ADRENALINE: New 2013 edition

by John Benedict

  “I’ll call Doug tonight if I get the chance—I’m late-man and all. Otherwise, we’ll talk to him tomorrow.”

  A blond nurse glided around the corner. “Did I hear you mention Doctor Landry?” she asked. “Is this about his patient?”

  Rusty was surprised by her sudden appearance. He looked at Dr. Carlucci, who had a worried look on his face. He looked back at the nurse. God, she was gorgeous. Her nametag read, Jenny Stuart, R.N. What should they say?

  “Just some routine bloodwork,” Dr. Carlucci said and smiled nervously.

  She looked skeptical. “I didn’t see any ordered.”

  “I’m ordering it now,” Dr. Carlucci said.

  She appeared satisfied and then lightened her tone. “Doctor Landry made quite the save, I hear,” she said, eyes sparkling. Rusty noticed she had a killer body too and couldn’t help but stare. Her perfume drifted over to him, and he thought it was quite nice.

  “Yes, he did,” Dr. Carlucci replied evenly. He played with his pen and looked hurt.

  “Doctor Landry—miracle worker,” she said and sighed. Dr. Carlucci frowned at this but she didn’t seem to notice. “Is it true they call him the Iceman?” she asked.

  Dr. Carlucci hesitated a second. He put his pen back in his pocket and looked up at her. “Yes, and his wife and kids think the name’s a riot.”

  She didn’t say anything but made an irritated face back at him.

  Dr. Carlucci stood up to leave and said, “We’ll take the specimen to the lab ourselves. C’mon, Rusty.”

  “Tell Doctor Landry I said ‘hi,’ if you see him,” she said.

  Rusty would’ve preferred to stay a while longer and watch Jenny Stuart, but he obediently got up and followed Dr. Carlucci out of the SICU. He glanced back in time to see her pivot lightly on her feet and return to her work; the rear view was equally rewarding.

  The two men walked down the corridor toward the lab in silence. Finally, Rusty’s curiosity got the better of him. “Did you hear the way she said ‘Doctor Landry’?”

  “Hard to miss,” responded Dr. Carlucci.

  “What’s up with that?” Rusty prodded further.

  Dr. Carlucci stopped walking and looked at Rusty. “Look, Rusty, let’s not add to the rumor mill. Anyway, Doug’s too smart to get mixed up with the likes of her.”

  They continued walking. Rusty decided to drop it. He didn’t really think Dr. Landry seemed like the fooling around type—he was too nice—but you never knew. Besides, thought Rusty, he’d seen pictures of Mrs. Landry. She was quite attractive. Up ahead, Rusty saw the sign for the lab.

  “Are you here tomorrow?” Dr. Carlucci asked.

  “Actually, no. I gotta take care of some, uh, stuff.” Rusty knew he had plans of his own tomorrow.

  “Don’t tell anyone else about this, OK?” Dr. Carlucci stopped several yards from the lab drop-off window and said softly, “We really don’t know who, if anybody, is behind this.”

  A chill went through Rusty. “This could be dangerous, couldn’t it?”

  “Well, if my theory proves correct, we’re dealing with a pretty nasty individual.”

  Dr. Carlucci had a talent for understatement, Rusty thought. Seemed like an attempt at cold-blooded murder. Rusty got another chill and felt both nervous and excited. “Shouldn’t we go to the police?”

  “I don’t think so,” Dr. Carlucci said. “All we have here is some guesswork on my part, and I’m starting to have some second thoughts. Maybe Doug’s right—maybe this sabotage thing is crazy.” The fiery light had left his eyes. “If the sample tests positive, that’s a different story.”

  “Okay,” said Rusty. “I’ll sit tight.”

  “I must get back to the OR. Raskin surely has more work for me to do before I can leave.” He glanced at his watch. “It’s after six, Rusty. You go home. I’ll take care of this.” He held up the blood tubes.

  “All right, thanks.” Rusty heard his stomach growl. “I am getting hungry.”

  “Listen, Rusty—keep your eyes and ears open. Trust no one, and watch your back.”

  “OK, you too.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Patti Lubbock was not in the best of spirits tonight. Several things were annoying her at present, although if truth be told, this was not an unusual state of affairs. She set down her bag and flung her coat on her desk. God, why did it have to be so cold out there!

  Tonight, what topped the annoyance list was punching in late for work. She had been on the phone with her stupid ex, arguing about child support again. Tom, who had been in and out of jail for as long as she had known him, never seemed to generate any excess income. He invariably explained to her he was broke when she was lucky enough to get him on the phone, but somehow he always managed to drive his dates around in a nice new Ford pickup. She had also heard through the grapevine that he’d outfitted his bass boat with a new 200 horsepower Merc outboard. God, she’d like to choke him!

  She glanced at her watch and then looked at the daunting pile of work in the IN basket over at the lab drop-off window. Although she was late, she didn’t feel like jumping in just yet—one of the benefits of working alone on nightshift. She needed something to cheer her up first.

  She fished through her bag and pulled out a Devil Dog. She got up, went to the lab refrigerator, and grabbed a Diet Coke from her personal stash. She knew it was against the rules to store food items in the fridge, but she also knew that not many people dared to cross her.

  She sat down again at her desk and flipped the top on the soda. The pictures of her two teenage boys on her desk caught her eye; they seemed to be jeering at her. They were just like their father. Of course, she had to have had boys, dripping as they were with testosterone. They were constantly bucking her authority, driven by their hormonal storm, but she would keep them in line, by God, one way or another.

  Patti noisily peeled the cellophane wrapper off the Devil Dog and bit in. She leaned back in her chair and reflected on her life as it should have been. She often imagined herself a physician or pharmacist, instead of a lab tech working night shift. If only her life hadn’t been derailed by that miserable excuse for a man.

  She was a victim, pure and simple, a casualty of the evil male and his insatiable sexual appetite. When she’d eloped at eighteen with her drug-using, ex-con boyfriend, she had been duped. The butterfly and dragon tattoos that seemed so cool twenty years ago, no longer looked so good. They had probably been Tom’s idea, though if pressed, she would admit she had been shit-faced at the time, so she really couldn’t remember whose idea it had been. Two children later—again deceived. All the weight she had put on was a natural consequence of the depression she suffered because of her miserable life.

  Victim status had its perks, however. Gone was the weighty responsibility of just about anything in her life, and she was free to be as nasty and crabby as she felt like. The world owed her this much.

  Feeling better, she strolled over to the lab window. Something caught her attention in the IN basket. Here’s something odd—a blood tube for a D-epinephrine assay. Don’t see one of those everyday. Patti had to admit to herself that she didn’t know what D-epinephrine was, so she looked it up in one of her lab manuals.

  Hmmm, I wonder if the goddamned doctor knows his precious specimen has to be sent out. He might have to wait a couple of days. She knew how impatient doctors were and smiled at the thought. The smile quickly faded as she wondered if evening shift had told him there would be a delay.

  Probably, she reasoned, but if they hadn’t, he’d be pissed off and guess who would shoulder the blame, as always. She knew Missy Swintosky on evenings was such an incompetent ditz, she might have forgotten. She was so busy reading her romance novels and fiddling with her acrylic nails. I better call to make sure. She sauntered back to her desk and dialed the number for the anesthesia department.

  “Anesthesia,” a male voice replied.

  “Is Doctor Carlucci in?”

  “No, may I ask who’s
calling?”

  “It’s the lab with a message for him,” Patti said impatiently.

  “Oh, okay. Give it to me—I’ll make sure he gets it.”

  “I just wanted to let him know that the blood specimen he dropped off earlier will have to be sent out to Wyeth Labs,” Patti said. “We don’t run that kind of assay here.”

  “What kind?”

  Damn, he must be another pain in the ass doctor. “Optical assay,” she said with disgust.

  “Optical? What on earth is that?”

  Stupid, too. And they let these jokers prescribe medicine. I’ll have to spell it out for him. “It’s for the stereo isomer D-epinephrine—you know—dextro-rotated. Although what he wants it for—”

  “Did you say epinephrine?” he interrupted.

  “Yeah, D-epinephrine.”

  “Who was the patient?”

  Nosy bugger. “Robert Lehman—and what’s your name, sir?”

  Click.

  Patti slammed down the phone uttering, “Buttfucker!” She added another straw or two to the poor camel who had long since seen his spine fractured and now was being crushed under a tremendous pile of man-hatred straws. She reached into her bag for another Devil Dog.

  Joe Raskin hung up the phone, feeling suddenly light-headed and nauseous. Carlucci, that son-of-a-bitch! D-epinephrine assay—too smart for his own damned good. Raskin nervously paced back and forth in the anesthesia on-call room. Now what should he do? He hadn’t really meant to hurt anyone. The patients were just poor slobs with bad tickers. They didn’t have long to live anyway. And that hypochondriac bitch—well, no harm done there. She got her gallbladder out, didn’t she?

  But this was different. He couldn’t just go around killing people in broad daylight. That would be murder. He eyed the crucifix over the doorway and shook his head. How had they forced him into this? He couldn’t afford to let Carlucci expose him. Not now, after all he had done. And he couldn’t afford to lose his job—he had expenses, obligations, a family for Chrissakes. What was he going to do? Suddenly he stopped pacing. “Midazolam,” he said softly and smiled. “That’s the ticket!” He reached for the phone.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  The phone rang, jarring Mike Carlucci awake. He had been dreaming of demons prancing about in operating rooms, choosing patients to torment and equipment to sabotage. He glanced at the digital clock on his dresser—1:20 a.m. “Shit,” he cursed to himself as he climbed out of bed to get the blasted phone. Colleen moaned and rolled over.

  Mike had the ability to quickly go from a semi-comatose state to being reasonably alert, thanks to years of practice. He knew before he picked up the phone that the call was from the hospital, and he was being called in to work. Joe Raskin was on call and Mike was his backup man; he was the first to be called back in case of an emergency.

  Mike picked up the phone. “Hello,” he got out hoarsely.

  “Mike, Raskin here. Sorry to bother you, but I’m in the middle of this bad bowel obstruction—you know, septic as hell—the internists sat on it too long. Well anyway, she’s going down the tubes. OB calls and says they have a labor epidural—some screaming twenty-one-year-old. They say it can’t wait. I hate to call you, but I just can’t leave this case.”

  “Yeah, okay. I’ll be there shortly.” Damn it! Mike felt sick because he had just left the hospital at 11:00 p.m. after finishing a grueling carotid endarterectomy. By the time he’d gotten home, he was too exhausted to call Doug. He had gone straight to bed, figuring he’d tell Doug about his theory in the morning. He’d found Colleen in bed, slumped over her book with her glasses on and the light still on. He hadn’t seen any point in waking her; she’d probably had a rough day with the kids. He had taken her glasses off, helped her lay down, and kissed he gently on the forehead.

  Mike hung up the phone and thought it could have been worse. He knew he could slip in the epidural in no time and turn right around. He was actually relieved to find out it wasn’t a more difficult case. Shouldn’t need any pharmaceutical assistance for this one. He smiled grimly and got dressed; his clothes were still strewn about the floor where he had left them several hours ago.

  Mike said goodbye to his unconscious wife, grabbed his coat, and went downstairs to the cold garage. He fired up the Suburban, which he noted ruefully was still warm, and pulled out of the garage. Once on the road, he called the hospital to tell them he was rolling. “God, this job sucks!” he muttered.

  He arrived at the hospital twenty-five minutes after he had taken the call at home. Raskin was in the locker room when Mike trudged in. Strange, thought Mike. He hadn’t expected to see him there, with his big case and all.

  Joe flushed the urinal as if in response and walked over to Mike.

  “Don’t bother to change, Mike. The stupid bitch delivered about fifteen minutes ago. Listen, I’m sorry to run you in here.”

  “Just my luck.”

  “That’s OB for you,” Raskin said. “Me, I can’t stand it. A bunch of wimpy women screaming in pain—and it’s always in the middle of the fucking night!”

  “Yeah—well, look if you don’t need me, I’m gonna go home. I’ve got a shitty day tomorrow and I need to get some sleep.”

  “You’ve had a rough week or two here, Mike. Stretch of bad luck.” Raskin smiled thinly and shook his head. “I heard they sued.” He looked curiously at Mike.

  “That’s right. See ya, Joe.” Mike headed for the door. He didn’t particularly care for Raskin, and two in the morning did nothing to improve their relationship.

  “Don’t you just hate those fucking lawyers!” Raskin exclaimed and followed him out the door. “Greedy bastards!”

  “Yeah, see ya.” Mike zipped up his coat and headed for the stairwell. He didn’t relish the cold trek home.

  “Mike, wait! I just brewed some fresh coffee,” Raskin said, sounding worried. He quickly added, “Better have some for the drive home. You look like you could use it.”

  Mike hesitated, his hand poised on the door handle. “Yeah, you’re right. I am still half asleep.” He turned and walked back.

  A look of relief washed across Raskin’s face. “I’d feel awful if something happened to you tonight,” he said. Raskin grinned a little strangely, but Mike didn’t make much of it.

  Raskin led Mike into the surgeon’s lounge where a full pot of coffee was brewing. He poured a cup for each, and then produced a pint-sized milk container from the refrigerator. “Milk?” he inquired of Mike.

  “Sure,” Mike responded absently. Raskin carefully added some milk to Mike’s cup, but neglected his own. He put the container away.

  “I like it black,” Raskin said.

  Mike drained the coffee in several minutes and left the lounge. “See ya Joe,” he called from the hallway. “Thanks for the coffee. Try not to call me back.” Asshole.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  Mike’s Suburban sped down the on-ramp and merged onto Interstate 283 heading north. The only good thing about driving at this time of night was that traffic was light. He should be able to make good time. Thank God. I’m especially tired tonight and can’t wait to crawl into bed. That coffee sure hasn’t kicked in yet.

  Something was bothering Mike, but he couldn’t put his finger on it. His tired brain turned over the events of the last hour. He certainly wasn’t thrilled to be on this particular wild goosechase. He was angry with Raskin even though if the circumstances were reversed, he probably would’ve called in his backup too. But that wasn’t what was bugging him.

  Maybe I should tell Colleen about the drugs? Mike felt bad he had kept this secret from her. He had always believed neither of them would ever keep secrets from each other. Perhaps I should get help? Colleen will understand. But then thoughts of his children and how they looked up to their strong daddy flooded his mind. God, I hate being a failure. He stepped on the accelerator, anxious to get home. What will Doug do, I wonder? Turn me in? And what exactly was going on between him and that SICU nurse? Faint lights in
the rearview mirror caught his attention. He made out the characteristic running lights of an eighteen-wheeler in the distance. He decided to tell Colleen. She would support him and help him figure out what to do. I could call her now.

  He glanced down at his car phone, screen glowing in the dark, and a new thought struck him: Why didn’t Raskin call me in the car and tell me the lady delivered? Why did he wait until I got to the hospital? Mike couldn’t think of a good answer and realized this was what had been bugging him. He was disturbed by it, but too tired to muster more than: I’ll have to keep a close eye on Raskin.

  He yawned and tried to concentrate on the road. He was approaching the construction zone where both directions of traffic were carried on the northbound route. The lanes were separated by cattle chutes—five-foot high, preformed concrete barriers on all sides. They were difficult enough to maneuver through in broad daylight when you were wide-awake.

  Driving while tired reminded Mike of an incident when he was in medical school. He had been coming home from the library late one night after a particularly exhausting study session. He had fallen asleep at the wheel on a wooded back road. Luckily, the gravel on the shoulder had crunched noisily under the tires when his car failed to negotiate the curve. He had awoken just in the nick of time to swerve back on the road, avoiding several waiting oak trees.

  He had vowed that night never again to ignore the warning signs of sleepiness at the wheel—eyes closing momentarily, car drifting slightly, daydreaming, visions of bed, etc. Thereafter, whenever sleep beckoned, he would roll down the windows, turn the radio way up or try to stop for some coffee or soda. One time on the turnpike, he even pulled over and took a short nap until the wave of irresistible sleep had passed.

  But tonight Mike would’ve sworn on a stack of bibles that, yes, he was tired, but nowhere near the dangerous point of sleeping at the wheel. As his head slumped forward and his hands relaxed their grip on the steering wheel, Mike wondered if he heard an air horn in the distance. He groaned but did not open his eyes.