The Inquisitor (22 page)

He looked around at his marble entranceway, its polished gray surface softened in the dim glow of recessed lighting. Tonight it looked like a mausoleum, but a well-furnished one. A rosewood end table supported a small brass lamp with a green shade. It funneled a golden spot on the mail his housekeeper had placed there for him. Usually the sight of letters waiting for his attention had an uplifting effect- the prospect of reading the latest news from admiring colleagues was one of the pleasures he savored at the end of a marathon day. Not anymore.

From the dimly lit living room to his left came the quiet strains of Mozart. His stereo was programmed to come on at the same time as the lights so he wouldn't return to a silent, dark home- the ruse of a man who'd allowed his personal life to become stripped bare by work. This clever tactic now struck him as pathetic, and underscored the emptiness of the place.

Tocco came running down the stairs from where she'd been sleeping on his bed, black coat gleaming, brown eyes full of warmth, and pink tongue ready to slurp him a kiss. The Labrador retriever, big as a bear cub, greeted him the same way she had every night for the last ten years.

It didn't comfort him at all.

Couldn't.

Maybe never would again.

He dropped his briefcase and walked in a trance through the tasteful arrangements of antique chairs, a pair of sofas, more end tables with brass lamps, all chosen by a hired decorator, to where he had a wet bar in a recessed corner.

He never drank. At parties club soda would be his choice of beverage. "ICU may call," he told any host who tried to ply him with liquor. The truth was that he didn't like the taste. Never had, not even at beer parties in med school.

Nevertheless, he poured himself a tumbler of brandy and downed it the way he would some foul medicine.

It burned his stomach. Little wonder, with nothing to eat all day.

Tocco pushed her snout under his free hand and turned her head so he'd have an ear to rub.

He poured himself another drink, wandered into the dining room, and slumped at a table made of Brazilian mahogany that could seat twelve but rarely did. Then he got up and, leaning against a matching hutch filled with seldom used fine china, admired his little-seen collection of wall tapestries, each one a van Gogh recreation.

Still restless, he abandoned his untouched drink on the polished wood and entered a kitchen that had every appliance known to chefs, but a refrigerator with little more than staples and the freezer filled with gourmet frozen meals. As he stared at the selection, feeling less like eating than before, Tocco walked up to the cupboard that held her dog biscuits and wagged her tail expectantly.

He walked over, pulled a few from the bag, and threw them at her feet. She plopped down, captured the nearest one between her paws, and gnawed happily on its upright end, oblivious to the collapse of her master's world.

He strolled through a swinging door to a den with a plasma screen the size of a billboard and a thirty-speaker theater center. A stack of overdue DVDs lay on the floor. At the top of the heap, Vittorio De Sica's The Bicycle Thief teetered precariously, ready to fall to the floor.

He ended up back in the entranceway, sank to the marble floor, and proceeded to add up the score.

The first dozen calls had been more of the "Is it true?" crap that he'd fielded with Garnet there.

And he'd danced the same I'm-all-right, if s-all-a-big-misunderstanding jive, but knew he'd ended up conning no one.

Next the ones who had already made up their minds signed in.

"It's not just you. All the research money is drying up," they lied apologetically. "Of course you'll be the first to be funded again once the economy improves…"

They'd stripped ten million dollars' worth of pending grants from him in less than two hours, and he knew he'd never get that kind of cash again. His fall had been extra steep because so many wanted to punish- no, make that eviscerate him.

Tocco wandered out of the kitchen, spiraled three times before plopping down, and contentedly gave herself a bath, as if her master sprawled in the middle of the foyer floor were no big thing.

Grateful for the one living creature that hadn't judged him today, he reached over and rubbed the ear he'd ignored earlier.

She immediately tried to give his hand a kiss.

He thought of the men and women who'd dissed him today. He remembered their goofy, want-to-be-around-a-winner expressions when they threw endowments at him and felt it a privilege to do so, not the sour faces that he had imagined went with the cold, dismissive tones they'd subjected him to over the last twelve hours. It reminded him of the discrepancy between how the eternal whines of disappointment from his ex-wives differed from the eagerness with which they'd once said "I do."

But the loss of control over his domain at work panicked him the most. His ability to command respect and make others do his bidding had slipped through his fingers like water.

He got up and glanced to the coatrack where Tocco's leash usually hung. It wasn't there.

He wandered down to the basement, to check the hook where the housekeeper sometimes left it.

Tocco followed, wagging her tail in anticipation of a walk.

He eyed the water pipes and saw the face that had haunted him since 1989.

Purple, swollen, and twisted, the image of it lurked at the core of his memory, always ready to intrude without warning, triggered by the slightest of associations. It could happen while he presented a paper, listened to accolades from younger colleagues, even appeared once in the middle of an interview on Oprah. Like an avenging ghost, it haunted him, particularly the bulging eyes. Their black scrutiny bored through his pupils and, like probes, activated what no anatomist could find- the convoluted cerebral coils of gray and white matter that housed conscience. Because that cold lifeless stare forced him to relive his treachery, admit to the innuendos and whispered lies that had been the ruin of the phantom who looked on him so accusingly. His only sure respite from the curse? When a case consumed him in ICU.

He ran back upstairs, Tocco whining at his heels. When he went out the front door without her, she barked her disappointment.

He rocketed his car out of the driveway and sped toward the hospital.

ICU, he thought. He'd be okay there.

Wednesday, July 16, 2:33 a.m.

Jane Simmons awoke in her bed with a cry on her lips, pain ripping through her abdomen.

"Christ!" she moaned, grabbing her stomach and curling into a ball. "Thomas!"

Then she remembered. He'd gone back to ER to relieve the resident who'd replaced him for a few hours. Since the Sunday revelation, much to her pleasure, he'd adjusted his schedule so that they could have dinner together the last three evenings.

Another cramp hit, twisting her intestines as if they were caught in a wringer. "Jesus!" she groaned, curling tighter. Must be something they'd eaten.Tonight she had picked up fresh snapper. It had looked fine, and she'd cooked it thoroughly. But she'd also made potato salad, so it could have been the mayonnaise. Nothing else would have done it. They'd drunk only fresh fruit punch- no alcohol, of course. He'd brought back lemons and grapefruit this time, enough for a pitcherful.

"A toast," she'd said, insisting the third supper in a row on using the champagne glasses kept for special occasions.

"Shucks, here's how we do it in Tennessee," he'd joked, and took a big swig directly from the jug as he usually did, just to tease her.

"Grand Forks too, but only behind the barn," she'd tossed back, and she chugged it with him, slug for slug, determined not to be outdone, but then insisted they fill the glasses to the brim and toast each other in proper style, raising them to each other, to the baby-

"Oh, my God!" she screamed.

Another surge, this one stronger than the others, gripped her like giant hands tearing her in two. Between her thighs she felt slippery, warm, and sticky. Her hand instinctively flew to her groin, and a flow of hot fluid coursed between her fingers.

"God, no," she whimpered, reaching for the light switch and bracing for what she'd see.

Nothing could have prepared her.

A circular red stain between her legs kept spreading, from beneath her hips to below her knees. With each surge of pain another swell of blood gushed from her vagina. In the middle of it all lay the crimson detritus of what had been her baby.

She let out a cry, reached toward it, then restrained herself.

More waves of pain jackknifed her into the fetal position again, and the periphery of her vision grew dark.

Head reeling, she uncoiled enough to reach the phone and tried to punch in 911. Her fingers slid off the keys from all the blood.

Michael Popovitch stepped outside the ER's exit door and loosened his mask. The cool night, still moist from rain an hour earlier, s me I led sweet. He stayed near the changing area-"limbo," as the residents called it, the zone between the safety of the outside world and the infected realm of the hospital. He always figured that this was where the battle would be won or lost. Sooner or later, despite all the precautions, someone would carry the virus into the street, take it home, spread it to family, to friends, to everyone.

He drew a deep breath and, freed from the stuffy confines of his mask, enjoyed the heady freshness of inhaling air unencumbered as much as he'd once savored the rush of nicotine from his smoking days. A faint sound like a wheeze rose and fell in the distance, then repeated itself, rising and falling as regular as breathing.

An ambulance on its way in.

Five minutes out, he judged, sound carrying far through the city when it slept.

He leaned against the wall and looked up at the stars. Patches of twinkling silver had opened amidst traces of clouds that still lingered overhead. Probably would be clear tomorrow. Rather than sleep off his shift, he'd take Terry and Donna to the beach.

It might be a good break for the three of them.

The quarrels between himself and Donna couldn't be good for the kid. They didn't throw things or physically hurt each other, but tension filled the house, thick and as smothering as a pillow to the face.

He remembered those kinds of times between his own parents. Hadn't scarred him, he figured. But they'd made him unhappy. The big difference was that his mom and dad had known how to end them. Unless he quit ER, the trouble between him and Donna would go on for as long as SARS lasted, which could be forever.

Sometimes she wouldn't even sleep with him. She cringed every time he picked up Terry, and found every excuse she could to take the kid to her mother's. And each time news broke of another nurse or doctor coming down with it, she looked at him as if he were a murderer.

He could leave St. Paul's, go to a place that hadn't been infected yet. But it wouldn't be that simple. SARS could pop up anywhere. Probably would. And besides, if whoever replaced him here got involved with his files, they'd see what he'd been doing-

The door bashed open, startling him out of his thoughts.

"Dr. Popovitch!" Thomas Biggs said, breathless as he leaned out the opening. "We just got a heads-up from an ambulance. They're bringing us a woman in shock, big time, from a miscarriage."

Michael pushed off from the wall. The wail sounded much louder now, approaching faster than he estimated. They must be really gunning it. "You got everything ready inside?"

Thomas nodded.

Michael felt his heart quicken, the way it did from the first day he stepped into ER and the sirens drew closer. The only thing that had changed was that he'd learned to channel the adrenaline, stream it through his head to clear his thoughts and sharpen his reflexes. He entered a zone where he would react without doubts, second-guessing, or hesitation, a purity of moment he found only in the pit. As that telltale wail swelled louder, the stiller he grew.

Thomas, like all rookies, fidgeted with increasing restlessness but stayed outside.

As they stood waiting, a familiar dark Mercedes pulled into the doctors' parking lot, and Stewart Deloram got out.

"What's he doing here?" Thomas muttered. "Anyone who took the pasting he did should be at home hiding under his bed."

"Then you don't know Stewart," Michael replied, and waved at him.

Stewart saw them, then looked over his shoulder in the direction of the howling siren, so close now the shriek had set up a slight vibration in Michael's ear.

"Waiting for something special?" Stewart called, heading toward the other side of the ambulance bay and the door designated for people entering the hospital.

"Woman in shock," Michael said, "from a possible miscarriage."

Stewart used his card to open the lock. "Mind if I help?" He reached inside the entranceway and pulled a clean gown off a cart stacked with protective wear.

"It's an OB case," Thomas said, fixing his eyes on the oil-stained asphalt that separated them. His tone of voice hinted that Stewart should mind his own business.

Needless to say, the resident had already passed judgment on the man.

"Posse justice, Thomas?" Michael murmured. "Nobody innocent until proven guilty anymore?"

At first Thomas said nothing. Then he murmured, "I want him to be just what he's always seemed. But I don't know if I can trust that anymore."

"Understandable," Michael said in as low a voice as possible without it becoming a whisper, "but you learned a lot from him. Doesn't he at least deserve the benefit of a doubt?"

"You think he's innocent?"

"I think he's worked too many years at my side saving lives for me to turn on him now." Besides, Michael thought, he'd have at least one friend at St. Paul's when his own moment of reckoning arrived. "Glad to have you, Stewart," he called out loudly, all the while looking directly at Thomas. "After all, shock is shock, right?" he added in a loud voice.

The young resident lifted his eyebrows in a show of disapproval but kept silent as the ambulance roared into the hospital driveway, its siren dying to a deep-throated growl.

Jane lay shivering on the stretcher while faces bobbed above her like windblown balloons.