Page 23 of Truly, Madly Viking

"I see."

"Why do you keep saying, 'I see,' when you clearly do not see?"

Maggie put her notebook aside and rubbed at the furrows in her forehead with the fingers of one hand.

"A killer whale brought you here... from Iceland? A killer whale with bad breath?"

"Aha! Now you are beginning to understand."

"I see," she said.

The next day...

"That's it till next Monday," Dr. Harry Seabold told the people assembled around the conference table, thus calling a halt to the weekly staff meeting. "We should have more definite word within the next two weeks on the status of Medic-All negotiations with the Rainbow owners. I hope to give you a progress report next week."

"Two weeks! Well, whoopie-doo! My nurses are panicking now, Dr. Seabold. They need to know if they should be submitting job applications elsewhere," Gladys Hatcher insisted as she stood and gathered up her papers. "Some of them live from paycheck to paycheck. They can't afford to go even two weeks without work."

Gladys was a big, brusque woman who took no guff from anyone, not even their boss, but she also had a heart of gold when it came to her "girls," the nurses working under her supervision.

Earlier today, when Maggie had mentioned her daughters' report of the nurse's overheard remark,

Gladys had clapped Maggie so hard on the back she almost fell over and exclaimed, "Well, he is a stud muffin, honey. Ya can't deny that."

Maggie had decided not to make an issue of it, for now.

"I know, I know." Harry was nodding in reply to Gladys's concerns. "But let's not overreact here, folks.

Even if Medic-All buys out Rainbow, it doesn't mean the hospital will shut down, or that jobs will be eliminated."

But what Harry wasn't saying, and they all knew, was that Rainbow was a unique operation, and many of them, Maggie included, might not want to work for the hospital if it changed its procedures. Maggie knew of only a few mental clinics in the country that were experimenting with a minimal-security setting with a combination of in-and outpatient therapy for serious mental disorders, combined with work-training experience. It was all based on individualized contracts, a relaxed atmosphere, and close supervision. Their success rate had been phenomenal, but it was too soon to try it on a wider scale.

Would Medic-All be impressed with what they'd accomplished so far? After all, the Rainbow Psychiatric Hospital was a small facility of less than one hundred patients, and it was only five years old. Or would they bring their own people in and want a rubber stamp of the medical procedures followed in its other numerous facilities? Would the bottom line be dollars, or patient success?

Maggie feared she already knew the answer. As the business manager, nursing director, activities coordinator, and other psychologists began to stream out of the room, Harry said, "Stay behind, Maggie.

I have something I need to discuss with you."

"Uh-oh. She sat back down in a chair close to the head of the table.

"It's about your John Doe .... " Harry, still sitting in the head seat, gave her a weary glance that didn't bode well for said John Doe. Today Harry wore a white, short-sleeved dress shirt, a red striped power tie, and khaki slacks—every bit the head honcho, even with his hair comb-over, which he patted every so often, whether to make sure it was still in place or out of nervousness, Maggie couldn't tell for sure.

"He's no longer a John Doe," Maggie reminded him. "Remember, he started talking yesterday. His name is Jorund Ericsson."

Harry gave a short "whatever" wag of his hand. "We are walking on eggshells with the potential takeover, Maggie. I'm very concerned about our having a patient here at this time with no known medical insurance and—"

"So that's what this is all about? Money?"

"Damn straight it is," Harry shot right back, his face flushed with sudden anger. He was usually such a calm person, even in the face of traumatic events, which were not unusual in a hospital setting. The takeover talks must be taking a bigger toll on him than she'd imagined. "I've never refused to care for a patient who had no means to pay, but these are very sensitive times. I'll be damned if I'll jeopardize the interests of ninety-nine paying customers for the sake of one... one"—he stammered, at a loss for the least offensive words to describe Joe—"one nude exhibitionist who just happens to be wearing a hundred thousand dollars in jewelry."

"Huh?" Maggie homed in on the most irrelevant part of Harry's tirade. "What jewelry? Oh, you mean those brass arm tings?"

"Brass? Ha! Those are solid gold, if my guess is right, and probably antiques... maybe even tenth century—at least that's what Martie said when she was here yesterday."

Martie, an antique dealer, was Harry's on again, off-again girlfriend. She operated a well respected auction house with international connections, similar to Sotheby's and Christie's, though on a smaller scale, and she served on several museum boards. She ought to know.

"Martie says those arm bands are potentially important antiquities, whatever the hell that means. And besides that, have you looked at that sword the police department sent over? I did, before they locked it in the hospital safe. My God, Maggie, it weighs a ton, and the hilt is in the shape of a dragon, imbedded with what appear to be real emeralds. I didn't bring it out to show Martie, of course that would be unethical. But I'm telling you, this guy should be a paying customer... insurance or no insurance."

Maggie's shoulders sagged with weariness. Harry was right. He'd gone out on a limb, giving in to her whim over bringing a stranger to their hospital. And how did she repay him? By giving him grief. "What do you want me to do?"