Free The Conspiracy Club by Jonathan Kellerman

nine.”
    “I see . . . how about Saturday, then? I’m not back on until Sunday morning.”
    “Okay,” said Jeremy. “I’ll call you.”
    “Great.”
     
     
    Jeremy saw his patients and filled the rest of the day with futile attempts at writing. Two hours were wasted in the hospital library, running searches of behavioral and medical databases, as he looked for backup articles he knew didn’t exist. Rationalizing his folly by telling himself that scientific research moved at a quirky pace, you could wake up one day and find out everything you’d believed in was wrong. But the facts hadn’t altered in six months: If he wanted to produce a book — even a chapter — he’d have to go it alone.
    When he returned to his office it was 8:40 P.M. , and his box was stuffed with mail. He sifted through it, found a handwritten note in the middle of the stack: the same black cursive on blue paper.
     
Dr. C:

It’s best if I drive tonight.

A.C.
     
    He phoned Arthur’s office, got no answer, tramped over to the main building and down to the basement, where the path lab was housed, found the entire department locked up, halls dim and silent, but for the mechanical whine of arthritic elevators.
    A few doors down, the morgue was closed as well. Arthur had left. Had the old man forgotten?
    Jeremy climbed the stairs to the ground floor, entered the cafeteria, and poured the day’s eighth free cup of coffee. He sat, drinking slowly, in the company of worried families, sleepy interns, jaded orderlies.
    When he returned to his office, Arthur was waiting outside his door, dressed in a black, hooded slicker so long it nearly reached galosh-encased shoes. Puddles spread beneath rubber soles. The slicker was beaded with rain, and Arthur’s nose was moist. The old man had left the hospital and returned.
    The hood covered Arthur’s face from eyebrow to lower lip. A few white beard hairs straggled above the latex seam, but the end result was near-total concealment.
    How fitting for a man of his profession,
thought Jeremy.
The Grim Reaper.
    “Cheers,” Arthur said. “We’ve got ourselves a torrential situation. I do hope you’ve come protected.”
    Jeremy collected his briefcase and his trench coat. Arthur regarded the wrinkled, khaki garment with what might have passed for parental concern.
    “Hmm,” he said.
    “It’ll do,” said Jeremy.
    “I suppose it will have to. You don’t object to my driving, do you? Under the best of circumstances our destination’s a bit out of the way. Tonight . . .” Arthur shrugged, the plastic hood rattled, rain sprayed.
    The Reaper goes fishing,
thought Jeremy.
    Then:
What would he use for bait?
     
     
    The interior of Arthur’s Lincoln was warm and sweet-smelling, upholstered in a dove gray felt that Jeremy had only seen in much older cars. The engine started up with a purr, and Arthur backed out smoothly. Once they were out of the lot, Arthur sat up straight, big hands resting lightly on the wheel, eyes shifting from windshield to rearview, glancing at both side mirrors, then back on the road.
    Alert, but that gave Jeremy meager comfort. The storm had reduced visibility to a few yards. As far as he could tell, Arthur was driving blind.
    The old man aimed the Lincoln downtown but turned left just short of the high, distant twinkles that meant skyscrapers. Jeremy tried to follow Arthur’s route but quickly lost it.
    East, north, east again. Then a series of brief turns that addled Jeremy completely.
    Arthur hummed as he drove.
    When taillights flickered up ahead, the old man seemed to use them as navigational aids. When darkness dominated, and the windshield was a matte black rectangle, he seemed equally at ease.
    Raindrops pelted the Lincoln’s roof, a frantic steel drum concert. Arthur seemed unmindful, kept humming. Relaxed — more than that,
enjoying
the impossible conditions. As if the Lincoln was set on a track and the drive was no more daunting than a bumper-car circuit.
    Jeremy