Stress Test

by Richard Mabry

  Rita complied. “No change.”

  Please, God. Keep him stable until Rawlings gets here. And if I have to do the surgery, help me do it right.

  The elevator doors slid open. A nurse and Dr. Ellen Komitsky, an anesthesiologist, were waiting. “I’ve got it, Matt,” Ellen said. “You might want to get into a clean scrub suit.”

  It wasn’t necessary for her to explain. She and Matt were on the same page. He might end up doing the case, and she wanted him ready. He motioned to Randy. “Come on. You need to change too.”

  Five minutes later, Matt stuck his head in the OR. “I’ll scrub up so I can help prep and drape.” No one voiced the thought that was in everyone’s mind: Matt might have to do more than that. He grabbed a cap and mask, made sure Randy knew how to work the sink controls, and began the scrubbing routine he’d done so many times in the past.

  Soon Matt bumped the swinging doors with his hip and backed into the OR, his dripping arms in front of him, elbows bent, hands high. He dried his hands with the towel the scrub nurse handed him, slid his arms into the sterile gown and turned so the circulating nurse could tie it, and shoved his hands, first one and then the other, into sterile gloves held open for him.

  The anesthesiologist said, “His pressure’s dropping. I think the leak’s increasing.”

  Matt noted that the O negative blood was already running in via two IVs. “Any word from Rawlings?”

  “Nothing,” the circulating nurse said.

  Matt took a deep breath. “Let’s go, then.”

  Ferguson looked pale and vulnerable, lying naked beneath the bright glare of the overhead light. The orange color of the antiseptic on his abdominal skin added a surreal touch to the picture. Matt and the scrub nurse draped sterile green sheets over the patient, leaving only the abdomen exposed through a central opening.

  Matt took his position at the patient’s right. He looked at Ellen, sitting at the head of the table. “Ready?”

  She nodded.

  “Randy, stand opposite me. I’ll tell you what to do.” Matt held out his hand toward the scrub nurse. “Number ten blade.”

  Matt sensed the vulnerability of the patient, the awesome responsibility on his own shoulders, as he felt the scalpel slap into his palm. He breathed a prayer and, with a single stroke, made a vertical incision from just below the patient’s breastbone to the bottom of his abdomen. Matt dropped the scalpel on the instrument table and held out his hand. The nurse slapped a clamp into his palm.

  “Randy, you get a clamp too. Just get the major bleeders. We’ll deal with them later.”

  In a moment, Matt held out his hand again. “Deep knife.” Then he heard a soft voice behind him.

  “Want some help?”

  Matt relaxed like a coiled spring with its tension released. “You don’t know how good it is to see you, Clint.” He stepped back, and Dr. Rawlings took his place.

  “I understand we have an aortic aneurysm that’s leaking, so while I continue the surgery, why don’t you fill me in on the details?” Rawlings took the scalpel from the instrument tray. “And would you like to assist me?”

  Matt took Randy’s place across the table from Rawlings and gave him a rundown on the patient’s situation. “I didn’t think it was safe to take the time for a CT. And, frankly, I don’t know enough about the endovascular procedure to try one. I thought it was safer to go in this way.”

  “And you were right,” Rawlings said. After a few moments, the surgeon pointed with a suction tip at the pulsating aneurysm of Ferguson’s abdominal aorta and the pool of blood accumulating around it. “If you hadn’t brought him right to the OR, he’d probably have ruptured this little beauty and died while he was downstairs.”

  Behind him, Matt heard the phone buzz. The circulating nurse answered and a murmured conversation followed. Then she said, “Dr. Newman, that was the ER. Dr. McGee is here early, and he’s going to cover the rest of your shift. You’re clear to stay here as long as you’re needed.”

  Matt couldn’t recall ever being more tired . . . and yet feeling more alive. He was proud of the diagnostic pickup he’d made. Clint Rawlings had complimented Matt’s skills as an assistant. And despite dismal survival statistics had his aneurysm actually burst, John Ferguson would most likely pull through. Matt was exhausted, but he felt good about the evening’s work.

  After the surgery, when the patient was safely in the recovery room, Matt and Rawlings talked with Ferguson’s wife and their son, who’d joined her. Then Matt dragged himself to the ER locker room and changed out of his scrub suit. I am so ready for this night to end.

  Matt rolled his shoulders to ease the tension as he walked to the parking garage. His watch told him it was almost two in the morning. His body said it was even later than that. All he wanted was a quick, hot shower followed by eight or maybe ten hours’ sleep.

  He unlocked his car, wondering, now that his legal problems were over, if he could afford to get the nonfunctional remote keyless feature repaired. Oh well, he’d worry about that later. Matt climbed in and started the car. He put it in reverse but kept his foot on the brake as he leaned his head against the steering wheel. He felt as though he could go to sleep right then and there. But the next thing he heard woke him like a bucket of ice water.

  “I was beginning to think you weren’t coming.” The voice was unfamiliar, the tone menacing. Something cold and hard pressed against the back of Matt’s neck. “Keep both hands on the wheel where I can see them. We’re going for a little ride.” The sound that followed might have been a chuckle, but Matt saw no humor in the situation—especially after the next words. “But only one of us will be coming back.”

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  Matt drove without conscious thought, his mind frozen. He navigated the streets according to the directions from his captor. When he finally began to think, he wasted a minute or two mentally kicking himself for letting his fatigue make him vulnerable to the trap.

  Because he’d been tired and preoccupied when he left the hospital, Matt’s pepper spray was still on the top shelf of his locker, along with the handcuffs and scalpel. He did have his cell phone in his pocket, mainly because grabbing it was an automatic reaction. Matt only hoped he’d have a chance to use it.

  And who was this man? In the rearview mirror, Matt got glimpses of a tall, broad-shouldered black man. His clothing, what Matt could see, continued the monochromatic theme of deepest black. The voice certainly wasn’t the gravelly one he’d come to identify with Lou Hecht. It was deep but smooth, with a faint Caribbean lilt.

  “Who are you?” Without thinking, Matt added, “Where’s Lou?”

  “Lou’s the same place you’re going. Now shut up.”

  When they reached a darkened industrial area, his captor said, “Pull over here.” Warehouses were butted together, walls touching, their loading docks empty. Matt wheeled into a parking lot that by day undoubtedly was home to a number of eighteen-wheelers. Now his was the only vehicle in sight.

  Matt tensed his neck and shoulder muscles, waiting for the shot that would end his life. Could he wheel around, grab the gun, and overpower the man? Maybe on his best day it would be worth a try, but not now.

  The only sound in the car was the ticking of the cooling motor. Matt was ready to say, “So shoot. Don’t keep me waiting any longer,” when his captor said, “Get out of the car.”

  Matt opened the door and stepped out, happy to smell fresh air one last time. The moon was a bare sliver. One streetlight half a block away, together with the faint security lights over the nearest loading dock, gave barely enough illumination for him to see his attacker as he exited the backseat. It confirmed Matt’s first impression: a black man with the build of a linebacker, a calm expression and dead eyes. The gun in his fist had the squared-off appearance of a semi-automatic. Too bad. Matt had read somewhere that it was sometimes possible to grab the cylinder of a revolver and hold it tightly enough to keep it from revolving and firing. Then again, after three hours holding
retractors, he probably didn’t have the strength in his hands to do that anyway.

  “Who are you?” Matt asked again.

  “Guess it won’t make any difference if you know the name of the man who kills you. You can call me Lester,” the smooth voice answered. “Now turn around, lean over the hood of the car, hands behind you.”

  Matt felt cold metal against his wrists, then the familiar click and bite of handcuffs. His scalpel, had he brought it, would be useless anyway. What he needed now were bolt cutters.

  Lester reached into Matt’s pocket and removed his cell phone. “I don’t think you’ll be needing this.” Lester leaned into the car and pushed a button. The trunk lid sprang open, and Matt knew where he was going next. Maybe he had a chance. After all, he’d done it once before.

  “I’ve heard about your last escape act. Don’t bother looking for the emergency release.” Lester lifted a T-shaped piece of plastic from the floor of the trunk and waved it in front of Matt before tossing it away.

  There had to be a way out—unless Lester planned to shoot him here, then take his body somewhere and dump it. Matt didn’t have to wait long for the answer.

  “Climb in. Make yourself comfortable. We’ve got a long ride. You can use that time to make your peace with God . . . if you believe in God.”

  Matt climbed in and watched the few stars visible through the opening disappear as Lester slammed the lid. Once more, Matt was in what amounted to a coffin. How many times could he escape death? Surely this was it. God, I need help. Please.

  In one sense, Matt was glad of the darkness. He recalled that moving lights could sometimes trigger seizures in people with such disorders. That would be the last thing he needed.

  The car started and began to move, slowly at first, then more rapidly. Matt bounced around in the trunk with every pothole and sharp turn, his mind darting about like a rat caught in a maze.

  He struggled vainly against the handcuffs, then remembered the maneuver he’d tried with his first kidnapping. It hadn’t worked because the duct tape bonds were too tight. But Houdini had done it with cuffs, and this time Matt thought he could as well, given the few inches of slack the handcuff chain afforded him.

  He ignored the pain in his muscles as he drew his legs up under him and worked his hands down behind him, straining with everything he could muster to pass the handcuff chain beneath his feet. Matt had almost completed the maneuver when a cramp in his shoulders made him relax. He tried again, and once more had to stop. One final effort, and this time he was determined to ignore the pain, to move on despite it. Finally the chain caught on the heel of his athletic shoe. He took a deep breath and shoved his hands forward while pulling his legs as far upward and backward as he could. He sawed the chain of his handcuffs farther and farther forward, until he felt his hands come free in front of him.

  Matt lay back and breathed deeply, wanting to get as much oxygen to his tortured muscles as possible. In a moment he explored the area above him and confirmed that his captor had indeed removed the emergency trunk release. He took a mental inventory of the material in his trunk, and found it woefully wanting. The jack handle and jack were stowed under the spare tire. No road flares with spiked ends. No battery jumper cables to be used as a noose. No flashlight to shine in his attacker’s eyes or use as a club. Nothing.

  God, You helped David slay Goliath, but You equipped David with a slingshot and some rocks. All I have are my bare hands and my wits. Please let those be enough.

  Matt had no idea how long Lester had been driving. He was pretty sure they were out of the city and onto a highway of some sort. Potholes and sharp corners had been replaced by long stretches of straight driving. An occasional whooshing sound accompanied by the car’s swaying suggested the passing of a large truck. Then the driver turned sharply once more, and Matt sensed the roughness of an unpaved road and heard the occasional ping of gravel against the car’s undercarriage.

  The car rolled to a stop. Matt had decided on his last-ditch strategy, and in preparation he rolled himself into a crouch, his back hard against the trunk, his feet beneath him ready to spring as soon as the trunk lid was opened. Lester would be expecting him to be on his side, his hands shackled behind him. The relative freedom of having his hands in front of him, coupled with the element of surprise, might be enough. And if it wasn’t . . . well, a bullet was coming sooner or later.

  The trunk lid clicked and opened a couple of inches. Lester must have used the latch release inside the car before he exited himself, expecting his captive to be immobilized by his hands cuffed behind him. Matt made an instant decision. He pushed the trunk lid upward, clambered out, eased the lid almost closed, and scurried around to hide behind the rear fender on the passenger side. He scanned the area. They appeared to be at the end of a gravel service road, the headlights illuminating a rocky ridge with infinite blackness beyond it. Matt thought he could make out several piles of chalky rocks off to either side. Weren’t there some abandoned quarries in this part of North Texas? And as he recalled, most of them were filled with water. Matt had an idea of what Lester was planning, and it made him shiver, despite a temperate night.

  Hadn’t he said that Matt was going where Lou was? Did that mean Lou was in that watery grave? The thought gave him no joy, since it was obvious Lester had the same destination in mind for Matt.

  There was no traffic on the road, no buildings around—the perfect spot for an execution. Lester probably planned to shoot Matt where he lay in the trunk, roll down the windows, and shove the vehicle into the water. If the quarry was deep, Matt would just disappear beneath the surface.

  The driver’s door opened. In a moment, Matt heard a splash somewhere past the built-up verge. His captor must have thrown Matt’s cell phone into the water. Footsteps on the gravel announced Lester’s progress toward the rear of the car. Matt crouched lower as the man approached the trunk. The footsteps stopped, and Matt risked a peep. Lester had his gun in his right hand. He stood for a moment with his left hand on the trunk lid, then flung it upward. “Okay. Time to take a little swim.”

  Matt was pretty sure what Lester’s next move would be, and he planned his own actions accordingly. He crept toward the gunman, staying low and moving slowly, and when Lester bent over to look into the empty trunk, Matt struck. He bumped the back of Lester’s knees with his own, and Lester responded by throwing up his hands to keep his balance. Matt reached up to drop his handcuffed arms over Lester’s head, centered the chain on the gunman’s Adam’s apple, and pulled for all he was worth. He put his knee in Lester’s back to bend him backward and keep him off balance, making it harder for the stronger man to fight.

  Lester brought his gun up over his left shoulder, but Matt saw it coming and ducked to the right. The man was gasping already. He fired. Once. Twice. Three times. The third shot grazed the back of Matt’s left shoulder, and he felt blood start to flow. The pain hadn’t started yet—he knew it would soon—but when it did, he had to ignore it and maintain his pressure.

  Lester’s struggles grew weaker. He waved his gun, but apparently his oxygen-starved brain couldn’t send the signal to his trigger finger. Then the gun dropped to the ground, and the man slumped forward. Matt resisted the impulse to let up the pressure on Lester’s neck. He might be playing possum, and this was a game with mortal consequences. What if Matt went too far, choked Lester to death? Was it justifiable? But if he let up too soon, Lester might turn on him again.

  Matt eased the pressure slightly and managed to get his thumb over Lester’s carotid artery. At first he thought he’d killed the man, then he felt the pulse—very faint and very slow. The pressure had not only cut off the blood supply to Lester’s brain, it had stimulated the receptors in his carotid artery and slowed his heart rate to dangerous levels. Nothing to be done about it. Matt had to act before his captor woke up from the choke hold.

  Matt kicked the gun away and freed his arms from around Lester’s neck. The gunman slumped over the sill of the trunk. Matt’
s left arm was almost useless. He used his right hand to paw through Lester’s pockets until he found the handcuff key. Blood from his shoulder wound ran down his left arm onto his hand, making it difficult to unlock the cuffs, but he finally managed. He cuffed Lester’s arms behind him. With one arm out of commission, there was no way Matt could lift the much larger man, but he eventually got his right shoulder under Lester and tipped him over the rim of the trunk, then slammed the lid.

  Matt picked up the gun and shoved it under his belt. He reached back to feel the gunshot wound in his left shoulder. The bleeding was a slow ooze—nothing arterial. There was no good way to put a pressure dressing on it, though. He needed to get help before he passed out. Did Lester have a cell phone? He should have looked, but was afraid to open the trunk and risk being attacked.

  Matt slid into the car and had a moment of panic. Were the keys still in Lester’s pocket? Matt had heard of people hot-wiring cars, but he’d never figured out how that worked. In the books, the hero just removed the collar from the steering column, ripped some wires loose and crossed two of them, and the car started. He wished he’d acquired that knowledge, but he had no clue.

  He held his breath as he fumbled along the dash with his good hand. There they were! The keys were in the ignition. The lights were still on, but seemed dim. Did the battery have enough strength remaining to start the car? Matt was willing to bet that Hector Rivera hadn’t spent a penny more on the car than was absolutely necessary, and odds were that the battery wasn’t new.

  Matt turned the key in the ignition. The car growled a few times and Matt’s heart sank. He tried it again, with the same result. Should he stop, in the hope the battery would recover? No time, he had to get help. He turned the key and the engine caught at last. Thank You, God.

  Matt shifted into reverse—wouldn’t do to run into that pond and finish what Lou started—and turned the car around. He heard a thump and a muffled shout from the trunk. Lester was waking up. Matt only hoped the handcuffs would hold him until he could get to help. He squinted, as though by doing so he could see beyond the dim headlight beams, and started off into the darkness.