Coldwater Revenge by James Ross (best e reader for android .txt) 📕

“We spent the day in Manhattan.”

The paramedic’s eyes flashed and his mouth tightened. “This isn’t a joke.”

“Neither is my answer. That’s where we were. All day. There and in a car.”

The paramedic relayed what Tom had said and then asked, “Did you stop anywhere?”

“No. We left Coldwater this morning at about six a.m., drove to New York City, had a two hour meeting in a midtown law firm; he took a walk while I had another meeting and then we drove back. The only place we stopped is that diner back there where we both ordered the same meal.”

Joe stopped heaving and for the moment he was still. When he opened his mouth it sounded like a shake being sipped through a straw. The paramedic dropped to one knee and moved his ear close to Joe’s mouth. “Can you breathe?”

Joe made eye contact, sipped a breath and moved his head slowly from side to side.

The paramedic spoke into the bud. “Tracheal blockage. Deteriorating. Possible anaphylactic shock.” He opened the door-side cabinet and removed another plastic box. Inside was a row of labeled ampules and half a dozen disposable syringes. He selected one of the ampules, loaded a syringe and then did the roll up the sleeve arm wiping drill while Joe made straw sucking noises and his eyes followed the needle as it disappeared into the muscle of his shoulder.

“What are you giving him?”

“Point three cc’s of epinephrine”

“Which is what?”

“A bronchodilator and antihistamine. Your brother’s breathing tube is closing. This may open it.”

Tom found himself counting silently like in a game of touch football before the ball is snapped: one Mississippi, two Mississippi, three Mississippi.

“How soon?”

“Ninety seconds, if it works.”

Tom counted ten Mississippis. “What if it doesn’t?”

“Another three cc’s, then Benadryl, if he can swallow some pills. Though that doesn’t look likely.”

Joe’s mouth hung open, his breath was a guttural stutter.

“Then what?”

“Then we open it.” The paramedic grabbed another box and extracted a sealed bag with a finger sized tube and scalpel visible through the clear plastic. “Manually.”

Joe’s eyes widened and the pores at the edge of his scalp began to leak like a garden hose.

* * *

Bright florescent light and jarring sounds filled the Coldwater Hospital Emergency Room. A mix of sour and astringent odors assaulted Tom’s nostrils. The paramedics lifted the padding beneath Joe’s limp body and slid him onto a white metal gurney. Two women in pale green scrubs took it from there, pushing the gurney like a bob-sled down the hall and through a swinging door labeled: No Admittance.

Tom had been inside the Coldwater Hospital only once since his baby brother was born. Now he felt like he was taking him back like he was under warranty or something. He had not seen Joe so sick since the Christmas they both had measles and chicken pox at the same time. What the hell could it be?

Tom found a men’s room and applied wet paper towel and hand soap to remove the congealed vomit that had splattered his pants and shoes. What he couldn’t remove, he patted dry and left feeling damp and pungent. At the end of the hall he found an alcove of vending machines and traded a pocket of change for a cup of something scalding. Then he found a waiting room and sat in it.

Coldwater isn’t a big town; but Saturday night in its only emergency room seemed to draw a crowd. Among the families and friends of the night’s unlucky, the fugue of anxiety, fatigue and mindless fidgeting made a viscous soup. No one paid attention to the blaring television mounted half way up the wall; but no one moved to replace it with silence either.

For the first time in nearly an hour, Tom felt his heart decelerate and his lungs relax from sucking air as through a snorkel. But his senses remained quickened as if they knew this was a pause in the action, not the end of it.

Leaving the vending machine swill on a stack of magazines, he went for a walk down the hall beyond the nurses’ station. When the hall abruptly ended, he took the branch to the left, counting on the finite possibilities of building construction to eventually bring him back to where he started. Wandering past rooms filled with smells and groans, he tried to distract himself from the puzzle of Joe’s collapse by turning to the puzzle of that afternoon’s interview with the former NeuroGene owner.

The signs of financial fiddle at the small biotech company were neon. The only surprise was that Sharp and Willow had cheated each other and not some innocent buyer. Sharp was lying about not knowing Billy Pearce and about where he was when Billy was killed. Though that didn’t make him Billy’s killer, or even tie him to Billy’s death. But why lie? There was more digging to do than there had been a few hours ago, and Joe was in no condition to pick up a shovel.

That happy thought led to another and another, until Tom realized that while he was asleep in the car, Joe had probably called home to let them know when they’d be back and that by now they were long overdue. He found a corner with a cell signal and punched in Joe’s home number. The line opened on the first ring.

“It’s about time, young man.”

“He… llo mother. Psychic as well as beautiful?”

“It says ‘Tom’ right here on the machine.”

“Right.” His eyes sought the ceiling. “I’m afraid we’re going to be late.”

“You’re already late,” said Mary. “Everyone’s gone to bed.” An exaggerated sigh punched through the ether. “You’re not still in New York, are you?”

“No we’re….”

“If you are, you might take your brother to one of those clubs. He could use some fun. He works too hard.”

“We’re in Coldwater, Mom. Joe got sick when we stopped for a bite at Trudy’s Diner.”

“What? That’s a greasy spoon? He should know better.”

“I had to take him to the Emergency Room.”

“Why? Just bring him home