“You’ll probably be taking tetracycline by mouth or streptomycin IM,” Jack said. “The hospital infection-control officer is working on that at the moment.”

“Uh oh!” Martin voiced under his breath but loud enough for the others to hear. “Here comes our fearless leader and the chief of the medical staff, and both look unhappy.”

Kelley swept into the room like an irate general after a military defeat. He towered over Martin with his hands on his hips and his reddened face thrust forward. “Dr. Cheveau,” he began with a scornful tone. “Dr. Arnold here tells me you should have made this diagnosis before…”

Kelley stopped mid-sentence. Although he was content to ignore the two microbiology techs, Jack was a different story.

“What in God’s name are you doing down here?” he demanded.

“Just helping out,” Jack replied.

“Aren’t you overstepping your mandate?” he suggested venomously.

“We like to be thorough in our investigations,” Jack said.

“I think you have more than exhausted your official capacity,” Kelley snapped. “I want you out of here. After all, this is a private institution.”

Jack got to his feet, vainly trying to look the towering Kelley in the eye. “If AmeriCare thinks it can do without me, I think I’ll run along.”

Kelley’s face turned purple. He started to say something else but changed his mind. Instead he merely pointed toward the door.

Jack smiled and waved to the others before taking his leave. He was pleased with his visit. As far as he was concerned, it couldn’t have gone better.

Susanne Hard was looking through the small, round window of the door to the elevator lobby with rapt attention. The end of the corridor was as far as she was allowed to go on her ambulation. She’d been walking with little steps while supporting her freshly sutured abdomen. As unpleasant as the exercise was, she knew from experience that the sooner she mobilized herself, the sooner she’d be in a position to demand release.

What had caught her attention out in the elevator lobby was the disturbing amount of traffic coming in and out of the medical ward as well as the nervous demeanor of the staff. Susanne’s sixth sense told her that something was wrong, especially with most of the people wearing masks.

Before she could put a finger on the cause of the apparent stir, a literal chill passed through her like an icy arctic wind. Turning around, she expected to feel a draft. There wasn’t any. Then the chill returned, causing her to tense and shiver until it had passed. Susanne looked down at her hands. They had turned bone white.

Increasingly anxious, Susanne started back to her room. Such a chill could not be a good sign. As an experienced patient she knew there was always the fear of a wound infection.

By the time she entered her room she had a headache behind her eyes. As she climbed back into bed, the headache spread over the top of her head. It wasn’t like any headache she’d ever had before. It felt as if someone were pushing an awl into the depths of her brain.

For a few panicky moments Susanne lay perfectly still, hoping that whatever had seemed wrong was now all right. But instead a new symptom developed: the muscles of her legs began to ache. Within minutes she found herself writhing in the bed, vainly trying to find a position that afforded relief.

Close on the heels of the leg pain came an overall malaise that settled over her like a stifling blanket. It was so enervating that she could barely reach across her chest for the nurse’s call button. She pressed it and let her arm fall limply back to the bed.

By the time the nurse came into the room, Susanne had developed a cough that chafed her already irritated throat.

“I feel sick,” Susanne croaked.

“How so?” the nurse questioned.

Susanne shook her head. It was even hard to talk. She felt so terrible she didn’t know where to begin.

“I have a headache,” she managed.

“I believe you have a standing order of pain medication,” the nurse said. “I’ll get it for you.”

“I need my doctor,” Susanne whispered. Her throat felt as bad as when she’d first awakened from the anesthesia.

“I think we should try the pain medicine before we call your doctor,” the nurse said.

“I feel cold,” Susanne said. “Terribly cold.”

The nurse put a practiced hand on Susanne’s forehead, then pulled it back in alarm. Susanne was burning up. The nurse took the thermometer from its container on the bedside table and stuck it into Susanne’s mouth. While she waited for the thermometer to equilibrate, she wrapped a blood-pressure cuff around Susanne’s arm. The blood pressure was low.

She then took the thermometer out of Susanne’s mouth. When she saw what the reading was, she let out a little gasp of surprise. It was 106° Fahrenheit.

“Do I have a fever?” Susanne questioned.

“A little one,” the nurse said. “But everything is going to be fine. I’ll go and give your doctor a call.”

Susanne nodded. A tear came to the corner of her eye. She didn’t want this kind of complication. She wanted to go home.

“Do you honestly think that Robert Barker deliberately sabotaged our ad campaign?” Colleen asked Terese as they descended the stairs. They were on their way to the studio where Colleen wanted to show Terese what the creative team had put together for a new National Health campaign.

“There’s not a doubt in my mind,” Terese said. “Of course, he didn’t do it himself. He had Helen do it by talking National Health out of buying adequate exposure time.”

“But he’d be shooting himself in the foot. If we lose the National Health account and we can’t restructure, then his employee participation units are worth the same as ours: zilch.”

“Screw his employee participation units,” Terese said. “He wants the presidency, and he’ll do anything to get it.”

“God, bureaucratic infighting disgusts me,” Colleen said. “Are you sure you want the presidency?”

Terese stopped dead on the stairs and looked at Colleen as if she’d just blasphemed. “I can’t believe you said that.”

“But you’ve complained yourself that the more administrative duties you have, the less time you can spend on creativity.”

“If Barker gets the presidency he’ll screw up the whole company,” Terese said indignantly. “We’ll start kowtowing to clients, and there goes creativity and quality in one fell swoop. Besides, I want to be president. It’s been my goal for five years. This is my chance, and if I don’t get it now, I’ll never get it.”

“I don’t know why you’re not happy with what you’ve already accomplished,” Colleen said. “You’re only thirty-one and you’re already creative director. You should be content and do what you are good at: doing great ads.”

“Oh, come on!” Terese said. “You know we advertising people are never satisfied. Even if I make president I’ll probably start eyeing CEO.”

“I think you should cool it,” Colleen said. “You’re going to burn out before you’re thirty-five.”

“I’ll cool it when I’m president,” Terese said.

“Yeah, sure!” Colleen said.

Once in the studio Colleen directed her friend into the small separate room that was affectionately called the “arena.” This was where pitches were rehearsed. The name came from the arenas of ancient Rome where Christians were thrown to the lions. At Willow and Heath the Christians were the low-level creatives.

“You got a film?” Terese questioned. In the front of the room a screen had been pulled down over the chalkboards. At best she thought she’d be looking at sketchy storyboards.