Killerwatt (23 page)

It was nearly midnight when Rhetta laid her head
against the padded leather headrest on the passenger seat of the highway patrol
car.

“I really appreciate the ride, Sergeant,” she said
as the Crown Victoria cruised smoothly up the ramp to the northbound interstate
toward Cape. The ride to I-55 had taken just five minutes from Benton, the
county seat where the sheriff’s office was located. And where she spent the
last three hours being questioned.

“You’ve had quite a day, Mrs. McCarter.” Meade
adjusted the air conditioning controls.

Massive power failures, shootout
with terrorists and losing Cami. Can we say understatement?

*
* *

At
one point during her questioning, Rhetta jumped up and boogied when she heard a
sheriff’s radio bulletin announcing that power was gradually being restored in
parts of the city of Cape Girardeau.

“Yes!” She whooped and fist pumped the air. Although
her ankle still hurt, she managed victory dancing a circle, her borrowed tennis
shoes slapping the linoleum noisily. She plopped back down when two officers
hustled toward her.

She held her palms up. “It’s all good, officers.
Everything’s cool.” Her stupid grin must have made them doubt her sanity even
more than any prior assessment they may have made.

After arguments between the deputies and the highway
patrol via radio and telephone, Sergeant Meade had finally taken over
questioning her. The Scott County deputies argued for at least a half hour that
they had jurisdiction before a phone call from a being of higher rank convinced
Dawg and Fife to back off and let the highway patrol investigate.

It took a little over two hours more for Rhetta to
tell Meade the whole story. He wrote everything down in longhand in a hardbound
black notebook. When Rhetta took a break to stand and stretch her aching
muscles, Meade snapped the notebook closed. “Let’s get you home, Mrs. McCarter.
We’ll have a few more questions, and a final statement for you to sign. That’s
all for now.”

Leading the way through the crowded sheriff’s office
to the side of the brick building, Meade held the door open for Rhetta. The
steel door was the kind that could only be opened from the inside. Like anyone
outside would want to break into the sheriff’s office. Passing by the table
where the handcuffs lay, Rhetta glanced at them and rubbed her wrists,
remembering how they felt.

The night air felt pleasantly cool following the hot
and humid afternoon. Above them, the sky sparkled with celestial jewelry. A
star winked at her and Rhetta grinned.
Okay, Mama, I know, I did good
.

*
* *

“I
understand that Mr. Zelinski was taken to St. Mark’s Hospital,” Sergeant Meade
said as they sped along I-55 north toward Cape. “Report is that he’s doing
fine, although his leg is broken, and he’s suffering some shock. I’m sure he’ll
be in the hospital a few days.”

Rhetta sat forward. “Instead of taking me home, can
you drop me at St. Mark’s? I know I look like hell, but I really need to see my
husband.” She rubbed her still tender shoulder. “And I have to see Woody, too.”

“Will you be able to get home? If you’ll pardon my
saying so, you look like you need to rest.”

That may have been what he said, but Rhetta felt
sure what he meant was, “You look like crap, and maybe you should go home first
and clean up.”

“I’ll call a friend,” Rhetta said. “She’ll come and
get me, and then take me home.”

Since her cell phone was also a victim of the fire,
she’d look up
Fast Lane
Muscle Cars
in the phone book in
Randolph’s room. Ricky would come get her. And also give her hell for letting
Cami burn up. On second thought, maybe she’d call a cab. On third thought, her
purse had also incinerated. She doubted if any cab driver would take an IOU.
She sighed. Calling Ricky won out.

She’d let Woody sleep and check on him tomorrow.

*
* *

There
was no sign of the earlier chaos on William Street. In fact, the main artery
was nearly deserted. Even late at night there was always traffic near the
interstate. Where was everybody?

“Cape Girardeau has an emergency curfew in place
until all the power is restored,” Meade said. She knew he hadn’t read her mind.
Perhaps her head swiveling prompted his comment.

When Meade eased the highway patrol car to a stop at
the hospital visitors’ entrance, Rhetta pointed to a dark SUV parked at the
curb. “That’s him,” she shouted. Before Meade could answer, Rhetta threw open
the passenger door, bolted from the patrol car and trotted as fast as possible
on her painful ankle to the hospital revolving door. It didn’t revolve. It was
locked down in night mode. Pounding on the glass, Rhetta shouted, “Let me in. I
have to see my husband.” No one manned the volunteer booth inside the dimly lit
entry foyer. No one responded to her pounding.

When she turned back to shout at Meade, he and his
car were gone.

Rhetta struck out across the lawn instead of
following the S-curved sidewalk around to the emergency room entrance located
on the opposite side of the building. At the curb sat a green SUV.

Her breath caught and fear clutched her heart in a
death grip. Was Randolph lying helpless in his hospital room? She had to get to
him.

As she approached the low hedge of monkey grass
separating the lawn from the paved driveway under the porte-cochère, the
sprinkler system sprang to life. She was drenched by the time she limped the
last ten feet to the door.

In vivid contrast to the closed, deserted main
lobby, the brightly lit emergency room overflowed with the sick and injured.
After making her way across the packed waiting room, Rhetta searched for a
doorway to access the stairs. Amidst strange looks and a few pointed fingers,
she maneuvered through the crowd and slipped through the doorway marked
AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY. She’d located the stairway. Grasping the rail, she
bounded up three floors.

At the fourth floor landing, Rhetta stopped at the
sight of two men. She pressed her back against the wall and gulped in a breath.
Her heart began thudding so hard she could barely breathe. The men were engaged
in a heated conversation. One of them wore a lab coat. He didn’t appear to have
seen her. He turned to go out the door so quickly that his crimson tie flapped
when he pushed open the door.

Something about him was familiar, but he left too
quickly. That wasn’t important. It was the remaining man who made her gut lurch
in fear. He sauntered toward her.

Swallowing the bile that rose from deep in her gut,
she stared into the dark eyes of a man clad in black pants and hoodie.

She’d located the owner of the green SUV.

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51

Although the stairwell lights were dim, probably
from the hospital conserving electricity, Rhetta managed to see the steel blade
quite clearly.

Handling the slim dagger with ease, the man sidled
closer to Rhetta, who had scuttled backward until her back was against the
wall. He stared at her while grasping the knife, jiggling it, and tossing it
from one hand to the other. She fixated on the deadly blade. It seemed as long
as a sword.

A smirk crept across his thin lips. Her heart
slammed hard against her ribs. She feared she’d die from a heart attack. Is
this what it was like to die of fright? Clearly, he was enjoying tormenting her
before plunging the blade into her gut. She had no escape, no way around him.
Trapped against the wall, there was only one thing to do.

When he heard her scream at the top of her voice,
“You son of a bitch,” he stopped cold.

Instantly, she took advantage of his pause, reared
back, and kicked him squarely in the crotch. The weapon clattered to the floor
as the man doubled over, clutching his privates with both hands, cursing loudly
in a language she didn’t understand. She poised to kick him again.
Unfortunately for her, he’d recovered his knife and was straightening. The
distraction had bought her some time. Scuttling along the wall, she reached the
door and burst through into the hallway, screaming at the top of her voice.

“Help,” she whooped. “Over here. Somebody, help!”
Two men and a woman rounded the corner. Rhetta pointed to the doorway. “In
there, a man with a knife. Call security!” The woman skidded to a stop, gaped
at her a second, then turned and retreated down the hall. The two men continued
running toward her.

One man holding a walkie-talkie slowed enough to
shout into the mouthpiece, “Security Code fifty-six, fourth floor, rear
stairwell. Repeat, code fifty-six, fourth floor.”

When Rhetta heard the rush of footsteps approaching,
probably security, she knew if she stayed, she’d have another zillion questions
to answer. She tore off toward Randolph’s room instead. Security didn’t need to
take time to ask her their stupid questions. They needed to be chasing the
knife-wielding terrorist. She had to make sure Randolph was all right.

Nearly breathless by the time she reached her
husband’s room, she stopped outside his closed door to let her heart rate slow,
and the adrenalin rush subside. She could barely breathe, and was beginning to
feel lightheaded. She found herself suddenly famished. Probably a side effect
from the ebbing adrenalin.

She was anxious to see her husband, to know that he
was all right.

After a few gulps of air, she slipped into the room.

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52

Inside, the room was dim. Huddled over the bed, a
man in a lab coat was too intent on what he was doing to notice her come in.
The only light in the room seeped from a muted night light above the oxygen
tank near the head of the bed. Randolph didn’t stir. Whatever the man was doing
hadn’t disturbed her husband’s slumber.

The figure straightened, obviously startled at
Rhetta’s approach, cramming a hand into his coat pocket. There was no tray of
vials alongside the bed.

“What’s going on?” Rhetta asked. “What are you
doing?”

“Rhetta, what are you doing here at this hour?” Dr.
Kenneth Reed whirled around at the sound of her voice. His hair was disheveled.
His eyes darted from her to the door.

Although shocked at seeing him, she managed to
answer, “I might ask you the same thing, Kenneth.”

“I needed to check Randolph’s vitals and give him
some medication,” Kenneth said. He attempted to untangle the stethoscope from
his necktie. She glimpsed a cylindrical-shaped bulge in the coat pocket from
which he had just removed his hand. If he had administered a medication, he
would’ve discarded the syringe and not stuck it in his pocket.

Her eyes shot back to his tie. It was crimson.

“Oh, God, what did you do?” She reached across the
bed to grab Kenneth’s arm. He jerked it away and ran toward the door.

Grabbing the first thing she found, Rhetta slung the
full water pitcher at Kenneth’s departing figure and scored a solid hit on the
back of his neck. He staggered toward the door. Rhetta raced around the bed and
launched herself at him. They crashed to the floor. Throwing her off, he stood
and again made for the door. Rhetta leapt to her feet, seized the visitor’s
chair by its back, and swung it as hard as she could. It caught Kenneth across
his shoulders, and he toppled face forward to the floor. The chair skittered
away. Panting, Rhetta reached across him for the fallen chair.

Kenneth rolled over and caught her left wrist.
Twisting it until she screamed, he used her arm for a handle and slung her off.
She slid across the floor and slammed head first into the wall.

Shaking her head from the blow, Rhetta rolled over
and pulled herself to her knees. A wedge of light sliced into the room as
Kenneth pulled open the door.

Summoning all her strength, Rhetta used the toppled
chair to push herself up. She snatched the chair, using only her right hand and
hurled it after Kenneth. This time, the blow caught him behind the knees and he
stumbled forward, crashing out into the hall. Rhetta was right behind him. She
shoved him as hard as she could. He dropped face first and landed with a
crunch. Blood spurted from his nose. He didn’t move. Probably dazed from
meeting the floor with his face. She kicked him squarely in the ribs, then
whimpered at the pain that shot from her ankle. She lurched to one side just as
Doctor Marinthe appeared.

Behind him were dozens of hospital staff.

A security officer rushed up and snatched her by the
arm.

Here we go again.

CHAPTER
53

“Doctor Marinthe, please check on my husband. I
think Kenneth gave him something and the empty syringe is still in his right
coat pocket.” Rhetta shouted to Marinthe while the security officer, a short
man with piercing eyes, dragged her away from Kenneth, who was still sprawled
on the floor. She struggled against the officer’s grip, but he was bigger and
stronger than she was.

Even with his awkward gait, Marinthe was able to
rush past them and into Randolph’s room. Rhetta twisted around to peer over her
shoulder and saw the room flood with light when Marinthe switched on the
overhead lights.

“Please, you have to get the empty syringe from his
pocket,” Rhetta implored the security guard who held her fast. The guard
gripped her by her right arm. Because her left arm hurt too badly for her to
move it, she pointed with her chin toward Kenneth. By now, the second security
guard, who had run down the hallway to join in the melee, stood panting. His
gaze darted from Kenneth, who lay motionless, to Rhetta held fast by the first
guard.

Without loosening his grip, the guard holding Rhetta
ordered the second guard, “Use gloves, and get out whatever is in his pocket.”

Following instructions, the guard produced a latex
glove from his own pocket and slipped it on. Bending over Kenneth, he carefully
removed an empty syringe from the doctor’s coat pocket. Holding his prize
aloft, he stepped away.

Then, addressing the group of gaping onlookers, the
guard holding Rhetta said loudly, “Can’t someone see about Doctor Reed there?”
He pointed to Kenneth. “He’s hurt.”

The staff snapped out of their apparent collective
stupor. A nurse materialized with a tray of supplies and began ministering to
Kenneth’s bloody face. She shot daggers at Rhetta as Dr. Reed began to revive.
Rhetta resisted the urge to stick her tongue out at the nurse. How dare she indicate
by her glare, that Rhetta was the bad guy here? The protective nurse pressed a
towel to the doctor’s face, then helped Kenneth sit up. Blood from his nose
quickly turned the white towel a deep red.

Appearing at the doorway to Randolph’s room, Marinthe
shouted to the security officers, “I must see the syringe from Dr. Reed’s
pocket.” The guard immediately recovered the syringe from Reed, jogged to
Marinthe, and offered his gloved hand. Marinthe, also wearing gloves, snatched
it and turned it over.

Still gripping it, Marinthe walked to Kenneth Reed.
The nurse continued to treat him as he sat. Marinthe thrust the syringe at
Kenneth.

“Is this what you used before?” asked Marinthe,
shaking the empty syringe in Kenneth’s face. Instead of answering, Kenneth
turned his head away. Marinthe squatted down so they were face to face, and
said something only Kenneth heard. Kenneth’s head nodded. Slowly Marinthe
stood. Turning to the guard, he said, “Call the police. Hold Dr. Reed.” Then
glancing at the guard who still held Rhetta, he said, “You must let Mrs.
McCarter go. Thank goodness she stopped Dr. Reed.”

The guard released Rhetta, then slapped his shoulder
radio switch. As she rushed to Randolph’s room, she heard the guard calling for
help from the Cape Girardeau police. She also heard the answer, “Negative,
Johnson. Not enough manpower. He’s all yours.”

She desperately wanted Johnson and his helper to
detain Kenneth; but for the moment, she was too occupied to do anything about
that. She needed to know Randolph was safe.

Rhetta burst into the room to find Randolph sitting
up and alert. His nose had oxygen tubes inserted, but he appeared fine
otherwise. Marinthe followed her into the room.

“I presumed Dr. Reed had used the same drug as
before. I started another infusion,” Dr. Marinthe explained. “It was a good
thing you arrived when you did. The anesthetic hasn’t been in his system very
long. The infusion has probably already countered the effects. I started oxygen
as an additional measure.” Marinthe patted her shoulder. “He should be fine.”

“Thank you,” Rhetta said, her voice catching, barely
above a whisper. “I don’t understand. Why did Kenneth do this?”

Marinthe shrugged. “I’m sure the police will find
that out.” He gazed around the room, at the upturned chair, and at all the
items scattered across the floor. “Must have been quite a battle,” he said, and
a tiny smile twitched at the corner of his mouth. “In fact, you rather look
like you have been through a war.”

If you only knew.

Ignoring the pain in her right shoulder and hand,
Rhetta threw her arms around her husband’s neck. Randolph circled her shoulders
and pulled her to him.

“It’s all over, Sweets,” Rhetta said and nuzzled her
husband’s warm neck. She kissed his face, and then grasped his hand and kissed
it.

Dr. Marinthe slipped out of the room.

After a moment more in Randolph’s embrace, Rhetta
pulled back and studied the face of the man she loved.

Randolph clasped both her hands. “God, Rhetta, what
happened to you? You look like hell.”

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54