Hurst visibly stiffened but didn't turn around, remaining outwardly calm with his hands clasped behind his back, the way a host might carry himself upon hearing guests becoming unruly at a cocktail party.

Earl brusquely signaled the pathologist to fasten the ties properly. Goddamn it, he of all people should know better.

"Len," Janet answered. "Just the man I wanted to question. What have you got chloroform down there for, anyway? And who the hell would be carrying a jug of the stuff around?"

"That's what is so weird." Len's authoritative voice began to hush surrounding conversations and command everyone's attention. "We hardly use the stuff anymore, just to make Carnoy's solution to speed up tissue fixation. Even then, no one would ever need the whole jar."

He and Janet continued to speculate about the bizarre sequence of events, all to the rapt attention of the three main gossip groups in St. Paul's: residents, nurses, and doctors.

"You see," Hurst said, pupils boring into Earl's, "this kind of sensationalism won't come to any good." He shook his head in a show of sad disapproval, as if he held Earl personally responsible for the conversation unfolding behind him, and turned to leave.

Only then could Earl see that the long fingers of the surgeon's right hand had curled into a fist.

Tuesday, July 8, 2:30 a.m. Palliative Care, St. Paul's Hospital

Sadie Locke started and sat up.

"Father Jimmy?"

She'd been lying with her eyes closed, waiting for his visit, when she heard the rustle of clothing.

No answer.

A shadow by her door moved.

"Sorry, wrong room," whispered a voice.

The shape retreated to the hallway.

Chapter 9

Tuesday, July 8, 7:05 a.m.

Thick as a fold of flesh on a pachyderm's ass," Thomas Biggs grumbled, his Tennessee twang cutting the gloom like a buzz saw. He squinted upward as gray tendrils engulfed the upper floors of St. Paul's. A fog bank had bulged off Lake Erie to lean on the downtown core.

Earl shivered in the clammy air. Screening at the hospital entrance progressed more slowly than usual, and chatter among the troops remained muted.

They were an army that had woken to the news their lines had once more been breached. Morning broadcasts reported thirty new cases of possible SARS and three more deaths, all of them identified on a ward in a rehabilitation hospital not three blocks away. The zinger that had this crowd so subdued was that the seminal case involved a woman who'd had hip surgery at St. Paul's, and she must have contracted the virus from an unknown carrier on staff here.

At his urging, Janet had agreed to take the day off, though Earl admitted nothing seemed wrong with her. If anything, her ready acceptance to stay home concerned him. It meant she'd been more shaken by what happened than he realized.

"Any idea who the carrier is yet?" Earl asked when it came his turn to be screened.

"No," the nurse answered, her voice having retreated to the high-pitched, thin tones that are a giveaway of taut vocal cords.

He took a good look at her, at least what remained visible above the mask.

Brown eyes, young and scared, met his, then she looked away, probably embarrassed that he'd seen her fear.

In ER, as usual following a SARS scare implicating St. Paul's, the morning rush of walk-ins hadn't appeared, and the waiting room stood empty.

"A good day to check supplies," Susanne said. She believed the best antidote to anxiety over each new outbreak lay in keeping busy. "How's Janet?"

"She took the day off."

"Really?"

"Yeah."

"Wow. Is she okay?"

"I think so, at least physically."

Susanne frowned at him. "Why don't you bug out and spend the day with her at home?" She gestured toward the triage desk, where J.S. sat, unoccupied and staring off into space. "There's certainly not much happening here."

She had a point. "I just might do that. Thanks, Susanne." Meantime he had a few things to prepare for next week's death rounds, but that could wait. First he checked with Michael, however.

"Go home," the man said when he learned Janet hadn't come into work. "I can handle things here." He glanced over to where Thomas had gathered the other residents to start morning rounds. "Especially with Dr. Biggs to keep me smart."

The young man from Tennessee looked up. "Thank you, Dr. Popovitch. If you'll put that in writing, I'll apply for a position here next year."

"Anytime," Michael said without hesitation.

"That goes for me too," Earl added, not having heard him express an interest in coming on staff before. "Are you serious?"

"You bet. I like it here. Your department's great. The hospital, the university, and the academic environment for research are perfect for what I see myself doing. The city's not too big and has lots of green spaces, plus being by the lake is terrific. And for a boy from the hills of Tennessee, the mountains an hour's drive south are just like home."

Earl walked over and slapped Thomas on the back. "Well, that helps fix what started as a crappy day." He also noted that every nurse in the room nodded approvingly. "And you evidently got the vote that really counts."

Susanne leaned over and whispered, "Now go home. Tell Janet that you're a gift from all of us."

He grinned. "Hey, take it easy, or I'll think you want to get rid of me."

"Perceptive," Susanne said as she headed into the medication cupboard.

On his way past triage he winked and said, "Kicked out of my own department, J.S. What do you think of that?"

He expected her usual playful response. Instead she started and looked at him as if she hadn't caught what he'd said. In fact, above the mask, she was a little pale. "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine, Dr. G."

"Sure?"

"Of course." She straightened in her chair. "Hey, I'm a triage nurse. Who should know better than me if I'm all right?"

"Of course." He let her be, but on his way to the elevators, he couldn't help but think he should have checked her out more carefully.

Carriers.

The possibility set his stomach churning in high gear.

7:25 a.m.

Intensive care swarmed with its usual rush of morning activities. Patients here were an eclectic enough group with such a variety of multiple problems that they attracted consults from just about every type of specialist in existence. Cardiologists, neurologists, immunologists, oncologists, internists- they all huddled in small groups at the end of one bed after another and took turns pronouncing on the state of the particular system where their expertise lay. Mercifully many recipients of this attention were too sedated to hear or care. But the sentient ones wore puzzled expressions as sage-looking professors introduced themselves, then proceeded to discuss hearts, brains, white cell responses, tumors, and metabolic abnormalities as if these were entities to be considered on their own, objects of interest that happened to be located in the body of whoever occupied the cubicle. True professionals, they at least attempted to mask their glee at each discovery, managing to be no more noisy than excited shoppers at a mall.

Earl ignored them all and walked directly to the nursing station. He came up behind Stewart Deloram, who sat rummaging through a lost-and-found drawer. "Anybody see my goddamned keys? I seem to have lost them again."

Every nurse within hearing distance rolled her eyes toward the ceiling. Earl heard at least three of them mutter something about the need for idiot strings. The guy could keep track of every molecule in a patient's biochemistry, but personal belongings were another matter.

Stewart turned, caught sight of him, and jumped to his feet. "Earl! I intended to come and see you." He blurted out the words with an urgent sincerity that sounded odd coming from him.