Thanks for all the reviews! This story has really taught me what I do—and don't—want to do next time around. Again, I'm not a paramedic, doctor, firefighter, or crazy killer, so I ask for your pardon if the details get messed up.
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Johnny awoke slowly. His head hurt. From the sounds and scents surrounding him, he knew he was in the Rover, but he was foggy on how it was moving without his being at the wheel. He forced his heavy eyelids open and gradually determined he was in the back, his head resting at an uncomfortable angle on the heavy blanket he kept on hand for emergencies. Covering him was the tarp he took on camping trips. After a few moments of confusion, all the horror of the day came crashing down. Johnny tried to move his arms, but a sharp pain tore through both shoulders and down his back while something bit into his wrists. He was bound, hand and foot, with his own nylon cord.
The man had to be driving, he surmised. Suddenly he heard retching and smelled the unmistakable odor of vomit. The man had thrown up in the front seat.
"Listen to me," Johnny rasped. "You have diabetic ketoacidosis. You need to be seen at a hospital."
"Do you think for one second I believe you?" His captor sounded weak.
The car jerked to the right as the man swerved off the road and threw open his door. After another bout of vomiting, he asked, "Ketoacidosis?"
"Diabetic ketoacidosis," John confirmed.
"I'm not diabetic," the man insisted.
"This could be the first symptom," John argued. "You're obviously nauseous. Are you feeling confused? Does your breath smell like fruit? Are you really thirsty?"
The man put his head in his hands. "I don't know…"
"You need to get to a hospital, man."
"Shut up!"
Johnny complied as the man slammed the front door shut. He knew his captor might soon be unconscious, which wasn't a happy thought as he felt the Rover pull back into traffic. John frantically tried to think of a different approach he could take as he began to quietly fight with his bindings.
After what seemed to be an inordinately long time, the man swung into a parking space and turned off the car. "You had better not be jerking me around, fireman."
"Have I described one symptom that you don't have?" John shot back, the pain echoing in his pounding head far outweighing his fear at that moment.
Unbeknownst to John, the man had driven to Rampart Hospital and parked in the parking lot furthest from the main entrance. After making sure there weren't any people around, he got out and opened the back door. The killer lifted the tarp up enough to tighten the ropes at the paramedic's hands. Surveying the camping gear and other supplies John kept in the Rover, he grabbed a roll of duct tape and tore off a strip.
"Don't do this…" John began to protest as the tape was put across his mouth.
The killer then pushed John closer to the front seat. After wedging John's cooler in behind him, the man stretched the musty-smelling tarp over his captive. Then he unfolded the blanket with a snap and covered the tarp. Next he took John's backpack and laid it on top of the blanket. Feeling sure that no one would be the wiser about what was underneath, the man slammed the door shut and stumbled toward the hospital.
John waited until it was quiet before he tried to get free, but he felt as if he was wrapped like a mummy. Screaming for help behind his gag, John tried rocking back and forth, then tried to raise his legs up and down. Frustrated and feeling more than sick from what he knew had to be a concussion, Johnny slowed his breathing. If he threw up now, he would aspirate. It was a hot day and he could feel the sweat running down his back. As the adrenaline that had kept him going slowly dissipated, he let his eyes close. He was so tired. He would rest for just a minute.
••••••••••
Bob "The Animal" Bellingham arrived to fill in for Johnny. No one was sure whether his nickname came from his size, his gregariousness, or his table manners, but Bob was a smart paramedic who could make friends with just about anyone. And since he normally partnered with Craig "The Walking Rule Book" Brice, patients and coworkers alike appreciated his friendliness.
"Hey, Roy, are you finally ditching that string bean partner of yours for someone of real quality?" Bob teased as he entered the kitchen.
"Hi Bob," Roy managed.
"What's going on? Where's Gage anyway?"
The crew hesitated, but then the tones, which had been silent all day, signaled a run for them.
"I'll tell you on the way," Roy said as he and Bob headed toward the squad.
••••••••••
Sonny pulled up in front of the small nondescript brown stucco house with Vince's cruiser close behind. The two policemen walked quickly to the door. After they knocked three times, a short middle-aged woman in jeans and a T-shirt opened the front door.
"Is Michael Reynolds here?" Molino asked.
Warily eyeballing the badge the detective presented, she stepped back and opened the door wider, allowing them to come in.
Vince quickly surveyed the interior of the home, noticing a vacuum cleaner and a bucket of rags near the coffee table.
"Is he at home, ma'am?" Molino pressed.
She shook her head and closed the door behind them. "Not here," she said with a heavy Eastern European accent.
"Are you his wife?" Sonny asked.
The woman's lip curled in contempt. "Ha!"
"It's really important we speak to him, ma'am," Vince said.
"I just get here. I do the house." The woman shrugged and walked toward the kitchen. "Look if you want."
"Sounded like an invitation to me," Sonny said, exchanging a quick glance with Vince.
"Without a search warrant, anything we find here could get thrown out in court," Vince cautioned.
"We're just looking." Molino smiled thinly. He didn't mind bending the rules if someone's life was in danger, and he believed John Gage's was. He slowly looked around the living room while Vince headed down a hallway.
"Sonny! You need to see this!" Vince called sharply.
Molino rushed into the bedroom to find the officer standing over a several file folders scattered on the floor by the bed. In plain sight they could see a piece of paper with a list of names, each one crossed off except for one, which was circled several times in red ink: John Gage.
"We got him," Vince said.
Sonny nodded. "Now we have to find him."
••••••••••
Dr. Kelly Brackett's Lincoln Town Car glided smoothly toward the doctor's parking lot but came to an abrupt stop at the yellow tape and construction cones that blocked the entrance. The whole section was roped off for repaving. Releasing an impatient sigh, the head of Rampart's emergency department backed up and headed to the east lot, which was already almost full. Passing a row of pink and white oleander bushes, he finally found a vacant spot and pulled in next to Johnny's Land Rover.
"Why is Gage here?" he wondered aloud, gathering his briefcase and coat. Brackett locked his car and looked disdainfully at the Land Rover. It was, in his opinion, a piece of junk, but he had heard enough stories of Johnny's adventures in it to know his friend had a real affection for the car.
Brackett rapped on the hood. It was still warm.
••••••••••
Two loud bangs brought Johnny to the hazy edges of consciousness, but he couldn't quite wake up. Between the heat, the gag, and everything piled on top of him, it was hard to breathe. Soon he drifted back down into the darkness.