ADRENALINE: New 2013 edition

by John Benedict

  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.”

  “Pinnacle’s coming in here, Landry. I got the official word last week—I only told you guys the half of it. They’re cleaning house and only a few of us are going to stay.”

  Marshall paused for a moment, cocking his head as if he’d heard something. “We just wanted to stack the deck in our favor.”

  “So you murdered innocent people.” Doug realized that he had badly underestimated Marshall’s callousness. These two would stop at nothing—Marshall would certainly not let him leave here alive.

  Marshall ignored him. “Now tell us who else
knows!”

  “You can still go fuck yourself!” Doug’s fists bunched; all his muscles were taut. His body demanded action, but he was still pinned down by the gun.

  “Listen, Landry,” Marshall said, and a cruel smile slid across his face. “If you’re trying to protect Melissa Draybeck, well let’s just say you’d be wasting your time.”

  “Why!? What have you done to her?” A sickening dread descended on Doug like a heavy curtain, making it hard to breathe.

  “Me, nothing,” Marshall responded, “but Joe did seem to have a disagreement with her about her cat.”

  A strange look crossed Raskin’s face, and he absently fingered the cuts on his cheek.

  “Her body was just discovered tonight,” Marshall said with a feral grin.

  Doug gasped. He felt as if he’d been sucker punched and might be sick at any moment. He wheeled to face Raskin. “You butcher! How many more, Raskin?” Doug’s fingers coiled and uncoiled, aching to return to Raskin’s neck and complete their job. Unable to control his seething, Doug took a step toward Raskin, arms outstretched, until he was almost within reach.

  Marshall fired. The bullet whistled right by Doug’s head; the report was deafening in the confined hallway.

  Shit! That was close. Doug froze in his tracks, his eyes darting back and forth between the Walther and Raskin. The smell of spent gunpowder was already noticeable.

  “The next one won’t miss, Landry,” Marshall said and continued to point the smoking gun at Landry. “Don’t try it again!” The veins on Marshall’s head bulged dangerously. Doug’s ears were still ringing, and he had trouble hearing Marshall even though he was shouting.

  Raskin stared hard at Doug, his eyes daring him to make a move. “There’s one more thing you should know, Landry,” Raskin said.

  “What’s that?” It was all Doug could do not to jump him; anything was better than this hellish immobility.

  “Remember that nurse anesthesia school that used to be here?” Raskin continued.

  “Yeah, it was shut down right after I came,” Doug said.

  “Well, Bryan here used to have a thing for the nursing students. Right, Bryan?” Raskin shot a glance toward Marshall, who was eyeing him curiously.

  “Shut up, Joe,” Marshall said evenly, but his eyes betrayed a touch of alarm.

  Finally, things were beginning to make sense. “So that’s why you put up with him for all these years,” Doug said to Marshall. Marshall shrugged noncommittally.

  “I’d heard rumors,” Landry said and turned back to Raskin. “What happened Raskin?” This was the critical connection!

  “I said shut up, Joe!” Marshall said louder. His tone brooked no refusal.

  “Look,” Raskin said, pleading slightly. “I just don’t want Landry going to his grave thinking I’m the only slimeball around here. Besides, it feels good to get it off my chest.”

  “You’re not in the bloody confessional!” Marshall screamed, his accent thickening. Marshall and Raskin traded glares.

  “What happened, Raskin?” Doug prodded softly, sensing a wedge was being driven between the two and that this might be his only hope. If only Raskin would keep talking.

  Raskin ran his fingers through his hair and coughed. “Well, let’s just say one of the girls got into a family way and had an unfortunate accident,” Raskin said, a touch of defiance evident in his voice.

  “Who was it?” Doug pushed. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Marshall sighting down the barrel of the gun.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  Rusty pressed the gas pedal hard to the floor. The engine of his beat-up Jeep Wrangler coughed first and then sputtered up to full roar; it was an unhealthy roar though, a whine really, that sounded like a piston or connecting rod might go at any moment.

  “I need more power, Scottie,” Rusty said, imitating James T. Kirk of the Starship Enterprise.

  “Aye, Cap’n—warp nine,” Rusty replied to himself as Mr. Scott with his best Scottish accent. “But Jim, I cannot guarantee this bucket of bolts will hold together.” He smiled and glanced at his dashboard clock. It was vibrating badly as the Jeep topped out at seventy-five mph, but he could make out the time—1:05 a.m.

  Twenty minutes later, Rusty screeched to a halt in front of Mercy Hospital’s Emergency Room entrance. He jumped out and bolted for the door. Once inside, he bounded up the stairs two-at-a-time to the second floor operating room complex.

  Gotta warn Doctor Landry.

  The hallway leading up to the automatic OR doors was deserted. Rusty ran forward. Just before he came within range of the optical door sensor, he heard a gunshot ring out from within the OR complex. He stopped dead in his tracks, his sneakers squeaking on the floor.

  “Shit,” he mumbled to himself. “My spider sense is tingling.” Security would quickly mobilize, he thought, but then remembered he wasn’t at the Med Center. Mercy, the sleepy little community hospital, had no armed security. But surely someone would call the police, having heard the gunshot. Except this would take time—precious time he didn’t have.

  Rusty quickly abandoned the idea of a frontal assault through the noisy OR doors; a stealth approach made more sense. There was a side door into the cysto room that the X-ray technicians used to enter the OR. But he had to hurry.

  Rusty opened the side door and crept noiselessly into the cysto room. As the door closed behind him, he was immersed in utter darkness. He paused to let his eyes adjust. Soon he could make out a sliver of light beneath the far door which led into the main OR hallway. He tiptoed carefully across the room toward the faint light, his hands stretched out in front of him like a blind man. In this fashion, he soon located the OR table in the center of the room and saved himself from banging into it. He maneuvered around the table, and just when he thought he was home free, his right foot connected with something solid. A metal bucket mounted on wheels went flying across the room and crashed into the wall, making a tremendous clanging.

  Rusty froze, held his breath, and listened. He waited for the door to fly open and a hail of bullets to greet him. His heart was hammering so loudly in his ears, he could barely hear.

  A minute passed. Nothing happened.

  Rusty started to breathe again and closed the distance to the door. Angry voices were coming from the hallway, but he still couldn’t make out what was being said. He searched the smooth metal door’s surface; no window was evident. The door was one of those thick, lead-lined jobs, and this had probably saved him moments earlier.

  He decided to risk cracking the door ever so slightly so he could hear. A glimpse would also be nice. He prayed the door wouldn’t creak as he inched it open.

  The door opened silently. The unmistakable smell of spent gunpowder leaked in. Rusty shivered and focused on the conversation.

  “—thinking I’m the only slimeball around here.”

  That’s Raskin! Rusty swiftly put his eye up to the crack. He got a good look at Marshall, not five feet away in the hallway, wielding a large gun, looking like he meant business. Rusty shuddered. He couldn’t see Raskin, but figured he must be further down the hall toward the recovery room. Was Doctor Landry still alive?

  “I’d heard rumors. What happened Raskin?”

  That’s Doctor Landry! Thank God he’s alive. Rusty remained crouched by the door; he was paralyzed by fear. What should he do? He couldn’t take his eye off Marshall’s menacing gun. This really wasn’t his fight; he’d only known these people a couple of weeks. Plastic-man wouldn’t bother to stay. Maybe he should hurry away and get help? Shouldn’t the police be here soon? He turned to inspect his line of retreat, but something held him; he realized the extent of his attachment to Dr. Landry and Dr. Carlucci. He was also mesmerized by the conversation, and his legs remained frozen.

  Raskin answered. “Well, let’s just say one of the girls got into a family way and had an unfortunate accident.”

  Accident! What the hell was he talking about?

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  �
�I said shut up! Both of you!” Marshall screamed, spittle flying from his mouth, as he waved the gun around wildly. Doug felt intense panic as he realized he may have pushed the unstable Marshall too far. He watched in horror as Marshall suddenly took aim. His trigger finger flexed smoothly, and the Walther spouted flame followed by smoke. Another deafening explosion.

  The bullet emerged from the muzzle at supersonic speed, ripping a path through the thick air before piercing the front of Raskin’s cranial vault. In a time measured in microseconds, the bullet’s energy was transferred to the contents of the vault as concussion waves reverberated all through the bony confines. Raskin’s head exploded as the exiting bullet tore a five-inch, ragged hole in the back of his skull. Pureed brain matter and blood showered the wall.

  Raskin’s lifeless body, minus half a brain, crashed to the floor.

  Doug blinked. He had thought the bullet was meant for him and was surprised to be still alive, although he quickly realized it was probably only a temporary reprieve.

  “Don’t look so baffled, Landry,” Marshall said, chuckling. “It’s unbecoming—yours is coming soon enough.” He leveled the Walther at him.

  “Why Raskin?” Doug was desperate to keep him talking, although he was losing faith in this strategy; he still had no plan. He couldn’t help glancing at Raskin’s sprawled body and the grisly sight of his shattered skull now resting in a growing pool of blood. Raskin’s eyes were wide open, and a look of surprise could still be made out on his face.

  “Oh, he had quite outlived his usefulness,” Marshall said. “A real liability, if you know what I mean.” Doug turned back in time to see him reach into his lab coat pocket and produce a second gun, a .38 caliber revolver. He pocketed the Walther.

  Doug stared down the gaping barrel of the .38 and realized this one was meant for him. “You planned to kill him all along, didn’t you?”