Trauma

CHAPTER 47

“Drained” did not capture Carrie’s whole-body exhaustion. The stacks of medical records took up most of her desk space. The work was decidedly tedious and excruciatingly time-consuming. Many of the files Carrie reviewed were several inches thick and offered no means by which to conduct a keyword search for complications. Carrie had to painstakingly review each case down to the last period. She could have punted on the whole thing, done a half-baked job, but that was not in her nature. If she were going to do something, even scut work, she’d do it right.

That was just her wiring.

The complications Carrie recorded on her impressive spreadsheet were commonplace and did not denote a pattern of incompetence, or at least nothing Carrie could derive from the data. The VA might not have state-of-the-art equipment like White Memorial, but it appeared to be a first-class facility with top-notch surgeons. Even though Carrie thought Navarro was an ass, and Goodwin a shrew, they each performed their respective roles admirably and even, at times, in exemplary form.

Carrie’s grueling residency had trained her for endurance work, and she probably could have gone another hour before giving in to fatigue. Thankfully, that was unnecessary. Carrie closed the last manila folder and fired off a tersely worded e-mail to Goodwin with her Excel spreadsheet attached. Her findings corresponded with well-established industry standards. Stereotactic radiosurgery, more commonly known as “gamma knife” surgery, had the lowest rate of complications. By contrast, transsphenoidal surgery, a relatively safe procedure, had a statistically significant number of issues. The other surgical complications Carrie came across ran the gamut and included hematomas, infection, and leakage of cerebrospinal fluid. There were a number of non-neurosurgical complications like deep venous thrombosis, and a few cases of pulmonary emboli, cardiac arrhythmias, blood sugar and electrolyte imbalances, but all in all, the VA seemed to be well within the norm of surgical maladies.

Carrie massaged her eyes and took a long drink of the Diet Coke that had kept her alert these many hours. While Goodwin may have won the battle, the victor in the larger war had yet to be determined. Carrie was going to blow the lid off Goodwin’s dealings with Trent. It was just a matter of time.

Carrie shut down her computer, collected her purse, and turned out the lights. Her depleted resolve sparked back to life as she closed and locked her office door. But the feeling was fleeting. Her limbs were heavy with fatigue, and the idea of making the long drive home seemed intolerable, perhaps even dangerous. Studies proved drowsy driving was equivalent to drunk driving, and her eyes were already closing. The on-call room beckoned her, and Carrie gave in. Four or five hours or so of sleep and she could be back at her desk, looking through the files Dr. Finley had promised to provide by morning.

Carrie headed to the on-call room through hospital halls that were deathly quiet, eerily so. She reached the stairwell without encountering a single person, unusual for any time, day or night. The harsh glare of the white vinyl floor was like needles in her eyes. Carrie made an unusually quick ascent to the third floor. A creeping fear tickled at the back of her neck that hastened her strides. Maybe it was the jogger in the park, or the car crash, but the quiet made her jittery.

All three on-call rooms were vacant, and Carrie opted for the one at the far end of the hall. She locked the door behind her and glanced at the time on the analog clock mounted to the concrete wall.

Three o’clock in the morning.

What a brutal day.

Carrie plumped down on the thin, unforgiving mattress and heard every click in her stiff and achy joints. At least she had on scrubs, which were just as good as pajamas, if not better.

For a moment she felt incredibly alone and lonely and wished David was with her. But the feeling faded as Carrie closed her eyes. Even her resentment and anger toward Goodwin could not keep her from drifting off. Exhaustion took over, and thoughts of David and Goodwin receded into the back of Carrie’s consciousness. Her body melted into the bed, legs and arms became heavy as her breathing turned shallow.

The minute hand on the clock ticked off seconds like a hypnotic metronome. Then the noise was gone. All noise was gone.

Then sleep.

At last sleep, finally sleep.

Until something woke her.

Carrie’s eyes fluttered open. She had no idea how long she’d been out. A few minutes? A few hours? The darkness was impenetrable, and she could not see the clock on the wall. Her body felt queasy, off-kilter from having woken up so suddenly. Her eyes would adjust to the dark, but right now Carrie could not make out any shapes at all. She might as well have been blindfolded. But her ears worked just fine and they picked up a faint noise, the slight sound of a metallic click. That noise must have awoken her. Carrie listened, but the only sound now was her heart slamming against her ribs.

The noise came again, and this time it was distinct and distinguishable. It was the sound of a doorknob turning ever so slightly. The soft jiggle of the handle boomed in Carrie’s ears, and the click of the cylinder as it turned thundered loud as a crashing wave. She was about to call out that the room was occupied when a terrifying thought came to her. She had locked the door! The knob should not be turning at all, and yet it was. David had shown her how easily he manipulated those antiquated lock tumblers with a pick and a tension wrench. This was not just a resident looking for a place to crash. Somebody specifically wanted to get into her room.

Carrie’s heart lodged in her throat, beating like a hummingbird’s wings. Terror turned her skin clammy. She heard the noise again, a steady creak like the winding of a spring. Her thoughts raced. This corridor was empty. She could call out for help, but whoever was beyond that door would be on her in a flash. If he had a knife, a gun, her time in this life would be over.

The door opened a crack. Carrie held her breath and somehow managed to keep perfectly still. Her eyes remained open, but only as slits. She wanted to appear to be sleeping, the equivalent of playing dead.

Light from the hallway illuminated the silhouette of an imposing figure entering her room. He was at least six feet tall, and solidly built. Carrie’s breathing turned ragged and every effort she made to slow it faltered. The intruder had to think she was sound asleep, unaware. Her body heated as fear took hold.

This can’t be happening … this is a dream … a nightmare … Wake up, Carrie! Wake up!

But she was awake, and it was a battle not to scream.

The man closed the door behind him, but left it open so a bit of light seeped in. He needed to see to attack. It was enough light for Carrie to track his approach. Breathing through her nose, Carrie could not seem to take in enough air. If she hyperventilated, he would know she was awake.

The man took another silent step toward her. Carrie dug her fingers into the bedsheets as if she were dangling from a cliff. She saw the pillow in his hands, presumably one taken from an adjacent on-call room. He had not come here to sleep. She was certain this man had entered her room with the intention of smothering her to death.

As her mind clicked over, Carrie understood the plan’s sickening simplicity. No blood. No screams. No loud noise of any sort. She could be disposed of in a relatively clean manner; her body could be removed from the building in a laundry bin.

The assassin remained absolutely calm. Carrie’s panic induced feelings of paralysis she prayed to overcome. There would be a moment, a precise opportunity, when surprise would be her singular advantage.

He reached the edge of her bed and looked down at her. He watched her sleep. She could hear his soft breathing and feel his smothering presence. She kept her body rigid and still as the dead. Through her peripheral vision she watched the man lift up the pillow.

Wait, Carrie … wait … not yet …

The anticipation became agony. Carrie held her breath and tried to keep her face muscles from twitching.

The man took his time. She was asleep, after all. He maneuvered the pillow over her face like a bombardier setting his sights on a building below.

At the last possible second, Carrie lashed out with a punch that connected solidly with the man’s unguarded testicles. She heard him make an agonized sound, one that gurgled up from his gut and came out as a hiss of air. The man dropped to his knees, disabled.

Wasting no time, Carrie scrambled off the bed and darted for the door.