The Sisterhood - Michael Palmer [126]
“Why you have your fucking nerve!” St. Onge was crimson. “Ill have you up before the medical board for this, big city credentials and all.”
“Do that, please,” David begged. The marginal control he had maintained disappeared completely. “And while we’re there, we’ll ask why you were too arrogant to call in a radiologist to look at these films. We’ll ask why you missed the basilar skull fracture in two of the views. We’ll also ask how you overlooked the blood behind her left eardrum caused by that fracture. Okay?” The silence in the room was painful. He lowered his voice and turned to the nurses. “Could one of you call an ambulance for us, please?”
The nurse, Tammy, hesitated, then with an unmistakable glint in her eye said, “Yes, Doctor,” and rushed out. St. Onge looked apoplectic.
David turned to the remaining nurse. “I’m going to need some meds and equipment for the trip. I’ll send the stuff back with the ambulance. Meanwhile, could you hang a Ringer’s lactate I.V., please? Fifty cc’s per hour.”
“I’ll have your ass for this, Shelton.” St. Onge hissed each word, then stalked away.
David used the phone at the nurses’ station to call Dr. Armstrong. As he was dialing, he heard giggles and a muted cheer from the staff in Christine’s room.
“David, I’ve been worried sick about you,” Dr. Armstrong said. “What’s going on? Are you all right?”
“I’m fine, Dr. Armstrong. Really,” he said. “But Christine Beall isn’t. Do you remember her? A nurse on Four South?”
“I think … yes, of course I do. A lovely girl. What’s wrong?”
“She’s had an accident. Automobile. We’re at Kensington Community Hospital now, but I’m on my way with her to the Doctors Hospital E.R. Could you meet us there and take over her care? She’s got a fractured arm, a basilar skull fracture, and some chest trauma, so you’ll probably end up being traffic cop for a three-ring circus of consultants. Will you do it?”
“Of course I’ll do it,” Dr. Armstrong said. “Are you sure she can handle the trip?”
“Sure enough to try. Any risk is worth taking to get her out of here. Especially with you there waiting for her. I have a lot to talk to you about, but all of it can wait until you get Christine taken care of. We’ll be there within an hour.”
“That will be fine,” Dr. Armstrong said softly. “I’ll be waiting.”
CHAPTER XXII
At David’s instructions the ambulance ride was made at a steady fifty. No lights, no sirens. The fifty-five-minute drive seemed interminable, but what little time they might save by a dramatic dash to the city was hardly worth the catastrophe of an accident.
Throughout the trip Christine slipped in and out of consciousness. David, seated at her right hand, systematically checked her pulse, respiration, blood pressure, and pupil size, looking for changes that might indicate a sudden rise in the pressure against her brain. Any significant increase, either from bleeding or swelling, and he would have only minutes to reverse the process before permanent damage began.
The tension inside him was suffocating. He had acted decisively in dealing with St. Onge, but had he been too hasty? The thought ate away at him. Any crisis in the moving ambulance would be immeasurably more difficult to handle than in the hospital. It was the sort of decision he had spent years in training to be able to make—the sort of decision he had unflinchingly made many times over the years. But this was different.
“Christine?” He squeezed her hand. There was no response. “Let’s go over the equipment again,” he said to the paramedic riding alongside him. Out of David’s field of vision, the man, a former corpsman in Vietnam, shook his head in exasperation. Granted it was the first time he had ever carried instruments for drilling cranial burr holes, but this was the third check David had asked him to make.
On an off chance Christine could hear, David turned his back to her and whispered the list of instruments and medications. The paramedic held each, one up or signaled that