"Bullshit. Once they get a doctor's signature, they never ask for nursing notes unless they suspect something's not kosher."
"What do you mean never? You've done this before?"
"Of course not."
But he'd taken a second too long in answering.
"Have you ever had an insurance company challenge your ruling on a cause of death, let alone go so far as to demand nurses' notes for corroboration?" he asked, barely skipping a beat.
No, he hadn't. But Earl couldn't shake the feeling of being fed a lie.
"And don't tell me you never fudged a form," Michael continued. "Left out a detail that might have torpedoed a claim, stood over a corpse that had tobacco-stained fingers and ticked the 'don't know' box in answer to the question 'Has patient smoked in the last year?'"
Again Earl couldn't disagree. Every doctor knew the drilclass="underline" don't outright lie, but don't hand the adjusters an outright gift either. What made this case dirty was the blatancy of the omission and if the doctor got any favors in return.
Michael stood up to leave. "So we're square?" he said, as if the matter were closed. "Now I'm going home to sleep."
Earl decided to try a more delicate approach. "You look as if you haven't had a good rest in months, Michael. Something's been eating you up- has been for a while now- and don't tell me again that it's just that you're tired or worried about SARS. Even when we get together for dinner or take the kids out somewhere, there are moments when you get a look in your eyes that's a million miles away. Hell, I've even seen Terry looking at you funny, wondering what's wrong. And you wouldn't have come all the way down here if this thing with Artie Baxter's insurance form was as innocent as you claim. So let's cut the bullshit. I want to know what's going on."
His friend leaned on the back of the chair he'd just vacated and towered over Earl. "You know, I liked you better when you were just chief of ER and mad at everyone else who ran the place."
"This place? The Horseshoe?"
Michael laughed. The smile looked good on him, and for a few seconds the craggy landscape of his face softened. Then he leaned closer, grinned wider, and his expression hardened. "Since they made you VP, medical, you've been getting in more trouble than ever. Oh, excuse me, make that suspended VP, medical."
"This isn't about me, Michael."
His grin vanished. "It sure is. Because I'm betting my good friend Earl won't go around making accusations about me and widows that would upset the hell out of my wife. And for my good friend's information, SARS is why I'm losing sleep. It's wrecking the shit out of my marriage. Donna's so scared I'll bring it home to Terry, she's thinking of moving to her mother's with him. So I'm also counting on my good friend to give his long-trusted pal Michael the benefit of the doubt and not pry into matters that are best left alone. Now I'm going back home to bed." He started toward the door.
"Michael, damn it, you can't do this to me." Earl threw a few dollars on the table and ran after him. "Tell me what the hell you've gotten into-"
Michael spun around and jabbed an index finger that felt like an iron pipe into Earl's chest. "Something that needs doing, understand! For God's sake, harness that righteous bloodhound streak of yours and quit fucking with the good guys!"
Stung, Earl took a step back. "The good guys?"
"Yeah. The ones whom you've seen fit to rag lately. Stewart, now me, even Father Jimmy."
"Jimmy told you that?"
Michael nodded. "Trust me, you don't want to pursue any of it."
"What the hell are you talking about?"
He opened his mouth to reply, seemed to think better of it, and turned toward the exit, walking stiffly, his shoulders rigid. At the blackened doors he paused and peered back at Earl. "Just remember, we're all trying to do our best." Transient as a blink, the bulky posture of Michael's upper body bunched up and reminded Earl of an animal, hunched over and about to charge, warning off an intruder. It looked so out of character that Michael might have been some stranger standing there. Then he was gone.
Chapter 14
I had only allowed myself to remember the dream while alone.
It helped keep me invisible.
That would be more critical than ever now.
Because the dream had changed.
I walked into the lab as usual.
The water sprayed down from the broken pipes.
But when I looked up at his face, the swollen tongue lashed to and fro, angry as a trapped snake. The engorged lips pulled back in a swollen leer. The black orifice mouthed, "Do it!"
Death rounds had been the tipping point- my stage perfectly set.
If I acted quickly now, with everyone primed, they'd all draw the logical conclusion.
One, two, three, and I'd be free.
First the suicide.
Then Graceton. My perfect dry run had left no doubt about her fate.
And finally, if grief didn't stop Garnet, I'd do it myself.
And everybody would be fooled.
One, two, three…
The little ditty kept running through my head as I prepared the chloroform, then gathered up what else I'd need for the night's work.
Wednesday, July 16, 4:40 p.m.
Stewart woke with a start, only to hear a loud roll of thunder slowly die out.
Outside his bedroom window a gray fog thick as flannel cut the light and made it seem dusk, but a glance at the glowing figures on his digital alarm clock surprised him. An afternoon storm must have blown in, he thought, getting up to close the windows. But the air, much cooler now, held a pleasant scent that reminded him of fresh laundry, so he left everything open.
More thunder rumbled not too far off.
"Tocco," he called, surprised the dog hadn't stayed by his bed. She hated storms and stuck as close to him as possible whenever they occurred. If alone in the house, she'd head into the basement, and he'd find her there when he came home, huddled in the darkest nook she could find.
He pulled on his clothes and headed downstairs, his feet still bare. "Tocco, come here, girl."
Sleep had helped him. And having saved Jane Simmons. His stock had soared so much with the nurses for that one that maybe he'd have a chance to ride out Yablonsky's accusations. At least at St. Paul's.
His enemies on the Web were another matter.
His mood immediately darkened.
In that forum he'd be held guilty until he could prove himself innocent. Even then, he might never be good enough again for the kind of grant money he used to get. Awarded on merit, it could be denied on a whim. He'd have to convince everyone that crone Yablonsky had concocted the whole thing, tried to use him as a handy scapegoat to cover up her own incompetence. "Or worse," as Earl had put it.
"Tocco!" he called, entering the kitchen. His basement door yawned open as he usually left it, so she could have the run of the house. "Come on up, girl. Suppertime."
He expected to hear the click of her nails on the linoleum-covered steps and the jingle of her collar tags.
Nothing.
"Tocco?"
He flicked on the light switch near the cellar steps.
The darkness below remained.
Bulb must be burnt out, he thought.
"Come here, Tocco," he called out, and started down. The small basement windows, even with the gloom outside, would allow him enough light to see by. She must have really been scared by the thunder.
He reached the bottom of the stairs, certain she'd come out of hiding and greet him.
No dog.
What the hell? he thought, feeling his way through the semidarkness toward one of the spots she often curled up in.
A tiny rectangular window in his laundry room admitted a thin, almost yellow glow as the late afternoon sun penetrated layers of fog blanketing the city. In a far corner lay a shadow darker than the rest.