Hard To Breathe, page 26
part #2 of Drake Cody Series
“This is nuts, Mesh. A storm is coming and it's freezing.” As Dan said the words, the long-overdue, first snowflakes of the year whipped sideways from the north.
“Come over here. Please.” Mesh moved toward the lee of the closed-for-the-season, wooden concession building. Dan followed. They tucked out of the wind behind the small building's south side.
“Where's your phone?” Mesh said.
“In the car. What do you care?” Dan said.
“I've found a way to save you, but I'm not going to let you blackmail me again.” Mesh patted Dan's coat pockets. “I know I can't trust you. No recordings. You say nothing to anybody and I'm not a part of it. Open your pockets. Show me.”
“Lighten up. I'm not recording anything.” Dan opened his coat, showed his pockets, then zipped tight once again. “What do you mean a 'way to save me'?” Did he come through for me again?
“If you can keep your act together and do what I say, you can stay out of jail and save Ogren Automotive.”
“Ha! I knew you'd come up with something.” The brilliant little shit was magic. Relief coursed through him like a hit of cocaine.
“Don't get carried away. It's going to cost you. And it's set to happen tonight.” Mesh frowned. “Are you drunk? High on drugs?”
“I'm fine.” Dan had nothing more than a walking-around buzz on. “What do I have to do, and what is it going to cost me?”
“You need to meet with Beth and her attorney. Don't cause trouble. Sign some documents.”
“I knew she'd hang with me.” Dan felt another rush. No matter how she'd messed with him he still wanted her. He'd forgive.
“Are you insane? She doesn’t want anything to do with you. Part of the deal is you stay away from her forever after the papers are signed. You're meeting to sign a deal to pay Beth off. This is an under-the-table deal. I've convinced Beth and her attorney that divorce will leave them with little to nothing—which is the truth. I presented them with an alternative. This is your only shot. Her attorney insisted you sign in person and be recorded doing so—it protects them from you trying to renege. The deal is ethically questionable but legally solid. It will hold up.”
Mesh's opinion on legal matters was never wrong.
“What's it going to cost me?”
“Half of everything plus the house. Specifically, it includes half of Ogren Automotive.”
“You can’t be serious. No way. It's too much.”
A gust of wind ripped around the building. Snow swirled around them. The lake's expanse faded in the growing blizzard. Mesh shook his head, staring at Dan in disbelief.
“Can't you connect the dots? You're a slam-dunk to be convicted of domestic violence. Beth has retained a shark of a divorce lawyer. Divorce actions without a prenuptial mandate a full audit to establish property owned. The audit will include Ogren Automotive. You've stolen so much from the company there's no way to come anywhere near balancing the books, even with the nursing home funds. You'll be convicted of financial mismanagement.” Mesh paused.
“If you don't take this deal, Ogren Automotive goes bankrupt, you go broke, and you spend the next several years behind bars. That's the best case.” Mesh paused. Snowflakes swirled around them. He spoke, his voice raised over the increasingly noisy wind. “You still think it's too much?”
“There has to be a better way.” Dan shook his head.
“That's it. I'm done with you. You're insane. Flat-out stupidity. I'm done worrying about you.” Red-faced, Mesh turned and started to walk away. After two steps, he halted and turned back. “I've saved your ass dozens of times and how did you repay me? You set me up with a bullshit recording and threatened to have me convicted. I advised you not to take those funds. Told you what you were doing was wrong and illegal. Right? Well, you're on your own. I'm done. I'll take my chances in court.” He turned toward his car.
“Wait,” Dan said. “Give me a minute.” An idea had popped into his head.
Mesh stopped, then turned to listen, a huge gust causing him to squint.
“I had to make it look like you were guilty, too.” Dan said. “I had no choice. You're the guy who keeps me out of trouble. I can’t risk losing you.”
“Is that supposed to make me feel better?” Mesh stood jaw-clenched and staring as snowflakes accumulated on his clothes and hair.
Dan's mind spun. Bold steps. Whatever it takes.
“I'm sorry, Mesh. What I did sucked. It was wrong,” He put on the sad expression he'd used to bullshit Beth so many times. “I need you. This deal is a lot to get my head around.”
“You are a total asshole,” Mesh shook his head, “and I'm a fool to keep helping you.” His expression showed he'd bought Dan's act.
“Thanks, Mesh. I don't like it but I'll do the deal.”
“It's the right move.”
“Where will I meet with Beth and her lawyer?”
“You won't believe it.” Mesh turned toward his car and waved his arm. “I'm freezing. Get in my car and I'll give you the details.”
Chapter 62
Drake entered the ICU. Rachelle's name was written in marker on the assignment board. She'd been assigned to ICU bay four, the same bed where Jon Malar had almost died. Bad memories flashed. A nurse stood at the foot of the bed with a chart in hand. Hidden from his view, at the center of the profusion of lines, monitors, and devices, lay the mother of his children—the woman he loved.
He took a step to the side. His breath stopped.
Rachelle's olive skin looked as pasty and lifeless as clay. Dark circles pooled beneath her closed eyes, her lashes seeming impossibly long. The racing beeps of the cardiac monitor revealed a heart battling hard. A central intravenous line had been inserted into her neck. Multiple fluid and medication bags dripped while IV pumps cycled and clicked. The odor of disinfectant mixed with the sickly sweet tinge of diseased flesh.
His heart sinking, Drake scanned the bank of monitors mounted above her bed. The vital signs, wave-forms, and other readings confirmed what her appearance had already told him. The bacteria within her raged out of control. The flames of infection had spread.
His throat clenched and his mouth went dry.
He moved to the bedside and placed a hand on her cheek—cool, clammy, and doughy. She did not respond. His fingers wavered as he withdrew his hand. A white noise hiss filled his head and dread raced through his mind like wind-whipped snow. Emptiness clawed at his guts. He crossed his arms over his stomach. The foreboding he'd felt was now a thundering avalanche of fear. He would lose her. No!
“Dr. Cody?”
He found himself sitting, the roar in his head fading. A hand on his shoulder. Phones, voices, and the chattering of a printer began to register.
“Are you okay?”
He looked up. Blond hair, caring eyes, a kind voice—Tracy. The same incredible nurse who'd taken care of Jon as they'd worked together to keep him alive.
“I barely got the chair under you,” she said. “Let me get Dr. Kelly. He's on the unit. Please don't try and stand. And you should know Rachelle received sedation. She's out.”
Drake could only nod. The racing beeps of Rachelle's heart monitor sounded impossibly loud in his head. He had to pull himself together.
“Drake.” Pete Kelly stood before him in scrubs and a white coat. “Rachelle got sicker fast.”
Drake nodded.
“Her blood pressure nose-dived and her pulse climbed. She's getting high-volume fluids, and I started pressors to maintain her blood pressure. It's septic shock, Drake.”
Drake tried to get to his feet. Dr. Kelly put a restraining hand on his shoulder and crouched to Drake's level.
“Please just sit back for a second, Drake.” His eyes found Drake's. “You don't need to do anything. Let me and the others take care of her. Okay?”
“She's real sick, Pete.”
“As sick as they come.” The physician nodded. “I've consulted the best we have and she's getting good care. I know it's hard, but let us make the medical decisions. It's better for everyone—including Rachelle.”
Pete was right. The emotional impact and potential for guilt made maintaining a degree of separation from the care of a loved one good advice among physicians.
“I understand,” Drake said. “But I need to know what's going on.” Pete’s cautions made sense, but Drake could no more turn off the medical problem-solving part of his mind or limit his sense of responsibility than stop his knee-jerk reflex.
“Absolutely, Drake.” Pete straightened. “Infection at her skin graft site expanded to cellulitis and has now generalized. Probably streptococcus or resistant staph. Can't rule out pseudomonas or other gram negatives. It moved fast. A fast-moving, nasty organism for sure.”
Pete had listed some of the murderer's row of bacteria that caused infections like Rachelle's. The educated and crucial guess as to which bacteria was involved determined which antibiotic to try. Microbiology lab results, if available in time, could identify if their guess and antibiotic choices were on target. The choice could be the difference between Rachelle living or dying.
Pete continued, “She has high-dose, broad-spectrum antibiotics on board and she'll be receiving more. The leg site doesn't show an abscess collection.”
A pocket of pus known as an abscess could serve as a focal source of sepsis. Antibiotics could not penetrate such a pocket of pus. If Rachelle had such a collection, cutting into the pocket and draining the pus would be vital.
In a few sentences, Dr. Pete Kelly had summarized the essentials of Rachelle's medical status. And the knowledge identified the limited treatment options available.
All that could be done was being done.
Rachelle could rally and turn the corner, improving rapidly—possibly within hours.
Or she could “crash and burn.” The unscientific but all too accurate term used by medical caregivers described vividly what happened when disease won out.
Many, many times Drake had fought to save patients who went 'code blue' in the hospital or presented to the ER crashing. Too often he'd been unable to make a difference.
Please, God, no!
Chapter 63
Interstate 94, on the outskirts of the Twin Cities
Dan whipped the wheel to the left, his car out of control on the highway ice. He steered into the spin, did not panic, and his vehicle regained traction before he entered the ditch. He'd almost spun out twice while heading north before accepting that he had to keep it under thirty miles per hour. He'd passed at least four cars in the ditch. With the worsening conditions he had to go even slower.
He uncapped his flask and took a generous pull of scotch. Bad driving conditions and a horseshit plan. Shit! Mesh’s pushing this deal showed he’d become an incredible weakling.
The snow continued to fall in the blackness, and though it was only seven thirty p.m., the highway was almost deserted. Snow emergency warnings had been strident, and many businesses had closed several hours early. His wipers fought to maintain a window onto the road. His headlights lit but hardly penetrated the whirling, glittering, unremitting cloud of the blizzard dense flakes. Three huge highway department trucks raced three abreast on the southbound lanes, plowing the rapidly accumulating snow and applying road salt in a non-stop circuit. Dan hoped the recent pass of the plows would allow him to get to his turnoff.
What happened tonight would determine whether he lived life as a dickless loser or continued to live large. He was made to live large.
A fierce gusting crosswind shook his car like the close passage of a speeding semi-truck. The snow-blurred lights of Maple Grove's business district showed to his right. His exit lay only a few miles ahead. His destination was as improbable as his supposed mission.
Dan had not been back to his Kenwood home so he'd not noticed his recreational vehicle was gone. When Mesh had told him where he needed to go to meet Beth and her attorney to make this deal happen, he couldn’t believe it.
She'd hated the sporting event parties and hadn't been in the RV for more than two years. That had worked out well for Dan, as the home-on-wheels vehicle had served as the site for countless episodes of drunken, naked, rocks-off fun. Every woman he could get to have a few drinks and be in the RV with him alone was there for one reason—whether she knew it or not.
He knew what he could get away with—he'd pushed the limit more than a few times. As long as the woman was legal age and drunk, and there were no witnesses, he could do whatever he wanted. It had always been that way and, despite the bullshit laws that had gotten passed, it still was.
Beth. She'd flipped out after the ER day. The damn doctor had started all the trouble. Dan had not succeeded in killing the bastard, but trying had been a rush. It had shown him what he could get away with.
Now Beth was the bigger problem. It probably hadn't been smart to smack her around, but she'd asked for it. Leaving the injuries had screwed him. You can't leave a mark.
The way Dan saw it the whole thing was sexist. Because she was a woman she should be able to get away with giving him shit? No way. He believed in equality. He'd treated her like he would a man. Actually better. If a guy pissed him off he'd stomp their heads into the ground. She'd earned every one of the punches and slaps he'd delivered through the years.
Ideally, he didn't want her gone. He wanted things the way they'd been.
Beth on his arm was great for his role as husband, business, and community guy. Beautiful and sweet—she legitimized him—like a great prop. And such an incredible piece of ass. Despite what had happened, he knew if he got her alone she'd respond. She bitched about the rough stuff. And had finally got wise to his out-and-about sport screwing. But despite all that, if he got the chance to put it to her again, he knew she’d like it. Like it a lot. No matter what she said.
And he'd never held out on money. He'd rarely even noticed what she spent. Or how she spent her time. His money and her position as his wife had helped her become a standout among the goody-goody, help-the-puppies and poor people crowd.
But he smacked her a few times and suddenly all that wasn't good enough. Shit.
His tires hit black ice and for a moment his car swung sideways. Once again he kept his cool and avoided overcorrecting. The car fishtailed but he avoided the ditch.
The blizzard might help him.
He slowed even more and took the unplowed County Road 30 exit. Not too much farther distance-wise, but the roads would be rugged. He turned west.
Mesh's plan. Dan to meet Beth and her shark of a lawyer alone. Dan to act like a punk and sign away damn near everything. Yeah, sure thing, Mesh. Great plan. What next? Cut my nuts off?
Mesh had overreacted. He'd made the deal sound reasonable, but Dan had a better idea.
Thoughts of Beth had him half-hard. He was not going to show up with his limp dick in his hand.
Dan Ogren was nobody's bitch. He lived life the way that worked for him. He wouldn't live any other way.
His car bucked over a ridge of ice. A clank sounded from the trunk.
Bold steps. Whatever it takes.
Chapter 64
ICU
Drake stood helplessly by while Rachelle teetered on an invisible cliff. Within her, a life-or-death war involving bacteria, cells, tissues, and chemicals raged. Tracy moved about the bedside, checking monitors, adjusting drips, and continuously supporting Rachelle in her fight.
Rachelle's appearance, vital signs, and test results showed the fierceness of the battle but could not predict how it would end.
Victory meant life. He and the children would not lose her.
Defeat would open a chasm of blackness and pain beyond anything Drake could imagine. His mind backed away from the thought of losing her, like someone deathly afraid of heights veering away from the edge of a cliff.
He'd almost lost her before. Her courage and selflessness had helped save the children and her from a fearsome woman crazed by greed, drugs, and madness. It was beyond cruel that now bacteria—microscopic organisms little more than mold—threatened to take her from them.
He wanted to believe she would be okay. He wanted to pray but feared his pleas could be turned against him. Would prayers be answered from a person whose heart raged against a God who allowed so much misery? Would this harsh and mysterious God, knowing the doubts in Drake's heart, punish him for his lack of faith?
A soft alarm beep sounded. Tracy reached over, adjusted an IV line, then keyed in information, silencing the pump. The ICU nurse's practiced skill and attentiveness reassured. All that could be done for Rachelle was being done.
Drake felt a desperate need to be busy—to somehow be useful. Activity had been his survival tool for a very long time. No one but he knew that his manic schedule was a form of cowardice. It helped him avoid dwelling on who he was or thinking about what he'd done or those he'd failed.
For a time in his past, drugs, alcohol, and anger had claimed him. He'd been on the road to a bad place.
The birth of his dream of becoming a doctor and doing research had put him on a better path. The wholly absorbing engagement in meaningful work that the ER and research provided was both passion and therapy.
When he'd found Rachelle and become a parent, it was as if he'd been made whole again.
Earlier Drake had gone down to the ER, the place he'd practically lived in for the past several years. He'd changed into scrubs.
He'd pressured his colleagues into letting him carry the flight beeper and take any helicopter runs that might arise. He'd told his colleagues that he was staying in the hospital anyway, and feeling as if he was helping out would make him feel better. Rescue flights were always short, and the blizzard might ground them altogether. They gave him the beeper. He'd grabbed his flight jacket and brought it to the ICU.
***
Rachelle lay motionless as the pumps clicked and whirred. The beeping of her heart monitor continued to race as if she were sprinting. The buzzing of phones, printers, and voices from the nursing unit came from the bay's entry. The smell of antiseptic and laundered sheets mixed with the nail-polish odor of ketones—the substance the body formed when forced to burn the last of its energy stores.
