The Inquisitor (6 page)

Earl had anticipated that the chance of a comeback would kindle a glow in Wyatt's eye.

It didn't.

Instead he remained stone-faced and said, "If you insist, I've no choice."

Wyatt's attitude puzzled Earl. The man he knew had an ego the size of Antarctica, and the lure of any stage generally lit him up so brightly he could be his own spotlight. "Does that mean you accept?"

"I suppose I'll have to." He might have consented to have a leg amputated, for all the enthusiasm he showed.

Weird. But what the hell, as long as the situation with Jimmy seemed defused.

"Good! Then let's join the rest and enjoy the race."

"Wait! There's something else you need to hear."

Oh, God. Earl glanced at his watch, hoping Wyatt would get the message to keep this short. "I'm listening."

"The nurses tell me we've had patients complaining about near-death experiences."

"What?"

"You know. That out-of-body phenomenon, the thing Deloram wrote a paper about."

Now Earl felt really puzzled. "Peter, I don't understand the reason you're telling me this." His tone, he realized, sounded more cross than he intended, but patience had limits.

"We never got reports like that before, at least not so many. The first few months the nurses thought nothing of them. Then more patients continued to describe similar ordeals. Some, I'm told, were quite terrified. I swear it's that priest's fault. He's probably talking too much about God, heaven, and the afterlife, making his charges have nightmares about it."

Earl groaned inwardly, incredulous that Wyatt could remain so fixated on Jimmy. "Probably they're just vocalizing that kind of thing more, Peter," he said, trying to hide his exasperation, and started to walk back toward the crowd.

Wyatt followed behind. "Damn it, Garnet, it's not that simple-"

"Similar accounts have been in the media lately, thanks largely to Stewart's research," Earl cut in. If he could somehow trivialize the matter, Wyatt might drop it. "Could be that the phenomenon's been occurring with greater frequency than we knew, and patients, having seen the publicity, realize it's not just them. As a result, they feel open to talk about it now." In the distance he saw Michael wave impatiently, beckoning him to rejoin the ER crew. They were already pushing their bed into the coveted inside post position. Definitely time to ditch Wyatt. He walked faster. "Anyway, it's race time."

"But something's funny," Wyatt went on, easily picking up the pace. "Most of the people it's happened to weren't that near death yet. Oh, they're terminal, in pain, and not in good shape, but their vitals were still stable, not at all what I'd expect for a person who's seeing angels, tunnels, and bright lights."

So much for diplomacy. "Jesus, Peter. They're dying. Many of them will want to talk about that stuff. Patients always have, even atheists. It's human nature. But here isn't the place to discuss it."

"Hey!" Michael Popovitch shouted from the middle of the street thirty yards away. "We're ready to begin." He wore an industrial-strength scowl and sounded pissed.

Sheesh, what's eating him? Earl wondered. The rest of the team settled on give-it-a-break glances and tapped their watches, a far more gentle and appropriate rebuke. Michael should lighten up. "Relax! I'm coming," he shouted, and started to jog toward them.

Wyatt matched him stride for stride, clearly determined to continue their conversation.

Earl didn't intend to let him. "Look, Peter, obviously we'll have to talk about this another time. But I don't think you should make much out of it." He accelerated, pulling a few yards in front, and called over his shoulder, "Why not ask Stewart what he thinks? After all, he's the specialist in that kind of thing."

At the starting line Thomas, Susanne, and J.S. were starting to jostle good-naturedly with members of the Baby Bucket team, who'd tried to steal their spot.

"Earl Garnet," Janet yelled, eyeing him from her perch on the bed, "I'm pregnant with your baby. Chivalry demands you yield the post." She placed a hand to her forehead, adopting the melodramatic pose of a damsel in distress.

Earl laughed. He and Janet always lent their talents to the campy theatrics that were a highlight of these fund-raisers. "All's fair in love and war," he called back. "That's been my plan all along. You pregnant, us on the inside track."

"You're a scoundrel, Earl Garnet," she cried, to the delight of all.

He gave an appropriately wicked leer as he shouldered through a last-minute rush of other competitors who were late to take their positions.

Wyatt caught up to him. "The nurses already did that, a few days ago."

Piss off, damn it! Earl nearly screamed. But they were jammed together, and rather than risk angering him again, he tried to be civil through clenched teeth. "Already did what?"

"Asked Stewart Deloram to check out the accounts that our patients have been giving. I'm told he suggested the same explanations as you did, but agreed to interview the people who were still alive."

Overhead loudspeakers crackled to life. "Ladies and gentlemen, take your marks."

Cheers broke out around them.

Teams scrambled into position.

"Let's go, Dr. G.," J.S. hollered.

Susanne and Thomas joined in.

Someone blew charge on a trumpet.

But Wyatt remained so wrapped up in his crazy story, he didn't even react to the excitement swirling around them. He just leaned in toward Earl to make himself heard. "I don't know what happened. He burst into my office yesterday, mad as hell, and accused me of trying to set him up as a fraud, then stormed out."

Oh, brother, Earl thought. Not another feud. "Peter, I'm sick as hell of being asked to sort out these kind of kindergarten spats, especially the ones involving Stewart. Now both of you act like adults and sort it out yourselves." He'd ended up shouting far more loudly than necessary to be heard above the din around him.

The rolls of flesh in Wyatt's face shifted as he assumed an injured look. "But the man refuses to even talk with me now."

Earl waved him off in exasperation and joined the welcoming arms of his ER team- all except Michael's; he still seemed upset about something as well- and mounted the bed they would push to victory. At least that's how he lustily predicted the outcome during a crude exchange of triumphant gestures with Janet, and beyond her, the surgeons in Sean Carrington's Cutting Edge mob.

God, it felt delightful- the sanest moment of his morning, when he was responsible for nothing more than the safe passage of a bedpan filled with apple juice.

That same Saturday, 5:30 p.m.

The roof of Eight West, St. Paul's Hospital,

Buffalo, New York

Jane Simmons sat at the picnic table, sipping a beer as she chatted with the other ER nurses. A silver medal for the ER team's closer-than-usual second-place finish behind Father Jimmy clinked against the neck of the bottle.

The so-called wind-up party, well into its fifth hour, had lasted six times longer than the race itself, and a hundred or so others still hadn't gone home. Everyone seemed glad to hang out where they could see one another's faces again. But the reason she'd stuck around stood on the other side of the dance floor among a group of residents, too many of them women.

Thomas Biggs leaned against a picnic table, his arms folded across his chest, laughing easily and listening more than talking.

She felt jealous, and hated herself for it. When he eventually came to the makeshift bar, a long cafeteria table laden with drinks in buckets of ice, she walked over to greet him.

"Hi, Thomas. Want to share a beer?"

"Hey, J.S. Sorry, I said I'd go into ER early, starting a few hours from now. Split a juice with you?"

"Cute!"

"Would you like to dance?"

"Sure."

He swung her out onto the platform, where a dozen other couples snaked around to the strains of "Lady in Red." It blared from speakers suspended in a pair of potted trees, all part of the loaned decor that turned the gravel surface on top of the hospital's west wing into what the program described as the "Roof Garden." Mauve velvet ropes strung between chrome posts to demarcate an area well away from the edge looked as if they'd been borrowed from a movie theater lobby. Behind them stood a veritable jungle of more borrowed large plants. These concealed the ten-foot chain-link fence that, according to hospital lore, had been erected around the perimeter six years earlier after the then chief of psychiatry jumped to his death. Without the greenery as camouflage, the place resembled a prison yard.

She settled comfortably into his arms, once more appreciating his ability as a dancer. She also liked the gentle way he held her, and the feel of his firm chest.

Jane knew he was covering ER tonight. She'd checked the schedule, as she often did, to see if they'd be on together. But her slot started at eleven, the regular nursing shift.

Christ! For a grown woman, sometimes she could act so lame about him, she thought, embarrassed at having looked up when he worked. Then she wondered if he ever did the same for her. She'd like that.

An early evening breeze ruffled her hair, and she relaxed her head dreamily against his shoulder. He shifted his arms ever so slightly, enfolding her. She enjoyed the sensation.

She'd barely noticed him his first rotation through ER at St. Paul's. That had been her own rookie year. Scared to death of making a mistake on duty, then preoccupied with studying possible case scenarios on her days off in order to boost her confidence at work, she'd little time for men and didn't enjoy going out much. But after six months she had gained enough competence to look beyond her job and enjoy life a little- enough to keep an open mind as far as hooking up with someone when the Christmas party rolled around. Big mistake. People decompressed so much that most behaved as if they were at Mardi Gras. Wives left their wedding rings at home, husbands forgot where they lived, and singles swung.

Except for Dr. Thomas Biggs. He not only knew a fox trot from a waltz but also didn't use their time on the dance floor as an opportunity to grope her. Better yet, between numbers he actually seemed to enjoy talking about something besides work.

From then on she'd started checking his schedule against her own. They never ran out of anything to say. Movies, music, medicine- the topic didn't matter. And she particularly liked his easy, soft-spoken manner and barely detectable Tennessee drawl. To her mind, he sounded like someone out of Gone with the Wind- a man who knew how to treat a lady. Of course, she never monopolized him, again to avoid tongues wagging. Even at subsequent ER parties she'd danced with him no more than anyone else. But it had bothered her that he hadn't tried to take it further.

Initially she'd presumed he didn't want to date anyone with whom he worked, even though many residents had no such qualms and behaved like free-range rutters whenever they had the chance. Then his rotations took him to other departments- some even out of the city, to rural rotations in the Finger Lakes district, a winemaking area east of Buffalo- and she hardly saw him at all. Occasionally they ran into each other in the cafeteria and would have a coffee together. But he would never initiate anything more, not so much as a dinner invitation. She'd even begun to think he might be gay, then decided probably not. She could usually tell that about a man. It had to do with the carnality of her attraction to him, and Thomas's pull on her definitely rated a ten.

Still, frustrated at his lack of boldness and wondering about the reason, she'd finally asked him outright. "Do you prefer men, or is it me as a woman you got problems with?"

His swarthy complexion had flushed behind the closely cropped beard. "Want to go to my apartment and find out?" His tone carried more dare than invitation.

"Yeah," she'd said, double-daring him right back.

And they'd become lovers.

"Why'd you wait so long?" she'd asked him afterward.

"Because I didn't want us to be the latest gossip morsel for the hospital to chew over. I hate that."

"Me too."

"So what do we do?" He'd seemed genuinely lost for ideas.

"Continue to act like friends in public," she'd told him, surprised at how easily he'd let her take charge. "Can you keep a secret? I mean really keep it. Not a peep about us to anyone?"

He'd shrugged. "Watch me."

So they'd sealed the bond.

That had been eight months ago, just before last Christmas.

They'd been lovers ever since, except when he'd had to go off to the Finger Lakes district again, at the beginning of the year.

The music ended, and she opened her eyes. The summer dusk promised a long, languid sunset. "I want to be more than just your chum tonight," she whispered.

"You mean in the hospital? We might blow our cover."

"There's tomorrow morning. After sign-out, come on over, and I'll make you breakfast."

His dark good looks lit up with that infectious grin of his that she loved to see.

"You mean ol" hillbilly me finally is considered housebroken enough to be allowed into that new apartment of yours?" he teased. "What happened? Someone cover it all in plastic?"

She'd just moved into a new place. For reasons of her own, she'd hesitated at inviting him over. "Something like that. How about it?"

"Love to," he said, and walked away, rejoining the residents he'd been talking with earlier.

Feeling miserable, she wandered over to the end of the table, away from her nursing friends. Did he want her as much as she did him? At times she suspected his aversion to gossip simply gave him the excuse he needed to keep her at a distance- handy when he needed her, but out of sight when it suited him.

"You look as if you've lost your best friend," said a voice behind her.

She turned to see Father Jimmy, beer in hand. He gave her a lopsided grin that lifted her spirits despite her foul mood. "Hi, Father. No, it isn't anything like that."

He glanced across the room and nodded toward Thomas. "You're sure?"

She felt her face grow warm. He couldn't possibly know about Thomas and her. They'd been so careful. "What are you talking about?"

"You seem unhappy. Tis a shame, a woman of your talent and beauty."

The burn in her face increased. "I'm fine."

"Are you? I'd say that the usual J.S. spark is missing tonight."

"Just tired, is all."

"Ah, well, if that's the problem, I'm not surprised. You work hard."

"No more than the next person."

"Oh, I disagree. I can tell the good ones, and you're right up there, J.S. You pour heart and soul into what you do, and haven't backed off it since the day you arrived. I like that in you."

His candid praise surprised her. While he'd always been friendly and spoke of the good job that nurses did, she'd never heard him single one out for special mention before, let alone her. Probably figured she needed cheering up. "Thank you, Father. That's very kind."

"Kindness has nothing to do with it." He walked over and sat down beside her. "A lot of the patients talk about the special 'pierced angel of ER.'"

She started to laugh. "The what?"

He grinned again and took a swig of beer. "I've been wondering if maybe I should get an earring. What do you think?"

She laughed some more. "Come on."

"But I never get a clear answer whether right or left is a message. Needless to say, I can't go around giving the wrong idea."

"You're not serious."

"Sure. I figure it'll help bridge the gap between me and some of the street kids."

She searched his face for a hint that he'd engaged her in one of his games of zany banter, but he seemed quite pensive. And for the first time she found herself guessing about his age. Probably mid-thirties. Not at all too old for jewelry, though she couldn't remember ever seeing a priest wear any. She would have thought there'd be a rule against it.

"So which is it, right or left?"

She laughed. "Right or left ear. It doesn't matter anymore," she said. "And I could do it for you if you like." She immediately felt shy at making the offer.

But he let out a deep chuckle. "Why, I can't think of anyone I'd rather trust my earlobe to. Just tell me when and where."

His ready acceptance relaxed her. Apparently he hadn't found the offer out of line. "Good. I'll check with Susanne about using a treatment room in ER. It won't take more than a few minutes. But bring the ring with you, so I can insert it to keep the perforation open."

"Done. Let me know when you're ready. And thanks, J.S." He held out his hand to shake on the deal. The firmness of his grip didn't surprise her, given his physique, but the roughness of his palm did. It had the calluses that only years of physical labor could produce. Like her father's.

She realized her hand had lingered in his when he said, "Not the soft skin you expected?"

"Oh, sorry." She felt her cheeks grow warm.

"Hey, I'm proud when someone notices. They got like that prior to divinity school, when I bummed around out west for a few years. Worked as a ranch hand in several places. Say, you're from the prairies too, aren't you?"

"Yeah, but further east. I grew up in wheat country- Grand Forks, North Dakota, right on the Minnesota border."

"I know where it is. Just north of where they made that movie Fargo a few years back, and gave everyone Norwegian accents."

She laughed again, knowing exactly the film he meant. Everyone in Grand Forks had busted a gut laughing at it. "l-ya do-on't kno-oo wh-at yo-ou me-an," she mimicked, summoning up her best singsong rendition of the lead actress's portrayal of a local female cop's speech.

He threw his head back and guffawed so loudly it stopped conversations and attracted more than a few looks. "That's perfect," he managed to say, still chortling, oblivious to the reactions around him. "Say something else."

Carried away by his exuberance, she added, "Be-ee ca-re fu-ull, o-or yo-ou wi-ill pu-uke."

This time he nearly doubled over, and she started to giggle, finding his easy enjoyment of her joke infectious.

They settled down, and he asked, "Are your mom and dad still in Grand Forks?"

A twinge of sadness cut through the happy moment. "My father died in a construction accident twelve years ago. Mom's there, though," she added, brightening, "along with my kid brother, Arliss, who's now six foot and in his final year of high school. To think I used to beat him up."

He reared back in an expression of mock horror. "Did ya now?"

His Irish brogue made her giggle again.

"And you look like you could still handle yourself," he continued, bringing his head closer to hers. His eyes alight with playfulness, he held a hand to the side of his mouth in an obvious parody of someone about to reveal a secret. "Your speed as a runner actually had me worried during the race today. Fast as a cheetah, ye are. Nobody's come so close to beatin' the Flying Angels in years."

They chatted a few more minutes about the prairie, and then he excused himself.

As he walked away, she thought it odd that she found him so likable. Her attitude toward God's existence amounted to little more than a willingness to keep an open mind on the subject. Yet during her encounters with Father Jimmy in ER, she had never once sensed that he had an underlying agenda to show her the error of her loosely held beliefs. He just seemed friendly and fun. In fact, if he weren't a priest… She immediately shut down that line of thought. My God, what could she be thinking?

She nevertheless continued to watch the man as he wandered the room, joking with whomever he met, until she saw Dr. G. corner him. The two exchanged a few words, their expressions tightened into frowns, and they left together, joined in an animated discussion. At the door leading back into the hospital they stopped where boxes of protective clothing had been stacked and suited up again, but the ritual failed to interfere with their conversation.

She scanned the crowd, looking for Thomas. He stood against the setting sun, head tilted in easy laughter, evidently finding the woman he talked to exceedingly funny. The pleasant warmth of her interlude with Father Jimmy vanished instantly, replaced by a longing she'd come to resent.

"Do you want him, girl?" Susanne whispered in her ear and sat down beside her. "This time next year he'll be gone."

Jane felt herself flush. "What are you talking about?"

Susanne gave a dismissive wave. "You're a lot like me," she said. "A woman who likes to keep private things private. But I can tell what's up between you two."

"Really, Susanne, you've got the wrong impression-"

Susanne cut her off with a skeptical arch of an eyebrow that made it clear further protests were pointless.