Army
cavalry scout and heavy weapons specialist. Good enough credentials for
you?" Surprise jerked Vecchio's eyebrows up. "They still ride horses in
the Army?" "It's mechanized cavalry, you ignoramus; we ride helicopters.
Now I know I've got to get in on this, because if my Ruth's safety is up
to you, I'll never see her again!" Vecchio looked haplessly at Fraser, who
was appraising the new arrival with keen, admiring eyes. "Ray," the
Canadian officer said at last, "I think Mr. Lowe would be quite an asset
to the investigation, especially considering the lack of department
assistance." Lowe smiled. "Thank you, Mister - ?" "Constable Benton
Fraser, at your service. Welcome to our little _ad hoc_ team, Mr. Lowe."
He presented his hand. Lowe took it. "It'll be a pleasure, Constable. For
one thing, I haven't been out hunting since my conversion - and I've never
been out hunting men." "Oh, boy." Vecchio found himself checking around
for quick exits, just in case. "Go figure," Shutt observed. "Of all
people, the professional compassion-monger Eric Pentecost - a murderer."
"Our murderer, Aaron, if we can't get out of here," Geiger reminded him.
The heart surgeon leaned heavily against the bars of their prison, first
facing the empty corridor, then turning to look at his friend. Shutt was
taking off his lab coat and folding it small; gently he eased the
resulting pad under Ruth Lowe's head, then he sat next to her on the icy
stone floor, his back against the wall. "How's she doing?" Geiger asked
softly. "Impossible to be sure. I think she'll be okay, but only if she
doesn't hemorrhage. If she does ... " Shutt paused, "we'll lose her."
Geiger crossed the cell, bent over the motionless body. "Let me look."
Swift, sure hands examined Ruth. A touch at her throat to feel her pulse:
the pale skin was cool and damp. "Cold." He shed his own lab coat, cast it
over the thin hospital gown, and tucked it around her. "But she should be
all right." "Let's hope she remains stable." The neurosurgeon gently
passed his fingertips over her forehead, then looked up at Geiger. "How's
your head?" Geiger touched the bruise the Pharaoh's blow had left on his
temple. "It's nothing." The voice went bitter. "What wouldn't I give to
put a few like it on that wacko Pentecost!" "Uh, Jeffrey ... " his friend
began carefully, "that's what I want to talk to you about." "What? You
want first crack at the bastard?" "Please don't joke, Jeffrey, not now!
Look, I'm not denying that your performance upstairs was magnificent; it
was. You probably saved Mrs. Lowe's life, at least for now. But you are
treading terribly close to the edge - " Geiger's eyes blazed with scorn.
"What would you have me do, Aaron? Crawl and scrape and beg for mercy? Say
they can do as they like to you and her if they'd only let me go?" "I
don't mean that!" Shutt lowered his head in frustration. "Listen to me.
Those men are not the hospital board, or the bioethics committee, or some
insurance company - they are a couple of warped, sadistic killers. And we
are at their mercy." "Like I don't know that?" "Please!" Shutt groaned.
"Jeffrey, I'm not trying to make a coward of you; no one could ever do
that. But antagonizing them, especially Pentecost, is suicidal!" Geiger
gave a derisive snort. "I know optimism is good and healthy in a doctor.
But seriously, Aaron, you don't really expect to leave this place alive?"
"You're probably right." Shutt had been looking at the unyielding stone of
the floor, but now he met the other's eyes. "But you saw Pentecost; you
heard him. To someone like that, your courage and pride are blood to a
shark! You don't fear him, and he wants you to ... and I'm afraid of what
he might do." Another snort. "You of all people should know that after
what I've gone through, nothing and no one could ever make me suffer
again." "You're wrong." As Shutt rose and came to Geiger's side, the edge
of concern in his voice grew keener. "You're still human, only flesh and
blood, and I don't want that scorpion trying to strip you of your
dignity." He could barely force out words. "You're my best friend,
Jeffrey, and I've seen you in enough pain for one lifetime." For about a
minute Geiger said nothing, but only stared between the bars, avoiding his
companion's face. When he finally spoke, it was almost too softly. "You
don't have to worry about me. I'm just another arrogant son of a bitch to
him, not worth torturing. Think of yourself." Here he turned to study the
other. "Now we know Pentecost's filthy little secret - but even without
it, what is he? Just a blow-dried, hypocritical poverty pimp, talking
about love and compassion while working to destroy what little hope
ordinary people have left. What do you think he'll do to someone like you
- someone decent and loving - in his power? No, let me finish!" he
insisted when Shutt tried to reply. "You know disease and suffering,
Aaron, but you don't know evil! And you don't know what evil does to
anything good and pure it can touch ... " Geiger cut himself off, turning
to the unexpected sound of sobbing. "She's awake," Shutt said, crossing
the cell in two quick strides to kneel at Ruth Lowe's side. "Mrs. Lowe,
can you hear me? It's Dr. Shutt." "Yes. I've been hearing you both for a
little while." Her teary voice had the guilty tone of a confession. "I
didn't mean to disturb you." "Don't apologize," said Geiger, coming nearer
and standing above them. "How do you feel?" "Cold, weak; otherwise not too
bad." She pulled Geiger's lab coat closer around her and turned damp eyes
to him. "Dr. Geiger, where are we? And why?" The heart surgeon crouched
beside her. He managed half a smile as he said, "As long as we're sharing
cramped quarters, let's put it on a first-name basis. I'm Jeffrey, and
he's Aaron. We're unwilling guests of the man who had you shot: a very
powerful local sociopath named Eric Pentecost." "Oh, dear God!" Was her
face ashen from blood loss, or from fear? "What's going to become of us?"
Shutt volunteered for the awful duty; he dropped his gaze a moment before
replying, then his dark eyes met hers. His voice was even, clinical,
without tremor. "You're to die of your wounds, most likely through induced
hemorrhaging in your chest. Jeffrey and I will probably be drowned in the
lake." A single soft moan escaped Ruth's lips, followed by a moment's
silence as she closed her eyes, squeezing tears from their corners. Then
she said quietly, "Bearing shattering news to the doomed is a big part of
your job, isn't it?" She could not see how his face begged forgiveness.
His hand curled around hers. "I'm sorry." Hearing movement, Geiger rose
and returned to the bars, looking down the gray corridor. "Someone's
coming." TO BE CONTINUED NO MEDICINE BUT HOPE: IV Yaacov Lowe thought over
what the detective had told him. "So my wife and her doctors were taken by
thugs from one of your local street gangs. Which one?" "They're called the
Pharaohs. They shave their heads and wear those ratty Palestinian
dishtowel things." Vecchio checked his notes. "According to a lawyer your
wife spoke to at the hospital, she said the guy who shot her matched the
same description." He ran a hand through slick hair. "The guy who shot him
did too." "I see. Well, the next move is obvious." "Not to me," grunted
Vecchio. "How 'bout you, Fraser?" The Mountie shrugged noncomittally. "So
what you got in mind?" "We hit the streets, find a Pharaoh, and make him
talk." "'Make him talk'? Are you nuts? How much do you think a cop can get
away with?" Lowe smiled coolly. "As much as he's ready to. But before we
begin, we'd all better prepare. Don't plan to show your badge, Detective.
And as for you, Constable, you should first go home and change into
civvies; in that uniform you look like a gallon of tomato juice." Vecchio
chuckled as Fraser looked down with a small frown at his scarlet dress
uniform, and Lowe went on. "We'll meet at my hotel so I can pick up my
weapons." "WEAPONS?! Just what the hell are you trying to do, Lowe?" The
young veteran fixed him with the stare of a hunting beast. "I am trying to
rescue my wife and two innocent doctors. From what you've told me, some
big shot in this town doesn't want them rescued. Your own police
department is standing square in the way. You can stay within your piddly
regulations if you want, but I'm willing to do whatever it takes." Even
though he shook his head, Fraser kept his voice calm and
nonconfrontational. "Your concern for your wife is understandable, Mr.
Lowe, but the law is paramount - " "The law of God is paramount," Lowe
interrupted, removing his black beret to reveal the black suede _kippah_
pinned to his golden hair. "And that law states that all other laws, God's
and man's, can be suspended to save innocent life. And that freeing
captives is the entire community's responsibility. And that a man has to
place his wife's welfare ahead of his own. Should I go on?" "I think
you've made your point," Fraser granted. "Good. Just one question: Are you
with me? Because if you, Constable, are willing to abandon those victims
for an abstract principle, and you, Detective, are willing to let your
department be used to serve well-connected criminals, I'm ready to go it
alone. Again: Are you with me?" The others exchanged a look. Vecchio threw
his hands up, and Fraser turned to answer. "Yes, Mr. Lowe, we're with
you." He extended a hand to the Canadian. "It's Yaacov." "Why do I keep
letting him get me into these things?" groaned Vecchio, head falling into
his hands. At a hospital bedside, Detective Stacy Halmora reached for the
hand of her wounded lover. "Thank God you're going to be all right, Alan."
"Thank God." Alan Birch echoed her, then looked pensively into space. "You
know, I always loved them, the doctors ... and now I owe them my life.
Arthur Thurmond saved me - me, 'the eel'!" His eyes returned to her face,
studied the fine features in their soft frame of red curls. "How do I
repay him, Stacy?" She smiled, squeezed his hand a little closer. "By
remembering that you caught that bullet because you were trying to protect
an innocent nurse from the Pharaohs." The smile faded as her face grew
earnest. "If you had cowered in the corner they'd never have touched you.
You told me your job is to defend this hospital, its people - you went way
beyond the call of duty on this one, Alan." He turned away. "Anyone else
would have done the same." The glorious hair glimmered as she shook her
head. "Not true. I'm a cop, remember; I see people facing violence every
day, and you know what? Most folks would let the sky fall before they'd
seriously risk breaking a toenail. But you put your life on the line for
that girl, because she's part of this hospital." The detective's smile
returned. "Maybe you weren't able to be a doctor, Alan, but you just might
have made a hell of a cop." He flashed a smile back at her, but it was
thin and self-deprecating. "You're too sweet, Stacy. Sure, I tried to
protect Chicago Hope ... and I failed." "Nurse Atkisson is all right," she
reminded him. "I didn't save her; the Pharaohs spared her. But they took
Ruth Lowe, Jeffrey and Aaron, God knows where; people who were here during
the attack are lining up to sue us; and look at me!" "I am looking at
you," she replied, "and I like what I see." Birch sighed lightly. "I'm so
happy you're here ... and I'm even happier that you're on this case." Her
eyebrows suddenly knit in puzzlement. "I'm not on the case, Alan. I came
to visit you on my own time." "You're not? Well, then, who is?" Now she
began to look worried. "I asked to be assigned to it, and was denied on
account of personal interest - our relationship. All very well -until I
heard that the primary on this case is Detective Vecchio!" "Is he good?"
"He's a moron! I know Ray Vecchio, and he couldn't track a bleeding
elephant in the snow. I don't know what the brass could be thinking - "
But the attorney's mind had plunged ahead. "First Ruth Lowe is shot by a
Pharaoh; we call the cops and they don't respond until it's too late. The
same gang openly attacks the city's premier hospital, three people are
abducted, and a single detective with a lousy reputation is put on the
case ... Stacy, this is not good." "It is suspicious." There was silence
for a moment. "What are you going to do, Alan?" His face, though pale
after his wounding and surgery, was resolute. "First you're going to help
me with a little research, and then ... please don't take this personally,
Stacy, it has nothing to do with you, but your department and the city may
be facing a lawsuit that'll put them in mind of the Great Fire!"
Unexpectedly, Halmora smiled. "Give 'em hell, Alan." "You can give this
guy all the benefit of the doubt you want," Vecchio declared, looking out
the window of his 1971 Buick, "but I think he is stark raving out of his
gourd. You watch; he's gonna come out of that hotel carrying a howitzer
and two tac-nukes!" "Yaacov already told us what he has, Ray," Fraser
explained patiently. "Just a double-barrelled shotgun with two-trigger
action and a lever-action .30-.30." "Yeah, and what's he doing with them
this far from home?" "He explained that too: He likes target shooting, and
always checks the local ranges when he travels." "Yeah, really. Nobody but
a Mountie would believe that one. Why do you trust this crazy guy,
Fraser?" "Well, for one thing," Fraser stroked the head of the pet that
shared the back seat with him, "Diefenbaker likes him." "Oh, yeah, and HIS
judgment is impeccable." The Canadian officer nodded. "Actually, Ray,
wolves are first-rate judges of character. You'd be surprised - " "You bet
I would. Face it, Benny, this guy is trouble. He's obviously planning to
kill anyone and anyTHING that gets in the way - I feel like I'm teaming up
with some undocumented serial killer!" Fraser's voice shifted into its
instructional tone. "I'm not surprised that you misunderstand him. It's a
simple matter of a wide cultural rift - " "This isn't gonna be about the
Inuit or the Mohawk again, is it? Because let me remind you, this guy
happens to be Jewish." "Not that kind of cultural rift," continued the
unflappable Mountie. "I'm talking about an even wider rift: the one
between the police and the military." "Huh?" "You and I are police
officers, Ray; to us, this is the investigation of a triple abduction.
Yaacov Lowe was a soldier, and to him, this is a search-and-rescue
mission. And a rather personal search-and-rescue mission at that." "Yeah,
really. Never get between a woman and her husband, especially if he's the
type who likes to carry rifles cross-country. There's Rambo now." Yaacov
Lowe came out of the hotel, wearing jeans, a plaid flannel shirt, running
shoes, and a brown leather jacket, crowned with the black beret. In his
arms he bore a plastic case, long and flat, sealed with two locks. "No
wonder you like him," Vecchio observed; "you two see the same tailor on
your way to the backwoods." Fraser looked down at his own jeans, flannel
shirt, and beat-up brown leather as the other let himself into the front
passenger seat, cradling the gun case on his lap. In the back, the white
wolf Diefenbaker greeted him with a single robust bark. "Sorry to keep you
waiting," Lowe began. "Yeah, no problem," Vecchio muttered. "But do me a
favor, Lowe, and stow that thing in the trunk for now, okay?" Down the
bare corridor toward the cell and the captives came the even tread of an
unaccompanied man. Eric Pentecost came before them, clad in a casual white
silk shirt, tailored jeans, and cowboy boots, an easy cool smile on his
lips. "Well, my friends: What do you think of my guest accommodations?"
"They stink," declared Jeffrey Geiger, glaring between the bars at his
captor. "Now would you mind telling us when your little joke is over and
we can leave?" "That's easy enough," Pentecost chuckled. "Never, I'm
afraid. You're mine now, especially the lovely Ruth - may I call you
Ruth?" She closed her eyes, could not answer. "Such poor manners. Perhaps
we shall speak later." "You want to speak to someone, you bastard?"
growled Geiger. "Leave her the hell alone, come here and speak to me!" He
beckoned between the bars to the enemy. "Now, now, Dr. Geiger, do you take
me for a fool?" Pentecost chuckled. "I'm not about to come within reach of
your million-dollar surgeon's fingers! The hands that mend can also rend;
I'm well aware of that." "You think I have the only hands that can hurt
you? You've screwed with the wrong profession, Pentecost, and you won't be
able to hide behind your foundation money forever!" Pentecost smirked,
plainly unimpressed. "Don't overreach yourself. It would be a fatal
mistake to assume that I'm as superstitious as the illiterate apes who do
my bidding; white coats and postgraduate degrees don't sway me at all, and
I personally had a lot more to do with spreading AIDS than any Jewish
doctor." Aaron Shutt's expression mingled curiosity and dread. "You MEAN
that?" The slender, elegant man before them seemed to swell with pride.
"Don't you remember years ago, when the plague first began to spread, the
city was going to close the gay bars and sex clubs as public health
hazards?" "Yes, I remember," the neurosurgeon answered slowly. Geiger also
nodded. "My foundation was there to keep the places open, my best lawyers
arguing for human rights - especially the right of the queers to infect
each other in hordes. We didn't use those words, of course." His laughter
was low, and awful to hear. "The queers got their rights, their
playgrounds stayed open, and they died in double handfuls. Every one of
them put yet another strain on your bloodsucking, exploitative health-care
system and brought it a notch closer to collapse, and every one also gives
the militant faggots another martyr to use in their war against the
bourgeois family - a war close to being won. A huge return on so small an
investment." "My God," Shutt gasped. Beside him, Ruth could not suppress a
whimper; he placed a comforting arm around her and felt her shivering with
cold and horror. For a moment Geiger was speechless with astonishment,
then he put words to it: "You're evil." "Oh, how thoroughly
old-fashioned!" Pentecost jeered. "Bringing up obsolete moral categories
is not helpful, Doctor. You men of science are supposed to label me
insane, aren't you?" "I'm familiar with insanity," Geiger replied,
intensity straining his voice. "Insanity is confusion, grief, turmoil,
need; insanity is helplessly watching the world crumble around you. You'll
never know anything so innocent as insanity!" Under the perfectly arranged
silver hair, the metal- colored eyes were amused and sinister. "Then don't
you think you're making a dangerous miscalculation by speaking to me in
such a tone while you, your colleague and your precious patient are in my
power, Dr. Geiger?" "No. Because you'd be merciless whether I kissed your
ass or not. Can you look me in the eye and say otherwise?" Pentecost
smiled, and in the smile was genuine respect. "No, I cannot. You are a man
of rare perception." Forgotten for a moment, the other captives listened
and watched. Spellbound, Ruth murmured softly, almost inaudibly; Shutt
turned to hear her: "For he keeps the Lord's watch in the night against
the adversary ... For he is of the tribe of Tiger." "What?" he whispered,
mystified, to her. "Old poem - a different Jeoffrey," she explained; then
fear cracked her voice - "Hashem protect him!" Ashamed of his silence,
Shutt leaned close to her to breathe "Excuse me" into her ear before
rising, leaving her side and coming to the bars beside his friend. "Don't
play with us anymore," he said calmly. "Upstairs you sentenced us all to
death. When are you going to get it over with?" "You were in no danger
during our initial meeting, Dr. Shutt. That was entirely for the benefit
of my audience. The illustrious Alderman Muldrake is as useful a buffoon
as ever I've used, but I do have to keep him happy so he'll transmit my
orders to those subhuman Pharaohs. They themselves have to be kept
impressed too. My plans are a bit more elaborate than my tools suspect,
and you are integral to those plans." "That puts us back at square one.
What do you want with us, Pentecost?" Somehow Shutt still kept his voice
and eyes level. "First, I want to thank you and your remarkable associate
for saving this dear lady's life." "It was you who tried to kill her!"
Geiger reminded him ferociously. "True. And I realize that was a mistake.
She has far more entertainment potential alive - here in my hands." Now
Pentecost looked beyond the doctors, at the woman lying at the back of the
cell. "Rise, Ruth. Rise and come to me." "Forget it!" snapped Geiger.
"She's recovering from two gunshot wounds, heart and brain surgery, and a
lot of manhandling by your pet goons! Ruth, stay where you are." "Don't
interfere, Geiger," Pentecost rumbled dangerously, color rising in his
neck, "or it could go very ill with you." Ruth's voice was placating.
"Please, Jeffrey, I'll be all right! All I need is a hand up." Shutt came
to her side to provide it, walking her gently to the bars, where she stood
wearily, wrapped in her hospital gown and Geiger's lab coat. She put a
hand to one bar to support herself, and raised her eyes to those of her
captor. Something helped her to hold that poisonous stare and to speak.
"If it's me you want, then please let my doctors go." "How very noble of
you. But I must refuse; I need them as much as I want you. And I do want
you very much." Now her gaze fell. "I am not beautiful." "No, you are not,
and there's little to be done about that. Nor are you compliant, servile,
weak, or stupid ... but that can be changed a bit more easily." He
snickered. "Wouldn't you like to know how?" She fought the fear, kept most
of it from her face. "Why are you doing this, Mr. Pentecost? What have I
done to you?" "I read that manuscript of yours, Ruth. I know your ambition
and your talent - and your intention to use that talent against the goals
I've worked toward all my life. I can't permit that; there have been just
too many defeats recently, and I won't let the other side acquire another
fighter in you!" "I'm no crusader, and I know nothing about your work. I'm
only trying to amuse - " "You'll amuse ME, that's certain. It's time that
ambition like yours was punished on principle; who are you to aspire to
more than the humblest and most oppressed of us?" He glared at the
physicians to either side of her. "Who are any of you to put on airs, to
pull your way up the ladder? You hot-shot surgeons, what are you but lucky
- lucky to be born Jewish and slide your way into the Jew- dominated
medical cabal! Lucky enough to prey on the ill and helpless!" Geiger
couldn't take anymore. "Shut up, you ignorant fascist son of a bitch!
Lucky? It took Aaron and me ten years of study and six figures of debt
even to enter our specialties, and now we save the lives of those people
you say we prey on!" "Spare me, Dr. Geiger," Pentecost sneered. "I can't
even count the times I've heard that kind of self-serving bilge from
children of the ruling class." "Oh, yeah, we're children of the ruling
class," Shutt mocked. "While you, on the other hand, were born into the
oppression of a billion-dollar fortune. Must have been hard work, being
sole heir of the family money." Pentecost's eyes blazed like meteors on
collision course. "At least a rare few of us care about the poor and
oppressed, Dr. Shutt. Emotionally and spiritually, I'm one of the poor,
and I use my wealth to help dismantle this failed system and replace it
with true equality." "Of course," Ruth declared, a current of strength
flowing through her voice. "Equality of wretchedness, dependence, and
constraint." "SEE? See, you obnoxious libertarian bitch? That's just what
I'm talking about!" He was almost foaming at the lips. "You like
hierarchies, my ambitious Jew friends? You like ruling classes? Well, I've
helped to create one in the Pharaohs! All that was needed was the critical
mass of fatherless boys. They had to be taught to hate the world around
them; to feel entitled to anything they could grab; to despise reason,
love, and self-control ... and then they had to be set loose on the
streets, opposed only by a police force too hamstrung to stop them! Now
the Pharaohs, and the other gangs like them, are the true rulers of the
cities, roving and feeding at will on those who would presume to be their
betters! We progressives have taken the most wretched of society's victims
and made them society's masters." And to everyone's amazement, Ruth almost
smiled. "Everything that rises must converge," she observed. Pentecost let
his mouth gape in equivalent amazement, and in pleasure. "Well! You read
Teilhard, too?" "Hell no. Flannery O'Connor." The mouth clicked shut, the
gaze darkened. "I WAS right about you," Pentecost said softly. "But you
won't be any kind of threat for much longer." Leaving those words hanging
before them, he was gone. Geiger looked at the writer. "Could you tell me
what the hell that wacko is talking about? You too, for that matter?" But
with the enemy gone, she seemed to deflate, strength running out of her,
her form gone limp against the bars; both doctors moved to support her,
then lower her back to the cold floor. Even so, she tried to reply. "It's
complex - a silly mystical theory and a great, great short story ... I'm
sorry, Jeffrey," she gasped, "but literary arguments are messy, and under
these circumstances, pointless. I wish I could say I'll explain later ...
but it doesn't look as if there'll be a later." "Don't worry about it,"
Geiger answered gently. "There'll be lots of later after we're out of
here, and you can explain it then. Meanwhile," and he leaned in closer,
"don't let that son of a bitch or anyone else tell you you're not
beautiful." TO BE CONTINUED NOTES kippah - Hebrew equivalent of the
Yiddish "yarmulke"; itty bitty cap worn by observant Jewish males. "For he
keeps the Lord's watch ... " - from "Jubilate Agno," by Christopher Smart.
NO MEDICINE BUT HOPE: V The night was falling fast over the great city
H.G. Wells had called "a dark smear under the sky." Ray Vecchio's green
Riviera roved slowly through the streets of the South Side; keen eyes of
men and beast sought the signs of shaven head and Arab scarf. "This area
doesn't look any different from Bed-Stuy or the South Bronx back home,"
Yaacov Lowe rumbled scornfully. Then his tone changed, shivered a little;
"God, the thought of Ruth in a place like this ... " "Hasn't she ever been
in your South Bronx?" asked Vecchio tartly. "Only riding through it in a
closed train. Do you think I'd let her walk such streets?" "Man, you mean
you can tell your wife what to do?" "Not exactly, but she takes good
advice. I take hers when it's good. Like when she called me after the
shooting, told me everything was okay and that I should just wait for her
to come home." "You didn't take that advice," Benton Fraser observed.
"Right. It wasn't good." Lowe went quiet a moment, tracking the motion of
a passing youth; he didn't wear the marks of the Pharaohs, so they let him
pass. "Wives will always tell you not to worry," the civilian declared,
"but they don't understand some important things about the world. What
makes women good wives and mothers - love and trust and tenderness - also
leaves them naked to the scum and evil out there. That's where we come in;
they give us their love and support, and we return our strength and
protection ... There's one of those bastards now!" All eyes locked on the
slim, dark figure gliding under the streetlights, his head gleaming, the
tassels of a large scarf fluttering at his shoulders and throat. Vecchio
quickly forced the car up against the curb; three men and a white wolf of
the north were on the youth's heels. The Pharaoh didn't hear their rapid
footsteps until they were almost upon him - but when he did, he sprang
into sudden speed, darting for the shadows of a rubble-strewn alley
seconds ahead of his pursuers. Diefenbaker vanished into the darkness
behind the fleeing thug; as the three men plunged into the alley behind
him, they heard a lupine growl, then a thin, vaguely human whimper from
their quarry. It took their eyes a matter of moments to adjust to the
gloom, and they saw the Pharaoh, his back pressed helplessly against the
wall, eyes transfixed by the glare and bared fangs of the beast. "Call off
the dog! Call off the fucking dog, man!" the gang member wailed as he saw
them coming. "He's not a dog, son," said Fraser calmly as he drew up
beside the animal. "HE AIN'T A FUCKING SQUIRREL!" "You got that right,"
was Vecchio's comment. "Just stay still and he won't bite you. We'd like
to ask you a couple of questions about - " "I don't know nothing, man!"
"Well, that's a big help." The detective moved in a little closer. "Look,
pal, we know the Pharaohs just pulled off a big job over at Chicago Hope
Hospital. All we want to know is who you pulled it off for." "I told you,
I don't know nothing!" "Oy." The mutter came from Lowe. "Let me handle
this." He neatly sidestepped Vecchio to push in between the wolf and the
Pharaoh. Nose to nose with the thug, he dropped his voice down into a
volcanic register and rumbled, "Listen, asshole. We know that your fellow
assholes in the Pharaohs - and possibly you - raided a fancy hospital and
abducted three people. I happen to be married to one of those people... "
The youth's eyes went wide as windows. "OH SHIT!" "You bet your ass, oh
shit. We want to know who ordered them taken and where they are. Now start
talking or the wolf, because that's what he is, is gonna chew your face
off." But the other found his emergency reserve of defiance. "You can't do
nothing to me, man! The Old Man takes care of us!" "Oh, I get it." Lowe
gave a curt nod. "Okay, the hell with the wolf." He locked both fists
around the youth's scarf, jacket, and shirtfront, hoisted him off his
feet, and slammed him against the bricks at his back. "Uncle Sam taught me
how to kill fast or slow, as I please. You want another one?" Fraser
reached out in restraint. "Take it easy." No one paid him any attention at
all. "I said, YOU WANT ANOTHER ONE?!" Lowe pulled the Pharaoh away from
the wall for a second blow. Blood was already pouring down the thug's back
from his torn scalp. "No, man! Chill out, man!" He waved placating hands.
"Great." The veteran lowered him to the pavement. "Now we can get
somewhere." Vecchio came to Lowe's side, ready to handle the
interrogation. "Okay. Who's this Old Man of yours? Did he order the
kidnappings?" "I think so. He tell us whenever we gotta do a special job.
I wasn't on this one, so I dunno for sure, but the Old Man tell us what to
do." "And who is the Old Man?" "He the Old Man! YOU know!" "We don't know.
Lots of old men in Chicago; be specific." "The Old Man, man! Like at City
Hall! You stupid assholes don't know nothing!" "Old Man ... Old Man ... "
The wheels turned fast in Constable Fraser's head. "Do you mean ALDERMAN?"
"Yeah! You right! At City Hall." "So, an Alderman." Vecchio nodded. "In
this city, I should have guessed. Which one is he?" "Which one you think,
ugly?" the youth jeered. Lowe rolled his eyes. "All right, enough of this
shit." His hand went under his jacket just at the beltline, and suddenly
metal gleamed in the night: six inches of razor- keen curved Japanese
steel. "When I was in the 'Nam and my unit captured any gooks, it was my
unofficial job to collect their ears. Which Alderman, punk?" "Jesus
Christ!" Big beads of sweat ran down the Pharaoh's face. "Don't cut me,
man! It's the fat guy, South Side, whatsisname ... " His eyes swung around
in panic, following the knife-point. The police detective quickly ran
through the relevant memories. "South Side, eh? Is it Muldrake, Bud
Muldrake?" "He the man!" "Do you know where the victims were taken?" asked
Fraser. "No, man - I told you I wasn't in on the job." "Great. Let's go."
Yaacov Lowe sheathed his knife and released his grip on the young thug.
"Wait a minute, man!" He was shivering violently inside his Arab scarf. "I
helped you, you owe me." "What do we owe you, punk?" demanded Vecchio.
"Just don't tell the Old Man I told you about him!" "No problem," answered
Fraser cheerfully. "After all, you never told us your name. Thank you
kindly for your help, son. Come, Diefenbaker." When they were all back in
the car and cruising toward the precinct house, Vecchio turned an awed
face to Lowe. "Did you really do stuff like that in Vietnam? I mean,
ears?" "Those cliche atrocity stories really impress your average wad of
street scum," Lowe replied with a loose shrug. "You saw." "But did you
really do it?" The other grinned. "I'm thirty-five years old. The last
chopper lifted out of Saigon in '75. You do the math." Now that Eric
Pentecost was safely out of sight and earshot, Geiger slumped down in a
corner of the cell and spoke even more freely. "I never thought I'd be up
against this. Aaron, you notice anything physically strange about our
host?" But before Shutt could reply, the third prisoner did. "I think he
had an erection. Is that it?" Geiger looked at her in both surprise and
admiration. "I guess a writer has to be observant! Yeah, that's it. And
what does that suggest to you, Aaron?" Shutt didn't echo his friend's
casual tone. "Active algolagnia," he said softly. "My God." Ruth looked
from one doctor to the other and asked nervously, "If I were to guess
that's medicalese for what lay people call sadism, would I be right?" "You
would," answered Geiger. And silence followed. After a few minutes, it was
broken. "May I pry?" Dr. Shutt asked his brooding patient gently. "Into
what?" Ruth asked back. "What you're thinking about." She looked sad and
distant. "My son and daughter. I wish I could see them once more ... and I
hope they can forgive me for going away and not returning." Shutt closed
his eyes for a moment before saying, "You really don't see any chance,
then. No rescue, no escape?" She shrugged. "Not really, but I'm trying to.
If my husband, God bless him, gets wind of this, Eric Pentecost is a dead
man." "Let's hope he does." Geiger spoke for all of them. Ruth looked at
him ruefully. "'The miserable have no other medicine but only hope: I have
hope to live, and am prepared to die.'" "Nicely put," Shutt commented.
"Shakespeare puts everything nicely." She sighed deeply. "But now's a time
for prayer, not poetry, gentlemen." Suddenly her eyes brightened a bit as
she looked at them. "You're Jewish, too; would either of you know some
_Tehillim_, or _Viduy_, or even just _Alenu_? We could pray together ... "
But her voice died away when she saw their faces. "Nothing?" "Nothing,"
said the neurosurgeon apologetically. "Not even _Shema_?" "No use for it,"
Geiger declared, perhaps too coldly. There was another quiet moment as
Ruth studied his face. Finally she addressed him. "That's no casual
statement. You've struggled terribly with this, haven't you?" He remained
silent, meeting her eyes and assenting thereby. "You're no atheist,
Jeffrey. You know God is there ... and you cannot love Him." And Geiger
had to lower his gaze. "You're good." She let those words pass. "I know
you won't believe me, but this is true, and someday you will know it: He
suffers with you, and the time will come when the suffering will end." Now
she turned to the other physician. "You've never approached this matter
too closely, have you, Aaron? You can't, not now; the poor souls who need
a neurosurgeon's help are just too great a challenge to the hope of a
loving God ... but neither can you bear the thought that the misery you
see is meaningless. So you don't let the question come up." "If you could
see what I've seen ... " Shutt began, but did not finish. She smiled at
him. "Your turn to trust me. If you live through this ordeal, eventually
you'll need your answer; turn to the Torah and find it in there, as I did.
Maybe tomorrow, maybe someday. In the meantime, I'll approach Him in
behalf of all of us." Her voice dropped low and into another tongue, and
the others sat quietly and heard. Outside the windows of Phillip Watters'
office, troops of massed gray clouds darkened the day. The chief of staff
stood behind his desk as he spoke. "Please understand, Camille, that this
in no way reflects upon your work." "Then why are you relieving me of
duty, Phillip?" Camille Shutt's blue eyes directly engaged Watters' face
and did not flicker. "As a favor." His voice dropped a little. "Since the
incident - " "Do me another favor, Doctor: Call it by its proper name!"
Watters bowed his head. "Very well. Since the kidnapping, you've been
driving yourself like a serf, and doing a good job of hiding your personal
reactions - entirely too good a job. You need time and space to deal with
this, to - " "To mourn?" Her voice wavered only slightly. "I didn't mean
that!" Watters' famous calm was showing a narrow crack. "As far as we
know, they're alive and well." "We know nothing, Phillip." Silently
Watters conceded the point, and tried another tack. "All of us are
worried, Camille, but the strain is hardest on you; it stands to reason. I
want you to rest, to go home - " "Go home?" Her words almost stuck fast to
the sob in her throat. "To a house where every room, every OBJECT speaks
to me of Aaron, and to know he may never return? Do I spend the days
wondering what those - those animals have done with him? Waiting for the
call from the police wanting me to come and identify - " Now the tears
burst, washing speech away. Watters came to her, took her trembling form
into his arms, tried to find words to still her pain and knew there were
none. He felt tears burning in his own eyes, wished he did not have to
hold them back. Soon Camille had regained some control, straightened up
and took a step away. "Thank you, Phillip," she said, still a little
tearfully, "I'm terribly sorry." He shook his head and patted her shoulder
to dismiss the apology, and let her speak on. "Please let me stay on duty;
it's the only way to keep my mind off the fear, the only thing keeping me
sane!" She forced a smile. "Listen to me! God, I'm finally beginning to
understand where Jeffrey Geiger's coming from." "I understand," the chief
of staff replied softly. "You're welcome to keep working for as long as
you need." This smile was wan, but sincere. "I appreciate that." She
looked away, first down at the floor, then out towards the sky. "You know,
there are so many questions about this horrible event, so many dreadful
questions, but the one I can't get out of my mind is ... " She paused, met
Watters' eyes again. "Why did they spare the rest of us? I was in that OR,
and Danny Nyland too, Carney, Sara Petty and I can't even remember which
techs, all of us working on that poor woman, and they only took Aaron and
Jeffrey. Why?" "I wish I knew, Camille." "Yes." She stared out the window
at the dark prison- wall of the clouds. "Why couldn't they have taken me
instead of Aaron ... or even in Jeffrey's place, so that at least we'd be
together at the end?" TO BE CONTINUED NOTES Tehillim - Psalms. Viduy - The
confessional prayer said on fast days and when death is imminent. Alenu -
Concluding prayer of daily services, also associated with martyrdom. Shema
- Statement of faith, usually the first prayer learned in childhood and
the observant adult's last words. NO MEDICINE BUT HOPE: VI In the prison
cell below Pentecost's mansion, Ruth suddenly sat up to full attention.
"'By the pricking of my thumbs, something wicked this way comes'!" "You
can say that again," said Geiger wearily, recognizing their captor's tread
and rising to the bars to meet him. "Maybe the mind games will finally
end," muttered Shutt. Seeing the approaching figure, Geiger shook his
head. "Not a chance, Aaron." Soon Eric Pentecost stood before them, and
Geiger's companions could see exactly what he'd meant. In his right hand
the enemy carried the tightly bound, black leather coil of a whip.
Pentecost swept his prisoners with a scornful, confident gaze, then
released the coil, letting the black lash snake to the floor. He gave the
whip an experimental shake, then suddenly yanked it back and high and
cracked it quickly, once, twice, three times. As the last echoes of the
fearful sound faded, the corridor and cell went deeply quiet. Again
Pentecost ran his eyes across them, meeting each of theirs in turn:
Jeffrey Geiger, his aspect proud and contemptuous; Aaron Shutt's gaze
cool, deceptively neutral; Ruth Lowe quietly defiant. Finally he broke the
silence. "Has no one any comment?" "You want a comment, Pentecost?" said
Geiger scornfully. "Here's one: If you want to intimidate us, try
something a little less corny." Pentecost chuckled. "I assure you it
doesn't seem so laughable when it strikes across your stripped back, Dr.
Geiger. Perhaps you'll soon find that out for yourself. But it wasn't
really your comment I wanted to hear." He was looking at the woman. "It's
your reaction I'm most interested in, Ruth my dear." When she didn't
reply, he pressed on. "Come, tell me, what do you think of my little toy?"
She considered him, his hungry, eager face, the bulge of arousal below his
belt. "Please don't hit me with it. Is that what you wanted to hear?"
"Yes, in fact ... but don't be frightened of that prospect, my lady. I
have no intention of doing you harm." Again he chuckled. "At least not
with my own hands." "Oh. Are the Pharaohs going to do more of your dirty
work for you?" He shook his head, ran the lash through his graceful
fingers. "How unimaginative, especially for so clever a writer. No, Ruth,
you have nothing to fear from them. Your punishment will be far more
ghastly coming from friends than from enemies." Ruth said nothing. She
clasped her hands to stop their shivering, brought them to her lips,
closed her watering eyes. Beside her Shutt gasped in astonishment and
horror; at the bars Geiger growled softly, "Neither you nor any power on
earth can make us hurt her, you bastard - " The whip cracked again. "I see
that impressed all of you! Especially you, dear Ruth. An interesting
thought: These men who saved your life from my agent just a few days ago
will now become my agents! How deeply ironic." But Ruth was rallying her
strength. Her lips moved silently in an ancient stanza as she lowered her
hands; then her eyes opened and her voice came up again. "I trust them.
They won't do your bidding, Mr. Pentecost." Pentecost smiled thinly, his
lips a pale slash. The whip in his hand squirmed like a living thing
hungry for flesh. "Yes, they will," he said to Ruth, his voice down to an
insinuating whisper. "And what if I did take these professional
lifesavers, these men of mercy, and forced them to kill you?" She did not
look away. "Seeing as death would put me beyond your reach, I would have
to say, 'Crito, I owe a cock to Asklepios; pay it and don't forget it.'"
Before puzzlement took over his face entirely, he warped it into anger.
"And just what did you say?" "The last words of Socrates, expressing his
gratitude to the god of medicine, you _am ha'aretz_." That left him
angrier. "Which means?" She pursed her lips truculently and didn't answer.
Pentecost drew back his arm, cracked the whip. "Talk, or I use this!" Her
gaze wavered, but again, there was no reply. His frown darkened - then the
thin smile returned as he pointed with the handle of the whip at Aaron
Shutt. "On him." She paled and gasped. "Please, no!" "Then tell me what
you said." She paused, sighed, spoke. "Talmudic idiom. Means 'unlettered
peasant.' Are you happy now?" Geiger stifled laughter; Pentecost's eyes
flashed. "You needn't worry I'll make you pay for that, you impertinent
little bitch; I've already decided your fate. And your doctor friends will
make it possible." "Then you will make them kill me." Geiger broke in.
"No, he won't." "Hold your peace, Dr. Geiger; this doesn't involve you
yet." Pentecost turned his attention to the second physician. "It's more a
matter for you, my dear Dr. Shutt. In the course of your no doubt
extensive training, have you ever been taught, or had occasion to
perform," he paused to slowly lick his lips, "a prefrontal lobotomy?" The
neurosurgeon's mouth dropped open. "WHAT?" "You heard me, Doctor. A
prefrontal lobotomy." "Nobody's done one of those in thirty years! It's
the most cruel, useless butchery that - " "A pity. So you'll have to learn
by doing." "Oh my God ... " Shutt's face had gone gray. "No, you can't - I
can't! Not Ruth!" He looked to her; the fear in her eyes mirrored the
despair in his. "I can, and you will!" Pentecost now looked to Geiger.
"And you'll assist him. Spare me your whining protests." The heart
surgeon's face looked as hard and deadly as a mace. "No protests, just a
question: Why do you want it done?" There was an awful light in the
steel-gray eyes. "An excellent question, Doctor. Why, indeed, would a man
like Eric Pentecost order a human intellect sliced to ribbons? This
intellect in particular?" He looked to Ruth icily, triumphantly; she
looked away, trembling, and permitted Aaron Shutt to take her hands in his
while she heard her doom. "There's a common feature of all the arrogant
types who refuse to accept universal equality," Pentecost sneered, "they
all have big plans for themselves. Not hard to guess what your plans were,
Mrs. Lowe; let me try! A successful writing career, perhaps even fame,
wealth, all the blessings rampant capitalism can bestow ... most of all,
your pride reflected back to you in the eyes of your children, right? But
the plans have changed. You won't be seeing home again, or joining the
ranks of the ruling class; you'll learn firsthand what slavery means!
You'll remain here, plodding, slow and obedient; ready to bow or kneel or
spread your legs on command; forcing a sluggish tongue around the words
'Yes, master'; wetting and soiling yourself in terror of the whip - "
"ENOUGH!" Shutt's anguished cry silenced the recitation. "The great Eric
Pentecost is supposed to be so compassionate!" Tears spilled from his dark
eyes. "Well, if it's true, then have pity and DON'T MAKE ME DO THIS!" And
Pentecost threw back his head, roaring with laughter, swirling his whip
like a Chinese dancer's ribbon. "Look at yourself! The proud surgeon
kneels and trembles, weeping like a woman and pleading like a slave, his
expensive hands around those of a condemned wretch! This is just too
delicious. Consider it long-overdue fairness, Dr. Shutt, fit restitution
for all the money you've extracted from the sick and desperate." With a
wordless growl, Jeffrey Geiger flung himself against the bars, making a
grab for the whip, but Pentecost saw him coming and easily flicked the
lash away. "Do you think I'll permit you any chance to arm yourself, Dr.
Geiger, no matter how feebly? Now settle down before you spoil my fun."
"LEAVE HIM ALONE, YOU CRUEL SON OF A BITCH!" With a chuckle, Pentecost
replied, "Oh, you're a fine one to call me cruel, Geiger, you who cut deep
into the flesh of the living to extract their hearts and replace them with
the hearts of the dead - and then extort money for your mutilations!" "You
are nuts, stupid or both - transplants save lives!" "Lives!" Their captor
hissed the word. "The doctors' obsession! The world crawls with people
like vermin, devouring and consuming and excreting, fouling our virgin
Mother Earth! People and their endless desires enrich the corporations,
empower the religions, spill over in family after family - the endless
parade of exploitation, from disgusting puking infants to drooling senile
old folks. And you doctors would save them all!" "Right now I'd definitely
make an exception for you, Pentecost." He spat the name like a curse.
Another chuckle. "No doubt you would ... but you and your friends are in
my hands, Dr. Geiger. And now I place your fate in THEIR hands." Shutt
looked up and asked, "What are you saying?" Icy victory returned to
Pentecost's eyes. "I am saying, Dr. Shutt, that I leave this decision to
you and to Ruth; you may obey me or not, as you please. But if you do not
agree to the surgery I have ordered, then you shall watch as your friend
and colleague Jeffrey Geiger dies - very, very slowly, in the most
exquisite torment." "Dear God ... " Ruth bowed her pale face against her
hands. Beside her, Shutt silently lowered his own head. If Geiger was
afraid, he showed none of it. "Don't do it, Aaron," he said serenely to
his friend. "You wouldn't say that if you knew," Pentecost sneered to the
heart surgeon. "You're not the only one around here skillful with needles
and blades ... and I dare say I'm more inventive than you with acids." He
addressed Shutt for a final time. "Ultimately the decision is yours, Dr.
Shutt. Her mind ... or his life." "And either way," said the neurosurgeon,
grief clawing his voice, "my soul." The enemy merely laughed in reply,
coiled up his whip, and strode easily away. Only Geiger watched him go.
Once Pentecost was out of sight, the cardiac specialist turned to his
fellow prisoners. "You're not going to do that procedure, Aaron," he
stated flatly. Shutt's head slumped forward; unable to look at either of
his companions, he let his eyes close. "Now I know there is a hell," he
whispered. But Ruth spoke up. "Take me. You don't know me at all; I'm just
another body on the table. But you two are closer than flesh and skin."
Geiger came away from the bars to settle himself beside her, kindness in
his face. His hand rested gently on her shoulder. "We know you well enough
to know that you don't deserve the misery Pentecost plans for you." "What
about the misery he plans for YOU, Jeffrey?" He shrugged. "It won't last
long." "No, no, please God, no!" She looked helplessly to Shutt. "Aaron,
you can't let him perish!" For about a minute there was a deep quiet; then
Shutt slowly raised his head, looking at her. "But I can't mutilate you
either, Ruth." At her other side, Geiger echoed his friend's soft tone.
"We didn't become doctors to cut decent people like you into playthings
for a killer." The woman shook her head furiously. "Do you think your
death can save me from Pentecost? Only MY death can do that - and it might
even help both of you." "What are you talking about?" Shutt asked quietly.
"Please, do as he says. Perform the operation. But I beg of you, if you
think you can get away with it without worsening your own situation and
Jeffrey's ... please ... " Shutt leaned in close. "What?" "Please, Aaron -
make a mistake." His eyes went wide. "I beg your pardon?" "You must
understand. I said, make a mistake." Both men stared at her. "Ruth, do you
realize what you're asking?" Shutt gasped. "For a clean and painless
death. Can I hope for anything better at this point?" "You're asking me to
murder you!" "Have you never euthanized a patient before?" "Well ... yes,
I have, but this wouldn't be euthanasia! There's no irreversible coma, no
persistent vegetative - " "Yes, I know, _primum non nocere_. I have all my
faculties - so far. But Aaron, Jeffrey," she turned pleading eyes to
Geiger, "what do I face? A twisted parody of life, spiritually and
mentally crippled, barely human ... as Eric Pentecost's slave? You heard
what kind of hell that madman plans for me!" A sob choked her for a
moment; then she took tenuous control again and looked Shutt squarely in
the eyes. "I really was serious in what I said before, that I'd be
grateful for death. I know I'm doing a terrible _aveira_, a sin, both by
asking you to do this and by wanting it done. But Hashem has left us with
nothing else ... and it can't be worse to strike one merciful blow than to
tear my mind to shreds ... or to watch your friend suffer and die." Unable
to go on, she sat trembling, and no one spoke until she rallied her
strength and resumed. "I know it's a lot to ask for, but I'd rather die by
your hand than his. If it helps, think of yourselves as the instruments of
my suicide." "Isn't suicide a sin?" Geiger demanded. "Not when it's to
avoid a worse desecration. _L'havdil_ - meaning, pardon the comparison -
Sarah Shenirer and her students leaped to their deaths from the roof of
their school rather than be captured by the Nazis." "I understand," said
Shutt gently. He stroked her bandaged head. "You look so tired, Ruth;
please rest and don't worry. We'll consider your request." TO BE CONTINUED
NOTES "By the pricking of my thumbs ... " - from "Macbeth," by
Shakespeare. (Duh. I told you I'm not usually this pedantic.) primum non
nocere - "First, do no harm." From the Hippocratic Oath. NO MEDICINE BUT
HOPE: VII "You wanted to see me, Alan?" "Thanks for coming." Birch greeted
the chief of staff from a rich harvest of papers and files that
half-covered his bed and himself. "Sit down, Phillip; this could take a
while. Thanks to Detective Halmora," he indicated the attractive
policewoman seated at his other side, "I've been doing a fair amount of
digging here, and I've hit a very interesting deposit." Watters
acknowledged Halmora, then settled himself on the remaining chair. "What
have you found?" "I had the Detective pull the last six months of
interrogation reports involving members of the Pharaohs in her precinct.
Not one of them cooperated, all demanded to have counsel present, and -
here's the first interesting detail - not one used the public defender's
office." "Really. And where did these delightful young men's attorneys
come from?" "Interesting detail number two." Birch opened a file folder
and pointed out a line to Watters' gaze. "It was always one of the same
four or five lawyers - all on retainer to the Excelsior Foundation." "The
Excelsior Foundation?" Clouds gathered in Watters' eyes. "That outfit with
the reverse Midas touch?" Stacy Halmora looked puzzled. "What do you mean,
Doctor?" "It's supposed to be a philanthropic foundation, but wherever it
goes and whatever it does, things get worse for the poor and harder for
just about everyone. We've had more than our share of trouble with it."
Birch raised a couple of folders. "I even remember the guy named in these.
He's the one who argued Excelsior's class-action suit alleging Chicago
Hope's emergency room triage protocols were racist. I don't know about
you, Phillip, but I'd love to lock him in a room with Dr. Nyland and see
what happens." "A splendid time guaranteed," Watters rumbled. "Anyway,"
the attorney went on, "Detective Halmora alsofound the relevant records
from when these assorted Pharaohs ended up in front of judges. For
starters, almost none of them did." "Plea bargaining?" inquired the chief
of staff. "Negative. District attorney and victims refusing to pursue
charges. Phillip, some of these young thugs were up for murder." He sorted
through another batch of papers. "And those few that did make it to court
- " "Let me guess: Cases dismissed." "You're way ahead of me. And this all
seems to dovetail very neatly with the way the police treated Mrs. Lowe's
shooting, and the way they're treating the abductions." With an air of
finality, Birch pulled all the papers together and tapped them into a neat
pile. "Theories, anyone?" Watters stroked his beard; above it his green
eyes gleamed like foxfire. "A certain local street gang seems to have the
patronage of a certain powerful institution." "But why?" wondered Halmora.
"That, Detective, should be your department's job." Watters reached for
the telephone. "What was the name of the primary investigator on this
case?" "Detective Vecchio," she answered, "but I overheard him say
yesterday that he found you a bit intimidating, Dr. Watters. Maybe Alan
should make the call?" Watters conceded with a brisk bow of his head as he
handed the phone to Birch. "Be my guest, Counsel." "Is she asleep?" Shutt
asked, looking over towards the still and silent Ruth. "I think so,"
answered his friend. There was a wordless moment before Geiger went on,
"You can't do that procedure on her, Aaron." "No." More silence, then, "It
looks like I'll have to do as she asked." "Kill her." "Yes." Both of them
regarded the sleeping woman. "She's right; refusing to operate won't save
her from that psychopath and his tortures. Death is the only escape." The
neurosurgeon sighed heavily. "I only wish it didn't have to be me." "Us,"
Geiger corrected, sharing the weight. "Well, now we know why we were
brought here." Shutt nodded. "And once she's finished either way, dead or
maimed, Pentecost has no further use for us." Geiger even smiled - but
sadly, ironically. His gaze roved aimlessly to the low ceiling of their
prison. "Ruth is lucky she has God in her life. You know, she will be a
martyr of sorts - not for religion but for freedom." "It seems
appropriate," Shutt concurred. He watched her sleep. "I won't be able to
make it look like a mistake - not if I want to be quick and sure."
"What'll you do?" "We'll be given instruments. They'll have to include
scalpels, maybe a razor for her hair ... I'm going to cut her throat and
be done with it." Now he looked to Geiger. "You realize that I'll be
signing our death warrants too." "Of course. And I'm going to make a
serious attempt to take Pentecost with me." Light flashed in Shutt's eyes.
"How?" "Those instruments. All I need's a good sharp knife. He'll be
watching ... and once the deed is done, I'm going straight for that
reptile's heart." "There'll be guards, Jeffrey, and they'll have guns."
"Good! Let them shoot! Going out in a fusillade beats being strapped to a
table, waiting for the needles and the acid." His face softened. "Promise
me you'll fight too, Aaron. Make them shoot you. Don't let him take you
alive for his revenge." A quiet smile touched his friend's features.
"Don't worry, Jeffrey. I'm with you, and I'll fight." Again he looked at
the sleeping woman. "In Ruth's honor." Detective Vecchio's cellular
telephone squealed in his pocket. "Just a second, guys." He pulled the
Buick over and set the phone free. "Vecchio. Yeah, what can I do for you,
Mr. Birch? Really - well, what do you know?" The civilian and the
foreigner sat silently as Vecchio pawed his notebook from his pocket and
scribbled hastily. "I got it. Excelsior. Thanks a lot for the lead. Yeah,
as a matter of fact, we do have one of our own we're working on now. Not
to worry, Mr. Birch, tell the boss we'll find them. Thanks; good luck to
you too." Now he snapped the phone closed and addressed his companions.
"Would you believe Chicago Hope's lawyer? Let's get back to the squad room
- we got a next move to plan." Soon they were clustered around Vecchio's
desk, ignoring the derisive looks of the rest of the squad, concentrating
on what they had in hand. "So what'd you learn?" Yaacov Lowe demanded.
"Something pretty interesting. According to that little hospital
mouthpiece, the Pharaohs are being protected by the money and legal talent
of the Excelsior Foundation." "The Excelsior Foundation?" Constable Fraser
probed. "Big local do-good endowment, depending on what you think's doing
good. Mostly they dribble tax-exempt money all over pissant radical
groups, sickos who call themselves artists, and university departments of
bullshit studies. We know them pretty well over here; they send a
dumpster-load of fancy lawyers over to defend any street scum who shoots a
cop." "I see," replied Fraser. "Can any connection be established with
Alderman Muldrake?" "Wouldn't surprise me a bit." Lowe was enthusiastic.
"So let's find out! How do we get in to talk to the bastard?" "Won't be
easy," the detective observed. "A crooked politician is a paranoid
politician." "Also a greedy politician," Lowe observed craftily. "What
kind of bribe can we offer him?" He looked over at the Mountie. "Maybe
this NAFTA thing can give us an idea." "What do you have in mind, Mr.
Lowe?" Fraser asked. "Look, no one will ever give us a warrant to search
his office or anything; we're on our own on this one." "You got that
right," Vecchio muttered. "So what I think is: Let's bluff our way in.
I'll tell him I'm CEO of some shipping outfit in Toronto or something, and
he'll get a cut of the non-tariff fees if he gets us a city contract.
Something like that. You'll make a convincing prop, Constable!" "In
uniform, no doubt I would," that one answered. "But you're proposing a
very dangerous plan. If it doesn't work - " Vecchio finished the sentence
for him. "You and I can kiss our badges goodbye." Lowe shrugged. "Sounds
good to me. Anyone have a better idea? Like waiting for three bodies - two
male, one female - to come in on the morgue wagon?" "Good point," Vecchio
allowed. "Let's do it." When Eric Pentecost appeared again before his
prisoners, he was not alone. This time a swarm of Pharaohs, armed,
obedient, eyes flat and dead, were with him. "Good morning, my friends,"
he sneered. "Gentlemen, I believe it is time to prepare for surgery. If
you would come forward ... " The cell door was unlocked and drawn aside.
Neither doctor entertained the thought of attempting a dash for freedom -
not under the guns of the mob, not with their patient unable to run.
Geiger and Shutt stepped out slowly as teams of guards came into position
around them. "Very good," Pentecost commented. "No need to make this any
harder for yourselves. And as for you, dear lady ... " He beckoned to a
Pharaoh, who dutifully placed a bucket of water, an armful of towels and a
clean gown in the cell before it was locked again. "I know you can't bathe
or shower yet, so you might as well use the solitude to clean yourself
up." He paused, waited. "Well, aren't you going to thank me?" "No," Ruth
answered, trying too hard not to cry. He snickered. "Now, now, something
certainly ought to be done about that stubborn streak - and will be. Right
this way, gentlemen." Geiger would never have admitted it, but the chance
to shower, shave, and change clothes after all this time felt almost like
returning to life. Still, it was small comfort. "Look at this," he
observed to Shutt as they donned the clean surgical scrubs provided for
them. "These were stolen from our hospital. Doesn't that bastard ever run
out of ways to twist the knife?" "Apparently not. But it'll all be over
soon ... " When they were returned to the cell, Ruth had finished her own
ablutions and was using the last of the towels to mop up the puddle. "Why,
how very domestic," Pentecost mocked. "Such instincts will make you useful
once your servitude begins." No one expected her to answer. As the
physicians were sealed again behind the bars, their captor explained, "It
will only be a matter of minutes before the operating theater is prepared.
I'm afraid the conditions will be primitive compared to what you're used
to, but you should find them adequate to my purposes." "Take your time,"
Shutt muttered. But Pentecost was as good as his word. He and his thugs
had only been gone a few minutes - spent in deep silence by the three
captives - before massed footsteps could again be heard approaching down
the corridor. Ruth froze in horror as she realized there would be no more
stalling, no possible reprieve. Her panicked eyes flashed to the faces of
her companions; almost voiceless, she gasped, "Please ... you will ... ?"
Geiger dropped his gaze and nodded; Shutt returned her terrified look with
his own calm one, and quietly replied, "Yes, Ruth." She let out a sigh, a
very soft one mingling relief and regret, and rose to her feet. "This is
goodbye," she said; then, impossibly, she smiled. Her eyes met Geiger's.
"Jeffrey ... I don't know what to say to a man who would not have blinked
on Omaha Beach." "Trust me, I would've." *No, you wouldn't have,* Shutt
thought, and then Ruth's eyes were on his, with tears in them. "Aaron ...
had you been there, you would not have survived Auschwitz, but many others
would have because of you." He lowered his head, unable to answer, and
took her hand in his. On her left, Geiger echoed the gesture, taking the
other hand. Together they would lead her to the end ... "No," Ruth
objected softly. Stepping back one pace, she raised the two men's hands
she held, brought them together, and with utmost tenderness joined them.
Her hands free, she reached up to touch their faces for a moment, and
softly recited, "_Kave el Hashem; chazak v'ya'ametz libecha, v'kave el
Hashem_." Then the guards closed around them and they were moving down the
corridor, toward the steel table at its terminus and the knives. TO BE
CONTINUED NOTES Kave el Hashem ... - Psalm 27:14. "Hope in the Lord; be
strong and He will give your heart courage, and hope in the Lord." NO
MEDICINE BUT HOPE: VIII The Pharaoh escorts brought them into a large
white room, bright and cold as a blade, where Pentecost stood waiting. His
face was eager, hungry as a snake's, and his hands quivered with
anticipation. But they barely looked at him; their eyes were drawn to the
center of the room, where the table gleamed under a thin white cloth and
the tray of instruments glimmered beside it. There were surgical masks and
latex gloves waiting near a sink at the wall. Ruth wavered, feeling her
legs go weak, but Geiger's arm was there to support her. "Forgive us," he
whispered. "I have," she whispered back, calling on all her courage to
stand erect and approach the table. She lay down upon it, her lips moving
in the confessional prayers appropriate to coming death, and the
physicians headed for the sink to scrub for surgery. Meanwhile the street
soldiers arrayed themselves at the walls, weapons ready. Pentecost hovered
near the sink, watching his captives prepare. "There was one detail I'd
forgotten: There's no nurse here to help you. It must be so humiliating
for the great surgeons to do women's work." He focused on Shutt. "Your
wife is a nurse, isn't she? Shall I send some of my boys to Chicago Hope
to borrow her?" Shutt whirled toward him. "Damn you!" he erupted. "Leave
my wife out of this! You've got one innocent woman to torture - isn't that
enough?" "Just trying to help," the other smirked. "There now, you both
look clean to me. Put those things on and get to work; I want my toy."
*You'll never get her,* Geiger thought hotly. But he said nothing as he
tied on his mask. Ruth lay upon cold metal the color of her captor's eyes.
She turned her head to watch her friends approaching, their hands sealed
in sterile latex, their eyes filled with sadness and an awful resolve.
Beyond them Pentecost waited like a circling vulture, and the Pharaohs
ventured in several steps closer from their posts at the walls. Arriving
at the operating table, Geiger noticed a brown bottle and a cotton pad
beside the instrument tray. "Chloroform? What's this for?" he demanded.
"Anesthesia," answered Pentecost. "Crude, but effective." Shutt turned to
stare at him. "This procedure is supposed to be performed under a local."
"But it won't be. Administer the anesthesia, Dr. Geiger." "No!" the heart
surgeon declared. "That stuff's brutal." "Yes, I know," Pentecost said
with relish, "it can cause brain damage. Considering what you're about to
do, that's a moot point, isn't it?" The doctors said nothing, but they
heard Ruth's voice, in a whisper barely above a breath. "Please, do it.
Just give me time for _Shema_." Geiger obeyed, wetting the pad, holding it
poised above her tear-stained face as she spoke the final prayer. As she
finished, he brought the damp cloth over her mouth and nose, felt the deep
breath, watched the weary body go limp for the last time. His eyes
moistened; behind his mask, his lips silently formed a single word:
"Goodbye." Shutt released Ruth's head from its wrappings. Most of her hair
remained, dark and soft, except where he had operated before, seemingly
centuries ago. The neurosurgeon was mildly astonished at how calm he felt.
He and his colleague had held death at bay uncounted times; now, about to
kill and to die - to feed, rather than foil, the reaper it barely seemed
any different. He looked over to the instruments: the drill, the
head-clamp, the hideous dull probe, the long bright blade of the razor. He
inhaled long and deeply, let it out, then looked into the dark eyes of his
dearest friend. Jeffrey Geiger made a single nod. It was time. Drawing
another deep breath, Aaron Shutt looked down at the woman's pale face and
waiting throat. *Goodbye, Ruth,* he thought, *and I hope the God you love
is waiting for you.* He opened his hand and reached for the razor. Another
hand struck at his, trapping his wrist, twisting it away from the blade.
His left arm was seized too, and a muscular forearm was locked around his
neck. In the grip of three of the Pharaohs, Shutt was wrestled away from
the operating table; grunts of effort and snarls of protest told him that
Pentecost's goons were swarming over Geiger as well. Once both surgeons
were pinioned and helpless, and well away from the insensate Ruth,
Pentecost came swaggering over. "Well now, gentlemen," he sneered, "we
have reached endgame at last. You thought you could cheat me of my prize,
and I admire your spirit for trying, but now comes the end of all
pretenses. Off with your masks -" he reached towards their faces to snatch
off the sterile coverings - "as I'm shedding mine." "What is this?" Geiger
growled. "You changed your mind about butchering that poor woman's brain
all of a sudden?" The enemy shook his head, smiling derisively. "I told
you, Dr. Geiger, the game is up. I know you were plotting her death and
your own - of course, you never had a chance of causing mine." Shutt's
eyes widened as he suddenly understood. "The cell was miked ... you heard
everything!" "Everything." He chuckled triumphantly. "Every confidence,
every reluctant confession, every sweet little intimacy. The three of you
are really quite eloquent, you know; listening to you would have brought
tears to my eyes if I hadn't been so busy laughing! You were so tender, so
brave, so stupidly trusting of your privacy ... I'm glad I have tapes.
They'll bring me considerable pleasure long after you're dead - which will
be very soon." He waved to his thugs. "Back to the cell with them - but
leave the woman here with me." "Don't you dare touch her!" Geiger roared,
struggling uselessly against the net of limbs binding him. Despair had
leached the last of Shutt's strength. "Please leave her alone; she's
completely defenseless - " "Exactly." As the doctors were forced away,
they looked back, horrified, to see Pentecost looming over Ruth, reaching
toward her motionless body, a diabolical light in his eyes. Returned to
their prison cell, the two men sat close together, not speaking, trying
not to think about what they had left behind them and what lay ahead.
Empty time crawled by, with nothing for Pentecost to hear through his
hidden microphone ... but they knew that at the moment he was not
listening. Suddenly there was a sound of approaching footsteps, mingled
with a low, barely audible moan. "My God, it's Ruth," Shutt whispered; he
and Geiger were at the bars, ready to receive her as the Pharaohs carried
the limp body to the cell. Under leveled guns the gate was drawn back,
then closed; soon the thugs had left the three alone again. Ruth stirred
slightly and moaned again as she lay with her head in Geiger's lap. The
flimsy hospital gown was intact; she was unmarked except for a smear of
blood across her cheeks and mouth. There was no wound on her face, nor any
sign of whence the blood had come. Before either doctor could examine her
further, her brown eyes fluttered open and she saw them. "You spared me,"
she gasped, "what happened?" "You first," Geiger said gently. "How do you
feel?" "I have a bad headache; I think it's from the chloroform," she
answered. "Please, Jeffrey, WHAT HAPPENED?" "It's a long story," he said.
"The short version is: The bastard tricked us." Her face showed utter
bewilderment, and Shutt expanded the story for her. "There's a hidden
microphone somewhere in this cell; Pentecost has been listening to us all
along. He knew you had asked to die and we had agreed. Before I could," he
paused, swallowed hard, "do it, his goons grabbed us. I failed you, Ruth.
God, I'm sorry!" "Don't be, Aaron," she said, trying to smile. "There's no
more danger of the lobotomy, and we're all still alive." "Probably not for
long," observed Geiger. Shutt tried to speak, licked his lips, tried
again. "There's something else we haven't told you. When Pentecost stopped
us and gave away the secret, we were sent back here ... but he kept you
with him, unconscious." Again unable to find words, the neurosurgeon put
his hand to her face, brought his fingers away bloody, held them up to
show her. "Oh, God!" She put her own hand to her lips and gasped at the
sight of it. "WHAT DID HE DO TO ME?" Geiger shook his head. "We don't
know. If you want, I can examine you now - " "No!" She clasped her arms
across her breast. "Please don't; I don't want to know!" "We understand,"
he replied gently. Thus matters remained for a little while, until Ruth
asked tentatively, "Do you think Pentecost is listening to us now?"
"Knowing that son of a bitch, probably," Geiger guessed. "Good. Can you
hear me, Eric Pentecost? Listen and listen well! Even if no man ever
learns what you've done to us, there is One who sees and knows. There is a
Judge, Pentecost, and sooner or later you'll stand before Him!" "I like
the sound of that," commented Shutt. Alderman Bud Muldrake's secretary
appeared in the waiting room before the three men. "The Alderman will see
you now." They rose and entered the main office: a tall, bearded blond in
a gray suit and matching fedora, an RCMP constable in brown uniform, and a
sharp-eyed Italian in gleaming sharkskin. Inside waiting for them was a
fat, rumpled, aging politician. "Hi. You the guys from Great Lakes
Transit? C'mon in, siddown!" Lowe stepped forward to speak for them and to
shake Muldrake's beefy hand. "Thank you for agreeing to this meeting on
such short notice, Alderman. This is indeed an honor." "Hey, I always got
a minute for our friends up north. But right now all I got's a minute, so
let's get right to brass tacks." He plopped himself down behind his desk.
"You want a city contract, but you don't got any minority ownership." "We
haven't even any American ownership, I'm afraid." "So what's it you do?
Shipping, right?" "That's right, Alderman." He let a quaver of desperation
into his voice. "Business has been off, and we can't afford to be picky.
We'll take anything across the lakes to anywhere." Muldrake scratched
behind his ear; a crafty expression had come into his eyes. "Anything,
huh?" "Anything." It was hard for Lowe to keep excitement from showing;
this fool was biting harder than even they'd hoped. "Even if you got to
hide it in port?" Fraser sat up even straighter, if that was possible;
Vecchio leaned back, eyes narrow, listening. Surreptitiously he felt his
pocket to make sure the tape recorder in it was running. "What do you have
in mind, Alderman?" asked Lowe mildly. "We-ell ... we all know about the
folks who keep rolling north out of Salvador and Guatemala and sunny
Mexico, over the big ditch straight into Texas and California. Lots of
'em. And some of them just keep on coming due north, heading for that big,
pretty, half-empty country of yours. Figure there's more room to hide in,
free medical care, and the snow's not all that bad. The wetbacks'll pay a
pretty penny to get their backs wet again in Lake Michigan, if you know
what I mean and I think you do." "Let me see if I get it," Lowe tested.
"You're proposing we use our fleet to smuggle illegal immigrants into
Canada." "I got connections to set us up with the passengers. Lots of
money in it for both of us, and no one's gotta know." Now Vecchio spoke,
and his tone could have soured fruit. "Wow, that's really neat, Alderman.
Now all we have to do is decide whether to take this tape - " he plucked
the recorder from his pocket - "to the Sun-Times or the Trib. You got any
preference?" Muldrake's eyes gaped and rolled like a squid's. He lunged
across his desk in Vecchio's direction, scattering expensive _tchotchkes_
to all sides and nearly losing an eye to a point of his pen set. "Pricks
set me up!" "Bet your very large ass we did. But to show you what nice
guys we are, we'll give you one chance to save your cushy big-shot
gravy-train career ... " "Who the hell are you bastards, anyway?" The
trapped Alderman laboriously pulled himself back off the desk top and into
his chair. "You don't want to know," answered Lowe, his voice gone cool
and mocking. "But like the man said, you've got one chance. Take it, or
you're history." Muldrake mopped his brow with a silken handkerchief and
glared flames at the blond. "What the fuck do you want?" "Information.
Information on the abductions from Chicago Hope Hospital. Don't try to
bullshit us that you don't know anything, because you do!" After a
moment's pause, with tight lips and narrow eyes, Muldrake gave it up. "It
wasn't me, man. Not my idea." "Whose was it?" demanded Vecchio. "I can't
tell you that!" In the quavering voice, Constable Fraser heard not
defiance but fear. "Why are you afraid to tell us?" "If you gotta ask, you
ain't never gonna know, 'cause I sure as shit ain't gonna tell you!"
Vecchio's turn again. "Would he happen to have some connection with the
Excelsior Foundation?" Again the dull eyes widened. "How the fuck did you
know?" *Bullseye,* thought Vecchio, *good thing this clown's as dumb as he
looks.* "Look, Muldrake, we're onto the whole thing. You might as well
give him up, because we're going to find those victims anyway. Your help
will make it a little quicker, and us very grateful." The politician shook
like a chocolate mousse. "You'll find 'em in little pieces - if you're
lucky. Eric has 'em." Now it was Lowe's turn to go pale. "Who's Eric?"
There was no answer from the squirming Alderman. "TELL US, YOU BASTARD! He
has my wife!" "Probably HAD your wife," came the grunted reply. Lowe was
about to launch himself across the desk, knife drawn; it took both of his
companions to hold him back. He got control of himself quickly, and let
Fraser take over the persuasion. "Listen to me, Alderman," the Mountie
began calmly, reassuringly, "if you cooperate with us, this Eric will not
be able to harm you or anyone else again." He leaned towards the trembling
man, looking powerful and benign in his uniform. "You gonna kill him?"
Muldrake asked hopefully. "Leave that to us," growled Yaacov Lowe.
Muldrake's fearful eyes roamed over all their faces. He considered what he
saw for a minute, and finally said, "It's Eric Pentecost - you know, the
boss of Excelsior. HE wanted the bitch and her goddamn doctors, not me!"
"What for?" Lowe demanded, fighting the urge to throttle the other. Now
the eyes dropped. "Eric likes to hurt people. I mean REALLY likes it."
Fraser gasped. "Where has he imprisoned them?" "They're still at his place
if he hasn't moved 'em - or killed 'em." Vecchio shoved his notebook at
the Alderman. "Write down the address." They waited tensely as he tried to
control his trembling hands long enough to write it. "I really don't
follow," Fraser commented. "How could a prominent foundation
philanthropist also be, well, a sadist too?" Muldrake looked up sourly.
"Why the hell not? Isn't it all the same shit? Power? Controlling people?
Making 'em beg?" "Y'know, that's a point," observed Vecchio. "But haven't
you got that address written yet?" "Gimme a break! I ain't been this shook
up in years! Besides, you'll never get there in time." "Why not?" the
detective asked. "Here." Muldrake slid the notebook back. "Go if you want.
You pricks won't find a damn thing but ashes." Lowe's hands were locked
into quivering fists. "What the hell do you mean, you ... " He let his
voice die away. Muldrake looked at him coldly. "I got a call from Eric a
couple hours ago. Wanted me to be there today at noon on the dot." A
shudder wiggled his bulk. "For a burning." "A WHAT?" cried Fraser; only he
of the three could form words. "He's had 'em before. I only went to one, a
few years back; some bitch who'd two-timed one of the Pharaohs, was gonna
have some other scumbag's baby." He shuddered again. "I ain't never heard
anyone scream like that before or since!" Vecchio mused, "Something tells
me when we get this guy, we'll close a lot of open cases." "Noon, you
say?" Lowe checked his watch. "It's eleven thirty-two now!" "That's right,
asshole. And Eric's house is more'n an hour from here, forty-five minutes
if you run all the lights." Muldrake grinned at them, showing his teeth
like a truculent animal. "Good luck, you pricks. They're gonna burn." TO
BE CONTINUED NO MEDICINE BUT HOPE: IX The Pharaohs gathered again before
the prison cell. They carried readied pistols and coils of rope, and the
captives knew that their time had come. Ruth was held at bay in the back
of the cell as her companions were brought out. Their hands were tied
behind their backs and, without explanation, they were led away down the
corridor. No words were exchanged this time; they had already said
goodbye, and there was no reason to amuse the cruel Pentecost any further.
The doctors bade their patient and friend farewell with their eyes, and
left her weeping quietly behind. Geiger and Shutt were mildly surprised to
be led upstairs and outside. The sun rode high and warm over the gorgeous
expanse of Pentecost's estate, and for a moment hope almost made sense.
But then they turned the corner, going around the back of the house, and
saw it. The thick wooden stake jutted up seven feet out of a large,
carefully arranged pile of wood. Shutt stopped in his tracks, ignoring the
prodding of his guards. "Jeffrey," he gasped, "that's a pyre." The other
also stopped dead. "God in Heaven." Geiger went white to the lips; for the
first time throughout the entire ordeal, he was afraid. "Are you ready,
Ruth?" Ruth looked up and through the bars of her prison at Eric Pentecost
and his two Pharaoh bodyguards. "To die?" "Not yet," he replied with a
sinister smile. "But come with me; I have something for you to see." She
stiffened. "What have you done with them?" "Clever girl; of course that's
what I have for you to see. Now come along." Pentecost himself entered the
cell to pull his prisoner to her feet, tie her hands, and lead her out. As
he brought her outside, Ruth winced at the glare of the sun and came close
to stumbling on her bare feet as she was hustled along, but she somehow
kept her head high - until she saw what awaited behind the house. At the
sight of the pyre, the surrounding thugs, and the two familiar figures
bound back to back against the stake, she let out a cry of despair as her
strength gave way. If Pentecost had not caught her, she would have hit the
earth. The enemy drew her close in an unforgiving grip, his fingers
squeezing her flesh white, his erection jabbing hard into her back. "What
do you think, dear lady: Have I chosen a suitable end for them? Will it
get them to scream, to plead for mercy, to whimper like the debased
wretches they are? I'll soon find out ... and so will you." He seized her
chin, turned her head around hard to let his eyes flash into hers. "Even
the plainest face looks beautiful in the light of a burning man." "In the
name of God," she pleaded, "in the name of your cause, of anything you
hold sacred, I beg of you, don't do this!" "Anything I hold sacred?" His
grin widened. "One thing I hold especially sacred is my pleasure. It
includes this." Tears poured down her cheeks. "It was I who offended you;
why torture them?" "Interesting point. But let me extend an offer. Light
the fire, and I might let you live." Watching from the stake, the doomed
men saw and heard everything. Geiger's voice tore through like lightning -
"Do it, Ruth! Do it and save yourself!" "No, never!" she cried back. On
the other side of the stake, Shutt spoke quietly, with the serenity of the
condemned. "I knew she'd say that, Jeffrey." "So did I," his friend
admitted with a rueful half- smile. "Worth a try, though." Pentecost
pushed the woman away, leaving her to stagger and regain precarious
balance by herself, as he approached the physicians. "You're taking this
with remarkable good humor," he commented, his tone amused. "No doubt it's
that celebrated surgeons' bravado, your famous composure in the face of
death. Except that until now it's always been the face of some patient's
death - this time it's your own!" No longer afraid, Geiger even sneered
back. "What can I say? It's hard to be frightened of a man who hides
behind heaps of money and hordes of thugs, hurting innocent people because
he's got no other way to get his rocks off." The enemy's voice oozed
malice. "Brave words now, Dr. Geiger. But it'll be riveting to hear you in
a few minutes, as your skin turns crisp, your features shrivel, and the
flesh comes loose from your bones ... " Slowly, easily he ambled around
the pyre to confront the other doctor, and grinned with satisfaction as
Shutt failed to meet his eyes. "Well, now here's an honest man, willing to
admit he's afraid to perish in inconceivable agony. Not that it's within
your specialty, Dr. Shutt, but I'll wager you've seen your share of burn
victims. Horrible to hear and to look at, aren't they?" "Please," Shutt
implored softly, "just get it over with." "What's this? The man is in a
hurry to roast? Very well, I'll get right on it! First, though, you should
know that once it's all over, I'll have the charred remains dumped in that
alley behind your hospital. Identification shouldn't take too long. I
wonder if they'll let your wife have a last look at the blackened, twisted
husk, so she'll truly realize how the man she loved died ... " Pentecost's
smile stretched when he saw a tear flowing down his prisoner's face. "Not
terribly manly, Shutt. By the way, are you planning to perish screaming
her name?" "Mr. Pentecost!" He whirled to Ruth's shout. "Let me make an
offer!" Looking proudly and coldly into the anguished eyes, Pentecost
rumbled, "An offer? My poor wretched dear, what could you possibly have to
offer?" "Listen: You wanted me lobotomized, stripped of higher mental
functions, so you could enslave me, right?" "Yes ... " "How would you like
to have me complete with my higher mental functions?" The steel-gray eyes
widened. "You're VOLUNTEERING for servitude?" His demonic smile returned.
"An appealing idea; not only could I bend your talent to my purposes, I'd
have the pleasure of a thinking being's tears, not a beast's. But even for
that price, I can't let these men live, not now." "I figured as much. No,
all I ask is a less cruel death for them. Something swift and painless."
Now he was genuinely astonished - as were the prisoners on the pyre. "And
for that alone, you are willing to obey me without question, with no hope
of release?" "Yes." He pursed his thin lips. "But can I trust you to keep
that pledge? I'll have no hostages to compel you once they're dead." "You
have my word; there's nothing else I can give." Now the lips drew slowly
back. "And if you break that word, there's always the whip to remind you."
There came another cry from Geiger at the stake - "No, Ruth! I'd rather
burn!" His voice drowned out the murmur of his friend and colleague. "Poor
Ruth, is sparing us the pain worth it?" But Pentecost walked around the
bound woman once, peering at her oddly. There was no triumph in his eyes,
not now. "Mrs. Lowe," he said finally, "I know you cherish freedom more
than almost anything. Tell me: What are these men to you?" She looked at
them. "Rescuers, defenders, brother Jews, and human beings made in the
image of God." "Is that all?" "Isn't that enough?" The malevolent smile
slowly crawled back across his features. "No, it's not. There must be
something else involved. You cannot save their lives, yet you'll give all
- why?" "Must I say?" His hand closed tightly on the collar of her gown.
"Yes, you must!" he hissed. She gulped as she met the blazing eyes. "When
you ordered Aaron and Jeffrey to maim me, THEY tried to give all so I
wouldn't suffer, even though they couldn't save my life. I owe them no
less." "Interesting. But wouldn't the ruin of your mind have been a worse
fate than any death?" "No, no! Not this death. It's the most terrible end
I can imagine, and I can't leave them to it." The rage had leached out of
him, and the sparkle of amusement was returning. "I wonder why. Perhaps
some racialmemory of _autos-da-fe_, fiery pogroms, crematoria?" "What does
it matter?" She kept pleading. "Don't burn them, I implore you - do as you
will with me instead!" Pentecost quietly began to laugh, a musical,
diabolical sound. "The most terrible end you can imagine, you say? I've
made my decision." He signaled his Pharaoh guards, and in that instant
Ruth knew her grisly fate before he pronounced it. "Tie her to the stake."
TO BE CONTINUED NO MEDICINE BUT HOPE: X Vecchio's knuckles were white on
the wheel, his voice high and brittle. "Damn it, Lowe, it's twelve-ten
already, we didn't make it in time! At least let's try to get a warrant so
the bust can be good - " "She lives," the young veteran replied, in a
voice all the more grim for its softness, "they live; I know it. Keep
driving." With one hand he swept off his gentlemanly hat; with the other
he reached under the seat to bring out his black beret. Donning the
military headgear over his _kippah_, he then dropped a hand to the hilt of
his knife. Behind him, also sensing action to come, Fraser's wolf drew
back his lips to let fangs shine. "This is crazy," the detective muttered.
"We're on our way to bust a superrich philanthropist for kidnapping,
attempted murder, and God only knows what else - without a warrant!"
"Probable cause, Ray," the Mountie reminded him. "Yeah, yeah. I can tell
you, we'll have a lot of fun when we call for backup." "You're right,"
said Fraser. A moment later, he followed with "Give me your cell-phone."
"Huh? What for?" "I'm calling the Tribune and a television station, to
tell them there's been a breakthrough in the Chicago Hope abductions, and
you'll be making an arrest at this address. The department should be less
likely to stall its response once reporters are on the scene, no matter
how powerful the suspect is." "Constable Fraser," said Lowe with a grin,
"I like your style. It's almost as devious as mine." Fraser looked
bewildered for a moment, but Vecchio grinned too. "Thank the man, Benny.
Coming from him, that's a hell of a compliment." Eric Pentecost looked
appreciatively at his goons' work. "Is everyone ready?" he asked jovially
while walking around the pyre where three people were now bound, a woman
trembling and weeping between two men, the ropes biting hard into their
pinioned flesh. "I'll wager none of you expected to die quite like this."
His captives ignored him, speaking only among themselves. "Why didn't you
start the fire when you had the chance, Ruth?" Aaron Shutt asked quietly.
"Why didn't you slice up my brain when you had the chance, Aaron?" was the
sobbed answer. Jeffrey Geiger, gallant to the end, managed a chuckle.
"She's got us both there, Aaron." He paused to draw a deep breath - a sigh
of surrender. "It's over; let's not blame each other. Ruth, please feel
free to pray for me, too." "And me," added the other. "You honor me," she
answered gravely. Fighting the tears, she began: "_Alenu l'shabeach l'adon
hakol ... _" Pentecost nodded in satisfaction and looked at his watch.
"Soon enough that Jew gibberish will change into shrieking. We're late,
but at least the sun is still at zenith. Now for my favorite use of
environmentally sound solar energy ... " Reaching into his pocket, he
withdrew a large magnifying glass and held it high. "Who wants to burn the
Jews?" From the Pharaohs came an appalling, obscenely gleeful chant: "Burn
'em! Burn the Jews!" "Your wish is my command," Pentecost rejoined, making
a brief, mocking bow. Still brandishing the lens, he approached the pyre,
walking with cruel slowness. The huge priapic bulge of his erection threw
off his stride, and his lips dripped wetly with excitement. Geiger
recoiled from the repulsive sight, grateful that his companions were at
the wrong angles to see it, and found himself idly wondering when their
tormentor would reach climax: when the pyre caught under a focused
sunbeam, when the flames touched the pinned captives, or when death
silenced their cries at last. There was an ear-bruising crack, a shriek of
shattering glass, a scream as the fragments of his splintered lens
showered over Pentecost. The Pharaohs were suddenly spinning in all
directions at once, screeching and glancing about like panicked chickens,
some trying to claw their own guns out, as three armed men strode from the
cover of a stand of pines. The leader, in the brown service uniform of the
RCMP, bore the hunting rifle that had broken the burning-glass. Behind him
came a snarling wolf; to either side, another armed man. The one at his
left showed a 9-mm handgun and a badge, commanding, "Police; freeze!" The
man on the right was silent, letting the sight of his double-barrelled
shotgun do the talking. Shutt blinked, unsure that he did indeed see them,
but it was no illusion - hope was walking out of the woods, armed and
fearless. In relief and joy Geiger shouted, "Impeccable timing, whoever
you are!" Ruth knew who one of them was. Now her tears were tears of
gratitude, of comfort and trust. "Yaacov ... oh, Yaacov," she sobbed,
"_Baruch Hashem_ ... you came." In fury Pentecost flung away the
splintered grip of the glass and struck crystalline fragments from his
hair and face, roaring, "Shoot them down, you stupid apes! There's only
three of them, a dozen of you - what are your guns for? KILL THEM!" "I got
a better idea," Vecchio said, holding his badge like a talisman. "How
about everyone puts his hands on his head and kneels down real slowly, so
no one has to get hurt." Beside him the Mountie nodded. "I concur. If you
will also please relinquish any illegal firearms - " One of the Pharaohs
rammed a hand into his jacket; it emerged on the grip of a gleaming
Glock-17. As the pistol came up, the shotgun arced left and roared
double-ought buckshot, blasting the youth's chest into crimson ruin. Lowe
almost smiled as he announced, "Next!" Another goon obediently reached
toward his waist to draw a .357 Magnum. The pistol didn't even clear the
holster before the top of his head came off in a cloud of bone shards and
pink spray. Geiger whistled his appreciation. "Well, Aaron, there's not a
thing we can do for those two." "Seriously," Shutt agreed softly, grateful
he wasn't squeamish. Now Lowe did smile. "'Scuse me a second while I
reload. There's plenty for everyone." Fraser warily covered him with the
rifle as Lowe efficiently broke open his weapon, tossed the spent shells,
thrust two more home. Snapping the shotgun closed, he leveled it again,
the muzzle roaming among random Pharaohs. "Thanks for waiting. Anyone
else?" Silence. "Okay, now let's be reasonable," commanded Vecchio, his
own voice very reasonable indeed. "We'll try again. All surviving Chicago
street scum will now put their hands on their heads and kneel down.
Slowly." Their eyes smoldered, and some actually showed their teeth like
beasts at bay, but all ten living Pharaohs slowly, carefully, resentfully
did as they were told. Their other guns emerged slowly, not brandished in
fists but pinched gingerly between thumb and forefinger, and dropped to
the turf to be collected by Fraser. And now the young veteran triumphantly
met Pentecost's blazing, impotent eyes. "You're all out of _kamikaze_, Mr.
Pentecost. I guess I'll just have to set these people free." There was a
fearsome serenity in his face as he raised his weapon, leveled it at
Pentecost's head. "But first I want one good reason not to blow your sick
sadistic head off." "A Murder One charge?" Vecchio offered. Upon the pyre,
Geiger grunted, "Hey, don't look at us!" Fraser looked at his companion
with genuine alarm, but when he spoke, it was with calm and gravity.
"Choose life, Yaacov." Lowe's gaze did not move from the enemy's face.
"Maintain the right, Constable," he answered with equal gravity. And a
smile, cool and baleful, bloomed on Pentecost's thin lips. "You won't
shoot me, Mr. Lowe - it is Mr. Lowe, isn't it?" "Yes, it's Mr. Yaacov
Lowe, late of the US Army. And why won't I shoot you, you devil?" He
sniggered. "Because it would be too quick. After how I made them - made
HER - suffer, how could you do less to me? Kill me in a single instant, in
a blast of lead, without torture? I know when I'm looking into a mirror;
you're no more capable of mercy than I." A woman's voice spoke from the
stake. "Go ahead and prove him wrong, Yaacov." "You want me to shoot him,
dearest?" Lowe's finger tensed on one trigger. "No. Spare him, my love,"
came Ruth's answer. "Let him come to trial. Let his other atrocities come
to light, and let his empire be brought down!" Lowe stepped back, lowered
the gun. "No, Ruth, he's right. No mercy. But you'll still have your wish;
I won't give him a quick death." He addressed Vecchio. "He's all yours,
Detective." Pentecost chuckled, an infuriating sound. "We are the same
man, you and I," he sneered at Lowe. "Each of us iswilling to crush
anything standing between himself and his desire. For you it's a woman,
for me a vision of society." Ruth shook her head. "Mr. Pentecost, your
vision isn't compatible with humanity." He shrugged. "Then so much for
humanity - let it perish!" Vecchio was looking to all sides at the
kneeling Pharaohs. "You got handcuffs, Fraser?" "Sorry, I don't." "Great.
I got one lousy pair. Not to mention limited room in the car." He put his
badge away and took out his telephone. "It's backup or bust now ... " A
car engine growled in the middle distance, and soon a beat-up station
wagon eased to a halt a few hundred feet away. Two men tumbled out and
came pounding across the grounds, at the same time fumbling with tape
recorder and camera. No sooner were they out than a van emblazoned with a
TV news logo was pulling up next to their car, and reporter, producer, and
cameraman were hitting the ground running. Their shouts of astonishment
came drifting over the lawn: "What the hell - ?" "Holy shit!" "That can't
be Eric Pentecost!" Vecchio rolled his eyes to the heavens. "Thank you,
God!" Quickly he dialed with a thumb and barked into the phone. "It's
Vecchio. Lieutenant, we need backup right now and we need it bad! Some
civilian, the Mountie, his pet wolf, and I are covering ten gang members
and a rich homicidal maniac all by ourselves! Yeah, we found the kidnap
victims - just in time. Damn it, Welsh, don't give me excuses; this place
is already crawling with reporters! Yeah, really! Good; get 'em here
yesterday." He snapped the phone shut. "Whew. Well, now we wait." "Now for
the reason we came!" Lowe announced as he climbed the pyre, shotgun in one
hand, knife in the other. First he cut through the ropes binding Geiger.
"Are you all right, Doctor -?" "Geiger. I've never been so happy that one
of my patients has visitors." "My pleasure, Dr. Geiger. There; you're
free." Lowe moved on to the second man. "You must be Dr. Shutt," he said
as he slashed the cords. "Yes. Thank you for saving our lives." "Don't
mention it. I can't remember when I had this good a time!" With the men
released, Lowe now found himself face to face with the wife Pentecost had
stolen. He paused a moment, almost overcome, holding back tears.
"_Shalom_, Ruth." "_Baruch atah Adonoy, Elohenu melech haolam, sheasa lanu
nes b'makom hazeh_," she recited softly. "_Amen_." All at once he turned
and shouted to the press photographer. "Hey, you with the camera! Look
alive - here's your Pulitzer picture!" Still holding his gun, Lowe put his
knife to Ruth's bonds. As he cut through, suddenly he pressed his mouth to
hers. Camera clicked and minicam whirred, immortalizing the kiss, and
almost everyone raised a cheer of acclaim; even some of the Pharaohs
managed a guttural, vulgar hurrah. Pentecost was silent, and no one
noticed him at all. As the fighting-man carefully escorted his wife down
from the pyre, a television journalist thrust her microphone under Shutt's
nose. She spat her words rapidly: "Doctor, can you tell us who's
responsible for this bizarre spectacle?" The neurosurgeon drew away a
step, taken aback. After a moment, he turned to look at the enemy, now
stewing impotently in Ray Vecchio's handcuffs. Shutt waved a hand at him
in a grand gesture and announced, "Ladies and gentlemen of the media, I
give you Mr. Eric Pentecost: philanthropist, crusader for social justice,
and bloodthirsty psycho!" He lowered his hand, glared ice at his erstwhile
torturer. "And you're welcome to him." "God, it's good to have you back
safe and sound," declared Phillip Watters to his colleagues as they
cruised down a corridor towards Chicago Hope's critical care unit. "You
can imagine how we feel," Jeffrey Geiger replied. Watters smiled. "And
Camille too, I'll bet." He glanced at his second companion. "Yes." Aaron
Shutt's voice was quiet, as if far away. He'd never be able to describe
last night: the woman he loved and himself locked in each other's arms all
night, holding on as if for life itself, their hearts pounding together
like the surf. "Good to be home," was all he could say. Watters became
pensive to match him. "There could be reason for concern about your
emotional state after what you've been through. Are you sure neither of
you wants to speak to Dr. Kadalski in Psychiatry?" "Please, Phillip!"
Shutt groaned. Geiger snorted. "I'd almost rather be back at Pentecost's
stake!" "Almost," said Watters with a wry grin. The others nodded, and
with that, they arrived. "_Shabbat shalom_, gentlemen!" From a chair
beside his wife's bed, Yaacov Lowe noticed them first and shouted
greeting. Alan Birch looked up from where he lay in the bed beside Ruth's.
"Welcome to the Eric Pentecost Commemorative Gunshot Wound Ward," he said
with a smile. "Ruth suggested the name." "I like it," Shutt commented. He
sniffed the air. "It smells like my mother's kitchen in here." "The
Sabbath is the Sabbath, whether you spend it at home or camped in a
hospital room," Lowe explained. He waved a hand at the sacks of food piled
near the window. "Feel free; I picked up lots. Constable Fraser and
Detective Vecchio are coming by later for lunch." "We're sorry you have to
spend your holy day here, but Dr. Geiger thought it best Mrs. Lowe remain
at least twenty- four hours for evaluation." Watters smiled
sympathetically at the woman. "You've had quite an ordeal." Ruth smiled
back. "Oh, I don't mind in the least. It's not the first Sabbath I've
spent in a hospital; I did give birth to two children." She sighed. "Pity
they're not here with us." Her husband took her hand, gave it a squeeze.
"That's the only thing keeping this from being the best _Shabbat_ I ever
had!" There was affection and a touch of envy in Birch's eyes as he looked
at the couple. "And I'm glad for the company. Ruth and Yaacov have told me
everything." He looked toward the physicians he served. "We've got to put
in our next brochure that Chicago Hope has the most courageous surgeons in
the metropolitan area." "And a lawyer who helped save their lives."
Suddenly all eyes were on Lowe, looking to him to explain. He gladly did.
"You figured out the Excelsior Foundation connection. If we hadn't had
that to fling in that corrupt scum Muldrake's face, he'd have stonewalled
a lot longer ... and we'd never have arrived in time." Birch reddened and
quickly said, "No different from what Ruth did." "Me? What did I do
besides drag everyone into this?" The attorney smiled at her, then
addressed her husband. "Didn't you say the burning was to have been at
noon?" "That's what Muldrake said." "Do you remember what time you got
there?" "About twelve-twenty." "Far too late, if Pentecost had stuck to
his schedule. What happened to throw him off?" He looked to the doctors.
Shutt was the first to realize it. "Ruth kept him talking!" The same light
came on in Geiger's face. "Bastard couldn't pass up the chance to make her
crawl - thank God." The neurosurgeon nodded. "It's appropriate that he was
brought down because of his own cruelty." "Very appropriate." Again Geiger
looked to Birch. "So you're right, Alan ... but we still owe you." Still
pink, Birch shook his head. "If not for the medical staff of this
hospital, I'd be in a drawer in the morgue now." Watters held up a hand.
"As chief of staff, let me settle this. Alan, as of this time you and the
medical staff are officially even. Now is everyone satisfied?" "Not
quite." Everyone turned toward the feminine voice at the door, and saw
Camille Shutt enter. She beamed a smile at all of them, though adding a
little extra light when her eyes met her husband's. He glowed back, and
let her speak. "The story's all over the hospital, and some people seem to
feel a little envious. I overheard Daniel Nyland say he wonders how long
he'll have to work here to get adventure privileges." "Oh, what a shame,"
Geiger grunted derisively. "And here I thought we had one resident with a
brain." "Let's give him the benefit of the doubt," Ruth suggested. "Maybe
he accepts Chesterton's definition: 'An adventure is only an inconvenience
rightly considered.'" She paused for an unexpected chuckle. "Proof
positive that no one ever tried to burn Chesterton alive." Once everyone
else's laughter had ended, she raised a new question. "Aaron, Jeffrey,
saying goodbye is going to be hard, but still: When can we go home?"
Geiger spoke for both. "If you remain stable through tomorrow morning,
possibly as early as Monday." "And we probably won't see you again until
Pentecost's trial," Shutt observed. "We'll miss you." "It'll be mutual,"
she answered. "But no doubt you'll have plenty to keep you busy - as will
I." "You mean your children," said Camille. "Them, and my book. I must get
my agent to redouble his efforts - I want that sucker in print!" Everyone
but Yaacov Lowe looked at her in astonishment. "Ruth," said Shutt, "that
manuscript almost got you killed - or worse. I should think you'd want to
forget you ever wrote it!" But she was grinning. "That manuscript was
enough of a threat to Eric Pentecost to cause him to gamble his whole
public-policy empire, and his dreadful secret, on my death. If I have
written so persuasive a defense of what I believe, then I owe it to the
world to see it through! Who knows how much good my book will do, if it
can frighten a _rasha_, an evil man, like him?" And Geiger smiled in
admiration. "He was right about your ambition, you know that?" "Indeed he
was." She met and matched the smile. "Allow me one more quotation,
gentlemen, this from the immortal works of Steve Winwood: 'And the thing
that you're hearing is only the sound of the low spark of high-heeled
boys'!" THE END NOTES Alenu l'shabeach l'adon hakol - First line of the
Alenu prayer. "It is our duty to praise the Lord of all." Baruch atah
Adonoy ... - "Blessed are you, Lord our God, king of the universe, Who
made a miracle for us in this place." Blessing recited upon escape or
rescue from danger. Shabbat shalom - the standard Sabbath greeting.  
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