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  “Excuse me, Dr. Rutherford.” Jeanette lifted a weary hand to her forehead, then massaged her pulsing temples. “I need to go to the ladies’ lounge and rest. I’ll join you in a bit.”

  “Of course, my dear. Excuse this old fool. You’ve had a very stressful day, making my little program a roaring success. Take all the time you need. Manuel and I will be in the alcove over there.” Dr. Rutherford indicated a settee in the windows overlooking the Medical Center mall.

  “Why don’t you just let her go home, Byron?” Randolph slurred over the words. “She isn’t interested in old Manuel’s stupid DC-10 clinic planes. In fact, she looks dead on her feet. Isn’t that right, Flower?”

  Jeanette ignored the use of the hated nickname Walter Monnier must have shared with Randolph. Whatever his reason, she was thankful for his intervention.

  “Would you mind, Doctor?” Jeanette didn’t have to attempt to sound weak and shaky. “I really am feeling awful.”

  Dr. Rutherford looked her over. “You do look peaked. Can’t have my Clinical Coordinator driven to her sick bed. I need you at work tomorrow.”

  Taking his words as assent, she said, “Thank you.” She looked from one to the other. In all fairness, she should include Dr. Randolph for rescuing her from Lopez. “Both of you.”

  Randolph nodded, then muttered to her as she passed, “Remember, pay back is a bitch, Flower.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Byron Rutherford blew a cloud of smoke from a fine Havana cigar into the sultry evening air of the French Quarter. He and Manuel Lopez had left the reception to journey to their favorite Quarter restaurant, Chez Paul. After a sumptuous dinner, they enjoyed their after-dinner drinks and smokes on the balcony overlooking Royal Street.

  A street away, he could hear the faint tones of a jazz band playing at an open air bar overlaid occasionally with the shouts of bar-hoppers as they drank their way from one end of Bourbon Street to the other. In the shadowy corners of the alleys intersecting Royal, he could barely discern the sounds of amorous couples unable to wait until they reached the privacy of their rooms, or perhaps they were some homeless people bedding down for the night. A typical evening for the Quarter.

  “Byron, would you tell me why you insist on continuing this research project? Our other ventures have made you a millionaire many times over.”

  Manuel took a sip of the hundred-year old cognac as if the answer didn’t matter to him. But Rutherford knew it did. Something was bothering his old friend and business partner.

  “What’s wrong, Manuel? You have a problem with my attempt to gain something more than money?”

  “Exactly what is it that you are seeking? Fame?”

  “Yes. What’s wrong with that?”

  Manuel set his drink down on the table and leaned forward. “I know you. Like all our other projects this one isn’t one hundred percent on the up-and-up. It also has the greatest potential of upsetting the fine line we’ve been walking. The people you see in your clinic are U.S. citizens, some of them important people. They have lawyers. You could lose your license at the minimum and at the worst… well, let’s just say I don’t think you’d do well in prison.” Manuel sat back, picked up his drink, gulped the cognac down as if it was water, then immediately poured himself another from the bottle on the table.

  “Manuel. You abuse the Courvoisier. It is made to be sipped.” Rutherford demonstrated the proper way to drink the expensive cognac.

  Manuel glared at him. “Merde.” He gulped the remainder of his drink in one swallow. “Better you worry about your freedom rather than my drinking habits.”

  “You alarm yourself unnecessarily. This isn’t any riskier than the transplant sales we’re handling through Silver River or the actions you’ve got going on in Brazil.” Taking a puff of the cigar, he blew the smoke to the side. “Besides, the project is going well.”

  Manuel snorted. “So you say. As long as you can cook the results.”

  “Don’t worry about my results. Just make sure I keep getting the corneas I need.”

  His companion stiffened. “Have you ever lacked in tissue?”

  “No,” said Rutherford. “However, I may need more. It looks like the Eye Bank is going to cut me off completely.” He waved the cigar languidly. “By the way, did that little problem get taken care of at Silver River?”

  “You mean our friend, Stu Thomas? Yes, he is out of the picture — permanently. Matthews took care of it.”

  Rutherford smiled thinly. Making Eric Matthews head of Silver River security had been a wise move. A former Special Forces operative, he did all the dirty work in the United States, while Lopez had other security people in Central and South America.

  Rutherford nodded his satisfaction. “Yeah, that’s the problem I meant. Thomas popped his mouth off all over the convention. I had the Eye Bank people and several local docs calling me about his remarks. It was because of him I was called in front of the Eye Bank Board again.” He stubbed out his cigar, then threw the butt into a potted palm near the table. “Someone has it in for me. Can you imagine? They challenged my stats. Called me on the carpet like some coon-ass redneck. Said they heard I was using twice the tissue they were providing. They asked me where it was going and why didn’t the stats reflect the number of patients receiving all that tissue?”

  “Damn, I told you someone would figure this out.” Manuel downed the cognac. “What did you tell them?”

  “That the tissue had spoiled, that my preservative was bad. What else could I tell them?”

  “Not the truth, that’s for damn sure.”

  Manual reached for the bottle again. At the rate he was drinking, Rutherford would have to carry his partner back to his hotel room. He couldn’t stand drunks.

  “They can’t prove anything.” Rutherford lit another cigar.

  “Are you willing to bet your future on that?”

  Rutherford stabbed the cigar toward Manuel, punctuating his words with ash and smoke. “My future is my business. No one knows we’re partners. You’re safe. Besides, I own enough people in this town, nothing’s going to happen.” Bringing the Cuban back to his lips, he sucked in a calming toke. “Next subject. How is our friend, Ambassador MacNeil?”

  Rutherford could tell his partner wasn’t happy with the change of subject, but damn, he wasn’t giving up his project. It was his chance at immortality — besides making him money that Manuel knew nothing about and didn’t share in. He was sure he could keep the lid on the project statistics; he’d been doing it successfully for two years, why should things change now? Anyway, one more year should see him named to the College of Ophthalmology, then he could quit, move to the Caymans, and enjoy all the lovely money he’d made.

  Manuel shrugged off the change in topic, finally mellowing under the influence of the alcohol and Rutherford’s reassurances. “Whitman is doing fine. He loves the money I pay him under the table to smooth things over with the U. S. Customs people.” Manuel laughed. “In fact, he will be speaking on One World’s behalf in front of the United Nations. He is asking them to fund some more surgery planes and permanent clinics in the Third World countries we cover.”

  “More bodies for parts.” Rutherford lifted his drink in salute.

  “And more money for us.” Manuel tapped Rutherford’s glass with his own. They drank together, finally enjoying the balmy evening.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Two weeks later.

  Jeanette checked her lists against each other. Sighing, she shook her head, aggravating the headache which she’d been living with since the training program.

  There were huge gaps in most of the Epi Study’s patient records, gaps that even a so-so lawyer could drive a tank through. Once her conference duties ended, she’d concentrated on straightening out the mess in patient records. To her shock and dismay, almost every file was missing something — patient’s history/physical sheets, consents, work-ups, follow-up office visit records, doctor’s notes, and so on. Even the ones with fairly complete reco
rds were deficient in other ways, more troubling ways — most of the consents she’d found were improperly filled out, some were even unsigned by the patient. In fact, the consent itself seemed defective, a general surgical consent which had not been adapted for the risks peculiar to the Epi procedure. Although not a lawyer, Jeanette felt that this was a serious error.

  Throwing her checklists on her desk, she leaned back in her chair and stared at the picture of Paul holding Brigitte in his arms. God, she missed him at times like these. She wondered what he would make of the bits and pieces of information she had garnered.

  Snippets of Maggie Payton’s conversation flashed through her mind. Most disturbing were Maggie’s statements on patients being followed up by other doctors and the question of where the stats had come from. The fact that Drs. Shriver and Warren had agreed with her didn’t make Jeanette feel any better.

  Ethically, she knew what she had to do. She would have to approach Dr. Rutherford about all these problems soon. If they had a visit from the Institutional Review Board, the project would be shut down faster than a lay person could say Epikeratophakia. Maybe the missing and incomplete records were somewhere else in the Clinic, some place only Dr. Rutherford had access. Jeanette had looked in all the business office files, and the lists in front of her documented those finds thoroughly.

  Other than the mess with the files, Jeanette loved her job. Walter and Randolph never crossed her path. The office staff was cheerful and wonderful to work with. She’d yet to work with any patients, but that was her next goal — getting out into the Clinic and working on patient presurgical education and post-operative follow-ups. But first, she had to find the missing paperwork and get the records in order. The potential legal complications were just too horrible to envision.

  “Ms. LaFleur?”

  The Clinic secretary, Sally Parker, stood at her door. Her voice sounded tight with some emotion Jeanette couldn’t pin down.

  “Come in, Sally. Sit down.” Jeanette waved her hand at the chair to the side of her desk. “You’re shaking? Are you ill? Is something bothering you?” Jeanette liked to forget that one of her duties as Clinical Coordinator was to supervise the staff. She still didn’t feel comfortable advising and directing employees.

  Sally, a statuesque blonde who always managed to make Jeanette feel like a midget, came into the room, shutting the door behind her. After she sat down, she sighed, a low, shuddering sound. “No, ma’am. I’m really sorry to bother you, but Dr. Randolph called over from surgery and told me to tell you… well, he said you were needed in surgery ASAP.” Sally never looked up, concentrating instead on her perfectly manicured nails as she clenched and unclenched her fingers in her lap.

  “What did he say that upset you so much?” Just the thought of Alex Randolph and his perpetually sneering countenance and condescending attitude upset her, but why would he pick on the Clinic clerical staff? He had no power over them.

  “Nothing. Me and Alex… uh, I mean, Dr. Randolph and I used to see one another, and well… let’s just say, there’s bad blood between us, ma’am. That’s all.” Sally’s face was now ghostly white, her make-up always so perfect looked clown-like against a white mask.

  “Do you want me to say something to him?”

  “No, no, don’t say anything to him. That would make it worse. He really needs you over there now. The surgical tech, Missy, went home ill. One of the other techs can’t get here until the procedure after next, and they’re prepping a patient right now. He wants you to assist.”

  “Thank you, Sally. I won’t say anything to Dr. Randolph. But my offer to mediate remains open.” Jeanette stood up, then grabbed her lab coat. Following the secretary out the door, she flashed back to Walter Monnier’s sneering words on her first day of work — about Dr. Rutherford wanting to get the most “bang out of his buck” from his employees. Walter had called it multi-tasking.

  As Jeanette hurried toward the surgery suite, she wondered if giving relationship advice and counseling to staff was included in Walter’s definition of multi-tasking? God, she hoped not. With her own intimate relationship blowing hot and cold, she was the last person to give out personal advice. Things were bordering on sub-zero this week. After a week or two of family-type outings, Brigitte had become more receptive toward Charles, but he’d gotten even more uncomfortable, if that was possible, with her daughter.

  Just last night he’d complained about Jeanette’s refusal to go away with him over the weekend. She’d already committed to driving her daughter’s travel team to a volleyball match in Iberia, and he knew that. She’d made it clear that these years with her daughter were too precious to miss and Charles was always welcome to come along.

  In the end, she and Scott had driven the team to the match. Good old Scott, so easy and dependable. She didn’t know what she would do without him.

  Eventually, she’d have to sit down and discuss things with Charles. Coward that she was, she’d put it off, hoping Charles could overcome his sterile childhood and warm up to family life. Jeanette, never a quitter, had invited him to Brigitte’s volleyball match that evening, then back to her place for dinner. He’d accepted. She crossed her fingers that this was a positive sign.

  Jeanette hit the door opener on the wall leading to the double doors into the surgical suite set aside for the Epi Study. After they swung open, Jeanette proceeded to the adjacent dressing room where she changed into aqua scrubs. Entering the surgery scrub area, she washed her hands and forearms, then put on latex gloves.

  “Ah, Flower,” Alex Randolph’s mocking tones lingered over the hated nickname. “Glad to see Sally finally got around to telling you I required your assistance. The patient has been under twilight anesthesia for twenty minutes already. Shake a leg, girl.”

  “Yes, doctor.” Jeanette bit her tongue. No way was she going to chide him for his attitude about Sally. She was sure Sally had brought the message right away, but was also sure that Randolph would deride any excuses she might make for the secretary. She’d promised to stay out of it, and she would — until Sally specifically asked her to assist.

  Jeanette followed him through the automatic doors into the surgery. The patient, a man in his thirties, lay on the table, jabbering away. She smiled. The mixture of Valium and Versed, which made up the twilight anesthesia, usually made patients very talkative. This man was discussing stock options and his picks for winners in the bear market.

  “Hi, Jeanette, thanks for filling in. Could you guess this guy’s a stockbroker? Hey Alex, think we should be taking notes for our portfolios?” The anesthesiologist, Dr. Columbo, chuckled as he winked at Jeanette.

  “No problem, Dr. Columbo.” Looking at Dr. Randolph, Jeanette stood at the head of the patient. “What do you want me to do?”

  “Get his chart.” Randolph nodded his head toward the side counter. “And check out his right eye measurements. Want to be sure I use the correct button now, don’t I?” He snickered.

  “Of course, doctor.” Finding the chart, Jeanette flipped to the notes on the patient’s eye exam and read off the numbers.

  “Thanks. Looks like we’ve got the correct lens here. Let’s get this puppy done and on his way.”

  Dr. Randolph hit the lights over the table, using the pedal mounted on the floor. He positioned the ceiling-mounted microscope over the patient. After adjusting the oculars to get the proper depth perception, he said, “Shake a leg, Columbo. I need the topical anesthetic.”

  Throwing Randolph an irritated look, Columbo hastened to administer the drops in the target eye, then stepped away.

  As Dr. Randolph propped open the patient’s right eye, Jeanette flipped back through the chart to the Legal tab. As she suspected, the Informed Consent wasn’t signed. She wasn’t even going to address the fact that it was a general consent rather than an Epi-specific consent — that was a matter for Dr. Rutherford and his lawyer to correct.

  “Dr. Randolph? Sir? He hasn’t signed the Consent.”

  “Bring it over h
ere. Let’s get him to sign it then.” Dr. Randolph waved her over.

  “But sir, he’s under the effects of anesthesia. It wouldn’t be legal.”

  “Give me the paperwork.” Dr. Randolph stripped off his gloves while walking toward her. She backed away until she bumped into a counter and could go no further. His lips curled into a sneer at her retreat. When he stood in front of her so close she could smell his breath mints, he demanded once more. “Give it to me.”

  “But…” As Randolph ripped the chart from her hands, Jeanette stood frozen, heart pounding. Her emotions were too complex to identify, although shock seemed to be winning.

  Ignoring her gasp, Randolph walked back to the patient, then held the chart in front of the still talkative man and handed him a pen. The patient signed the Consent while addressing the advantages of covered calls.

  Taking the pen and chart away, Randolph nodded at a puzzled Dr. Columbo. “That takes care of that.” He carried the chart back to Jeanette. Shoving it into her hands, he said, “There, it’s signed. Any other problems you’d like me to address?”

  Numb with disbelief, Jeanette could only shake her head.

  “Good. Then get some clean gloves on and be ready to hand me instruments. Think you can do that, Ms. LaFleur?”

  “Yes, doctor.” Weak-kneed, Jeanette walked to the box of surgical gloves and put on a clean pair.

  “Good.”

  After regloving, Dr. Randolph stalked back toward the operating table and took his position. An uncomfortable silence hung over the room until he started issuing instructions to her and asking patient status of Dr. Columbo.

  He prepared the patient’s cornea to receive the living lens by using an alcohol wipe to remove the epithelial layer, just as Walter had done on the donor tissue. Then after cutting tiny grooves into the patient’s cornea, he placed the living lens on top of the recipient’s cornea, gently positioning it into the cuts, then sutured it to the patient’s cornea. After several days, the patient’s cornea would reepithelialize over the living lens.