Scarcity (Jack Randall #3), page 13
Preferring to walk after sitting for so long, he made his way to the stairs. Two flights down he emerged into another hallway. This one showed some activity as the ER at Johns Hopkins was always busy. He passed an unconscious man being pushed on a stretcher heading for the CT scanner. His head sported a bloody bandage and his arms were red and scraped down to the raw tissue. A foot also stuck out at an odd ankle. The look from the tech who was pushing him said it all.
“Busy night?” Dr. Dayo asked.
“We’re packed, Doc. Five car pileup on 95. They’re still bringing them in. Better get out while you can.”
“I plan to.”
He left the man behind and continued on toward the ER entrance. He heard the chaos that was the Emergency Room well before he entered through the double doors. Here the noise quickly rose to a level that drowned out his squeaky shoes. The patients were stacked in the hallways, and he had to maneuver around the techs and ER nurses who rushed in every direction. An overdose chose to empty his stomach as Dr. Dayo passed, and he moved just in time to save his shoes. Approaching a trauma room, he saw a team working on a man in a similar state to that which he had seen in the hallway. The only difference was this man was still conscious and screaming in pain. The odor of alcohol could be smelled wafting off the man even from outside the room. The ER doctor looked up from his place at the head of the bed and caught Dr. Dayo’s eye. He just shrugged and smiled as he made ready to intubate the man on the stretcher. Another drunk driver, nothing new to him. Dr. Dayo moved on before he got the urge to step in. He sometimes missed the excitement of the ER, but not tonight, he was just too tired.
Stepping through another set of doors, he passed through the triage area. The waiting room was packed with all manner and color of people. Some visibly sick, others bloody and injured. A few had the fidgety look of those close to withdrawal and others looked perfectly fine, calmly waiting and sipping their vending machine coffee. He made his way through the throng until he was able to step outside and was greeted by Harold, one of the hospital’s longtime security people. While Johns Hopkins was one of the best hospitals in the world, it did not reside in the best part of town. Their security staff was larger than most hospitals of its size.
“Gettin’ while the gettin’s good, Doc?”
“You know it. Looks like a full house for some time in there.”
“Actually getting better now that the snow’s gone. Cuts down on all the homeless trying to get a bed for the night.”
“I know I’m ready for mine.”
“Give me a second and I’ll have Jerry walk you out.”
An approaching siren announced the arrival of another ambulance. The wail died as it rounded the corner.
“That’ll be the last one from the pileup,” Harold commented as he pushed buttons on the panel in his kiosk. The lights they triggered would tell the crew where to take their patient.
“You’re busy here. Tell Jerry I can make it fine myself.”
Harold frowned at that. He’d been a cop before taking this job, and he knew the area they were in all too well.
“Not safe, Doc. Jerry will be here in a few. What’s a few more minutes?”
“It’s all right. I’ll be on my bike and out of here before he gets here, but thanks.”
“All right, be careful.”
Harold shook his head as he watched the doctor walk off into the shadows toward the employee parking lot. Doctors were all the same he thought. They all thought they were untouchable. He hoped this one never had to learn the hard way.
Dr. Dayo made it through the gate and was fumbling with his keys in the faint light when he arrived at his bike. A new Harley Davidson. He had finally had the courage to ignore his wife long enough to buy it. He had secretly shopped for months before deciding on the make and model. One of the few pleasures he had was the occasional ride with a few of his surgeon buddies. He now paused for a moment to take in the lines of the sculpture of steel and leather. As much as he was a fan of the old-school Harleys, his love of cutting edge technology had won out and he had chosen the new V-Rod Nighthawk edition. Its black-on-black color scheme gave him a chill the first time he had seen it, and it still did today. Now that the weather had changed, he had taken every chance he could to ride it to work.
Still holding the helmet in his hands, he threw a leg over the seat and reached out with the key to start it up for a minute of warm up before he left. He was stopped short by something obstructing the key. He leaned over to see a big glob of something foul stuck to the ignition switch. Gum? Some damn kid? He poked at it. Wax. Someone had smeared wax over his ignition and it had dried there. He picked away at it with a fingernail and discovered it would come off. He had it halfway exposed when a voice interrupted his progress.
“Having some trouble, doctor?”
The voice had a condescending tone with a Spanish accent. Dr. Dayo straightened up to see two men watching him, one of them smoking a cigarette. He blew the smoke out forcefully before smiling at the doctor. He had greasy hair and a large tattoo on his neck. The other was just big and sported a Ravens Jacket.
Dr. Dayo looked toward the hospital, hoping to see Harold or Jerry walking toward him, but the lot was as empty as when he had arrived.
“Relax, Dr. Dayo. Nobody is going to hurt you.”
“Do I know you?”
The one talking took a long last drag on his cigarette before dropping it to the ground. He crushed it out with a steel-toed boot before once again smiling that smile, as if he were a cat playing with a mouse. The other just glared before slowly walking a wide circle around them. He kept his hands in his pockets, and Dr. Dayo shifted in the seat to keep them both in view.
“No, you don’t know me. But we know you.”
“What do you want?”
“Nothing . . . nothing. Just to give you a message, that is all.”
Dr. Dayo swung his leg over the seat and turned so he could still see the man who had now moved behind him. The man didn’t stop, he merely continued to circle. Dr. Dayo tightened his grip on the helmet. The two men stood their ground, not impressed by his movements.
“And what message would that be?”
“You have a patient, a friend of ours, you might say. We want to be . . . reassured that you will do your best for him. You will do your best for him, right, Doctor?”
Dr. Dayo understood the Spanish accent now. Hernandez was evidently having second thoughts about his surgeon.
“The man’s heart is failing. He’ll die soon unless he gets a transplant. I have no control over that.”
“We understand that . . . but if a heart should come?”
Dayo grit his teeth. “He’ll get my best effort.”
The greasy one lost his smile before reaching in his pocket. Dayo stiffened and the man watched him with his hand frozen for a moment before he slowly withdrew the pack of cigarettes. He took his time tapping the pack before extracting one and lighting it. The smile returned.
“Very good, Doctor. That is what we like to hear. This man . . . he is very dear to us, you understand. I would hate to think what his death would drive us to do.”
Dayo just stood and waited, ready to swing the helmet if they came closer.
The smoker surprised him by clapping his hands and raising his arms wide as if to give Dayo a hug. The other one turned and started across the parking lot.
“I’m sorry to delay you, Doctor. I know you must be eager to get home to your wife, Anna, and your two boys. The older one can really swing a bat, yes? You should be proud.”
He made an elaborate show of putting his hands together as if in prayer and bowing before flashing the twisted grin as he spun on a heel to follow his companion. Dr. Dayo watched them until they disappeared into the dark streets.
Once they were gone, the doctor considered going back to the hospital, but he realized it was over. The men had sent their message, loud and clear. But what should he do now?
He threw his leg back over the bike and scraped the remaining wax away with the key before inserting it. The bike started with a throaty roar and he quickly revved the engine a few times to warm it up. The helmet went on after a look behind him and he quickly worked the gas and clutch to move the bike onto the street. He took several turns as fast as he could and drove home at well over the legal limit. Parking the bike outside the front door, he bounded up the steps and into the house.
“Anna!”
He moved toward the sound of the TV in the family room. Empty.
“Anna!”
He strode into the kitchen. Also empty. He pulled a knife from the block on the countertop before moving through the kitchen on the way to the stairs. A door opened in front of him and his wife emerged holding a basket of laundry.
“Matthew? Is that you yelling?”
Dr. Dayo quickly hid the knife behind his leg.
“Just me, honey. House was empty. I couldn’t find you or the boys.”
“The boys are at a sleepover. Are you okay?”
Dayo recovered quickly. “Yeah, just tired I guess. I’m gonna go upstairs and change.”
“Okay, come find me in the family room when you’re done? I’ll fix you a drink.”
“That sounds good.”
She pecked his cheek as she walked past with the laundry. He managed to keep the knife out of sight and climbed the stairs to the master bedroom. Pulling off the leather jacket, he flung it on the bed. The knife lay next to it and he stared at it for some time before moving it to the bottom of one of his drawers. He shed clothes as he walked to the shower. The water worked to clear his head, and he thought about what had happened and what he should do while the water flowed.
Eventually his thoughts were interrupted by a knock on the door.
“You still in the shower?”
“Just getting out now,” he yelled.
“All right, I left your drink on the nightstand.”
“Thanks, honey, I’ll be down in a minute.”
“Okay.”
He quickly dried off and left the bathroom to pick up the drink. He drained half of it on his way back to the bathroom. He combed his wet hair back and examined himself in the mirror. He tossed back the rest of the drink before nodding to himself in agreement.
Walking out again, he quietly closed the bedroom door. Picking up his cell phone he scrolled through the numbers until he found the one he had just typed in a few days ago.
“Federal Bureau of Investigations, how can I direct your call?”
“This is Doctor Mathew Dayo from Johns Hopkins calling. I need to speak with Agent Jack Randall please.”
“I’ll have to page him, sir, is this urgent?”
Dayo ran his hand through his wet hair.
“Yes.”
• • •
The ward was quiet as the medical teams moved about caring for the various patients. There were no private beds or different levels of care. All the men, regardless of age or nationality, shared the large room until they were either healthy enough to leave, or they succumbed to their wounds.
The Major was making small talk with the nurse at the desk. He had made it a point to get to know the medical staff as well as possible and they had become used to his presence. He would often walk the ward at all hours, claiming boredom or lack of sleep. He would visit the Afghan patients and flip through the charts so he could report to their superiors or the relatives on their progress.
He had also made an effort at observing the staff while they operated the various pumps and ventilators. Occasionally he would even venture forth a question, and the staff had proven to be eager to explain the equipment, as most professionals are. They enjoyed showing off their skills and he had developed a good working knowledge. He was at the point where he could hear a particular beep and know what piece of equipment had made the sound.
The desk was at one end of the long room with the most critical patients close to it and the rest spreading down the narrow hallway by level-of-care needed. As the conversation continued, he watched as the two doctors on duty made their way slowly down the line. The Afghan boy was about halfway down the right side and they were close. He cut the conversation off with a quick excuse and made his way to the boy’s bed just as the doctors did. One picked up the chart and flipped through it.
“G’mornin, Doc.”
“Morning, Major.”
“Any good news I can tell the family?”
The doctor read a quick graphic before shaking his head. He flipped it shut with a practiced movement before resting his gaze on the patient.
“The only good news is the burns on his neck and face seem to be healing all right. I was worried about infection. If he was in the States he’d be in a burn unit, which is kept a lot more sterile than what we can do here. But he seems to be okay there. We’ll keep the bandages on him for awhile longer just to be sure. As for the chest tube, I think it’ll have to stay for another day or two at least. I’d like to keep him on the vent and let his body rest.”
They both looked the boy over while the doctor spoke. With one eye showing through the bandages covering half his head and all of his neck, it was hard to tell what he looked like. The endotrachial breathing tube protruding from his mouth jerked slightly with each cycle of the ventilator. The bandages on his chest rose and fell in a steady rhythm, and the bubbling of the water seal servicing the chest tube sitting on the floor could be heard over it all. Two pumps served the IVs in each arm, keeping the boy sedated and paralyzed so the machines could do their work without interference.
“So what’s the prognosis? Think he’ll pull through?”
“I don’t quote odds if that’s what you’re looking for. Is he better than he was yesterday? Hard to say really. He’s not worse. If the burns keep healing and the chest does the same, we can hopefully remove the chest tube and start thinking about weaning him off the vent. My biggest worries at this point are infection and a P.E.”
“P.E.?”
“Sorry. Pulmonary embolism. Basically an air bubble or a clot blocking blood flow to the lungs. With chest trauma like he has, he’s prone to developing embolisms and clots. If he throws a big one, he could arrest or even have a stroke.”
“So what can you do about that?”
“Not much. If it happens . . . at least it’ll be quick. I wouldn’t get the family’s hopes up just yet if I were you. Kid’s tough, and he’s got a strong heart, but he’s far from out of the woods yet.”
The Major made a few notes while the doctor waited patiently for any more questions.
“Okay. Not worse, but no real improvement. I’ll lay it out straight for them.”
“That’s all you can do.”
“Thanks, Doc.”
“Any time.”
In a Poor Economy, Black Market
Organ Trade is a Booming Business
October 27, 2011—International Business Times
—THIRTEEN—
Rita Lamar was out of her element. She gripped the wheel with both hands and tried not to make eye contact with the people on the sidewalk as they stared at her. Why she was drawing such attention was obvious. She was a white woman in a Mercedes traveling through an area where she did not belong. She checked her progress on the GPS and the red line on the map had so far kept her true. She spotted a young boy sitting on a graffitied mailbox. He met her gaze and flashed a hand gesture at her. She had no idea what it meant. Another one, maybe in his teens, moved from his spot against the building and walked to the curb. He looked confused as she drove on by, but just shrugged it off and returned to his spot against the wall.
Soon the neighborhood changed and the parked cars spewing loud rap music gave way to Latin beats. More groups of men, some of them heavily tattooed, crowded the corners and sat in the parked cars. The signs were now all in Spanish and she started looking for her destination. The GPS guided her through a turn.
A stoplight held up her progress and she felt her heart beat quicken as she was eyeballed by the people around her. She kept her eyes straight ahead and prayed for the light to turn.
A loud knock on the window next to her made her jump.
“What you want?”
She just stared back. A young Latino man dressed in baggy jeans and a soccer jersey was standing next to the car. A bandana adorned his head, which was also covered by a baseball cap, while his neck and arms were covered in tattoos. He looked both ways up and down the street before repeating his question.
“What you want, lady? Rock? Powder? I got it all. Good stuff.”
Her mind raced to catch up. Drugs. He thinks I want drugs. What do I do?
“Come on, lady, don’t got all day. What you want?”
She just shook her head. He stepped back and glared at her in disbelief before breaking into laughter. He leaned back in till his face was inches from hers through the glass. Suddenly he punched the door of the car and she jumped in her seat against the seat belt. His laughter was loud and the crowd on the sidewalk joined in.
She quickly recovered and drove through the intersection despite the light still being red. She forced herself to calm down as the GPS took her around another corner.
Four blocks later, she found her destination. The bar sat in the middle of the street and sported a long line of motorcycles in front. A crowd of men and women dressed in leather sat around the entrance and in the street. Two of them stepped into the street and stopped her car. One looked in all directions as he approached. He leaned down to look at her before smiling. He tapped on the glass.
“Mrs. Lamar?”
She rolled the window down an inch.
“Yes.”
“Pull your car around the back of the building. I’ll come and get you. Don’t be afraid, no one will harm you here.”
She just nodded and rolled the window back up before following the pointed finger. The back of the bar’s parking area held even more bikes and she only waited for a moment before the man was back. She unlocked the door and stepped out, quickly closing it behind her. She was about to lock it when the keys were snatched from her hand. She flinched.
