Trauma (41 page)

“How are we feeling tonight, Garrett?” the male nurse asked while glancing at a clipboard.

David watched the nurse extract something from the pocket of his uniform and had to squint to make out the syringe in the nurse's hand. The nurse inserted the syringe into the IV. Nothing happened for several minutes, until the nurse said, “Open your eyes, Garrett. The drug I gave you should make you less groggy … good … that's real good. Can you hear my voice?”

McGhee groaned, and then said in a mumbling voice, with almost exaggerated torpidity, “Yeah, yeah, stop saying it. Stop it.”

“Oh, good,” the nurse said. “I'm going to give you a little something else.”

“A little something else … little something else … little something…” McGhee spoke as though in a daze, but he pronounced the words clearly so they were easy to understand.

David thought immediately of the auditory illusion, palinacousis, Carrie had so accurately described. It sounded as though McGhee was acting out her very description. Still peering through that crack in the closet, David watched the nurse inject something else into McGhee's IV, and a minute later he took out a smartphone and made a call.

“Rear entrance twenty minutes,” the nurse said. “Keep the van running. It'll be quick.”

David felt elated. At last they had proof Carrie was right. Something truly sinister was going on here, even if he had no idea what exactly caused the auditory illusion, or where this nurse was taking McGhee, or what would happen to him once he got there, or why they were doing it. Carrie was watching the rear entrance right now, and she needed to know trouble was headed her way.

 

CHAPTER 55

Hours of doing nothing made it hard to ignore the ever-present fear. It also gave Carrie lots of idle time to think about Adam. Nobody had heard from him since he left in such a rage. Her parents naturally continued to worry, and contemplated canceling evening plans to wait at home for him to show, but Carrie cajoled them into going out. If Adam was going to show, he would do so when he felt ready, she advised. So her parents went out, and soon after, Carrie did the same.

Had Adam returned home, Carrie would not have known. She kept her phone in her purse and the radio off, worried she might miss something of consequence if distracted. But there was a whole lot of nothing going on, and this gave Carrie time to fret and ponder the mission's many open questions. Would McGhee even have a medical complication induced? Would he be transferred to another unit, or moved out of the hospital entirely? Would they bring him back? If so, when?

The plan itself was all a bit “squishy,” as Carrie said to David, which ran counter to her ethos of procedures and planning. Then again, she had long ago abandoned her comfort zone and proved to herself, many times over, just how adaptable she had become.

For want of something to do, Carrie ran through the plan's many permutations in her head for the umpteenth time. David was going to trail McGhee off the unit floor, assuming he experienced some sort of medical problem that required transfer. If McGhee left the hospital entirely, it would be Carrie's job to pick David up in her car, unless that maneuver would cause her to lose sight of the patient. For that reason, David had a Zipcar on standby in the visitor parking lot. If they became separated, she and David could communicate their locations via the two-way radios, which had a thirty-five-mile range.

That was the plan.

Squishy
.

It had been hours since David made contact, and in that time Carrie's concern had grown—not to panic levels, but close. She knew McGhee must have been on the neuro recovery unit for several hours by now, but how long it would be until somebody might try to sneak him off the floor was anybody's guess.

The crackle of the radio sent Carrie's heart revving. She felt a surge of excitement, like the first tug on a once-slack fishing line.

“Carrie, are you there?” David spoke in a hushed voice.

“I'm here. What's the status?”

“A male nurse just left McGhee's hospital room. I think he injected something into his IV. Said something about a van coming to the rear entrance in about twenty minutes. Do you copy?”

Carrie scanned her surroundings—the rear entrance was in sight of where she was parked. “I got it. Where are you right now?” she asked.

“Um, that would be a closet in McGhee's cubicle.”

“David, you've got to get out of there.”

“Well, that's my plan. I'll meet you at the rear entrance, and we'll see if that van shows up.”

In the background, Carrie heard loud beeping sounds. Right away she understood that one of the machines hooked to McGhee had just gone haywire. Another alarm sounded, this one much louder.

“Oh no, David,” Carrie said into the radio. “Get out of there. Get out right now!”

*   *   *

In a matter of seconds, McGhee's cramped quarters had two nurses at his bedside. Through the slat between the closet doors, David watched them work as a team.

McGhee muttered under his breath, “I feel dizzy … dizzy … dizzy.”

After a minute or so of silence, one of the nurses said, “Blood pressure is eighty-five over forty, heart rate hundred twenty bpm, respiratory sixteen breaths.”

“He feels clammy to me,” the other nurse said. “Shaking, sweating—does he have diabetes?”

“Not according to the EMR.”

“Check his blood sugar anyway.”

From out of David's view, a new voice spoke up. It was the same person who had earlier injected McGhee with something.

“What's happening?” the male nurse said. “I was just down the hall when I heard the alarm.”

“Nurse Taggart, hello. I think our friend here might be having a blood sugar problem.”

“Oh,” was all Taggart said.

“I can give two milligrams IM glucagon,” said one nurse, “and see what that does for him. I'd like a doctor to see him right away, please.”

David felt dizzy and sweaty as well. He could pretty much follow the procedures as they took place, and soon after McGhee got the glucagon, a woman showed up, dark skinned, thin, petite, and introduced herself as Dr. Nisha Kapur.

“Fifty cc D50 stat,” Dr. Kapur said. “We treat him first and then confirm with the lab results.”

“FS zero,” said a nurse. “I sent a venous level to the stat lab.”

Dr. Kapur performed a battery of tests on McGhee just as David's left leg started to go numb. Prolonged pressure had cut off communication between the nerves in David's leg and his brain, producing an array of sensations that included warmth, numbness, and a wholly unpleasant tingling.

“How are you feeling, Mr. McGhee?” Kapur said in an overly loud voice.

“How are you feeling … how are you feeling … how are you feeling. Stop asking me!”

Sounds of flailing and twisting limbs alerted David that McGhee was likely quite agitated and might need to be restrained.

“He's a bit delirious from the DBS surgery still,” one nurse said.

Somebody else entered the room. “What's going on?”

“Oh, Dr. Goodwin,” Dr. Kapur said. “I didn't know you were here.”

“Well, I'm helping out Evan because he was doing DBS surgery today.”

Dr. Kapur explained the situation to Dr. Goodwin.

“Don't you think we should transfer him to the med ICU?”

“I can do that,” Nurse Taggart said. “It's not a problem.”

“Great. Thanks. And I'll head down to alert them that he's on his way,” Goodwin said as she rushed out of the room.

While this took place, David's leg became miserably numb. The feeling of pins and needles digging into his skin was agonizing in ways he had never experienced. He tried everything to stretch the leg, but the burning sensation only intensified.

David watched the nurses unhook the monitors, and soon enough Nurse Taggart wheeled Garrett McGhee out of the room. The two nurses who stayed behind set to work putting the cubicle back together, which was now down one bed. Massaging his leg, David tried to ease the torturous sensation, but to no avail. He had to stretch the leg completely to get any relief, and every second the nurses remained inside the empty unit was excruciating. They chatted pleasantly, taking their sweet time.

A minute passed … then two …

The leg had to move. David flexed his hips and lifted the leg up a few inches. The relief was not quite enough, but it was something. He raised the leg a little bit higher, but this time his right leg moved as well. As it did, he knocked over the portable toilet with his urine inside. The plastic container landed with a soft sound that might not have attracted any attention, but the top came open and the liquid spilled out. David watched in horror as his urine trickled out the bottom of the closet door and cascaded to the floor like a golden waterfall. He could not move an inch to create a dam without pushing open the closet doors.

It did not really matter. A few seconds of the River David was enough for a nurse to take notice. The closet doors swung open with force, and David smiled awkwardly at the startled woman, who let fly a thunderous shriek.

David wasted no time. He sprang from the closet like a jack-in-the-box cut loose from its spring. His right leg landed just fine, but with his left leg asleep, his foot buckled from what he hoped was a temporary paralysis. He nearly collapsed to the floor. The nurse closest to him stumbled back and screamed again, a look of shock stretched across her face. Both nurses were frozen in place, which gave David a head start to hop out of the room. He could feel the sensation in his foot slowly return through the pins and needles. The strength came back fully by the time he reached the stairwell.

From behind, David heard tremendous tumult and commotion, but one phrase stuck out above all others.

“He took the stairs! Call the police!”

David descended one level and went out the first exit he came to, entering the hallway directly below the neuro recovery unit. He tried the nearest door, but it was locked. Time was going to run out on him. He put the radio to his lips.

“Carrie, listen, abort! Abort! I've been spotted. Do you hear me? Respond!”

“David, what's going on?”

David could not answer, because footsteps like a stampede could be heard headed his way. Security was heightened in the aftermath of Carrie's lethal encounter, and David was not surprised by the speed and effectiveness of the response.

He retreated back to the stairs, his only way out. The stairwell door boomed shut behind him. Breathless with anxiety, David shouted into the radio, “I've been spotted and they've called the police.”

His voice echoed in the stairwell. From below David heard, “You, up there. Come down with your hands up!”

Nobody was going to wait for David to comply. Loud footsteps were on their way up to greet him.

It would be a hell of an escape, but David was not ready to give up just yet. He left the stairwell for a second time, and reentered the hallway he had just exited. This time, two uniformed police officers were running his way. With no available options, David darted back into the stairwell, where another police officer had just come into view.

“Hands up! Hands up!” David heard.

The officer stood five stairs away and removed what looked like a gun from his holster. David had just put the radio to his lips when the officer flicked his wrist. A square-shaped cartridge spat out the front end of what David now saw was a Taser.

“Carrie, abort! Aboooorr—”

A knifelike pain ripped through David's body the instant those contact points penetrated his right thigh. The pain was like nothing he had ever experienced. His skin felt on fire, immolation from the inside out. Maybe a scream escaped his lips. Hard for him to say. His body vibrated so violently it threatened to break apart.

Twitching, David fell to the concrete, landing hard on his back. Through the slits of his eyes, pushing beyond the pain, the burn, the earthquake of his body, David fixed his gaze on the radio that had tumbled from his grasp. He reached for it, but felt another pinch. A second lightning bolt of electricity coursed through him. His teeth knocked together in a violent chatter as his arms went spastic.

The radio, his lifeline to Carrie, was within reach, but miles away.

 

CHAPTER 56

Carrie was on the two-way, trying to reach David, when a van pulled up to the rear entrance of the VA. The white cargo van without any windows was the kind that gave Carrie shivers anytime she passed one on the road. She set the radio down on the seat beside her and did not move. Twelve thirty in the morning. Floodlights partially illuminated the back lot, but not Carrie's Volvo, which was parked directly opposite the van, maybe a hundred feet away. The van idled for a minute or two. No action. Just waiting.

Even though she was parked in the shadows, Carrie sank lower in her seat and peered out over the car's front dash. She caught a flash of movement near the van. The hospital rear doors had come open, and out stepped Lee Taggart, dressed in street clothes and pushing a wheelchair. Seated in that wheelchair was a limp-looking man covered in a gray blanket, wearing a baseball cap on his head, which was slumped forward onto his chest. He looked unresponsive, likely very sedated.

It had to be Garrett McGhee.

The van's rear doors sprang open and a huge figure emerged out the back. Carrie recognized him right away. It was Ram
ó
n Hernandez.

She'd suspected Taggart, but Hernandez? What was he doing here?

Confusion paralyzed Carrie's mind. Pieces were on the table, but she still could not put them all into the puzzle.

Hernandez jumped to the ground and waited for Taggart to reach him. Together, the two men lifted the wheelchair holding McGhee into the back of the van with ease. To Carrie, to anybody, it looked like a hospital discharge, not a kidnapping. Seconds later, the van slipped into reverse and headed for the exit. And just like that, McGhee was gone.