Trauma (31 page)

David heard a thunderclap sound when somebody slapped the top of the desk. The vibration nearly dislodged him, and his body dipped even more. He kept his gaze fixed upward. A biting on his tongue helped him regain focus.

Hold on.

His muscles went into full spasm. David was going to drop.

I can do this … just hold on a few more seconds …

“Couldn't agree more,” Evan said.

In the back of his mind, through a fog of pain, David heard footsteps and the sound of a door opening. The office lights went out as David's body let go. He crashed to the floor at the same instant the office door slammed shut.

 

CHAPTER 41

Seacoast Memorial Hospital was south of Bangor, overlooking beautiful Elkhorn Lake. According to Carrie's navigation app, it was a four-and-a-half-hour drive from Boston, mostly a straight shot up I-95 North. The sameness of the route had lulled Carrie into a trance, and the classic rock station she found did a marginal job at keeping her awake and alert. She rolled down her window and took in a refreshing blast of fresh air. Sunset was approaching, and off in the distance Carrie spotted a helicopter making lazy circles against a sky brushed with hues of pink and yellow. She figured it was a news chopper, but traffic on this stretch of highway was light and it would have to fly elsewhere to find any congestion.

On a whim, Carrie exited the highway at Brunswick, and merged onto Route 1 headed north. The detour would add only twenty minutes or so to her drive, but would take her along the gorgeous scenic coastline.

A few miles down the road, Carrie's phone rang and gave her a start. She checked the number, thinking it might be David with news, but the ID came up as Dr. Abbey Smerling.

“Hi there, Dr. Smerling,” Carrie said, fumbling with the phone's settings to activate her Bluetooth and make the call hands-free.

“Hi, Carrie, you had asked for an update on Sam Rockwell's condition.”

There was no small talk. Abbey Smerling, like most every doc Carrie knew, squeezed phone calls in the way they did meals. Carrie again braced herself for a disappointing report.

“We just did his Glasgow score and it came out a six.”

Carrie's mouth fell open.
A six!
She could hardly believe her ears. This was up two points from when she had last spoken to Smerling.

The Glasgow score provided neurologists with a way to gauge the severity of an acute brain injury. By measuring various functions, including eye opening, verbal response, and motor response, a patient's prognosis could be predicted with surprising accuracy. Anything eight and above had a good chance for recovery, while a score between three and five was most likely fatal. A six was the nether world—not great, not dismal. Perfectly in between.

Sam Rockwell had suffered a massive hemorrhage that went below the arachnoid membrane and into the cerebrospinal fluid, according to what Dr. Smerling had told her. The hemorrhage had grown, too, in part because of a course of anticoagulant medication. The increased swelling from fluid collection around the hemorrhage site caused further pressure on the brain structure and additional neurological injury.

For Rockwell to have emerged from his coma and get a six on the Glasgow score was about as likely as Goodwin inviting Carrie on a girls' weekend.

“So what's driving the number?” Carrie asked.

“We've got a little more verbal response than before, but his speech is still incomprehensible. He's a two there. His eyes have opened in response to pain, and he's got the same decerebrate posture as before.”

Based on that alone, Carrie pictured Rockwell in his hospital bed, arms and legs held straight out, his toes pointed downward, and his head and neck arched back. The abnormal posture was a sign of severe brain damage and earned him a two on the widely used scale. The eye movement was the new development, having gone from a plus one to a plus two in under a day. It was encouraging progress.

While there was no real reason for Carrie to rush up to Maine, Rockwell's scores were not low enough to keep her from making the drive. As Dr. Smerling confirmed, his scores could improve at any time, and perhaps the verbal could get up to a four. The conversation in that case might be confused, but he might be able to answer some simple questions.

Did you ever see palinacousis in the vets before?

Did you notice any side effects from the DBS surgery?

Did any of your patients ever go missing?

As long as there was hope for Rockwell's further improvement, Carrie could stay a day or two before her next scheduled surgery.

“Well, I appreciate you keeping me in the loop,” Carrie said. “I'll be up there in a few hours.”

Carrie ended the call and her foot got a little bit heavy on the gas. She noticed the helicopter high up in the sky, hovering like a dragonfly as it made several passes over the highway.
You're not going to find any traffic here either,
she thought.

Twenty minutes later, Carrie made a pit stop at a roadside gas station, an oasis on a lonely stretch of road. She filled the tank and took a much-needed stretch. She got a chicken salad at an attached restaurant, and was back in her Subaru thirty minutes later, enjoying a glorious sunset.

Up ahead, Carrie noticed a red Ford F-150 truck pulled over to the side of the road. She checked for oncoming traffic, wanting to give the truck a wide berth as she passed. She was maybe fifteen feet away when the Ford's engine revved, its taillights flashed, and the pickup spun out into the road in front of her.

Carrie shrieked and slammed on the brakes, burning rubber that left long black trails behind her. She had been going forty-five, and avoided a rear-bumper collision by inches. Carrie leaned hard on her car horn to let the pickup driver know exactly what she thought of that maneuver. The F-150 sped on ahead, and Carrie released her white-knuckled grip on the steering wheel. Her hands trembled slightly as the adrenaline rush lingered.

“What an asshole,” Carrie muttered under her breath.

The F-150's brake lights lit up as if the driver had heard her and wanted to escalate the confrontation. Carrie tapped on her brakes to keep distance, but the truck had slowed to a crawl and the gap between them closed in a blink. Clenching her jaw tight enough to hurt, Carrie braked some more, but the truck had come to a near standstill; before she knew it, the bumpers were almost touching.

Carrie hit her horn again, but with a little less force. The beeps were meant to urge the driver to pick up speed, not show her anger. She noticed the license plate was from Maine. Probably some local kids who did not take kindly to tourists who dared use the horn on them.

The truck picked up speed, and Carrie did as well, but inexplicably the driver braked again. The next time it accelerated, Carrie kept some distance that she would use to try and pass on the left. She had no desire to play this obnoxious game for the remainder of her drive.

She checked the traffic, moved over a lane, and gunned the accelerator to pass. All four of the Subaru's engine cylinders worked overdrive to build up some speed. Carrie glanced to her right as she passed the truck, but the driver was just a shadow. She drove on ahead and felt her blood pressure spike when a check in her rearview showed the truck gaining. The truck was flashing its lights and slamming the horn. Carrie had one chilling thought.

Road rage.

She accelerated, but the more powerful pickup easily kept pace. The truck's horn blared and its headlights flashed. Carrie rolled down her window and waved her arm to encourage the pickup to pass. The truck gained speed, but did not change lanes. The driver got so close to her Subaru the bumpers nearly kissed. Carrie's heartbeat accelerated. She brought her arm back inside her vehicle. If the driver was not going to pass, she might have to get to the side of the road and let him go by.

A flash of fear came over her. What if she stopped and he did as well? There were no other cars on this stretch of highway. She checked her phone: no signal. Carrie could not imagine being in a more vulnerable position.

She put her arm out the window and gave another urging wave. This time the truck veered left into the oncoming lane, and then right, then left again, weaving down the road. Before Carrie could make sense of it, the pickup switched lanes and accelerated again. Carrie punched the gas, but the F-150 easily kept pace. They were driving alongside each other, but only the Ford was at risk for a head-on collision. Carrie dared a glance to her left and saw a single broad-shouldered driver in the cab. His face was an empty shadow, or so she believed. For a second, Carrie thought he had on a black mask. She did not get a chance for a better look.

Panic gripped her. Carrie floored the accelerator around a sharp bend and her car shot forward like a rocket. Her tires skidded, but never lost grip of the road. The Ford stayed in the left lane and kept pace as it inched closer to her car. She would have to leave the road to get any distance. Ahead was a long, straight stretch of highway with no oncoming traffic. Again Carrie leaned on her horn, giving it a long and angry blast, and then intentionally let up on the accelerator, hoping the Ford would decide to pass. The pickup's driver anticipated her plan somehow, and slowed as well.

The truck kept parallel to Carrie's car as it maneuvered yet another inch closer. The distance between them was no greater than a hair's width. Carrie heard a sudden and tremendous crack as the truck snapped off her side mirror. The piercing scrape of metal on metal followed.

Instinctively, Carrie turned the wheel hard right as the pickup swerved away. She straightened out her course just as the pickup came back again. This time, the truck slammed into the side of her car. Carrie gave a yell and swung the wheel right. Her only thought was to get away from danger. She did not contemplate the consequences of making such a violent and sudden turn. Once the skid started, it was not going to stop.

Carrie screamed as her car veered off the highway going forty and headed for a dense copse of trees. Everything was a blur of green. She heard tree branches snap violently and metal and glass shatter. There was a huge crash, and a crack of splitting wood louder than thunder. Carrie's head snapped back and she heard another sickening crunch of metal and plinking glass as the car stopped abruptly. A gunshot sound followed as the airbag deployed. It happened so fast, Carrie could not even register what hit her, but it felt as if somebody had slapped her face as hard as they could. Chalky dust went into her eyes and up her nose as she choked on a pungent stench.

For a moment, Carrie could see nothing but the white of the airbag. But then the pain came and the whiteness of the bag gave way to black.

 

CHAPTER 42

Braxton Price and Curtis Gantry used the police scanner in the pickup to listen in on the aftermath of Carrie's accident. The accident drew two fire trucks, two police cruisers, and an ambulance to the scene. The driver was conscious and reported that a red Ford F-150 with Maine plates had driven her off the road.

The APB included no plate number, so Carrie had not seen, or could not recall it. Either way, Braxton was not worried about the police pulling them over. They were driving Gantry's blue Chevy pickup with Massachusetts plates. Braxton had ditched the Ford on a prearranged side street off Route 1 about ten miles from where the accident occurred. Gantry had picked him up there, per the plan, and together they resumed the drive north. The whole operation had been improvised when they got word Carrie was headed to Maine.

Braxton took the chopper north, secured a car to use, and got behind Carrie's Subaru with help of the chopper and Gantry, who had tailed Carrie all the way from Massachusetts. Braxton figured on taking her down near Bangor when she left the highway, but Carrie had opted for a scenic detour, so he and Gantry had arranged a different meeting place. It helped that Carrie had stopped for something to eat. Braxton was able to pull ahead and wait for her while Gantry got even farther down the road. The transition from one truck to the other took no time at all.

Gantry was acting like a boy at the skate park—all smiles and pumped full of adrenaline. He loved missions, any missions, but especially successful ones.

“So she didn't die,” he said. “Does that mean we get a bonus?”

“No, it means we didn't screw up,” Braxton said.

“What's the worst thing that could have happened?”

“We're about to permanently take out Rockwell. We don't need two docs going dark on the same day from the same hospital who happen to work for the same program. It's not the sort of coincidence our employers are interested in explaining away. What we did wasn't optimal, but we had to do something. Besides, she's still considered an asset to the program—at least, that's the word from up high. I figured if Rockwell didn't die after we ran him off a cliff, Carrie could survive a little action in the trees. Maybe we got lucky here, but we did all right.”

Gantry went silent. He seemed almost reflective, though Braxton knew his friend's thoughts seldom strayed far from guns, sex, and money.

“Good thing we had the bird in the sky,” Gantry said. “I had lost her for a while there.”

“There are no helicopters where we're headed next. No backup, either. We get caught, we've got to go dark ourselves. You carrying?”

From the pocket of his denim jacket Gantry fished out a white pill the size of a Tic Tac and popped it into his mouth.

“Hey, don't screw around with that!” Braxton snapped.

Gantry hid his teeth and pressed the cyanide capsule between his lips. He flashed Braxton a toothless smile. “I t'ank you're purty, Braxton. You like me?”

“Get that out of your mouth before you bite it and die.”

Gantry spit the pill into his hand and tucked it back inside his jacket pocket. “Who did you give the money to?” he asked.