She sighed as if to say, Spare me the fools. "I do appreciate what you did for Artie, and your kindness toward me," she added, as if that at least compensated in part for his current failing to tell her what she needed to know.
"I wish I could have helped him more."
She reached inside her handbag and pulled out a business envelope bearing the logo of a well-known insurance company. "I'm sorry to bother you with these. Dr. Popovitch filled out the initial forms, but he's not here, and they just require a confirmation of his initial report. Do you mind?"
He hated insurance papers. Most of the time the questions attempted to derail the claim and demanded irrelevant details that had more to do with filling in squares than providing an informed medical opinion as to the cause of death. And if the doctor who'd actually handled the case happened to be off duty when the family showed up with the documents, a frequent occurrence, Michael, bless his soul, had mostly taken over the mind-numbing chore. But occasionally one still got through to Earl. "Sure, I'd be glad to," he said, taking the papers out of her hand.
"Thanks. You don't know what a relief it is getting them out of the way. I thought there might be trouble, and Lord knows I need the money. But Dr. Popovitch assured me everything should go through fine. And thank God. It's a terrible thing to say, but that policy's the only good investment Artie made since the bubble popped."
He got the message. She expected him to be as helpful as Michael had been. He started to skim through what he'd written.
Five minutes later he wished he hadn't.
"Michael, we have to talk."
Earl had phoned him at home the instant Mrs. Baxter left his office.
"Jesus, Earl, can't it wait? You know I just got off a shift from hell."
"I just had an interesting conversation with Artie Baxter's widow about insurance papers."
Silence reigned supreme.
"Where?" Michael asked after a few seconds.
Earl thought of the nearest place outside the hospital to get a cup of coffee. "The Horseshoe Bar."
A copper haze from the morning rush hour lingered over Buffalo, staining the previously blue sky a color of rust. He made the ten-minute walk in five, despite the temperature having already climbed past the predicted high. Ducking inside a front door of smoked glass to the dark air-conditioned interior provided welcome relief. A former hangout for gangs and druggies, the place had mellowed into a respectable watering hole where many of the staff and medical residents gathered for a beer after work. The change had been helped along by a makeover with mirrors, plants, and several coats of dark green paint, but no amount of interior decorating could erase Earl's memory of the kids whom he'd pronounced dead after they'd OD'd here.
Over the last three months the management, in another adjustment to the times, had started to serve an early-bird breakfast, taking advantage of hospital staff determined to avoid the designated eating areas of a SARS environment. That crowd would be long gone to work, he'd figured.
His eyes adjusted to the dark. Sure enough, most of the tables and booths stood empty, and a long chrome-trimmed bar, gleaming under the neon glow of a large, red-script Budweiser sign, wouldn't open until the lunch rush arrived a few hours from now. But the aroma of fresh coffee filled the air.
He chose a corner table and had downed two cups by the time Michael slid into the seat opposite him.
"So what's the deal?" Earl said without ceremony.
"Artie Baxter died of a cardiac arrest. You were there. That's what it says on the form."
"You didn't mention the fact he came in unconscious from hypoglycemia."
"That's not the cause of death."
"It's the cause of the cause, Michael. Don't kid around with me."
He shrugged. "That could be one opinion."
"Well, here's another. That story of his, that he took his normal dose of insulin, then got too busy to eat, stank like three-day-old fish. I think he deliberately tried to check out, using insulin. As to why, I don't know for sure, but I bet you do. Mrs. Baxter is pretty forthright about Artie's lousy investment skills. So what happened? He became suicidal after getting in over his head with the stock market? And you hid that little fact so a pretty young widow could still collect his insurance?"
Michael's expression hardened. "Her being pretty had nothing to do with it."
"Oh, yeah? Then where were you Monday night? Not ER, where Donna said you'd be." On the fly, he decided to take a big leap, in the hope of provoking an outburst of truth. "What's going on, Michael? You into consoling widows?"
Michael's face reddened until it resembled a beet with a beard. "If you weren't my friend…" He clenched his fist. "Just stay out of this, Earl. It's not what you think."
"Then change my thinking."
Michael exhaled, the way he'd done in his smoking days, as if intent on expelling the last traces of air in his lungs. His fingers uncoiled. "She needed the money. It's not her fault her husband tried to check out. And he did have chest pain that he ignored, like a lot of men we see who don't make it, and they still get the insurance. So Where's the harm?"
"It's fraud. If that company asks to see the original chart-"
"They'll see my note that describes exactly what happened in ER. An insulin-dependent diabetic male arrives comatose, receives glucose, wakes up, arrests, and dies. Wife says he'd been complaining for days of chest pain that he blamed on indigestion- amen. And not a fraudulent statement anywhere."
"What if they ask you why you didn't mention the coma on the insurance claim? And if they also read the nurses' notes, they'll see that cockamamie story of his about the insulin. Just because you didn't spell it out doesn't mean they won't put it together, just like we did."
"Bullshit. Once they get a doctor's signature, they never ask for nursing notes unless they suspect something's not kosher."
"What do you mean never? You've done this before?"
"Of course not."
But he'd taken a second too long in answering.
"Have you ever had an insurance company challenge your ruling on a cause of death, let alone go so far as to demand nurses' notes for corroboration?" he asked, barely skipping a beat.
No, he hadn't. But Earl couldn't shake the feeling of being fed a lie.
"And don't tell me you never fudged a form," Michael continued. "Left out a detail that might have torpedoed a claim, stood over a corpse that had tobacco-stained fingers and ticked the 'don't know' box in answer to the question 'Has patient smoked in the last year?'"
Again Earl couldn't disagree. Every doctor knew the drill: don't outright lie, but don't hand the adjusters an outright gift either. What made this case dirty was the blatancy of the omission and if the doctor got any favors in return.
Michael stood up to leave. "So we're square?" he said, as if the matter were closed. "Now I'm going home to sleep."
Earl decided to try a more delicate approach. "You look as if you haven't had a good rest in months, Michael. Something's been eating you up- has been for a while now- and don't tell me again that it's just that you're tired or worried about SARS. Even when we get together for dinner or take the kids out somewhere, there are moments when you get a look in your eyes that's a million miles away. Hell, I've even seen Terry looking at you funny, wondering what's wrong. And you wouldn't have come all the way down here if this thing with Artie Baxter's insurance form was as innocent as you claim. So let's cut the bullshit. I want to know what's going on."
His friend leaned on the back of the chair he'd just vacated and towered over Earl. "You know, I liked you better when you were just chief of ER and mad at everyone else who ran the place."
"This place? The Horseshoe?"
Michael laughed. The smile looked good on him, and for a few seconds the craggy landscape of his face softened. Then he leaned closer, grinned wider, and his expression hardened. "Since they made you VP, medical, you've been getting in more trouble than ever. Oh, excuse me, make that suspended VP, medical."
His grin vanished. "It sure is. Because I'm betting my good friend Earl won't go around making accusations about me and widows that would upset the hell out of my wife. And for my good friend's information, SARS is why I'm losing sleep. It's wrecking the shit out of my marriage. Donna's so scared I'll bring it home to Terry, she's thinking of moving to her mother's with him. So I'm also counting on my good friend to give his long-trusted pal Michael the benefit of the doubt and not pry into matters that are best left alone. Now I'm going back home to bed." He started toward the door.
"Michael, damn it, you can't do this to me." Earl threw a few dollars on the table and ran after him. "Tell me what the hell you've gotten into-"
Michael spun around and jabbed an index finger that felt like an iron pipe into Earl's chest. "Something that needs doing, understand! For God's sake, harness that righteous bloodhound streak of yours and quit fucking with the good guys!"
Stung, Earl took a step back. "The good guys?"
"Yeah. The ones whom you've seen fit to rag lately. Stewart, now me, even Father Jimmy."
"Jimmy told you that?"
Michael nodded. "Trust me, you don't want to pursue any of it."
"What the hell are you talking about?"
He opened his mouth to reply, seemed to think better of it, and turned toward the exit, walking stiffly, his shoulders rigid. At the blackened doors he paused and peered back at Earl. "Just remember, we're all trying to do our best." Transient as a blink, the bulky posture of Michael's upper body bunched up and reminded Earl of an animal, hunched over and about to charge, warning off an intruder. It looked so out of character that Michael might have been some stranger standing there. Then he was gone.
Chapter 14
I had only allowed myself to remember the dream while alone.
It helped keep me invisible.
That would be more critical than ever now.
Because the dream had changed.
I walked into the lab as usual.
The water sprayed down from the broken pipes.
But when I looked up at his face, the swollen tongue lashed to and fro, angry as a trapped snake. The engorged lips pulled back in a swollen leer. The black orifice mouthed, "Do it!"
Death rounds had been the tipping point- my stage perfectly set.
If I acted quickly now, with everyone primed, they'd all draw the logical conclusion.
One, two, three, and I'd be free.
First the suicide.
Then Graceton. My perfect dry run had left no doubt about her fate.
And finally, if grief didn't stop Garnet, I'd do it myself.
And everybody would be fooled.
One, two, three…
The little ditty kept running through my head as I prepared the chloroform, then gathered up what else I'd need for the night's work.
Wednesday, July 16, 4:40 p.m.
Stewart woke with a start, only to hear a loud roll of thunder slowly die out.
Outside his bedroom window a gray fog thick as flannel cut the light and made it seem dusk, but a glance at the glowing figures on his digital alarm clock surprised him. An afternoon storm must have blown in, he thought, getting up to close the windows. But the air, much cooler now, held a pleasant scent that reminded him of fresh laundry, so he left everything open.
More thunder rumbled not too far off.
"Tocco," he called, surprised the dog hadn't stayed by his bed. She hated storms and stuck as close to him as possible whenever they occurred. If alone in the house, she'd head into the basement, and he'd find her there when he came home, huddled in the darkest nook she could find.
He pulled on his clothes and headed downstairs, his feet still bare. "Tocco, come here, girl."
Sleep had helped him. And having saved Jane Simmons. His stock had soared so much with the nurses for that one that maybe he'd have a chance to ride out Yablonsky's accusations. At least at St. Paul's.
His enemies on the Web were another matter.
His mood immediately darkened.
In that forum he'd be held guilty until he could prove himself innocent. Even then, he might never be good enough again for the kind of grant money he used to get. Awarded on merit, it could be denied on a whim. He'd have to convince everyone that crone Yablonsky had concocted the whole thing, tried to use him as a handy scapegoat to cover up her own incompetence. "Or worse," as Earl had put it.
"Tocco!" he called, entering the kitchen. His basement door yawned open as he usually left it, so she could have the run of the house. "Come on up, girl. Suppertime."
He expected to hear the click of her nails on the linoleum-covered steps and the jingle of her collar tags.
Nothing.
"Tocco?"
He flicked on the light switch near the cellar steps.
The darkness below remained.
Bulb must be burnt out, he thought.
"Come here, Tocco," he called out, and started down. The small basement windows, even with the gloom outside, would allow him enough light to see by. She must have really been scared by the thunder.
He reached the bottom of the stairs, certain she'd come out of hiding and greet him.
No dog.
What the hell? he thought, feeling his way through the semidarkness toward one of the spots she often curled up in.
A tiny rectangular window in his laundry room admitted a thin, almost yellow glow as the late afternoon sun penetrated layers of fog blanketing the city. In a far corner lay a shadow darker than the rest.
That's when he caught the first whiff of chloroform.
5:45 p.m.
The steady rumbling chased everyone else inside, but Earl stayed put. The luminous haze of the mist suggested the storm clouds were thinning out. Even if they didn't go for a brisk paddle as planned, it would be as good a place as any to talk with Jimmy alone. One thing was for certain: he wasn't about to let the priest cancel.
He stood on the worn wooden boardwalk of an area called the basin, a harbor where some of Buffalo's more affluent boaters moored their yachts. Less ostentatious sailors kept smaller craft on nearby racks. That's where Jimmy stored his sixteen-footer.
As he waited, Earl found himself carried back to a time in medical school when he and his roommate, Jack MacGregor, would seek relief from their studies by launching paper airplanes from the roof of their apartment building. They would craft various weird shapes and give them stabilizers and lift vents; though some nosedived to the street below, others would rise in the air, catch a breeze, and sail out of sight. The model that went the farthest and highest, no matter how wonky-looking, won.
Jack had always been the more daring of the two in this venture. "Your trouble, Garnet, is not allowing yourself to think outside the box," he'd accused more than once, and with reason. Medicine required pattern recognition, and that meant disciplining one's thoughts to symptoms and signs that were mired in evidence-based facts. The convention gave science its reliability but kept imaginations in check.
So Earl made himself remember those days with Jack whenever he faced a seemingly insolvable problem. Ideas, he'd realized, were often like those crazy paper planes. No matter how silly or bizarre they seemed at first, every now and then one would soar above all the others, usually to his complete surprise, and provide the answer that had eluded him.
The late Jack MacGregor- he'd died over five years ago saving Earl's life- must be proud of him now. Ever since his talk with Stewart's ex-wife and the bizarre confrontation with Michael, Earl's imagination had gone into overdrive with out-of-the-box ideas.
How could he help but look at Stewart's dilemma in a different light? If the man had had a hand in destroying another researcher's life, as odious as that might be, more and more his claim of being set up took on a different resonance.
Michael definitely required a new take, whatever he'd gotten himself into.
And since Jimmy had seen fit to label both of them "the good guys," maybe
he could also explain what they were up to.
He glanced at his watch. The priest should have been here twenty minutes ago. He'd been dodging Earl the whole day, claiming to be busy. But Earl had finally cornered him with the suggestion they use Jimmy's daily hour of exercise as a chance to talk, something they'd often done in the past. Jimmy then proposed that they take out the canoe.
Just when Earl figured he'd been stood up, he heard footsteps approach, and a dark shape became visible in the yellow mist.
"We go out there with a storm threatenin'," said a lilting voice, "the good Lord is likely to zot us for our stupidity."
"We can just take a walk instead, Jimmy." No way you're evading me any longer, he added to himself.
"Only if we pick up the pace. After a day like mine, I need to run."
Earl groaned. He'd slipped into shorts, sneakers, and a T-shirt, anticipating a workout on the water, but jogging, especially in a city of smog, never held much appeal, let alone made sense. But what the hell. Once wouldn't kill him. "Lead the way."
They took off along a pedestrian path that curved through a grassy area surrounded by trees, but beyond that, the mist prevented Earl from seeing exactly where they were.
"So what did you want to talk about?" Jimmy asked, breathing as easily as if they were standing still.
Although Earl found the pace a bit more of an effort than Jimmy, biking, swimming, and racing around the yard with Brendan had kept him in reasonable shape. "I had an odd run-in with Michael this morning over a rather selective way he'd filled out Artie Baxter's insurance form. You remember the case?"
"I'll never forget it. What do you mean by 'selective'?"
"No mention of anything that might raise questions about the widow getting the check."
"I thought death from a heart attack would be a straightforward claim."
"Not when falling comatose from too much insulin might have been a factor."
The priest increased the pace. "What are you suggesting?"
"Artie may have deliberately taken too much."
"But you can't be sure."
"No."
"Then Michael did the right thing. Why give the insurance company an out not to pay?"
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