The Inquisitor (37 page)

And began to close in.

Monday, July 21, 7:00 a.m.

Emergency Department, St. Paul's Hospital

"Nothing happened, you know," Michael said. He'd lowered his voice to a whisper.

"Nothing happened where?" Earl asked.

They were suiting up with the new Stryker outfits that had been delivered to ER over the weekend, accompanied by the long-expected directive that all critical care areas would have a resuscitation team dressed in them at all times. It was like stepping into a one-piece snowsuit made of yellow vinyl, and they were worn over the normal protective wear.

Earl felt hot even before he zipped it up.

"You know!" Michael said, his voice lower, but more insistent. "That business with the Baxter widow. I just met her for drinks, and we talked."

Earl really didn't want to hear this now. He'd just received word that six patients in a nursing home near Niagara Falls had come down with pneumonia over the weekend and, showing signs of acute respiratory distress, were en route to St. Paul's by ambulance. Provisional diagnosis: suspected SARS.

"Look, Michael, I was way out of line-"

"No, you weren't." He leaned his head closer as he pulled a second set of gloves over the first, snapping their cuffs over the sleeves of his new outfit. "I'd been quarreling with Donna, and here was a woman who didn't cringe when I touched her, even if it was just holding hands. But after you gave me shit…" He shrugged, his temples flushed pink above the mask.

Earl stopped struggling with his own gear and laid a hand on his arm. "Hey, I'm your friend and a buttinsky kind of guy. You had me worried."

"And Jimmy told me you'd talked-"

Earl silenced him with a glare. "That we never speak about, Michael, not now, not ever. You live with what you did there. I live with letting it slide. The rest died with Biggs. Understood?"

The man stared at him, his eyes melting into dark, melancholic pools, then nodded.

"How are you and Donna now?" Earl asked, partly to know, partly to snatch him away from such dangerous terrain.

"Better."

"Really?"

"Yeah. Janet's near miss really shook her up. I think Donna admitted to herself there were bigger dangers in the world than SARS, and decided that the idea we could run from them was crazy." He pulled the hood over his head. "Besides, she figures now that we're wearing these, I'll be safer. Nobody's caught SARS in one." His voice, heavily muffled by the Plexiglas mask, barely carried the foot of space between them.

Not so far they haven't, Earl thought, donning his own hood and immediately feeling stifled in the closed environment. He snapped on the portable air supply, and a cool flow into the interior of the helmet allowed him to breathe more easily. But the heaviness of the material cramped his movements and left him feeling claustrophobic.

They walked into the resus room, where Susanne and two of her nurses waited in similar garb. They would receive all the patients here, and be the only ones to care for them.

"We look like the cast from Star Trek," Earl said, raising his voice loud enough for the others to hear. They all looked so grim, he figured somebody had better lighten the mood.

"You've got more hair than William Shatner," Susanne cracked, and everyone's eyes creased at the corners, pupils sparkling in the gloom behind the transparent faceplates.

A distant rise and fall of approaching sirens tweaked Earl's usual surge of adrenaline at the sound, and the pit of his stomach tightened a notch. But today the familiar electricity failed to clear his head and charge up his clinical reflexes. Instead, he felt gripped with a growing sense of helplessness.

How long would they have to work like this?

Days? Weeks? Forever?

Neither would SARS be the last microorganism to emerge without warning, ready to take on the human species, outsmart science, and spread beyond their control.

The shrill wail of the vehicles swelled louder, descending on St. Paul's like an incoming swarm.

Surrendering to his worst fears, he thought of Janet with Ryan upstairs, of Brendan waiting for him at home. Having always believed that those dearest to him enjoyed an advantage against disease with his medical knowledge so close at hand, he felt the assumptions of what he or any doctor could protect them from shift once and for all. Even as he stood in the middle of ER, the stage where he'd spent a lifetime performing his special skills that could triumph over death, the foundations of his profession crumbled a little.

But he'd be damned if he'd cut and run.

Couldn't do it if he tried.

Didn't have a back-down gear in his psyche.

And if he stood fast, so would those around him, not just here in emergency, but throughout the entire hospital. His sense of domain extended to all of St. Paul's now, and he intended to exert his influence over every inch of it. Hurst could go to hell.

Through the frosted windows of the resus room he saw a blur of large yellow shapes as the ambulances arrived.

The accompanying noises permeated his hood- engines died, vehicle doors snapped open, people exchanged curt orders as multiple stretcher carriages were clicked into extension- but the sounds came across much duller than usual.

"Okay, everyone, it's show time," Earl shouted, frustrated by how confined his own voice sounded. "Whatever we do for their breathing, let's also talk it up and soothe their souls. These outfits might smother speech, and those men and women may not be able to see our faces or feel the warmth of our hands. But don't for a second let a single one forget it's human beings taking care of them, not some damned robots."

Two attendants ran through the door with the first of the stretchers. On it lay a pale, elderly woman who wore an oxygen mask, chest heaving as she fought for breath. Her thin gray face elongated in shock at the sight of Earl and his team.

This wouldn't be easy, he thought.

While
The Inquisitor
is a work of fiction, the men and women who comfort the sick and dying as hospital chaplains are very real. As Jimmy might say, it's not about religion, just one human's sympathy for another's fear and pain. To the good ones, and you know who you are, I say thank you.

Peter Clement is a physician who served as chief of Emergency in a major metropolitan teaching hospital, as well as the chief of Family Medicine, and has practiced as an M.D. for twenty-eight years. He has written the Earl Garnet medical thriller series, LETHAL PRACTICE, DEATH ROUNDS, and THE PROCEDURE. In the book MUTANT and its sequel, CRITICAL CONDITION, he introduced readers to a pair of new characters, Richard Steele, a widowed ER doctor trying to cope with his job while raising a young teenage son, and Kathleen Sullivan, a world renowned geneticist, brilliant with genes. His latest book, MORTAL REMAINS, to be released in September, 2003, is again an Earl Garnet novel.

In all his books, Clement uses his insider's take on medicine and science to explore the fault lines along which things go wrong, and to provide vivid, gripping depictions of hospital life. The reader gets to experience what it is like to be inside an ER physician's head, to know first hand the rush of adrenaline, to experience the doubts, fears, and uncertainties that are the reality behind the professional exterior.

Clement is currently on an indefinite sabbatical to write full time. He lives with his wife, who is also a physician, and their two children.