Coma

“So much of an emergency you couldn’t pay your cab?” The guard’s voice was a mixture of admonition and concern. Susan’s appearance lent a definite credence to her plea that it was an emergency.

“Take his name and company, and I’ll settle it later. Look, I’m a third-year medical student. My name is Susan Wheeler. I have no time at this moment.”

“Where are you going at this hour?” The guard’s tone had become almost solicitous.

“Beard 10. I’m meeting one of the doctors there. I’ve got to go.” Susan depressed the up button.

“Who?”

“Howard Stark. You can call him.”

The guard was confused, dubious. “All right. But stop by the security office on your way down.”

“Of course,” agreed Susan as the guard turned to go.

Just then the next elevator arrived and Susan boarded it, pushing past a few departing passengers, who looked at her disheveled appearance curiously. On the slow ride up to 10 she leaned against the car’s wall gratefully.

The corridor presented a totally different environment from the one she remembered from her previous daytime visit. The typewriters were quiet The patients gone. The floor was as still as a morgue. The thick carpet absorbed the sound of her own hesitant footsteps as she moved toward her goal and safety. The only light came from a lonely table lamp in the middle of the hall. The New Yorker magazine stacks which could be seen were carefully straightened. The faces on the portraits of the former Memorial surgeons were smudges of violet shadow.

Susan approached Stork’s office and hesitated for a moment, composing herself. She was about to knock, but tried the door. It opened. The anteroom of Stark’s secretary was dark, but the door to his private office was slightly ajar, light slanting through it. Susan pushed open the door and stepped in.

The door shut behind her that instant Susan’s overwrought psyche caused a tremendous panic reaction as she whirled to face an assailant.

She had to fight to keep from screaming.

Stark was locking the door. He must have been behind her.

“Sorry for the dramatics, but I don’t think we want anyone interrupting this conversation.” He smiled suddenly. “Susan, you’ll never know how glad I am to see you. After these experiences you told me about, I should have insisted on picking you up from when you called. But no matter, you got here safely. Do you think you were followed?”

Susan’s fight reaction tapered, her heart rate reached an apogee and began to slow. She swallowed. “I don’t think so, but I can’t be sure.”

“Come and sit down. You look like you’ve been through World War I.”

Stark touched Susan’s arm, guiding her to a chair in front of his desk.

“Looks like you could use a little Scotch, at the very least.”

Susan felt a terrible exhaustion; mental, physical, and emotional, descend over her. She didn’t respond audibly. She simply followed, her chest heaving. She sank into the chair, barely comprehending what she had been through.

“You’re an amazing girl,” said Stark, walking over to the small bar cabinet across the room.

“I don’t think so,” returned Susan, her voice reflecting her exhaustion.

“I just happened to walk blindly into an amazing horror.”

Stark got a bottle of Chivas Regal. He carefully poured out two drinks and brought them over to the desk. He handed one to Susan. “I think you’re being too modest.” Stark rounded his desk and sat down, his gaze fixed on Susan. “You’re not hurt, are you?”

Susan shook her head, her hand inadvertently shaking her drink so that the ice clinked against the side of the glass. She tried to steady herself by using both hands. She took a mouthful of the comforting, fiery liquid, letting it slide down her throat between deep breaths.

“Now then, Susan. I want to make sure where we stand. Have you spoken to anyone since we talked?”

“No,” said Susan taking another drink.

“Good, that’s very good.” Stark paused, watching Susan sip her drink.

“Does anyone besides yourself have any idea about all this?”

“No. No one.” The Scotch felt delightfully warm inside Susan, and she began to feel a calmness settle over her. Her breathing began to slow to normal She looked at Stark over her glass.

“OK, Susan, now why do you think the Jefferson Institute is a clearing house for transplant organs?”

“I heard them talking. I even saw the shipping cartons for the organs myself.”

“But Susan, it isn’t surprising to me mat a hospital Med with chronic-care, comatose patients would be a source of transplant organs as the patients succumb to their disease processes.”

“That might be true. But the problem is that the people behind this were the ones making at least some of those patients comatose in the first place. Besides, they were getting paid for these organs. Paid a lot of money.” Susan felt her upper eyelids droop, and she raised them forcefully. She felt a torpor stealing over her. She knew she was exhausted but dragged herself straighter in the chair. She took another mouthful of the Scotch and tried not to think about D’Ambrosio. At least she felt warm.