“Very good, Landry. You are quick. You see, the two of you will have had a bitter fight, presumably over these sabotaged cases, and ended it with a shoot out, both parties regrettably killed. Enough talk, Landry.” Marshall took careful aim. “You’ve heard way too—”
“Answer me one question, Marshall,” Doug said quickly, his tongue having difficulty navigating the dry terrain of his mouth.
“What?” he asked impatiently.
“The girl—what was her name?” Anything to keep him talking—he must be proud of the death in some twisted way.
“I suppose it will do no harm to tell you. Her name was Karen McCarthy.” Marshall paused as if some inner memory stirred him. The .38 grew heavy, and his arm sagged a bit. “Such a sweet girl. Hated to lose her.” But his daydream was short-lived; his arm snapped back up, the .38 seeking the center of Doug’s chest. “Say your prayers, Landry.” Marshall squeezed the trigger.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
“—Her name was Karen McCarthy.”
Rusty didn’t hear the rest. Pain detonated inside his head; he felt like he had been hit with a sledgehammer. Breathing ceased as his throat closed off. His blood ran cold, so cold that the icy fluid threatened to clog his heart. Stuttering and misfiring, his heart labored on lamely; Rusty’s whole body sagged as he wavered on the edge of blackness. Only leaning heavily on the doorjamb kept him from collapsing to the floor.
Karen McCarthy!
That was the name he’d retrieved from the microfilmed newspapers.
That was the name on the death certificate—“Camp Hill, June 1971. Cause of death—cerebral hemorrhage.”
That was the name of the girl who had died in a traffic accident on Peter’s Mountain.
His mother!
Except now, Rusty knew her death was no accident.
His adrenaline flow became a torrent, reviving him. His shock quickly turned into anger, the flames of which were fanned by the adrenaline wind into white-hot rage and fury.
His paralysis broke. Muscling the lead door out of his way as if it were made of bamboo, he took two running steps, oblivious to the gun, and launched himself at Marshall.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
As Doug said his prayers and Marshall’s trigger finger began to work for the third time, both men turned abruptly toward the sound of the cysto door being flung open. In freeze-frame fashion, Doug caught Rusty suspended in mid-air hurtling directly toward Marshall, screaming something that sounded like, “Flame on!”
The gun discharged, but the bullet missed Doug by at least a foot. Marshall tried to duck, move his arm, and fire at his new assailant, but his efforts were cut short by the slamming force of the two-hundred-pound human projectile. He got off one more shot at Rusty, but it wasn’t even close. Rusty caught him square in the shoulder; the sickening sounds of popping ligaments and rupturing capsule were clearly audible as Marshall’s shoulder forcibly dislocated. The .38 flew out of Marshall’s hand and clattered across the floor, coming to rest ten feet from Doug.
Marshall crumpled to the floor, howling in pain as Rusty bore down on him, grinding the newly dislocated shoulder further and further out of joint. Rusty swiftly righted himself and pummeled Marshall’s face, drawing blood almost immediately from his squashed nose. Marshall made no effort to ward off the blows, but instead fished around in his pocket with his good arm.
Doug saw the Walther emerge, but also saw that Rusty didn’t notice it; he was too intent on pulverizing Marshall’s face. Doug knew he couldn’t cover the distance fast enough to stop Marshall, so he dove for the .38 and shouted to Rusty, “He’s got another gun!”
Rusty quickly twisted and grabbed Marshall’s left arm, but he was too late. Crack! The bullet lanced through Rusty’s right shoulder. Rusty shrieked in pain, but held his grip on Marshall’s gun hand. As Rusty slammed the gun to the floor repeatedly, Marshall kept firing, rapidly emptying the clip. All of the shots were wildly erratic, most hitting the ceiling. Finally, the useless gun squirted free, skidding several feet away.
Meanwhile, Doug hit the floor hard but managed to scoop up the .38, his right hand finding proper purchase on the knurled handle. Coming out of a roll, he leveled the gun at Marshall, but didn’t have a clean shot because Rusty was on top of him.
Something was wrong with Rusty, though; he looked much less vigorous. Marshall was now busy slamming his fist at Rusty’s wounded shoulder. Rusty screamed again and again and then sagged completely; he looked like he must’ve passed out. Marshall pushed him off and scrambled to his feet, still crouched, keeping Rusty’s body between him and Doug.
“Don’t move, Marshall!” Doug shouted. “I’ll shoot.” Doug knew he had no real shot because Rusty was still in the line of fire. He fired one round high though, hoping to scare Marshall.
“The boy’s hit bad, Landry!” Marshall shouted back, sounding unfazed. “He needs help.” With that, Marshall turned and sprinted down the hall, keeping low.
Doug fired again. The shot missed and drilled into the wall, sending pieces of plaster raining down. Marshall disappeared into one of the far ORs. Doug got up and ran over to Rusty, who lay groaning on the floor. He was coming around, his eyes beginning to focus. Doug assessed the situation quickly—it was worse than he had thought. The bullet had entered Rusty’s right upper chest near the shoulder joint. He was probably dealing with a collapsed lung. Marshall had not been lying either; Rusty was bleeding badly. There was no question about it. If he left him to chase Marshall, Rusty would likely bleed to death before Doug could return. Marshall had probably had enough anyway—that shoulder had to hurt. He was most likely high-tailing it out of the hospital right now.
Doug pocketed the gun and ran to the workroom to get wound dressing material. He came back and knelt beside Rusty, his hands filled with supplies. Rusty looked up at him, pale and in obvious pain, but lucid.
“Go get him,” Rusty got out between gritted teeth. He reached out and grabbed Doug’s arm. He stared up at Doug with a look of pure anguish. “Don’t let him get away—he killed my mother. I’ll be okay.” Rusty grimaced harder for a moment as a spasm of pain rocked him.
“I’ll go in a bit.” Doug noticed Rusty’s shirt was saturated with blood and becoming redder by the second. “You’re bleeding pretty bad, Rusty—gotta stop the bleeding first.”
“Hurry, Doug.”
“Look, Rusty. You saved me with that flying tackle back there—I’m not gonna let you bleed to death.” Doug opened some thick, sterile gauzes. “Hang in there—this is gonna hurt some.” He applied the gauzes to Rusty’s wound and pressed hard.
“Ow!” Rusty screamed in pain. He looked like he might lose consciousness again.
“Sorry, Rusty. Gotta stop the bleeding.” And hope you can breathe okay. “I’ll put an elastic pressure dressing on it. That should hold the bleeding until we can get you some real help—you’re gonna need surgery. Doug looked on in alarm as the dressing soaked through with fresh blood. Shit, Doug thought, he needs surgery soon or he’s not gonna make it.
“Thanks,” Rusty said weakly. “Where’s Marshall?” Rusty turned his head feebly to look around.
“He probably left town by now.” Doug stood up and started toward the cysto room and the nearest phone. “I’m going to call for help.” Suddenly the hallway lights went out.
The darkness was so complete that Doug could feel the blackness pressing in on his eyes. A strange squeaking sound came from further down the hallway. It was coming closer.
“It’s Marshall,” Rusty said, his voice thick with fear.
Doug whipped the .38 out of his pocket. His hands were instantly sweaty, and his mouth went dry. He tightened his grip on the .38. A horrifying thought crossed his mind. How many bullets did he have left? Two? Three? Raspy breathing came from down the hallway.
“I know you’re out there, Marshall,” Doug said. “Don’t come any closer. I’ve got a gun, and by God I’ll use it.” Doug strained to hear something, anything. All he could h
ear was Rusty’s labored breathing. “It’s over Marshall. I’ve already called the police. Time to give it up.” Doug hoped his eyes would adjust to the dark soon. Where was he?
Suddenly the hallway filled with noise, and he heard Marshall running toward him, screaming, “I’m coming to get you, Landry!”
Doug aimed at the sound of his voice, both hands on the gun to steady it. He fired twice in near panic.
The room exploded with sound, and the bright muzzle flashes illuminated Marshall’s body, not five feet away. He couldn’t have missed this time.
The first thing he heard after the roar of the gunfire faded was Marshall cackling. Marshall flicked on the lights, and Doug saw him step out from behind the portable x-ray shield, a large transparent, vertical sheet of leaded Plexiglas mounted on wheels. Two bullets were embedded dead center with spider web fracture lines radiating from each. Marshall had something in his hands.
Doug pulled the trigger three more times; each followed by dreadful clicking sounds. He threw the .38 with disgust at Marshall’s head. Marshall ducked and the gun sailed past him. He howled with laughter. “All out of bullets are we, Landry? Such a pity.” Marshall grinned fiercely.
Doug’s heart sank when he saw what Marshall was holding. It was the Midas Rex—the high-speed bone saw used to cut through the skull like butter. On cue, Marshall revved the Midas Rex; it made its horrendous, characteristic whine as the blade spun up to better than 10,000 rpm.
Marshall advanced slowly at Doug.
What could he do? He could easily still run; there were many avenues of escape. Doug shot a glance at Rusty. It looked like he had passed out again and his breathing had become uneven. If he ran, Rusty was a goner.
“C’mon, Landry,” Marshall interrupted his thoughts. “Just you and me—no guns.”
“Yeah, a real fair fight,” Doug replied. Marshall’s face looked bad; his right eye was puffed up hideously and swollen shut. Dried blood was smeared over most of his face. His nose was bent unnaturally, obviously broken in several places, with fresh blood still dribbling out of it.
“If you leave, the boy dies.” Marshall nodded toward Rusty. He was clearly goading him into a fight.
“I know.”
“You always wanted to be chief.” Marshall’s voice had a new nasal quality to it, undoubtedly related to the beating. “Now’s your chance.”
“You’re a fool, Marshall. I never wanted it.”
“We’ll see who’s the real fool,” Marshall said and laughed.
Doug backed up into the darkened cysto room; perhaps the dimness would favor him. His eyes were glued to the infernal saw. He groped for anything he could use as a shield. He grabbed an IV pole and held it in front of him to block the hungry blade.
Marshall pushed forward relentlessly, carefully blocking any escape now. His right shoulder was visibly disfigured, but it didn’t seem to bother him. He lunged at Doug leading with the blade. Doug held the pole in front of him to parry the saw. He watched in horror as the blade sliced through the pole easily, sparking terribly, but barely slowing down. Doug fell over backward, and Marshall pressed the attack standing over Doug. He thrust the saw down, trying to pin Doug between the blade and the concrete floor. Doug rolled hard to his right; the blade just missed him, grinding into the floor with a horrible racket and more sparks.
Doug scrambled to his feet but now was backed against the sidewall. Marshall walked forward, a determined half-smile on his mangled face. Doug grabbed frantically for anything to put between himself and the whirring blade. His right hand snagged the tangle of gas lines feeding the anesthesia machine. The hoses were thick and stiff, made from heavy-grade industrial rubber.
Marshall sliced through them like limp spaghetti. A tremendous hissing filled the room as the oxygen and nitrous oxide spewed out of the cut gas lines at fifty psi. Doug still had the live ends in his hand. The hoses writhed around like snakes while Doug fought to tame them. Once under control, he aimed the blue and green hoses at Marshall, who was now five feet away and closing.
Marshall belly-laughed again. “What are you gonna do, Landry? Blow me away?”
A flash of insight blazed across Doug’s mind. He knew that nitrous oxide was very flammable, even explosive, in an oxygen-rich atmosphere. All he needed was a flame to ignite it. Marshall advanced with the saw, again revving it. In the dim light, Doug caught a glimpse of something wonderful—little sparks of blue lightning in the motor housing of the Midas Rex.
As Marshall neared to within two feet, Doug pointed both the oxygen and nitrous hoses directly at the saw in Marshall’s hands. The nitrous caught in explosive fashion; a loud roaring could be heard as the makeshift flame-thrower erupted into life. Doug was temporarily blinded by the flashing fire but managed to aim the torch at Marshall’s body. Above the roar of the burning flames, he could hear Marshall’s screams. Marshall danced about frantically, but Doug kept the fire on him. Soon, Marshall crumpled to the floor in a heap, and the smell of burning flesh became overpowering.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
Doug walked slowly out of the hospital toward the parking lot and his pickup truck. He glanced over his shoulder at the building. In the glow of dawn, the hospital looked much less malevolent; in fact, it appeared almost serene, as if it had been relieved of some inner burden.
Rusty had done well with his surgery and now was resting comfortably in the SICU. Doug noticed the cold snap had finally broken, and the wind had died down. He gazed at the horizon as he walked. The sun was in no hurry to show itself, but judging from the clear skies, it looked like it would turn out to be a nice day.
An approaching vehicle crunched on the loose gravel and broke the morning silence. Doug stopped walking and waited for the familiar Explorer to be parked. Ken Danowski climbed out, grabbed his duffel bag and ambled over to Doug.
“Morning, Doug,” he said. Doug saw Ken do a double take when he took a closer look at him. “Wow, you look like shit. Bad night?”
“I’ve had better,” Doug replied with a tired smile.
“What the hell’s going on? Does this have anything to do with all the police cars I saw out front?”
Doug gave Ken the complete story of what had happened last night. Ken let out a big whoop when he learned the truth about the sabotaged cases. He’d obviously been wallowing in guilt and self-doubt ever since his awareness case with Mrs. Lubriani. Ken skipped into the hospital, now apparently ready to tackle his day on call.
Doug continued to make his way to his truck. He was physically exhausted but was strangely more at peace with himself than he had been in years. He was still broken up over Mike’s death, but he realized he had not been responsible. Mike’s drug abuse had nothing to do with his death; he had been murdered. Turning him in wouldn’t have changed a thing. Doug felt certain of this and was greatly relieved.
He stopped by the trashcan. He had two things to dispose of. He unzipped his bag and retrieved the letter to Dr. Nichols. Doug stared at it, unwilling to part with the letter just yet. It was a link to several days ago when Mike was alive. He would miss Mike badly; as a friend, he was irreplaceable. Several tears surfaced, and one managed to drip onto the letter. “Goodbye, friend,” he whispered as he ripped up the letter and tossed it in, watching the shreds flutter down. No point in telling anyone now.
But there was something else, something more important, contributing to Doug’s peace. When he had been close to death, with Raskin’s hands coiled tightly around his neck, he had been forced deep inside himself. He had discovered that his inner core was really a fusion of his own being with that of Laura and the kids. The very emotions he had sought to keep frozen for so long had actually saved him. This was where his strength really flowed from.
A wellspring of love and commitment for Laura bubbled forth. Its headwaters traced their origin almost twenty years ago to their young romance when they had first met, passionate and vigorous. Several years later, marriage vows added force to the gathering waters. Downstream
further, with the addition of each child like a feeding tributary, the stream was transformed to a river, complete with areas of turbulence and calm but always joined by a current of conviction. The river grew in width, depth, and strength as they shared the trials of parenthood and suffered through the heartache of losing their grandparents and two of their parents.
It had all become clear to him.
His attraction to Jenny was revealed for what it was—a lifeless, ghostlike imitation that was swept away like debris before the raging floodwaters of his true love. He reached into his bag a second time and pulled out his hotel reservation for the Hyatt on the Inner Harbor. He tore it up and hurled it into the trashcan. Who’s in charge, anyway?
He hopped up into his truck and gunned the engine. He couldn’t wait to see Laura and make up for lost time.
Dr. John Benedict, husband and father of three sons, graduated cum laude from Rensselaer Polytechnic Institute and entered post-graduate training at Penn State University College of Medicine. There, he completed medical school, internship, anesthesia residency and a cardiac anesthesia fellowship. He currently works as an anesthesiologist in a busy private practice in Harrisburg, Pennsylvania.
Author website: johnbenedictmd.com
Author email: [email protected]
(The author welcomes all feedback and correspondence.)
Don’t miss The Edge of Death, John Benedict’s mind-bending sequel to Adrenaline. Available Now!
From the Back Cover:
Powerful creatures have long been rumored to roam the Earth—demons, wraiths, the undead, vampires. What if they are not just the stuff of legend? What if there is a scientific basis for their existence?
There’s a secret lab in the basement of the prestigious Buchanan Medical Center, where the newly declared dead become subjects in pathologist Gunter Mueller’s research in cutting-edge resuscitation medicine. None of his subjects have survived—until now.
ADRENALINE: New 2013 edition Page 24