She rang for a nurse.
The woman with silver glasses and matching hair listened to her request, then tried to argue that Dr. Graceton had left specific orders there were to be no more visitors.
"But I want to see the chaplain. He's not a visitor. At least let me talk to him on the phone."
The lady looked about to say no.
"Surely you wouldn't deny a patient spiritual comfort, especially not in here."
"I know he's your friend," she said, sounding annoyed, but brought her a phone anyway.
Jimmy Fitzpatrick's hand held steady as he replaced the receiver in its cradle.
He had taken the call at a patient's bedside and used the lack of privacy as an excuse for not being able to speak very long.
But he'd heard enough to set his heart racing and send himself running back to his office.
"Hey, I'm here so much, everybody thinks I work when they do," he had said to J.S. No telling if she'd bought it.
He'd known when he started it might all come down on his head. That still didn't make him ready to be led away in handcuffs for murder. And he definitely hadn't anticipated this twist involving J.S.
He fumbled the keys as he opened the lock and shut the door behind him but didn't turn on the light. Somehow he felt less panicky in the dark. He had enough ambient glow to see from the sodium lamps over the parking lot outside his window.
He'd gotten used to working in that ambient glow.
Around him were the bookshelves that held the words he'd chosen to live by. The Bible, of course, but also the philosophers he'd studied with such enthusiasm and love. Perfect thoughts from Aristotle, pupil of Plato, teacher of Alexander the Great, first in the struggle to reconcile science, ethics, politics, and the soul. John Locke, champion of empiricism and the inherent right of man to life, liberty, and a patch of land to call his own. Jean-Paul Sartre, who liberated all individuals to the lonely burden of defining right and wrong by themselves, then condemned those same individuals to the cold ethical void of existentialism. Sartre alone probably came closest to re-creating the ice bath of freedom and responsibility that God threw Adam and Eve into when He kicked them out of Eden.
Who could read any of the great teachers from all the ages, take their writings to heart, and not become an outlaw spirit?
At least that's how he'd read his calling among the realities of today at St. Paul's. How else could a man live for the greater good, help the meek, define right, and back it up with action if he wasn't willing to step outside the law now and then? Not to be pretentious, but he saw his predicament as merely a smaller-scale version of what had always been the dilemma for philosophers, people of God, and defenders of the oppressed who dared turn beautiful thoughts into concrete acts. Whether Jesus Christ, Robin Hood, Joan of Arc, or Zorro, they were rebels all, and he would have been proud to work at their sides whatever the period. No way was he just the grandstanding swashbuckler out of his time that Earl made him out to be.
At least that's how he'd thought of himself in the heady days at the start of their plan when getting caught seemed nothing more than a vague but unlikely possibility. He'd even promised the others they would never be found out, that, if necessary, he alone would take the blame and, by standing proud for what he did, make the deeds seem courageous and noble.
His head reeled in disgust at having been so naive and reckless, forcing him to grip the side of his desk.
Whom had he been kidding?
His downfall, if it came, would be a seedy, petty event, the stuff of tabloids blaring news of yet another disgraced priest.
He ran into the bathroom and threw up.
His stomach, emptied out, clenched itself tight as a fist, and he staggered back to his desk where he collapsed into his chair.
He could still get away with everything if he acted fast.
In the minimal light he pulled out the lower right drawer where he kept his prayer shawl, folded and ready for use. He lifted it out.
Next he withdrew a small mahogany box lined with purple velvet that held his holy oils and pyx, a circular container for consecrated wafers. He laid the kit unopened beside his shawl.
Reaching back into the drawer, he removed the false bottom in its recesses. There lay the syringes he'd stolen from ER. Beside them stood two vials of morphine, one provided by Stewart, the other by Michael.
9:55 p.m.
Janet had told Thomas to wait for her in the doctor's lounge. She found him there with mask off and sipping tea. He'd made an entire pot, and alongside it on a low magazine table sat a mug with cream already added, exactly the way he'd seen her take it after dinner hours earlier.
When she came closer, he jumped to his feet, eyes wide with alarm. "My God, are you all right? Is J.S. okay?"
"She's fine, other than scared and worried. I ordered sedation, and you must let her sleep. But there's other bad news-"
"What did she say?"
"What we expected. She hasn't a clue how her schedule could match the killings. And when I asked her if anyone always seemed to be around during her shifts, the denial came a little too quickly for my liking. Probably afraid to get a friend in trouble, so tomorrow see if you can get her to talk."
"I'll go see her right now." He started to get up.
Janet put a restraining hand on his chest. "Whoa! I just had the nurses sedate her, remember. She's safe enough until morning."
He hesitated, then said, "Here, sit down," and motioned her to an overstuffed, leather lounge chair.
The decor in here hadn't changed since Reagan had been president, and maroon must have been a popular color back then. Even on a good day the furnishings jangled her eyes.
"And drink this. You look as though you could use it." He poured the steaming brown liquid to the mug's brim, gave the mix a stir, and handed it to her. "Now what's the other bad news?"
She pulled down her mask and took a sip, savoring the warmth as it traveled to her stomach. "It's about Stewart," she began, and described how Earl had discovered his body.
Thomas's face fell slack in disbelief.
Having to tell the story left her feeling leaden.
"He hung himself?" Thomas said when she'd finished, his voice as incredulous as his saggy-eyed expression.
She nodded. As the misery of Stewart's death sunk in, displacing her initial shock, she took another sip of tea. It tasted even more mellow than the first. "They found a tape playing at the scene that sounded like recorded interviews of people in a near-death state," she continued. "Some of them included the patient's name, so it will be easy to compare them to our list of suspicious deaths. But the interviewer is whispering the whole time. While we can presume Stewart is the one asking questions, they won't be able to verify it. Apparently, according to the detectives, a whisper can't be matched the way speaking voices are."
Thomas sank back where he sat and regarded the ceiling, slowly shaking his head.
"If all that isn't weird enough," she went on, "the first quarter of the tape is of Roy Orbison singing 'Pretty Woman.' Nobody can even hazard a guess what that's about."
Up came his head, an expression of dismay on his face. " 'Pretty Woman?'"
"And get this. They found a small bottle of chloroform. The cops think he used it to put his dog to death, then made a noose with the animal's leash for himself."
He leaned forward. "Wait a minute. You're saying Stewart had been the guy in the hospital subbasement who left you there-"
"Stewart left no explanations. All they discovered in the form of a suicide note were two words written on his personal computer: 'I'm sorry.' The machine had conveniently been left on sleep mode so it came to life as soon as one of the cops touched the keyboard." She paused and took several more swallows from her mug. The familiar comfort smoothed away the tightness in her gut.