Hard To Breathe
HARD TO BREATHE
A Drake Cody Suspense-Thriller Book 2
Tom Combs
Table of Contents
Title Page
Hard To Breathe (Drake Cody Suspense-Thrillers, #2)
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Chapter 72
Chapter 73
Chapter 74
Chapter 75
Chapter 76
Chapter 77
Chapter 78
Chapter 79
Chapter 80
Chapter 81
Chapter 82
Chapter 83
Chapter 84
Chapter 85
Chapter 86
Excerpt from the next book in the series Wrongful Deaths:
Evoke Publishing
Hard to Breathe
Copyright © 2016 by Tom Combs
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photo copying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without the written permission of the author.
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously.
Published in the United States by Evoke Publishing
Author website: www.tom-combs.com
Email: tcombsauthor@gmail.com
ISBN-13: 978-0-9903360-4-4
Dedication
For twenty-five years I’ve worked the front lines of U.S. emergency care alongside police, fire/rescue, paramedics, EMTs, nurses, fellow doctors, technicians, air rescue crews, and the many others who respond when illness, trauma or tragedy strike. I dedicate this book to them – the special people committed to helping others when needed most.
Chapter 1
Memorial Hospital ER, 6:16 p.m.
Dr. Drake Cody grabbed a new patient record out of the Emergency Room chart rack. As usual, patients filled every bay of the Twin Cities’ biggest and busiest ER. The hallways overflowed with patients, staff, and the clamor of voices, overhead pages, and phones.
He scanned the chart as he dodged down the hall toward patient room twenty-five.
Thirty-three year old female, married, Caucasian. Chief complaint – facial injuries. History – tripped on stairs.
Drake pulled back the curtain and stepped into the exam room.
The slim, dark-haired woman seated on the exam bed wore diamond earrings. Designer jeans showed below the hospital gown. The skin around her left eye was purple and swollen. Her lower lip was puffy, and a jagged horizontal gash gaped on her chin beneath her lip.
“I'm Dr. Cody. Sorry for the wait.”
The woman raised her head, looked at him with her non-injured eye, then lowered her gaze. Despite her injuries, her loveliness struck him. With her delicate features and olive skin, she looked enough like his wife to be her sister.
A tall, mid-thirties man stood up from the bedside chair.
“I'm Dan Ogren.” He extended a hand, executing a motivational speaker's shake and eye contact. “You can call me Dan. You probably recognize the name. My dad served on the hospital board for more than twenty years. I'm on it now.”
Drake recognized the name but not from knowledge of who sat on the hospital board. The ads for Ogren Automotive were everywhere. The Ogren dealerships' marketing avoided the screaming pitches typical of others in auto sales. Their commercials and billboards featured good-looking, stylish Dan “the man” Ogren posed next to luxury vehicles in upscale settings around the Twin Cities.
Today Dan Ogren wore an Armani workout suit, and his wavy, blond hair looked artfully styled. His deep tan stood out in the Minnesota December.
The ads had not fully conveyed the man's striking physical presence—he had the size and lean muscularity of a pro athlete, with metallic blue eyes and the handsome Scandinavian features common to the area. Drake smelled alcohol.
“My Beth took a tumble on the stairs. Just a dumb accident. Can you fix it? I don't want a scar.”
Drake's “bad vibe” sensor gave a twitch.
“Sorry you were hurt,” Drake said as he bent to the injured woman. “We need to make sure you're going to be okay.”
She met his eyes then looked away.
“Can you tell me what happened? Did you lose consciousness?”
“You can call her Beth,” the husband said. “She fell on the stairs like I told you. Her chin is messed up the worst—”
“Please, it's best if she tells me.” Drake bent again to the injured woman. “Can I call you Beth?”
She nodded.
“Can you tell me what happened?”
She swiveled her head towards her husband.
“Answer. You heard the man.” His words were curt. As he turned back to Drake, he flashed his smile again.
“I fell on the steps.” She kept her eyes down. “I didn't get knocked out. I already told the nurse all this.”
“Sorry about the repetition,” Drake said. “Do you have pain in your neck? Can you see out of that eye? Any other areas hurting?” He stacked the questions together to observe her ability to process and respond. It would help him assess his concern about head injury.
“I can take the pain and I can see.” She raised her chin and pointed. “This big cut goes all the way into my mouth. That's why he brought me here.”
Drake examined the wound. She winced slightly.
“Sorry. I know it hurts but I can help you with this.”
The wound would require stitches inside the mouth, a stitch buried in the deep tissues, and several more on the chin. Even if she did not need X-rays or other tests, the repair of the complex laceration would take some time.
The noise and bustle of the ER sounded through the curtain to the hallway. They were a doctor short, the ER was already jammed, and on a Sunday evening i
t would get worse. The time-consuming facial repair meant more patients piling up in the waiting room. The main worry with people having to wait was not convenience or patient survey scores. It was providing timely treatment for patients who might worsen due to the wait. The ER staff turned themselves inside-out trying to make sure that didn’t happen.
But none of those concerns were what triggered Drake's flaring unease and the growing tightness in his neck and shoulders. His years of medical training and the violence he’d witnessed behind bars and barbed wire had him convinced of one thing.
Beth Ogren had been beaten.
He continued his exam of the injured woman.
“I couldn't believe we had to wait.” Dan's tone emphasized the specialness of 'we'. “Damn busy place. I guess you have good job security.” He laughed as he leaned back with hands behind his head and legs extended.
Drake said nothing.
“My dad donated the money for the hospice unit upstairs. And a lot more. We've been supporting this hospital for decades. I put on a charity golf tournament every year. Haven't seen you there. Are you a player?”
The words and behavior were not those of a man concerned about his wife after an accident.
Dan's entitled manner and breezy bullshit caused Drake's body to coil like a compressed spring.
He didn't have indisputable proof, but in his gut, he was certain.
He wanted to drive his fist into the man's face.
The abusers who admitted what they'd done, claimed their victims “made them” lose their “bad” tempers. Yet somehow they never lost their temper with anyone bigger, stronger, or tougher—or when there were witnesses. The darkest period in Drake's life had proved to him that such violent cowards were not rare.
He completed Beth's examination. Thankfully, she did not have evidence of additional injury.
“You're sure you can fix her face?” Dan lounged with his legs outstretched and hands behind his head. “Maybe you can toss in an extra stitch and tighten up things. She's a beauty now, but she's not getting any younger.” Again Dan laughed alone.
If Drake were a dog, his fur would be on end and his fangs bared.
He’d dealt with some whose brutality justifiably kept them locked away. Drake sensed that underneath Dan Ogren's handsome businessman exterior, similar cruelty hid.
A fierce urge to lay hands on Ogren gripped Drake.
“I'm sorry,” he bent to Beth's eye level, “I need to step away for a moment. You're safe. We'll take care of you.”
Drake had lost control before with others who'd victimized the defenseless. It had torn his life apart.
He let out a big breath as he escaped into the hall. His hands trembled.
Chapter 2
Drake took another deep breath. He toweled off the water he'd splashed onto his face from the corridor sink.
He knew in his gut Ogren had beaten his wife. Bastard.
A wealthy businessman who sat on the hospital's all-powerful board—guilty of domestic abuse. And his victim afraid to tell the truth.
Drake knew too well how the system worked—and how badly it failed.
“Dr. Cody!” Halfway down the hall, an orderly and security guard rolled a patient gurney up against the wall.
“We got trouble,” the orderly called out as he locked the rolling bed's wheels. “A mean one.”
During busy times the hallways became patient care areas. The guard's body blocked Drake's view of the new patient.
A scrawny arm lashed out from the cart. The orderly raised a hand to his ear. “Ouch.”
The security guard stepped forward and again the arm flailed.
Drake hustled to assist.
A skeletally-gaunt, unshaven, and wild-eyed old man in a soiled robe and underpants crouched on his knees on the cart. A shock of white hair stood up over snarling features. He looked poised to strike again.
“I think he's gonna need to be restrained,” the orderly said. “The paramedics had another run so he was a quick drop-off.” He handed Drake the nursing home transfer and the paramedics' transfer sheet.
Drake read the handwritten paragraph of nursing home information: “Alzheimer's. Non-verbal. Aggressive today. Hitting caregivers. Normally nice.”
The paramedics' sheet showed a fast pulse but otherwise normal vital signs.
“I'll get help to hold him down,” the guard said. “Can you drug him?”
“Hold on a second,” Drake said.
Agitated elderly patients sometimes needed to be held down and injected with a strong sedative to keep them from hurting themselves or others. Drake hated the terror these struggles caused the patients and restrained them only as a last resort.
As he turned back to the patient, he spied Dan Ogren standing in the doorway of his wife's room, arms folded, looking irritated. When he noted Drake's gaze, his phony smile reappeared. The car dealer tapped his wrist as if indicating a watch.
Sorry for the delay, Danny-boy. You'll get taken care of sooner than you'd like. Drake put Dan Ogren out of his mind and focused on his elderly patient.
The nursing home's report noted “usually nice.”
What had triggered today's change?
In a glance, Drake took in the pinpoint pupils, the trembling jaw. Agitation. Anger. Fear. Something else?
He’s hurting.
He stepped closer. This man was someone’s father, brother, friend, husband—now unable to speak, helpless, and dependent on others.
Drake tried to capture the man's gaze. Wild eyes skipped about but kept coming back to Drake's, then finally held.
Drake nodded as he maintained eye contact. “I know you’re in pain. Let me help you.”
He moved close. A sinewy arm shot out and clamped on Drake's upper arm, the talon-like fingers digging into the thickness of his bicep. The orderly and guard started forward.
Drake froze them with a shake of his head.
He kept his arm limp, ignoring the discomfort. The musty, sour smell of age and illness intruded.
“I’m a doctor. I can help.” He held out his free hand as if approaching a growling dog.
The man's frown softened.
He gently laid his hand on his patient's leg. The pincer-grip on his arm tightened but no blow followed. The patient's stringy muscles were knotted, his forearm a bundle of stretched tendons. The odor of soiled human and age now stronger.
Drake looked for a telling sign: facial swelling from an abscessed tooth, the redness or swelling of an extremity indicating inflammation or injury.
“We're going to help you, sir.”
The man's eyes remained on Drake but the gaze was now less focused.
As the frown softened, the grimace beneath became clear.
So much pain. What’s hurting him?
He put a hand on the man's shoulder and, speaking softly, eased the patient back on the cart. The man's hand remained but now it felt like the clutch of a frightened child.
He laid his hand on the man's abdomen, gently probing while watching the man's face. Below the navel he found a fullness. The man's eyes flickered and fingernails once again bit into Drake's arm.
Drake's fingers traced a cantaloupe-sized mass. This is it.
He spoke over his shoulder to the orderly.
“His bladder is ready to burst. Get me a Foley catheter, please.”
No rooms were available, so they guided the cart out of the hallway and into one of the Crash Room bays. The man kept his hold on Drake's arm as the curtain closed.
As the orderly opened the urinary catheter packaging, Drake crouched to the man's level.
“This will be uncomfortable, but then your pain will go away.” He nodded. “The pain will go away.”
Drake passed the soft tube through the penis and into the bladder. The old man's grip tightened, but he remained still. Urine jetted into the tubing. In less than a minute, more than a liter had collected within the bag.
The man's bladder had been distended to twice its normal siz
e. An enlarged prostate—the enemy of old men—had blocked the outflow of urine.
The fullness in the man's lower abdomen had now disappeared.
The man lay with eyes closed, his features relaxed.
“He doesn't look like the same guy,” the orderly said.
“Thanks for getting my attention.” Drake held up a fist and the orderly bumped it while smiling.
Drake's work often gave him the opportunity to perform dramatic interventions on victims of accidents, gunshots, and heart attacks—procedures that saved lives. Those were what many perceived as the glory events in emergency medicine—and they were. But for Drake, recognizing and relieving the suffering of this vulnerable old man gave him the same kind of damn-am-I-lucky-to-have-this-job thrill.
His stomach clenched. The feel-good rush of helping the elderly man nosedived. He swallowed.
Once again the shadow of his past swept over him. His dread flared.
He could lose this.
Someday they’d approach him and it would all be over. They'd tell him he’d been found out. His lies uncovered. They’d learned what he'd done. Who he was.
He'd lose everything.
Chapter 3
5:55 p.m., WCCY newsroom
Before the evening news went live, Tina Watt looked over the news director's red-ink slashes and handwritten additions to her lead story. Is he serious?
As he strode past, she raised a hand. “Excuse me, Ned.”
“What do you want?” The balding director frowned.
“These changes you made—”
“Yeah?”
“I covered the original story. I interviewed Dr. Cody, the ER staff, the police, and the man who was arrested.” She held up the sheet. “This is big news on the doctor's history, but some of your other content isn't right. I think you forgot—”
“I didn't forget anything, sunshine.” He scowled. “We're on in less than a minute. Just read what I wrote.”
“But it's not accurate. This is sensationalized and biased.”
“Listen. You're new and your numbers are good so far. The local yokels think you're exotic.” She knew he was referring to her being black. “But I'm the news director.” He pointed a finger at her. “Read what I tell you and look good doing it. Remember that and you'll do fine, pretty girl.”