The administrator looked more like a fish than usual, Dayne thought. He stood, gaping and grinning, next to the new doctor.
"I'd like to introduce Dr. Mhya Jezick. She's collecting data for her research, and expects she'll be with you on and off for the next month. She's doing a carefully controlled double-blind study, so I'm afraid she won't be able to discuss what she's actually working on with you—that might ruin her data. But I want all of you to assist her in whatever way you can. She's to have full access to the charts and the patients . . . and your full cooperation."
"Thank you, Wynne." The new doctor rested her fingers lightly on his arm and smiled at him.
Fishface flushed.
Wynne, is it? Dayne studied the two of them. Amazingly enough, Dr. Jezick appeared to be hitting on Fishface, which seemed impossible. Why would a woman who could easily be the most perfect-looking woman on the planet have anything to do with Wynne Connelly. It couldn't be because she had any shortage of better offers.
The nursing staff nodded politely, and Fishface simpered at the new doctor. "Mhya, I've arranged a little reception for you down in the private lounge. We ought to go so you can meet your colleagues."
Mhya nodded and flashed him a blinding smile. "How thoughtful of you, Wynne."
Dayne watched the two of them turn to leave—and saw the hospital's administrator rest his hand lightly on the small of the new doctor's back. She and Mary Deiner exchanged significant glances. When the door closed, Mary shoved her notes into her pocket and made gagging noises. "What does she see in him?"
"He's hung like a Percheron?" Roxanne asked.
Mary held up a thumb and wiggled it. "Nope. I had him when he was getting his heart catheterization. Whatever his wife loves him for, it is not for his great whopping sausage."
Dayne winced. There were some things she didn't feel bore discussion, not even in the privacy of the nurses' lounge. That was one of them. She got up to leave.
"Have you ever seen anyone that gorgeous before?" Roxanne mused.
Mary said, "Oh, hell, Rox—she bought that face. The tits, too—I'd bet anything. Real people just don't look like that. And to be a doctor . . ." Mary laughed. "Come on . . . she's at least thirty. And she looks—what? Nineteen? Twenty?"
Dayne went out to gather her morning linen. She still had Walter "Call Me Walt" Harvey in 432-E. D was empty, though. Wilthom Fields, relieved of his gremlins, had gotten a good night's sleep and, cheerful and sane as anyone could hope to be, had transferred out to the floor for a single additional day of observation. Dr. Batskold had transferred him the night before, just before putting himself on an extended leave of absence and dumping his practice in the hands of Dr. Ken Weary, who, unlike Batskold, had a passing acquaintance with human beings and how to act like one.
Dayne found herself, with a touch of uncharitability, hoping Bastard didn't make it back before she left for her new job. There were some people on the planet she'd be happier never having to see again, and he was certainly high on the list.
According to Frank, there was something big going on in the ER—and if it came to the ICU, it was going to land on Dayne, since she had the only open bed. She hurried into E, hoping to get her A.M. care done before anything big came her way.
"Morning, Mr. Harvey!" She put down the fresh linens and began filling the little plastic washbasin. "How are you feeling this morning?"
"Call me Walt," he said, and laughed.
She laughed with him. "Walt, then. I forgot."
"I'm a lucky man—pacemaker just ticking away, being taken care of this morning by a lovely angel, and not a care in the world."
Dayne glanced at the third of four units of blood Walt was going to get, hanging over his head and dripping slowly into his veins, and wondered at his cheerfulness. He almost hadn't made it. According to Frank, his internist and his surgeon had both come in when he finally got up to his ICU room to discuss with him how very nearly he hadn't made it.
"He just smiled and said he'd seen the return of the age of miracles, and if he didn't live another day he would still die a happy man," Frank had reported. "He seemed to mean it."
Dayne smiled at Walt Harvey and made a joke out of his comment about angels. "No angels this morning—but at least you don't have gremlins like one of my patients yesterday."
"I heard about that. Frank was telling me about it. Seems one of the doctors took them all away with him—sort of like those Eskimo shamans sucking the evil spirits out of their patients."
Frank had evidently edited the story a bit. Far be it from her to alter his version. "I suppose you could look at it that way. It was one of the best things I've ever seen that doctor do, anyway."
Walt nodded. "Quite a hero, that young fellow."
Dayne agreed with a forced smile and let the subject drop. Walt chattered on. With the blood running into him, he was perky and alert. According to Frank, he'd looked like Death when he'd finally arrived.
He rambled on, telling her about his deceased wife and about his daughters and brood of grandchildren, and she half-listened, adding appropriate comments when they occurred to her, but her heart really wasn't in it. Something Mary had said at the end of report was bothering her—something about people who were too perfect to be real.
When Roxanne said she'd never seen anyone as perfect-looking as the new Dr. Jezick, Dayne hadn't said anything. But she had seen someone precisely that perfect. In fact, he'd shown up on her doorstep the day after God released the Hellraised. Wonderful, handsome, sexy beyond words, he'd blown into town with a lot of money and no verifiable past, and had somehow gotten past her not-inconsiderable reservations; he'd worked his way, in no time, into her life and her heart.
I have this thing for trouble, she thought—this ability to pick out the men who aren't going to be good for me from any collection made up mostly of men who would. I fell once before for a handsome devil with a perfect smile. What if I have again?
She considered the other things that didn't bode well for the relationship. There weren't that many. The fact that she was expecting someone to tempt her, but that so far no one had appeared. Adam's sheer perfection. That business with the blood on the contract and the specially treated paper that burst into flames—actually, that was pretty unnerving, especially since she hadn't bothered to read the entire contract. She promised herself she would read the entire contract before she signed on with Satco. . . .
Satco? The name hadn't set off any alarms before, but it did then.
She finished the portion of Walt's morning care that he required help with and went out to chart vital signs. After she wrote down her morning assessment, she dialed information, and requested the street address listed with the phone number for Satco. She decided she'd stop by her favorite florist on the way home, get herself a few flowers, and see if whoever was there could show her how to find the place. Florists could find anything.
She thought she loved Adam D'Agonostis. She wanted to believe that he loved her. That kiss—it had been real. At least, she wanted to believe it had been real. The attraction between them wasn't just him leading her on—was it? She would have bet almost anything that he cared as much about her as she cared about him.
Was she willing to bet her soul? What if she'd signed the contract. In nursing, contracts and consent forms signed without informed consent weren't valid—so she spent a great deal of time making sure that her patients understood the meaning of each section of every piece of paper they signed. She felt almost certain that most businesses operated under the same "informed consent" restrictions.
Hell, though . . . Somehow, she didn't think Hell would be concerned about the Earthly legality of the contracts it signed. And it probably had quite a cadre of legal talent available to call on should someone raise questions. As much as anything, the fact that Adam hadn't insisted on going over the contract with her made her wonder who—and what—he really was.
The phone rang, and Roxanne got it. She handed it over to Dayne with a grimace and said, "Emergency Room."
Dayne sighed. That would be her new admission. She got out her notepaper and said, "Hi, there. This is Dayne. Who am I talking to?"
And she took report on her new patient—he was a seven-year-old boy who'd been involved in a car accident and who hadn't been wearing his seatbelt. He'd been riding in the back seat, and the car had been involved in a slow head-on with a drunk. Mom and Dad were both fine; they'd had their seatbelts on. But the boy's diagnosis was head trauma with skull fracture and internal bleeding, and his prognosis was lousy. E.R. had just shipped him into surgery, but he was scheduled to go to Dayne when he got out of the recovery room. It was going to be a while before she got him, the E.R. nurse said, but she'd wanted Dayne to have some idea of what to expect.
Dayne hung up the phone and closed her eyes and rubbed at her temples.
A seven-year-old kid. Dayne had a hard time being objective about children. She'd been pregnant once, though she had miscarried in the sixth month. Her doctor had suggested stress as a possible reason; Dayne had just found out about another of Torry's affairs at the same time that she was working extra hours in the hospital because he was between jobs.
Her baby, a boy, had survived for a single day in the Neonatal Intensive Care unit. For one day, she had been a mother.
Torry died before they could try again. She didn't know if there would have been any other children for the two of them had he lived. Probably not; he hadn't made the best parent material in the world. But she would have thought about it, just because she'd wanted that baby so much.
This child's parents had been given a son—a perfect son—and they hadn't been careful. Such a simple precaution; a seatbelt. She couldn't help but be angry at them, even as she felt sorry for them. They'd had a responsibility, and they'd failed to live up to it.
Mary looked at her over the top of her glasses. "You okay?"
"Not really. I'm getting a little kid in, after he gets through surgery . . . if he makes it. He was in a bad auto accident."
"Oh, shit."
"Worse than that. E.R. said he was profoundly unresponsive at the scene, and he never responded to anything. Apparently he quit breathing not too long after the squad picked him up. They're having really bad internal bleeding, and increased intracranial pressure."
"That will turn him into a vegetable even if they manage to fix the internal bleeding," Mary muttered. "Once the brain swells, there isn't much hope."
"Kids are resilient," Dayne said, not believing it when she said it. "He might pull through."
Mary glanced sidelong at her and said, "You've had more than your share of miracles, don't you think?"
Dayne sighed. "Don't you wish that you could just make them better? I mean say a few words or something, and watch everything that was wrong with them just go away?"
"Of course I do. We all do. I have to ask you, Dayno—when you had your big revelation and decided to pray, why didn't you pray for something useful like that? Why in God's name did you pray for Hell on Earth? We had a gargoyle in our garden last night. It ate our neighbor's Pekes—which was fine by me, incidentally. Those damn dogs barked all night. But then it came over and rooted through my shrubs, and when I ran out to chase it off, it flew over our car and dropped a bucketload of the stinkingest . . ." Mary took a sip of her Diet Pepsi and said, "By the time we got the mess off, parts of the paint job were eaten down to the metal. And you know what my damned insurance agent told me?"
Dayne shook her head slowly.
"Insurance won't cover the damage—because gargoyles are an act of God."
"Oh, no!"
"Those weren't quite the words George used. But I was saying—you could have prayed for a sensible miracle, you know. Something that would benefit everyone." Mary flipped her chart shut and leaned back in her chair, studying Dayne. "I saw you on TV, and I heard what you said about second chances in Hell and all that—but I still think if you had thought about this, you could have asked God for a better miracle. This is the sort of miracle that's only interesting if you don't live in North Carolina."
Dr. Jezick strolled out of the break room and nodded politely to both of them. Dayne hadn't realized she was in there. The doctor put one chart back in the rack and took another, and strolled back into the break room again.
Dayne leaned over and whispered in Mary's ear, "When did she get back?
Mary frowned and shrugged. "I didn't know she was back."
Dayne nodded. She had planned to watch what she said in front of the new doctor. She thought back over her conversation with Mary and decided she had said nothing she wouldn't have said had she known; but she was very glad she hadn't mentioned Adam. Somehow, it seemed important not to mention him in front of Mhya Jezick.
Dayne glance at her watch. "Oops. Mary, it's ten after. I have some ten a.m. meds on Harvey. You have anything you want me to do for you while I'm up?"
Mary shook her head. "Thanks anyway. The next thing I have is a peritoneal dialysis at eleven. Both of mine can mostly take care of themselves."
Dayne grinned. "Nice change. Wish it was going to last."
She got up to give her meds, and suddenly found Jezick watching over her shoulder. The other woman had her hands shoved into the pockets of her lab coat. She walked surprisingly quietly in those high heels. Dayne looked her in the eye, though she had to look up quite a ways to do it; the other woman met her gaze and tipped her head to one side, while one corner of her mouth curved in an amused little smile. Jezick arched an eyebrow and waited. Dayne pursed her lips and went back to double-checking the labeling and dosage of the medications she needed to give.
She hated being watched. She really hated being watched while she gave medications; it interfered with her concentration. She didn't say anything, though. After all, the ICU staff was supposed to cooperate with the new doctor.