ADRENALINE: New 2013 edition (26 page)

“Okay,” said Rusty. “I’ll sit tight.”

“I must get back to the OR. Raskin surely has more work for me to do before I can leave.” He glanced at his watch. “It’s after six, Rusty. You go home. I’ll take care of this.” He held up the blood tubes.

“All right, thanks.” Rusty heard his stomach growl. “I am getting hungry.”

“Listen, Rusty—keep your eyes and ears open. Trust no one, and watch your back.”

“OK, you too.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Patti Lubbock was not in the best of spirits tonight. Several things were annoying her at present, although if truth be told, this was not an unusual state of affairs. She set down her bag and flung her coat on her desk.
God, why did it have to be so cold out there!

Tonight, what topped the annoyance list was punching in late for work. She had been on the phone with her stupid ex, arguing about child support again. Tom, who had been in and out of jail for as long as she had known him, never seemed to generate any excess income. He invariably explained to her he was broke when she was lucky enough to get him on the phone, but somehow he always managed to drive his dates around in a nice new Ford pickup. She had also heard through the grapevine that he’d outfitted his bass boat with a new 200 horsepower Merc outboard. God, she’d like to choke him!

She glanced at her watch and then looked at the daunting pile of work in the IN basket over at the lab drop-off window. Although
she was late, she didn’t feel like jumping in just yet—one of the benefits of working alone on nightshift. She needed something to cheer her up first.

She fished through her bag and pulled out a Devil Dog. She got up, went to the lab refrigerator, and grabbed a Diet Coke from her personal stash. She knew it was against the rules to store food items in the fridge, but she also knew that not many people dared to cross her.

She sat down again at her desk and flipped the top on the soda. The pictures of her two teenage boys on her desk caught her eye; they seemed to be jeering at her. They were just like their father. Of course, she had to have had boys, dripping as they were with testosterone. They were constantly bucking her authority, driven by their hormonal storm, but she would keep them in line, by God, one way or another.

Patti noisily peeled the cellophane wrapper off the Devil Dog and bit in. She leaned back in her chair and reflected on her life as it should have been. She often imagined herself a physician or pharmacist, instead of a lab tech working night shift. If only her life hadn’t been derailed by that miserable excuse for a man.

She was a victim, pure and simple, a casualty of the evil male and his insatiable sexual appetite. When she’d eloped at eighteen with her drug-using, ex-con boyfriend, she had been duped. The butterfly and dragon tattoos that seemed so cool twenty years ago, no longer looked so good. They had probably been Tom’s idea, though if pressed, she would admit she had been shit-faced at the time, so she really couldn’t remember whose idea it had been. Two children later—again deceived. All the weight she had put on was a natural consequence of the depression she suffered because of her miserable life.

Victim status had its perks, however. Gone was the weighty responsibility of just about anything in her life, and she was free to be as nasty and crabby as she felt like. The world owed her this much.

Feeling better, she strolled over to the lab window. Something caught her attention in the IN basket. Here’s something odd—a blood tube for a D-epinephrine assay. Don’t see one of those everyday. Patti had to admit to herself that she didn’t know what D-epinephrine was, so she looked it up in one of her lab manuals.

Hmmm, I wonder if the goddamned doctor knows his precious specimen has to be sent out. He might have to wait a couple of days
. She knew how impatient doctors were and smiled at the thought. The smile quickly faded as she wondered if evening shift had told him there would be a delay.

Probably, she reasoned, but if they hadn’t, he’d be pissed off and guess who would shoulder the blame, as always. She knew Missy Swintosky on evenings was such an incompetent ditz, she might have forgotten. She was so busy reading her romance novels and fiddling with her acrylic nails.
I better call to make sure
. She sauntered back to her desk and dialed the number for the anesthesia department.

“Anesthesia,” a male voice replied.

“Is Doctor Carlucci in?”

“No, may I ask who’s calling?”

“It’s the lab with a message for him,” Patti said impatiently.

“Oh, okay. Give it to me—I’ll make sure he gets it.”

“I just wanted to let him know that the blood specimen he dropped off earlier will have to be sent out to Wyeth Labs,” Patti said. “We don’t run that kind of assay here.”

“What kind?”

Damn, he must be another pain in the ass doctor
. “Optical assay,” she said with disgust.

“Optical? What on earth is that?”

Stupid, too. And they let these jokers prescribe medicine. I’ll have to spell it out for him
. “It’s for the stereo isomer D-epinephrine—you know—dextro-rotated. Although what he wants it for—”

“Did you say epinephrine?” he interrupted.

“Yeah, D-epinephrine.”

“Who was the patient?”

Nosy bugger
. “Robert Lehman—and what’s your name, sir?”

Click.

Patti slammed down the phone uttering, “Buttfucker!” She added another straw or two to the poor camel who had long since seen his spine fractured and now was being crushed under a tremendous pile of man-hatred straws. She reached into her bag for another Devil Dog.

Joe Raskin hung up the phone, feeling suddenly light-headed and nauseous. Carlucci, that son-of-a-bitch! D-epinephrine assay—too smart for his own damned good. Raskin nervously paced back and forth in the anesthesia on-call room. Now what should he do? He hadn’t really meant to hurt anyone. The patients were just poor slobs with bad tickers. They didn’t have long to live anyway. And that hypochondriac bitch—well, no harm done there. She got her gallbladder out, didn’t she?

But this was different. He couldn’t just go around killing people in broad daylight. That would be murder. He eyed the crucifix over the doorway and shook his head. How had they forced him into this? He couldn’t afford to let Carlucci expose him. Not now, after all he had done. And he couldn’t afford to lose his job—he had expenses, obligations, a family for Chrissakes. What was he going to do? Suddenly he stopped pacing. “Midazolam,” he said softly and smiled. “That’s the ticket!” He reached for the phone.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

The phone rang, jarring Mike Carlucci awake. He had been dreaming of demons prancing about in operating rooms, choosing patients to torment and equipment to sabotage. He glanced at the digital clock on his dresser—1:20 a.m. “Shit,” he cursed to himself as he climbed out of bed to get the blasted phone. Colleen moaned and rolled over.

Mike had the ability to quickly go from a semi-comatose state to being reasonably alert, thanks to years of practice. He knew before he picked up the phone that the call was from the hospital, and he was being called in to work. Joe Raskin was on call and Mike was his backup man; he was the first to be called back in case of an emergency.

Mike picked up the phone. “Hello,” he got out hoarsely.

“Mike, Raskin here. Sorry to bother you, but I’m in the middle of this bad bowel obstruction—you know, septic as hell—the internists sat on it too long. Well anyway, she’s going down the tubes. OB calls and says they have a labor epidural—some
screaming twenty-one-year-old. They say it can’t wait. I hate to call you, but I just can’t leave this case.”

“Yeah, okay. I’ll be there shortly.”
Damn it!
Mike felt sick because he had just left the hospital at 11:00 p.m. after finishing a grueling carotid endarterectomy. By the time he’d gotten home, he was too exhausted to call Doug. He had gone straight to bed, figuring he’d tell Doug about his theory in the morning. He’d found Colleen in bed, slumped over her book with her glasses on and the light still on. He hadn’t seen any point in waking her; she’d probably had a rough day with the kids. He had taken her glasses off, helped her lay down, and kissed he gently on the forehead.

Mike hung up the phone and thought it could have been worse. He knew he could slip in the epidural in no time and turn right around. He was actually relieved to find out it wasn’t a more difficult case. Shouldn’t need any pharmaceutical assistance for this one. He smiled grimly and got dressed; his clothes were still strewn about the floor where he had left them several hours ago.

Mike said goodbye to his unconscious wife, grabbed his coat, and went downstairs to the cold garage. He fired up the Suburban, which he noted ruefully was still warm, and pulled out of the garage. Once on the road, he called the hospital to tell them he was rolling. “God, this job sucks!” he muttered.

He arrived at the hospital twenty-five minutes after he had taken the call at home. Raskin was in the locker room when Mike trudged in. Strange, thought Mike. He hadn’t expected to see him there, with his big case and all.

Joe flushed the urinal as if in response and walked over to Mike.

“Don’t bother to change, Mike. The stupid bitch delivered about fifteen minutes ago. Listen, I’m sorry to run you in here.”

“Just my luck.”

“That’s OB for you,” Raskin said. “Me, I can’t stand it. A bunch of wimpy women screaming in pain—and it’s always in the middle of the fucking night!”

“Yeah—well, look if you don’t need me, I’m gonna go home. I’ve got a shitty day tomorrow and I need to get some sleep.”

“You’ve had a rough week or two here, Mike. Stretch of bad luck.” Raskin smiled thinly and shook his head. “I heard they sued.” He looked curiously at Mike.

“That’s right. See ya, Joe.” Mike headed for the door. He didn’t particularly care for Raskin, and two in the morning did nothing to improve their relationship.

“Don’t you just hate those fucking lawyers!” Raskin exclaimed and followed him out the door. “Greedy bastards!”

“Yeah, see ya.” Mike zipped up his coat and headed for the stairwell. He didn’t relish the cold trek home.

“Mike, wait! I just brewed some fresh coffee,” Raskin said, sounding worried. He quickly added, “Better have some for the drive home. You look like you could use it.”

Mike hesitated, his hand poised on the door handle. “Yeah, you’re right. I am still half asleep.” He turned and walked back.

A look of relief washed across Raskin’s face. “I’d feel awful if something happened to you tonight,” he said. Raskin grinned a little strangely, but Mike didn’t make much of it.

Raskin led Mike into the surgeon’s lounge where a full pot of coffee was brewing. He poured a cup for each, and then produced a pint-sized milk container from the refrigerator. “Milk?” he inquired of Mike.

“Sure,” Mike responded absently. Raskin carefully added some milk to Mike’s cup, but neglected his own. He put the container away.

“I like it black,” Raskin said.

Mike drained the coffee in several minutes and left the lounge. “See ya Joe,” he called from the hallway. “Thanks for the coffee. Try not to call me back.”
Asshole
.