The Sisterhood - Michael Palmer [129]
“David, come in.” Armstrong appeared at the door. “I was just making some coffee.”
As he passed where she had been standing, David breathed in the distinctive odor of liquor.
Instinctively he checked his watch. It was not yet one. He ran through a number of explanations as to why the chief of cardiology might be drinking under such circumstances, especially at such an hour. None were totally acceptable. Still, the woman seemed quite in control. For the moment, at least, he forced the concern to the back of his mind.
The lab was spacious and well equipped. Several treadmills and Exercycles, each with a set of monitoring instruments, were lined up across the room. The required emergency equipment and defibrillator unit were placed inconspicuously to one side—an effort, David knew, to avoid additional apprehension in patients already nervous over their cardiac testing.
One end of the suite had been set aside as a conference area, with a maple love seat and several hard-backed chairs encircling a low, round coffee table. Armstrong motioned David to the love seat, then brought a percolator and two cups. She seemed more subdued than David could ever remember.
“You seem tired,” he said. “If it would be better for us to talk later, I could …”
“No, no. This is fine,” she said too sharply. “Hospital politics, you know. But for a change I get to sit back and listen. Let me pour us some coffee, then you can fill me in on what has been going on.”
She pushed a carton of cream toward him, but he shook his head. “Where to start,” he said, using a few sips to sort out his words.
“The beginning?” She encouraged him with a comfortable smile.
“The beginning. Yes. Well, I guess the beginning is that I didn’t give the morphine to Charlotte Thomas, Christine did.” He sipped some more. “Dr. Armstrong, what I’ve got to tell you is incredible, potentially explosive stuff. Christine and I have decided to share it with you because … well, because we hoped you might use your position and influence to help us.”
“David, you know that I’ll put myself and whatever influence I have at your disposal.” She leaned forward to give him a closer view of the reassurance in her eyes.
In minutes he was totally immersed in the story of Charlotte Thomas and The Sisterhood of Life.
Initially Armstrong encouraged his narrative with a series of nods, gestures, and smiles, interrupting occasionally to clarify a point. Soon, though, her posture grew more rigid, her gaze more impassive. Gradually, subtly, the warm blue invitation in her eyes turned cold. Still, David talked on, relieved at unburdening himself of the awesome secrets that, until now, he was the only outsider to hold. Nearly half an hour passed before he first sensed the change in her.
“Is … is something the matter?” he asked.
Without responding, Armstrong rose and walked unsteadily to a telephone resting on a small desk at the opposite end of the lab. After a brief, hushed conversation, she worked her way back and settled heavily into a chair across the table from him. All at once, she seemed frail, and very much older.
“David,” she said gravely, “have you discussed all this with anyone other than me?”
“Why, no. I told you that earlier. We were hoping you could help us without involving—”
“I’d like you to start over. There are some points you must clarify for me.”
“Chris, are you awake? Can you hear me?”
The voice seemed to be echoing from a great distance. Christine opened her eyes, then blinked several times, straining to focus. She recognized the woman as a nurse, though her features remained uncomfortably blurred. She tried to turn toward the side. Pulses of nausea and an excruciating pressure in her head made it impossible. The room was dark, but even the light from the hallway was unbearable. “I’m awake,” she said. “The light hurts my eyes.” Slowly she closed them.
“Chris, Dr. Armstrong ordered your pupils to be checked every hour. I’ll do it as quickly as I can.”
Christine felt the nurse’s fingers on her right