Randy White - Dead of Night

She did. Hit him with the newspaper across the face so hard that he dropped to the floor, butt-first.

“You asshole! That hurt!”

On his cheek, a feverish red welt was beginning to swell. His lips were trembling. Jason Reynolds had never been hit in the face before. It was obvious.

“I want you to make a telephone call. I want you to tell Dr. Ford to get in his car and drive to the canal.”

Reynolds was still touching his face. “Don’t hit me again, Okay. Please? I’m not into the violence scene.”

“I am into the violence scene.”

“Please… please don’t.”

Dasha thought, This won’t take long.

It didn’t.

A little more than an hour later, Dasha got her first look at Ford. He’d surprised her, jogging out of the shadows from the front of the Bartram County Hospital, not from the ER entrance, which was closer to the weird-looking Volkswagen camper that Reynolds had pointed out and said belonged to Ford’s friend.

Reynolds-the kid had started bawling, he was so happy, when Dasha told him she didn’t need his help anymore. Time for him to go back to the ranch, gather his belongings, tell his doper pals good-bye. Leave Tropicane property and never come back.

He’d just finished making the phone call to Ford. Was in the back of a company van, Broz at the wheel.

“Go with this man, do what he tells you to do, and we won’t prosecute.”

“I will. I promise I will! I don’t want to cause the company any more problems.”

Dasha had nodded her head at Broz. He’d nodded in return. Broz wasn’t bright, but at least he knew what the woman was telling him to do.

“You’ll never see me, or hear from me, again-I swear.”

Dasha said, “That’s something I would bet on,” and slid the van’s door closed.

A short time later, Aleski was crouched in the back of the Volkswagen, Dasha was in the Pontiac rental only two spaces down from the VW. Jimmy Heller was in his unmarked squad car, assigned to pull in tight behind the van.

Bait, trap, and blocker ready.

“I pull behind the camper, you got sixty seconds, no more, then I’m outta here. It’d better be clean-no noise, no blood-or I’m gone before that.”

A New York hustler with a badge. Dasha was ducked down in the Pontiac, thinking how much fun it would be to work on Heller with a rolled-up newspaper. That’s when Ford suddenly appeared in the rearview mirror. Surprising as hell.

The woman became a statue, waiting. She felt his shadow cross the window.

Had he seen her?

No… the man continued running at an easy pace through the parking lot, then out onto the street again.

He’s scouting the perimeter. Suspicious.

Finally seeing the man in person, arms swinging, calves flexing, Dasha felt an abdominal rush. He was bigger than expected. A nerd with muscles. An operator born with the perfect disguise.

A few minutes later, when Ford appeared again, Dasha was ready. She had her head down, watching him in the mirror, one hand on the door handle, the other on the button that opened the trunk. Watched him slow to a walk, approaching the camper cautiously, head swiveling. Watched the man touch his fingers to the van, testing for movement.

A pro. Competent.

Watched him freeze as he opened the driver’s door, instantly aware something was wrong… then Dasha had her feet on the pavement, running, the sound of the unmarked car’s engine roaring, its headlights panning across the VW, everything happening at once as the trap slammed closed.

In the microsecond before Aleski grabbed the biologist from behind, Dasha saw Ford’s face clearly, his expression fierce. There it was, the intensity she’d hoped would be there.

A carnivore surprised in tall grass. Like that.

The photo hadn’t lied.

With Ford unconscious in the trunk, the pleasure she felt changed incrementally to anxiety as she drove from the parking lot, Aleski beside her, the hairy man breathing heavily, damaged ear bleeding again.

“Big sonuvabitch. First time I saw him run by, I knew. Strong as a horse. Didn’t think he’d ever go out.”

Dasha tensed. “But you only gave him ten ccs of Versed, correct? Like I told you: no more than that.”

“Yeah, I’m pretty sure. Maybe just a drop or two extra. First time he ran by, I knew he’d be a tough one.”

Shit. Aleski was lying. “You idiot! How much was in the needle?”

The woman accelerated through the shadowed neighborhood, turned right into an alley behind what looked to be a warehouse, green garbage dumpsters in the shadows. She had already switched off the lights and punched the trunk open before she braked to a stop, threw her door open.

Marion D. Ford lay on his back, knees and shoulders wedged grotesquely, blood coagulating on his windpipe, skin waxen as his body cooled, both eyes wide beneath crooked glasses, two blue voids reflecting light.

The man wasn’t breathing.

“Idiot, you gave him too much. He’s in respiratory arrest!”

Aleski snapped, “Kill him now, kill him later, what’s the fucking difference?” The insubordination was out of character, but Dasha didn’t stop to deal with it.

The woman’s medical training took over. She touched Ford’s neck, then wrist, checking for a pulse: None. Tilted the big man’s head back as she used her fingers to open his mouth, feeling chin stubble, the chill of his skin, as she checked for a clear airway.

Heard the soft percussion of a last warm breath leaving the man’s body.

A death rattle. Dasha had heard the sound enough to know.

He’s gone.

She yelled, “If you’ve hurt him, I’ll kill you. Idiot!,” as she gave Marion Ford five pounding chest compressions.

Dasha then leaned into the trunk, touched her lips to Ford’s, and blew air into his lungs, thinking that they had to get him to the plane.

There was oxygen, a full medical kit, on the DC-3…

At 8:37 P.M. Tomlinson surprised Dr. Mary Ann Shepherd, her assistant, a nurse anesthetist, and three physician observers by sitting up abruptly during his surgery, saying, “Marion Ford’s dead. My friend just died. I need a quick psychic patch, a chemical booster rocket. There’s not a second to waste.”

When no one reacted, he clapped his hands together twice. “This is serious. Work with me, people!”

His voice was energized with dread, he would say later. The nightmare variety.

The physician’s assistant tried to pull Tomlinson back onto the table, as the anesthetist looked at Dr. Shepherd, his expression saying, Don’t blame me.

“The patient requested sevoflurane gas. I wanted to do a spinal, but he insisted on sevoflurane. I’ve pumped nearly a liter into him, plus a full dose of Diprivan. That combination would put a normal person down until noon tomorrow. Hey-!” The anesthetist turned to Tomlinson, who’d yanked out his Diprivan IV. He was now sitting naked on the table, reaching for the yellow canister of liquid anesthetic labeled: C2HBrCIF3. “-Get your hands off that. Leave it alone!”

Tomlinson had the gas mask and was fitting it over his nose and mouth. “Only a liter? I don’t mean to be critical, but a liter of sevoflurane is barely recreational. Two liters? Happy hour at Cypress House, Key West, is a better buzz. But urethral surgery? Jesus Christ, next time just gag me with rum, and give me a bullet to bite.”

He’d shrugged off the assistant, then the nurse, and was inhaling deeply through the mask as his bony fingers opened the valve wide. Voice muffled, he said something indistinguishable.

Dr. Shepherd said, “What?,” thinking she should humor him until

… what? Call security? Give him a chance to anesthetize himself, sucking on that gas? “I didn’t understand what you said.”