"Godzilla and The Smog Monster"
Chapter Fifteen
Cheryl Norquist pulled the tips of her stethoscope from her ears. "Vitals remain stable," she informed the two physicians who were standing across the treatment table from her.
The doctors glanced up from the lab report they'd been studying and nodded their acknowledgment of the nurse's vital signs update.
"His blood checks out," Brackett determined. "Nothing abnorm—"
"—Doctor Brackett," Rita Moore suddenly interrupted, poking her head inside the room, "Craig Brice is here…"
"Thanks!" Kel told her. "Might as well go ahead and prep him," he suggested and started heading for the door. "Kurtz must be here by no-ow."
Joe addressed the nurse in the doorway. "Miss Moore, see if you can find the anesthesiologist."
"Right away, Doctor!" Rita assured him and followed Brackett back into the hall.
Kel spotted Craig Brice standing—alone—in front of the Nurses' Station, and hurried up to him. "Thanks for coming, Craig. Where's your partner?"
The paramedic appeared to be both crushed and confused by his question. "I thought you knew! I was hoping that was the reason I was told to report here. I lost my partner at a structure fire, over on the 1400 block of East Ames. Actually, it may be more accurate to say that he walked away."
"If your partner was John Ga-age, it would be more accurate to say that he crawled away," Kel corrected.
Craig's look of confusion quadrupled.
Speaking of John Ga-age…
Cheryl stared down at the cut on the unconscious paramedic's left temple and suddenly realized something. "He would really have to strike his head with some force to cause a depressed skull fracture like this, wouldn't he…"
Joe was speaking to the anesthesiologist about the condition of his surprise patient's lungs. He paused to shoot the inquisitive nurse a quick glance. "Yes. He certainly would."
"Dr. Early," the woman quickly continued, "if John were a policeman, instead of a fireman, what would you say this was?" She pointed to the crease in their patient's left temple.
Early stared down at the wound for a few moments, and then glanced at the nurse again, looking rather dubious. "Why would anyone ever want to shoot him?"
"Why does anybody ever want to shoot anybody?" the nurse asked right back. "I don't know. All I do know is, that this crease has all the characteristics of a deflected bullet wound."
"Yes. It does," the physician was forced to concede. However, he remained highly skeptical. "If it was a bullet, what deflected it?"
"His facemask!" Brackett replied, as he and Brice came into the room.
"How is he?" Craig anxiously inquired, stepping up to his 'newly found' partner's side.
"He's stable," Cheryl assured him.
The visibly shaken vertical fireman exhaled an audible sigh of relief.
Joe was still staring at his fellow physician in shock and disbelief. "Johnny's been shot?"
Kel nodded. "Craig and I just examined his facemask. There is a crease in the metal rim that holds the mask's face shield in place. The crease is on the left side—the same side as his." The doctor's gaze settled upon the horizontal fireman's motionless body. "I just notified the authorities about our," he hesitated, "gunshot victim…"
Early overcame his astonishment and directed an angry glare at the critically wounded paramedic's partner—er, temporary partner. "What the hell happened?"
"We were at a structure fire over on East Ames," Brice replied, keeping his eyes focused on his fellow firefighter's impassive face. "The Captain ordered the two of us to make a routine sweep of the building. We split up—each of us taking half. John never finished his half of the search…" his words trailed off. "If John had odds…and I had evens…I would be lying on that table right now…" he allowed his soft-spoken words to trail off again.
Joe remained completely confused. "Well, who shot him? And how did he end up in an alley—blocks away? I seriously doubt he could've made it that far in his—" he stopped speaking, as two orderlies suddenly entered the exam room, guiding a gurney.
"—They're ready for him in the OR," one of them announced, as they slid the stretcher up alongside of the treatment table.
The surgical patient was quickly transferred to it. All attached wires and tubes were disconnected from the ER's wall sockets and electronic monitoring devices, and the gurney was guided back out of the room.
"I'd…better call Captain Mason," Craig realized aloud and followed the anesthesiologist out the door.
Speaking of calling people…
Cheryl exited the exam room and headed for the phone on the counter at her Nurses' Station.
Roy DeSoto was seated on the sofa in his candlelit living room. His wife, Joanne, was wrapped in his arms, and the two of them were murmuring softly, in romantic undertones. Two half-full champagne glasses, and a half-empty bottle of bubbly, sat out on the couple's coffee table.
The two lovebirds exchanged amused glances, as their half-asleep four-year-old came stumbling up to them.
"Is it the new year, yet?" the boy groggily inquired.
Roy exchanged another amused glance with his spouse and then turned back to his son, trying his level best to look and sound stern. "Yes. It's been 1978 for almost half an hour, already. What are you doing up again, Chris? You're supposed to be sleeping, so you'll be able to get up in time for the parade tomorrow. Remember?"
The child's face lit up and he nodded. The boy wiped the sleep from his eyes and then did an about-face. "I just wanted to know if it was the new year, yet…" he explained, and went stumbling off, in the direction of his vacated bed.
Roy started getting stiffly to his feet. "I'd better go tuck him back in—again."
Suddenly, the phone rang.
The couple swapped a pair of anxious glances.
"Who would be calling here—at this hour?" his wife wondered aloud.
"It's probably your mother," Roy teased, "calling to wish me a Happy New Year."
Joanne chuckled delightedly, at her husband's absurd notion.
Roy answered the phone with a big, silly grin. "Happy New Year, Mom!" he exclaimed into the receiver.
His already chuckling wife laughed outright. Joanne sobered, as her husband's amused expression suddenly grew solemn.
"Uh-uh, no-o. No, Cheryl. No problem. Joanne and I are still up…" Roy's face blanched and he staggered back a step.
Joanne shot up off the sofa and moved to his side.
"Uhhh…no…yeah…sure…I'll be right there!" Roy replaced the phone in slow motion.
"Honey? What's wrong? What happened?"
"That was the hospital," her husband replied, as though he were in a trance. "Johnny's been seriously injured. He's in surgery, right no-ow…"
Joanne threw her arms around him. "Oh-oh no-o! How? What happened?"
"Cheryl didn't say. She said she'd explain everything when I got there…" Roy suddenly realized something and leaned back to lock eyes with his wife. "I said I'd be right there. I didn't even think to ask if that would be okay with you-ou…"
The woman's arms encircled her husband's waist. She drew him close again and rested her head upon his tightened chest. "Of course it's okay! Johnny's fa-mi-ly!"
"How did I ever find such an understanding wife?" Roy inquired in a whisper, and stood there, rocking her in his arms.
Joanne pulled back and planted a light kiss on his cheek. "Get your shoes on. I'll find you a jacket," she volunteered, and started heading for the hall closet.
In a three-room third floor apartment, several miles from Rampart General Hospital, a man stood in front of a gas range.
Carl Iverson held the files, which he'd stolen from that pile of paperwork on that office desk, over a lit burner. He smiled as he watched the flames consume the documents. He stared down at the remaining mound of black ash, looking extremely pleased and feeling tremendously relieved.
Then he crossed over to his kitchen table and began cramming a fireman's bloody turnout coat and helmet into a large, black plastic trash bag.
TBC