The Missile Game (The Dr. Scott James Thriller Series Book 1) (3 page)

CHAPTER SEVEN

ICU, Jackson City Hospital

Jackson City, North Carolina

11:15 am

THE ICU WAS STARTING to come to life. More people were coming and going as another busy day was in full swing. Keyes was finally awake, which made me feel better. She’d been out for a long time.

I still hadn’t had a wink of sleep. I stood at the nurse’s station, propped up, while Harris stood off to one side, talking on the phone to his people, going over the details of the previous night.

Standing there, I was suddenly overcome by the very strong feeling that there was something going on with my patient, but I was worn out, fuzzy, and wasn’t sure what to think. I could hear an attendant back there, talking to her. “Here, honey,” he seemed to say, “Take these pills. You’ll feel better.”

The attendant suddenly slipped through the parted privacy curtains and then walked out the door. He was an enormous man, gigantic, with a blond ponytail. His sudden appearance and disappearance definitely caught my attention, and though I was still unsure about what was going on, I called to the nearby attending nurse to follow me in to check on Keyes.

We parted the curtains and started to run our typical checks. I took Keyes’ pulse. It was slow, only 48. I tried to awaken her. She didn’t respond. Her breathing became slower, as did her pulse. I shook her shoulder to arouse her. No response. Something was wrong. I looked at the vitals screen: Her oxygen was only eighty percent, her blood pressure a dangerously low seventy over thirty. Her skin was gray. Keyes was in trouble.

I threw back the privacy curtains and shouted, “Where’s this patient’s ICU doctor?”

The doctor in charge of the ICU, Stewart, and two nurses, came immediately.

“When I was here an hour ago, my patient was awake and talking to me. Now, she’s totally unresponsive. What’s going on?”

“I don’t know,” Stewart answered. “When I checked her thirty minutes ago, she was responsive and her vitals were normal.”

“Why the hell didn’t the attendant who was just in here notice this patient was decompensating?”

“Which attendant?”

I looked around but didn’t see him.

Stewart called the head nurse on duty. I described to her as best I could the person I’d seen leaving Keyes’ room just as I’d arrived: tall, muscular, wearing green scrubs, a surgical mask, and having a blond tail of hair hanging down.

“Not one of mine,” she said. “I haven’t seen anyone like that here today—or ever.”

Stewart turned to me and through clenched teeth said, “Maybe the real question here is: What did you smack her with in your surgery center? It must’ve been potent stuff to last this long.”

“What did her drug screen show when she came in last night?”

Dr. Stewart pulled Keyes’ chart from the rack at the foot of the bed. “Hmm. You’re right. The nurse’s reports show she ‘came around’ after admission. Toxicology shows she had only a trace of Demerol and no Valium upon arrival, certainly not enough to do anything but make her a little groggy.”

“I know. What medications has she been given since then?”

“Absolutely none. She’s received no medication from this hospital since being admitted last night,” Stewart responded.

Then, frowning, he looked me in the eyes and said, “This patient was just fine a little while ago. What’d you do, give her something strong to shut her up?”

I resisted the urge to tell him to go screw himself. Instead, I appealed to his sense of reason. “Look, forget the finger-pointing and let’s help her. She’s in trouble. She’s overdosed on something or there’s something else going on here; this is not a delayed reaction to yesterday’s meds. Repeat those blood studies. Check her out neurologically. Rule out a cerebral vascular accident. And find that tall male attendant with blond hair. He might have given her something.”

The commotion had aroused Harris, who had come over to see what the problem was. Dr. Stewart looked at me and then at Keyes, and his expression changed. I could tell that he, too, sensed that something wasn’t right. He took his stethoscope from his neck, moved it over her chest and then the carotid arteries. With his ophthalmoscope, Stewart looked through her pupils to the inside of her eyes. After testing her reflexes with his rubber mallet, he yelled across the room to the charge nurse, “Call the blood lab STAT and send for X-ray. I need a portable skull X-ray.”

He raised the top of Keyes’ bed until she was at a forty-five-degree sitting position, increased the nasal oxygen to 100 percent, and upped the IV fluid rate to 300 cc’s an hour.

Stewart turned to me. “Something’s neurologically wrong.”

“Like what?”

“She’s either strokin’ or somebody shot her up with drugs.”

Harris looked at me and said, “Miss Keyes’ blood on admission showed only traces of the two drugs you gave her in surgery.”

“Well, actually, I didn’t give her anything. Dr. Carey administered all the drugs.”

“Dr. Stewart is saying somebody’s pumped her up with drugs since she’s been here.”

He paused for an excruciating five seconds, then said, “Dr. James, did ya give that to her?”

“Of course not! Why would I want to harm her?”

“What the hell’s going on around here, Dr. James?” Harris asked.

“I don’t know! Listen, we need to clear out. Give the ICU staff a chance to do their job.”

We stepped away from Keyes. I said, “Pete, I don’t know what’s going on. Honestly.”

He cleared his throat—one of his “ahems,” then said, “My men found a load of Valium in your office, and some of it dropped on the floor like ‘someone’ was in a hurry to hide it. Valium. The same stuff in your nurse’s blood. And I’m guessin’ we’ll find it in Dr. Carey.”

I flushed all over. Buying all that Valium was a mistake. I shook my head. “I bought it over six months ago. It was cheap and I used a lot back then. But I
did not
use any of it on Keyes or Carey. You gotta’ believe me.”

Harris “ahemed” and stared at me until I had to look away.

Why did I feel guilty? Buying drugs for surgical procedures is certainly no crime. But Harris was making it one.

“Listen, Pete, I have to go back to my surgery center to get my files—”

“What files?”

“I have lots of patients in and out of the hospital that I have to care for. I need their records—”

“Alright. Okay. I’ll tell my man over there to let you in. But we need to talk more.”

“No problem.”

“Do not go into your OR—when you’re over there—for any reason whatsoever. That’s now a crime scene.”

CHAPTER EIGHT

ABC NEWS/ONLINE

LYON, FRANCE: The Minister of The Interior has called for an international investigation into the suicide-bombing of The Littleton Company. Officials in Lyon and Paris have confirmed that the bomb blast last week revealed the existence of “an extensive electronic control facility.” French officials believe the complex was being used by The Littleton Company, a civilian defense contractor, to operate military drones. Littleton has extensive connections with U.S. drone operations, including a variety of operations contracts. Littleton Company CEO, Richard Pratt, himself a retired Air Force colonel, cited confidentiality agreements with the Air Force in refusing to comment. The small, unimpressive office complex is located in Corbas, and suburb of Lyon. U.S. Department of Defense Officials have repeatedly stated that no such drone control “black sites” exist, and have been adamant in squashing reports of the existence of civilian control centers on U.S. soil.

Edenton, North Carolina

3:30 pm

NICOLE BANZAR HAD RECRUITED Michelle to be one of the “soldiers.” Michelle was twenty-four years old, and she sat now in a barbecue restaurant on the Edenton waterfront. She wore dungarees that held onto the curve of her hips beautifully, and a stylish, tight-fitting embroidered Western shirt. She slowly ate her barbecue platter and frequently looked up at the sailboats and cabin cruisers as they passed the restaurant, headed for the docks at the end of Broad Street. She had stretched her dinner to an hour and a half as an impatient waitress waited for her departure.

To the waitress’s frustration, and with several diners awaiting her table, Michelle ordered yet another beer. Shortly afterward, a 40-foot Sea Ray cabin cruiser slowly motored past. Michelle paid her bill without taking even a sip of her beer and went to her gold Cadillac Seville. It was ten years old, but it looked like new.

She drove three blocks down the street, parked at the docks, and watched through her heavily tinted windows as the captain and his mate secured the Sea Ray and walked past the Cadillac to a brand new Chevrolet truck. The skipper of the boat seemingly paid no attention to the woman in the Cadillac, but as he passed her car, he bent over to tie his shoe. There, he saw and retrieved an envelope tucked in the bumper.

At dark, Michelle boarded the vessel and entered the cabin. There were no smiles as she sat on the sofa with seven Pakistani men. Wearing dungarees and dirty white T-shirts, they smelled of four-days travel without a shower. A private plane had flown them from Islamabad to Bermuda, where they had boarded a sport fishing boat that had taken them to the Oregon Inlet on the Outer Banks of North Carolina. There, they met up with the Sea Ray.

All were fluent in English, and listened intently as Michelle gave detailed instructions on the operation against Alpha Charlie. These men were all members of the Pakistani Army and had trained in intelligence operations with the British military. She gave them directions to the Swan Motel and keys to her Cadillac. They took five duffel bags stuffed with clothing and power tools.

Help had arrived.

As they drove away, Michelle started the engines of the Sea Ray and began motoring east on the Albemarle Sound, headed for Elizabeth City. She docked the boat there and walked in the dark to the nearby municipal airport.

There were no visible cars or people. At the far end of the small airfield, there stood a single Cessna, parked and unlocked.

More help.

Michelle opened the door of the Cessna, removed the keys from the ignition, and unlocked the luggage compartment. Everyone had followed her instructions. Inside the airplane lay 30 M-16 rifles, ten M-79 grenade launchers, and a crate filled with ammo and grenades. Nicole had told her they would need some serious hardware to kill the rogue drone operator, Alpha Charlie, and launch her missiles into America’s heartland.

Home of Dr. Scott James

Jackson City, North Carolina

6:01 pm

I had to stop by my house. I needed some food, a shower, and maybe a few minutes to rest. Turning onto my block, I immediately saw red lights flashing everywhere in the dark. There were two police cars parked out front of my home.

A cop, on foot, stopped me in the driveway, and then walked over to my door. “Dr. James, I think it would be best if you stayed somewhere else tonight.”

I could see my son, Kenny, waving at me from the upstairs window. Alicia opened the door, with the chain still attached, and called out, “Scott, go away or I’ll tell them I want you arrested.”

I was surprised by her words. I yelled back, “At least, tell me why you’re doing this?”

“Just … go. And read the morning paper. You’ll see.”

Alicia’s best friend, Harriet, had a husband, John Graves, who was a reporter. Apparently someone fed him a front page story: “Plastic Surgeon Kills to Hide Office Love Affair.”

Best Western Motel

Jackson City, North Carolina

7:14 pm

Alicia wouldn’t even let me see the kids. I was in bad shape. I suddenly needed a place to stay. I had friends in town, but didn’t want to be a bother. I went to the Best Western Motel and tried to pay with my Master Card. The clerk swiped the card several times and stood holding the credit card and looking at me.

I felt weird. At last, I asked “Is there a problem?”

The man put his finger in his collar and moved it under his tie. Finally he responded. “Do you have another card? This one’s declined.”

I removed a second card, then a third, then a fourth. Alicia had shut down all the accounts. I had a little money stashed at the office. I said to the motel clerk. “Save me a room. I’ll be back in 30 minutes with cash.”

CHAPTER NINE

Scott James Surgery Center

Jackson City, North Carolina

8:00 pm

I PARKED MY CAR and ducked under the yellow police tape that surrounded the entire building. A smiling police officer greeted me right as I opened the front door.

“Hello, Doc. Remember me?”

I looked at the young policeman. He was short, African-American, and had a baby face. I shook my head. “You look familiar, but I’m sorry, I don’t recall … I’m not good with names.”

“I’m Willie Wilson. You took care of my boy, Terrance. His brother hit him in the face when they were playing football together and cut his lip pretty bad. Broke his cheek bones, too. You fixed ‘em and sewed him up about two years ago.”

Although I still didn’t remember the case, I smiled. “Does he have much of a scar?”

“Nope. You did a good job. And you never charged us a penny. That was cool of you. I never forgot that.”

“Well, I’m glad I was able to help,” I said as I started down the hall. As I opened the door to my office, Willie said, “Get lawyered up, Doc. From what I hear, you’re in for a shit storm.”

I spent time looking at my prize-winning orchids, and I thought about my life. Most of all, I missed my kids. I really wanted to see them but it seemed like, at least for now, my wife wasn’t going to let me back in my own home. And she wasn’t even allowing me to talk to them on the phone. I wished I could do something to help them get through what was going to be a rough time.

All I could do now was focus on what was at hand. I might be going to jail for a crime I didn’t commit. I was confused and overwhelmed by it all.

Suddenly I was awakened from my thoughts by a deafening noise.
What was that?
I bounded from my office and ran to Willie. I could see him sitting in his chair at the end of the hall. “Is everything alright?” He didn’t answer. I ran over to him, “Willie? Willie?”

He sat deathly still with his chair leaning back against the wall.

My heart thundered in my chest as I moved to him. Wilson’s eyes were open and staring straight ahead. Blood trickled into his left eye and all the way down his neck, coming from a half-inch hole in the mid-forehead. Blood flowed from the back of his head, steadily feeding a growing pool around his chair. A gun lay on the floor beside him.

I touched Wilson’s bloody neck and checked for a pulse. There was none.

A hallway door banged shut. Someone was running down the outside hall. I picked up the policeman’s gun and ran from the office. The light was dim in the hall. I heard a shot and hit the floor. The assailant shot twice more at me and then took off. As I heard the door open, I jumped up and aimed Wilson’s pistol at him. I pulled the trigger twice, but the gun didn’t fire. I looked down to see that the magazine had been removed.

I ran out the door and watched as a black SUV spun its wheels on the pavement and roared onto Garden Avenue.

Within minutes, three police cars were there. Harris jumped from one as it rolled to a stop and yelled, “What the fuck were you thinking?” and then shook his head and stared at me.

I was covered in Wilson’s blood.
Why did I pick up that stupid gun? And what was I thinking when I checked Wilson’s bloody neck for a pulse? I knew damned well he was dead.

I handed the police-issue pistol to him. Of course, my fingerprints were all over that gun. And unfortunately, it turned out that the gun was used to shoot Willie.

With his handkerchief, Harris took the weapon from me and handed it to one of the other officers. Harris then went to the side of the dead policeman and stood silently for a moment with his head bowed in reverence, as two white-suited EMTs watched. He knelt to inspect the head wound close up. Without saying a word, he gestured to another detective who handcuffed me.

I started yelling at Harris as they dragged me away to the police car. I knew that shouting would make me looking like a maniac, and I didn’t care. “I didn’t shoot Wilson! I was trying to get his assailant! Find the guy in the black SUV who was shooting at me! He’s the one who killed Wilson!”

Harris signaled for the cop holding me to stop. “What’d he look like?”

In the excitement of the chase, I couldn’t recall any distinguishing features. “I don’t know. It was dark.”

Harris shook his head and looked at me as if I were a little kid who just got caught shoplifting candy from a drugstore. “I imagine this is your supposed ‘gigantic blond guy with a ponytail’ again, right? C’mon, Doc, you can’t expect me to believe that.” Harris shook his head in disgust and turned to the other policemen. “Take the doctor.”

“But—”

“Jesus Christ, Dr. James,” Harris muttered.