By My Hands by Alton Gansky Page B

installed
next to the desk. Classical music gently filled the room. Rachel
couldn’t help but think of her Spartan office on the fourth floor.
The incongruity that an administrative assistant should warrant an
office of greater comfort than a highly trained physician angered
Rachel.
    Mary reappeared with a smile. “Dr. Morgan will see
you now.” As Rachel nodded and crossed the threshold into the
hospital administrator’s office, she was immediately struck by the
difference in interiors. Mary’s office was like a warm den in a
large home; a place where one would drink herb teas and read the
classics. Dr. Morgan’s office was a cavernous high-tech room that
looked like something out of the future. The walls were painted
with a high-gloss white enamel. All the furnishings, couches,
chairs, and a large conference table, were stark black. The thick
pile carpet was white with thin, black, intersecting lines that
made Rachel feel like she was standing on graph paper.
    “Thank you for coming, Dr. Tremaine.” The cheerful
voice came from a distinguished-looking man seated behind a large,
glass-topped desk. As he stood to greet her, Rachel was reminded of
how tall he was. Six-foot-three, she judged. He was slim, lacking
the usual paunch that middle-aged men develop. His hair was
absolutely white and his smile was impeccable.
    “Please, Doctor, sit down.” He motioned to the black
leather chair opposite his desk. “I appreciate your coming on such
short notice. I know your schedule must be terribly busy. May I
offer you some coffee or tea?”
    “No, thank you.” Rachel was out of her element, and
the comfort of the chair did nothing to dispel her anxiety. She
felt like a child called from class to the principal’s office
without knowing why.
    “Mary, if you are ready, we’ll begin.” Turning to
Rachel he said, “Mary takes notes on all my meetings. I assume that
you are aware of the unusual happenings of late.”
    Rachel remained silent.
    “What I mean is the sudden, shall we say,
symptomatic reversals.”
    “The healings,” Rachel said matter-of-factly.
    “Exactly.” Dr. Morgan leaned forward, placing both
elbows on the desk and folding his hands. “Unfortunately, word got
out before we could do any meaningful investigation. The sick are
arriving from all over the city, and there appears to be no
letup.”
    “I’m afraid that I’m not very good at admission
problems.” Morgan laughed, filling the room with sonorous tones.
“You misunderstand me. I’m not asking you to help in the admitting
department.” Morgan picked up a brown folder and handed it to
Rachel. “That folder holds the medical records of both patients who
have been involved in these incidents.”
    Taking the folder from Morgan’s hand, Rachel
wondered at his consistent redefining of the healings, preferring
terms like “incidents” and “unusual happenings.”
    “I want you to be this hospital’s investigating
physician. You’ll have free run of the hospital and labs—within
reason, of course. You’ll also help with the press.”
    “Dr. Morgan, I’m not sure that my schedule will
allow me—”
    “I’m not finished.” Morgan’s tone became
authoritative. “This task is very important. Our board of directors
wants some answers as does this hospital’s medical board, and I’ve
chosen you to help find those answers. Your patients will be
assigned to other staff for the remainder of the
investigation.”
    “But, sir—”
    “Of course, you may oversee their care, but I want
you to give this your utmost attention.” Morgan stood, signaling
the end of the discussion. “I have every confidence in your
abilities. Your record here is spotless. You will report directly
to me or to Mary and—please hear this carefully—to no one
else.”
    Morgan was issuing a command and not requesting
help. “Dr. Morgan. Perhaps someone else would do a better—”
    “No. You are my choice.” Morgan walked to the door
and Mary followed