Peter Clement - The Inquisitor

The screen flashed up the verdict.

Fifty percent.

Jesus Christ, what the hell did that mean? he wondered, not in any mood to be toyed with, especially by a machine.

The number seemed high. Not 80 percent like J.S., but more than what it should have been if the nights on which killings occurred were part of a completely random and unrelated pattern.

A sensation that his lungs were being sucked inside out filled his chest.

Slow down, and don't jump to conclusions here, he told himself. Cluster studies only focus on opportunity.

They totally ignored things such as motive or the personality of the perpetrator, he reminded himself, and he slowed his breathing.

Besides, there might be other explanations unrelated to Thomas. Perhaps the killer had a schedule that overlapped all the resident's on-call rosters at least half the time.

He quickly plugged as many third-year residents' names into the cluster program as he could think of. About a quarter of them got the same 50 percent Thomas had, half got 25 percent, and another quarter got 0. He'd no idea what it meant, but at least the man who had Janet with him didn't stand out alone. While that didn't totally exonerate the guy, Earl's runaway imaginings that his protege might be some secret fiend began to abate.

But he'd no sooner reined in his paranoia than it leapt out with another possibility.

Any one of those residents in the 50 percent group would have the opportunity to move around the hospital without raising suspicions, given the way they were called here and there to help out their juniors all the time.

Shit! Stop it! This is over-the-top crazy.

He brought his breathing under control again. In his mind he could even hear Janet spout her usual refrain whenever his instincts to think the worst ran amok. There you go again, she would say, dreaming up nasty inklings. I swear, they pop up as insubstantial as the kernels of corn that Brendan loves to watch puff open in the microwave.

In fact, Thomas and Janet might still arrive at the house any minute now, decrying abysmal road conditions, having broken down where their cell phones wouldn't work on account of the power outages. Then Earl would be red-faced. Hi, Janet. Glad you're back. I've been beside myself thinking young Thomas here had done God knows what with you. Why? Oh, I also figured he'd been part of that killing spree we've been working on, and the apparent plot to blame their deaths on Stewart Deloram. Of course I haven't a clue as to his motive for committing such terrible crimes.

He pushed away from his desk and started to pace, frustrated out of his head, desperate to take concrete action.

He sat back down, picked up the phone, and dialed Janet's cell number again.

Still turned off.

And no answer at Thomas's numbers.

The ferocity of the storm slammed the house, and rain pelleted the windows with increased fury. The sound set his nerves even more on edge.

He punched in 911. "Hello, this is Dr. Earl Garnet, chief of ER at St. Paul's. Listen, I need a favor…"

By pulling rank, he managed to get a supervisor and asked if there'd been a report of an accident on the part of the freeway or any of the side roads Janet would have used returning from St. Paul's.

"You realize this is highly irregular," she said, her irritation rasping in his ear.

"Please, my wife is over an hour late, and I'm worried sick."

He must have sounded as desperate as he felt. "One moment, Doctor, I'll check."

The receiver amplified his own breathing as he waited. When she clicked him off hold, he tensed.

"We're having a busy night, but nothing so far on the streets you gave me."

A brief surge of relief immediately gave way to more anxiety. Where the hell could she be?

"Thank you," he said, and hung up.

Should he go looking for her himself? In the storm she might have gone off the road where no one could see her, There were large tracts of parkland on either side of the freeway where that could have happened.

He glanced at his watch.

Nearly midnight.

Definitely time to head out.

But if it's not an accident…

He stared at the computer screen, fear swelling through him as the blood in his veins congealed with cold.

If her not coming home had to do with the killings after all, could her going to see J.S. tonight have spilled the beans? Because J.S. may have warned whomever she'd been protecting-

Oh, God!

He jumped up from his seat.

He never would have even considered such a thought if he hadn't already found the man's behavior suspicious. No, that can't be, he told himself.

But suspicious it had been.

His hand trembling, he reached toward the computer keys and downloaded the on-duty roster for chaplains provided to ER, going back until the beginning of the year. Then, dreading what he was about to do, he typed in JAMES FITZPATRICK.

The number for him came out at 80 percent.

An icy hollow formed in his stomach.

Okay, now, that meant nothing, since Jimmy worked all the time anyway. Especially attending to his many charges at night. Some of the residents had nicknamed him the "Prince of Darkness" because of his hours. Any cluster study on this man would be ruled invalid.

But a smart killer might count on that.

What about motive? Why would someone like Jimmy want to kill patients?

"Oh, God," he repeated, this time out loud. The answer, in a word, was pain.

He called locating at the hospital. "Can you find Jimmy Fitzpatrick for me, please?"

"Believe it or not, he signed out tonight, a half hour ago. I can get you his replacement-"

"No, that won't be necessary."

He called Jimmy's cell phone number.

Turned off.

He called ICU. "Did Jimmy Fitzpatrick ever turn up to see J.S.?"

"Yes, about forty-five minutes ago."

He stiffened. "Can I speak to him?"

"Oh, he's been gone for a good half hour."

Shit. "What about J.S? Is she all right?"

"Of course. At least, she's sleeping now, but she was fine earlier-"

"What about her vitals? She's still on the monitor?"

"I'm looking at her screens right now. Pressure, pulse, respirations- everything seems good." She sounded puzzled. "Is something wrong?"

"Just go check her yourself, will you? Make sure she can be roused."

"What?"

"Just do it."

He slammed down the receiver and fished out the card Lazar had given him. She picked up after one ring.

"My wife is missing," he said, "and it may have to do with Stewart's murder." His words seemed to come from far away.

Five minutes later he grabbed a large flashlight, left a puzzled Annie standing in the study with a teapot in her hands, and, in a fury, roared his van down the street. Buffalo's finest would only promise to inform him if Janet turned up in an accident. No APBs, no search, no watchful eye of the law on the lookout for her car being driven God knew where.

He plowed through yet another small lake, peering over the sides of the road into a sodden night, his strategy pathetically simple- scour every foot of pavement between here and St. Paul's until he found her. And if that failed, expand the hunt.

He sped up the access ramp to the expressway that led into Buffalo and saw the inky expanse spread out ahead of him. Here and there speckles of emergency lighting sparkled like phosphorescent foam on a dark sea, and in the distance the larger buildings at the downtown core shone pale blue, as if they were obelisks planted to mark a far shore. Between him and them loomed a blackness that hid twenty miles of urban clutter, parklands, and ditches. What little hope he had of finding Janet disappeared into the vastness of it, and a clamminess befitting a corpse filled the core of his bones.