by Lee Goldberg
Paul Guyot
Gary Betz
Andrew Kosterman
Melinda Soper
Emilia Ortega
Oliver Pritchard
Wendy Duren
Dave Grayson
Hammett Aidman
Dorothy Myack
John Eames
Patricia Ohanian
Steve had hoped that in doing the task he would discover some clear timetable for the killings, like one every seven days or after the full moon. But no such pattern emerged.
The shortest period between killings was twenty-four hours, the longest a month.
He stepped back and looked at the names, scratching at an itch on the back of his neck. The scratching didn't do any good. Because the itch wasn't on his skin. It was in his head. It was a free-floating anxiety. A nervous twitch.
It was something about those names.
He looked at the first name on Guyot's list. Gary Betz. He looked at the first name on Duren's list. Dave Grayson. He looked at the second name on Guyot's list. Andrew Kosterman. He looked at the second name on Duren's list. Hammett Aidman. And so it went. Five victims each.
Guyot killed the first patient, then Duren jumped ahead with two kills in one week, then Guyot caught up. Then they each made a kill in the same week to end up neck and neck with five each.
Jumped ahead. Caught up. Neck and neck.
It was as if they were playing a game, keeping score with corpses.
Yes, a game.
It felt right. But what kind of game was it? What were the rules?
Steve stared at the names of the first four victims in both columns and tried to think of them in terms of players or points in a game.
Gary Betz. Dave Grayson.
Andrew Kosterman. Hammett Aidman.
And there it was, finally. Right in front of his face. The pattern. It was so obvious in its crude simplicity, he couldn't imagine how he'd missed it before.
But he had. Everyone had.
Steve Sloan knew how they would pick their next victim.
The how was easy.
The who was going to be a lot harder. If he wasn't too late already.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Jesse finished his rounds and went to check up on Mark again in the ICU. He reviewed Mark's chart and took a seat in the guest chair beside the bed. His leg was aching and he was tired. It had already been a very long day, and it was far from over.
This wasn't the first time Jesse had seen Mark in a hospital bed. All too often lately he'd been injured in the course of his investigations. Jesse didn't know whether Mark was getting careless or if his luck was simply running out. It was reaching the point that Mark's enemies were beginning to outnumber his friends.
Each time Mark got hurt, Jesse became more afraid that he could lose the man he'd come to consider his surrogate father. This time, he'd seen Mark almost get killed right in front of him.
Jesse couldn't imagine what his life would be like without Mark's guidance. If it wasn't for Mark's influence, what kind of man would he be today? What kind of doctor? Mark had helped shape Jesse's character in so many ways. Jesse strived to emulate Mark's best qualities and had even adopted his clearly dangerous fascination with homicide investigation, much to Susan's concern.
He studied Mark's face and wondered what was going on in the doctor's mind. Was Mark dreaming? And if so, what about? How far was his imagination taking him?
As it turned out, Mark's dreams hadn't taken him far at all. just two floors down in the same hospital.
Mark opened his eyes. He was lying on his back in a bed in the ER.
"Dr. Sloan?"
He looked up to see Dr. Kozak leaning over him.
"What happened?" Mark asked.
"You fainted," Dr. Kozak replied. "You were only out for a few moments."
Mark sat up. "Where's Emily?"
"She's in the OR with Susan," Dr. Kozak said. "Just relax. We still need to run some tests."
"I'm okay," Mark said. "It was just the shock of seeing Susan like that. First Jesse, now her. It was too much for me to handle."
"For all of us," Kozak said softly.
This was a nightmare that kept getting worse. It was so bad, it was bordering on surreal. Mark had forgotten the last two years, but it was the last two days he wished he could erase.
"You suffered a head trauma," Dr. Kozak continued. "Your fainting spell could be a symptom of serious complications."
"It's not," Mark said. He abruptly got off the gurney and stood up without any dizziness or disorientation.
"I strongly advise you not to do this," Dr. Kozak said.
"Duly noted," Mark said. "Which OR is Emily in?"
"Number three."
Mark nodded and marched out of the ER, very much aware of Dr. Kozak's eyes on him, watching for any sign that he was off balance or faltering in any way.
He got into the empty elevator and turned to see Dr. Kozak staring at him. The doors closed and Mark leaned back against the wall, shutting his eyes for a moment.
You've got to be strong, he told himself. You're the chief of internal medicine. Everyone will be watching you and following your example. Get a grip.
He opened his eyes, straightened up, and took a deep breath. When the elevator arrived, he strode out like a man on a mission. He went straight to the observation gallery above the operating room. The gallery was crammed full of surgical interns, but they weren't there to learn from the delicate procedure Dr. Noble was performing. Mostly, they were there, like Mark, because of their ties to Jesse and Susan.
When Mark entered, everyone turned to him, their eyes brimming with tears.
He nodded to acknowledge their unspoken concern but said nothing, shifting his gaze to the operation going on below. Emily's back was to him, her surgical team huddled around Susan, working intently.
This wouldn't be the first time a brain-dead mother had been kept alive until childbirth. It had been medically possible for decades. He'd done it himself twenty-five years ago.
But the operation that Emily was performing now was still relatively rare, and the risks were great. If Susan died on the table—a distinct possibility considering her injuries— her baby would die as well.
Mark didn't think he could take that. There had been too many deaths already. He wanted to curl up in a comer and cry over the losses.
But he had a stronger compulsion—to do something, anything, to gain some measure of control over this situation, to bring this unendurable misery to an end.
There wasn't anything he could do medically. That left only one way he could act.
He had to find the killer.
He left the observation gallery and went to his office, sat down at his computer, and fumbled with his mouse to call up the medical records on Grover Dawson, Joyce Kling, and Hammond McNutchin, three of his dead patients.
He accidentally clicked the "About" page on the software, filling his screen with a movie-like scroll of credits for the software design team.
Frustrated, he clicked his way out of the pointless screen and searched for the records he needed. It didn't take long to find what he was looking for.
Grover Dawson's insurance carrier was First Fidelity Casualty, one of the companies that was on the handwritten rotes Mark had found on his desk. A few clicks later, and Mark found that Joyce Kling was insured by First Fidelity, loo.
Was the insurance carrier the common denominator between the victims? He felt a tinge of excitement, but it was short-lived. A moment later, he discovered that Hammond McNutchin was covered by Cal-Star Insurance, another company Mark had recorded in his notes.
He recalled that his notes mentioned one other company—Kemper-Carlson Pharmaceuticals.
On a hunch, Mark checked Grover Dawson's prescription drug policy. According to the records, his insurance company didn't authorize pharmacies to refill Dawson's regular prescriptions. Instead, the company required that all refills be processed by mail and delivered through K
emper-Carlson.
Mark checked Hammond McNutchin's records to see what Cal-Star's prescription drug policy was. Like First Fidelity, it processed the prescription drug program through Kemper-Carlson.
Was this how the killer gained access to the victims? By delivering their prescription drugs?
Mark printed out the information on the three patients, found his car keys in his desk drawer, and hurriedly left the office.
He wanted to get back to the beach house and go through the patient records again, sorting out the dead patients who got their drugs delivered to them by Kemper-Carlson.
From there, he would call their families and see if any of them were missing a personal item like a wedding ring, a glass fish, or a set of dentures.
When he was done with those tasks, he would have a list of likely victims and would be able to make a convincing case to Steve, who, in turn, could take it to his superiors. With the LAPD on board, they would be able to zero in on the killer much faster than Mark could on his own.
Perhaps it was his impatience, his eagerness to get back to work, that made the slow drive back to Malibu in evening rush-hour traffic seem so agonizing. There was something about being stuck in the drab Ford sedan that he found incredibly irritating. It wasn't just the slow crawl towards Malibu, the smell of exhaust fumes, or the car's ridiculous faux-wood trim.
He felt imprisoned in the car, acutely aware of its cheap materials and oppressive blandness. It was as if the car was part of some evil conspiracy to keep him from finding the killer.
It took him nearly an hour to make the trip home. It felt like days. The sky was dark, the night deeper and blacker than usual. The moon was hidden by the clouds, and the streetlights had inexplicably failed to go on.
As soon as he entered the house, he started for the stairs to the first floor. He was halfway down when he paused, realizing that he was starving. It was impossible for him to think on an empty stomach. The only things that would be on his mind would be cheeseburgers, pizza, and fried chicken.
He went to the kitchen and opened the refrigerator to make himself a quick snack. The refrigerator was stuffed with lunch meat, cheese, fruit, and some leftovers—his famous seashell casserole in an aluminum foil pan, a couple of cartons of take-out Chinese food, and a few slices of birthday cake.
Mark stared at the food, feeling a growing uneasiness. No. that wasn't what it was. He had the distinct impression that he'd experienced this moment before. He could remember standing in front of the refrigerator and seeing the same leftovers.
That was certainly possible. He made seashell casserole a lot, they were regulars at the Chinese restaurant across the street, and the cake—
The cake.
Mark lifted the plastic wrap and tasted the white frosting on the cake. It was a typical cake, the kind you'd have at birthdays or other celebrations. His birthday and Steve's were still months off. So where had this cake come from? Was it Emily's?
When was the last time he remembered having a cake like this?
The only thing that came to mind was the party at Barbeque Bob's celebrating Jesse and Susan's wedding. The cake was huge, and there was so much left over that Jesse and Susan insisted that the guests all take some home. Steve, never one to refuse cake, took a double share for him and Mark.
But that was two years ago.
When was the last time he remembered making seashell casserole?
The day he got back from Las Vegas.
Two years ago.
Mark's heart began to race and his mouth went dry. He thought about the drive back from Vegas and, more recently, the trip he'd just made from the hospital.
He reached into his pocket and looked at the car keys in his hands. The key chain had the Hertz logo on it. On the other side of the key chain was the car's VIN and license plate information.
The Ford was a rental car. The same one he'd rented in Las Vegas.
Two years ago.
Why was he still driving it? It made no sense at all. Unless ...
"Mark?"
He looked up and saw Emily standing there, still in her scrubs. There were specks of blood on the blue cotton fabric.
How long had she been standing there? Why hadn't he heard her come in? How had she gotten there so fast?
"Susan's baby is going to be fine," she said. "It's a girl. We're going to be able keep Susan alive until the baby is ready to be born."
Mark stared at Emily and nodded silently. There was something eerily familiar now about her and this horrible situation with Susan.
"I was surprised that you'd left, that you'd driven yourself home," she said. "What were you thinking? What if you'd fainted behind the wheel?"
Mark staggered back from the refrigerator, leaving the door wide open.
"That's the same food that was in the refrigerator two years ago," he said. "I'm driving the same car."
He glanced at the wedding album, which was still open on the kitchen table, and motioned to the honeymoon pictures.
"All the photos taken of you and me in Hawaii are in places I visited before with Steve," Mark said. "Why aren't there any pictures taken in places that I didn't go to before? Because I don't know what the other parts of Kauai look like."
She took a step towards him. "Mark, you're not making any sense."
"No, this is the first thing that's made sense in days,"
Mark said and tossed his car keys across the room. "None of this is real."
"Listen to me. You had a severe head injury. You've suffered a terrible emotional shock. You need help."
"You're right, and I'm not going to get it by staying here." Mark said. "It's time for me to leave."
He strode past her to the front door. Emily hurried after him.
"Where are you going?" she said.
"Home." Mark opened the door and rushed down the front walk towards the street.
Emily caught up with him and grabbed him by the arm. "You are home. I love you, Mark. Please come back inside with me."
Mark yanked his arm free and continued walking across the private road and up the embankment towards the Pacific Coast Highway, the lights of the passing cars flashing like lightning through the darkness.
"Please, Mark. Stop," she yelled.
He stopped at the comer of Trancas Canyon Road and the highway. Trancas Market was across the street, and behind it in the blackness, the Santa Monica Mountains. Cars and trucks sped by him in a blur, kicking up a speed-driven wind that shrieked like a dying animal.
Mark looked over his shoulder at Emily and smiled. "You're the only part of my life that wasn't a nightmare."
A look of horror washed across her face and she began to run towards him.
"No!" she screamed.
Mark glanced to his right. There was a bus speeding towards him. He took a deep breath and stepped into the highway right in front of it.
The next scream he heard was his own.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Mark opened his eyes and saw a young Asian woman staring down at him. It was that ER nurse again. He couldn't remember her name.
Deja vu.
"Welcome back, Dr. Sloan," she said. "We've missed you."
He blinked hard, licked his dry lips, and tried to speak. His voice was raw. "How long have I been out?"
"Three days," she said. "I'll go get the doctor."
The nurse left before he could ask her any more questions. He looked around the room, seeing the same equipment he'd seen before, feeling that same sense of deja vu even more intensely.
Mark checked to see if there was a copy of the novel A Prayer for Owen Meany on the guest chair and was relieved, and a little saddened, not to see it there. There wasn't a wedding ring on his finger either.
He reached up and felt the bandage on his head and the rubber tube underneath it that ran down to a bag below the bed. From that, and a quick glance at his IV and the equipment around his bed, he was able to confidently determine his medical condition and the procedures that had
likely been done to stabilize him.
Next, Mark tested his ability to move and did the same neurological self-exam he'd done before.
Or at least that he'd imagined doing in the alternate universe he'd been living in for three days.
Someone spoke. "If you like, I can give you the file and you can write up the report on your condition."
Mark looked up and saw Dr. Jesse Travis hobbling in on a cane, a big smile on his face.
"You're alive," Mark said with a broad smile.
"I think that's supposed to be my line," Jesse said. "Do you know who you are and where you are?"
"I'm Dr. Mark Sloan and I'm in Community General Hospital," he said. "Would you like to know which room and on which floor?"
"Show-off," Jesse said. "What's the last thing you remember?"
Mark almost replied that it was looking at his wife, Emily, and then stepping in front of a speeding bus. The dream was still fresh in his mind, every detail as vivid as if he'd just lived it. But he tried to think beyond that, to his last true memory.
"I remember a car coming at me in the parking garage," Mark said. "And someone tackling me out of its path."
Jesse raised his hand hesitantly. "That would be me. I'm afraid I'm the reason you're lying there."
"Better here than in the morgue."
"You can say that again," Amanda said, arriving as if on cue, in her medical examiner windbreaker. "It's so good to see your smile."
She gave him a hug.
"Yours too," Mark said. "I'm not married, am I?"
Amanda gave him a quizzical look, then glanced at Jesse. "Have you checked him out?"
"I was just getting to that," Jesse said.
Mark laughed. "Don't let my question worry you. It's not brain damage. There's a story behind it."
"I can't wait to hear it," Amanda said.
"Later, I promise," Mark said. "What happened to your leg,Jesse?"
"The same thing that happened to your head," Jesse said. "A lousy tackle."
"Has Steve caught whoever it was who tried to run me over?"