Jonathan Kellerman - The Conspiracy Club

A long speech. Langdon’s voice had risen- anxiety- and Jeremy wondered if he’d prattled to hide something.

“You’ve been to Oslo, Inspector.”

“Been all kinds of places,” said Langdon. “Anyway, I am going to cut you off, now, because you’re bringing nasty stuff back into my life. Give me flowers, I like flowers. Flowers don’t rip each other apart for no good reason, then disappear and never show their ugly, psychopath faces again.”

Snorting once, he cut the connection.

Langdon had been to Oslo and didn’t want to talk about it.

Jeremy thought about that, decided there was nowhere else to take it. That was that.

But it wasn’t. Two days later, he received an e-mail from NigelLfleur@uklink.net .

Ever the detective, Langdon had remembered Jeremy’s name and that of the hospital, traced his faculty account, obtained his address.

Dear Dr. Jeremy Carrier,

I fear I may have been unnecessarily curt with you during our recent phone chat. Perhaps I can be forgiven that curtness due to the unannounced nature of your call and the unpleasant subject matter foisted upon me by you during an otherwise restful evening.

However, I do feel it incumbent upon me to pass along the following truths:

With regard to your inquiry about various aspects of cases we discussed that have passed from under my responsibility, I’m afraid I’m not able to divulge details. Especially as said cases remain open. The new man in charge of the Clevington/Sapsted file is Det Insp Michael B. Shreve, however to my knowledge he is not actively investigating these cases as they have been deemed inactive, pending new evidence, none of which, to my knowledge has surfaced. Therefore, they are likely to remain closed. However, I have now passed along Det Insp Shreve’s name to you and feel that with that action I have acquitted my responsibilities in this matter.

Furthermore, I doubt that Det Insp Shreve would fancy discussing said case with non-police personnel. However, here is his phone number, should you decide to persist. Best wishes,

Nigel A. Langdon (very definitely Ret.)

Jeremy phoned Michael B. Shreve’s office and was informed by an officious male officer that the detective inspector was on holiday.

“Until when?”

“Until he returns, sir.”

“When might that be?”

“I’m not at liberty to divulge personal details, sir.”

Jeremy left his name and number and the fact that he was inquiring about Suzie Clevington and Bridget Sapsted.

If that rang a bell with Mr. Officious, he gave no indication.

“Is he in Norway?”

“Thank you, sir. Good day, sir.”

Something that had never happened before:

Jeremy forgot to turn off his pager, and it went off during a therapy session.

The patient was a thirty-year-old man named Josh Hammett, an electrician, undergoing a final set of skin grafts for deep-tissue burns suffered last year when a storm-snapped power line had scythed across his chest and severed his left arm.

Months after the amputation, phantom pain had set in, and when nothing else seemed to work, the plastic surgeon put in a psych consult.

This was the sixth time Jeremy had seen the young man. Josh had proved an excellent hypnotic subject, responding readily, even eagerly, to Jeremy’s suggestion that his arm had found a peaceful resting place.

Now, he reclined on a couch in the treatment room with Jeremy hovering near his head. Breathing slowly, regularly, the innocent smile of a dreaming toddler spread across his lips.

The bleating at Jeremy’s belt failed to rouse him. Deeply under. Jeremy switched off the beeper, let him stay wherever he was for a longer while than usual, finally brought him out gradually. When the young man thanked him and told him he felt great, really great, fantastic, actually, Jeremy turned it back on him: “You did all the work, Josh. You’re excellent at this.”

“Think so, Doc?”

“Definitely. You’re as good as it gets.”

Josh beamed. “I never thought it was something I could do, Doc. Tell the truth, when you first mentioned it I thought it was bogus-pocus. But that power-board idea ended being a great idea. The minute I visualize it, all the circuits in place, see all those lights blinking, everything working real smooth, I just go right under. Like that.”

He snapped the fingers of his only hand.

“Today,” he went on, “I really got into it. Pictured I was fishing, out off the sound. Hauling up pike and whitefish, so many it was almost too much for the boat. I tell you, I could smell those guys frying in the pan.”

“Set aside some for me.”

“You bet, Doc.”

Jeremy left the treatment room content. Angela’s number on the beeper brought a smile to his face.

“I’ve got half an hour,” she said, when he reached her on the thoracic ward. “How about coffee and Danish in the DDR?”

“I’m on my way.”

When he got to the doctors’ dining room, she was sitting at a table with Ted Dirgrove, the heart surgeon. Coffee and a chocolate cruller sat in front of her. Nothing in front of Dirgrove. He was out of his crimson scrubs, wore his white coat buttoned. In the exposed V was the curve of a black T-shirt.

Very hip.

He got up as Jeremy approached. “Hey, Jeremy.”

“Ted.”

Dirgrove turned to Angela. “I’ll be doing it on Thursday, so if you want to watch, no prob, just let my secretary know.”

“Thanks, Dr. Dirgrove.”

Dirgrove returned his attention to Jeremy. “I’ve been meaning to call you about the Saunders girl.”

“Everything okay?”

“Not quite,” said the surgeon. His spider fingers flexed, and his bony face turned rigid. “She died on the table.”

“God. What happened?”

Dirgrove rubbed an eye. “Probably a reaction to anesthesia, one of those idiopathic things. Her vitals went haywire- a peak, just what I was worried about- then a really deep trough. Everything just tanked. At first I was sure it was a typical, anesthesia screwup. Tube down the esophagus instead of the airway, because all of a sudden her oxygenation just plummeted. It stinks, but it happens, you spot it, you fix it. The gas-passer checked, and everything was in place. He just couldn’t stop her from losing function. I’d opened her, retracted the sternum, had just gotten to the heart.”

Dirgrove related the incident in a hollow voice, as if projecting through a bamboo tube. His eyes were weary, but he’d shaved closely this morning and looked well put together. “Everything was rolling along fine, then she was gone. It just stinks.”

Jeremy thought of the chubby young woman with the multipierced ears and the unruly hair. All that anger. Dirgrove picking her out as high-risk.

I come into this hellhole feeling fine and tomorrow I’m gonna wake up feeling like I got run over by a truck.

You’re an adult and it’s your body… so if you have serious… reservations…

Nah. I’ll go with the flow… what’s the worse that can happen, I die?

“Stinks bad,” said Jeremy.

“Stinks to high hell.” Dirgrove rolled his shoulders. “The autopsy results should come in shortly. No sense dwelling.”

He walked off.

“Poor man,” said Angela.

“Poor patient,” said Jeremy.

His tone was harsh, and she blanched. “You’re right, I’m sorry-”

“I’m sorry,” said Jeremy. “I’m on edge.” He sat down opposite her, reached for her hand. She offered her fingertips. Cold, dry. “It took me by surprise. When I didn’t hear from him again, I assumed…”

“Terrible,” she said. “Any other reason you’re on edge?”