The hands continued their exploration, and Mark tensed as they rested on his left shoulder.
“Well, that’s obviously dislocated.”
Mark wanted to talk to one of the voices, ask what was going on, but his throat didn’t cooperate. Once, as a kid, he’d had strep throat and that misery paled in comparison to the raw, bruised feeling he was experiencing now. He had the sensation of trying to suck air in, but never getting quite enough. Exhaling was even harder, and in his mind, he pictured a blown up balloon with the neck pinched off. A little air could get out, but not all of it. He had the urge to sit up.
“Whoa! Lay back, Mark!”
“Can’t-“ Pressure on his chest prevented him from sitting. He gasped, “Please…” The voices began fading and he struggled to listen to them.
“Sats are dropping.”
“Yeah, I know. You have him on a hundred percent?”
“Yep. But he has audible stridor. He’s not moving much air.”
“Yeah, he’s working pretty hard."
Mark lost track of what they said next, his sole focus getting the air in and out.
Next, he heard a metallic click as his head was tipped with his chin pointing toward the ceiling. The position made him feel like he was strangling, but he had no energy left to fight them.
“Let me take a look here…I need some suction.”
Mark felt cold hard metal against his tongue. He gagged, tasting blood and renewed his efforts to sit. The guy with the deep voice had to be another one of Kern's followers. It was the only thing that made sense. Kern must have thought up another form of torture.
Someone grabbed Mark’s right hand, and another set of hands held his head still. Yet another invaded his belly, pushing and prodding. Someone or something was squeezing his throat. Was the noose still there? He panicked.
With a strangled cry, he bucked his hips and shoulders in an attempt to escape the hands. A heavy weight across his legs kept him from leaping off whatever he was lying on. Ignoring the pain and the shouts to calm down, he twisted and turned; using his head to try to bash anyone who was within reach.
The metal disappeared from his mouth and a mask with cool air covered his nose. He dimly wondered why they had stopped, but decided he didn't care why. All he wanted was more air.
“We going to have to sedate him. Give him two milligrams of Versed.”
* * *
“I’m looking for a patient by the name of Mark Taylor.”
A nurse at the desk looked up, snapping a chart closed. “Are you family?”
Jessie flashed her badge. “I’m part of the investigation and I need to speak to the doctor as soon as he or she is available.” Technically, she was still on the case since she hadn’t officially taken herself off of it.
The nurse glanced at the badge, unimpressed. “There’s a waiting room down the hall to the left. Doctor Jenkins will be out as soon as he can.” She turned and put the chart in a slot on the wall.
Jim leaned over the desk and gave the nurse a polite smile. "Listen, Carol, I know you aren't allowed to tell us anything. That's fine. It's just that Mark's only family, his parents, are out of the country right now. We're the closest thing he has."
“Can you tell us anything?” Lily added her own plea and the fear and desperation it contained softened the nurse and she stepped close to the desk again.
“I know that they were getting ready to put a tube down his throat to help him breathe.” The nurse touched Lily’s arm. “I’m sorry I don’t know more, but don’t worry, Dr. Jenkins is the best.” Coming around the desk, the nurse said, “Won’t you all come with me? There’s a quiet room you can wait in. I heard one of the paramedics mention lots of press were already at the scene, so it would probably be better for you to wait somewhere private.”
The nurse led them to a small room with two love-seats and an easy chair. “There’s coffee across the hall in the lounge; feel free to help yourself. I’m pretty sure it’s even fresh.”
Jim nodded. “Thank you.”
“I should call Mark’s parents.” Lily sat on the edge of one of the loveseats, worrying the nail on her thumb. She put her hands to her temples. “I should have paid closer attention when Mark mentioned something about them going on a vacation. I'll have to check his desk and see if he has their contact information anywhere."
“Why don’t we just wait and see? Maybe it’s not that bad and he can call them himself later today.”
Lily glanced at Jim, but she didn't appear to have heard him.
Jessie stood, too keyed up to sit still for more than a minute. “I could really use some of that coffee. How about you?”
Lily shrugged. “Sure.”
"Jim?"
He nodded.
“Okay, I’ll be right back.”
Thirty minutes later, Jessie tossed a half of a cup of cold coffee in the trash. They hadn’t heard anything yet and she opened her mouth to tell Lily that she was going to go demand some information when the door to the room opened.
A tall distinguished looking man with dark hair, graying at the temples, entered. He stopped a few steps in, his blue-eyed gaze touched on Lily and Jim and then swung towards Jessie.
“Hello.” He stuck out his hand. “I’m Doctor Jenkins. I’m sorry I haven’t had a chance to get back here to let you all know what’s going on until now.”
Jessie shook his hand. “Detective Jessica Bishop, Chicago PD, and this is Lily Martin, friend and business partner of Mark Taylor’s and Jim Sheridan...a friend.”
Lily stood. “How is he, Doctor?”
The doctor cleared his throat. “I take it none of you are family?’
Jessie shook her head. “No.”
Lily took a step closer. “We’re the closest he has right now. His parents are on a cruise…I think in the Mediterranean. I’m not even sure how to contact them. Mark and I have been business partners for five months now. We're good friends.”
Dr. Jenkins sank onto the easy chair with a sigh and then shrugged. “Well, he’s stable for now. His most serious injuries are to his throat and the stab wound in his abdomen. I had to insert a tube to keep his airway open, but in a few days, the swelling should go down and that will come out. He’s breathing entirely on his own, so no worries there.”
No worries? Jessie dropped onto the edge of the love seat. She’d seen enough severely injured people in her line of work to know what a breathing tube was and what it meant. They were never good.
The doctor continued, “His abdominal wound is a little more troublesome. He seems to have some internal bleeding from that so he’ll be on his way to surgery for an exploratory laparotomy-they’re going to take a look around inside his belly and see if he has any active bleeding. I don’t expect there to be too much damage from the location of the wound. It missed everything vital."
He clasped his hands and paused. “Right now, his blood pressure is our biggest problem. He lost quite a bit of blood through his various injuries and was rather traumatized. His body temp is low and he’s shocky. We’ve given him warmed fluids along with medications and we’re monitoring his blood pressure closely. The thing he has going for him is he’s young and looks to have been in excellent health. Those factors will hopefully work in his favor to overcome that.”
Lily voiced what Jessie was thinking, “Hopefully?”
“I’m fairly confident that he’ll be fine. I have to tell you that in addition, he has a probable concussion, lots of bruises, a dislocated shoulder and, of course the injuries to his hands and feet. None of those are life-threatening, but they’re painful and it’s going to be awhile before he’s back to normal.” He stood and tried to stifle a yawn. “I’m sorry. I just finished up my shift.”
“Thank you, Dr. Jenkins. I know you must be tired, but we appreciate that you took the time to tell us all of this.” Jim stood and clasped the doctor's hand again while Jessie did her best to pull her scattered emotions together.
“You’re welcome, Mr
. Sheridan."
CHAPTER TWELVE
"Morning, Tina. How's he doing?" Matthew Jenkins greeted the nurse as he breezed into his patient's room.
Since he had admitted Mark Taylor three days ago, the papers had been full of stories on the man and Matt was fascinated, but also worried for his patient. Not just for his physical condition, but for his mental state as well. It had been almost a blessing that Taylor had required sedation due to the breathing tube. Matthew hoped that by the time Mark was alert enough to be aware of the media circus that things would have calmed down.
At first, the stories in the news had been full of wonder, but now the press was beginning to turn against the guy. Some radio personalities wondered if Taylor had arranged the whole thing, pointing to his visit to the Medea girl and the job interview as evidence. The rumors had fired up the airwaves with debate. Matt felt guilty, but he found himself tuning in every chance he got, which, with Chicago's traffic, meant at least an hour every day during his commute. Most of the callers had silly conspiracy theories, but occasionally, a caller would get through who would tell a story of Taylor doing some good deed for him or her. Matt was sure that not all of them actually had a tale to tell, but some of the stories rang true.
One in particular stood out because the caller claimed it had happened only the day before the incident. That man spoke of Taylor catching the man's child and then having lunch with the caller's family. The man insisted that he'd called the radio station to defend Taylor more than to relate any heroic deeds and seemed reluctant to give too many details, but he did mention that Taylor had hit the back of his head against the pavement. That interesting detail matched a bruise Matt had found on the back of Mark's head. It had the characteristics of an older bruise, with yellowing at the edges. The one beside it was obviously new and the injury that had required stitches a few days prior had been to the right side of the head.
In fact, the reason that Matt had remembered the bruise at all was because when he'd initially seen it, he wondered about possible complications to having three head injuries in such a close period of time. It was fortunate for Taylor that he'd had no brain swelling or bleeding.
Matt supposed that there were some crackpots out there who might go to such extremes to garner attention, but after speaking to the people who actually knew Mark Taylor, he found it hard to believe the speculation that the whole thing had been staged.
Cards, letters and flowers had poured into the hospital for their famous patient. So many, that his business partner advised the hospital to give most of the flowers away to other patients.
Matt stood at the foot of Taylor's bed and glanced at the windowsill to where a small sample of the gifts were displayed. For the most part, his patient had been kept too sedated to notice any of them. A couple of times they had tried to decrease the sedation but the results had been scary. The poor guy had awakened extremely disoriented and fighting. They'd had to restrain his right hand and his left was in a sling due to the dislocated shoulder, but that hadn't stopped Taylor from straining to get free. At the moment, Mark was still, his breathing unlabored and his color good, but the livid bruises on his neck had taken on an even more colorful hue as the edges began fading. The yellow contrasted sharply with the still vibrant purple that circled his neck like a morbid tattoo.
"Good morning Doctor Jenkins. Mark's doing a bit better. His blood pressure has been stable and all his labs came back within normal limits. Oh, and the radiologist's report says that the laryngeal swelling is down." Tina adjusted the flow rate of the IV.
Matthew Jenkins grinned. "Great! I'm going to take a look at his chart, and then we'll see about waking him up and pulling that tube."
He couldn't help feeling a little excited about finally being able to meet the man.
* * *
Mark blinked several times and tried to focus. Above him were white ceiling tiles with little tiny holes in them. A faint water stain darkened the corner of one. His eyes felt gritty and dry and he gagged on a hard plastic thing in his throat. It hurt. Lots of things hurt. He reached to remove the object, but found that his hand was tied down. Panic raced through him and he pulled as hard as he could against the bonds. The effort made him gag again and he tried to call for help. Nothing. The only sound he could make was an awful raspy whistling as his breath moved inside the tube.
What the hell was going on? Mark quit fighting, but his chest heaved as he tried to take stock of the situation. He turned his head, wincing at the stab of pain as the tube shifted in his throat, gagging him again. Bright sunshine streamed into the room hitting his eyes like shards of glass. He felt foggy and muddled and wondered about all the plants on the windowsill. This room definitely wasn't his loft. A dark-haired woman dressed in pink scrubs crossed in front of his vision and closed the blinds. Bless her, she must have read his mind and at least now he knew where he was.
Mark relaxed and let his head fall back against the pillows. Snatches of memory from his ordeal played in his mind; memories of Kern, the chanting and the warehouse. He closed his eyes and tried to push it all out of his head. He saw again the large wooden cross and his breathing quickened. How had he made it out of there? His last coherent memory was of seeing the sun rise. He had thought for sure it was his last.
"Good morning, Mark. I'm Tina, I'll be your nurse today." She checked the tubing on an I.V. in his arm. "Do you remember what happened to you?"
Mark looked at her eyes, saw the barely concealed pity and turned his head. Slowly, he nodded.
* * *
"Now take a big breath!"
Mark tried to obey the nurse's request, but choked as the tube scraped up and out of his throat. He coughed hard and followed by a groan when the coughing caused the pain in his belly to flare. Lying back against the pillows, he closed his eyes, starting when he felt a cool washcloth wipe against his mouth. He swallowed. There was still pain, but the removal of the tube was a big improvement.
"Mark?"
He opened his eyes. "Yeah?" It came out more as a croak than an actual word, but it was the first word he'd spoken in three days.
"Are you having any trouble breathing?"
Mark took a deep breath. Except for some abdominal pain caused by inhaling so deeply, he didn't have any trouble. "No." He tried to clear his throat; grimacing at how raw it felt-- like someone had taken a metal grill brush and swirled it around down there.
Tina swiped the damp cloth along his neck, a dry towel following behind. The personal care embarrassed him and he didn't want to think of what else had been wiped and cleaned while he'd been out of it. Her brown eyes lifted from the task and met his gaze. "Try not to talk too much. We'll see how you do and if everything is good, I'll get you some ice chips in a little while, okay?"
It crossed his mind that if she didn't want him to speak, then she shouldn't have asked a question. Especially since nodding his head wasn't something he was eager to do either, but if a cup of ice awaited him at the end of the line, he'd do whatever she wanted. "Okay."
He didn't have a whole lot he wanted to say anyway. The last three days had been a blur. Mark vaguely recalled waking up a few times, but the details were sketchy. He remembered the blind panic he'd felt one time when he'd found that he was unable to free his arms. The room had been dark and he had thought he was still in the warehouse. When he'd tried to call for help, he'd gagged on the tube and tried to bend his head down to his hand to pull the offending object only to be firmly pushed back against the mattress. It embarrassed him now to think of how he must have behaved, all wild and fighting everyone.
* * *
Although he was more awake than he had been, Mark spent most of the day sleeping. Lily had come by. He remembered that, but it seemed like one minute she was there, the next she was gone and the clock had skipped ahead several hours. The biggest event had been the ice chips. After keeping those down and not having any trouble swallowing, he'd graduated to a small cup of lemon-lime pop. He figured he hadn't eaten since the
night before he'd been abducted from his loft, but found he didn't have much appetite. The pop had been enough to fill him up.
The room grew dimmer, the bustle outside in the halls settled down, and Mark shut his eyes once more, wondering just before he drifted off, how he could still feel tired when he'd done nothing but sleep for three days.
A hand shook his shoulder, and Mark's eyes flew open as he gasped and blindly swung his arm in that direction. Dimly it registered that soft cloth brushed his fingertips and there was a clatter as someone stumbled. The room wasn't completely dark; light from the hallway spilled in and he blinked when he recognized his surroundings.
"Hey! Take it easy, Mark! I'm just here to check your vitals." He recognized Brenda, the nurse from the night before, as she stepped close to the bed, her expression wary.
Embarrassment flooded through him even as he sank back against the raised bed. "Sorry. I didn't hurt you, did I?"
"No, I'm fine, don't worry about it." She reached up and angled the I.V. bag, peering at the fluid level before meeting Mark's gaze and folding her hands on the bed-rail with a sigh. "And I'm the one who should be sorry. You'd think I would know by now to make a little noise and to call your name before touching you."
Her reminder of the previous night and the similar incident only served to further embarrass him and he felt his face burning. At least the room was still very dim. Unable to look her in the face, he mumbled another apology and closed his eyes, hoping she'd hurry and finish what she had to do. He was okay in the daytime when they would wake him up because the room was light and it was immediately apparent where he was, but night was harder. Even without someone touching him, he frequently awoke in a panic, his heart racing.
Brenda took his blood pressure reading, popped a thermometer in his mouth, and stuck a clip on his finger. Various beeps sounded and the devices were removed. "Hmm... looks like you're running a little temp. I'll get some acetaminophen for you."
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