The Inquisitor (29 page)

Thomas had refused to wait behind.

Now as she watched him drive, the tension in his neck and shoulders grew, subtly sculpting the shape of the muscles visible at the open collar of his white golf shirt. Definitely not in a state of mind to calm J.S.

"I have to see her alone," she reiterated for about the tenth time. "Until we know more, for her own good. Of course there's a perfectly plausible explanation for her schedule, but it may take a while to figure it out, and until then we must be careful."

He slowly turned and looked at her, a dappled yellow hue playing across his cheekbones from the rain-filtered glare of sodium lights. His eyes seemed sunken in their sockets and glittered at her through the darkness. "It's only right that I be at her side," he said, his voice a grim monotone.

She felt a chill at the flatness of it.

Earl punched redial.

"You have reached the home of Dr. Stewart-"

He slammed down the receiver.

He couldn't just stay here, pacing the floor and trying to figure out connections that didn't make sense.

The flashback of a dark form hurtling at him in the darkness increased his sense of urgency. He had to get answers before the real killer realized J.S. could identify him.

Best just go over to Stewart's house. Confront the son of a bitch face-to-face. Force him to reveal what he knew about the pattern of DNR and non-DNR deaths. Pin him down over what J.S.'s schedule might have to do with the killings. Grill him to admit who might want to get even with him for Jerome Wilcher's suicide.

He phoned Annie, their housekeeper, explained that an emergency had come up, and asked that she watch Brendan.

"Be there in five minutes, Doc."

Always willing to bail him out, bless her heart.

As he waited, he racked his brain over how J.S.'s name could have come up, but as before, got nowhere. He even considered the possibility there could have been a glitch in the program.

He went back to the computer screen and typed in his own name.

Zero correlation.

Janet's.

Same result.

He stood there, unable to think of what else to try.

Into that vacuum crept a gloomy acknowledgment. Even as the three of them had stood in this room and openly proclaimed that J.S. had to be innocent, a little stir of protest had wormed its way along the dark veins of his pessimism. In complete contrast to the way Janet's instincts could give J.S. a pass or Thomas's love could preclude his doubting her, Earl would test whether his comfortable assumptions about J.S. withstood scrutiny. It always had been his way of ordering the world- troubleshoot it and avoid nasty surprises- which meant he allowed himself to ask questions that no one else dared raise. In this case, could J.S. be someone he didn't know at all?

Annie arrived, using her own key to let herself in.

"Off you go," she said, waving him out. Then she gave Muffy a big pat and shook the rain from a soaked umbrella before folding it up. "I'm sure you've got lives to save." Though sixty, she wore her white hair in a Gl cut and still had a figure that let her borrow some of Janet's dresses. She swept by him into his den to plunk herself down in front of the computer.

Muffy, having long ago decided that here was a lady who knew how to pamper a poodle, settled happily at her feet.

"I'm in the middle of a Rogue Squadron game with my grandson on the Internet and can't talk right now," Annie called over her shoulder.

"You're an angel, Annie."

She grinned and clicked open a Web page picturing a heavily armed man in a Special Forces uniform. "Oh, I know I am," she said, without so much as a glance in his direction.

Sixty seconds later he reversed out of the driveway and started up the street, forced to lean forward, his visibility nil because of the storm. Plowing through shimmering black pools that covered the streets, his tires started to hydroplane, and his knuckles went white from holding the steering wheel against the pull.

"Christ," he muttered, regaining control.

In ten minutes he came to a stop under the black canopy of trees drooping over Stewart's driveway.

The house remained in absolute darkness.

Not at home?

Earl couldn't tell if Stewart's Mercedes was gone, the garage being closed up tight.

He got out of his van and ran for the front door.

A four-chime bell sounded inside, then died out in the answering silence.

Shit. Tocco usually barked up a storm whenever anyone came calling if she had Stewart in there with her. But leave her alone in the house and she would hide in the basement, never making a sound. Dog lovers said she knew enough to protect people, not belongings. Stewart had a slightly different take on the matter. "The mutt barks when I'm there so I'll come and protect her. Otherwise she's a scared wimp, and anyone could break in."

So maybe Tocco's silence meant Stewart had gone out again. Damn, he should have checked the hospital. Probably the guy went back to the sanctuary of ICU. He used the place the way lesser mortals found comfort in a tavern.

Lightning sent molten cracks through the black sky.

Earl hesitated about using his cell phone out here, never having seen anyone get their brain fried while making a call during a thunderstorm, but not willing to risk the remote chance of being a first. Before returning to his car, he turned the front door's ornate brass handle, figuring it a useless gesture.

The door opened.

He quickly stepped inside and pulled it closed behind him.

"Stewart!" he called out, fumbling for a light switch as he stood dripping on the marble floor of the foyer. He braced himself to feel Tocco's cool nose coming out of the darkness to give him a sniff. Although the dog was timid, it took only one meeting to be her friend for life. Whenever he'd visited before, once she recognized him, he inevitably got a good going over, probably because he carried Muffy's scent.

He found what felt like a row of rheostat dials and pressed. The overhead chandelier flooded the room with an amber glow.

No Tocco and no Stewart.

"Hello?" he called out again.

Absolute stillness.

Stewart must be out, but there was one way to be sure. Earl made his way to the kitchen, flicking switches as he went, and found the door to the garage.

The dark blue Mercedes glistened in the light streaming past him.

Out for a walk with Tocco? Could be. But back at the main entrance he'd seen Stewart's big umbrella in its stand as usual. Still, the leash didn't occupy its regular spot on a varnished pine coatrack.

So he'd wait, Earl decided. Stewart wouldn't be long in this downpour.

After ten minutes of sitting at the bottom of the spiral staircase leading to the upper floor, he figured hanging around any longer would be a waste of time.

But Stewart must have the dog with him, so he wouldn't have gone far, especially without an umbrella. Maybe he'd taken shelter somewhere.

He got up and went into the living room to peer out the front window, trying to catch a glimpse of the pair returning home.

The streetlights illuminated falling rain but no people or animals of any kind.

At least the downpour had started to recede. It no longer hit the glass with the force of a fire hose, and the accompanying roar had begun to diminish.

Good. If Stewart and Tocco had holed up someplace, they ought to be back anytime now. He sat on the sill to keep watch.

Over the next few minutes the rain became a gentle patter, and quiet filled the empty house, except now he could hear what sounded like faint voices.

What the hell?

He got up and walked back into the foyer.

"Stewart," he called upstairs, wondering if he'd been in his bedroom watching television the whole time and hadn't heard he had a visitor.

No answer.

And Tocco would have barked by now.

Besides, the noise, more a distant murmur than distinguishable talking, didn't seem to be coming from there.

For a second Earl thought it might be outside, and went to the front door. When he opened it only the hiss of a gentle shower filled his ears. The voices remained at his back.

Closing up, he wandered into the interior of the house and paused where the hallway met the kitchen. The murmurings came from behind a door he thought led to the basement.

Turning the handle, he pushed. Immediately faint words floated up from the darkness below. They sounded like something on a radio or from a television. Had Stewart a den down here?

"Stewart?"

He expected a response.

Again none came.

He flicked the light switches.

The blackness remained.

A blown fuse?

He began to catch snatches of what seemed to be a conversation between two people.

"Any more pain?"

"None. It's gone…"

"Do you see anything?"

"Only blackness…"

The questions were whispered, the words barely loud enough to make out. The rasping replies, more audible, seemed to come from a woman. "Hello?" he called.

Still no answer.

"Look harder! Now tell me what's there."

"You're not my doctor…"

"No, I'm replacing him tonight…"

Definitely a television left on, or a radio.

"Just leave me be. It doesn't hurt anymore…"

"Do you see anything yet?"

"Yes…"

He wanted to go down but needed a light and had no idea where Stewart might keep one. He stepped into the kitchen and, after a little looking, found a handheld spot on a charger in the pantry. The harsh white beam probed the thick blackness like a sword as he started down the steps with it, still listening to the voices.

"Do you sense yourself rising?"

"Leave… me… alone…"

"Not until you tell me what you see. Are you looking down on us yet?"

There followed what sounded like static.

"What did you say?" the whisperer asked.

"I… see… me…"

What the hell? Earl thought, and slowed to a halt halfway down the steps, unable to believe he'd heard correctly. But the conversation continued, the telltale reverberation of speakers evident now.

"What else can you make out?"

"The… bed… nightstand… pictures… all my pictures…"

"Is that your husband?"

"Yes…"

In that closed space Earl caught a whiff of a very medicinal smell that tingled the inside of his nose. A more cloying, fecal aroma joined it, causing the back of his throat to tighten. Oh, no, he thought, and started down again, the spot throwing garish shadows against the walls.

"Is he dead?"

"Yes…"

"Do you want to find him?"

"Yes…"

He rounded the bottom landing and stepped into the basement proper.

"Are you still looking down on yourself in bed?"

"Yes…"

"Let go. Allow yourself to float, escape the hospital, go high above the building. You must do this before you can see Frank…"

He swept the lamp's beam toward the sound. A miniature cassette recorder, the kind doctors often used when they dictated clinical notes, lay on the floor not far from his feet, and the tiny, slowly turning spools glistened as they caught the light. He guided his cone of light onto a small dark mound against the wall. It became shiny black fur that stood out in stark relief against a background of gray cinder blocks. He took a step closer and saw a motionless pink tongue lolling out over white fangs like a carefully placed ribbon. Farther into the darkness something much larger loomed. By reflex, he started to breathe through his mouth, and the sounds from the tape seemed swallowed by the heavy stillness of that suspended shape.

He slowly brought his beam to it.

Stewart's swollen, purple face stared back at him, eyes protruding from their sockets, the whites crisscrossed with broken veins, the pupils so huge they seemed filled with a starless night.

That same Wednesday night, 9:35 p.m.

ICU, St. Paul's Hospital

"You're doing fine," Janet said. A quick check of J.S.'s vital signs and abdominal and chest incisions assured her that the young woman remained stable. Sitting on the side of the bed, Janet leaned closer to her, determined no one would listen in on what she had to say next. The curtains that ringed the cubicle from ceiling to floor and the vertical shadows caught in their folds might make the place feel as claustrophobic as a jail cell, but the easily heard conversations from all the other beds dispelled any illusions of privacy. She also chose her words carefully, so as not to frighten the girl. "How are you feeling?"

"As expected, I guess." Her voice sounded frail, as if her struggle in the OR had drained all the fight from her.

But she must be warned. "J.S., I need help with a problem that's completely unrelated to your being here. Are you up to answering a few questions?"

"My help?" She seemed incredulous that anyone would ask anything of her.

Janet nodded, already wondering if it would be better to stop.

But a sudden spark of interest in J.S.'s eyes said otherwise. "I'll try."

"You're sure?"

"Yeah. Shoot."

"I must insist this stays absolutely hush-hush."

The caution further ignited J.S.'s pale brown irises toward far warmer tones, and her black eyebrows inched upward with curiosity. "Of course."

"Have you discussed your schedule in ER with anyone recently, even casually?"

"What?" Her forehead relaxed, and she frowned, looking disappointed.

"Just answer, please. Believe me, it's important."

"My schedule? Not at all. Work's the furthest thing from my mind."

"You're sure? Not with a visitor here, or anyone else even before today?"

"Before today? You mean at work? Probably. You know how it is with nurses. People want to switch all the time. And of course we all discuss what shifts we want with Susanne. But what do you want to know for?"

"Just bear with me. Do you have any particular criteria about when you choose to work, especially at night?"

"Not really. Why?"

Janet hesitated, still not sure how much to say. Even if Jane hadn't accidentally tipped anyone off, could she identify the killer? "Have you noticed anybody who always works when you do?"

"I think I'd like to know what this is about," she said, her voice hardening.

Janet noticed the change. Had she struck a nerve? "J.S., you've heard about the trouble Dr. Deloram is in?"

"Who hasn't?"

"And you're aware he may be tied to a rise in the death rate on the Palliative Care ward."

J.S. scowled. "Yablonsky ought to be shot, spreading that kind of garbage against him. Hell, I told Thomas a week ago I thought there were more codes being called up there lately, but it's probably a function of her bad nursing, the bitch. I sure as hell don't think Dr. Deloram has anything to do with it. I mean, he helped save my life…" The angry flash in her eyes extinguished itself.

Janet guessed that she'd realized the man's heroics didn't exclude him from being a killer. "Look, J.S., none of us wants him to be guilty," she whispered, "but to help him, we need evidence, not only that he didn't do it, but of who did. I won't tire you with the details now, but at least half of those deaths, if not all, were murders. So Thomas, Dr. Garnet, and I were looking at shift schedules, trying to see if any single person in the hospital had been around when people died unexpectedly in Palliative Care."

"You're doing a cluster study, like the one Dr. G. always gives a lecture about?" Her eyes sparkled with excitement, their washed-out appearance vanishing. "What a great idea! And Thomas is helping? That's wonderful." She made an effort to raise her head and sit up. "Who'd you find? Yablonsky?"

Janet gently motioned her to lie flat. "Easy, girl," she whispered, "or you'll pop a stitch. And remember-" She paused to hold a finger to her own lips. "Keep it down. No, we didn't get Yablonsky, or anyone else on the ward. So I threw the search open and ran a program on the entire nursing roster for St. Paul's."

The anticipation in J.S.'s stare sharpened. "And?"

Janet hated what she had to do. "Now, I assure you that Dr. Garnet, Thomas, and I know it's some kind of fluke, that there's no link whatsoever with anything illegal."

The young woman's eager gaze became guarded in a blink. "What is it?"

"We got your name."

J.S.'s face remained absolutely motionless, at least the part Janet could see. Yet everything changed. A grayness seeped through her eyes, covering her emotions like a lead shield, and she seemed to shrink in on herself. Even her breathing became less pronounced.

"Listen, J.S. We understand the deaths have nothing, absolutely nothing, to do with you. But somehow your schedule corresponds to the killings, and we need to know why. Most important, you need to be careful."

J.S.'s expression didn't so much as flicker. It might have been frozen in ice. But after a few seconds a subtle transformation took place, no more substantial than the play of light and shadow on her skin, yet her features became haggard again, and her eyes, already sunk deep within their sockets, appeared to retreat further into her skull. "But those kinds of associations convict someone these days," she said. With her lips hidden behind the mask, her voice seemed to float out of her head.

"Trust me, we won't even mention your name in connection with the investigation. The worry is, this killer apparently operates the same nights you're on duty."

J.S. looked dazed, as if having difficulty comprehending it all. "I see," she finally said. "You think someone I always work with is a murderer." Her words still had an eerie, disembodied sound.

"Do you know anybody who's always taking shifts when you are, and not necessarily just in nursing? It could be a clerk, a porter, a secretary, perhaps an orderly, maybe a doctor-"

"In ER we're all together one time or another," she interrupted. "Even Dr. G. would fit that criteria."

The sudden sharpness in her tone surprised Janet. It had a harsh bite. "But we're mainly talking nights," she explained, trying to mute her own intensity so as to come across less like an inquisitor. "That ought to narrow it down. Think of someone who's around more than anyone else."

J.S. said nothing, her stare far away.

Janet again second-guessed the wisdom of having even discussed the problem. "I know it's a hell of a thing to dump on you, especially now, but-"

"No, no, it's good you told me. Absolutely the right thing to do. I had to know." J.S. spoke with the singsong cadence of someone reciting a cult mantra.

Alarmed, Janet gave her a moment to collect herself, then said, "Please understand, I'd do this all with a computer, but it could take forever and might even miss the person we're after."

J.S. didn't respond. The soft sounds of ICU at night reverberated from beyond the curtains- the hiss and pop from ventilators, murmuring voices, a steady chirp of monitors like birdsong in a forest of wires and IV tubing.

Might as well press on and try to get the answers we need as quickly as possible, Janet decided, there being no way to take back the upset now. "So any ideas who-"

"None," J.S. said, her voice at a slightly higher pitch.

Janet also noted the quickness of her reply and sensed that the interview had been terminated. "Do you want me to order you a sedative?" she asked as gently as possible, not wanting her to withdraw further. "All this is understandably upsetting."

J.S. shook her head. "I have to think. And of course I'm upset. You just asked me to imagine the worst of everyone I work with in the place where I have never been happier." She managed to bestow an angry edge to every second syllable.

Janet forced a smile and hoped it showed in her eyes. After so many months in a mask, the tiny movement against the material irritated her lips and cheeks. She reached to take J.S.'s hand, instinctively wanting to comfort her. But those same instincts told her that J.S. had thought of someone and kept back the name. "Anyone whom you come up with need never know we checked him or her out," she said, admiring the woman's natural reluctance to implicate colleagues, "provided, of course, there's been no crime committed-"

"Excuse me, Dr. Graceton!" a woman's voice called from somewhere outside the cubicle.

Janet got up and parted the curtains.

A silver-haired nurse wearing wire-rimmed spectacles, the lenses tinted a matching gray, stood at the workstation, phone in hand.

Behind her the banks of monitors recorded the progress of this evening's patients, the fluorescent green squiggles heaping beat upon beat in a steady ticker tape of rising and falling fortunes.

"Dr. Garnet's on the line," she said. "It's urgent."

9:45 p.m.

Had Graceton believed her?

Jane couldn't tell, never having been a good liar.

Nor was she in any shape to deal with this. Last night they'd curetted away much more than the remnants of an unborn child. She felt completely hollowed out, emptied of her spirit and cored of its strength, her courage no more substantial than an eggshell, its contents sucked dry. Yet when Graceton asked if anyone always seemed to be around, she'd found the heart to cover up for him.

His name naturally came to mind, and of course she wouldn't mention it. Couldn't. Because ever since Susanne had told her he could marry like any other man, she'd realized he'd been coming around all this time to see her. Not an oh-my-God-what-am-l-going-to-do-about-it? type of realization. Just a quiet awareness of his attraction to her that she enjoyed, savored even, both flattered by it, and comfortable that he'd never make her act on it or put pressure on her to betray

Thomas. She could indulge in the pleasant boost to her ego that came with having a strong, handsome man like him drawn to her, safe in the knowledge he'd do everything necessary, including keep a certain distance, so as not to complicate her life. In return, he'd be the last person she would cause trouble for. Besides, whoever they were after, Jimmy wouldn't be the guy. He couldn't have anything to do with killing people. But if not him, then who?

During the day and earlier in the evening, dozens of nurses and colleagues had dropped by on their breaks to wish her well. As tiring as the visits were, she'd welcomed their company. Now she found herself wondering if one of them had been the murderer. She also remembered Susanne's concern over all the missing syringes. It frightened her how, in spite of her reluctance, she came up with doubts about many of the people she worked with. And if her imagination could run loose like that, someone might do the same against her, and probably would, once word of the cluster study got out. She shuddered at the prospect of a public rending. But it's only a matter of time, she thought, however much Graceton promised to protect her. Secrets didn't stay secret at St. Paul's, especially not those kind. And once suspicions about someone took hold, they could feed on themselves and grow like a cancer. Anybody could make a case about anybody.

So should she warn Jimmy? Give him a heads-up that Dr. G., Dr. Graceton, and Thomas were comparing her schedule to others' and any matches could mean big trouble for him as well? Even without a cluster study, sooner or later it might occur to someone how often Jimmy showed up whenever she worked, day or night.

Except…

The image of when she had walked in and caught him going through the utility cupboard popped to mind.

Later she'd told herself that his story about the urine cup and a pending medical checkup had just been another excuse to drop around and see her, like the earring business.

Now she fell prey to thinking the worst.

God, what's the matter with me? she reprimanded herself, and felt sick at having, even for a second, allowed that there could ever be a connection. She'd certainly never told anyone, especially Susanne, about finding him in there on the afternoon the needles went missing. As far as anyone knew he'd dropped by to get his ear pierced, and it should stay that way. No one would be given the opportunity to twist innocent circumstances against the man if she could help it.

All the more reason to warn Jimmy. She could just imagine the argument that could be made against him if some busybody had seen him go into that utility room, thought nothing of it at the time, but, on hearing he'd been associated with the deaths, had a resurgence of memory.

She grew increasingly uneasy, and not just about his safety.

Being afraid for him had also forced her to acknowledge more than she'd wanted to about her and Jimmy. Lying there, spiked with the aftermath of fatigue, fear, and morphine, she felt the gloom of the place close in on her, adding to her sense of isolation.

She wanted to see Thomas. The nurses had told her he'd been at her side all morning, until they sent him home to sleep. But she barely remembered his being there. Now she wanted to feel the warmth of his hand and the soothing sound of his voice.

Yet her thoughts drifted back to Jimmy.

Until now she'd only admitted to herself how clearly he sought her out; she'd avoided examining too closely how she felt about him. Graceton's bombshell galvanized her out of that convenient haze. Being frightened about his safety pushed her to face the fact that she'd grown a lot fonder of him than she'd realized. Not that she'd been actively denying her feelings for him. She'd just chosen to enjoy their time together and not complicate the situation with questions.

But now she had to accept that emotions might have matured well past liking on both her and Jimmy's part. The way he'd stayed by her side all night suggested a much stronger sentiment on his side. And the strength she'd drawn from the touch of his hand holding hers, the way his words had penetrated her fear, had reached her even as she went unconscious- She pulled up, surprised at the intensity of her reactions to him. They confused her.

Obviously I'm an emotional basket case, she insisted to herself, trying to blame her near-death ordeal for the unexpected feelings that were ambushing her from all directions. But she couldn't evade the fact that Jimmy had affected her far more than she realized.