Spark by John Lutz Page B

even out.”
    “If the figures are accurate and not a fluke,” Carver said, “could you think of any possible explanation?”
    The doctor made a steeple with his manicured pink fingers and smiled. “Could you?”
    “Something in the water, maybe,” Carver said.
    The pink steeple contracted and expanded as Dr. Wynn flexed his fingers. “You’re joking, but that sort of thing actually happens. So for the record, the Solartown water supply is periodically checked, carefully monitored.” He laced his fingers and lowered his hands to the desk, gazing at Carver with a fresh awareness. “Are you suggesting the presence of a mass murderer in Solartown?”
    “That sort of thing actually happens, like something in the water,” Carver said. “But I’m not suggesting anything.”
    “I suppose if that kind of aberration were present, we here at the medical center would be in a position to see signs of it. As far as I know, there are no such signs.”
    “Except for the statistics I just quoted.”
    “I can promise you, Mr. Carver, I’ll personally check your numbers, and if they’re accurate I’ll do further research to confirm they can be dismissed as a meaningless statistical blip. Numbers occasionally lie. Despite the polls, Truman defeated Dewey for the presidency.”
    “Only once,” Carver said.
    “In the year the Cleveland Indians uncharacteristically won the World Series,” Dr. Wynn pointed out.
    He had Carver there.
    Carver thanked the doctor for his time, stood up, then limped to the door. As soon as his hand touched the knob, the door swung open, held by the smiling beauty who’d escorted him into the office. The lucky name tag on her left breast said she was Monica Gorham, R.N.
    “I’ll show you out, Mr. Carver,” she said in a voice suitable for 900 numbers.
    This time she walked beside him in the wide hall.
    “Did your talk with Dr. Wynn go well?” she asked.
    “Well enough.”
    “I suppose you wanted to ask him about Jerome Evans.”
    “What makes you think so?” Carver asked.
    “You were here yesterday, making inquiries. It just seemed natural you’d want to see Dr. Wynn. I hope he reassured you.”
    “He’s a reassuring sort,” Carver said noncommittally.
    “He’s a superb administrator,” Nurse Gorham said.
    “What do you do here?” Carver asked.
    “My title is executive director of nursing.”
    “Head nurse?”
    She smiled. “Sometimes much more than that.”
    It was odd that the executive director of nursing had ushered him into Wynn’s office in the manner of a secretary. Maybe she’d wanted to get a close look at Carver, size him up.
    They’d reached the elevator. Carver punched the DOWN button with the tip of his cane and said, “Do you have any personal opinions about Jerome Evans, Nurse Gorham?”
    “I wouldn’t be in a position to form opinions,” she said. “I can tell you this, though: Mrs. Evans isn’t the first widow to get suspicious in her grief. Even though I wasn’t in the O.R. at the time, I know that no one shot or stabbed her husband. This isn’t a big-city trauma center, Mr. Carver. We deal with old people, and they die at a faster rate than the young. And very often they go swiftly and unexpectedly, like Jerome Evans.”
    “Exactly like?”
    “Exactly.”
    A young, heavyset woman in a nurse’s uniform was ambling down the hall. She saw Nurse Gorham and immediately picked up her pace. For an instant the kind of hate that can only be generated by fear was in her eyes.
    Carver waited until the young nurse had hurried past.
    “What about Maude Crane?” he asked.
    Nurse Gorham seemed puzzled. “It’s a name I don’t know.”
    “It was on the news. She’s a Solartown resident who committed suicide the other day.”
    “I don’t have time to keep up with the news, Mr. Carver.”
    “Maude and Jerome Evans were not-so-secret lovers.”
    She began to answer, but the elevator arrived and he thanked her and limped inside, leaving her standing