Coma

The path dipped down to the left, through a thicket of gnarled oak trees standing in a bed of twisted briars. The branches of the trees arched over the pathway, enclosing it like a tunnel and precluding a view for more than a few feet. Susan was running and she dared not look behind her. Safety was ahead; she could make it. But the pathway narrowed and the branches clutched at her, hindering her. The briars caught in her clothing. She desperately tried to force her way through. She could see some lights ahead. Safety. But the harder she pulled, the more entangled she got, as if she were in a giant spider web. With her hands, she tried to free her feet But then her arms became hopelessly entangled. There were only minutes left. She had to get free. Then she heard a car horn and one arm came free. The born repeated itself and she opened her arms. She was in room 731 at the Boston Motor Lodge.

Susan sat up in the bed, looking around the room. It had been a dream, a recurrent dream which she hadn’t had in years. With wakefulness came relief, and she sank back, pulling the covers up around herself. The auto horn which had awakened her sounded for the third time. There were some muffled shouts, then silence.

Susan looked around the room. Tasteless American. Two large beds with a neutral flower-print spread. The rug was a heavy shag, a shade of spring green. The near wall was papered with a repeating floral design in green. The far wall was a pale yellow. There was a picture over the bed, a tawdry reproduction, portraying an idyllic barnyard scene with a few ducks and sheep. The furniture too was cheap, but there was an impressive, twenty-eight-inch color TV set—the indispensable solace of motel life. Aesthetics had low priority at the Boston Motor Lodge.

But the place was safe. After leaving Bellows’s apartment in the wee hours of the morning, Susan had wanted only to find someplace where she could sleep in peace. She had noticed the gaudy motel sign from Cambridge Street on a number of occasions. The sign was awful, certainly not something to beckon the weary. Nonetheless, the room had provided the haven she needed. She had checked in as Laurie Simpson and had waited in the lobby for a good quarter of an hour before going up to the room. When the man at the desk looked at her strangely, she gave him an extra five dollars and told him to call her if anybody inquired about her.

She said she was worried about a jealous lover. The desk clerk had winked at her, grateful both for the five dollars and the confidence she extended to him. Susan knew that he accepted the story without question; it was part of the male vanity.

Having taken these precautions, and after moving the desk in front of the door, Susan had allowed herself to fall asleep. She had not slept soundly, as her terminal dream demonstrated, but she felt reasonably refreshed.

She remembered the strong words with Bellows the night before and debated about calling him. She regretted the exchange, feeling that it had been totally unnecessary. She also remembered her feelings of paranoia and felt embarrassed. Yet she remembered her hyper state of mind and felt that her reactions were understandable. She was surprised that Bellows had not been more tolerant. But of course he wanted to be a surgeon, and she had to recognize that his career aspirations made it difficult if not impossible for him to view the situation with an open mind. Still, she regretted the split, if for no other reason than the fact that Bellows had played an effective devil’s advocate to her ideas. After all, he was correct that Susan had no idea of motive, and if some large organization was involved, then there must be one.

Maybe the coma victims were the targets of some gangland vendetta?

Susan dismissed the idea instantly, remembering Berman and even Nancy Greenly. No, that couldn’t be. Maybe extortion was involved; perhaps the families hadn’t paid off and—wham! But that seemed unlikely. It would be too hard to keep the coma business secret. It would be easier to kill people outright, outside the hospital. There had to be some reason for these comas happening in the hospital. There must be some pattern for each victim, some common denominator.

As Susan mused, she lifted the phone onto the bed. She dialed the medical school and asked for the dean’s office.

“Is this Dr. Chapman’s secretary? ... This is Susan Wheeler ... that’s right, the infamous Susan Wheeler. Look, I’d like to leave a message for Dr. Chapman. There’s no need to bother him. I was supposed to start a surgery rotation at the V.A. today, but I’ve spent a terrible night and I’ve got some abdominal cramps that won’t quit. I’ll be better by tomorrow morning, I’m sure, and I’ll call if I’m not. Would you please see that Dr. Chapman is informed of this, and the Department of Surgery at the VA.? Thanks.”

Susan replaced the receiver. The time was quarter to ten. She dialed the Memorial and asked for Dr. Stark’s office.