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Waking Walt
by Larry Pontius

Chapter One

At precisely 9:00 p.m. Arthur Nolan strode into the Oncology Unit at St. Joseph ’s Medical Center in Burbank , California . Lank and gray headed, he carried a black physician’s bag, his lab coat flapping, a stethoscope at his neck. There was virtually no chance anyone would suspect he was anything but a doctor, much less guess the reason he was there.

            The thought gave Nolan an extra measure of confidence; not that he needed it. He was a doctor. He’d been a resident in oncology right here at St. Joseph ’s. It didn’t matter that it was nearly 40 years ago, that he’d walked away, never finished. This wasn’t laser surgery. It was bulldozing nurses, walking off with a few c.c.s of a controlled substance. Riding a bicycle for any doctor.

            One of two nurses in the station, a slim, darkly pretty Hispanic in her mid- twenties, looked up as he approached. “Can I help you, doctor?” she asked pleasantly. 

            Nolan plumped the physician’s bag down on the counter. “I’m Zielinski,” he snapped. The name had been picked from the obituaries in the Los Angeles Times and checked carefully against the physician listings in the yellow pages. There wasn’t a Dr. Zielinski in the entire LA basin, in oncology or any other specialty.

            The nurse managed a wan smile and waited, clearly at a loss.

            Nolan sighed. “ Valley Cancer Center in Glendale ?” 

            “I…I’m sorry. Were we to be expecting you?”

            Now he rolled his eyes at the ceiling and slowly shook his head. “Unless the Chief of Oncology has taken up practical jokes, yes!”

            “Dr. Bell?”

            “Well, at least you know his name.”

            “Was he meeting you or something?”

            “No, no! Don’t you people talk to each other at all? He called this afternoon, practically begging for a second opinion!”

            She glanced at her watch. Nolan caught it. “And I can assure you tonight was not my idea.” he added immediately, pressing, keeping her off balance. “Not at the end of a thirteen hour day.” But, of course, that was precisely the idea; arriving late, when there would be fewer curious eyes, a less experienced staff. People with any seniority almost never worked nights. “According to him, this is something that just came up,” Nolan continued sourly. “Has to be faxed something the first thing tomorrow. Absolutely ridiculous!”

            “I’m sure doctor Bell appreciates you coming out so late,” the nurse offered lamely. “I was just concerned that the patient might already be asleep.”

            “Well, it’s just too bad if they are.”

            She turned to her computer, hiding a wince. “Do you have the name?”

            “It’s here somewhere.” He stuffed a hand into one of the empty pockets in his coat, then frowned, and fished in the other side. He kept her waiting, fingers on the keyboard, while he tried his pants. Finally, out of pockets, he gave a shrug. “Still on my desk, I suppose. It’s one of the patients in the squamous cell carcinoma research project. What is it? You know, the ah…Ling study out of Arizona .”

            A shadow crossed her face, but she nodded. “That does limit the search. We only have one: Ruth Morgan.” She started typing.

            “That so? You’d think Bell would mention that, make life easier. Well, it makes no difference now. I’ll need a look at the chart, and then a few minutes with the patient. ”

            She had finished her entry and leaned back from the screen frowning. When she tapped the Enter key again, Nolan felt a first, small splash of adrenaline. “Is there a problem with that?” he asked.

            “What?” the nurse said, looking up. “No. I can call up the chart for you on one of the CRTs back here, and Mrs. Morgan is just down the hall in 326.”

            “That’ll be fine.” He lifted the black physician’s bag off the counter. “We’ve got computerized charts in Glendale . I work with them all day.” But she’d turned back to the computer and showed no sign of moving. Nolan shifted the empty bag from one hand to the other. The handle was damp. “Nurse, can we do this tonight?”

            She looked up again, a bit flustered. “Yes, of course, doctor. It’s just that…”

            “Just what?” Nolan demanded.

            “Well, I can’t find your clearance.”

            “What are you talking about?”

            “From Dr. Bell.”

            He stared hard at her. “Let me understand this; I come out in the middle of the night to do him a favor, and he has to give me clearance to do it?”

            She hesitated, unsure, and then turned in her seat. “Mrs. Farber?”

            The other nurse, a small, wiry woman with gray hair pulled back in a bun and a no-nonsense line about her mouth, came over. Nolan didn’t like her. Instinct. “Yes, Teresa?” she asked.

            “This is doctor…ah…” Teresa closed her eyes, a flush climbing up her neck. “Sorry again, doctor. I’m dreadful!”

            “Zie - lin - ski,” he provided in clipped chunks, smoldering. “With Valley Cancer Center in Glendale .”

            The young nurse quickly picked up from there. “Dr. Bell asked him for a second opinion on Mrs. Morgan. But…well, I can’t find a clearance.”

            The older woman made a shooing motion with her hand. “Here, let me.”

            Teresa relinquished her chair and Farber settled in. “I’m Helen Farber, duty supervisor,” she told Nolan. “Dr. Zielinski, is it?”

            “Edward J.”

            Her fingers rattled the keyboard. “From Valley Cancer Center , you said?”

            “Yes. That’s what I just said.”

            She smiled her professional smile, warm as a bedpan. “I’m sorry, but we have to have Dr. Bell’s approval for anything to do with our Ling patient. You understand; it’s these experimental treatments. He insists we do everything by the book, and nothing that’s not in it.” She made a face. “Just miserable for everyone.”

            Finished typing, she hit the Enter key. The response from the computer was instantaneous and obviously the same as before. “Well, Teresa is right,” she said. There’s no clearance here for Zielinski, or anyone else to see Ruth Morgan.”

            “You understand Dr. Bell asked me to do this?”

            “Oh, I’m sure he did.” 

            “As a favor.”

            She nodded and smiled patronizingly. “But there’s no clearance here.”

            The old prune wasn’t going to budge. Nolan’s face darkened. “Then, I suggest you reach him at home and get one!” he snarled, booming the last two words in her face.

            Farber was completely taken aback. “Doctor, lower your voice,” she hushed, glancing up and down the hallway.

            Ignoring the reprimand, he bellowed, “Now!” When she didn’t react instantly he angrily jabbed a hand across the station wall. “Alright, give me the God damned phone! I’m not wasting a trip over here, not this late. If he wants to bite someone’s head off, I’ll show him some teeth!”

            Teresa had found a stack of papers to shuffle, head down. Helen Farber glared at Nolan; her lips pressed pencil thin, for what seemed a full minute. Finally she said, “Just make a note in the chart, Teresa.”

            Ten minutes later, sitting at a terminal inside the nurses’ station, Nolan finished reviewing Ruth Morgan’s medical chart. She was a fifty-two year old black female who had been diagnosed six months ago with a fist-sized squamous cell carcinoma in the anterior lobe of her right lung. It was inoperable. Her primary care physician, Dr. Susan Stone, had given her a survival prognosis of four to six months, even with chemotherapy which could only promise a more humiliating ending. At that point, Dr. Bell, as Chief of Oncology, had stepped in and suggested she be placed in the pool of patients available for extreme measures. Guinea pigs. Ruth Morgan had grabbed at the straw. A week later she was chosen as a subject for the Ling Study and admitted to begin a series of injections of Linaqual, a new and highly experimental gene-spliced drug.

            Nolan only vaguely understood how it worked. It wasn’t important now. What mattered was on the last page of the chart. He re-read the entry; the results from the latest battery of tests ordered by Dan Bell.

            Mrs. Morgan had problems. Her blood pressure was elevated at 167 over 94, she had an electrolyte imbalance, her liver enzymes were up, and her serum cholesterol was 274, high for her age. But Ruth Morgan was completely free of any sign of cancer. She had been for nearly sixty days. It was the confirmation of the New England Journal of Medicine reports they’d been looking for, the living proof.

            He removed his glasses and rubbed his eyes. Teresa had answered a buzz from a confused patient who couldn’t operate his television remote. Nolan and the prune were alone, sitting in front of computer screens at opposite ends of the station.

            “This medication, Linaqual, requires refrigeration,” he said. “I assume you have a pharmacy on this floor, a refrigerator with individual patient drawers—and keys?”

            Farber took her time, finishing another entry before she swiveled around. “Yes. But it’s not kept there.”

            A compressor clicked on somewhere, whispering away the silence between them.

            “Where is it?”

            “In Mrs. Morgan’s room. Dr. Bell bought one of those small refrigerators.”

            He got a hand up in time to cover the sudden grin he couldn’t suppress. Might as well send an embossed invitation, Nolan thought. But he said, “What for, lunch brown bags?”

            Helen Farber frowned. “You don’t think anyone on the staff would...”

            “What do you think? You’re a supervisor; you know them. I hear ripe cheese is a good contaminator. Is there a lock on the fridge?”

            “I’m not sure. I don’t think so.”

            Nolan raised an eyebrow. “It’s not my patient. Or problem.” He slipped his glasses back on and started gathering the notes he’d made.

            After a moment she said, “I’m sure Dr. Bell just forgot you’d be coming. He’s very busy. ”

            “We’re all busy. You included,” responded Nolan in half-hearted acceptance of her obvious attempt at damage repair. 

            Before either of them could say anything further, Teresa returned and Farber went back to all business. “You’re finished?” she asked Nolan.  When he nodded, she turned to Teresa. “I want you to go with Dr. Zielinski, wake up Mrs. Morgan if you have to, and introduce him, so she’ll feel comfortable.”

            “Of course,” said Teresa. “It’s this way, doctor.”

            “And, Teresa…”

            “Yes?”

            “Check that little refrigerator in her room. See if it has a lock.” Farber watched for a reaction from Nolan, but he was stone-faced.

            Ruth Morgan was asleep, her reading light still on, a paperback face down on her chest where it had slipped when she dropped off. It must have been only minutes before because she stirred when they entered the room.

            “Mrs. Morgan?” Teresa said softly.

            “Hmm?

            “It’s Teresa, the night nurse.” The eyes opened, then drooped shut. “This is Dr. Zielinski. He’d like to talk to you for a few minutes.”

            “Doctor?” she murmured, struggling to open her eyes again. “All right.”

            That’s fine,” Nolan said quietly to Teresa. He took Ruth Morgan’s wrist, feeling for her pulse. “This’ll take a few minutes. No need for you to stay,” he said to the young nurse. It wasn’t a suggestion.

            Teresa started for the door and then stopped. “I almost forgot. The refrigerator.”

            “That’s okay,” said Nolan. “I’ll check it.” He watched as she let herself out.

            “What time?” Ruth Morgan mumbled.

            Nolan looked down at her. She was nearly asleep again. He smiled and the change was remarkable. Zielinski was gone, and in his place, a warm and caring man. He gently put her exposed arm under the blanket. “It’s late,” he whispered. “But that’s all I need. You can sleep now.”

            He counted to ten in time with her breathing, which slowed, becoming deeper with each breath. When he was certain she was asleep, he moved to the small fridge situated under the window. The ampoules were two inches long and as big around as a finger, filled with an iridescent green liquid. Nolan counted 90. Enough, he thought, and breathed easier.

 It would have been simpler, surer to just request a supply from the researchers. If they knew who was being treated, they’d jump at the chance. But no one could be told, not yet. It would be a circus. A nightmare! In the end it would be anyhow. There was no stopping that. But now they needed time, undisturbed. A month, maybe two.  

             He carefully transferred 88 of the ampoules to his bag, rolling them in the cotton he’d brought with him, leaving Ruth Morgan two to tide her over until more could be ordered. At the door, he paused to look back at the figure in the bed. She was snoring lightly. “A friend thanks you, sleeping beauty,” he said softly and couldn’t resist adding, “If only you knew.” 

            In the corridor, caution made him glance toward the nurses’ station. At first everything seemed normal. The young nurse was standing outside the station talking to Farber. Then Farber pointed down the hall in his direction and the other nurse turned. Nolan cursed under his breath. That wasn’t Teresa. It was a man, a doctor!

There was a verbal exchange between the two, too far away for him to hear, and the man began walking in his direction, in no hurry it seemed. Nolan started the other way at the same kind of pace, toward the double doors at the entrance to the Oncology Unit—and the elevator.

            Two steps. Three. Then, Farber’s stage whisper: “Dr Zielinski, here’s Dr. Bell!”

            He increased his pace slightly, angling his head, listening.

            “Doctor? Wait!”

Nolan jerked at the sound of Bell’s voice. It was commanding, and close.  Resisting a panicky urge to look over his shoulder, he moved faster. Now he could hear the steady thud of footfalls keeping time with his own. The double doors were just ahead. Then, he was there, pushing through. He couldn’t breathe. But his luck was back. The elevator was at the third floor, doors open! Nolan whirled to look behind him. Bell hadn’t reached the entrance doors yet. His chest heaving, he lurched into the elevator, reached out frantically to jab the button for the first floor and then froze, an inch away. He gulped a breath, swallowed, and pressed seven. As the doors began to close he slipped between them, back into the hall. The exit to the stairs was just beyond the elevator. Nolan stumbled forward, banged his shoulder into the door, and nearly fell into a small landing area. Leaning heavily on the railing, he started down.

             The clamor from above he expected at any second never came. At the first floor he paused behind the door, sucking air, fighting for control. It was a full minute before he recovered enough to continue, and then he was still shaky. His head throbbed, his mouth felt stuffed with cotton. Finally he eased the door open and stepped into the main lobby. To his relief, it was virtually deserted; a patient with a walker hobbling toward a corridor on the opposite wall and a couple of nurses waiting at the elevator. Moments later, he emerged from the emergency entrance and started across the circular drive in front of the hospital, trying not to wobble, just another doctor going home after a long day.

            The night air was cool, but still thick with the usual respiratory nightmare that hung over the San Fernando Valley , stinging his eyes, thick as molasses in his lungs. When he reached the pedestrian walkway between the circular drive and the main parking lot he stopped directly under one of the towering security lights. A few cars were scattered in the first three rows, beyond that there were only shadows. Then a pair of headlights snapped on. As Nolan stepped off the curb, they winked out.

            He had covered more than half the distance before he realized something was wrong. The black bag was getting heavier; he was losing his grip. He kept moving, struggling to shift the weight to his other hand, almost dropping it in a clumsy exchange, and finally stopped. The headache was much worse, excruciating! He felt nauseous. He raised his hand and examined it, flexed it.

            The tingling sensation crawled from the outside of his little finger up his arm like a spider. Nolan had always hated spiders, and even through the fog settling over his mind, he recognized this one for what it was. But it was already too late. The massive clot had stopped tumbling slowly upwards through the carotid artery, lodged itself against a sticky wall just behind his ear, and was blocking the flow of blood to his brain.

            Nolan raised his head and peered into the shadows, a sad, crooked smile on his face. “I got it!” he thought he said, but the words were unintelligible. He took a faltering step and collapsed, crashing straight down like a felled tree.           

            In the next instant, a car engine turned over.  A black Lexus 400 sedan rolled forward and two men got out. One moved to the motionless form on the pavement. The other disappeared into the darkness, where the black bag had tumbled. It was only seconds before he returned empty handed and joined the man bending over Nolan. After an aborted attempt to lift his body, they dragged him to the car, barely keeping his head and shoulders off the concrete. They manhandled the inert bulk into the back seat and climbed in, one with the slumped Nolan and the other up front next to the driver. The entire operation had taken less than a minute, but it was only just quick enough.

            As the last door closed, a figured loomed out of the dark, charging the car; a big blond headed man with a military haircut, dressed in a gray uniform. “Hospital security!” he yelled, throwing up his hands. “Stop!”

            The Lexus engine snarled and the rear end settled, spewing out stones and concrete debris. The car slued on its spinning rear wheels long enough for the security guard to close the last few yards and slam into the passenger side door. He flailed at the polished, ebony surfaces trying to find a purchase, grabbing at the side view mirror in desperation, stumbling, being half dragged. At the last second, as the tires hit bottom and the Lexus leaped across the parking lot, he pushed away, legs churning, arms flapping like a great bird, and managed to bring himself to a stop without falling.       

            He was still doubled over, gasping, when a second man appeared out of the dark. “Sorry…got away!” the security guard puffed to him.

            “That was smart!” Dan Bell said sarcastically. “You people go to Security School to learn how to do that? I suppose you get the license plate number by running along side like that, huh?”

            The guard grunted, “Shit!” and continued to wheeze.

            “I found this.” Bell held up the black bag Nolan had carried. “Looks like he tossed it. Doesn’t make sense. He was getting away with it.”

            “Wrong stuff?” the guard managed. He drew in a couple of deeper breaths, beginning to recover. “Looking for steroids, maybe.”

            The doctor gave a dismissive shake of his head. “He knew what he was after. Besides, steroids wouldn’t do him any good at his age. The nurses said he was in his early sixties.”

            “You’re probably right. The others were even older.”

            Bell looked at him. “Others?”

            “Yeah,” the guard said. “There were four of them altogether. I didn’t get much of a look, but the driver and the other two geezers had to be seventy. At least.”

            The doctor stared at him for five full seconds. Finally, he looked away, glancing around the darkened parking lot, back toward the lights of the hospital. “That’s fine!” he said. “Just great! The security of the most important cancer research project in the history of St. Joseph ’s is penetrated by of gang of geriatrics!” He turned abruptly and started toward the hospital. Three steps into the trip he wheeled around and came back, moving in close to the hulking guard, right in his face. “What’s your name?”

“Koubek,” he said, blinking. “Stan Koubek.”

“Let me tell you something, Stanley ,” Bell seethed in a hoarse whisper. “You screwed up! I should have your job right now! Tonight. But there are things involved here that are more important than getting rid of one screw up. Do you have any idea the prestige a hospital gets from this kind of research? The power it gives you in grant applications, the attention it gives you? No, you wouldn’t have any idea, would you? What do you imagine would happen if people found out about this fiasco you nearly let happen tonight?”

Koubek was dumbstruck by the verbal thrashing. He was an ex-Marine, a veteran of Bosnia, and six foot three, 260 pounds. No one talked to him that way. For a moment he considered taking Bell out right there in the parking lot, but he needed this job. It was the only thing he had left. “I…don’t know,” he mumbled.

“You better hope that no one ever does find out! And you better make damned sure nothing like it ever happens again. You understand? Nothing and I mean nothing is going to jeopardize my research projects! You got that through you thick skull?”

“Okay, okay,” Koubek said, trying to calm him. “What do you want me to do?”

The tension in the doctor’s neck and shoulders eased slightly. He looked around on the ground for a moment, then picked a small green vial and handed it to Koubek. “Linaqual ampoules are spread all over out here. Pick them up. Make sure you get every one of them and bring them to my office in Oncology. Then get back on the job, and this time try to stay awake!”

“You don’t want to know who they were? They could come back.”

Bell sighed, shook his head, and sent a frustrated glance up into the night. “If you do your damned job, Stanley, we won’t have to worry about that, will we?” he said and then stalked off across the parking lot toward the hospital.

 Fifteen minutes later, as Stan Koubek was making one last sweep of the area with his flashlight, he found something completely unexpected.

© copyright 2002 Larry Pontius