Error in Diagnosis Read Free

passing moment, Ponte only nodded. Generally, paramedics were considered part of the team. Most physicians went out of their way to explain things to them regarding the patients they transported to the emergency room.
    They quickly collected the rest of their equipment, left the room and walked down the hall to the staff lounge. Ponte had just grabbed a cup from the cupboard and was headed toward the coffeemaker when one of the nurses who had been present in Tess’s room walked in. Ponte knew K. P. Burnham well. She had worked with her for years, and her husband was a fellow paramedic.
    â€œThree doctors and two nurses to meet the patient, and then we practically get thrown out of the room. What the hell’s going on . . . what’s all the mystery about?”
    K. P. walked over to the watercooler and shrugged. “I’m not the one to ask.”
    Ponte’s stomach tensed. She raised her hands. “What’sthat supposed to mean? I’m a licensed paramedic. I’d like to know what’s going on with a patient I brought to this hospital. I don’t feel like the request is out of line.”
    K. P. took a swig of the ice water. After a cautious glance around the room, she started for the door. “I’ve been instructed not to discuss these cases with anybody.”
    â€œThese cases? Are there other patients with the same symptoms?”
    K. P. crumpled the paper cup and tossed it into a wastebasket.
    â€œSorry, I’m really not supposed to say anything.”
    Looking around the room as if she were searching for answers on the walls, Ponte pressed her lips into a thin line. She had great faith in the physicians and nurses who worked at Southeastern State, but if there was a method to their madness regarding their care of Tess Ryan, it was a mystery to her.

4

    John F. Kennedy Center for the Performing Arts
Washington, D.C.
    Since first seeing
La Bohème
during her freshman year at Georgetown University, Dr. Renatta Brickell, the surgeon general of the United States, had been a die-hard opera aficionado. Time had done nothing to erode her passion, and there were few things in life she coveted more than her season subscription to the opera.
    With Christmas carols playing softly, she sat in her aisle seat marveling at the lavish red-and-gold silk curtain. Lost in thought, she barely noticed the light tap on her shoulder. When she looked up she saw her assistant, Julian Christakis, standing over her. His mere presence and the apologetic half smile on his baby face caused herto groan inwardly. Five years ago, she had hand-selected Julian from hundreds of applicants. Diplomatic to a fault, he had become one of her key advisors and an invaluable member of her team.
    He cleared his throat and spoke in just above a whisper. “I’m sorry for disturbing you, Dr. Brickell, but there’s a . . . a situation.”
    With more than an inkling her evening was in peril, she turned to her husband.
    â€œI’m sorry, Stan. I’ll be right back.”
    With a dubious look, he tapped his watch crystal. “The curtain’s about to go up, Renatta. You don’t have much time.”
    She gave his hand a reassuring squeeze, came to her feet and accompanied Julian to the lobby. After scanning the area, she motioned toward a relatively secluded area in front of the donor recognition wall.
    â€œThis better be good,” she told him.
    â€œOnce you hear what’s been going on, I suspect you’ll agree it is.” He exhaled a lungful of air, scanned the lobby and then continued in a guarded voice, “I’ve been on the phone with the Centers for Disease Control for the past two hours. It seems they’ve been receiving calls all day from dozens of hospitals from Florida to California that have been treating hundreds of women with a bizarre illness that none of their doctors has ever seen before.”
    â€œWhat are their