“My mother’s a drunk,” Nina had told him. “A violent drunk. I’ve never known her any other way. She pushed my father down the porch steps one time in broad daylight. Broke his wrist so bad he couldn’t handle his woodworking tools for a year.” She’d rested her head in the crook of his arm...now, sitting in the truck in a riot of reflected neon, Will could almost feel its precious weight. “Sometimes she came after us girls. I was terrified of her, but Claudia wasn’t afraid. She used to hide me. We lived in the country and Claudia had dozens of great hiding places. Claudia used to hide me and take the lumps for us both.”
Will thought, Claudia, you lying bitch. Get ready to take your lumps.
* * *
Claudia Rider was a spinster. Forty-one and never been kissed, she often joked. This wasn’t completely true, of course, but to Claudia, a large, powerfully built woman with a beak nose and a bawdy laugh, it sometimes seemed that way. Living alone was not a conscious decision so much as it was a consequence of being Claudia Rider. For starters, she was sloppy. Outrageously so. She seldom bathed. She had a house full of cats and absolutely no regard for the clock. Her livelihood—creating stained glass windows—was also her passion, and she went at each new project with an obsessive fervor, often working through the night. As her reputation grew and the jobs started rolling in, her studio space spilled over to include her entire house. There were chunks of lead and bits of stained glass everywhere and the reek of solder permeated everything. Who could live with that? But she was a marvel with kids, generous to a fault—and she did not scare easily, a quality she had her mother to thank for.
That was why, when Will Armstrong appeared at her door at two-thirty in the morning Claudia was awake, unsurprised and not the least bit intimidated. She opened the door to the limit of the chain and asked him what he wanted.
“My wife,” Will said, his red eyes flashing over her head, trying to see into the house. “And my boys. I know they’re here, Claudia, and I’m not leaving this time until you send them out.” He pressed his face into the gap. “Am I getting through here? Bitch?”
Claudia said, “Listen, you bully. Nobody pushes me around and nobody calls me a bitch. So tell your story walking.”
She started to push the door shut and Will got his fingers into the gap. He hunched his shoulders, preparing to ram his way through—but Claudia was a heartbeat faster. She drove her weight against the door and slammed it on Will’s fingers. There was a scream and the fingers were withdrawn. Claudia closed the door and locked it.
“Fucking bitch,” Will bawled. He drove his foot into the heavy door. “Open this door.”
“You clear out of here, Will Armstrong, right now, or I’m calling the cops. I shit thee not.”
Will clumped down the steps to the lawn and hollered at the second story windows. “Nina. Get your shit together and come down here, right now. Jeffrey? Jerry? Get down here. I mean it.”
A window went up across the street. “Hey, asshole. There’s people tryna sleep over here.”
“Fuck you.” Will bent over the flower bed and unearthed one of the bordering bricks. “I’m gonna count to three,” he shouted. “One, two, three.” Then he tossed the brick through Claudia’s living room window. “You think I’m fucking around out here?”
He waited a few seconds and stalked back to the Suburban for his tire iron. He’d just started up the porch steps when a police cruiser rolled into the driveway.
When the cops got out with their hands on their guns, Will tossed the tire iron on the lawn and sat on the steps.
* * *
It was dawn when the two police officers led Will out of Claudia’s house. By then the rain had stopped and the day looked fine. After much discussion—and a solemn promise from Will to pay for the broken window—Claudia decided not to press charges. Because Will was a doctor, the officers elected to leave it at that. They did, however, point out to Will in no uncertain terms that at the very least they could charge him with impaired. They seated him in the back of the cruiser and drove him home, leaving him with a stern warning that when he returned for the Suburban he’d best do it sober and without disturbing his sister-in-law. Will was suitably contrite. He nodded in all the right places. But at least he’d gotten inside the house.
He already knew where he’d look for them next.
* * *
Shortly after dawn on Sunday morning Nina was awakened by the phone. To her surprise the twins were already awake, lying like dolls on their motel bed, staring mutely at the ceiling.
She picked up the receiver and said hello. It was Claudia.
“Hi, kid.”
“Claud. What’s up?”
“Will was here a while ago. I had to call the cops.”
“Oh, shit. Did he...?”
“I’m okay, but listen. Steer clear of the fucker. He’s losing it.”
“Okay, Sis’. Thanks for calling.”
Nina hung up and saw the boys’ big, weary eyes on her.
“Can we go home now?” Jeffrey said. “I miss Daddy.”
“Soon,” Nina said. “Soon, honey boy.”
She patted her bed and the boys jumped in with her, one on either side.
13
WHEN ROB HARDIE GOT TO work on Monday morning, he was more than a little surprised to find Jack Fallon asleep on the couch in the doctors’ lounge. Considering what he’d just been through—losing the baby, his wife coming to the OR in hemorrhagic shock—Rob hadn’t expected to see the man at work for at least a couple of days. He tried to creep past him into the change room.
“It’s okay, Rob,” Jack said. “Just resting my eyes.”
Startled, Rob said, “Jesus, Jack, I...”
Jack sat up. “I know. You don’t have to say anything. It’s not the first time this has happened.”
“How’s Jen?”
“Fine. Like I said, we’ve been through this before.”
“Okay. If there’s anything I can do, just let me know. Are you sure you feel up to working today?”
“Of course. Why wouldn’t I?”
“All right, Jack. See you around.”
“Yeah. And Rob. Thanks for looking after my wife on Friday night.”
“Glad to do it,” Rob said, thinking he’d felt more gratitude from the guy he’d allowed to pull ahead of him in traffic this morning on his way to work.
* * *
The staff gave up early on offering their condolences to Dr. Fallon. The man’s remoteness was palpable. He spoke only when spoken to, his replies curt, and once his first case was under way he spent most of his time with his nose in a book. He was in neuro today, doing an unfortunate young woman with a pituitary tumor, and Karli, the circulating nurse, could tell his mind was a thousand miles away. He’d turned the page only once in the past twenty minutes and hadn’t looked up in twice that long. Secretly, Karli wished she could comfort him, but she knew that was not her place.
She sighed. The surgeon today was Dr. Stoddart, a man who gave new meaning to the word slow. In all probability this case would still be ongoing long after Karli had climbed alone into bed with a glass of hot milk and a Harlequin.
She sat on her stool and watched Dr. Fallon, wondering if he even knew she existed.
* * *
In another part of the hospital a day care patient by the name of Dan Doogan drew the curtain on a change cubicle, stripped off his street clothes and examined the hospital johnny the nurse had given him. He decided the open part went around back and did his best to suit himself up. The sleeves were too tight for his massive arms and he could barely reach the tie strings that dangled at his back. But with a little perseverance, he managed.
Dan knew he was no Einstein—he’d dropped out of school in the tenth grade—but perseverance, and a generous helping of will power, had served him well. At twenty-nine he owned a thriving gym, had a wife and three gorgeous kids, drove a forest green Lexus in the summer and a top-of-the-line GM pickup in the winter. His wife, Carole, was a model, and
between them they banked over three hundred thousand a year. Life was good.
Except Dan came from a long line of Doogans with gallbladder disease, and his had finally caught up with him. He was getting attacks almost daily now and it was interfering with his training, never mind his business. His doctor told him the longer he waited the more likely he was to get into serious trouble. Gallbladders could rupture, the doctor said, and when that happened you were in a world of grief. Getting it done electively, through something called a laparoscope, he’d be discharged the same day with only a few tiny incisions, ready to get back into training in three weeks tops. His next contest wasn’t for another eight months, so he decided, what the hell, get the damn thing over with.
Except Dan hated needles; he hated doctors; he hated pain.
“Are you ready, Mister Doogan?”
In his cubicle Dan jumped. His hands were clammy and his bare feet left shiny sweat prints wherever he stepped. He pulled the curtain aside.
The admitting nurse, a petite blond of about twenty, eyed him up and down. Dan was used to that. People did it all the time. At six-foot-three, two hundred and twenty pounds of ripped muscle, Dan cut an imposing figure. He was four-time Canadian heavyweight bodybuilding champion and spent two hours a day, five days a week, working out in his own gym. Of course people stared.
Dan gathered the flaps of his gown into one ham fist and did his best to cover his tush. “As ready as I’m gonna get,” he said. “So what’s next?”
They’d already weighed him in, recorded his vital signs, taken two tubes of blood and made him sign a consent. What was next? Though the surgeon had explained the procedure in detail, Dan had no idea what to expect. It was one thing to discuss a horror show like this in a nice air-conditioned office, with three weeks breathing space ahead of you, and another thing entirely, as Dan was quickly learning, to actually go through it.
“Next we take you downstairs,” the nurse said. “They’re waiting for you now.”
* * *
The operating suite was cold and brightly lit, with a jointed table that looked like an autopsy slab, an anesthetic machine, a tall cart with a TV screen on it, and an instrument table on wheels. A scrub nurse stood at the instrument table with her back to him. Dan caught a glimpse of steel trokars and glinting instruments and jerked his gaze away.
The nurse said, “Okay, Dan, I want you to climb up here and lie down.” She patted the operating table. It was padded, but looked uncomfortable.
Still trying to hide his backside, Dan complied. Surgical spots hovered overhead like miniature spacecraft. Looking up at those lights Dan was reminded of a movie he’d seen as a kid, a sci-fi thriller about a guy who’s abducted by aliens, strapped to a table exactly like this one and then fucked full of space eggs.
He’d actually started to sit up when the anesthesiologist entered the room.
“Hi, Dan,” the small Asian woman said. She looked about seventeen. “I’m Doctor Ho and I’ll be looking after your anesthetic.”
Great, Dan thought, his level of agitation approaching the redline. She’s not even tall enough to do this job...is she? Her name reminded him of an Eddie Murphy skit he’d seen—“I wanna be a Ho”—and he had to bite his lip against a sudden, hysterical bray of laughter.
He said, “That’s nice.”
Then she asked him the same questions he’d already answered, adding a few new wrinkles—“Do you use any street drugs? Has anyone in your family ever died under anesthesia?”—and finished up with a quick examination of his heart and lungs.
Then they were gluing electrodes to his chest, snugging a tourniquet around his arm, trying to wrap a blood pressure cuff around his enormous bicep.
Dan concentrated on Dr. Ho. She flicked a vein on the back of his hand, said, “Little pick,” and before he could brace himself jabbed a needle through his skin.
“You’ll be going off to sleep now,” the doctor said, and Dan could feel it coming in a hot swarm, filling his crevices with numbness. Sounds grew louder and incredibly harsh—chattering voices, the clang of instruments, gases hissing—and now a big black mask was coming down on his face. His last perception was of the spotlights going on. He could feel their heat...
Then he was gone.
* * *
Dr. Aileen Ho inflated Dan’s lungs with oxygen for about sixty seconds. Then she inserted an E-tube into his trachea, connected it to the breathing circuit and set the Forane vaporizer at two percent. For the next sixty seconds she manually inflated his lungs, squeezing the reservoir bag and watching the smooth excursions of his chest. To further ensure the proper placement of the tube, she listened to his chest with her stethoscope as she bagged him.
The circulating nurse folded Dan’s gown up to his chin, exposing his naked body. “Wow,” she said, prepping his belly with an iodine solution now. “Is this guy built or what.”
“Prep a little lower,” the scrub nurse said. “I think you’re waking it up.”
The circulating nurse said, “I meant his muscles, you pig.”
“Love muscle,” the scrub nurse said and chuckled. She toed the intercom button, telling the desk clerk to have the surgeon scrub his hands.
Smiling at the nurses’ comments, Dr. Ho switched the breathing circuit from manual to mechanical ventilation and set the rate for ten breaths a minute.
Almost instantly the high pressure alarm sounded, a piercingly shrill note, and Dr. Ho spun toward the panel of alarms. The ventilator bellows had collapsed, and in the split second before the alarm sounded the doctor thought she’d heard a low, blunted detonation in her patient’s chest, like dynamite going off underground.
Still unsure of what she was dealing with, Dr. Ho threw the lever back to manual and resumed bagging her patient. It was like trying to force air into a bag of sand.
The nurses were silent, stock-still, anxiously watching Dr. Ho. The oscilloscope, previously showing a normal cardiac rhythm, now indicated electrical chaos.
Frightened and confused, Dr. Ho squeezed the reservoir bag again, this time eliciting a wet gurgling sound from deep in the patient’s chest. When the breath was exhaled, bloody froth bubbled up into the E-tube.
Dr. Ho’s almond-shaped eyes grew round. She muttered something in her native Chinese, then said, “Get some help in here. Hurry.”
The circulating nurse burst out into the central corridor, shouting for assistance. The scrub nurse punched a red button on the wall, sounding a general alarm.
Dr. Ho stripped off her mask, her oval face porcelain. She switched off everything but the oxygen and squeezed the bag, the bell of her stethoscope pressed to Dan’s chest. Until she knew what she was up against there was little else she could do.
With each breath she administered, something deep in Dan’s chest burbled sickeningly. The exhalations were wet and asthmatic. The saturation monitor showed a steady decline in circulating oxygen, an ominous sign. And now, with each parcel of air she forced into Dan’s lungs, his upper body seemed to be swelling.
Subcutaneous emphysema, Dr. Ho thought, understanding now what had happened. Oh, God. Dear God.
Jack Fallon was the first to arrive in the room. The alarm on the saturation monitor was whining now, and foamy blood had sudzed its way back through the clear-plastic circuit as far as the reservoir bag.
“There was a high pressure surge when I switched on the ventilator,” Dr. Ho told him. “It blew him up, Jack. It blew him up.”
Jack took over bagging Dan Doogan, whose wife had taken the day off work to wait for him in the hospital cafeteria. She’d promised to take him to Baskin & Robbins afterward for a Pralines & Cream cone, Dan’s favorite.
Jack squeezed the reservoir bag, watching Dan’s scrotum inflate like a hideous party favor. “This is pointless,” he said. “He must have taken full wall pressure.” At their source the oxygen and nitrous oxide gases were under tremendous pressure. A series of spring loaded valves normally protected the patient from a sudden surge. “He’s all
broken up.” He stopped squeezing the bag. “It’s useless to persist, Aileen. You’ll only make it worse—”
“No, I’ll bag him. You call one of the chest surgeons. Call Chevrette, he’s the best...” Her voice trailed off.
Dan’s tissue planes were filling up with gas, bloating his neck, impregnating his plank-hard abdomen. It tracked out into his limbs, swelling them. His scrotum was already the size of a grapefruit. The pressure spike had blown out his lungs, causing a billion capillary hemorrhages, reducing delicate lung tissue to bloody tapioca. It had opened a rent in the muscular cowling of his diaphragm, allowing the gas to leak into his belly. It had ruined him. Dan Doogan looked like a demonic version of the Michelin man.
“Stop,” Jack said, taking Dr. Ho by the wrist. “It’s over. There’s nothing more we can do.” He cranked the oxygen flow meter to zero. The oscilloscope showed a glowing flat line.
Jack escorted Dr. Ho out of the room.
* * *
Jack returned to the abandoned suite a few minutes later. The automatic blood pressure cuff was inflated—in the confusion no one had thought to turn it off—and it’s alarm sounded, the digital pulse and pressure readouts showing a solid bank of flashing red zeros.
Jack turned it off. He turned the oscilloscope off, too.
Then he uncoupled the breathing circuit from the tube in Dan’s throat. The frothy mix of tissue fluid and blood from Dan’s lungs had collapsed into a thin, claret-colored solution that puddled in the corrugations. When Jack removed the circuit some of it dribbled onto the floor.
Aiming the circuit away from himself, Jack flipped the ventilator lever from MANUAL to AUTO. Instantly a tremendous blast of dry gases whistled through the light-weight circuit, tearing it from Jack’s grasp. The accumulated gore spat through the aperture in a nebulized cloud, freckling the walls, spattering the ceiling and floor.
Sandman Page 13