Patient One Read Online Free PDF Page B

closed-off floor with a single corridor and has a total of fourteen individual suites.”
    “Excellent,” Warren approved immediately and beckoned Wells over, saying, “I think we’ve got a ward for the President.”
    David thought for a long moment before adding, “But I can only give you eleven of the suites.”
    “I need the entire floor.”
    “That’s not possible,” David said firmly. “Three of the patients are too ill to be moved off the floor. I know this for a fact, because I’m the attending physician up there.”
    Warren stared at David, not certain he understood. “They have an emergency room up on this pavilion?”
    David shook his head. “It’s a medicine ward for the rich and famous who have difficult diagnostic or therapeutic problems,” he explained. “All staff members are required to teach on the wards or in the clinics for six weeks, and I spend my teaching time on the Beaumont Pavilion rather than down in the ER. It’s a change of pace.”
    “And a little more perspective on the real world of everyday medicine, eh?”
    A lot more perspective, David wanted to say. The Pavilion reminded him why he liked the ER so much. In contrast to the wards that moved along at a snail’s pace and where most of the time was spent talking, the ER was action-packed and hectic, full of excitement and drama.
    Warren tried to read David’s expression, but couldn’t. “Are you having second thoughts about using the Beaumont Pavilion?”
    David shook his head again. “The Pavilion is fine, but those three patients must stay put.”
    “They’ll have to be moved for security’s sake,” Warren insisted.
    “Security won’t be a problem with these three.”
    David described the three critically ill patients, highlighting the important features. The sickest was a movie star in her sixties with cirrhosis, who was drifting in and out of hepatic coma while she waited for a liver transplant. The second patient was a young college student with a lupus-induced pericardial effusion that was gradually impeding her heart’s ability to pump blood. And the final patient was an eighty-year-old man with polymyositis, a rare inflammatory disease involving the large muscles.
    “These people are so weak they can’t get to the bathroom without help,” David concluded.
    “I still don’t like it,” Wells said.
    “If you’re worried about them, you could post agents outside their doors,” David suggested.
    Wells and Warren exchanged glances, a silent message passing between them.
    “Okay,” Wells consented reluctantly, now determining how the eleven suites would be used. The two presidents and their wives would occupy four rooms; four rooms would be needed for the Secretary of State and the Russian Foreign Minister and their wives; and two more would be held open for the President’s daughter and her date. The final suite would be used for operations and communications. He turned to David and asked, “How many non-patient rooms are on the floor?”
    “Four,” David told him. “There’s a nurses’ lounge, a chart room, a treatment—”
    A loud, coarse shriek came from the waiting area beyond the swinging doors into the ER. Then another shriek, even louder. It sounded like the cry of a wild man.
    Instantly, the Secret Service agents drew their weapons and assumed firing positions, all aiming at the entrance. They waited, nerves taut, now hearing the sounds of tables and chairs being knocked over. A female voice screamed. Someone yelled for help. Then there was an eerie silence. Then thumping footsteps. Suddenly the swinging doors burst open, and a huge red-bearded man charged into the ER. Wide-eyed, he looked crazed and fierce.
    “I’ll kill you all!” he roared. “I’ll tear your goddamn heads off !”
    “Be careful!” David quickly warned the others. “He’s a PCP user, and he’s violent.”
    Wells asked in an even voice, “Does he come in a lot?”
    “At least once a week,” David said.