Stark got up from behind his massive desk and walked along the ranks of bookshelves. He was deep in thought and he let his hand carelessly caress the gilded edges of a first-edition Dickens. Suddenly it came to him in a moment of inspiration that brought a smile to his face.
“Beautiful … so appropriate,” he said out loud. He laughed, his anger already forgotten.
Thursday, February 26, 8:47 P.M.
Susan dashed from the cab without paying and made a bee-line for the Memorial entrance. She had no money and did not intend to get into an argument. The driver jumped out of the cab, too, shouting angrily. He caught the attention of one of the guards, but Susan was already through the entrance.
Susan had to slow to a walk in the main hall. Ahead of her she was dismayed to see Bellows, headed in the same direction. Susan worked her way up to a position directly behind him and debated with herself about catching his attention. She thought again about how he had caused her to disregard the tissue typing done on the coma patients. There was a chance that Bellows was involved. Besides, she remembered Stark’s admonition to speak to no one. So when they reached the corner of the corridor, Susan let Bellows continue down toward the ER. She turned toward the Beard elevators. One was waiting, and she got on and pushed 10.
Susan’s view of the hall became progressively occluded by the closing door. But at the very last minute a hand wrapped around the edge of the door, halting it. Susan stared blankly at it before the face of a guard came into view.
“I would like to have a word with you, Miss,” he said, still holding the door open despite its continued attempts to close, as Susan pressed on the “door close” button.
“Please come off the elevator.”
“But I’m in a terrible hurry. It’s an emergency.”
“The emergency room is on this floor, Miss.”
Susan reluctantly complied with the guard’s demands and got off the elevator. The doors closed behind her, and the car began its ascent to the tenth floor without any occupants.
“It’s not that kind of emergency,” pleaded Susan.
“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.