Stewart immediately relaxed. He sank back in his chair, his high color returning the rest of the way toward normal, and cocked a bushy eyebrow as if Earl were the crazy one now. "I meant only that the idea of Wyatt recruiting patients and nurses to discredit me didn't make sense. But don't think he wouldn't sabotage another researcher's work, even outside his field. That hothead's so bitter about losing the limelight, he can't stand to see anybody else step into it." Stewart raised his head a little, as if posing for a profile shot. "Especially when that person is as controversial as I am."

4:00 p.m.

All researchers were crazy.

Every one of them secretly believed that his or her work in whatever little corner of the scientific world, however obscure, deserved a Nobel prize. Lifelong feuds, suits, countersuits, allegations of plagiarism, fraud, and the theft of data, suicides, murders- all committed over impugned reputations. The high drama of behind-the-scenes passions remained legend, and this in a profession supposedly dedicated to the cool practice of objective reason.

And Stewart carried that fire in spades, Earl thought, steaming into the elevator. He just wished he could keep St. Paul's free of it.

Some VP, medicals, he knew, spent half their workweek pulling prima donnas from each other's throat. Stewart's wacky story hadn't made sense, but if it had even a speck of truth to it, he'd better check it out and nip in the bud whatever was developing between Stewart and Wyatt. One thing was for certain- Stewart had been hiding something. Earl felt that in his bones.

The ride to the eighth floor took five minutes this time. Small groups of masked patients dressed in robes and pushing their portable IV stands tottered off at each stop, insisting loudly to each other that they should file a complaint about all the waiting they'd had to do in physio that afternoon. He thought nothing of it until he remembered that part of his new position meant he'd be the one who would ultimately answer to them.

Monica Yablonsky stiffened as he approached her desk, and she started to fidget with her glasses again.

"Mrs. Yablonsky, I want to see that list you were to prepare for me, the one Dr. Deloram used when he came here to interview patients who'd reported-"

"I know the one you mean, Dr. Garnet." She drew herself into a parade square stance, erect, as if ready for inspection. "Except I'm afraid it won't do you much good."

"Why?"

Her eyes avoided his. "There were only five names to begin with."

"Then I'll talk to those five."

"But you can't."

"And why not?"

"Three of them already died. The other two are comatose."

4:25 p.m.

Medical Records hadn't picked up the files of the deceased to store them in the archives yet, so he'd looked at them on the spot.

Two of the dead had been DNRs, not expected to survive much longer. The third had rallied last week and had been slated to go home for a few days. A code had been called for her. None of the clinical notes for any of them indicated a thing out of the ordinary in their deaths, except that all three had been discovered pulseless and not breathing just before dawn.

As for the two people in a coma, it took little more than a cursory glance at their recent lab results to see they'd been in bad shape to begin with, both having started the slide toward metabolic meltdown that often accompanies cancer patients in decline. Nobody found it unusual that they couldn't be roused as the nurses passed out breakfast trays that morning.

He returned the dossiers to Yablonsky's care without comment. She'd hovered about him as he'd glanced through them, appearing as uneasy about him going over the five cases as she had with his questioning her about Elizabeth Matthews's death. Let her sweat, he thought, figuring it might trip her up if she had something to hide. Because if his instincts and math were right, somebody sure did.

"The nurses who reported the near-death experiences- I'd like a list of their names," he told her.

She swallowed. "That might take a few days."

"I want it in twenty-four hours."

He rode to the ground floor at the back of the elevator, scowling. No physician liked coincidences, especially when it came to explaining matters of life and death. People died when and where they did for specific reasons. Failure to know those reasons meant he'd missed something until proven otherwise. Yet here he had five patients able to talk with Stewart Deloram on Friday who were unable to talk to anyone by Monday.

Unusual? Maybe not, he tried to tell himself, all at once following a talent he'd honed to a fine edge over the years: to play devil's advocate with his instincts. People died every day on a terminal ward. And those expected to pass on soon might have slipped into comas last night. Certainly the outcome for any of the five patients in question, taken individually, wouldn't raise suspicions. Natural causes could explain each one. Hell, if he tried to make a case otherwise, Wyatt could accuse him of dreaming up conspiracy theories to divert attention away from the Matthews inquiry. Still…

He went directly to his office and sat down at his computer. Using his newfound powers as VP, medical, he entered the codes that let him access the records of all departments. He pulled up Palliative Care, intending to see how many other people had died up there overnight and whether the three deaths were part of a larger than usual number. Not that that would mean much in itself. Some days were simply bloodier than others. Nevertheless, it would be interesting to know.

As a quick way to find out, he looked up discharges for Palliative Care this morning. There were six.

Was that a lot? He had no idea. He clicked up the average number for other mornings over the last few months and got 2.7.

"So there were three-point-four more bodies than usual," he muttered, impatient with how absurd statistics could seem at times. He also bet there were other days when the count would be just as high, and sure enough, when he requested a tally, he found that at least a dozen times in the last twelve weeks the morning dead had numbered six or more.

Yet three deaths and two patients slipping into a coma continued to disturb him because of the odds.

If he'd done the multiplication right, out of the hundred patients in palliative care, the chances that this would happen to the five Stewart talked to, all other things being equal, were one in nine trillion.

Which meant someone must have had a hand in their outcome.

But of course all things were never equal with a ward full of cancer patients. These five might have been closer to death than Wyatt thought, and maybe Stewart, in his perpetual readiness to take affront, had been wrong about their near-death accounts being bogus. They could have actually experienced what they reported because each of them really was about to die, and their deterioration was only nature taking its course.

In terms of probability that made far more sense than scenarios suggesting foul Play-He began to feel sheepish about his initial reaction. Perhaps he'd let his imagination get the better of him. Having arrived on the floor convinced that Stewart had been hiding something, and unclear what Wyatt might be up to, if anything, he'd failed to coolly consider all the possibilities. What a dumb-ass medical-student move. He didn't usually jump to conclusions like that. Of course, his already being suspicious of Yablonsky didn't help matters any, having primed him to think the worst.

But he damn well would insist that Stewart level with him about what exactly he'd thought was bogus when he talked with the five patients. And if even a hint turned up that Wyatt had tried to undermine Stewart's or any other researcher's credibility, he'd nail his hide. Whoa, there he went, leaping ahead of himself again. Better yank his urge to be in everybody's business back under control. Otherwise there'd be no end to the nastiness he might find. He'd taken the position of VP, medical to make his job of running ER easier, not to replace it with chasing down hospital shenanigans full-time.