The Inquisitor

Chapter 12

Thomas spotted him the minute Earl entered the ER. "Dr. Garnet!" he called out, and excused himself from a woman who clutched a gauze pad soaked with blood to the palm of her hand. A couple of medical students, circling nearby in hopes of picking up a suturing job, eagerly moved in to fill the void.

"Walk with me," Earl told him, keeping a brisk pace toward his office at the back of the department.

"About death rounds-"

"Sorry, I'm in no mood to discuss that goddamn meltdown, and officially it's out of my hands."

"But that's why I wanted to talk to you. If I could help in any way, check things out on the QT, the sort of stuff you might not be able to do since Hurst suspended-"

"It won't be necessary." Earl was in no mood for an overly earnest resident in his way right now, however well-meaning Thomas might be. He had his own plan. "Thanks anyway."

Thomas continued to trot beside him. "I just thought… well… what Hurst did to you sucks, sir. You, and this hospital, deserve better. And how else can we get to the bottom of what's going on?"

Earl straight-armed the door leading to the administration wing and strode on through. "Look, I appreciate the offer, Thomas, but I'm not going to involve house staff in cleaning up a hospital mess. The academic requirements of the R-three program are plenty enough to fill your time."

Thomas stuck at his side. "But that's what I mean, sir. I've got to write a research paper as part of my curriculum. Why couldn't it be on clusters of unexplained deaths?"

Earl slowed his pace. "Why, that's…" He didn't know what to say.

"Think of it. The topic is legitimate, exciting, and I hope intriguing enough to get me published so I can pursue more research with my ER work. The result might also provide the key to what's going on in Palliative Care. The beauty of it is that no one, Dr. Hurst included, would know. Who on staff pays attention to a resident doing a project? At this point we don't have to tell a soul what it's about. I could sit at a computer or in medical records, look at anything I wanted, and no one would even notice, let alone get nervous."

Interesting, Earl thought. So far Janet had done exactly that without anybody being the wiser. But she still had another three months of data to check, and with Hurst bound to be on the lookout for an end run, it might become more difficult for her to continue undetected. Hell, she'd be the first one he'd keep watch on. A resident, on the other hand, just might fly under his radar. Thomas could pull charts from all over the hospital as a subterfuge to keep anyone in records from realizing that he'd zeroed in on palliative care.

"Let's talk about it," he said, and continued toward his office. He unlocked his door, threw himself into his high-backed chair, and gestured Thomas to take a visitor's seat. "You'd check everything you plan to do with me first?" he asked.

Thomas quickly sat and leaned forward, his arms on Earl's desk. "Absolutely."

"And you'd have to keep this totally confidential. Tell no one, understand. You heard about the run-in I had early Saturday morning? I don't want whoever decked me coming after you."

"Understood. Not a word."

Earl switched on his computer. "And as your director, I'd have the final say over what we publish."

He looked puzzled. "Sure, except you wouldn't cover up anything we found, would you?"

"I'm saying we stick to the definite stuff- a classic cluster study, correlating times of death with staffing coverage. What has no place anywhere, let alone in a scientific paper, is unsubstantiated, poisonous insinuations like the one Yablonsky threw at Stewart this morning."

Thomas recoiled as if he'd been slapped. "Don't tell me you think he's innocent?"

"I don't like lynchings," Earl continued, ignoring the question. "That's exactly what the person who blabbed about the proceedings this morning did, probably Yablonsky, and the wolves are already tearing Stewart apart." As he talked, he clicked up a popular search engine for medical topics. "I just came from his office. It's not a pretty sight, seeing a man have his reputation shredded. Especially if it's not deserved. Might as well skin him alive."

"My God. From the way you tore into him, I thought you agreed with her-"

"Oh, I know he lied to try to keep what those patients said from becoming public knowledge. But that's a long way from actually staging some conversation from beyond the grave. And he forced me to ask the one question anyone with half a brain would want to answer before rushing to judge him." He paused, allowing

Thomas a moment to get the point, and continued to scan the offerings on the Web page he'd selected.

The resident frowned at him.

"Come on. Why would Stewart pull something so bush league that pointed so obviously at his own work? Ah- and then there's this." He pivoted the computer screen so they could both see it. Large black letters proclaimed THE KETAMINE-INDUCED NEAR-DEATH EXPERIENCE.

"Holy shit," Thomas said, wide-eyed.

"Before all the trouble started, Monica Yablonsky mentioned in passing that this sort of stuff could be found on the Internet. I didn't think anything of it at the time," Earl said, scanning the summary.

Thomas hunched toward the screen and joined him in reading it.

It seemed to be a legitimate paper that described how a team of scientists had induced classic near-death experiences in some subjects using IV ketamine. Everything could be explained by chemistry. Earl knew the intended pharmaceutical action of the drug as an anesthetic, having used it in ER. But what the article highlighted- how ketamine blocked the neurotransmitter glutamate at certain areas of the brain, called N-methyl-D-aspartate (NMDA) receptor sites, and caused subjects to report seeing bright lights, rushing through tunnels, rising above their bodies, and meeting lost loved ones- went into more detail than he'd seen before. When those same symptoms arrived following a shot in an emergency procedure, Earl simply called them side effects.

"It's a fucking how-to manual," Thomas said, reading alongside him. "And Monica Yablonsky told you about it?"

"Yes, when I first asked her about the reports from Wyatt's patients."

"So you think she could be involved after all?"

"In the near-death stuff? I don't know. Why would she be, unless using ketamine might be connected to some mercy-killing spree she's been part of? But then why would she badger people to describe what they see? And if we're dealing with mercy killings, why are patients left alive to talk about it?"

Thomas sank back in his chair, and frowned in silence. "Everything you say… it's all pretty vague, isn't it?"

"Not really."

"How so?"

"There's someone prowling around the ward with a set of shoulders on him that could stop a truck. Nothing vague about that at all."

"Shit!"

"What?"

"Stewart Deloram has a good set of shoulders."

Earl sighed. "And every reason not to shoot patients full of IV ketamine."

"I hope so, because he's been a great teacher, and I don't want him to be in trouble, except…"

"Except it's hard to be sure of someone once suspicions about them are let loose."

"Yeah. I mean, even now I'm wondering, how do we know a guy like Stewart didn't count on people thinking that he'd never do anything so obvious. Being a little too clever is something he might try, except it backfired on him."

"Maybe." Earl decided not to even mention his worst suspicion, that Stewart might have silenced five patients to avoid the type of scandal that now consumed him. Thomas would really find it hard to believe in Stewart if he heard that one. "We could speculate all day," he said instead, and stood up to end the meeting. "But your study will put some real probables on the table."

Thomas slowly rose to his feet, seeming almost reluctant to leave. "In a way, I'm afraid of what we might find. Finger-pointing can get ugly."

"Leaving a killer at large would be worse," Earl replied, hoping Thomas could remain objective despite a sense of loyalty to Stewart.

The young man nodded, but the eager spark he'd had in his eye at the start of their talk had faded. Probably hadn't put faces on the people they might end up going after when he first offered to help.

"Now, Janet has already done some of the work you'll need," Earl continued. "Of course, it'll save time if she shows you her results, but not in the hospital. Seeing you two huddled together might tip Hurst off."

Thomas's eyebrows arched. "Dr. Graceton's already been doing a cluster study?"

"Obviously our secret held," Earl said, once more pleased with himself for having had the sense to recruit his wife's aid. "So how about dropping over to our house for dinner this evening? You can review her material safely enough there. Until now she's covered only the staff in Palliative Care, but it looks as if we'll have to go beyond them and check the whole hospital. And she can continue to process the data you collect. It'll take the two of you to track everyone we need- nurses, doctors, residents, orderlies, and porters, including who entered the hospital after hours when they weren't on duty."

"But-"

"You see, key card access leaves a computerized record. Of course, I'll have to call in a few favors to get into those databases."

"Yeah, but-"

"So we'll talk more tonight," he said, determined to keep him speechless so that they wouldn't start arguing in circles again, guessing who did what to whom. "And bring your appetite. Janet's the best cook in Buffalo-"

"Dr. Garnet, I'm sorry, but I've been trying to tell you, I already have a dinner engagement tonight."

Feeling sheepish, Earl invited him for tomorrow evening.

5:55 p.m. Palliative Care

Sadie Locke had left Dr. Earl Garnet a message requesting to see him.

Sitting on the side of the bed, picking her way through a dinner tray that held several bowls of different-colored mush, she looked at her reflection in the mirror. I'm definitely better for my weekend at home with Donny, she thought. The pallor of her face had picked up a coppery tinge of tan, and her eyes sparkled, a change that only family and love could evoke.

She looked at her watch. Dr. Garnet had said he'd be here before six.

"Hi, Mrs. Locke," said his now familiar voice from the doorway. "Don't let me interrupt your dinner…"

"Dr. Garnet! Come in, come in." She pushed the meal aside and waved him closer. "The nurses told me you had some excitement here after I left."

He chuckled. "Afraid so."

"Are you all right?"

"My back still twinges after an hour in a chair, and if I turn my neck too quickly, I get a reminder of what happened. Other than that, I'm fine. Now, what can I do for you?"

She motioned him closer still. "It's what I can do for you," she said in a whisper. "I may have seen the person who knocked you out."

"Oh?"

"Yes. Someone tried to come in here in the wee hours of last Tuesday morning, but I scared off whoever it was."

"What!"

"Well, not scared so much as surprised. The individual apparently didn't think I'd be awake."

"What happened?" He sat beside her on the bed.

"I heard someone come in, and thought it might be Father Jimmy- the dear man always drops by, no matter how late his day goes- but saw this form. It was too dark to see his eyes-"

"It couldn't have been one of the nurses?"

"Don't think so. Too big."

"Man or woman?"

"Couldn't tell. Too dark."

"Did he or she say anything?"

"Just that it was the wrong room."

"What about the voice? Might you recognize it?"

"No. The person spoke in a whisper." Her wisps of hair stood up like Dairy Queen curls, and her eyes flashed with pleasure from telling what she knew.

Yet the story troubled Earl. If the visit on Saturday morning had been a second attempt to get in the room, then theories about someone looking for an empty bed for a quickie with a nurse, or even an attempt to rob the old lady's belongings while she'd been on a weekend pass, went out the window. He wanted to ask her if she had any reason to think someone would want to do her harm, but first, he thought, it was better to reassure her. "Sadie, I want you to know it won't happen again. You may have noticed that I've posted a security guard in the hallway."

"Yes." She leaned her head toward his in a conspiratorial gesture. "That's how I knew you took what happened seriously and would want to know about the Tuesday visit." A curt nod punctuated the claim.

More excited than afraid, he thought with a grin. "Okay, then here's what I need to know. Any enemies?"

Her eyes widened in delight. "Me?" She sounded honored, as if someone thinking she could matter enough to be the target of who knew what was high praise indeed. Back went her head and out came a hoot of laughter. "Go on!" She waved a hand at him, the way one fends off flattery while enjoying it to the hilt.

He asked her a few more questions, not so much because he thought she could tell him anything else, but to feed the relief most patients got from being part of something bigger than their disease. As they talked, his gaze roamed over the same simple belongings on her nightstand that he'd seen before, and once more his eyes fell on her calendar. Yet this time he noticed she'd marked about a quarter of the days with crosses, occasionally two and three at a time. Looking for a way to wrap up their conversation- Janet wanted him home on time this evening- he changed the topic. "Are those the visits Father Jimmy paid you?" he said, pointing at the markings.

"Oh, no. He's here almost every night. Those are the times some pitiable soul tries to pass on but gets jumped on by that team of young doctors with the squeaky cart. Why people here can't at least slip away without all that fuss, I'll never understand."

Earl noticed the DNR bracelet on her own wrist. She certainly had a point, he thought, but said nothing. Still, the large number of crosses disturbed him.

11:07 p.m.

Stewart stepped inside the entrance to his house, closed the door, and slumped against it. If only he could just as easily bar the outside world from his life, not allow it to rampage through and trample everything, he thought. Except it already had.

He looked around at his marble entranceway, its polished gray surface softened in the dim glow of recessed lighting. Tonight it looked like a mausoleum, but a well-furnished one. A rosewood end table supported a small brass lamp with a green shade. It funneled a golden spot on the mail his housekeeper had placed there for him. Usually the sight of letters waiting for his attention had an uplifting effect- the prospect of reading the latest news from admiring colleagues was one of the pleasures he savored at the end of a marathon day. Not anymore.

From the dimly lit living room to his left came the quiet strains of Mozart. His stereo was programmed to come on at the same time as the lights so he wouldn't return to a silent, dark home- the ruse of a man who'd allowed his personal life to become stripped bare by work. This clever tactic now struck him as pathetic, and underscored the emptiness of the place.

Tocco came running down the stairs from where she'd been sleeping on his bed, black coat gleaming, brown eyes full of warmth, and pink tongue ready to slurp him a kiss. The Labrador retriever, big as a bear cub, greeted him the same way she had every night for the last ten years.

It didn't comfort him at all.

Couldn't.

Maybe never would again.

He dropped his briefcase and walked in a trance through the tasteful arrangements of antique chairs, a pair of sofas, more end tables with brass lamps, all chosen by a hired decorator, to where he had a wet bar in a recessed corner.

He never drank. At parties club soda would be his choice of beverage. "ICU may call," he told any host who tried to ply him with liquor. The truth was that he didn't like the taste. Never had, not even at beer parties in med school.

Nevertheless, he poured himself a tumbler of brandy and downed it the way he would some foul medicine.

It burned his stomach. Little wonder, with nothing to eat all day.

Tocco pushed her snout under his free hand and turned her head so he'd have an ear to rub.

He poured himself another drink, wandered into the dining room, and slumped at a table made of Brazilian mahogany that could seat twelve but rarely did. Then he got up and, leaning against a matching hutch filled with seldom used fine china, admired his little-seen collection of wall tapestries, each one a van Gogh recreation.

Still restless, he abandoned his untouched drink on the polished wood and entered a kitchen that had every appliance known to chefs, but a refrigerator with little more than staples and the freezer filled with gourmet frozen meals. As he stared at the selection, feeling less like eating than before, Tocco walked up to the cupboard that held her dog biscuits and wagged her tail expectantly.

He walked over, pulled a few from the bag, and threw them at her feet. She plopped down, captured the nearest one between her paws, and gnawed happily on its upright end, oblivious to the collapse of her master's world.

He strolled through a swinging door to a den with a plasma screen the size of a billboard and a thirty-speaker theater center. A stack of overdue DVDs lay on the floor. At the top of the heap, Vittorio De Sica's The Bicycle Thief teetered precariously, ready to fall to the floor.

He ended up back in the entranceway, sank to the marble floor, and proceeded to add up the score.

The first dozen calls had been more of the "Is it true?" crap that he'd fielded with Garnet there.

And he'd danced the same I'm-all-right, if s-all-a-big-misunderstanding jive, but knew he'd ended up conning no one.

Next the ones who had already made up their minds signed in.

"It's not just you. All the research money is drying up," they lied apologetically. "Of course you'll be the first to be funded again once the economy improves…"

They'd stripped ten million dollars' worth of pending grants from him in less than two hours, and he knew he'd never get that kind of cash again. His fall had been extra steep because so many wanted to punish- no, make that eviscerate him.

Tocco wandered out of the kitchen, spiraled three times before plopping down, and contentedly gave herself a bath, as if her master sprawled in the middle of the foyer floor were no big thing.

Grateful for the one living creature that hadn't judged him today, he reached over and rubbed the ear he'd ignored earlier.

She immediately tried to give his hand a kiss.

He thought of the men and women who'd dissed him today. He remembered their goofy, want-to-be-around-a-winner expressions when they threw endowments at him and felt it a privilege to do so, not the sour faces that he had imagined went with the cold, dismissive tones they'd subjected him to over the last twelve hours. It reminded him of the discrepancy between how the eternal whines of disappointment from his ex-wives differed from the eagerness with which they'd once said "I do."

But the loss of control over his domain at work panicked him the most. His ability to command respect and make others do his bidding had slipped through his fingers like water.

He got up and glanced to the coatrack where Tocco's leash usually hung. It wasn't there.

He wandered down to the basement, to check the hook where the housekeeper sometimes left it.

Tocco followed, wagging her tail in anticipation of a walk.

He eyed the water pipes and saw the face that had haunted him since 1989.

Purple, swollen, and twisted, the image of it lurked at the core of his memory, always ready to intrude without warning, triggered by the slightest of associations. It could happen while he presented a paper, listened to accolades from younger colleagues, even appeared once in the middle of an interview on Oprah. Like an avenging ghost, it haunted him, particularly the bulging eyes. Their black scrutiny bored through his pupils and, like probes, activated what no anatomist could find- the convoluted cerebral coils of gray and white matter that housed conscience. Because that cold lifeless stare forced him to relive his treachery, admit to the innuendos and whispered lies that had been the ruin of the phantom who looked on him so accusingly. His only sure respite from the curse? When a case consumed him in ICU.

He ran back upstairs, Tocco whining at his heels. When he went out the front door without her, she barked her disappointment.

He rocketed his car out of the driveway and sped toward the hospital.

ICU, he thought. He'd be okay there.

Wednesday, July 16, 2:33 a.m.

Jane Simmons awoke in her bed with a cry on her lips, pain ripping through her abdomen.

"Christ!" she moaned, grabbing her stomach and curling into a ball. "Thomas!"

Then she remembered. He'd gone back to ER to relieve the resident who'd replaced him for a few hours. Since the Sunday revelation, much to her pleasure, he'd adjusted his schedule so that they could have dinner together the last three evenings.

Another cramp hit, twisting her intestines as if they were caught in a wringer. "Jesus!" she groaned, curling tighter. Must be something they'd eaten.Tonight she had picked up fresh snapper. It had looked fine, and she'd cooked it thoroughly. But she'd also made potato salad, so it could have been the mayonnaise. Nothing else would have done it. They'd drunk only fresh fruit punch- no alcohol, of course. He'd brought back lemons and grapefruit this time, enough for a pitcherful.

"A toast," she'd said, insisting the third supper in a row on using the champagne glasses kept for special occasions.

"Shucks, here's how we do it in Tennessee," he'd joked, and took a big swig directly from the jug as he usually did, just to tease her.

"Grand Forks too, but only behind the barn," she'd tossed back, and she chugged it with him, slug for slug, determined not to be outdone, but then insisted they fill the glasses to the brim and toast each other in proper style, raising them to each other, to the baby-

"Oh, my God!" she screamed.

Another surge, this one stronger than the others, gripped her like giant hands tearing her in two. Between her thighs she felt slippery, warm, and sticky. Her hand instinctively flew to her groin, and a flow of hot fluid coursed between her fingers.

"God, no," she whimpered, reaching for the light switch and bracing for what she'd see.

Nothing could have prepared her.

A circular red stain between her legs kept spreading, from beneath her hips to below her knees. With each surge of pain another swell of blood gushed from her vagina. In the middle of it all lay the crimson detritus of what had been her baby.

She let out a cry, reached toward it, then restrained herself.

More waves of pain jackknifed her into the fetal position again, and the periphery of her vision grew dark.

Head reeling, she uncoiled enough to reach the phone and tried to punch in 911. Her fingers slid off the keys from all the blood.

Michael Popovitch stepped outside the ER's exit door and loosened his mask. The cool night, still moist from rain an hour earlier, s me I led sweet. He stayed near the changing area-"limbo," as the residents called it, the zone between the safety of the outside world and the infected realm of the hospital. He always figured that this was where the battle would be won or lost. Sooner or later, despite all the precautions, someone would carry the virus into the street, take it home, spread it to family, to friends, to everyone.

He drew a deep breath and, freed from the stuffy confines of his mask, enjoyed the heady freshness of inhaling air unencumbered as much as he'd once savored the rush of nicotine from his smoking days. A faint sound like a wheeze rose and fell in the distance, then repeated itself, rising and falling as regular as breathing.

An ambulance on its way in.

Five minutes out, he judged, sound carrying far through the city when it slept.

He leaned against the wall and looked up at the stars. Patches of twinkling silver had opened amidst traces of clouds that still lingered overhead. Probably would be clear tomorrow. Rather than sleep off his shift, he'd take Terry and Donna to the beach.

It might be a good break for the three of them.

The quarrels between himself and Donna couldn't be good for the kid. They didn't throw things or physically hurt each other, but tension filled the house, thick and as smothering as a pillow to the face.

He remembered those kinds of times between his own parents. Hadn't scarred him, he figured. But they'd made him unhappy. The big difference was that his mom and dad had known how to end them. Unless he quit ER, the trouble between him and Donna would go on for as long as SARS lasted, which could be forever.

Sometimes she wouldn't even sleep with him. She cringed every time he picked up Terry, and found every excuse she could to take the kid to her mother's. And each time news broke of another nurse or doctor coming down with it, she looked at him as if he were a murderer.

He could leave St. Paul's, go to a place that hadn't been infected yet. But it wouldn't be that simple. SARS could pop up anywhere. Probably would. And besides, if whoever replaced him here got involved with his files, they'd see what he'd been doing-

The door bashed open, startling him out of his thoughts.

"Dr. Popovitch!" Thomas Biggs said, breathless as he leaned out the opening. "We just got a heads-up from an ambulance. They're bringing us a woman in shock, big time, from a miscarriage."

Michael pushed off from the wall. The wail sounded much louder now, approaching faster than he estimated. They must be really gunning it. "You got everything ready inside?"

Thomas nodded.

Michael felt his heart quicken, the way it did from the first day he stepped into ER and the sirens drew closer. The only thing that had changed was that he'd learned to channel the adrenaline, stream it through his head to clear his thoughts and sharpen his reflexes. He entered a zone where he would react without doubts, second-guessing, or hesitation, a purity of moment he found only in the pit. As that telltale wail swelled louder, the stiller he grew.

Thomas, like all rookies, fidgeted with increasing restlessness but stayed outside.

As they stood waiting, a familiar dark Mercedes pulled into the doctors' parking lot, and Stewart Deloram got out.

"What's he doing here?" Thomas muttered. "Anyone who took the pasting he did should be at home hiding under his bed."

"Then you don't know Stewart," Michael replied, and waved at him.

Stewart saw them, then looked over his shoulder in the direction of the howling siren, so close now the shriek had set up a slight vibration in Michael's ear.

"Waiting for something special?" Stewart called, heading toward the other side of the ambulance bay and the door designated for people entering the hospital.

"Woman in shock," Michael said, "from a possible miscarriage."

Stewart used his card to open the lock. "Mind if I help?" He reached inside the entranceway and pulled a clean gown off a cart stacked with protective wear.

"It's an OB case," Thomas said, fixing his eyes on the oil-stained asphalt that separated them. His tone of voice hinted that Stewart should mind his own business.

Needless to say, the resident had already passed judgment on the man.

"Posse justice, Thomas?" Michael murmured. "Nobody innocent until proven guilty anymore?"

At first Thomas said nothing. Then he murmured, "I want him to be just what he's always seemed. But I don't know if I can trust that anymore."

"Understandable," Michael said in as low a voice as possible without it becoming a whisper, "but you learned a lot from him. Doesn't he at least deserve the benefit of a doubt?"

"You think he's innocent?"

"I think he's worked too many years at my side saving lives for me to turn on him now." Besides, Michael thought, he'd have at least one friend at St. Paul's when his own moment of reckoning arrived. "Glad to have you, Stewart," he called out loudly, all the while looking directly at Thomas. "After all, shock is shock, right?" he added in a loud voice.

The young resident lifted his eyebrows in a show of disapproval but kept silent as the ambulance roared into the hospital driveway, its siren dying to a deep-throated growl.

Jane lay shivering on the stretcher while faces bobbed above her like windblown balloons.

"Femorals in!"

"Type and cross six units- no, ten!"

"Two units, type O, up and running."

The voices came at her from the other end of a long tunnel. They sounded frantic. Always did, when one of their own came in, she thought.

"Still pouring blood."

"Systolic's down to eighty."

"Where's OB?"

Cold flowed through her.

The IV lines they'd jabbed into her arms, legs, and neck stung.

The catheter someone had rammed up her bladder filled her with a phantom urge to pee that she couldn't relieve.

And the pain in her belly pummeled her with the brute force of fists.

Not even Popovitch and Deloram had a moment to comfort her as they yelled orders and spoke excitedly to one another. That really made her afraid.

It also pissed her off. How dare they reduce her to a slew of pressure readings, blood counts, and chemistry parameters? And why should Deloram be here anyway? "Looking for a few words from the near-dead, Stewart?" she murmured, feeling strangely uninhibited and defiant enough to use his first name.

He started, his dark brows curling in amazement.

"Just kidding," she said. "At least now you noticed me."

"You sure you want me working on you?"

"Damn right, but don't you be thinking of your own problems. And quit staring at me as if I were already a ghost."

A muffled chuckle came from behind his mask. "You're something, Jane."

"How bad?"

"Hey, don't worry. I'm not about to let one of the few people around here who's still talking to me slip away."

Michael Popovitch appeared above her, a lab report in his hand. "You sure you don't take aspirin or blood thinners?" he asked.

"No." Her reply sounded like a moan.

"Bleeding problems?"

"None."

The pain returned. All at once she wanted Dr. G.

And Thomas. He continued to dart here and there, anxiety blazing out of his eyes. "Hang on, Jane," he whispered each time he came close enough to say anything. She thought of how they'd made love only hours earlier, and suddenly she'd never felt more naked.

Talk to me, damn it! Leave the numbers, tests, and needles to the others. Just hold my hand.

She started to spiral downward, her head lurching in a nauseating, off-center spin.

Oh, God, I'm going.

"Beta subunit's positive," a female voice called out, echoing through the room as if on a loudspeaker.

She didn't recognize it.

"Definitely got herself pregnant."

Bitch! Jane wanted to scream.

"Why's she still bleeding so much?" one of the residents asked.

"Retained placenta," Thomas said with the forced coolness he used when trying to sound calm and professorial. "We have to do a D and C, clean out her womb…"

Another flash of anger slowed her plunge into darkness, even buoyed her up. She wanted to grab him by what got her pregnant in the first place, and twist. Then she heard a woman's voice from out in the hallway that sounded as welcome as a distant bugle cry heralding the cavalry riding to the rescue.

"Okay, what have you got for me on my last night of call- my God, J.S."

Dr. Graceton came into view above her and leaned in close, grabbing her hand with a reassuring squeeze. "Okay, I need straight talk here," she whispered. "How long since the start of your last cycle?"

"Nearly two months." Her mouth felt full of cotton and didn't let her enunciate properly.

"Are you on any meds?"

"No."

Dr. Graceton leaned closer

"Did you try and abort yourself? Take something like RU-486 from Europe?"

"No, nothing-" She broke off with a cry as her uterus seized into another contraction.

Dr. Graceton frowned. "Sorry, J.S., but I have to ask."

"No, we decided to keep the baby."

"Oh, I see." Her frown deepened. "Then did you take anything by accident?"

"I don't think so."

"Do you use anti-inflammatories?n

"Sometimes, but-"

"Arthrotec or Cytotec?"

She shook her head, recognizing the names of drugs containing misoprostol, an analog of prostaglandin intended to block the ulcer-producing effect of arthritis medication. It also caused the cervix to open. She'd seen a number of women in ER who'd miscarried because they'd made the mistake of taking the pills Janet had just referred to. "No, nothing like that."

Dr. Graceton glanced over at Popovitch. "Any other lab results back?"

He'd just cranked up the bottom of the bed to auto-transfuse her with blood from her legs. The strain around his eyes drained the skin of color and made it seem as if he should lie down and do the same for himself. "Hey, Dr. Popovitch, lighten the mood," Jane told him with as much firmness as she could muster. "You're scaring me."

He looked down at her and must have tried to smile, because the lines at the corners of his eyes shifted slightly. "Sorry, Jane. Hey, I guess I always rely on you for that." He glanced back over to Dr. Graceton. "Biochem's okay. But even without the rest of the results, I can tell you right now her coagulation's off. She's hardly forming any clots."

"Then let's give her fresh frozen plasma," Janet said with an impatient flip of the hand, implying a no-brainer. She referred to blood that had not been separated yet into its individual components and would boost clotting factor as well as red cells.

He fired J.S. a wink. "Already thawing in the microwave, my dear."

His W. C. Fields imitation made her smile. It had always gotten a few chuckles and relaxed everyone as they worked. "That's better," she told him.

Stewart raced up to the table with a printout in his hand. "I got the other results," he said.

They huddled around it as if sharing a newspaper, and threw out the alphabet soup of acronyms used to describe bleeding disorders.

"DIC?" Thomas said.

Oh, God! Jane recognized that one. DIC was a dreaded complication in hemorrhagic shock- the acronym stood for disseminated intravascular coagulopathy and meant that she'd used up all her clotting factors with excessive coagulation throughout her blood vessels, even where she didn't need it. Bottom line, her chance of survival would be fifty-fifty. Plus the treatment had always struck her as desperately insane. They'd give her heparin to slow her clotting even more, in the hope this would spare the few factors she had left and allow them to work at the site of the hemorrhage. Not many of her patients with the same problem had survived. "I'm going to die," she murmured, or had she just thought it?

No one seemed to hear.

Dr. Graceton grabbed the report. "What are you talking about, Thomas? Of course it's not DIC. Only her INR is elevated. Platelets and PTT are fine."

More alphabet soup.

"Yeah, watch what you're saying," Michael added. "You'll frighten our J.S. to death."

"I taught you better than that, Thomas," Stewart piped in, his frizzy eyebrows lifting in indignation.

Thomas acted stunned. "Oh, right," he said. "Stupid call."

They're lying to protect me.

The bing of the microwave sounded, and in seconds the nurses added more maroon IV bags to the ones flowing into her, except these felt warm in her veins from the recent thawing. The rest of her remained cold to the core. She started to slip away again. "I'm going," she cried.

"No, you're not," Janet told her in a firm voice.

But she plummeted into free fall, and her womb seized in another contraction.

The other three moved out of earshot, where they continued to chatter and gesticulate.

"Pressure's down to sixty-five," someone yelled.

Thomas appeared at her side and grabbed her hand. "Hang on, Jane. I love you," he whispered in her ear.

Finally, she thought dazedly.

He dashed from view and returned with a needle to take another blood test.

Jesus. She felt furious at him again.

Janet reappeared back at her side. "We're heading to the OR now!"

Everyone scrambled frantically to pile what they'd need for the trip onto the bed- monitors, oxygen tanks, IV poles.

"Give her an IV shot of phytonadione," Stewart ordered.

Jane knew that stuff- it was another name for vitamin K. In ER they used it to reverse the effects of Coumadin, a drug that thins the blood by interfering with the role vitamin K and other components play in normal clot formation. "But I've never taken Coumadin in my life-"

"Relax," he interrupted. "You were probably born with low prothrombin levels. That mimics a Coumadin overdose on testing, and phytonadione will shore up the effectiveness of the bit you have. People deficient in it often don't find out until a time like this. Do you normally bleed a lot when you cut yourself?"

"I don't know if I'd say that."

"How about your periods? Are they heavy?"

"Sometimes, but-"

"Hi, J.S.," said another familiar voice, putting an end to Deloram's annoying questions. Then a gloved hand, warm even through the latex, grabbed hers.

"Hey, Jimmy," she replied, her own words sounding like a distant echo. "Tell me this isn't a professional call."

His eyes crinkled at the corners. "No, I'm here just as a friend."

"I need a friend."

"Then I'm your guy."

"You're sure, now that I've practically got a scarlet A on my forehead?"

His grip on her hand tightened. "Hey, enough of that. We'll soon be having coffee together as usual."

Just twelve hours ago they'd been sharing a pot of tea in the lunchroom set aside for ER staff.

"And when you're better, I want a match to this." He flicked his earring with a gloved fingertip. "You've no idea what a hit it makes me with the old ladies in Geriatrics."

She tried to grin at him. No one had given her a mask. He might be the last person on earth to see her smile.

Janet leaned in close again. "Okay, here's the score. In the OR I'll do a D and C, and once the plasma kicks in, the bleeding will stop. Bottom line, you're not going to die, and there will be more babies."

Shivering, she felt her head swim again. "Sure hope so."

"And if these ER cowboys are finished spearing you," Janet continued, but much louder, "perhaps we could get the lady a blanket?"

She started to lose consciousness, and tightened her grip on Jimmy's hand, but he couldn't hold her out of the darkness.