The Conspiracy Club
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When his passionate romance with nurse Jocelyn Banks is cut short by her kidnapping and brutal murder, young psychologist Jeremy Carrier is left emotionally devastated, haunted by his lover’s grisly demise–and eyed warily by police still seeking a prime suspect in the slaying. To escape the pain, he buries himself in his work at City Central Hospital–only to be drawn deeper into a walking nightmare when more women are murdered in the same gruesome fashion as Jocelyn. As the suspicion surrounding Jeremy intensifies, the only way for him to prove his innocence and put his torment to rest is to follow the deadly trail of a modern-day Jack the Ripper.
corner. He took Arthur’s coat, then turned to Jeremy. “This is Dr. Carrier, Laurent.” “Pleased to meet you, Doctor.” Laurent extended his hand, and Jeremy shook what felt like a knob of knurled oak. “The others are here,” Laurent told Arthur. His suit, like Arthur’s, was beautifully cut but of another era. Blue-black gabardine, over a white-on-white shirt. The shirt’s collar was fastened by a gold pin. His tie was true black satin. Tiny, narrow feet were encased in cap-tipped black bluchers so
team of authors, physicians, and biomedical engineers. Americans, working at a West Coast university hospital. Construction of a bladder flap . . . endoscopic kittner . . . dissection of the broad ligaments. Jeremy slipped the article back in the envelope, walked over to the Psychiatry Department, and asked Laura, the secretary who disbursed the mail if she had any idea who had delivered the envelope. “It all comes in a batch from the mail room, Dr. Carrier.” Laura was barely twenty, just out
one eye. “Anyway, I’d best be finishing up. Though to tell you the truth, I don’t know why I’m cleaning up, they’re going to tear it down anyway.” She returned to the broom, stepped daintily to another corner, and began striking the floor, using broad, hard strokes. Striking progressively harder. Whoosh whoosh. Flogging the linoleum floors. Jeremy left her and stepped out into the punishing rain. 30 He made it back to the hospital looking like a half-drowned dog. Used a rear exit, never
and stood at the curb, in front of a long stretch of chain-link fence. She waited, bobbed up and down on needle heels. When the anonymous gray-blue Buick came to a halt, she tossed her hair. 43 The prostitute got into Dirgrove’s car, and Jeremy sat watching, a hundred feet up, his lights off. Same for his engine; no exhaust or noise gave him away. Between him and the Buick were two parked cars. He opened his window, stuck his head out a bit to get a better view. Cold air seared his lungs.
face mask. Earphones from a Walkman transmitted something into his head. Music, from the looks of it. Graves swayed in time. A syncopated beat. A jolly beat. Graves was smiling faintly, mustache tilting upward like the wings of a butterfly. Memories of Brazil? A pleasant-looking man. Innocuous. Scholarly—reading glasses pushed low on his nose. He didn’t see Jeremy. Too busy concentrating on the woman stretched out before him on a table. Not a surgical table, just a wide, slab door resting on