Fatal Read Online Free Page B

bed and skillfully slid a breathing tube down his throat and between his vocal cords. The respiratory tech then hooked the tube to a breathing bag and oxygen, and began to pump. Teague’s chest expanded much more than it had been, but his blood pressure only rose to 50.
    “Nice intubation, Doctor.”
    Hal Sawyer stood just inside the doorway. With his dark hair graying at the temples, his carefully trimmed mustache, his gold-rimmed glasses and knee-length lab coat, Uncle Hal looked as professorial as did any medical school dean. In fact, he did have a clinical teaching position at one of the medical schools, but for the most part he stayed pretty close to Belinda, where he was chief of pathology (there was one other full-time pathologist) as well as the Montgomery County medical examiner. Hal was also erudite, well-read, and adventurous. He seldom spoke up at hospital staff meetings, but when he did, people generally listened.
    Never married, Hal didn’t seem to lack for company. His latest girlfriend, Heidi, was a pretty, young thing he had met on some sort of rafting trip. The gossipers in Belinda went on about his personal life, but he never seemed to care, just as he didn’t care when the rumors started going around some years ago that he was gay. Hal was very much his own man, and Matt credited him with fostering his own sense of independence.
    “Hey, Hal,” Matt said, “thanks for coming over. This is the guy who went berserk in the mine and caused this nightmare. People say he’s been acting paranoid for months. Paranoid insanity coupled with diffuse neurofibromatosis of the face and scalp. Ring any bells?”
    “Just like that cliff diver.”
    “Exactly. His name was Rideout. Teddy Rideout. And where did he work?”
    “As I recall,” Hal said, palpating the lumps, “he, too, was a miner.”
    “He was most definitely that. BC and C, to be exact.”
    “My, my,” Hal said.
    Some months ago Matt had been cruising on his Harley down a particularly winding mountain road when Rideout sped past him on the inside, traveling much faster than the road ahead would tolerate. A minute or so later, Matt came upon the shattered guardrail and saw the car lying on its roof several hundred feet below. Rideout lay well beyond resuscitation. His striking facial lumps were identical to Teague’s, and subsequent discussion with his family revealed a history of rapidly progressive paranoia and irrational, aggressive behavior. At the man’s autopsy, Matt wondered out loud to his uncle if Rideout might be toxic from something at the mine.
    Hal had promised to run some extra tests, which came back negative. It was Hal’s belief that the man was one of a kind—a very unusual case, but just a single fluke point on the graph of life.
    Well, Matt thought now, here’s dot number two.
    “I’ll see what I can dig up about Mr. Rideout,” Hal said. “I don’t recall anything unusual in the autopsy except for those neurofibromas, which were only of interest because of their numbers, not their microscopic appearance.”
    “Here’s the kit,” Laura said, setting the tray marked PERICARDIOCENTESIS down on the stainless-steel stand.
    “Any sign of Crook?”
    “He could be here any minute. Are you sure you—”
    “But he’s not here now. This guy’s BP is back down to zero. He’s firing extra beats. I say we go.”
    “Suit yourself,” Laura said coolly.
    In fact, Matt had attempted pericardial taps a number of times as the last gasp maneuver in cardiac arrest patients who were about to die despite the most heroic resuscitative measures. But never had the procedure located any unsuspected pericardial blood. And never had any of the patients survived.
    “Need any help?” Hal offered.
    “Will Robert Crook to stroll into the ER right now,” Matt said. “I just don’t think we can wait.”
    Beyond Hal, just a few feet outside the door, Matt could see Blaine LeBlanc, watching, waiting.
    “I’m still not getting any