Neil McMahon - To The Bone

Baird stopped and looked at Monks, puzzled, still not seeming to grasp it. Then he scowled.

"You got a better offer someplace else?" he said suspiciously. "If that's it, we could deal."

"No."

"Why, then? You're pissed at me?"

"I am. But don't flatter yourself. That wouldn't run me off."

"Because you killed somebody who needed killing?"

Monks's head snapped back, as if the words were a punch.

"Spoken like a marine," he said. "Semper fi, and all that."

Baird's gaze stayed level. "Okay, it was crude. But I know you better than you think, Carroll. You could take something like that to heart. Decide you're not worthy anymore."

Baird was shrewd. There was some truth to it. But only some.

"I feel like I'm in some kind of spiral that's getting out of control," Monks said. "It happened to me once before, and it almost took me down. I need to back away, take some time off. That's the best reason I can give."

Baird rubbed his bulldog jaw. "What are you going to do?"

"I'll still investigate for ASCLEP. There's plenty of locum tenens work around."

Baird pulled one of the foot-long Tabacaleros out of his inside suit jacket pocket and tore at the wrapper, stripping it off impatiently.

"I'll miss having you around, Carroll. These have been some great times," he said. "Never knowing when I might find a body gutted on a gurney. The psychos lurking in the furnace room, the labs getting smashed up, the TV crews shoving microphones in my face. The sleepless nights trying to figure out how the fuck to keep the board of directors from hemorrhaging, and the board of accreditation from dumping us. Hey, hospital administrators are a dime a dozen, but those were the things that made my job special."

"Jesus, Baird. You're making me go all gooey inside."

"You'll be back," Baird said. "It's in your blood." He did an about-face with marine drill precision and stomped down the hall, on his way to the rooftop and a nicotine fix.

Monks walked the other direction, toward the ER, feeling like he had been carrying a sack of huge rocks on his back for so long he had forgotten about it, and now he had dropped a couple of the biggest ones.

There were no witnesses to the complex series of events, and none was likely to appear. But it seemed clear that Monks had suspected all the wrong people. Initial speculation went that Todd Peploe, the clinic's maintenance man, was the one who had butchered Coffee Trenette and had killed Gwen Bricknell – being careful to make it look like D'Anton's work. He had killed D'Anton, too. The surgeon's body, overdosed with Demerol and carefully enclosed in garbage bags, had been found in the trunk of his own Jaguar.

The police had found jewelry in Todd's apartment that pointed to other victims. There was also a crudely written journal, which indicated that the bodies had been left in a cave on D'Anton's property. Search dogs found them. Apparently, Todd was on his way to hide D'Anton's corpse there, too, trying to make it appear that D'Anton had gone on a final murderous rampage, then fled.

But Todd had learned from Julia D'Anton that Monks was coming. He had killed her, still using the scalpel with D' Anton's fingerprints, then taken her hair as a disguise, and set the trap for Monks.

Further checking showed that Todd had started impersonating a physician while working at a San Diego hospital. He had approached an unknown number of women and given them pelvic exams. This might have gone on indefinitely – hospitals were reluctant to deal with that sort of thing, even when they knew about it – but then his penchant for sharp instruments had come to the fore. Sedated patients started turning up with mysterious incisions. None was seriously injured – Monks guessed that Todd was practicing, working himself up for what was to come – but it had landed him in prison. Then, like many other parolees, he had disappeared from the system's radar and walked into another job at another hospital.

A faked California medical license, a supply of pharmaceutical drugs, and a hoard of surgical implements and supplies, also found in his apartment, made it clear that he had escalated his doctor persona. And in his garage, there was a Jaguar XJS the same color as D'Anton's – several years older, but almost identical. It was unclear whether this was another way of imitating D'Anton, or Todd had used it somehow for disguise.

A huge amount of work lay ahead for authorities – forensically, to probe the physical evidence, and psychologically, to delve into the psyche of Todd Peploe. His journal included a jumble of beliefs that he was a superior being, above any law, using medical skills to satisfy the hidden cravings of women.

But Monks had already formed his opinion. Anyone capable of doing what Todd had done was a vicious, sadistic son of a bitch whose true reason for killing was pleasure.

That made the memory of pumping five bullets into him a little easier.

Martine Rostanov had not attended the QA meeting because she was not on Mercy Hospital's staff, but she was waiting for him in the ER lobby. Monks recalled that that was the first place he had ever seen her, walking through the door with the slight limp that instantly had awakened a protective urge in him. He had the eerie sense that their relationship was unraveling literally, a step at a time, like a videotape played backward.

"I already heard the buzz," she said. "Congratulations." She was smiling, summery-looking in a long flowered dress, but her face was dark around the eyes.

"It's a relief," Monks admitted. "How's your body holding up?"

"I won't be playing rugby for a while."

"I feel like I should be nursing you, in your hour of need."

"I don't think either of us wants that," Monks said. He was surprised by the bluntness in his own voice, and he saw that she was, too. Then hurt. She lowered her eyes.

"It's terrible, what you've been through," she said. "I know I haven't helped."

"Of course you have."

"Are you all right with what you had to do? Never mind. Dumb question."

Neither of them spoke for another moment. Monks thought about asking her if she was getting involved with someone else, perhaps the owner of the black Saab he had seen in her driveway – thought about confessing his own infidelity, if that was what it had been. Thought about suggesting another try. They had talked a lot about an autumn in Donegal.

But the words were just not in him. The issues that had seemed important between them a few days ago had been swept from his consciousness. He was distant from the rest of the world right now, and she was part of that world.

"I'd better go," he said. "Thanks for coming by."

"Don't lose my phone number, okay?"

He walked her out into the parking lot. They kissed quickly, like friends. She waved from her car as she pulled away – maybe sadly, maybe not.

And that was that.

The O'Malley Bros. Mortuary on west Geary was respected as one of the city's finest – a century-old, family-owned establishment that had graciously retired the mortal remains of a host of the rich and famous, from governors to rock stars. Monks guessed that he had sent them clients, from the ER, himself.

It was still before nine a.m. – early for the funeral business – but the imposing old wooden door, at least seven feet tall and arched like a church's, was unlocked. Monks stepped into the foyer. Its dark-paneled walls had several dimly lit niches, also arched, each discreetly displaying pertinent information about one of the deceased who was passing through – name, side chapel where the body could be viewed, time of the service, final resting place. It was as still a room as Monks had ever been inside. He had to resist the urge to tiptoe across the tiled floor.