"Godzilla and The Smog Monster"
Chapter Twenty-Eight
DeSoto was awakened at around six o'clock in the morning, by a series of low moans. The paramedic popped bolt upright on his comfortable cot and his sleepy head swung in his pained partner's direction.
There was a grimace on Gage's face. But his eyes remained closed.
'Johnny must be moaning in his sleep,' Roy silently realized. His bare feet instantly hit the floor and his right index finger immediately reached for the red button on his now-groaning amigo's call buzzer. His hands then moved to the sides of his hurting friend's tossing head.
Within seconds after being summoned, two people appeared in the doorway to ICU's Room 604.
"Good morning," John's surgeon said with a smile, as he stepped up to the foot of his pained patient's hospital bed and snatched up the metal clipboard that was hanging there. "Your brother, here, seems to be experiencing some discomfort."
A nurse had accompanied Paul Kurtz into the room. Upon seeing the physician's nod, she emptied one of the two loaded hypos in her hands into the groaning young man's IV port.
Roy felt his friend's body beginning to relax and released his steadying hold on his heavily bandaged head. "When he came to yesterday afternoon, he was complaining of pain in his head, throat and chest."
"That's perfectly understandable," the doctor decreed. Kurtz completed a careful perusal of the medical chart and passed it on to the nurse, so he could begin his own patient evaluation.
The nurse placed the remaining syringe down on the patient's med' stand and carefully recorded each of the physician's findings.
Midway through the surgeon's verbal assessment, the grimacing gunshot victim's eyes fluttered open.
The doctor smiled down at his slightly sedated—and apparently still pained—patient. "Hi there. Paul Kurtz. I'm the one who's been poking around in that hole in your noggin."
Gage grimaced even more, at the mental image. "Did you put a 'metal plate' in my head?"
"Nope. No metal plates," Kurtz assured him, and resumed his patient evaluation.
The paramedic seemed confused. "What did you use to plug the hole?"
"Silly putty," the surgeon teased, and finally succeeded in coaxing a slight smile from the gravely injured young fireman. "Fortunately, I was able to recover all of the bone fragments. I just love to work jig-saw puzzles."
The pained paramedic's smile broadened a bit. "Thank you, Dr. Kurtz."
The good doctor smiled back. "You're welcome, Mr. Gage—"
"—John," his patient prompted.
"You're welcome, John," Kurtz quickly corrected. "On a scale of one to ten, with one being the least and ten being the most, what number would you assign to your pain level?"
"Twelve," John truthfully told him.
The physician's smile returned. The sedative, alone, hadn't worked. So he nodded for the nurse to administer the analgesic.
The woman obediently emptied the contents of the second syringe into the patient's IV port.
The grimace on the gunshot victim's face gradually vanished.
His physician's smile slowly faded, as well. "John, there is someone outside, who insists on seeing you. I've been putting him off for the past week now. But he claims that it is extremely important that he speak with you—as soon as possible. Do you think that you feel up to speaking with him?"
Gage locked gazes with his partner and the two of them exchanged a puzzled look. "I dunno…I suppose so."
The surgeon crossed over to the open doorway to 604, stuck his right arm out into the hallway and motioned for someone to approach. "You've got two minutes," Kurtz icily informed the business-suited fellow who came scurrying down the corridor and into the room.
"Right," the gentleman gratefully acknowledged. "Special Agent Daniel Rousseau," he introduced, stepping up beside the vertical paramedic's hospital bed. He was carrying a portable tape recorder in his right hand and several 8X10 photos in his left. "I'm with the government's Organized Crime Task Force. If you're feeling up to it, I'd like to talk to you about the night you were shot."
"Sure," Gage unenthusiastically agreed, following another glance in his partner's direction.
"Excellent!" Agent Rousseau declared. He placed his portable tape recorder down on the patient's hospital bed and hit the RECORD button. Next, he pressed the first of four glossy photos up to the eyewitness' frowning face. "Please, let me know if you recognize any of these men…"
Roy recognized Carl Iverson's photo, immediately. It was the third one in the stack.
His partner apparently recognized his assailant, after all, because he momentarily stopped breathing. "That's him."
Rousseau's eyes lit up. "Are you certain?"
John nodded. "I don't recall too much about the guy's face. But I got a real good look at his eyes. I'll never forget those eyes—as long as I live." He had stared into those cold, callous orbs, begging—pleading—for his life. "That's definitely the deaf guy who was in that office."
It was Agent Rousseau's turn to stop breathing. "Are you certain the man that shot you was deaf?"
Gage gave him another nod. "He was deaf, all right. Didn't hear me shouting at him—or the blaring of the smoke alarms. That's why he was so startled to see me, when he finally did turn around."
"Excellent!" Agent Rousseau re-exclaimed and clicked off his tape recorder. "Thank you, Mister Ga—"
"—John," Mister Gage interrupted.
The agent flashed the young fireman a grateful grin. "Thank you, John!"
Roy was more than a little perplexed. "If you know who the guy is, and what he looks like, why haven't you been able to find him?"
"We did find him," the agent proudly replied.
John exchanged a puzzled glance with his partner, and then posed a quick question of his own. "Then, why is that cop still standing outside my door? Why haven't you arrested the guy?"
"Mr. Iverson is a 'person of interest' in an ongoing criminal investigation," the government agent reluctantly informed them. "He has ties to a nationwide arson ring. Because of that, we have been keeping him under 24-hour surveillance. Iverson's every move is being continuously monitored. If he attempts to come back here, then we'll pick him up." He glanced at his watch. "You've been a big help, John. I wish you a speedy—and complete—recovery." With that, Special Agent Rousseau was gone.
Roy was suddenly feeling sick to his stomach.
Carl Iverson was fond of planting bombs in people's cars. What if he decided to plant one there, at Rampart? He could blow up the entire hospital! Hell, he wouldn't even have to 'plant' the bomb, himself. Iverson could just drop it in the mail!
DeSoto was no longer just worried about his best friend. The lives of everyone in the hospital were now in danger! The paramedic gripped his partner's left wrist and gave it a reassuring squeeze. "How do yah feel?"
"Like a hunk a' cheese in a rat-trap," Gage gloomily responded.
Roy's already upset tummy took another tumble, as he realized Johnny had gotten that just about right.
TBC