Killerwatt (12 page)

The slap of magazines hitting the floor startled
Rhetta awake. If she believed the round clock with a large white face and
oversized black numbers, Randolph had been gone nearly an hour. After the lab
had taken him for testing, she found a current
Newsweek
and had tucked
herself into the recliner alongside his bed. Before she read three pages,
fatigue cascaded over her and she fell into a deep sleep.

Randolph should’ve been back by
now
. Irritated
at herself for dozing, she snatched her purse, intending to walk to the nurses’
station and find out about her husband. Her purse was partially open, and her
phone slid to the floor. She stooped to retrieve it, realizing that she forgot
to power it off. Although she hadn’t heard it ring, her screen indicated she’d missed
two phone calls and had two voice mails.

The first message was from Mrs. Koblyk, their
Hungarian-born neighbor.

“Ah, Miss Rhetta? This is Anna Koblyk, your
neighbor? I’ll go to your house and check on your cats? I heard Mr. Randolph
was in the hospital?” Her voice rose at the end of each statement, like she was
asking a question. “I will take some cat food over while you stay with him so
you don’t have to come back to your house? Please do not worry about them? Mr.
Koblyk has been watching over your house, too, ever since that green car went
up your lane today? I am at home if you need me? Goodbye.” Her accent was more
noticeable on the phone in spite of her obvious effort to speak slowly and
clearly. Although Mrs. Koblyk had lived in America for over fifty years, she
retained a good bit of her Eastern European accent.

With everything that had been going on, Rhetta had
forgotten about her cats.
The poor things. Thank God for Mrs. Koblyk.

Then she realized what the woman had said
. Green
car? What green car?

The next message was from Woody. “I, uh, sorry about
today, Rhetta. Call me and let me know how Randolph is.” That was as close as
Woody would get to apologizing for storming out in a huff. She smiled
humorlessly.
I suppose now he doesn’t think all of this is part of any plot.
Purely random occurrences. Right.

Maybe Woody’s right. Maybe I
should forget about everything except getting Randolph better.
Her heart lurched. Where was
Randolph? She quickened her pace toward the nursing station.

At the sight of a frowning, tall woman with wild
grey hair marching purposefully toward her, Rhetta dropped her phone into her
purse. She knew she should’ve turned the thing off, but she didn’t and
wouldn’t. Rhetta didn’t give the nurse the opportunity to begin scolding her
about the phone. “Excuse me,” Rhetta said, stepping into her path and
intercepting the woman. “I’m waiting for my husband, Randolph McCarter. He
still isn’t back from getting an MRI.”

Before the nurse could answer, a soft ping signaled
the elevator’s arrival. The doors slid open and a tall man wheeled a bed toward
the hallway. Rhetta recognized the dreads and rushed alongside the rolling bed.

“What did you find?” Rhetta asked, while fixing her
eyes on a still unconscious Randolph.

“The doctor will have to go over everything with
you, ma’am,” the attendant said, his tone sympathetic. “I believe Doctor
Marinthe is on his way.”

Once inside the room, the MRI technician wheeled
Randolph’s bed back into place. The scowling nurse appeared and with the
technician’s help, they began reattaching all the devices. Her scowl melted
away as Doctor Marinthe rapped lightly on the door and entered. Rhetta smiled
at the nurse, but received none in return. She reminded Rhetta of mean Nurse
Ratched in
One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest.

Withdrawing a small flashlight, Doctor Marinthe sat
on the bed, facing Randolph, and bent over him. Using his thumb, he gently
raised Randolph’s eyelids. He continued his probing and examining in silence.
The blood pressure monitor that had been re-attached to Randolph’s arm inflated
noisily. When it had released the pressure and deflated, Marinthe studied its
results, then logged onto the computer. When he finished typing, he turned
toward Rhetta.

“Mrs. McCarter, we have good news, but also, maybe
some not-so-good news. There is no further brain swelling. In fact, the
swelling is much reduced. That is the good news. The not-so-good news is that
we must wait for the lab results to confirm why your husband is not
responding.” He checked his watch and added, “I expect the results any moment.”

Puzzled, Rhetta said, “Confirm what? Why do you
think he’s not responding?”

Marinthe’s beeper sounded before he could answer.
After scanning the message, he turned to the computer, pulled out the keyboard
and typed quickly. He studied the screen several moments before speaking.

“I just got a text to check the results. There is a
high concentration of barbiturates in your husband’s blood.” He turned to face
Rhetta. “I don’t see anything in his chart indicating that such drugs were
prescribed for him.” Marinthe stood, and began moving quickly, pulling a
blanket up from the foot of the bed and wrapping Randolph in it. Then he
summoned a nurse and returned to the computer screen. His fingers flew over the
keyboard.

“What?” Rhetta stood, bewildered.

“I am going to give him an infusion to counteract
the effects of the barbiturates, along with putting him on oxygen.” Marinthe
withdrew nasal tubing from a drawer, and began attaching it deftly to the
oxygen port above Randolph’s head.

Nurse Ratched appeared with a syringe and injected
its contents into a heparin port on Randolph’s hand.

Marinthe motioned toward a chair. “Please sit, Mrs.
McCarter. You might want to stay here with your husband tonight. He was in a
deep sleep, probably a coma, and it will help if you are here to talk to him
when he awakens.”

“Tell me what’s going on. What the hell just
happened?” Rhetta knew her tone sounded short, but fear made her go on the
offensive.

Marinthe pulled up a chair alongside her. “When the
MRI was normal and the blood work revealed the high level of barbiturates, I
realized that your husband may have been given an anesthesia medication like we
use for surgery, but in a larger dose. The infusion should help to get rid of
the effects. The oxygen will help to remove the medication from his blood.”

“Who gave that to him? Will he be all right?” From
what Marinthe just told her, she realized someone must have intentionally put
Randolph to sleep, maybe even tried to kill him. Was it someone here, in the
hospital, someone on staff? Who? Why? The questions bounced around inside her
head. Could this, too, have something to do with that damned schematic?

Doctor Marinthe rose carefully, putting his weight
on his good leg, measuring his balance before continuing. “Fortunately, Mrs.
McCarter, you were in his room when the alarms began going off. Those alarms
indicate a drastic change in blood pressure. A drop in blood pressure can occur
as a result of the barbiturates.” He limped to the computer and paused briefly
before turning around. “I don’t believe the drug had been in his system long.”

His blue eyes fixed on her. “There is no record in
his chart of any such medication being ordered, especially in his condition.”

After a beat, he said softly, “It could have killed
him.”

CHAPTER
24

Rhetta’s mind reeled and her head began pounding.
She could barely absorb what had just happened. She felt sickened, like she had
descended into a nightmare of hell.

Doctor Marinthe started toward the door, but
instead, turned and made his way back to her. “I will get to the bottom of
this,” he said, putting a hand on her shoulder. “I will report this. I think
someone made a mistake in the medication. I will initiate an investigation.”

Rhetta nodded mutely, unable to find her voice. Her
gaze followed Marinthe as he walked slowly toward the door, opened it, and then
vanished. She stared at the closed door a moment before fixing her eyes on
Randolph. He lay still but was breathing regularly. His pale face was partially
hidden by the cocoon of blanket around him. Who did this to Randolph? Should
she call the FBI? Peter is dead, the FBI agent is dead, and she was sure
someone had tried to kill Randolph—twice. Was it someone who worked in the
hospital, and was Randolph in even more jeopardy?        

Her stomach burned as she agonized over Randolph,
not wanting to leave. Glancing at the door to be sure Nurse Ratched wasn’t on
her way back, Rhetta pulled out her phone, then called Kenneth Reed. Her hands
felt clammy. Fear did that to her.

Her call went straight to Kenneth’s voice mail. She
didn’t leave a message; she was paranoid that the wrong person might get the
message intended for Kenneth. Instead, she asked him to call her back. She slid
the phone back into her bag.

She pulled her chair to Randolph’s bedside and grasped
his hand. Randolph moaned lightly, and his eyes began to flutter.

“Hi Sweets, can you hear me?” she whispered. Her
heart raced and the ball of bile grew larger.

He moaned again, but didn’t awaken.

*
* *

An
hour later, she was still staring intently at Randolph’s sleeping form. Her
mind churned over everything that had occurred since Al-Serafi had been killed,
her trip to the impound lot, and the start of her world turning on its butt.
She replayed everything like a movie looping
continuously through her
head. Everything was there, like pieces of a puzzle. The most important piece
was missing—the key. The reason.

If only she hadn’t gone to the impound lot to see Al-Serafi’s
car for herself. What exactly was she thinking? That Al-Serafi was a terrorist?
Her curiosity was the real reason she went. Moreover, she’d dragged Woody along
to participate in her nosiness. Al-Serafi had cashed out a large amount of
money from refinancing, true, but that didn’t make him a terrorist. The phone
call on Woody’s phone? Maybe Woody was right, although he agreed with her
initially, that it was suspicious, now, she decided that maybe she overreacted.

Another knot punched her in her stomach.
What
about Peter LaRose? He’s dead. He saw the schematic. And what about Randolph?
When he began asking questions, he had a suspicious car wreck. Now, someone
here, at the hospital, for God’s sake, gave him an overdose!

Gently, she placed her husband’s hand on the bed.
She stood and began pacing. If pacing helped Woody think, maybe it’d help her
to think, too, to work out this crazy puzzle.

Al-Serafi’s wrecked car bore a gash identical to the
one on Randolph’s truck. Didn’t Randolph say a green SUV had tried to pass him?
After all her mental meanderings, she arrived at the same conclusion—that since
she had discovered the schematic, Peter was dead, and anyone who had any
contact with the schematic was in peril.

She slipped into the private bathroom and pulled out
her phone. Glancing at her watch and discovering it was nearing midnight, she
hoped Woody was still awake. He’d told her many times he was a night owl.

The instant he answered, she knew he hadn’t been
asleep.

“Rhetta, what’s wrong?” Woody’s voice boomed through
the phone.

“You won’t believe what’s happened.” She told him
what Randolph had just been through.

 “You can’t leave the judge alone. Let me come up
there, so you can get home and shower, change clothes, take a nap. You need to
sleep. But don’t you think you ought to call the police?”

“Woody, the police aren’t going to investigate
something here at the hospital until we know what’s happened. Dr. Marinthe is
all over this. I trust him. I’ll wait until he finds out who’s behind this.      

“Ok, then. I’m on my way,” Woody said.

She returned to the chair.

*
* *

“I’m
sorry but visiting hours ended at nine. Only family is allowed in now.” From
the tone of the shrill voice, Rhetta knew the woman speaking wasn’t a bit sorry.
Two sets of footsteps trekked down the hall toward the room.

Hearing a commotion just outside the room, Rhetta
opened the door to find Nurse Ratched attempting to block Woody from entering
the room. Ratched squeezed ahead of Woody and placed both arms on the doorway,
as though guarding the entrance to King Tut’s tomb. Woody glared at her and
stepped around her. “I’m family,” he said, lying with a straight face. He
pushed past her and went on in. Woody’s demeanor must have intimidated Ratched.
She didn’t follow him into the room.

Instead, the woman whirled around and left for parts
unknown.
The witch probably returned to her lair.

Stopping abruptly at Randolph’s bed, Woody stared at
the array of machinery. He whistled softly. “Sure are a lot of machines.” He
found the guest chair and lowered himself into it. Rhetta stayed fixed at
Randolph’s bedside. She merely nodded.

Woody cleared his throat. “I’m sorry about walking
out on you earlier. I, uh, I just couldn’t wrap my head around a…a terrorist
plot.” He peered at Randolph. He cleared his throat again and whispered, “How’s
he doing?”

“He’s fine for now, but still hasn’t awakened from
the overdose,” Rhetta said. She began massaging the outside of Randolph's arm.

Still massaging, Rhetta turned to Woody. “Thanks for
coming here. Someone’s trying to hurt Randolph. It has to be connected to the
schematic.”

Woody held up a palm to stop her. “Wait, you know
his blood alcohol level was high, and—”

Rhetta interrupted him, whispering loudly. “Randolph
wasn’t drunk, Woody, and I intend to prove it.” She laid Randolph’s arm gently
on the bed, then edged to the window, where she gazed down at the bright lights
of downtown Cape. The world below hummed along just as though nothing was out
of the ordinary, and no one was trying to kill her husband. And, like there was
no terrorist plot. She began doubting herself again. Was she right? She knew
whatever was going on had to involve the schematic, but how? Had she stumbled
upon a plot by finding the schematic? If so, what was it? She massaged her
temples, trying to ease the headache worming around inside her brain.

Peter’s death was not her imagination. That sobering
reality jolted her back on track.

Rhetta said, “He should sleep for a couple more
hours. I’ll run home and shower and change, and be back.” She left her spot at
the window to retrieve her purse, which was hanging on Woody’s chair. “Call me
right away if he wakes up?”

“Of course,” Woody said, scooting aside to release
the purse strap he’d sat on.

“Thanks,” she said, touching Woody’s shoulder. He
nodded.

Leaving the room, she didn’t see Ratched or anyone
else so she ducked into the AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY stairwell. She trudged
down the stairs to the next floor. Before pushing the doors, she peered through
the window to see if the coast was clear.

The triage area was alive with medical personnel
attending to a gurney wheeled in from the ambulance and backed up to the open
emergency room doorway. A young man lay unconscious on it, his head and arms
bloody. She heard someone call, “Accident victim, possible DUI. We’ll have to
draw blood for a B.A.C.”

She recognized her friend Doctor David Islip, the
emergency room physician who was attending the patient. A phlebotomist
materialized with her kit of tubes and dabbed the victim’s inside arm with
iodine. The technician inserted a vacuum syringe and began withdrawing blood.
When finished, the technician gently lay the man’s arm down on the gurney. The
patient’s chest rose and fell erratically. He murmured incoherently.

Rhetta stared at the injured man’s arm, at the
orange stain marking the location where the blood had been withdrawn.

She shut the door and sprinted up the stairs.

Bursting into Randolph’s room, she startled Woody,
who leapt up, nearly knocking the chair over.

She snatched Randolph’s covering back and gaped at
his left inner arm. Then she rounded the bed and peered at his other arm.

Both of his arms were clean.

CHAPTER
25