A short, slender man with a dark complexion, thick black eyebrows, and wearing a white lab coat entered the area. He inserted a CD into a computer. All Rhetta could make out on his nametag was Doctor Hasan something-or-other. She couldn’t see the rest of the name.
Doctor Hasan Whomever and Doctor Sylvan huddled together in front of the monitor, which quickly filled with images. They spoke softly, but loudly enough that Rhetta could discern that Hasan spoke with an accent. Doctor Sylvan motioned Rhetta over.
“There is hemorrhaging, here.” Sylvan pointed to a dark area on the image. “His brain is swelling from the blow to the head. We need to get him right into surgery to relieve the pressure.”
“Does he need brain surgery? Will you be the one operating on him?”
He shook his head. “No, it’s actually not brain surgery. We need to install a drain to relieve the pressure on his brain from the trauma. I’m the emergency room physician. Doctor Reed is the neurosurgeon on call this evening. He’s on his way.”
Rhetta squeezed her eyes shut and sent a quick prayer heavenward. It had been awhile since she had conversed with God. She hoped He wouldn’t hold that against her. Doctor Kenneth Reed was the best neurosurgeon in the area, besides being a friend. “Thank you, God,” she murmured, hoping He was listening.
Rhetta edged to the side of the gurney, clasped Randolph’s limp hand with both of hers, and whispered, “I’m right here, Sweets. You’re going to be all right.” She prayed she wasn’t lying to him. “Kenneth will be operating on you.” She brushed his hand with her lips. He moaned, although she wasn’t certain he could hear her. His eyes remained closed.
Doctor Sylvan touched her shoulder. “We need to get him right upstairs, Mrs. McCarter. The surgery unit is on the third floor. There’s a private family waiting room up there called the Surgical Unit Waiting Room. That’s where Doctor Reed will come to get you following the surgery.”
She released her husband’s hand. It flopped limply to his side.
She let the tears stream down her face.
* * *
Rhetta paced the hall outside the waiting room, unable to sit still any longer. It had been over four hours and Kenneth Reed had yet to appear. She couldn’t get an update from any of the nurses who’d come to the room to bring news to the other families also waiting there for word on their respective loved ones.
When she first arrived, there had been nearly a couple dozen people there, some reading, others talking together quietly. Gradually, the others all received news borne by the respective surgeons or nurses. The small groups, two to five people at a time, eventually cleared out of the waiting area, leaving her alone. Unable to concentrate on CNN news, she left the waiting room so she could walk off her nervous energy.
At 10:35, a figure in dark blue scrubs stepped off the elevator and crossed the hall to the waiting room. She raced after him.
The short, balding man in wrinkled scrubs and a mask that dangled around his neck turned around to face her. “Mrs. McCarter?”
“Yes, I’m Rhetta McCarter.”
“My name is Doctor Helderman. I’m the anesthesiologist,” he said, extending his hand. She accepted his handshake.
“Your husband has just been taken to the recovery room. He’ll need to stay there for a bit, possibly the rest of the night, before he can be moved to a post-op room.”
Before she could answer, the door opened and Kenneth Reed strode through.
She flew to him.
He took both her hands in his. “Randolph took quite a blow to his head. We removed a lot of fluid from his brain, and installed a drain. It doesn’t appear that his brain suffered any damage, but we’ll keep him sedated for a day, maybe two.” Reed found a seat and motioned her to sit. She collapsed into the chair next to him.
Reed said, “Doctor Helderman will monitor his condition.” Rhetta nodded and glanced toward the anesthesiologist who stood near the waiting room door, holding an electronic pad.
Kenneth touched her arm and spoke softly. “Rhetta, the highway patrol is investigating his accident. The blood alcohol test indicated that Randolph’s blood alcohol level was point one zero.”
She blinked. What had Kenneth just said? Blood alcohol?
“What do you mean? Are you telling me Randolph was drunk?”
“Very drunk.” Kenneth looked solemn. “His blood alcohol level was well over the legal limit.”
“That’s not possible.” Rhetta shook her head vigorously. “I’d been on the phone with him just before the accident, and he sounded just fine.” She stood and began pacing. “How can that be? I would’ve been able to tell by his voice if he’d been drinking that much.”
Helderman tucked the iPad under his arm, and slipped noiselessly out of the room.
“The paramedics said that when they got inside Randolph’s truck, there was an empty bottle of Jim Beam on the floorboard.”
Kenneth’s words sent ice spiders scurrying down her spine. She began shaking. She knew positively that her husband couldn’t have been drinking before his accident.
Randolph hated Jim Beam.
CHAPTER 13
The waiting room walls closed in. Rhetta couldn’t breathe. How is it possible that Randolph was drunk? How could there be a Jim Beam bottle in his truck? When they last talked, he gave no indication that he’d been drinking. He told her he’d been with Billy Dan and he was concerned about the locations of the substations. He hadn’t been at a tavern. He’d gone to Merc’s Diner, where no alcohol was served.
Randolph was stone sober; she’d bet her life on it. Then why is his blood alcohol so high? She didn’t have an answer for her own question.
Kenneth said no more. He tilted his head and waited.
She had to compose herself. This doesn’t make any sense. She closed her eyes and mentally regrouped. A headache was worming its way across the back of her head to settle behind her eyes. She was sure, now, that this accident was no accident. Someone connected to the schematic was involved.
Finally opening her eyes, she gave Kenneth a long look. Then she took a deep breath and willed herself to remain tearless. “Randolph wasn’t drunk.”
From the look he gave her, Rhetta supposed he thought she was in denial. Kenneth knew about Randolph’s history of excessive drinking. That was just it—that was all in the past. Her husband no longer gave in to binges.
Although he’d stopped bingeing, he hadn’t stopped drinking altogether. Even though she suspected he’d tried to hide the fact, she knew Randolph had partaken before coming to her office earlier that day. He definitely wasn’t drunk when he got there, and she was confident that he’d had nothing else to drink. Especially, he wouldn’t have been drinking Jim Beam. Again, she asked herself how his blood alcohol could have tested so high
“Rhetta,” Kenneth began, “I’m going to check on Randolph right now. If he’s stable, I’ll have someone bring you back so you can see him. He’ll be quite groggy, but you can sit with him for awhile.”
After Kenneth left, Rhetta sat alone on the two-person sofa, waiting for word that she could see Randolph. She tugged at a loose thread. She walked around the room, replaying the recent events—from Al-Serafi’s death in his car in the Diversion Channel, to the schematic, to Randolph’s accident. It played like a movie continuously repeating in her head. The more she thought about it, the more she was convinced Randolph’s accident was related to his trip to see Billy Dan and especially to the schematic. This accident had to be linked to the schematic. She just couldn’t make the connection.
A glance at her watch told her it was just after eleven. She wanted to call Billy Dan and ask him whether they’d stopped for drinks. Rhetta located a phone book on the counter in the waiting room. She quickly found Billy Dan’s home number. Fortunately, he was the only Kercheval in the book.
She rummaged through her shoulder bag and located her cell phone. No signal. She walked to the window and held it aloft. Barely two bars. She tried calling, bu
t the call failed.
She’d call Billy Dan first thing in the morning and get to the bottom of this.
* * *
At 11:30, a nurse found Rhetta slouched sideways on the sofa, dozing. The ebony skinned woman gently shook her arm. Awaking with a start, Rhetta jumped up.
“It’s all right, Mrs. McCarter. Your husband is doing well. He’s beginning to come around. He’s been asking for you.” She waited for Rhetta to gather her purse, along with her senses, then led her back to recovery.
Inside the small area where several patients lay on gurneys, separated by curtains, she found Randolph asleep. Surrounding his gurney was a forest of poles holding bags of liquid sprouting assorted tubes that snaked into his arms and hands. Nearby were several machines that whirred and beeped. Rhetta studied Randolph’s bruised face. Thank God, there’s no longer a rod sticking out of his head.
Pulling a chair to the side of the bed that had the least machinery, Rhetta sat. She closed her hand gently around Randolph’s. His eyes fluttered and his breathing changed. He began to awaken.
“Hi Sweets,” she whispered.
“Hi,” he whispered, his voice hoarse. He blinked, as though trying to focus.
She smiled. She didn’t want him to see her upset. Brushing her lips against his swollen cheek, she asked, “How do you feel?”
“Hurts. . . all over.” He spoke slowly, making every syllable count. His eyelids fluttered.
“You had an accident and a head injury, Sweets. You had to have surgery. Do you remember any of that?”
He closed his eyes, and mumbled.
“Don’t try to talk. Get some sleep. I’ll be here when you wake up.” She kissed him again.
His head lolled as he fell back to sleep.
* * *
Shortly before four in the morning, three nurses or orderlies—Rhetta wasn’t sure exactly what they were—entered the cubicle and began preparing Randolph to be moved.
“We’re taking him to a room in neurosurgery post op,” said a tanned man with gelled hair. “You can come along with us while we move him.”
She stood aside while they disconnected the electronic machines and efficiently wound up hoses and tubes, preparing Randolph for the trip. She followed the entourage as they wheeled the gurney to the elevator. A male nurse stayed with Randolph, while the other two returned to the recovery area.
“Is Doctor Reed still around?” Rhetta asked, as the elevator glided noiselessly upward.
“He left about midnight,” offered the nurse whose badge identified him as Ray Wilkerson, R.N. “Doctor Reed left orders. I’m sure he will be in later this morning.”
It took nearly an hour of preparation before Randolph was ensconced in a room on the floor above surgery, and all bags, tubes and machines reconnected. Rhetta had waited in the small waiting area at the end of the hallway. Assorted drawings courtesy of the local high school art department adorned the walls. They served to cheer up the corner with bright colors and images.
After a few minutes, Wilkerson opened the door and motioned Rhetta in. After thanking the medical team, Rhetta dragged a chair alongside the bed. She stared at Randolph’s sleeping figure, his battered face; she took in the bags filled with lifesaving fluids, and the numerous machines chugging and whirring, mapping his condition in a language she didn’t comprehend.
Clutching his warm, unmoving hand, she laid her face alongside his arm.
CHAPTER 14
Rhetta jolted awake when Randolph moved. She sat up, confused. The sunlight streaming in through the nearby window bathed the room in a warm golden glow. Then the memories of the previous dreadful night flooded in.
When Randolph began stirring, Rhetta stood, walked a few steps to get the kinks out. She stretched, yawned and twisted her neck to release the knots that had congregated there. The awkward position that she had managed to fall asleep in took its toll on her neck muscles.
“Hi, Babe.” His voice was weak. He reached for her.
“Hi, Sweets.” Rhetta scrambled to the chair and took his outstretched hand. “Are you thirsty?”
He nodded.
Not finding any water, she pressed the button on the bedside panel to summon help. Within minutes, a nurse’s aide materialized at the doorway.
“I’ll check his chart to be sure he can have liquids,” the young woman in a blue-and-white striped apron said after Rhetta asked for water. The aide left and the heavy room door closed slowly.
“Sorry, Babe,” Randolph whispered.
“Hey, I’m just glad you’re going to be okay. The Artmobile is probably totaled, but I’ve still got you.” She squeezed his hand.
“Idiot…tried passing on the bridge.” Randolph’s voice was thick. He spoke slowly. “Damn fool.”
Rhetta stared at him. “What idiot?”
“SUV. Dark green. Followed me from town. Sideswiped me.” Randolph closed his eyes and for a moment, Rhetta thought he’d fallen asleep. He opened them a slit. “I don’t remember….” He didn’t finish.
“The highway patrol will want your statement,” Rhetta said, her mind reeling. Did she dare ask him now about the Jim Beam bottle?
“Yes.” Randolph sagged back against the pillows as the aide returned with a small pitcher.
“Start with this,” the girl instructed, handing Rhetta a brown plastic tumbler filled with ice chips. “He can’t drink water just yet. Let’s give him some ice chips.”
After standing beside the bed and feeding Randolph shaved ice, some of which he slurped and some of which dropped onto his chest, Rhetta wiped him off with a towel and fluffed his pillow. When she was satisfied that she’d made him somewhat more comfortable, she sat beside him on the bed.
Deciding that Randolph appeared strong enough to talk about what happened, she took a deep breath, and began. “Why did you have a bottle of Jim Beam in the truck?”
After the ice, Randolph’s voice sounded stronger, but he appeared confused. He frowned. “What?” He blinked several times, as though trying to focus.
“Kenneth said that the highway patrol reported finding an empty Jim Beam bottle in your truck.” Randolph stared at her. “And that you were drunk.” She let out the breath she hadn’t realized she was holding.
“I wasn’t drinking.” He sighed, closing his eyes.
“That’s what I told Kenneth, but he said your blood level was point one zero.”
“Kenneth?’
“Kenneth Reed, Sweets. He operated on you.”
Randolph shook his head slowly. “Wasn’t drinking,” he repeated.
The door opened, and a new day shift nurse appeared with a tray of medication.
“No solid foods for awhile, Mr. McCarter,” announced the matronly nurse bustling about his bed, setting the assortments of meds down on the nearby tray. “You’ll have IVs for at least the rest of today.” She prepared a syringe of medication and began injecting it through a port in the tube snaking into his arm.
After snapping off the vinyl gloves and tossing them into the biohazard container nearby, the nurse turned to Rhetta. “He’ll be out for a while with this medication, Mrs. McCarter. Why don’t you slip home and get some rest. He should be more alert this afternoon.”
“Yes, I just might do that.”
Rhetta kissed the top of Randolph’s head. “I love you,” she whispered. “I’ll see you this afternoon.”
“Love you,” Randolph mumbled, already succumbing to the powerful painkiller.
* * *
“Woody? It’s Rhetta. Randolph was in a bad wreck last night. He’s in St. Mark’s Hospital. He had surgery to relieve the pressure from a head injury, but he’s stable now. I’m just now leaving the hospital. I’ll call you later.”
After leaving Woody the voice mail, she walked slowly to her car. The interior was already warm and stuffy. She turned on the ignition and laid her head back against the seat, allowing time for the air conditioning to begin cooling. Although it was only 7:30 in the morning, it was already
nearly eighty degrees. The temperature was expected to climb into the nineties she learned when she turned on the car radio. According to the announcer, this was the hottest June on record.
She scrolled through her phone for Billy Dan’s number. It rang several times until a recording clicked on. “If I’m not answering, I’m fishing. Leave a message.”
“This is Rhetta McCarter. Randolph had a bad accident after leaving Marble Hill yesterday, and—”
Before she could continue, Billy Dan picked up.
“Rhetta, what’s happened?”
She told him about Randolph’s truck going over the Whitewater Bridge. “Billy Dan, did Randolph have anything to drink when you guys were together?”
“Just lots of coffee, is all. We were at Merc’s. After showing me that schematic, he left with it. He was headed straight home.”
Rhetta felt like an ice truck had just dumped its whole load into her bloodstream. The schematic. She was more convinced now that Randolph’s accident had to do with the schematic.
“Thanks, Billy Dan. I don’t know what happened, but I do know Randolph wasn’t drinking.”
The line grew quiet. Rhetta heard an electronic beep that she recognized as the recorder, which had kicked on before Billy Dan picked up.
“I have to go, now, but thanks.” She didn’t want any more of the conversation recorded.
“Please give the judge my best. I’ll come over tomorrow and see him,” said Billy Dan.
“Thanks. And, Billy Dan? Please be careful.”
Rhetta tossed her phone on to the passenger seat and shifted Cami into first gear. Instead of heading home, she made for the interstate. She arrowed south on the interstate toward Sikeston, to the Missouri Highway Patrol Troop E Service Center. She wanted to know exactly what had been found in the Artmobile.
CHAPTER 15
Rhetta exited the interstate at Miner on her way into Sikeston. The traffic along East Malone was light. Within thirty minutes of leaving the hospital, she stood in front of the reception cage at Troop E Headquarters. The female duty officer sat enclosed by soundproof panels topped with thick glass.
“I’d like to speak to someone about getting my husband’s personal belongings. My husband is Judge Randolph McCarter. He was in an accident last night at the Whitewater Bridge in Cape Girardeau County.” Rhetta spoke through a small round opening in the glass panel, addressing the officer seated at the desk. At least Rhetta presumed she was an officer. A drab grey uniform was stretched taut around her middle.