Hard To Breathe, page 16
part #2 of Drake Cody Series
He flipped the heater fan on and it whirred to life. He set the blower to defrost and a blast of powdery crystals flew into the air above the dash. So cold. Drake used the scraper to shave the light frost from the windshield's interior. Minnesota winters—the price one paid to live in this remarkable place. He put the car in gear.
He drove slowly peering into the swath his headlights cut in the dark, near-deserted streets of downtown Minneapolis. The defroster fought to maintain two portholes in the windshield as his breath fogged the glass in the still freezing car. He crossed Hennepin Avenue, heading for the lab.
He would check on the animals, document their recovery status, take care of their feeding, and be on his way home in less than an hour. He couldn't wait to be with Rachelle and the kids. No matter how screwed other things might be, he had them. A lucky guy.
The frost-free ovals grew above the defroster outflow. The Target Center, then the multi-story parking ramp showed as he snaked along 7th Street. The road angled to the north and a view of the star-sprinkled night sky opened. Crazy cold but so incredibly beautiful. This place had become their home. If he lost his medical career, could they stay?
Drake coughed while simultaneously experiencing a fierce itching sensation on the palms of both hands. His chest tightened and he coughed again. His breath came hard. What the hell?
The skin of his palms burned and the itching spread to his scalp and extremities. He pulled off his gloves and pressed them against the cold of the steering wheel. His chest tightened as if being squeezed in a vise. His tongue and lips were rubbery. He pulled to the side of the road ending under a streetlight on the edge of North Minneapolis. He shifted the car into park. This can't be!
Years earlier he'd had a profound allergic reaction. Minutes after taking penicillin for an infected tooth he'd begun to itch, fought to breathe, lost all strength, and swelled up like a balloon. Rachelle had called 911. Paramedics had arrived within minutes and treated him with repeated doses of epinephrine. He'd come close to dying.
But this time he was unaware of any exposure—no medication, no food, nothing to trigger a reaction. He struggled to move air. Wheezing and a progressive tightening gripped his chest. His strength melting like butter on a skillet.
Anaphylactic shock—he would die without treatment.
Epinephrine was the treatment—the substance, also known as adrenaline, is the most powerful hormone in the body. It flogs the heart, opens constricted airways, and helps reverse the swelling and nose-diving blood pressure of anaphylactic shock. Drake carried in his glove box a glass ampule of epinephrine and a syringe he'd “borrowed” from the ER. He kept the miracle medicine on hand not just for himself but for use if he came across someone else in need. Bee stings, medication, foods, or other exposures could kill an allergic adult or child in minutes. Epinephrine saved lives—if given in time.
He clawed out his phone and entered 911.
“This is 911 dispatch. Do you have an emergency?”
Drake attempted to speak, “huh hin har...” His tongue thick and clumsy.
He dropped the phone and hoped it hadn’t disconnected. He stretched for the glove box, his movements awkward. He hit the rearview mirror with his forehead and glimpsed a face and lips so swollen he would not have recognized himself. His swollen tongue protruded from his mouth like the toe of a boot.
He fumbled open the glove box, then grabbed the small box containing the syringe, needle, and ampule of epinephrine. He opened the box. The fluid in the bullet-sized, glass ampule had frozen. He slumped. The needle and syringe could not draw up or inject the frozen drug. It needed to be introduced directly into the blood.
His thoughts slowed and fuzzed as his blood pressure plunged. He must get the drug into his system.
The itching registered but no longer mattered. The pain in his chest, the plastic feeling of his swollen face, and his difficulty breathing seemed far away. Whatever.
Dying and you don't care? His mind had slid into the torpor of shock. No! Rachelle, the kids. He fought against the lethargy. He felt himself sliding. The effort too great.
In the blood. I need the epi in my blood. He lifted his head off the steering wheel and removed his keys. Clumsily, he opened the one-inch blade of the penknife on the key ring. He pulled up his sleeve and stabbed the blade into the flesh of his exposed forearm. He angled the blade side-to-side beneath the skin, opening a pocket. The pain intense but meaningless. His grip grew slick with blood and he dropped the key ring. His chest felt as if it were being crushed between two cars. The pain and his air hunger both incredible and far off.
He clutched the bullet-sized ampule of epinephrine then jammed it nose first into the bloody track he'd gouged. He drove its full length under the skin. He raised his forearm and slammed it against the steering wheel. He hit a glancing blow but slammed again and again. Something gave way. As he dragged his forearm over the edge of the steering wheel he sensed the crackle of the ampule. He held his off hand over the wound and opened and closed his fist. Melt!
He struggled to breathe, he collapsed to his side. His thoughts trailing off. Failing. Again. Failing those who need me...
He'd failed those he loved before. A long time back but it haunted him.
One day—really just one selfish, thoughtless moment. He'd destroyed the ones he loved.
And now no breath, no strength. Others he loved needed him.
He must not fail again.
***
Fourteen years earlier
Anna Cartabiano was new to the school and, unlike the other eleventh-grade girls, knew nothing of Drake's history. She did not know of his conviction or his time behind bars. It was her first day and she shared his study hall.
Silken black hair and huge brown eyes. Flawless skin, fair and glowing. Her lips were rose-colored and full, one cheek dimpling with her smile. Her body was such that he had no words. Breathless in her presence.
Did he mind if she sat with him? He shrugged—speech beyond him. Then they did speak. And she laughed and her eyes flashed.
She'd asked about his classes. Were the teachers nice? Did he like music? She came from Indianapolis. Had he been there?
Then her face clouded. Her expression somber as her gaze shifted over Drake's shoulder. Partially turning, he glimpsed Kevin, who grimaced with the effort of his labored, crutch-flapping struggle across the study hall.
Her wondrous features pained, she whispered, “People like that. Crippled and retarded. It's not fair. I can't stand to look at them. It's just too sad.”
At that instant Drake's sideward glance skimmed his brother's. Kevin brightened and made what only Drake could have recognized as a purposeful nod among his mutinous movements. Drake turned away, his back to Kevin and facing Anna, pretending he had not seen his brother.
In the after-image, Drake caught the flash of Kevin's perception and pain. Kevin had read it all in an instant.
Drake heard the slap, tink, slide and grunting utterances of Kevin's challenged trajectory. Veering away—keeping clear. Kevin had absorbed the message in his big brother's actions.
Drake, for the first time ever, had rejected his brother.
Drake did not speak with Kevin after the study hall. He did not ride home with Kevin and their mother that day. He met with Anna instead.
He sensed he'd hurt the person he loved most, but Anna's dizzying appeal overwhelmed his inner voice.
While heading home in the modified Dodge Caravan that Kevin called the “palsy mobile,” Drake’s mother and brother were broadsided at a highway crossing by a Coca-Cola truck, two minutes from the school.
Their van had run a light, darting onto the highway. The truck driver did not have time to even touch the brakes. The mini-van had been almost ripped in two.
Kevin was pronounced dead at the scene, their mother transported by ambulance in critical condition.
A day later, she regained consciousness in the University of Cincinnati Medical Center's ICU. With consciousness came recall. She'd been distracted behind the wheel. Kevin had been unusually quiet when she picked him up. Minutes later he'd started to weep. Kevin never cried.
In her distress she'd turned to ask what was wrong.
The answer never came.
Their mother's soundless tears had started before she received the other news. Her spine had snapped at chest level and the lower half of her body would never move or feel again.
She'd nodded and given a slight shrug. It seemed she accepted it as penance deserved.
Drake's brother and their mother—one dead, the other paralyzed.
Others thought it an accident—the cruel hand of fate. Drake knew the truth.
He'd rejected his brother, denied him. He'd devastated the person he loved and who loved him most. Kevin, who despite his endless courage, needed Drake's acceptance and love. Drake had failed him.
He must never fail another.
Chapter 34
Memorial Hospital, Administrative offices, 6:57 a.m.
Jim Torrins' desk phone rang. He noted the caller ID, sighed, then raised the phone to his ear.
“Hello.”
“This is CEO Kline.”
Jim sighed again. What kind of jerk introduces himself to a fellow administrator as CEO?
“Yes, Kline. This is early for you. What's up?”
“Is Drake Cody on in the ER today?”
“Why? What difference—”
“Just answer me. Is he in the ER now?” Kline said.
Yesterday Kline had pushed hard for Drake to be kicked off the hospital staff immediately. Drake's record could be bad for hospital PR, but the domestic abuse report he’d filed on Dan Ogren seemed the true trigger for Kline's hostility.
“Why do you care where Drake is?”
“Just check for me. Now,” Kline said.
Jim turned to his computer and pulled up the ER assignment schedule. The schedule was complicated and it took Jim a moment to decipher. “Drake's ‘A’ shift, which is night, ended a few minutes ago, but he's probably still here. It's rare they get out on time. He's on the schedule for another A shift tonight. Why do you care?”
“Damn it. I thought ‘A’ meant a day shift. Catch him before he leaves. Make sure he sticks around.” Kline spoke fast, even more bossy than usual.
“Why would I do that? He worked all night. He's going to want to get home—maybe after a quick stop at his lab. He's sure to be beat.”
“Get down there and stop him. And don't call it ‘his’ lab. That building is university property,” Kline said.
“What's going on?” Why did Drake’s location matter to him?
Kline had come from a university finance position straight to CEO of Memorial Hospital. Unusual. Jim avoided politics, but its odor had trailed Kline's appointment. The stink had grown stronger since. The links among medical providers, educators, and big business were unavoidable but troubling. What was going on?
“Just keep him tied up as long as you can. Understood?”
Slow to anger, priding himself on calm, Jim's patience ended.
“No, it's not understood. What game are you playing?”
There was a long silence.
“It's today.” Kline sounded as if he were referring to a military operation. “This morning.”
“What, Kline? What's this morning?”
“The university legal team and all the intellectual property experts agreed. You'll be helping everyone if you keep Drake away from that lab.”
Intellectual property? The lab?
It hit him. The reason Kline had been so interested in Drake and his research. His previous position with the university's patent office and revenue operations. He was familiar with drug patents and revenues arising from pharmaceutical research.
“Is this what I think?” Jim felt nauseous. Had this been planned all along?
“The university is seizing the contents of the lab this morning.”
“You bastards.” The rough language had jumped off his lips.
“This is way beyond your paygrade, Torrins. Drake Cody's legal documentation is a mess and his claim to the drug is vulnerable. A Swiss pharmaceutical firm has already filed a claim. This is big money. It's better for the university and the citizens of the state to benefit—”
“Spare me, Kline. This is not about the citizens.” Jim felt his restraint falling away.
“The research was done in a university-owned building, the doctors are part of a university-affiliated residency, and Drake Cody's colleagues received educational credit for the research from the medical school, also a part of the university. The attorneys say that the university can claim the research as its own and likely be supported in court. The doctors—”
“What about what’s right, Kline? You being involved in such an underhanded scheme doesn't surprise me. But all the others?” Jim knew many in the university and medical school hierarchy—they were good people.
“Screw you, Torrins,” Kline’s voice loud and shrill, “get down to the ER right now and keep Drake Cody there!”
“CEO Kline, sir. Are you listening, Mr. Boss Man?” Jim found himself on his feet.
“Yes,” Kline said.
“Kiss my ass!” Jim slammed the phone down.
He grabbed his suit coat as he raced out of his office.
He hoped he was in time.
Chapter 35
North Minneapolis, roadside, 7:03 a.m.
Drake roused to the sound of his car door opening. Freezing air. Urgent voices.
“Shit, look at the swelling. Gotta be allergic reaction. Grab the epi, amigo.”
Drake felt hands on him, his coat unzipped and a stethoscope pressed against his chest.
“Barely moving air. Pulse is fast and weak. He's going down.”
A plastic oxygen mask neared his face.
“Holy shit, partner, holy shit! This is Doc Cody.”
Drake recognized the medic who bent over him. Nothing shook the rock-solid professional. He looked shaken now.
“His tongue—the swelling. He's losing his airway.”
A slight sting in his arm. “Epi's on board.”
More epi—yes! The epinephrine from the crushed ampule beneath his skin had slowed the reaction's progression, but he knew he was critical. His thoughts came into focus like boats approaching in fog.
His blood pressure was responding, but his swollen tissues were not. Each breath felt like trying to pull fluid through a too-small straw.
He could not get enough air.
A clinical, detached part of his mind recognized he'd be dead in minutes if this trickle of air ended. Water-boarding without water and it did not relent. He struggled, the paramedics trying to help. He felt the mask over his face and heard the whoosh as they squeezed the bag but the air would not pass.
“His pulse is stronger but his breathing is worse. The swelling is too great. There’s no way to get him any air.”
The paramedic leaned over him with a laryngoscope and ET airway tube in hand. She pulled back. Her words to her partner a whisper but Drake made it out. “There's no way to get anything in there.” A tube through the mouth, down the throat, and directed between the vocal cords into the trachea would give air a path. Without it—death.
The second medic spoke, his tone grim. “His neck is too swollen for a surgical.” Even cutting a pathway into his trachea, a last-ditch alternative, was not an option. They could do nothing.
At that instant Drake's pathway for air reduced to nothing.
Must breathe. Breathe or die.
He attempted to pull in air, but all passages were blocked.
Panic flared like a struck match.
His world a nightmarish effort to inhale.
Rachelle, the kids. No!
“We need to load and go. Bag-breathe him as best you can on the way.”
Drake’s heart hammered, his strength surged in the grip of terror and adrenaline. His mind flashed in total clarity. I'm going to die.
The medics started to pull him out of the car.
Drake thrashed, reached out and grabbed the ET tube still in the medic's hand.
“No, Doc.” She held tight. Her expression showed she thought he'd flipped out in desperation and lack of air.
Drake locked eyes, then gestured with his thumb towards his mouth. There was only one chance.
“No way, Doc. Your tongue...” The medic's brow furrowed then her eyes widened. She released the airway.
Drake jammed the tip of the fourteen-inch-long tube between his protruding tongue and the roof of his mouth.
“He's trying to jam the tube in,” she said.
He rested his head against the car seat and drove the tube deeper. No one could see to place the tube—but he could feel. The hard plastic penetrated, gouging between the roof of his mouth and the meat of his massively swollen tongue. He tasted blood. The tip reached his throat. He’d intubated countless patients. He knew the anatomy. His target was the less than one inch diameter access to the vocal cords which sat behind a flap of tissue designed to block anything from entering. His body jerked as he advanced the tube, his gag reflex bucked him like a mule's kick.
He held the tube in a death grip. The inability to draw in air an agony beyond description. Dying!
He summoned strength from a well that plumbed the deepest part of his being. I will not fail! He pushed harder. The tube penetrated deep into his throat. Desperately, he forced it deeper. He gagged and bucked as he felt the tube lodge against his clamped vocal cords.
Unless the cords opened and the tube passed into the trachea he would die.
Drake fought the powerful airway reflexes whose sole function was to prevent anything but air from entering the trachea and lungs. He held the tube jammed against the gateway of his vocal cords as the protective reflexes caused him to spasm and jerk as if he’d been tasered. With the last of his strength he fought to draw in a breath. Please, God!
Sharp pain and a rush of air. The tube slid forward. He thrashed violently, a fierce cough honking air through the airway. His hands desperately clenching the tube.
His chest pumped like a bellows. Air. Breathing air! The relief beyond imagination.
He drove slowly peering into the swath his headlights cut in the dark, near-deserted streets of downtown Minneapolis. The defroster fought to maintain two portholes in the windshield as his breath fogged the glass in the still freezing car. He crossed Hennepin Avenue, heading for the lab.
He would check on the animals, document their recovery status, take care of their feeding, and be on his way home in less than an hour. He couldn't wait to be with Rachelle and the kids. No matter how screwed other things might be, he had them. A lucky guy.
The frost-free ovals grew above the defroster outflow. The Target Center, then the multi-story parking ramp showed as he snaked along 7th Street. The road angled to the north and a view of the star-sprinkled night sky opened. Crazy cold but so incredibly beautiful. This place had become their home. If he lost his medical career, could they stay?
Drake coughed while simultaneously experiencing a fierce itching sensation on the palms of both hands. His chest tightened and he coughed again. His breath came hard. What the hell?
The skin of his palms burned and the itching spread to his scalp and extremities. He pulled off his gloves and pressed them against the cold of the steering wheel. His chest tightened as if being squeezed in a vise. His tongue and lips were rubbery. He pulled to the side of the road ending under a streetlight on the edge of North Minneapolis. He shifted the car into park. This can't be!
Years earlier he'd had a profound allergic reaction. Minutes after taking penicillin for an infected tooth he'd begun to itch, fought to breathe, lost all strength, and swelled up like a balloon. Rachelle had called 911. Paramedics had arrived within minutes and treated him with repeated doses of epinephrine. He'd come close to dying.
But this time he was unaware of any exposure—no medication, no food, nothing to trigger a reaction. He struggled to move air. Wheezing and a progressive tightening gripped his chest. His strength melting like butter on a skillet.
Anaphylactic shock—he would die without treatment.
Epinephrine was the treatment—the substance, also known as adrenaline, is the most powerful hormone in the body. It flogs the heart, opens constricted airways, and helps reverse the swelling and nose-diving blood pressure of anaphylactic shock. Drake carried in his glove box a glass ampule of epinephrine and a syringe he'd “borrowed” from the ER. He kept the miracle medicine on hand not just for himself but for use if he came across someone else in need. Bee stings, medication, foods, or other exposures could kill an allergic adult or child in minutes. Epinephrine saved lives—if given in time.
He clawed out his phone and entered 911.
“This is 911 dispatch. Do you have an emergency?”
Drake attempted to speak, “huh hin har...” His tongue thick and clumsy.
He dropped the phone and hoped it hadn’t disconnected. He stretched for the glove box, his movements awkward. He hit the rearview mirror with his forehead and glimpsed a face and lips so swollen he would not have recognized himself. His swollen tongue protruded from his mouth like the toe of a boot.
He fumbled open the glove box, then grabbed the small box containing the syringe, needle, and ampule of epinephrine. He opened the box. The fluid in the bullet-sized, glass ampule had frozen. He slumped. The needle and syringe could not draw up or inject the frozen drug. It needed to be introduced directly into the blood.
His thoughts slowed and fuzzed as his blood pressure plunged. He must get the drug into his system.
The itching registered but no longer mattered. The pain in his chest, the plastic feeling of his swollen face, and his difficulty breathing seemed far away. Whatever.
Dying and you don't care? His mind had slid into the torpor of shock. No! Rachelle, the kids. He fought against the lethargy. He felt himself sliding. The effort too great.
In the blood. I need the epi in my blood. He lifted his head off the steering wheel and removed his keys. Clumsily, he opened the one-inch blade of the penknife on the key ring. He pulled up his sleeve and stabbed the blade into the flesh of his exposed forearm. He angled the blade side-to-side beneath the skin, opening a pocket. The pain intense but meaningless. His grip grew slick with blood and he dropped the key ring. His chest felt as if it were being crushed between two cars. The pain and his air hunger both incredible and far off.
He clutched the bullet-sized ampule of epinephrine then jammed it nose first into the bloody track he'd gouged. He drove its full length under the skin. He raised his forearm and slammed it against the steering wheel. He hit a glancing blow but slammed again and again. Something gave way. As he dragged his forearm over the edge of the steering wheel he sensed the crackle of the ampule. He held his off hand over the wound and opened and closed his fist. Melt!
He struggled to breathe, he collapsed to his side. His thoughts trailing off. Failing. Again. Failing those who need me...
He'd failed those he loved before. A long time back but it haunted him.
One day—really just one selfish, thoughtless moment. He'd destroyed the ones he loved.
And now no breath, no strength. Others he loved needed him.
He must not fail again.
***
Fourteen years earlier
Anna Cartabiano was new to the school and, unlike the other eleventh-grade girls, knew nothing of Drake's history. She did not know of his conviction or his time behind bars. It was her first day and she shared his study hall.
Silken black hair and huge brown eyes. Flawless skin, fair and glowing. Her lips were rose-colored and full, one cheek dimpling with her smile. Her body was such that he had no words. Breathless in her presence.
Did he mind if she sat with him? He shrugged—speech beyond him. Then they did speak. And she laughed and her eyes flashed.
She'd asked about his classes. Were the teachers nice? Did he like music? She came from Indianapolis. Had he been there?
Then her face clouded. Her expression somber as her gaze shifted over Drake's shoulder. Partially turning, he glimpsed Kevin, who grimaced with the effort of his labored, crutch-flapping struggle across the study hall.
Her wondrous features pained, she whispered, “People like that. Crippled and retarded. It's not fair. I can't stand to look at them. It's just too sad.”
At that instant Drake's sideward glance skimmed his brother's. Kevin brightened and made what only Drake could have recognized as a purposeful nod among his mutinous movements. Drake turned away, his back to Kevin and facing Anna, pretending he had not seen his brother.
In the after-image, Drake caught the flash of Kevin's perception and pain. Kevin had read it all in an instant.
Drake heard the slap, tink, slide and grunting utterances of Kevin's challenged trajectory. Veering away—keeping clear. Kevin had absorbed the message in his big brother's actions.
Drake, for the first time ever, had rejected his brother.
Drake did not speak with Kevin after the study hall. He did not ride home with Kevin and their mother that day. He met with Anna instead.
He sensed he'd hurt the person he loved most, but Anna's dizzying appeal overwhelmed his inner voice.
While heading home in the modified Dodge Caravan that Kevin called the “palsy mobile,” Drake’s mother and brother were broadsided at a highway crossing by a Coca-Cola truck, two minutes from the school.
Their van had run a light, darting onto the highway. The truck driver did not have time to even touch the brakes. The mini-van had been almost ripped in two.
Kevin was pronounced dead at the scene, their mother transported by ambulance in critical condition.
A day later, she regained consciousness in the University of Cincinnati Medical Center's ICU. With consciousness came recall. She'd been distracted behind the wheel. Kevin had been unusually quiet when she picked him up. Minutes later he'd started to weep. Kevin never cried.
In her distress she'd turned to ask what was wrong.
The answer never came.
Their mother's soundless tears had started before she received the other news. Her spine had snapped at chest level and the lower half of her body would never move or feel again.
She'd nodded and given a slight shrug. It seemed she accepted it as penance deserved.
Drake's brother and their mother—one dead, the other paralyzed.
Others thought it an accident—the cruel hand of fate. Drake knew the truth.
He'd rejected his brother, denied him. He'd devastated the person he loved and who loved him most. Kevin, who despite his endless courage, needed Drake's acceptance and love. Drake had failed him.
He must never fail another.
Chapter 34
Memorial Hospital, Administrative offices, 6:57 a.m.
Jim Torrins' desk phone rang. He noted the caller ID, sighed, then raised the phone to his ear.
“Hello.”
“This is CEO Kline.”
Jim sighed again. What kind of jerk introduces himself to a fellow administrator as CEO?
“Yes, Kline. This is early for you. What's up?”
“Is Drake Cody on in the ER today?”
“Why? What difference—”
“Just answer me. Is he in the ER now?” Kline said.
Yesterday Kline had pushed hard for Drake to be kicked off the hospital staff immediately. Drake's record could be bad for hospital PR, but the domestic abuse report he’d filed on Dan Ogren seemed the true trigger for Kline's hostility.
“Why do you care where Drake is?”
“Just check for me. Now,” Kline said.
Jim turned to his computer and pulled up the ER assignment schedule. The schedule was complicated and it took Jim a moment to decipher. “Drake's ‘A’ shift, which is night, ended a few minutes ago, but he's probably still here. It's rare they get out on time. He's on the schedule for another A shift tonight. Why do you care?”
“Damn it. I thought ‘A’ meant a day shift. Catch him before he leaves. Make sure he sticks around.” Kline spoke fast, even more bossy than usual.
“Why would I do that? He worked all night. He's going to want to get home—maybe after a quick stop at his lab. He's sure to be beat.”
“Get down there and stop him. And don't call it ‘his’ lab. That building is university property,” Kline said.
“What's going on?” Why did Drake’s location matter to him?
Kline had come from a university finance position straight to CEO of Memorial Hospital. Unusual. Jim avoided politics, but its odor had trailed Kline's appointment. The stink had grown stronger since. The links among medical providers, educators, and big business were unavoidable but troubling. What was going on?
“Just keep him tied up as long as you can. Understood?”
Slow to anger, priding himself on calm, Jim's patience ended.
“No, it's not understood. What game are you playing?”
There was a long silence.
“It's today.” Kline sounded as if he were referring to a military operation. “This morning.”
“What, Kline? What's this morning?”
“The university legal team and all the intellectual property experts agreed. You'll be helping everyone if you keep Drake away from that lab.”
Intellectual property? The lab?
It hit him. The reason Kline had been so interested in Drake and his research. His previous position with the university's patent office and revenue operations. He was familiar with drug patents and revenues arising from pharmaceutical research.
“Is this what I think?” Jim felt nauseous. Had this been planned all along?
“The university is seizing the contents of the lab this morning.”
“You bastards.” The rough language had jumped off his lips.
“This is way beyond your paygrade, Torrins. Drake Cody's legal documentation is a mess and his claim to the drug is vulnerable. A Swiss pharmaceutical firm has already filed a claim. This is big money. It's better for the university and the citizens of the state to benefit—”
“Spare me, Kline. This is not about the citizens.” Jim felt his restraint falling away.
“The research was done in a university-owned building, the doctors are part of a university-affiliated residency, and Drake Cody's colleagues received educational credit for the research from the medical school, also a part of the university. The attorneys say that the university can claim the research as its own and likely be supported in court. The doctors—”
“What about what’s right, Kline? You being involved in such an underhanded scheme doesn't surprise me. But all the others?” Jim knew many in the university and medical school hierarchy—they were good people.
“Screw you, Torrins,” Kline’s voice loud and shrill, “get down to the ER right now and keep Drake Cody there!”
“CEO Kline, sir. Are you listening, Mr. Boss Man?” Jim found himself on his feet.
“Yes,” Kline said.
“Kiss my ass!” Jim slammed the phone down.
He grabbed his suit coat as he raced out of his office.
He hoped he was in time.
Chapter 35
North Minneapolis, roadside, 7:03 a.m.
Drake roused to the sound of his car door opening. Freezing air. Urgent voices.
“Shit, look at the swelling. Gotta be allergic reaction. Grab the epi, amigo.”
Drake felt hands on him, his coat unzipped and a stethoscope pressed against his chest.
“Barely moving air. Pulse is fast and weak. He's going down.”
A plastic oxygen mask neared his face.
“Holy shit, partner, holy shit! This is Doc Cody.”
Drake recognized the medic who bent over him. Nothing shook the rock-solid professional. He looked shaken now.
“His tongue—the swelling. He's losing his airway.”
A slight sting in his arm. “Epi's on board.”
More epi—yes! The epinephrine from the crushed ampule beneath his skin had slowed the reaction's progression, but he knew he was critical. His thoughts came into focus like boats approaching in fog.
His blood pressure was responding, but his swollen tissues were not. Each breath felt like trying to pull fluid through a too-small straw.
He could not get enough air.
A clinical, detached part of his mind recognized he'd be dead in minutes if this trickle of air ended. Water-boarding without water and it did not relent. He struggled, the paramedics trying to help. He felt the mask over his face and heard the whoosh as they squeezed the bag but the air would not pass.
“His pulse is stronger but his breathing is worse. The swelling is too great. There’s no way to get him any air.”
The paramedic leaned over him with a laryngoscope and ET airway tube in hand. She pulled back. Her words to her partner a whisper but Drake made it out. “There's no way to get anything in there.” A tube through the mouth, down the throat, and directed between the vocal cords into the trachea would give air a path. Without it—death.
The second medic spoke, his tone grim. “His neck is too swollen for a surgical.” Even cutting a pathway into his trachea, a last-ditch alternative, was not an option. They could do nothing.
At that instant Drake's pathway for air reduced to nothing.
Must breathe. Breathe or die.
He attempted to pull in air, but all passages were blocked.
Panic flared like a struck match.
His world a nightmarish effort to inhale.
Rachelle, the kids. No!
“We need to load and go. Bag-breathe him as best you can on the way.”
Drake’s heart hammered, his strength surged in the grip of terror and adrenaline. His mind flashed in total clarity. I'm going to die.
The medics started to pull him out of the car.
Drake thrashed, reached out and grabbed the ET tube still in the medic's hand.
“No, Doc.” She held tight. Her expression showed she thought he'd flipped out in desperation and lack of air.
Drake locked eyes, then gestured with his thumb towards his mouth. There was only one chance.
“No way, Doc. Your tongue...” The medic's brow furrowed then her eyes widened. She released the airway.
Drake jammed the tip of the fourteen-inch-long tube between his protruding tongue and the roof of his mouth.
“He's trying to jam the tube in,” she said.
He rested his head against the car seat and drove the tube deeper. No one could see to place the tube—but he could feel. The hard plastic penetrated, gouging between the roof of his mouth and the meat of his massively swollen tongue. He tasted blood. The tip reached his throat. He’d intubated countless patients. He knew the anatomy. His target was the less than one inch diameter access to the vocal cords which sat behind a flap of tissue designed to block anything from entering. His body jerked as he advanced the tube, his gag reflex bucked him like a mule's kick.
He held the tube in a death grip. The inability to draw in air an agony beyond description. Dying!
He summoned strength from a well that plumbed the deepest part of his being. I will not fail! He pushed harder. The tube penetrated deep into his throat. Desperately, he forced it deeper. He gagged and bucked as he felt the tube lodge against his clamped vocal cords.
Unless the cords opened and the tube passed into the trachea he would die.
Drake fought the powerful airway reflexes whose sole function was to prevent anything but air from entering the trachea and lungs. He held the tube jammed against the gateway of his vocal cords as the protective reflexes caused him to spasm and jerk as if he’d been tasered. With the last of his strength he fought to draw in a breath. Please, God!
Sharp pain and a rush of air. The tube slid forward. He thrashed violently, a fierce cough honking air through the airway. His hands desperately clenching the tube.
His chest pumped like a bellows. Air. Breathing air! The relief beyond imagination.
