Peter Clement - The Inquisitor

Which meant what?

For one, he probably hadn't really thought they were on the brink of death when he first saw them just last week.

Yet why would he not simply say so, instead of suddenly insisting they'd been at death's door, no doubt about it?

Earl looked back at the hospital. The surrounding murk had reduced it to little more than a smudge in the distance.

A real house of secrets, he thought.

But if he could persuade the nurses in Palliative Care to recount the specifics of their patients' near-death encounters, perhaps he could figure out what Stewart seemed so intent on hiding.

And he would also take a closer look at the broader workings of Palliative Care- surreptitiously, of course- as soon as he could find a way to do it. Because if Yablonsky and her crew had killed Elizabeth Matthews with an accidental overdose, he intended to make damn sure they hadn't covered up clusters of anything else.

As for whoever had pulled that numskull move on Janet last night, he'd go after that piece of work with a vengeance. Serve notice that this VP, medical would track the idiot down. Ask around if any witnesses saw somebody in the stairwell at that time. Check in particular if they noticed an aroma of chloroform off his or her clothes. Let everyone know they had a new sheriff in town. Nothing subtle about it. The person's running out on Janet had been criminal.

A rain, thin as needles, began to fall.

He remained where he stood, reluctant to reenter the oppressive confines of the building.

And let his mind fleetingly dredge up the unthinkable.

What if smashing the chloroform bottle had been deliberate?

Immediately he rebelled.

Of course not. Why the hell even think such nonsense? No one in their right mind would do that, not to Janet, not to anyone. The person would be a maniac. God, Hurst would be right to give him shit for allowing such thoughts into his head.

Definitely time to get out of here. He pulled out his cellular and dialed home.

"Hi," he said when Janet answered. "I'll be there in twenty minutes. My department gave me the day off."

She chuckled, low and throaty. "You mean they threw you out. Susanne already called to tell me so that I'd reel you in should you change your mind and try to hang around the hospital."

He liked low and throaty. "So we have the house to ourselves?"

"We have the house to ourselves."

No birds, he thought as he headed toward the door, realizing he hadn't heard a chirp the whole time he'd been outside. They must have had the sense to ground themselves for the day too.

Jane Simmons appreciated that Susanne kept her busy. Otherwise, with nothing to do, the self-interrogation started up again.

Should she return home?

Tell Thomas?

Have the baby?

Give it up?

Worse?

The questions that rampaged through her head and the choices they offered seemed so alien, she felt they must belong to some other woman, not her.

So she counted catheters, needles, oxygen masks, suturing kits, and IV packs. Then she sorted equipment trays, filled out order forms, and requisitioned what they needed. Anything not to think of herself.

And occasionally she saw patients, the ones scared and desperate enough to overcome their fear of SARS and come in.

Some of them too late.

A fifty-five-year-old math professor with a stroke arrived an hour past the time when clot-busting drugs could have cleared the blockage and saved his speech.

A forty-five-year-old policeman came in with recurrent chest pain well beyond the limit for rescuing injured cardiac muscle.

A thirty-year-old woman with abdominal pain had ignored her stomachache long enough for it to deteriorate into a perforated appendix that left her septic, in shock, and clinging to life.

Jane even abandoned her professional detachment and allowed herself to sincerely despair over these unfortunates, using the bleakness of their futures to trivialize her own misery.

And it worked. Sort of. For a half hour now and then.

At two thirty in the afternoon, there once more being a lull in the action, she hurried into a utility closet, intent on doing more inventory.

And surprised Father Jimmy going through a cupboard.

"Ah, Jane," he said, "just the person I need. Could you find me a urine cup? I'm due for my annual physical, and the doctor always wants an offering."

Startled to see him in here and not in the mood for company, she quickly found what he wanted.

"And about that other little favor I asked you?" He grabbed his earlobe. "I took the liberty of checking with Susanne. She said fine, and that it might be a good idea if we get the job done today, you having so few customers."

Not now, she thought, wanting only to be alone and lose herself in mindless tasks. "Well actually, Father, I'm supposed to be compiling a list of supplies-"

"That's something I can give you a hand with. And if I can call you Jane, will you drop the 'Father'? The name's Jimmy, Jimmy Fitzpatrick. Now what's first?"

Oh, brother! He could be so disarming, yet she still didn't want company right now. "It's not necessary-"

"Nonsense."

"Listen, why don't I do your ear-"

"Not until I help you with your work. You look as if you could use a bit of a hand today." He leaned forward, arched his brows three times, Groucho Marx style, and widened his eyes in a clown stare. "Peaked, I'd say, definitely peaked, or I'm not the doctor I thought I was. Wait a minute, I'm not a doctor."

She laughed.

His expression reverted to normal. "Seriously, Jane, are you okay?"

Be careful, she told herself. He could be very perceptive. "Of course. Why shouldn't I be?"

"Because you're a little green around the gills, and your eyes haven't their usual spark."

Before she knew it, he'd removed a glove and gently laid his bare palm across her forehead.

"No temperature. That's good."

His hand had a nice warmth to it.

"So what's the matter?" He turned to the counter, where he retrieved another glove from a box and proceeded to pull it on. "You're definitely not your buoyant self."

"Hold on, Fa- I mean Jimmy." She grabbed him by the wrist and led him toward the sink. "You wash first. That's all we need, the hospital chaplain coming down sick, thanks to my forehead. You've no idea how many sick people it's been near."

"Yes, ma'am," he said with a laugh, and began to do exactly as told. "But now you 'fess up. We don't want the pierced angel of ER falling ill either."

She smiled and at the same time felt wary. "Just tired, is all."

He gave her a sideways glance. Pulling on a fresh pair of gloves, he took her hands between his and fixed her with a stare that penetrated every layer of her masquerade. "Jane, I've been spotting troubled people all my life. Now, you need either a doctor or a friend or both, but I'm not leaving until you level with me."

She'd barely slept last night. This morning when she'd overheard Thomas indicate he might stay on at St. Paul's, a surge of elation had swept her hopes high. He must intend us to be together, she'd thought, then wondered, But if that's the case, why didn't he tell me first?

Danger, mood change ahead, she'd warned herself, and sure enough, she'd rocketed to the verge of tears. A few minutes later she managed to slam on the brakes and act calm when Dr. G. asked if she felt okay.

The wild ride had continued the rest of the day, and the more her shift wore on, the lonelier she felt. Still, she'd at least won her battle to appear cheery.

Until now.

Father Jimmy's insistence that she open up to him crumpled something inside her chest. She again refused to cry but balled her hands into fists and pulled them out of his. Then she turned away from him, wanting to disappear, feeling ashamed.