Peter Clement - The Inquisitor

"Come on now. The evidence of clusters isn't that strong. And you know the effect that kind of inquiry would have on the nurses. Do you really want to distract them like that now, when the slightest lapse in the SARS protocol could be a death sentence?"

Earl hesitated, then reluctantly conceded that Hurst had a point. "No, I guess I'd wait."

"Good. Then I'll see you at death rounds. How's Janet doing, by the way? Planning to work until the last minute, same as last time?"

"She's fine," he replied, feeling as uneasy with the old man's new friendliness as he ever had with their previous snarling matches.

6:50 p.m.

The pathology lab occupied a cul-de-sac in the subbasement that had to be the oldest, most out-of-the-way part of the hospital. Though the facilities themselves had been renovated, the passageway leading to them hadn't. Residents called it "the tunnel." Even the lighting belonged to another era. Naked bulbs in green metal shades provided cones of yellow illumination at fifty-foot intervals while the spaces in between remained in relative darkness.

Janet Graceton hurried along the poorly lit corridor. The faint yet unmistakable aroma of decomposition emanated from the heavy wooden door to the morgue. She paid the scent little heed, being more aware, as always, of the plexus of pipes and cobwebs that ran the length of the ceiling not a foot above her head. She'd never seen the spiders that made their home up there, but more than once she'd wondered how they survived where no other insects flew or crawled. What did they eat? She refused to believe the lore handed down through generations of technicians- that scraps from the dissecting tables provided the necessary nutrition and that the resident arachnids had achieved the size of bread-and-butter plates. But inevitably, each time she walked through here on her way toward the pathology labs, scurrying noises from those darker recesses sounded all too close, and she picked up the pace.

Farther on, the autopsy suites stood empty with their doors open, the stainless-steel tables gleaming and ready for business. Here the pungent odors of chemical preservatives lingered in the air, easily breaching her mask. The sting that spread along the lining of her nose brought on a case of watery eyes.

Next were several large rooms lined with workbenches, their silver surfaces also spotlessly shiny. On them stood dozens of microscopes, stacks of flat, wide cases containing rows of glass slides, and innumerable racks loaded with bottles of reagents or stains in colors that rivaled those of Brendan's first-grade art class.

The people who used all these tools to make diseased tissues and cells yield up their secrets had long since left for the day.

She walked up to the door with Len Gardner's name on the opaque glass and knocked.

No answer.

She'd had a pass card to his premises for years, always needing to slip in after hours to pick up path reports. Using it now, Janet entered the anteroom where his secretary normally worked. She had also done what sensible folks did in the evening: gone home to her family. At least Janet presumed so, having delivered all three of the woman's children, two girls and a boy. Their pictures adorned an otherwise empty desk. The sight of them set off a pang for her own son, and for the ten millionth time she grappled with her anxiety over being an absent mother. From the beginning she'd refused to try to rationalize her guilt. The only explanation that mattered she owed to Brendan, and while words might comfort adults, the sole language that soothed his psyche involved the feel of her arms and the sound of her voice as she held him.

She crossed to the inner door and knocked again.

Still no answer.

She opened it a crack and peeked in. Not that she expected to find Len, but he'd promised to leave her a pathology report on one of her patients. The woman waited upstairs with her husband to know if her ovarian cancer had spread beyond what Janet had been able to remove.

Among the clutter of papers she saw an envelope with her name on it propped against a stack of files.

She ripped it open, scanned the contents, and knew that the woman would be dead in six months.

She walked back out to the deserted corridor and slumped against the wall.

Nothing loomed heavier than the task of saying, "I'm sorry, but the news is bad." She steeled herself, preparing to give the support required from her, yet dreaded the moment when, as soon as she walked in the room, the couple's last hopes would shatter against the look in her eye. She'd never learned to mask that dark gaze. It inevitably emerged when it came time to pass a death sentence.

Her unborn son stirred in her and delivered a sharp kick, a reminder of his presence, as if she'd needed any. By this time of day, her belly pulled so heavily on her that she felt it had doubled in weight and size. But such a cherished load to carry and a lifetime of working with thousands of other pregnant women didn't lessen the wonder of it any. She'd pretty well decided to take maternity leave much earlier this time. Why not? She could be with Brendan more, and when he came home from school they could make plans together for his new little brother. They'd also enjoy evenings and weekends uninterrupted like never before in his young life. Hell, why not give him that-

An odd popping noise and the tinkle of falling glass interrupted her thoughts. The sounds had come from the far end of the tunnel, near the elevators. As she looked along the islands of light, she realized that that section of the corridor had fallen into complete darkness.

Had a lightbulb blown down there?

She heard more glass break, but heavier, like that of a jar or bottle, and this smash had some force behind it.

What the hell?

She pushed off from where she'd been leaning. "Hello? Is somebody there?" She peered toward the distant murk but could see no one.

Yet a soft brushing shuffle no louder than a whisper echoed out of the darkness. Paper shoe covers on the floor? She couldn't be sure. "I said, is someone there?"

In the distance the door to a lit stairwell swung open and a silhouetted figure left the basement.

"Hey!"

The door closed behind, leaving her alone once more.

Somebody must have knocked something over in the dark, somebody who shouldn't have been down here in the first place, judging by their quick exit. No matter. She'd advise maintenance to clean up the broken glass before anyone got cut.

She started toward the elevators, hoping there'd be enough light to see her way once she got that far.

She'd walked well past the wooden door to the morgue, her mind focused on what she'd say to her patient, when she noticed a peculiar yet familiar odor that hadn't been there when she came in. Mildly irritating at first, it soon penetrated her nose and seared the back of her throat.

That's awful, she thought, and pressed her mask to her face, hoping to block out the fumes.

But the irritation continued, and her eyes began to burn.

She squinted into the darkness ahead, wondering if she could make the elevator. Probably. She couldn't see it directly, but the soft glow of the button looked to be about fifty feet away. Hold her breath and run for it, she decided.

After a few strides she immediately felt worse. What had that idiot spilled? She knew the storerooms down here contained no end of toxic liquids. The fluids that preserved organs and tissues in death were lethal to them in life, and any woman working down here who got pregnant went on immediate leave.

The button seemed to be only thirty feet away. Should she go back? She sprinted faster. Hell, ten seconds more and she could be out of here. All she had to do was hold her breath a bit longer.

As she ran, her free hand outstretched, she tried to remember where she'd smelled this before. It had a medicinal aroma, so strong she could practically taste it, and a cool, bitter sensation on her tongue. So familiar, yet-