Mercy 6

“He’s beautiful, no?”

“So?”

“I bet that other visitor looked at him. A lot. Snuck glances.

Like clockwork. You know? We could figure out the time if we could talk to her. Then it would be points on a line. Two suggests a line. Three determines.”

“There’s Peterson. They found her in that ventilation room a little after seven thirty. A few minutes before they took her to you.”

Mendenhall bowed her head and rubbed her neck firmly, tried to create some pain. “Thorpe kept Peterson alive on paper to get her to his wing. He needs a patient. But Peterson was just as dead as the others.”

Silva probably never looked confused. But her expression was skeptical, one eyebrow lifted, nose angled to her tablet. She looked like she really wanted to go.

“When you get back to Dr. Claiborne, have him zap Verdasco’s brain stem.” With her finger almost grazing Silva’s neck, Mendenhall drew a line following the angle of the tech’s intricate jaw. “Center there. Tell him that’s what I say.”

11

Mendenhall remained in the arboretum. She wanted to go to fifth floor containment, the Infectious Diseases wing, to interview the captive visitor and to examine Peterson and her chart. She had every right to do these things, and Thorpe would not prevent her. But doing so might bring too much attention, prompt Thorpe to send people down to Claiborne. The tech may have already stirred interest. The interviews and follow-ups were fine; the reenactments and measuring might have crossed lines.

She pictured again how Silva had cast herself over the patient on Four, how elegant and still she had appeared, how she had drawn the patient toward touching. Thorpe could conceivably have Silva contained — herself as well.

A polite, professional consultation with Thorpe might prompt similar actions. Thorpe would be gathering the same data, the same confounding results. His conclusion would run counter to hers — containment. Infection had been the first call — her call — and thus would be the standing assumption. She felt driven to this room.

The young couple remained on their bench but were stealing looks at her.

“What’s happening, Doctor?” the man asked. He had the same expansive eyes and mouth as the woman, their largeness unnerving on him, fetching on her. Brother and sister.

“It’s just a precaution. I think you’ll be able to leave the hospital soon.”

“We don’t want to leave. We want our dad to be let in. We’re visiting our mother.”

“Soon,” said Mendenhall. “I’m sure he’ll get to see her.”

“She’s dying.”

Mendenhall bowed her head and tightened her mouth. Protocol discouraged any reaction: the mother was not her patient, not her matter. Legally, condolence was affirmation; reassurance was disagreement.

“Can you get him in for us?”

“Who’s her doctor?”

“He left,” said the sister, one corner of her lips crimping. “He got out.”

It was easy to imagine the hexagon contracting, the waterfall gaining volume.

“I’m — we’re all trying to get the hospital open again.”

* * *

In the hall, she hesitated: once toward the elevators, then the waiting area, then the arboretum. She had known it would be a mistake to go into the hall without destination, but she had to get away from the already grieving brother and sister. She couldn’t have the nurses see her like this. She strode to the elevators and inserted her express key. The elevator took a long time arriving, confusing her. And in this bracket of unexpected wait, she felt exposed and weakened.

When the steel doors opened, there was Mullich. He stood alone, arms crossed, wearing a lab coat. At first she thought he was wearing a stethoscope, posing as a doctor. But it was something else, a scope of some sort, some kind of viewing lens.

“Doctor,” he said. He stepped out of the elevator and offered its emptiness to her. Cool air rose from the motion of his arm.

“You were outside.” She stayed with him, letting the doors close.

She looked up. “You were on the roof.”

“I’m going to Verdasco’s mark.” He headed toward the waiting area and she followed.

“You got on the roof.” She hustled to stay astride. “You took my elevator from me and got on the roof. I want your key.”

“It will be helpful to have you along,” he said, slipstream still fresh.

12

Mullich genuflected over the floor mark and aimed his scope toward the long end of the hall, beyond the arboretum and the nurse’s station. Mendenhall stood beside him. Visitors in the ICU waiting area watched as Mullich repositioned himself to take four measurements with the scope, Mendenhall turning with him, pretending.

“He never moved, then?” Mullich peered through the scope. On the near wall it cast three red dots, the middle one more pronounced, the two side ones faint.

“He was already in collapsed position. He went from life to death without moving.”

“No. He traveled to the ER. To you. From here down to there.”

“Look,” said Mendenhall, “I kind of see what you’re doing.

Tracking a pattern. A pattern of …” She felt the attention of the waiting-area visitors and caught herself. “A pattern of demise.”