Killerwatt

by Sharon Woods Hopkins

Then she realized what the woman had said. Green car? What green car?

  The next message was from Woody. “I, uh, sorry about today, Rhetta. Call me and let me know how Randolph is.” That was as close as Woody would get to apologizing for storming out in a huff. She smiled humorlessly. I suppose now he doesn’t think all of this is part of any plot. Purely random occurrences. Right.

  Maybe Woody’s right. Maybe I should forget about everything except getting Randolph better. Her heart lurched. Where was Randolph? She quickened her pace toward the nursing station.

  At the sight of a frowning, tall woman with wild grey hair marching purposefully toward her, Rhetta dropped her phone into her purse. She knew she should’ve turned the thing off, but she didn’t and wouldn’t. Rhetta didn’t give the nurse the opportunity to begin scolding her about the phone. “Excuse me,” Rhetta said, stepping into her path and intercepting the woman. “I’m waiting for my husband, Randolph McCarter. He still isn’t back from getting an MRI.”

  Before the nurse could answer, a soft ping signaled the elevator’s arrival. The doors slid open and a tall man wheeled a bed toward the hallway. Rhetta recognized the dreads and rushed alongside the rolling bed.

  “What did you find?” Rhetta asked, while fixing her eyes on a still unconscious Randolph.

  “The doctor will have to go over everything with you, ma’am,” the attendant said, his tone sympathetic. “I believe Doctor Marinthe is on his way.”

  Once inside the room, the MRI technician wheeled Randolph’s bed back into place. The scowling nurse appeared and with the technician’s help, they began reattaching all the devices. Her scowl melted away as Doctor Marinthe rapped lightly on the door and entered. Rhetta smiled at the nurse, but received none in return. She reminded Rhetta of mean Nurse Ratched in One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest.

  Withdrawing a small flashlight, Doctor Marinthe sat on the bed, facing Randolph, and bent over him. Using his thumb, he gently raised Randolph’s eyelids. He continued his probing and examining in silence. The blood pressure monitor that had been re-attached to Randolph’s arm inflated noisily. When it had released the pressure and deflated, Marinthe studied its results, then logged onto the computer. When he finished typing, he turned toward Rhetta.

  “Mrs. McCarter, we have good news, but also, maybe some not-so-good news. There is no further brain swelling. In fact, the swelling is much reduced. That is the good news. The not-so-good news is that we must wait for the lab results to confirm why your husband is not responding.” He checked his watch and added, “I expect the results any moment.”

  Puzzled, Rhetta said, “Confirm what? Why do you think he’s not responding?”

  Marinthe’s beeper sounded before he could answer. After scanning the message, he turned to the computer, pulled out the keyboard and typed quickly. He studied the screen several moments before speaking.

  “I just got a text to check the results. There is a high concentration of barbiturates in your husband’s blood.” He turned to face Rhetta. “I don’t see anything in his chart indicating that such drugs were prescribed for him.” Marinthe stood, and began moving quickly, pulling a blanket up from the foot of the bed and wrapping Randolph in it. Then he summoned a nurse and returned to the computer screen. His fingers flew over the keyboard.

  “What?” Rhetta stood, bewildered.

  “I am going to give him an infusion of naloxone to counteract the effects of the barbiturates, along with putting him on oxygen.” Marinthe withdrew nasal tubing from a drawer, and began attaching it deftly to the oxygen port above Randolph’s head.

  Nurse Ratched appeared with a syringe and injected its contents into a heparin port on Randolph’s hand.

  Marinthe motioned toward a chair. “Please sit, Mrs. McCarter. You might want to stay here with your husband tonight. He was in a deep sleep, probably a coma, and it will help if you are here to talk to him when he awakens.”

  “Tell me what’s going on. What the hell just happened?” Rhetta knew her tone sounded short, but fear made her go on the offensive.

  Marinthe pulled up a chair alongside her. “When the MRI was normal and the blood work revealed the high level of barbiturates, I realized that your husband may have been given an anesthesia medication like we use for surgery, but in a larger dose. The naloxone should help to get rid of the effects. The oxygen will help to remove the medication from his blood.”

  “Who gave that to him? Will he be all right?” From what Marinthe just told her, she realized someone must have intentionally put Randolph to sleep, maybe even tried to kill him. Was it someone here, in the hospital, someone on staff? Who? Why? The questions bounced around inside her head. Could this, too, have something to do with that damned schematic?

  Doctor Marinthe rose carefully, putting his weight on his good leg, measuring his balance before continuing. “Fortunately, Mrs. McCarter, you were in his room when the alarms began going off. Those alarms indicate a drastic change in blood pressure. A drop in blood pressure can occur as a result of the barbiturates.” He limped to the computer and paused briefly before turning around. “I don’t believe the drug had been in his system long.”

  His blue eyes fixed on her. “There is no record in his chart of any such medication being ordered, especially in his condition.”

  After a beat, he said softly, “It could have killed him.”

  CHAPTER 24

  Rhetta’s mind reeled and her head began pounding. She could barely absorb what had just happened. She felt sickened, like she had descended into a nightmare of hell.

  Doctor Marinthe started toward the door, but instead, turned and made his way back to her. “I will get to the bottom of this,” he said, putting a hand on her shoulder. “I will report this. I think someone made a mistake in the medication. I will initiate an investigation.”

  Rhetta nodded mutely, unable to find her voice. Her gaze followed Marinthe as he walked slowly toward the door, opened it, and then vanished. She stared at the closed door a moment before fixing her eyes on Randolph. He lay still but was breathing regularly. His pale face was partially hidden by the cocoon of blanket around him. Who did this to Randolph? Should she call the FBI? Peter is dead, the FBI agent is dead, and she was sure someone had tried to kill Randolph—twice. Was it someone who worked in the hospital, and was Randolph in even more jeopardy?

  Her stomach burned as she agonized over Randolph, not wanting to leave. Glancing at the door to be sure Nurse Ratched wasn’t on her way back, Rhetta pulled out her phone, then called Kenneth Reed. Her hands felt clammy. Fear did that to her.

  Her call went straight to Kenneth’s voice mail. She didn’t leave a message; she was paranoid that the wrong person might get the message intended for Kenneth. Instead, she asked him to call her back. She slid the phone back into her bag.

  She pulled her chair to Randolph’s bedside and grasped his hand. Randolph moaned lightly, and his eyes began to flutter.

  “Hi Sweets, can you hear me?” she whispered. Her heart raced and the ball of bile grew larger.

  He moaned again, but didn’t awaken.

  * * *

  An hour later, she was still staring intently at Randolph’s sleeping form. Her mind churned over everything that had occurred since Al-Serafi had been killed, her trip to the impound lot, and the start of her world turning on its butt. She replayed everything like a movie looping continuously through her head. Everything was there, like pieces of a puzzle. The most important piece was missing—the key. The reason.

  If only she hadn’t gone to the impound lot to see Al-Serafi’s car for herself. What exactly was she thinking? That Al-Serafi was a terrorist? Her curiosity was the real reason she went. Moreover, she’d dragged Woody along to participate in her nosiness. Al-Serafi had cashed out a large amount of money from refinancing, true, but that didn’t make him a terrorist. The phone call on Woody’s phone? Maybe Woody was right, although he agreed with her initially, that it was suspicious, now, she decided that maybe she overreacte
d.

  Another knot punched her in her stomach. What about Peter LaRose? He’s dead. He saw the schematic. And what about Randolph? When he began asking questions, he had a suspicious car wreck. Now, someone here, at the hospital, for God’s sake, gave him an overdose!

  Gently, she placed her husband’s hand on the bed. She stood and began pacing. If pacing helped Woody think, maybe it’d help her to think, too, to work out this crazy puzzle.

  Al-Serafi’s wrecked car bore a gash identical to the one on Randolph’s truck. Didn’t Randolph say a green SUV had tried to pass him? After all her mental meanderings, she arrived at the same conclusion—that since she had discovered the schematic, Peter was dead, and anyone who had any contact with the schematic was in peril.

  She slipped into the private bathroom and pulled out her phone. Glancing at her watch and discovering it was nearing midnight, she hoped Woody was still awake. He’d told her many times he was a night owl.

  The instant he answered, she knew he hadn’t been asleep.

  “Rhetta, what’s wrong?” Woody’s voice boomed through the phone.

  “You won’t believe what’s happened.” She told him what Randolph had just been through.

  “You can’t leave the judge alone. Let me come up there, so you can get home and shower, change clothes, take a nap. You need to sleep. But don’t you think you ought to call the police?”

  “Woody, the police aren’t going to investigate something here at the hospital until we know what’s happened. Dr. Marinthe is all over this. I trust him. I’ll wait until he finds out who’s behind this.

  “Ok, then. I’m on my way,” Woody said.

  She returned to the chair.

  * * *

  “I’m sorry but visiting hours ended at nine. Only family is allowed in now.” From the tone of the shrill voice, Rhetta knew the woman speaking wasn’t a bit sorry. Two sets of footsteps trekked down the hall toward the room.

  Hearing a commotion just outside the room, Rhetta opened the door to find Nurse Ratched attempting to block Woody from entering the room. Ratched squeezed ahead of Woody and placed both arms on the doorway, as though guarding the entrance to King Tut’s tomb. Woody glared at her and stepped around her. “I’m family,” he said, lying with a straight face. He pushed past her and went on in. Woody’s demeanor must have intimidated Ratched. She didn’t follow him into the room.

  Instead, the woman whirled around and left for parts unknown. The witch probably returned to her lair.

  Stopping abruptly at Randolph’s bed, Woody stared at the array of machinery. He whistled softly. “Sure are a lot of machines.” He found the guest chair and lowered himself into it. Rhetta stayed fixed at Randolph’s bedside. She merely nodded.

  Woody cleared his throat. “I’m sorry about walking out on you earlier. I, uh, I just couldn’t wrap my head around a…a terrorist plot.” He peered at Randolph. He cleared his throat again and whispered, “How’s he doing?”

  “He’s fine for now, but still hasn’t awakened from the overdose,” Rhetta said. She began massaging the outside of Randolph's arm.

  Still massaging, Rhetta turned to Woody. “Thanks for coming here. Someone’s trying to hurt Randolph. It has to be connected to the schematic.”

  Woody held up a palm to stop her. “Wait, you know his blood alcohol level was high, and—”

  Rhetta interrupted him, whispering loudly. “Randolph wasn’t drunk, Woody, and I intend to prove it.” She laid Randolph’s arm gently on the bed, then edged to the window, where she gazed down at the bright lights of downtown Cape. The world below hummed along just as though nothing was out of the ordinary, and no one was trying to kill her husband. And, like there was no terrorist plot. She began doubting herself again. Was she right? She knew whatever was going on had to involve the schematic, but how? Had she stumbled upon a plot by finding the schematic? If so, what was it? She massaged her temples, trying to ease the headache worming around inside her brain.

  Peter’s death was not her imagination. That sobering reality jolted her back on track.

  Rhetta said, “He should sleep for a couple more hours. I’ll run home and shower and change, and be back.” She left her spot at the window to retrieve her purse, which was hanging on Woody’s chair. “Call me right away if he wakes up?”

  “Of course,” Woody said, scooting aside to release the purse strap he’d sat on.

  “Thanks,” she said, touching Woody’s shoulder. He nodded.

  Leaving the room, she didn’t see Ratched or anyone else so she ducked into the AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY stairwell. She trudged down the stairs to the next floor. Before pushing the doors, she peered through the window to see if the coast was clear.

  The triage area was alive with medical personnel attending to a gurney wheeled in from the ambulance and backed up to the open emergency room doorway. A young man lay unconscious on it, his head and arms bloody. She heard someone call, “Accident victim, possible DUI. We’ll have to draw blood for a B.A.C.”

  She recognized her friend Doctor David Islip, the emergency room physician who was attending the patient. A phlebotomist materialized with her kit of tubes and dabbed the victim’s inside arm with iodine. The technician inserted a vacuum syringe and began withdrawing blood. When finished, the technician gently lay the man’s arm down on the gurney. The patient’s chest rose and fell erratically. He murmured incoherently.

  Rhetta stared at the injured man’s arm, at the orange stain marking the location where the blood had been withdrawn.

  She shut the door and sprinted up the stairs.

  Bursting into Randolph’s room, she startled Woody, who leapt up, nearly knocking the chair over.

  She snatched Randolph’s covering back and gaped at his left inner arm. Then she rounded the bed and peered at his other arm.

  Both of his arms were clean.

  CHAPTER 25

  “Woody, look at his arms. They’re clean, no orange stain,” Rhetta said.

  “So?” Woody looked confused. His gaze swiveled from Rhetta to Randolph’s arms.

  “See, here?” She pointed to Randolph’s inner elbow. “There’s no iodine stain. Whoever pulled his blood for the blood alcohol test didn’t use iodine.” She pushed the call button.

  “What are you doing?” Woody sat back in the chair, and rubbed his head with his handkerchief.

  “Calling Doctor Marinthe. I need to ask him about this.”

  Ratched appeared, lips pursed and raising an eyebrow at Rhetta. How can she scowl and raise an eyebrow? That must take practice. Rhetta didn’t wait for the nurse to speak. “I need to see Doctor Marinthe, right away.” The woman’s scowl morphed into a façade of concern as she padded up alongside Randolph’s bed. Her manner had also changed to one of efficiency. She checked his pulse, then scanned the machinery. When she finished, she looked up, seeming puzzled. “What seems to be the problem, Mrs. McCarter?”

  Woody answered for Rhetta, staring down at Ratched from his full height. “My sister, here, needs to speak to the doctor right now. Please get him.”

  Ratched merely nodded and hurried out. Woody must have had authority in his voice, for within minutes they heard a page for Doctor Marinthe.

  When Marinthe arrived moments later, Rhetta tugged him to her husband’s bedside. The doctor wore a look first of surprise, then one of concern.

  Presenting her husband’s arm for his assessment, Rhetta asked, “Do you notice anything?” She lifted her husband’s arm and pointed.

  Marinthe appeared puzzled, glancing from the arm to Rhetta. “What is it? Is he all right?”

  “He’s the same, Doctor. What I want you to see is that my husband’s arms are clean.” She heard her voice rise and fought to keep it under control. “He hasn’t had a shower, or anything, yet.”

  “Yes, I see that.” Marinthe frowned. “I’m sorry, I’m not following you. What is the significance to you that his arms are clean?”

  Rhetta lay Randolph’s arm down, and
tucked the sheet around him. “I just saw a lab tech draw blood on an accident victim downstairs. She used iodine to swab the area before she pulled blood for a blood alcohol test. That’s when it hit me that Randolph’s arms didn’t have any orange iodine stain from where blood was pulled from him.” She stared at Marinthe and continued. “If alcohol was used instead of iodine to disinfect the skin before pulling blood, couldn’t some of the alcohol be transferred into the sample?” Her right temple pounded, and she reached up to massage it.

  Marinthe answered, “That’s possible, of course. The protocol is to swab with iodine when testing for B.A.C.” He picked up Randolph’s arm and rubbed the inside. He did the same to the other.

  “There has been no iodine on his arms,” he said, and turned to Rhetta.

  “Let’s do another B.A.C. right now,” she said.

  Marinthe glanced at his watch, then at the chart at the foot of Randolph’s bed, which had the patient’s name, room, and bed number and the time he was admitted.

  “It’s been too long. The test will not reveal anything now,” Marinthe said. “It’s been over twenty-four hours. If there was any alcohol in his blood when he came in, it would now be gone from his system.”

  Marinthe glanced from Rhetta to Woody, who spoke first. “So there’s no way of double checking the test?”

  “We have to go with what they have?” Rhetta asked. She sat and lowered her throbbing head to her chest and used both hands to massage her temples.

  “Judge McCarter is screwed,” Woody said, and began to pace.

  “No, Woody, he’s not.” Rhetta set her jaw. She willed her headache to dissolve.

  Turning to Marinthe, she said, “To quote two American icons, Lenny Kravitz and Yogi Berra, ‘It ain’t over ’til it’s over.’ And, Doctor Marinthe? I assure you, it ain’t over.”

  CHAPTER 26

  To an exhausted Rhetta, the dark county road leading to their property stretched endlessly. Eventually, she spotted her driveway. Before continuing down to the house, she stopped at the big country mailbox and withdrew a bundle of mail. She tossed it onto the passenger seat. Then she drove slowly up their long gravel drive. Ahead, her home glowed warmly from landscape lights surrounding the walks and driveway. The sight normally filled her with pleasure. Tonight, however, the lighting filled her with overwhelming sadness as she thought about Randolph lying in the hospital, and the possibility of never having him home again.