know? It’s a tension thing. Please, Martha, I’ve got to go now.”
“Well.” Martha looked mulish. “All right.”
Ida threw the money on the plastic tray and bolted, back down the line, back through the doors, out into the stairwell again. She did not, however, go to the ladies room. She went up the stairs instead.
One of the few things Ida Greel had always liked about her body was her legs, because they were strong, and because they were fast. Right now, she wanted to be very, very fast.
9
I T WAS AFTER EIGHT o’clock by the time Dr. Michael Pride got a chance to breathe again, and by then he was so tired it felt like too much effort to draw breath. It felt like too much effort to take off his gloves and his mask and sit down. It felt like too much effort to think about what he was going to have to do next. He was going to have to do a great deal. He had just performed two very difficult operations, because those two had been the two least able to wait. Over the next twenty-four hours, he was going to have to perform half a dozen more—and that was assuming that his emergency help didn’t wimp out on him, which they probably would. Michael was very good at getting fancy high-paid physicians to come down to the center and do some work, but those physicians defined work in their inimitable Park Avenue way and not in the way anyone on staff at the center was forced to define it. Michael would start to consider himself overworked when he had done three more surgeries back-to-back and without sleep. His two friends probably thought they were about to collapse from exhaustion already, having each performed one.
Paragon of workaholism or not, though, Michael had to admit he needed a break. If he went right back into OR the way he was now, he would make mistakes. He refused to make mistakes. He knew the way these people lived. They were the guinea pigs for every new procedure, the victims of every quack, the client lists of every half-qualified pretender who squeaked through the boards with a crib sheet. Michael’s whole point in starting the center was to give them better than that.
I’d better go upstairs and drink coffee in peace, Michael told himself. He looked around for Augie but couldn’t find her. The hall outside OR was full of people in white coats, people he knew, but he was tired enough so that they didn’t look familiar. He stuffed his used surgical gloves into a red waste disposal and headed for the stairs. Everybody was calming down now. He could feel it. The shooting must have stopped.
Halfway up the stairs to his office, he passed Sister Kenna coming down. She was looking frazzled but relieved. She held her long habit up so she wouldn’t trip on it.
“Oh, Dr. Pride,” she said. “There you are. People have been looking for you everywhere.”
“I’ve been operating.”
“That’s what Sister Augustine said. When you have a chance you should try to find that granddaughter of Mr. van Straadt’s, the pretty one. You know, the one who doesn’t work at the center.”
“Rosalie.”
“That’s the one. I just saw her upstairs. She’s looking for you.”
“I’ll check her out as soon as I get a chance.”
“Thank you, Dr. Pride. I’m sure it must be something terribly important.”
Michael thought it must be something terribly important, too, meaning his arrest, or maybe just the publicity resulting from his arrest. He knew he didn’t want to talk about any of it, not now and not later, not ever. God, what a mess all that was.
He went the rest of the way up and looked into Eamon Donleavy’s office. It was empty. He looked across the corridor at his own door and sighed. His door was closed, and he never closed it when he was still in the building and available for work—meaning he never closed it, except once or twice a month when he made a point of going into the east building and spending the night, just so that the nuns would stop fussing at him. If his door was closed now
“Well.” Martha looked mulish. “All right.”
Ida threw the money on the plastic tray and bolted, back down the line, back through the doors, out into the stairwell again. She did not, however, go to the ladies room. She went up the stairs instead.
One of the few things Ida Greel had always liked about her body was her legs, because they were strong, and because they were fast. Right now, she wanted to be very, very fast.
9
I T WAS AFTER EIGHT o’clock by the time Dr. Michael Pride got a chance to breathe again, and by then he was so tired it felt like too much effort to draw breath. It felt like too much effort to take off his gloves and his mask and sit down. It felt like too much effort to think about what he was going to have to do next. He was going to have to do a great deal. He had just performed two very difficult operations, because those two had been the two least able to wait. Over the next twenty-four hours, he was going to have to perform half a dozen more—and that was assuming that his emergency help didn’t wimp out on him, which they probably would. Michael was very good at getting fancy high-paid physicians to come down to the center and do some work, but those physicians defined work in their inimitable Park Avenue way and not in the way anyone on staff at the center was forced to define it. Michael would start to consider himself overworked when he had done three more surgeries back-to-back and without sleep. His two friends probably thought they were about to collapse from exhaustion already, having each performed one.
Paragon of workaholism or not, though, Michael had to admit he needed a break. If he went right back into OR the way he was now, he would make mistakes. He refused to make mistakes. He knew the way these people lived. They were the guinea pigs for every new procedure, the victims of every quack, the client lists of every half-qualified pretender who squeaked through the boards with a crib sheet. Michael’s whole point in starting the center was to give them better than that.
I’d better go upstairs and drink coffee in peace, Michael told himself. He looked around for Augie but couldn’t find her. The hall outside OR was full of people in white coats, people he knew, but he was tired enough so that they didn’t look familiar. He stuffed his used surgical gloves into a red waste disposal and headed for the stairs. Everybody was calming down now. He could feel it. The shooting must have stopped.
Halfway up the stairs to his office, he passed Sister Kenna coming down. She was looking frazzled but relieved. She held her long habit up so she wouldn’t trip on it.
“Oh, Dr. Pride,” she said. “There you are. People have been looking for you everywhere.”
“I’ve been operating.”
“That’s what Sister Augustine said. When you have a chance you should try to find that granddaughter of Mr. van Straadt’s, the pretty one. You know, the one who doesn’t work at the center.”
“Rosalie.”
“That’s the one. I just saw her upstairs. She’s looking for you.”
“I’ll check her out as soon as I get a chance.”
“Thank you, Dr. Pride. I’m sure it must be something terribly important.”
Michael thought it must be something terribly important, too, meaning his arrest, or maybe just the publicity resulting from his arrest. He knew he didn’t want to talk about any of it, not now and not later, not ever. God, what a mess all that was.
He went the rest of the way up and looked into Eamon Donleavy’s office. It was empty. He looked across the corridor at his own door and sighed. His door was closed, and he never closed it when he was still in the building and available for work—meaning he never closed it, except once or twice a month when he made a point of going into the east building and spending the night, just so that the nuns would stop fussing at him. If his door was closed now
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