by Neil Mcmahon
Monks waited, his sore gut tensed like a prizefighter's, waiting for a punch.
There was a nervous rustling, people rearranging themselves in their seats, recrossing legs, shuffling through their notes.
No one spoke.
"Birds of a feather, sticking together, huh?" Paul Winner said sarcastically.
"And now," Speidel said, without looking at him, "I'll invite comment from other departments."
Winner stood up, too. "Dr. Monks, I know you just went through a traumatic experience. But this happened before that, and we can't just let it slide out of sympathy for you, or because the ER wants to protect its own. Matters like this reflect on the overall reputation of this hospital, and everybody associated with it. I'm sure a lot of people in this room feel the same way."
He surveyed the crowd with stern eyes, waiting for support. Mary Helfert, the nurse who had questioned Monks's use of the blood thinner, raised a tentative hand, and a few of the non-ER physicians nodded uncertainly. But still, no one spoke.
Speidel gave the silence plenty of time before he said, "What's your specific objection, Dr. Winner?"
"My specific objection is pumping a potent drug into somebody when you aren't sure of the consequences. You can't go treating patients like guinea pigs!"
"How would you have handled it?"
"I'm not an ER physician, but-"
"But you feel free to correct those of us who are?" Speidel interrupted.
Winner slammed his hand down on the table. "He's not the kind of doctor we need at this hospital – him and all the muck he finds to roll around in." His forefinger stabbed the air toward Monks. "I don't want you seeing my patients anymore."
"Done," Monks said.
"I'm taking this up with the chief of staff," Winner said. He left the room, pushing his way roughly through the crowded chairs.
"You want to take my next shift for me, Paul?" Vernon Dickhaut called after him. "I'd like to see you take on the Saturday Night Knife and Gun Club."
There was laughter again, longer and louder.
This time, Monks smiled, too.
Baird Necker was waiting for Monks outside in the hall.
"All right, I should have backed you up," Baird said. "I feel like shit. That's my apology. I don't expect you to accept it."
"I think Paul Winner's right, Baird. I'm not the kind of doc you need around here."
'Tuck him. He's adequate, and he'll be retiring soon. Those are the two best things I can say about him." He clapped Monks on the shoulder and started walking toward the elevator. "Except for all the publicity you can't seem to help attracting, we've come out of it fine. Come on upstairs, I need a smoke."
"I don't think you heard me," Monks said, not moving. "I'm tendering my resignation. I haven't had time to write the letter yet, but I'll get to it in the next couple of days."
Baird stopped and looked at Monks, puzzled, still not seeming to grasp it. Then he scowled.
"You got a better offer someplace else?" he said suspiciously. "If that's it, we could deal."
"No."
"Why, then? You're pissed at me?"
"I am. But don't flatter yourself. That wouldn't run me off."
"Because you killed somebody who needed killing?"
Monks's head snapped back, as if the words were a punch.
"Spoken like a marine," he said. "Semper fi, and all that."
Baird's gaze stayed level. "Okay, it was crude. But I know you better than you think, Carroll. You could take something like that to heart. Decide you're not worthy anymore."
Baird was shrewd. There was some truth to it. But only some.
"I feel like I'm in some kind of spiral that's getting out of control," Monks said. "It happened to me once before, and it almost took me down. I need to back away, take some time off. That's the best reason I can give."
Baird rubbed his bulldog jaw. "What are you going to do?"
"I'll still investigate for ASCLEP. There's plenty of locum tenens work around."
Baird pulled one of the foot-long Tabacaleros out of his inside suit jacket pocket and tore at the wrapper, stripping it off impatiently.
"I'll miss having you around, Carroll. These have been some great times," he said. "Never knowing when I might find a body gutted on a gurney. The psychos lurking in the furnace room, the labs getting smashed up, the TV crews shoving microphones in my face. The sleepless nights trying to figure out how the fuck to keep the board of directors from hemorrhaging, and the board of accreditation from dumping us. Hey, hospital administrators are a dime a dozen, but those were the things that made my job special."
"Jesus, Baird. You're making me go all gooey inside."
"You'll be back," Baird said. "It's in your blood." He did an about-face with marine drill precision and stomped down the hall, on his way to the rooftop and a nicotine fix.
Monks walked the other direction, toward the ER, feeling like he had been carrying a sack of huge rocks on his back for so long he had forgotten about it, and now he had dropped a couple of the biggest ones.
There were no witnesses to the complex series of events, and none was likely to appear. But it seemed clear that Monks had suspected all the wrong people. Initial speculation went that Todd Peploe, the clinic's maintenance man, was the one who had butchered Coffee Trenette and had killed Gwen Bricknell – being careful to make it look like D'Anton's work. He had killed D'Anton, too. The surgeon's body, overdosed with Demerol and carefully enclosed in garbage bags, had been found in the trunk of his own Jaguar.
The police had found jewelry in Todd's apartment that pointed to other victims. There was also a crudely written journal, which indicated that the bodies had been left in a cave on D'Anton's property. Search dogs found them. Apparently, Todd was on his way to hide D'Anton's corpse there, too, trying to make it appear that D'Anton had gone on a final murderous rampage, then fled.
But Todd had learned from Julia D'Anton that Monks was coming. He had killed her, still using the scalpel with D' Anton's fingerprints, then taken her hair as a disguise, and set the trap for Monks.
Further checking showed that Todd had started impersonating a physician while working at a San Diego hospital. He had approached an unknown number of women and given them pelvic exams. This might have gone on indefinitely – hospitals were reluctant to deal with that sort of thing, even when they knew about it – but then his penchant for sharp instruments had come to the fore. Sedated patients started turning up with mysterious incisions. None was seriously injured – Monks guessed that Todd was practicing, working himself up for what was to come – but it had landed him in prison. Then, like many other parolees, he had disappeared from the system's radar and walked into another job at another hospital.
A faked California medical license, a supply of pharmaceutical drugs, and a hoard of surgical implements and supplies, also found in his apartment, made it clear that he had escalated his doctor persona. And in his garage, there was a Jaguar XJS the same color as D'Anton's – several years older, but almost identical. It was unclear whether this was another way of imitating D'Anton, or Todd had used it somehow for disguise.
A huge amount of work lay ahead for authorities – forensically, to probe the physical evidence, and psychologically, to delve into the psyche of Todd Peploe. His journal included a jumble of beliefs that he was a superior being, above any law, using medical skills to satisfy the hidden cravings of women.
But Monks had already formed his opinion. Anyone capable of doing what Todd had done was a vicious, sadistic son of a bitch whose true reason for killing was pleasure.
That made the memory of pumping five bullets into him a little easier.
Martine Rostanov had not attended the QA meeting because she was not on Mercy Hospital's staff, but she was waiting for him in the ER lobby. Monks recalled that that was the first place he had ever seen her, walking through the door with the slight limp that instantly had awakened a protective urge in him. He had the eerie sense that their relat
ionship was unraveling literally, a step at a time, like a videotape played backward.
"I already heard the buzz," she said. "Congratulations." She was smiling, summery-looking in a long flowered dress, but her face was dark around the eyes.
"It's a relief," Monks admitted. "How's your body holding up?"
"I won't be playing rugby for a while."
"I feel like I should be nursing you, in your hour of need."
"I don't think either of us wants that," Monks said. He was surprised by the bluntness in his own voice, and he saw that she was, too. Then hurt. She lowered her eyes.
"It's terrible, what you've been through," she said. "I know I haven't helped."
"Of course you have."
"Are you all right with what you had to do? Never mind. Dumb question."
Neither of them spoke for another moment. Monks thought about asking her if she was getting involved with someone else, perhaps the owner of the black Saab he had seen in her driveway – thought about confessing his own infidelity, if that was what it had been. Thought about suggesting another try. They had talked a lot about an autumn in Donegal.
But the words were just not in him. The issues that had seemed important between them a few days ago had been swept from his consciousness. He was distant from the rest of the world right now, and she was part of that world.
"I'd better go," he said. "Thanks for coming by."
"Don't lose my phone number, okay?"
He walked her out into the parking lot. They kissed quickly, like friends. She waved from her car as she pulled away – maybe sadly, maybe not.
And that was that.
Chapter 34
The O'Malley Bros. Mortuary on west Geary was respected as one of the city's finest – a century-old, family-owned establishment that had graciously retired the mortal remains of a host of the rich and famous, from governors to rock stars. Monks guessed that he had sent them clients, from the ER, himself.
It was still before nine a.m. – early for the funeral business – but the imposing old wooden door, at least seven feet tall and arched like a church's, was unlocked. Monks stepped into the foyer. Its dark-paneled walls had several dimly lit niches, also arched, each discreetly displaying pertinent information about one of the deceased who was passing through – name, side chapel where the body could be viewed, time of the service, final resting place. It was as still a room as Monks had ever been inside. He had to resist the urge to tiptoe across the tiled floor.
He went from niche to niche until he found the name Gwendolyn Anne Bricknell. She was in the Dove Chapel. A plan showed its location.
Monks was on his way there when a man wearing formal black tails stepped into the room. He clasped his hands behind his back and leaned forward in a partial bow.
"Can I help you, sir?" he said, in the hollow whisper of one who has learned to speak the language of mourning. He was thin, in his mid-thirties, but looked older from pallor and balding.
"I'd like to see Miss Bricknell."
"Certainly. If you'll come this way." His smooth black shiny shoes made only a whisper on the tiles. Monks felt like a mule, clopping along beside him. They crossed the mortuary's main room, as large as the naves of most churches and similar, with pews and a raised dais in front – although it was equipped with a steel track to slide coffins in and out of view. This was a full-service organization.
"Are you family, might I inquire?" the attendant asked.
"Just an acquaintance."
"The service is scheduled for four p.m."
"I'm afraid I won't be able to make that," Monks said.
"Of course." The attendant's voice dropped confidentially. "It's going to be quite an event."
"Really?"
"Oh, yes. We're expecting a capacity crowd, and a lot of celebrities. She was quite famous, in her day. But I'm sure you know that."
"So I've gathered."
"Terrible tragedy, isn't it?" He gave Monks a sidelong glance that showed only one wide-open eye, a look reminiscent of a flounder's. "Whoever would have thought it?"
"Very sad," Monks agreed.
"I mean, can you imagine?" the attendant went on, warming to his subject. "A monster, posing as a surgeon? Suppose he'd had you under the knife. How would you feel?"
Monks resisted the urge to say, He did.
"I'll leave you to pay your respects, sir," the attendant murmured. He stepped aside and gestured Monks into the Dove Chapel, opening off the main room. It was a tasteful space, lush with flowers and candles. The coffin was on a bier at the far end, burnished wood that looked like mahogany, chased with brass or perhaps gold. The upper half of the lid was open.
Her still form brought to Monks's mind an image from childhood, a somber Doré engraving of the Lady of Astolat – spurned by her lover, Lancelot, floating pale and lovely down a stream, holding a lily to her breast – finally at peace from her torments. Except that Gwen was dressed in black.
And with frightening irony, a black silk scarf had been arranged carefully around her neck, to conceal her wounded throat. It brought back with force the eerie intimacy that he had shared with her.
That Gwen had murdered Eden Hale was almost certain. Among her cache of health care and beauty products, several ounces of castor beans had been found, along with instructions on how to compound them into ricin – a poison that was deadly and would not show up on an ordinary tox screen. Making ricin was not difficult, and her work at the clinic had exposed her to chemical procedures.
The black scarf she had worn that night had been found, too – in her trash, still damp, hacked to pieces.
As with the other events, it was mostly speculation from there. Monks guessed that Gwen had arranged the tryst between Eden's boyfriend and Coffee Trenette, so that Eden would be alone, and then had called Eden and arranged to stop by, on the pretext of bringing comfort. She probably had disguised the ricin in something like chicken soup, which she had deliberately let go bad, so that salmonella would cloak the poison's effects. She probably had also taken Eden's answering machine, although that had not been found.
The whys of it were murkier. Jealousy figured in, no doubt – the fear that Eden would replace her as the queen of D'Anton's world. Then there was her fierce insistence on seeming young. It suggested that in a way, she had been like Eden – convinced, with childish naivete, that youth and appearance were everything. And he suspected that with her brittle temperament, drug use, and real or imagined pressures, she had gone a little insane.
Monks felt no anger toward her – mostly sadness and pity. Even her attempt to kill him had been self-preservation. There was a dark irony, too, in that her poisoning Eden was what had exposed Todd Peploe. Otherwise, he would certainly have gone on killing.
But there was more, Monks admitted. Those few minutes with her in the night had brought love and death together with an intensity beyond anything he had ever experienced. He was not a believer in the supernatural, but if ever he had been touched by magic, it was then.
Had making love to him been a gift from her, to sweeten his passage? Or an attempt to control him, in some otherworldly way, cut short by her death?
How had she known about that scarf?
Monks walked back out of the Dove chapel, footsteps echoing through the halls of the dead, to the world of light and movement. He was eager to embrace the relief he had felt, leaving the hospital.
But he knew that there would be a price, too. He was not a good sleeper. He still woke up sometimes in a childlike panic, croaking hoarsely, after long, helpless seconds of trying to shout at something that menaced him.
He knew that his dreams featured images that came from his actual experiences. The images were distorted, and the dreams themselves were wild collages that melted from one insane scenario to the next – like most people's, he supposed – but when he remembered flashes, he would realize that many specific details stemmed from things he had recently seen or done.
These past days were going to mix t
hemselves into the brew, and on those nights when he came thrashing fearfully into wakefulness, he would be alone.
Acknowledgments
The author is deeply indebted to many people who helped in the making of this book. Special thanks to:
Kim Anderson; Carl Clatterbuck; Dan Conaway; Drs. Barbara and Dan McMahon; Dr. Dick Merriman; Mary Pender; Linda Ross; Jill Schwartzman; Nikola Scott; Xanthe Tabor; Jennifer Rudolph Walsh… and to many good and dedicated folks at HarperCollins, both behind and in front of the scenes.
About the Author
NEIL McMAHON studied premed at Stanford where, later, he was also a Stegner Fellow. His short fiction has appeared in the Atlantic Monthly and other magazines, and in several anthologies, including Boxing's Best Short Stories and The Best of Montana 's Short Fiction. He is married and lives in Missoula, Montana. You can visit his website at www. neilmcmahon. com.
***
FB2 document info
Document ID: fbd-d673e4-9c94-344b-1981-1530-dd79-f3f56a
Document version: 1
Document creation date: 27.06.2010
Created using: Fiction Book Designer software
Document authors :
Source URLs :
About
This file was generated by Lord KiRon's FB2EPUB converter version 1.1.5.0.
(This book might contain copyrighted material, author of the converter bears no responsibility for it's usage)
Этот файл создан при помощи конвертера FB2EPUB версии 1.1.5.0 написанного Lord KiRon.
(Эта книга может содержать материал который защищен авторским правом, автор конвертера не несет ответственности за его использование)
