Intensive Care Crisis. Karen Kirst
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the white gloves were in place, the doctor produced a syringe and needle and reached for his hand.
Something was wrong. He could feel it.
“What is that?”
Still silent, the man quickly inserted the needle into the port attached with tape to his hand. He injected the substance into the line.
“Where’s my nurse?”
What was her name? He could clearly picture her youthful face, her vivid blue eyes painted with disquiet. She was familiar to him, but he couldn’t pinpoint the connection.
After recapping the needle, the doctor stood and stared at him. Waiting.
Julian glanced around for a call button. There was none.
His heart began to pound. A cloud of pain spread through his chest. His lungs felt full of water. Couldn’t...breathe—
“You drugged me,” he sputtered, his words slurring.
A buzzing sounded in his ears. Black patches distorted his vision.
An alarm close to his bed began to go off. His blood pressure. Too high.
The man reached across and flipped a switch. Silence.
“Help—”
A gloved hand clapped over his mouth, preventing him from calling out.
He pushed at the man’s arm with his uninjured hand. The surgical meds, combined with the mystery drug he’d been given, left him weak. He couldn’t utilize his hand-to-hand combat skills if his body refused to cooperate.
Pray. Seek God’s help.
Dizziness washed over him.
God hadn’t heard him when their helo went down.
He was going to die, after all. Not a hero’s death.
Murdered by a stranger. For what reason?
Sweat poured off him. He thought of his parents and three younger sisters. And his team members’ loved ones, who viewed him as their last link to their fallen marines. And he thought about his nurse, whose name he couldn’t remember. She had compassionate eyes. She would take a patient’s death hard.
He tried again to dislodge the man’s hand.
A distant shout echoed down the room. The stranger ripped through the curtain and bolted for a set of doors.
Julian clawed at the IV tube and yelled for help.
Trying to draw breath into his lungs was an impossible chore, and his heart was spasming.
He had seconds left to live.
She was going to lose him.
The heart monitor flashed a red warning. Julian was unconscious and his chest wasn’t moving. No air was passing through his lips. The EKG strip showed a lethal rhythm, his heart in sustained V-tach.
Audrey called a code and dropped the bed to its lowest position. The mattress deflated to provide a hard surface. After tilting his head back, she placed her hands in the middle of his chest and began compressions.
Please, Lord Jesus, save him. If he dies, it will be my fault.
She counted in her head. Then, pinching his nose closed, she delivered rescue breaths.
Please, God...think of his family, his friends, his marines.
The code team raced in with the crash cart. She quickly told them about the intruder running free in the hospital, but there wasn’t time to guess what he might’ve done to Julian. Dr. Menendez ran the code, evaluating the patient and clipping out orders. Another nurse unsnapped Julian’s gown and positioned the pads on his chest while Audrey continued compressions. When the defibrillator level was set according to Menendez’s orders, she moved aside and watched the other nurse place the paddles and shock his body.
Her gaze glued to the monitor, she willed his heart to respond.
It didn’t.
She resumed CPR, putting her all into it. “Come on, Sergeant,” she urged. “Fight.”
“My turn,” the nurse told her when Audrey would’ve continued.
Julian’s body received another jolt of electrical current. Time seemed to stretch into eternity as Audrey waited for his rhythm to settle.
Dr. Menendez’s voice cut through her preoccupation, ordering her to administer amiodarone.
She didn’t immediately move. Her attention bounced between Julian’s face and the monitor. Come on. Please—
His heart rate slowed. “Yes, that’s it,” Audrey murmured.
“Harris,” the doctor snapped.
Audrey leaped toward the crash cart and the medications stored there. By the time the team got him stabilized and left, she was shaking. She lingered by his bedside, reassured by his restored color and the rise and fall of his chest.
Chasity walked over, her eyes troubled. Although needed in pre-op, Veronica had ordered she return until Julian left the recovery area. “He’s going to be moved upstairs.”
“I expected as much.”
Because of his cardiac arrest, they would want to keep him under observation for a couple of days. Audrey wouldn’t be able to watch over him. Maybe it was better to keep her distance, anyway. Maybe he’d be safe as long as he stayed far away from her.
She turned, and her sneaker nudged something. She crouched and, peeking beneath the bed, found a syringe. It wasn’t hers. She’d discarded the one she’d used in the sharps container.
“Chasity, get Veronica.”
“What’s wrong?”
Pulling a single glove from the box on the counter, she used it to gingerly pick up the syringe. “Tell her we need the police.” At her friend’s confused look, she said, “Tell her I’ve found evidence the intruder left behind.”
With this in their possession, they could identify the substance he’d injected into Julian and dust for fingerprints that could end this crime spree before anyone else got hurt.
* * *
Julian had had enough of hospitals. He was supposed to have gone in and gotten out in a matter of hours. Because of the incident that had nearly killed him, he’d been forced to stay longer than originally planned. Answers had proven elusive, thanks to tight-lipped administrators. He knew they were closing ranks in case he decided to pursue legal action.
At least he was home, finally, with his own bed and his own television and utter privacy.
Fitting another puzzle piece in place, he flexed the fingers of his injured hand and ground his teeth together. Two days after his procedure, the pain was dull and throbbing. Sinking against the soft leather chair, he stared at the calendar pinned to the corkboard above his desk. The serene beach photograph of Oahu’s Lanikai Beach didn’t distract him from the red lines slashing out every February day he’d missed work. Eight days gone. The entire month of January had been a wash.
Rolling the chair back, he stood and stalked to the apartment’s compact kitchen and perused the fridge’s meager contents. His appetite hadn’t returned, and he wasn’t interested in the assorted yogurts or chicken salad of indeterminable dates.
The doorbell chimed. Probably one of his buddies coming to cheer him up. That seemed to be the goal these days—distract Julian from the accident, remind him that he shouldn’t feel guilty. His frustration building, he swung the door open and promptly forgot the words he’d been formulating.
“You.”