Paramedic Killer

by Patterson, Pat

  PARAMEDIC KILLER BY PAT PATTERSON

  Published by Lighthouse Publishing of the Carolinas

  2333 Barton Oaks Dr., Raleigh, NC, 27614

  ISBN: 978-1-941103-49-4

  Copyright © 2015 by Pat Patterson

  Cover design by Elaina Lee, Forthemusedesign.com

  Interior design by Karthick Srinivasan

  Available in print from your local bookstore, online, or from the publisher at: www.lighthousepublishingofthecarolinas.com

  For more information on this book and the author

  visit: http://www.amazon.com/Pat-Patterson/e/B00KYWXFR4/

  All rights reserved. Non-commercial interests may reproduce portions of this book without the express written permission of Lighthouse Publishing of the Carolinas, provided the text does not exceed 500 words. When reproducing text from this book, include the following credit line: “Paramedic Killer by Pat Patterson published by Lighthouse Publishing of the Carolinas. Used by permission.”

  Commercial interests: No part of this publication may be reproduced in any form, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form by any means—electronic, photocopy, recording, or otherwise—without prior written permission of the publisher, except as provided by the United States of America copyright law.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, and incidents are all products of the author’s imagination or are used for fictional purposes. Any mentioned brand names, places, and trade marks remain the property of their respective owners, bear no association with the author or the publisher, and are used for fictional purposes only.

  Scripture quotations are taken from the HOLY BIBLE NEW INTERNATIONAL VERSION r. NIVr Copyright c 1973, 1978, 1984 by International Bible Society. Used by permission of Zondervan Publishing House. All rights reserved

  Brought to you by the creative team at Lighthouse Publishing of the Carolinas: Brian Cross, Leslie L. McKee, Shonda Savage, and Eddie Jones.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Author’s Patterson, Pat.

  Paramedic Killer / Pat Patterson 1st ed.

  For my Unit…

  Your unfailing loyalty, understanding, and patience make me a better man.

  You know who you are. I love you.

  Author’s Note

  THIS IS A work of fiction. East Beach, Core Creek Island, Cedar Creek, and many of the other locations and details in this story are figments of my imagination, though some of the workings of the hospital, law enforcement, and EMS agencies portrayed are based on fact. The characters are entirely fictitious, with one exception. My main character, Jim Stockbridge, is based on my onetime EMS partner and friend, Andrew James Stocks. A.J. has moved on before us, but his spirit still lives in the pages of my novels.

  I would like to thank Paramedic Kevin Keith, of Durham County EMS, for his assistance in the development of the characters and the “color” in this novel, as well as Sergeant Eric Sweden of Raleigh PD, for sharing his knowledge of the intricacies of law enforcement and gang intervention. Additional thanks go to an old friend with the U.S. Drug Enforcement Agency, whose name has been withheld for security reasons. His inspiration has provided much of the friendship and excitement found in the Medic-7 series. You know who you are, buddy. The world is a safer place because of you.

  Finally, this novel would not have been possible without the support and encouragement of my old sailing companion, Eddie Jones. Together we have written, edited, and argued over more characters, scenes, and plots than either of us could have ever imagined. So, thank you, Eddie. You are a good friend and collaborator. Here’s to writing, to sailing, and to making our next bold quest happen. May there always be red wine in your galley, and fresh wind in your sails.

  I would like to thank the following authors for their support of Paramedic Killer

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  CHAPTER

  1

  FRIDAY, AUGUST 1, 2009—05:26—HIGHWAY 101 (Carteret County, N.C.) “There’s nobody in there, Annie. The place is a graveyard.” Paramedic Jim Stockbridge gave the padlocked chain a yank. Secure. He glanced at the boatyard office. Dark. And except for the two Doberman pinschers prowling amongst the dry-docked vessels on the other side of the yard, it appeared to be empty. Not a soul was in sight. Just for fun he issued a sharp whistle. The watchdogs looked up and darted for the gate, pouncing against the chain-linked fence like wild animals on raw meat. Jim jumped back, as much out of instinct as to avoid being sprayed with foamy saliva. He glanced at Corporal Annie Archer and laughed. “Are you going in there?”

  “Not without a 12-gauge.”

  Annie wore a conservative blue uniform, a ballistic vest, and a .40 caliber Glock that had been used more than once. Jim liked her. He always had. They had grown up together on the same street, just a few miles from where they were standing. They had learned to swim together, to sail, to rake clams and fish, and as teenagers to skinny-dip in the briny Newport River. Jim had known Annie since they were kids, and he had loved her for half of that. But despite the fact that she was the first girl he had ever kissed, and that they had dated on and off for years, they had managed to keep their adult relationship at a safe distance. It had been a mutual decision. They were professionals working in the same town, and they had agreed long ago to keep it that way. Still, as he checked her out and saw her checking him back, he couldn’t help but realize there was still a bright spark flickering. They were flirting again, and as far as he was concerned, that was fine.

  Annie sighed and pulled a pack of gum from her pocket. “Want one?”

  “No thanks.”

  “I see you’re still fighting. Get that black eye in the ring last night?”

  “Wednesday. How’ve you been?”

  “Surviving. Jack left me, you know.”

  “I didn’t know. I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be. He was a loser.”

  “Okay then, here’s an idea for you—” Jim glanced at the dogs. All snarling had ceased. They sat by the gate on their haunches, silently eavesdropping on the conversation. “Let’s get together for dinner sometime. Old friends.”

  “What would your girlfriend think?”

  “Who, Ashlee?”

  “That cute little blonde I saw you with at the Dock Side.”

  “Yeah. No, she ditched me. She wanted to settle down. I didn’t.”

  “But there is someone … you’ve got your eye on someone new.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Because I’ve seen that look in your eyes before, buddy.”

  Jim grinned as he pictured the beautiful young ER doc he’d met just that night—also blonde, but with green eyes, a perfect figure, and the prettiest face he had ever seen. “Maybe.”

  “Knew it. What’s her name?”

  “Valerie.”

  “Valerie? She sounds like a sissy.” Annie kicked the fence and hissed at the dogs. The animals leapt to their feet and resumed their mad attack on the chain links. “If someone was in there, these dogs ate ’em already.” She keyed her radio mic. “Beaufort-3, clear and available. All right,” she said releasing the mic. “You guys be careful. I need to get back into town. Apparently some lady came home and found her husband cheating on her. She stabbed the poor guy in the crotch.”

  “Terrific. Hey—” Jim took her hand and gently fondled her fi
ngers. “I meant it. Dinner soon?”

  “Like you said…” Annie jerked her hand free. “We’ll see. I don’t play second fiddle anymore.”

  Annie blew him a kiss and then turned and jumped into her car. She flipped it around and raced up the dirt road leading to the highway. Jim heard a sharp squeal as the tires hit the pavement. A loud roar from the big-block engine and she was gone. He glanced at his partner. “We should’ve been cops.”

  Devon Washington rolled his eyes. “You are such a ladies’ man. How do you do it?”

  Jim shrugged.

  “Medic-seven…” Devon rolled his eyes as he keyed his radio.

  “Stand by,” the East Beach dispatcher responded. “Sending out a call right now … EMS report for Medic-eight and Engine-thirteen … ten-fifty with injuries. Highway 101 at the Loop. Caller reports two vehicles with multiple casualties. Respond code-three.”

  Jim glanced at Devon. “That’s just over the bridge.”

  “So?”

  The radio crackled again. “Medic-eight en route from quarters.”

  “Devon, we should take it.”

  “Jim, Newport’s been quiet all night. Let them handle it. It’s eight’s call anyway.”

  “We’re almost on top of it.” Jim started toward the ambulance keying his mic as he walked. “Medic-seven to dispatch…”

  “Go ahead, seven.”

  “We’re cleared from Bill’s. You can reassign that call to us. We’re closer than eight.”

  “Ten-four … eight do you copy?”

  Jim heard a muffled, “Copy. Thanks, seven. We’ll start that way just in case you need backup.”

  Devon cursed and climbed into the ambulance. Jim climbed behind the wheel, turned the truck around, and punched it. East Beach-7 stormed up the dirt service road like a beast, crashing through a half dozen potholes before rolling onto the pavement and gaining serious traction. He pointed the truck for the Core Creek Bridge and pushed the gas pedal to the floor. Devon flipped a few switches on the dash and the vehicle lit up the night. The siren wailed. The truck crested the high rise and raced down the other side, the long desolate highway beyond Core Creek an eerie dark runway.

  “Sorry, Dev. It’s the right thing to do.”

  “Whatever, let’s just get it over with.”

  The sky flashed. A raindrop splattered against the windshield. Jim thought about Devon’s reaction. He hoped he’d never feel that way. He glanced at the speedometer—75 mph—backed off the accelerator as they entered a sharp wet turn, and then accelerated again as the highway straightened. “So, do you think I should ask her out?”

  “You just did.”

  “Not Annie. Valerie.”

  “You mean the ER doc? Jim, you just met her tonight. Give her a minute.”

  “I don’t have a minute. Yes or no?”

  “No.”

  “Why?”

  “Because she’s a doctor.”

  “So?”

  “So ask her. But I’m telling you, bro, that girl’s way outta your league. She prob’ly makes $250K. Whatchu make, fifty?”

  “Forty-five.”

  “Man, do we really need all that noise?” Devon switched off the siren. Jim switched off the emergency lights. “Look, Jim, what you need is a poor little girl that ain’t used to all that fancy stuff. Dr. Vick prob’ly drives a Mercedes. You drive a redneck Chevy pickup.”

  “Dodge.”

  Devon was dead on, but the fact was, even with Annie fresh on his mind, Jim couldn’t push the image of Dr. Valerie Vick aside. She had made a hard imprint on his mind. “I’m asking her, man. Tomorrow morning, soon as we—”

  “Look out! Stop! Stop! Stop!”

  Jim’s eyes flew open wide. He stood on the brakes. The ambulance swerved and screeched to a halt inches from a mangled pile of hissing steel on the centerline of the highway. Steam rose from a pair of busted radiators. He felt certain he was seeing things when he spotted a teenager in plaid yellow boxers standing atop the wreckage yanking at the twisted steel.

  “What the—”

  “Is that a kid?”

  “Call it in, Dev.” Jim threw the truck into reverse and backed away fifty feet. Then he set the brake, hit the high beams, and flipped a toggle switch on the dash to activate the truck’s emergency lights. “Come when you can, man.”

  Jim grabbed his Mag-Lite and climbed from the truck. The first sensation he experienced was the odor of fresh gasoline, that and the alternating red and white strobes flashing the nearby trees. The white passenger van sitting in the middle of the highway resembled a crushed coffee can, its front end crumpled inward by a mangled blue sedan smashed into its grill. Jim knew he should back away and wait for heavy rescue—firefighters with specialized suppressants, rescue materials, and cutting tools for managing hazardous scenes—but he felt something driving him forward. He trotted close to the wreck and shouted, “Hey kid! Get down from there!”

  “Help me,” the boy yelled. “My family’s in there!”

  “It’s not safe, get down!”

  Jim heard a screen door slam. He glanced at a nearby house and saw a middle-aged man in striped pajama pants jump off the front porch and run across the yard bare-chested. “Finally! What took you guys so long?”

  “Sir,” Jim yelled. “Stay back.”

  “Knave,” the man shouted at the kid. “Get down from there, boy! That’s my nephew’s van,” he exclaimed dashing onto the pavement. “My wife’s in there!”

  “Your wife?”

  “My whole family. Do something, please!”

  The boy jumped off the van and landed beside Jim. He looked bigger up close—about sixteen, braces on his teeth, sharp green eyes, and black, shoulder length hair. His body looked tense and ready, his fists tightly flexed. “Mom’s in there, Dad. I can hear her!”

  “Hang on. Everybody calm down,” Jim insisted. “Sir, what’s your name?”

  “Canaday. Mac Canaday.”

  “Okay, Mr. Canaday, I’m Jim. How many people are in the van?”

  “My wife Wendy Jo, her pregnant sister and her husband…”

  “Dad, Grandpa’s in there too. And Robert and Lisa.”

  “My dad, my nephew Robbie, and niece Lisa … and that there’s—” Canaday gasped. “That’s my nephew, Adam.”

  Jim spotted a small body. He played his flashlight across the curly redhead and freckly white arms that protruded from between the backseats.

  “Lord Jesus,” Canaday cried. “Help him. He’s only six!”

  The child groaned. Saliva bubbled from his lips. His eyes, wide and fixed, bulged from their pressurized sockets. “Devon,” Jim shouted. “We need heavy rescue. Now.”

  “Do something!” Canaday shouted.

  Jim moved to the front of the van and peered inside the driver’s compartment. The passenger groaned. His eyes looked stunned. His chest moved freely—no gasping, no struggling—and all four extremities seemed to be intact, but his forehead displayed a deep vertical gash that seeped dark red blood. Jim moved the beam of his flashlight across the cab. The driver looked pale as a sheet. His right arm hung limp by his side, bent at an obscene angle. Both of his legs appeared to be pinned beneath the dash. A deep gash oozed blood beneath his right kneecap.

  “Knave?” Jim called, glancing over his shoulder. “Come here.”

  “Yes sir!”

  “Put your hand here,” he said, taking Knave’s hand and placing it over the bleeding wound. “Push hard. I’ll be right back. And whatever you do, don’t try to move him.” Jim turned to Canaday. “Sir, follow me.”

  Jim ran to the other vehicle and glanced inside. He counted three mangled bodies. One was missing an arm and a leg, the others were so entangled with steel and broken glass he could hardly identify them as human. He felt himself cringe. So much blood. So much death. He left the car and ran around the wreck to the driver’s side of the van. The victim sat behind the steering wheel, breathing rapidly. His head bobbed up and down. The skin on his freckled fo
rehead looked swollen and red, his lower lip bloody and torn.

  Jim glanced at Canaday. “What’s his name?”

  “Bobby. He’s my nephew, Bobby.”

  “Bobby?” Jim said leaning inside the cab. “Can you hear me, fella?”

  “My brothers,” Bobby muttered, wincing with pain. “Help Billy and Adam.”

  “Mr. Canaday,” Jim said, wrapping his hands firmly around Bobby’s head. “Climb in behind him and hold his head like this, sir. Talk to him. Don’t let him move.”

  “But we need to get him out.”

  “No sir. He needs to be boarded. There’s a good chance he has a spinal injury. I want you to—” Jim heard a loud grunt. He glanced at the other side of the compartment and saw Knave pulling Billy through the narrow opening of the bent window frame. “No Knave! Don’t!”

  Knave ignored the order. Frustrated, Jim gave the driver’s door a yank. It wouldn’t budge. He reached inside and scanned Bobby for injuries. One leg appeared to be pinned; otherwise he looked better than expected. He heard a siren and glanced over his shoulder. An East Beach EMS supervisor’s vehicle raced to the scene and skidded to a stop. A heavyset man wearing a white shirt and black trousers climbed out of the unit and trotted over. “Stockbridge,” Supervisor Tom Bowers shouted. “What do you need?”

  “Tom, thanks man. Get both spine boards and the stretcher.”

  “What about the other vehicle?”

  “They’re gone.”

  Bowers took off for the truck. “Sorry,” Devon exclaimed running up behind Jim. “I was setting the highway flares.”

  “Never mind. Go take care of that passenger. He’s bleeding and the kid’s breaking his neck!”

  “Fellas, listen to me,” Canaday exclaimed. “I’m begging you! Get these boys out right now! There’s too much gas. If one of those batteries sparks, this thing could blow!”

  “Mister,” Devon shouted. “Get back right now or I’ll have you arrested. Sheriff deputies will be here any minute.”

  Canaday turned and swung wildly, striking Devon’s chin, dropping him. Jim grabbed Canaday by the arm and twisted it behind his back to take him down, but Canaday’s strength was too much for him. Another fist flew and a pummeling fist smashed Jim in the cheek. He fell to the ground stunned, eyes tearing, nose bleeding. Through the blur, he saw the big man turn and grab the driver by the arms. He heard Bobby scream. Tears flooded Jim’s eyes, but he could still see clearly enough to see Canaday swing a third time, decking Tom Bowers. Bowers fell beside Devon. Jim wiped his eyes and stood. “All right, mister. You wanna play?” Canaday rushed him, but this time Jim was ready. With the force of a pile driver he bent low and thrust a ramrod side-kick at the incoming bear’s belly. The force of Canaday’s excess weight knocked Jim backward as if he’d been hit by a truck, but his kick was not without effect. Canaday grunted and bent over, holding his belly. Jim was about to rush back in for more when he heard the deep-throated roar of V-8 engines racing up behind him. He glanced down the highway and saw two sets of headlights racing his way. The vehicles pulled up and skidded to a stop. Annie Archer jumped from the lead cruiser and rushed over. A deputy climbed from the other car and followed her.