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 abo
ut 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.
She heard someone approach, and gasped when Dr. Graceton stepped inside the curtains. The woman's luminous, steady gaze and warm expression from minutes ago had vanished. She looked stunned, with her eyes blank and her face as white as her mask.
"Sorry, J.S., I've got an emergency." The words came out clipped and fast. "Sedation orders are written. Get some sleep. I'll be back first thing in the morning and we can talk more then." She wheeled and headed for the exit, disappearing out the sliding door in seconds.
Something must have happened at home, Jane thought. Otherwise why would Dr. G. be the one who telephoned? Besides, last night had been her last on call for obstetrics.
A terrible possibility flew to mind, accompanied by a sense of dread that made it seem certain.
My God. Dr. G., Dr. Graceton, and Thomas were working on the cluster program tonight. They might have already matched Jimmy's schedule to mine.
She rang for a nurse.
The woman with silver glasses and matching hair listened to her request, then tried to argue that Dr. Graceton had left specific orders there were to be no more visitors.
"But I want to see the chaplain. He's not a visitor. At least let me talk to him on the phone."
The lady looked about to say no.
"Surely you wouldn't deny a patient spiritual comfort, especially not in here."
"I know he's your friend," she said, sounding annoyed, but brought her a phone anyway.
Jimmy Fitzpatrick's hand held steady as he replaced the receiver in its cradle.
He had taken the call at a patient's bedside and used the lack of privacy as an excuse for not being able to speak very long.
But he'd heard enough to set his heart racing and send himself running back to his office.
"Hey, I'm here so much, everybody thinks I work when they do," he had said to J.S. No telling if she'd bought it.
He'd known when he started it might all come down on his head. That still didn't make him ready to be led away in handcuffs for murder. And he definitely hadn't anticipated this twist involving J.S.
He fumbled the keys as he opened the lock and shut the door behind him but didn't turn on the light. Somehow he felt less panicky in the dark. He had enough ambient glow to see from the sodium lamps over the parking lot outside his window.
He'd gotten used to working in that ambient glow.
Around him were the bookshelves that held the words he'd chosen to live by. The Bible, of course, but also the philosophers he'd studied with such enthusiasm and love. Perfect thoughts from Aristotle, pupil of Plato, teacher of Alexander the Great, first in the struggle to reconcile science, ethics, politics, and the soul. John Locke, champion of empiricism and the inherent right of man to life, liberty, and a patch of land to call his own. Jean-Paul Sartre, who liberated all individuals to the lonely burden of defining right and wrong by themselves, then condemned those same individuals to the cold ethical void of existentialism. Sartre alone probably came closest to re-creating the ice bath of freedom and responsibility that God threw Adam and Eve into when He kicked them out of Eden.
Who could read any of the great teachers from all the ages, take their writings to heart, and not become an outlaw spirit?
At least that's how he'd read his calling among the realities of today at St. Paul's. How else could a man live for the greater good, help the meek, define right, and back it up with action if he wasn't willing to step outside the law now and then? Not to be pretentious, but he saw his predicament as merely a smaller-scale version of what had always been the dilemma for philosophers, people of God, and defenders of the oppressed who dared turn beautiful thoughts into concrete acts. Whether Jesus Christ, Robin Hood, Joan of Arc, or Zorro, they were rebels all, and he would have been proud to work at their sides whatever the period. No way was he just the grandstanding swashbuckler out of his time that Earl made him out to be.
At least that's how he'd thought of himself in the heady days at the start of their plan when getting caught seemed nothing more than a vague but unlikely possibility. He'd even promised the others they would never be found out, that, if necessary, he alone would take the blame and, by standing proud for what he did, make the deeds seem courageous and noble.
His head reeled in disgust at having been so naive and reckless, forcing him to grip the side of his desk.
Whom had he been kidding?
His downfall, if it came, would be a seedy, petty event, the stuff of tabloids blaring news of yet another disgraced priest.
He ran into the bathroom and threw up.
His stomach, emptied out, clenched itself tight as a fist, and he staggered back to his desk where he collapsed into his chair.
He could still get away with everything if he acted fast.
In the minimal light he pulled out the lower right drawer where he kept his prayer shawl, folded and ready for use. He lifted it out.
Next he withdrew a small mahogany box lined with purple velvet that held his holy oils and pyx, a circular container for consecrated wafers. He laid the kit unopened beside his shawl.
Reaching back into the drawer, he removed the false bottom in its recesses. There lay the syringes he'd stolen from ER. Beside them stood two vials of morphine, one provided by Stewart, the other by Michael.
9:55 p.m.
Janet had told Thomas to wait for her in the doctor's lounge. She found him there with mask off and sipping tea. He'd made an entire pot, and alongside it on a low magazine table sat a mug with cream already added, exactly the way he'd seen her take it after dinner hours earlier.
When she came closer, he jumped to his feet, eyes wide with alarm. "My God, are you all right? Is J.S. okay?"
"She's fine, other than scared and worried. I ordered sedation, and you must let her sleep. But there's other bad news-"
"What did she say?"
"What we expected. She hasn't a clue how her schedule could match the killings. And when I asked her if anyone always seemed to be around during her shifts, the denial came a little too quickly for my liking. Probably afraid to get a friend in trouble, so tomorrow see if you can get her to talk."
"I'll go see her right now." He started to get up.
Janet put a restraining hand on his chest. "Whoa! I just had the nurses sedate her, remember. She's safe enough until morning."
He hesitated, then said, "Here
, sit down," and motioned her to an overstuffed, leather lounge chair.
The decor in here hadn't changed since Reagan had been president, and maroon must have been a popular color back then. Even on a good day the furnishings jangled her eyes.
"And drink this. You look as though you could use it." He poured the steaming brown liquid to the mug's brim, gave the mix a stir, and handed it to her. "Now what's the other bad news?"
She pulled down her mask and took a sip, savoring the warmth as it traveled to her stomach. "It's about Stewart," she began, and described how Earl had discovered his body.
Thomas's face fell slack in disbelief.
Having to tell the story left her feeling leaden.
"He hung himself?" Thomas said when she'd finished, his voice as incredulous as his saggy-eyed expression.
She nodded. As the misery of Stewart's death sunk in, displacing her initial shock, she took another sip of tea. It tasted even more mellow than the first. "They found a tape playing at the scene that sounded like recorded interviews of people in a near-death state," she continued. "Some of them included the patient's name, so it will be easy to compare them to our list of suspicious deaths. But the interviewer is whispering the whole time. While we can presume Stewart is the one asking questions, they won't be able to verify it. Apparently, according to the detectives, a whisper can't be matched the way speaking voices are."
Thomas sank back where he sat and regarded the ceiling, slowly shaking his head.
"If all that isn't weird enough," she went on, "the first quarter of the tape is of Roy Orbison singing 'Pretty Woman.' Nobody can even hazard a guess what that's about."
Up came his head, an expression of dismay on his face. " 'Pretty Woman?'"
"And get this. They found a small bottle of chloroform. The cops think he used it to put his dog to death, then made a noose with the animal's leash for himself."
He leaned forward. "Wait a minute. You're saying Stewart had been the guy in the hospital subbasement who left you there-"
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