ADRENALINE: New 2013 edition (33 page)

Doug regained consciousness slowly. He imagined he was lying on the beach in Hawaii, the surf pounding in his ears. But the roaring gradually coalesced to a hiss different from the ocean, and his head throbbed miserably. His body seemed to be pinned down by some unseen force, gravity perhaps, as if he had awoken on the surface of Jupiter. The air was very thick, and he had tremendous air hunger.

Doug opened his eyes. The sight of the workroom jolted his memory back into place.
God, I’m alive!
Amazing! The Tensilon and the oxygen must have done the trick. He tried to leap up from the floor, but was horrified to discover that his muscles were still flaccid lumps. Slight twitching rippled down his arms and legs, but nothing actually moved. Fear quickly returned. His breathing was steadily improving, but he knew he was extremely vulnerable. Although he could feel strength seeping back into his frozen limbs second by second, he guessed he probably needed at least ten more minutes to have any respectable power. He wondered
who was behind all of this. In answer to his question, he heard the OR automatic door open and loud, determined footsteps echo off the floor. Someone had undoubtedly returned to finish their business. The footsteps receded—probably down the main OR complex hallway. OR doors opened and slammed shut. The menacing footsteps grew louder.

Doug could now move his arms and legs, but still couldn’t get up.
Shit, what can I do?
He scanned the room, desperate for ideas. Doug decided his only hope was to play possum as long as he could and hope he would be strong enough to defend himself when the time came.

The footsteps were on top of him now. With his eyes shut, Doug ceased breathing for the second time within fifteen minutes—this time voluntarily. He strained with all his remaining senses to figure out what was going on.

An unmistakable hulking presence, complete with offensive body odor and stale cologne, knelt down beside him. Raskin! That’s Raskin!

Drawers behind him opened and slammed shut. When he felt the rubber tourniquet being roughly applied to his arm, panic again threatened. What horrible substance would he be exposed to now? Surely something lethal—potassium, epinephrine, fentanyl, morphine, cocaine? Wasn’t one poisoning enough for a day? He squelched further panicky thoughts and concentrated hard.

Gotta wait ’til the last possible second. Surprise and delay are my only hope. Doug knew he had no way to gauge his recovery until he actually moved, and he couldn’t risk that yet. He hoped it would be enough. Then he felt the needle pierce his skin.

Doug jerked his arm violently away from the needle. He ignored the sharp, stabbing pain as the needle ripped a gash in his arm. Simultaneously, he screamed as loudly as he could—mostly for the shock effect it would have on Raskin, who no doubt thought he was dealing with a corpse. He also hoped someone might hear.

Raskin, looking like he had seen a ghost, recoiled in horror, his eyes bugging wide. Doug propelled himself backwards a few feet. He noted he was still woefully weak. Raskin recovered quickly and pounced on Doug, all two-hundred-and-sixty pounds pinning him to the floor. His meaty hands rapidly encircled Doug’s neck and squeezed with tremendous force. Doug thrashed about with his legs and punched wildly, but the blows carried no real force and Raskin ignored them. Raskin’s face turned dark red, his facial muscles locked in strain. Several ragged cut marks running across his left cheek oozed blood; it looked like he had been clawed recently. But his eyes told the real story; sanity was no longer a major player.

Doug became frantic; he realized he would not regain his strength in time. He only had about a minute of consciousness remaining before he sank into the abyss—this time for good; no clever pharmacology would pull him back.
It’s over! Beaten
. Doug’s feeling of failure was complete. He felt he almost deserved his fate.

“Say hello to Carlucci for me!” Raskin said, as he throttled him harder. “His crash was no accident, by the way.” He laughed and added, “I slipped him a mickey. He fell for it, same as you.”

Mike! He’s talking about Mike! He didn’t deserve his fate! The thought of this slimy bastard murdering Mike went through Doug’s brain like a lightening bolt, illuminating the deeper recesses of his mind.

Inside every person there is an irreducible core; when the chaff of civilized nature and nicety are burned away, one finds out what one is really made of. Doug discovered his sphere of titanium steel buried down deep. He had never seen it clearly before, only gotten vague hints of its presence once or twice when his back was against the wall. Perhaps the frost, coating his deepest feelings, had obscured his view. But he had never been pushed this far or this hard. Now his extremity demanded more. His being shrank
to embrace the sphere and no further. He drew strength from his inner self and from sources beyond.

It was time to take a stand. Doug still couldn’t break Raskin’s death grip, but even though it was nearly impossible, he arched his back for all he was worth. Every muscle in his body strained prodigiously and his neck cords felt like they would snap any second. He managed to squirm six inches to his left. And again another six inches.

Doug was now just able to reach the cabinet where the Suprane was stored; he opened the door with his outstretched left hand. If he could just reach a bottle or two. Suprane was one of the newest anesthetic agents that had a very rapid induction and emergence time. A small amount of Suprane vapor inhaled would cause rapid loss of consciousness. The only problem was that Suprane existed as a liquid, not a vapor at room temperature. To vaporize the liquid, one needed either a higher temperature or a larger surface area to serve as a wick. Doug knew of both.

With his strength approaching fifty percent and with his air hunger becoming unbearable, Doug frantically waved his hand inside the cabinet, searching. Raskin had a smug smile on his face. If Raskin would just ignore his flailing hand for a little bit longer. Finally, Doug connected with something solid. Two or three Suprane bottles smashed against each other and shattered. A sharp glass edge of one of the broken bottles gouged deeply into the palm of his hand. Suprane spilled out onto his cut hand and burned tremendously. Doug ignored the pain. He quickly withdrew his arm, his hand dripping with blood and Suprane, and smeared the mix all over Raskin’s beard.

Raskin shrieked and sucked in a gigantic breath—and then promptly passed out. The air rushing through his beard must’ve vaporized enough Suprane, because he lost consciousness within seconds. He slumped on top of Doug, his hands releasing their death grip. Doug’s head spun from a combination of not enough oxygen and too much Suprane. He pushed the limp
but massive body of Raskin off him and wobbled to his feet. He stood hunched over with his hands on his knees and drew in several more deep breaths. Ah, sweet air—it felt so good to breathe normally. He staggered to the doorway, thinking he would call for help.

Raskin rammed him with a flying tackle that knocked the wind out of him and sent them both sprawling out into the hallway. Raskin had regained consciousness almost as fast as he had lost it. The manufacturers of Suprane would have been proud.

Doug’s head hit the floor, opening up a gash above his right eye. His anger knew no bounds; it ignited and burned through his brain, like rocket fuel fed by liquid oxygen.

He ignored Raskin’s bulk on top of him again.

He ignored his heaving chest, convulsing to retrieve air into his lungs.

The blaze inside his skull permitted only one thought—revenge.

This time, he vowed, the fight would be different. The playing field was level now, even though Raskin outweighed him by seventy pounds. Doug had all his strength back and then some. Energized by his hatred, fueled by his anger, he shrugged Raskin’s body off and freed himself from the clutching hands. They both clambered to their feet, faced each other, and began circling.

“Why’d you kill him, you bastard?” Doug shouted, breathing hard. Blood flowed freely into his right eye causing him to blink.

“I didn’t—that trucker did.” Raskin was wheezing loudly, but drew his fists up in a protective boxer’s stance. “I only gave him something to help him sleep.”

Doug stopped circling for a moment, stood up straight, and stared at Raskin; all the pieces of the puzzle slammed into place.
Mike and Rusty were right—should’ve listened to them
. Raskin took advantage of Doug’s hesitation and landed several solid jabs to his chest. Doug rocked back on his feet to help absorb the blows. “You killed him because he was onto you—you sabotaged Mike’s case and killed his patient, too!” Doug shouted.

Raskin sneered back at him. “I didn’t kill that fat, Polish S.O.B. Just because you guys couldn’t deal with a little V-tach—it’s not my fault.”

Doug resumed his crouch and looked for an opening. He yearned to smash Raskin’s smirking face. “You put epi in my syringes too, didn’t you? And screwed up Ken’s vaporizers!”

“Of course I did! I had no choice. I wasn’t about to lose my job to the likes of you.”

“You sick bastard.” So that’s what this was all about. Doug shook his head in disgust.

“You’re the one who’s sick,” Raskin fired back. “The whole hospital knows about you and that sleazy SICU bitch—how you get a fucking hard-on every time she walks in the room.”

Doug tasted his own blood and then feinted to the left. Raskin appeared confused by Doug’s quickness and reacted slowly. Doug delivered several piston-like right crosses and a crushing left hook to his head, knocking Raskin to the floor senseless. “What’s wrong, Joe? Not so much fun fighting someone who’s not paralyzed?”

Doug straddled him, wrapped his hands around his neck, and squeezed with all his might. Raskin made sputtering sounds as he tried to say something, his eyes wide with panic. Doug wasn’t interested in hearing anymore. “Payback is hell, Joe!”

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

“Hold it right there, Landry!” boomed the deep baritone of Bryan Marshall, brandishing a jet-black nine millimeter Walther pistol in his gloved hand. “Let him go!” Marshall shouted. Marshall was positioned fifteen feet down the hallway, near the cysto room, gun trained at Doug. Too far to rush him.

Doug released his stranglehold on Raskin’s bull neck and stood up slowly. Raskin rolled to his side, sputtered, coughed and took in several ragged breaths. He rubbed his neck vigorously, but could not erase the reddened imprints left by Doug’s hands.

“Should’ve figured you’d be involved in this Marshall,” Doug said, trying to conceal his shock. He had thought the puzzle had been complete. Marshall was greedy, no question about it, but Doug didn’t see him involved in sabotage and murder to keep his job. Marshall, for all his faults, was a competent anesthesiologist. He was still missing some critical link between these two.

“For Chrissakes, Bryan, shoot him!” croaked Raskin hoarsely from the floor.

“Not so fast, Joe. You had your chance, and you screwed up. I’ll take care of things
my
way now.” Marshall closed the distance to about ten feet, just across from the door to cysto. “We need to ask Dr. Landry, here, a couple of questions first.”

“I say shoot first, ask questions later.” Raskin pulled himself to his knees with difficulty, still trying to catch his breath. His green scrub shirt was sweat soaked under the arms and down the front; Doug could smell him. Dried blood—Doug’s blood—was still crusted on his beard. “He almost fucking killed me!”

Marshall was the only one of the three who seemed calm; as if he were at a business meeting. “Now, Landry, why don’t you tell us what you know,” he ordered in schoolmarm manner as he adjusted his glasses.

“Go fuck yourself, Marshall!” Doug shot back and wiped blood from his eye. His left hand ached miserably where the Suprane bottle had cut it.

“Tsk, tsk, that won’t do,” Marshall said tauntingly. “You can do better than that. A clever man like you.” Then without a trace of humor, his eyes suddenly cold, he asked, “How did you figure it out? Who else knows?” He raised his arm, cocked the gun and aimed it at Doug’s chest.

Doug was rattled by the gun, his thoughts scrambled, but he was determined to keep Marshall talking—buy any time he could to come up with a plan. But what should he say?

“So, you knew about the sabotaged cases, Marshall?” Doug practically shouted, hoping the increased volume would mask the fear in his voice. Marshall didn’t answer, but stared back, poker-faced.

“Of course he knew,” Raskin said. “It was his idea!”

Marshall eyed Raskin with surprise, eyebrows raised. Doug glanced over at Raskin.

“It doesn’t matter if he knows now,” Raskin said as he climbed to his feet. “He’ll be joining his friend, Carlucci, soon enough.”

Doug turned to face the gun again. “Why in God’s name, Marshall? Those were innocent people.”

“You fool! We weren’t trying to kill anyone. Raskin may have been a little overzealous with the adrenaline dose.”

Raskin scowled briefly at Marshall.

“But why, Marshall?” Doug asked, although he was pretty sure he already knew the answer. “You still haven’t given me a reason.”