Road to Damascus
Part 2

 

Two hours later after Johnny had been poked, prodded, x-rayed and had samples taken of nearly every fluid his body produced, Dr. Dunn finally reappeared to deliver the verdict.  And drugs.  Hopefully he was going to administer some good drugs.

Dr. Dunn brandished Johnny's medical chart in the air as he sat down on the adjustable stool.  "Mr. Gage, we have most of the test results back."

Johnny shifted his position as much as his aching muscles would allow.  "Fire away, Doc."

Ever protective of his friend and partner, Roy inched closer to the exam table like a lioness guarding her cub.  He knew it was irrational, but somehow he hoped the action would ward off any unexpected bad news.  Knowing Johnny's propensity for incurring unusual injuries and complications, Roy didn't take anything for granted.

The doctor opened the chart to the appropriate section, and tapped the page with his pen as he enumerated each point.  "All right, here's the deal.  Just as I suspected, your ankle is sprained, not broken.  Your toes didn't fare as well, with fractures of the second, third and fourth digits.  You also have some broken ribs on the right side, but there's no evidence of any vertebral fractures.  Paradoxically, the less serious muscle spasms in your back and soft tissue injuries are going to make you the most uncomfortable.  There was a trace amount of blood in your urine, but not significant enough to warrant further investigation at this time.  However, if it gets worse or if you develop severe flank pain, nausea and/or vomiting or start to have difficulty urinating, come back and we'll run some more tests.  Now the results of the throat culture won't be available until...let's see...what is today?  Saturday?  We probably won't get the report back until some time on Monday.  In the meantime, I'll go ahead and start you on a broad-spectrum antibiotic today.  Depending on the results, you may need a different medication once the specific bug has been identified."

Overwhelmed by the sheer volume of information, Johnny was silent for a moment while he tried to absorb everything the doctor had just told him.  In the greater scheme of things, none of his injuries were significant, which made his dilemma all the more embarrassing.  After all, it wasn't exactly in his nature to voluntarily take medication unless he absolutely had to, let alone ask for it.  But on this occasion, Johnny was willing to make an exception.  He might not be crying like a baby like Deke Coulter had, but he was still a very miserable human being.

As Johnny reached back to place his hand behind his head, the sudden movement provoked a horrible muscle spasm and he gasped out loud.  His reaction was purely unintentional, but if it underscored his point, so be it.  "Doc, do you suppose I could get something for my back?  It's killing me."

Dr. Dunn rolled his neck back and forth while he attempted to unkink a muscle spasm of his own.  "We can give you a shot of Demerol and a muscle relaxant before we discharge you, assuming you have someone to help you out this evening.  You'll probably feel a bit woozy for a few hours, and we don't need you stumbling into anything else and racking up any new injuries."

Roy interjected himself back into the conversation.  "I can stay with him."

"Wonderful.  In addition to the penicillin, I'll also write out a script for some Tylenol #3s and Flexeril for you to take at home.  We'll wrap your ankle before we let you go, but I'm afraid there's not much we can do for the toes since you broke three of them.  I don't think buddy taping would be of much help.  The same goes the same for crutches.  If you only had one injured foot, I'd definitely recommend that you keep your weight off of your ankle as much as possible.  But that's not going to be practical in your case with the broken toes.  Your best bet is to stay off your feet altogether, which you'll want to do anyway since your back probably hurts like a son of a bitch.  If your ribs are bothering you, I can bind them up for you.  The fractures aren't that significant, but it's your judgment call.  Taping your ribs might make your back even more uncomfortable than it already is."

Johnny declined the physician's offer.  "No, thanks.  I'll pass."  Recalling Deke's earlier comments, he was almost afraid to ask what kind of convalescence period he was looking at.  "Uh, Doc?   How long is it going to be before I can go back to work?  A couple of weeks?"

Dr. Dunn shrugged.  "The muscle spasms and back pain will probably start to improve in a week or two, but sometimes ankle sprains can take up to six weeks before you're a hundred percent again.  It just depends on how quickly you heal."

The dejected paramedic nodded.  "Yeah, okay."  Missing only four shifts now seemed hopelessly out of his reach.  Johnny wondered what new nickname Chet was going to bestow upon him as a result of all this.  As he contemplated his plight, a thought suddenly occurred to him.  "Dr. Dunn?  Would it be possible to have a copy of my test results and my records from today to be sent to my regular doctor?  That way, I could follow up with him about the throat culture and everything."

"Sure, we do that all the time.  What's his name?"

"Nathan Grant.  He's over in that new professional building behind the hospital."

Dr. Dunn made the appropriate notation in the chart and underlined it twice for emphasis.  "No problem, we'll take care of it."

Johnny was pleased with his ingenuity.  That was easy.  Now he wouldn't have to bother Early or Morton to chase down a throat culture report or to get a release to go back to work.  This arrangement was going to work out perfectly.

+ + + + + + + + + + + +

After joining Dixie for a quick dinner in the hospital cafeteria before she left for the evening, Early headed toward the ICU to see the subject of their discussion.  Dixie had seemed despondent throughout their meal, merely picking at her food while she summarized Brackett's progress, or lack thereof.  From a medical standpoint, his condition had stabilized nicely.  The chest pain had abated, his oxygenation was good, his cardiac enzymes had peaked, there were no resultant arrhythmias, the ischemic damage to his myocardium was relatively minor and with a few weeks of cardiac rehab, he was fully expected to resume normal activities.  All things considered, Brackett was a remarkably lucky man.

However, he wasn't faring quite as well from a psychological perspective.  Brackett remained firmly convinced that he was a doomed man, and nothing could persuade him otherwise.  Every time Dixie tried to offer words of support and encouragement, Brackett reminded her that she couldn't possibly know what he was going through.  In desperation, she called Early to come back to the hospital before the prearranged time.  Dixie hoped that since he had twice experienced his own brush with mortality, Brackett might be more willing to listen to him.  In theory, her proposal sounded plausible.  In reality, it seemed downright laughable.  Once Kelly Brackett made up his mind, it was usually difficult to get the stubborn physician to reconsider his point of view.

One of the nurses pulled Brackett's chart from the carousel as Early entered the ICU.  He couldn't be sure, but the plump middle-aged woman appeared genuinely relieved to see him.  His suspicions were confirmed when Doris eagerly handed him the chart.

She smiled at the silver-haired physician.  "Miss McCall said you'd be back this evening."

Early politely declined the proffered item.  "I'll take a look at it later.  Is he awake?"

Doris hesitated while she searched for the appropriate phrase.  "He's resting comfortably.  We just gave him another dose of diazepam about fifteen minutes ago."

Ah, yes.  The oft-used medical term "resting comfortably."  In Brackett's case, that meant he was still fighting off a hefty dose of Valium that would have incapacitated any other mortal.  Early thanked the nurse for the information and resumed his vigil at his friend's beside.

Brackett's eyelids were heavy from the seductive pull of sleep, and he struggled to focus on the figure sitting beside him.  The drugs had significantly impaired his ability to process information, and a few seconds elapsed before he could identify his visitor.  His mouth felt totally devoid of moisture, but he managed to eke out Early's name in a hoarse whisper.  "Joe."

"Hang on, Kel.  Let's get you something to drink."  Early poured a small amount of ice water from the Styrofoam pitcher into a disposable plastic glass.  Before he had a chance to rummage through the bedside for a fresh straw, Brackett tried to snatch the cold drink out of his hands.  Early wryly noted that patience never had been his friend's greatest virtue.

Unfortunately, the drugs had significantly affected Brackett's coordination, and he nearly knocked the glass out of Early's hands.  He sank back against his pillow and closed his eyes, humiliated by his body's cruel betrayal.

"It's okay.  Here, let's sit you up a little bit."  Early pressed the appropriate button on the remote control and elevated the head of the bed.  He knew how much Brackett hated to be perceived as weak, and tried to carry out his act of mercy without appearing overtly solicitous.  Placing the straw to Brackett's lips, Early held the plastic glass while Brackett greedily sipped the refreshing liquid.

Brackett pulled away from the straw when his thirst was finally sated.  "Thanks, Joe.  Damn diazepam.  Makes my mouth feel like it's stuffed with cotton."

Early sat down in the hideously uncomfortable chair beside the bed.  As he leaned back, he surreptitiously glanced at the cardiac monitor, noting the characteristic post myocardial infarction tracings.  "So how are you feeling about everything today?"

"You mean for a dead guy?"

"Kel, stop it.  You're not going to die."

"We all die."

"True," Early conceded.  "But it's not your time yet."

Careful not to pull on any of the monitoring wires attached to his chest, Brackett repositioned himself on the ICU bed.  He lowered his eyes, unable to meet Early's penetrating gaze.  "You're wrong, Joe.  You see, for the past few months, I've been having precognitive dreams...dreams that foretell my death."

Although Brackett's revelation helped to shed some light on his recent behavior, Early had a hard time comprehending how the scientifically rigorous physician could be so willing to base his assumptions merely on a superstitious belief.  Had the recent nightmares prompted Brackett's macabre obsession with comparing his fate to that of his father's, or were they simply a manifestation of his worst fears?  It was like trying to solve the age old enigma of which came first, the chicken or the egg.

Normally Early didn't put much stock into the interpretation of dreams, deeming the practice of little diagnostic or therapeutic value.  However, he also knew that the human brain could work in strange ways.  Was it remotely possible that Brackett's frame of mind had somehow contributed to his current medical condition?  If that was the case, Brackett's prognosis could be grim.  Years of practicing emergency medicine had taught him that a man who is convinced he's going to die, will die much faster than if he isn't.

Early stared at his thumbnail while he considered his options.  Brackett had previously declined to see a psychiatrist to help him deal with work-related stress and his unhealthy preoccupation about his father's death.  Would he now agree to a consult if it could help him understand the connection between his troubled dreams and his recent medical crisis?

Even drugged to the gills, Brackett could surmise what his colleague was thinking.  "You can forget it.  I'm not going to see a shrink."

"But I'm way out of my element here, Kel," Early protested.  "I'm not an expert in these matters."

"I don't need an expert.  I just need a friend."

The older physician felt woefully unqualified for the task.  Early was beginning to understand how helpless everyone had felt when he refused to consent to brain surgery after being diagnosed with a meningioma.  His neurosurgeon and his friends could offer objective opinions since they didn't have to face the prospect of becoming a vegetable, or worse.  Now that the roles were reversed, Early could appreciate the irony of the situation.  Payback was hell.

+ + + + + + + + + + + +

Roy abruptly awakened in Johnny's apartment to a deafening rendition of The Star Spangled Banner.  The seventeen-inch color television screen displayed an American flag waving majestically in the breeze against the backdrop of a resplendent fireworks display.  He had learned from recent experience that this particular channel always played the same patriotic tribute twice a day:  once at two in the morning when the station signed off for the day, and then again at six when regular programming resumed, at which time it was succeeded by the local news.

Ever since Joanne had left with the kids, Roy had been leaving the television set on at night to keep him company, even if a test pattern was the only thing on TV.  He never fully appreciated how much he relished the normal sounds and rhythms of family life until they were gone.  Roy missed the soft squeaks of the children's beds as they tossed and turned in their sleep, the metallic clink of Scooter's identification and rabies vaccination tags as he cavorted throughout the house and Joanne's contented sighs as her warm breath caressed the back of his neck when she cuddled next to him.  The television set served as a poor substitute for those precious memories, but at the moment, it was all he had.

Johnny had wanted to crash on the couch and watch television when they finally returned to his apartment late yesterday afternoon, but Roy had convinced him that he'd be more comfortable if he slept in his own bed.  Now he was glad he had successfully commandeered the couch for himself.  Roy hated to admit it, but he desperately needed the television set as a security blanket to lull him to sleep, especially since he couldn't self-medicate with alcohol while he stayed with Johnny.  He had toyed with the idea of picking up a fifth of vodka when he ran over to pharmacy to have Johnny's prescriptions filled after getting him settled in bed, but he was afraid that he'd overdo it and make a spectacle of himself in his best friend's bathroom.  No, he would have to wait to drink in the privacy of his own home.

Roy strained to listen to the local news for several minutes before he could work up sufficient energy to get up and start the coffee pot.  He never could understand why regular programming was barely audible at night, but commercials and the national anthem played at a decibel level that could practically wake the dead.  Since no one had come pounding on the door to complain about the noise yet, Roy wondered if the walls were thicker than those in most apartment complexes, or if Johnny and his neighbors were incredibly sound sleepers.

In any event, he was in dire need of a caffeine fix.  Roy turned off the television set and stumbled into the kitchen.  He almost sleepwalked his way throughout the entire coffee-making process.  However, he soon felt reinvigorated as the rich aroma permeated the small apartment.  He was about to retrieve a ceramic mug from the overhead cabinet when his peripheral vision detected a glimpse of movement in the direction of the bedroom.  By the time Roy turned around, Johnny was already hobbling over to the recliner.  His eyes still looked glazed over from the medication, his gait was unsteady and his hair was sticking up in every conceivable direction, but he was sufficiently alert to make himself understood.

Johnny held his aching back with one hand and pointed toward the percolator with the other.  "Coffee," he muttered in a gravelly voice.

Roy winced at the raspy sound.  "Ouch.  You sound awful."

"Yeah, I feel awful," Johnny moaned.

Unable to help himself, Roy automatically placed his hand on Johnny's forehead.  "Hmm.  I think your temp is up at least a degree."

"It'll probably take to take a day or two before the antibiotics start to kick in.  I'll take some Tylenol in a little bit after I get some food in my stomach.  Coffee first, though."  Johnny settled into the recliner and waited for his cup of java.  No sooner had he reiterated his request than a cup of hot black coffee materialized in his hands.  Johnny mumbled his appreciation before taking a sip.  Once a few precious of drops of caffeine had entered his system, he scrutinized his partner's appearance.  "You look a whole lot better than you did yesterday morning," he remarked cautiously.

"Yeah.  I don't think I've been that sick in ages.  Darned leftovers."

"Uh huh.  Exactly what kind of leftovers did you drink?  The leftover bottle of whiskey that your neighbor gave you for Christmas, the leftover beer from your last backyard barbeque or whatever was left in your liquor cabinet or refrigerator?"

Roy was shocked by the accuracy of Johnny's assessment, and his mouth gaped open in surprise.  "How did..."

"How did I know?"  Johnny took another swallow of coffee before setting the cup on the small round table beside the recliner.  "Let's just say that I've seen the signs more times than I care to remember."

"What do you mean?"

Johnny pushed back in the chair until the footrest was perpendicular to the floor.  "Food poisoning usually doesn't make you sensitive to light or sound, or make you look guilty as hell."

"Oh."

"What's going on, Roy?  It's not like you to get totally plastered."

"It's not like me to be a lot of things," Roy admitted.

"Want to talk about it?"

Roy wearily shrugged his shoulders.  "I wish I could.  Stuff at home."

"I see."  Johnny lowered his eyes and picked a piece of lint off the arm of the chair.  "I suppose after that spaghetti recipe fiasco, you wouldn't feel comfortable telling me, huh?  I'd probably just make things a hundred times worse, as usual."

Afraid he had hurt his friend's feelings, Roy tried to explain.  "No, it's not anything like that.  It's not you.  It's me."

Inexplicably, Johnny began to laugh.

"What's so funny?"

"Usually when I hear the 'It's not you, it's me' speech is when a girl is about to dump me."

Despite his anguish, Roy could appreciate the humor.  "Maybe that's where I heard the phrase before," he joked half-heartedly.  His mood turned somber again as he debated whether or not to reveal his dark secret.  Oh, well.  At this point, what else did he have to lose?  He had already lost his wife, children and that mangy mutt.  Roy was reluctant to push his best friend away, too.  He took a long swig of his coffee and then began his sad narrative.  "Remember the other day when I mentioned that Joanne went with the kids to spend a couple of weeks with her parents?"

"I remember."

"That's not exactly true."  Roy's blue eyes glistened with unshed tears.  "Joanne and I are separated.  She's been threatening to file for divorce for several months, but I guess she was just waiting for the kids to get out of school for the summer before she moved out.  Anyway, I was too embarrassed to tell anyone about it.  I kept hoping that we'd get everything worked out and no one would ever need to know that we hit a rough spot in our marriage."

Now it was Johnny's turn to be stunned.  "Divorce?  Oh, my God.  What happened?  Has Joanne been cheating on you with some guy?"

"I almost wish she was."

Johnny was thoroughly bewildered by his friend's answer.  "Wait just a cotton picking second.  I think I missed something.  Between the muscle relaxant and the pain medication, I'm about as sharp as a marble.  Why on earth would you want your wife to be having an affair with another man?"

"Because at least then I'd have some clue as to what the problem is."  When it became obvious that his answer had failed to satisfy Johnny's curiosity, Roy tried again.  "Do you remember my loud-mouthed, man-hating neighbor Cynthia?  The one that's always spouting off all that women's lib stuff?"

"You mean to tell me Joanne is having an affair with a woman?!" Johnny asked incredulously.

"No, but Cynthia has been filling Joanne's head with a bunch of nonsense."

"What kind of nonsense?"

"Oh, that I'm a throwback to the Stone Age or something because I don't want Joanne to work, that I treat her like a slave and that she doesn't have any identity of her own."  Once the floodgate had opened, Roy's words tumbled out in a torrent of emotion.  "You see, Joanne says that she doesn't know who she is anymore.  First she was her parents' daughter, then my wife and then the children's mother.  She says there was never a time where she was 'just Joanne'.  So she wants some time away from me so that she can go 'find herself' before she files the paperwork with her attorney.  Hell, for that matter, I was my parents' son, then her husband and now the father of two kids, but you don't see me griping about it or running away from home."

Roy finished his coffee in one large gulp, almost choking in his haste to continue.  "You know, when she first started acting strange after the Christmas holidays, I thought it was a matter of money.  Joanne's sister and her husband had just moved into a fancy new house in San Francisco, bought a fully loaded Lincoln Town Car and were talking about taking a European vacation.  So when Joanne announced that she wanted to get a job, I just thought she was a little envious because we can't afford stuff like that on my salary.  I offered to take the engineer's exam again, but she said that wasn't going to solve anything.  Then she started talking about going to college instead.  I didn't see the point.  I mean, why waste all of that money if she's going to stay at home with the kids until they're grown?"

Johnny's mind reeled at the implication of the engineer's exam.  "So are you planning to leave the paramedic program?"

"I don't know.  I don't want to.  I love being a paramedic, but I love Joanne and the kids, too."

"Have you tried counseling or anything?"

Roy stared at the dregs at the bottom of his coffee cup.  "I told her that I'd be willing to go with her to see a marriage counselor or even someone from her church, but she's not interested.  In this day and time with so many people getting divorced, maybe I was naïve to believe that Joanne and I were going to grow old together.  Now we're just growing apart.  It's so hard for me to accept.  I honestly thought that since we were childhood sweethearts, we were going to be happy forever.  Boy, was I wrong!  The worst part about this whole mess is that Joanne won't even let me have any contact with the kids until she decides what she's going to do.  She's afraid that I'm going to tell them all sorts of lies to get them to blame her if we get divorced."  Roy laughed bitterly.  "Right.  They're staying with her parents and she doesn't think her mom is going to try to poison their minds against me?  I don't stand a chance."

"So what are you going to do?" Johnny asked.

"I dunno.  I tried to call her last night from a payphone at the drug store while I was waiting for your prescriptions to be filled.  All I got was a lousy recording.  Apparently her mom and dad have changed their phone number to an unlisted one.  Maybe I might take some time off in another week or so and just show up on their doorstep."

Johnny shifted his weight to help alleviate a particularly severe muscle spasm.  Unfortunately, the movement only served to exacerbate the pain.  "Pills," he hissed through clenched teeth.

Roy immediately jumped up and ran to the kitchen, nearly banging his toes on the same lamp that had viciously attacked his partner two days ago.  He hurriedly dispensed the various pills into the palm of his hand, and then raced back to the living room.  Roy mumbled an apology as he placed the medication in Johnny's outstretched hand.  "Sorry about that.  I should have given these to you as soon as you woke up instead of bothering you with my stupid problems."

"Don't worry about it."  Johnny gratefully accepted the medication, and quickly downed all three pills in a single swallow.  He set his coffee cup back down on the adjacent table and motioned for Roy to sit back down on the edge on the couch.  "Roy, I need for you to do me a huge favor."

"I've already called Cap to let him know that you're going to be out for at least two weeks."

"I really appreciate it, but that's not what I was going to ask."

"Oh, if you still want to keep your doctor's appointment for tomorrow morning and you're worried about how you're going to get there since I have to work, Mrs. Murphy said that one of Katie's friends could take you.  I think she said his name was Booner.  I don't remember the last name, but it was something I couldn't pronounce if my life depended on it.  He isn't working right now, and said he'd be happy to help you out.  I wrote his number on your notepad by the phone."

Johnny gritted his teeth again, but for an entirely different reason.  "It's Boomer.  Boomer Tomjanovich.  Thanks.  But do you suppose I can I get a word in here edgewise?"

A penitent Roy offered yet another apology.  "Sorry."

Relieved that his partner was finally going to let him speak, Johnny stared directly into Roy's eyes.  "I want you to promise to do something for me."

"Anything, Johnny.  You know that."

"I want you to promise me that you're never going to get drunk again like you did on Friday night.  No matter how bad things get between you and Joanne, don't use alcohol as a crutch.  I know it's tempting to drink to try to forget about stuff, but when you sober up, you'll still have the same problems you started out with, plus a whole bunch of new ones.  I know I don't talk much about my childhood, and there's a reason for that.  There's a lot I don't particularly care to remember.  Just trust me when I say that I've seen way too many lives ruined by alcohol, and I don't want to see the same thing happen to you.  Okay?"

"Yeah," Roy answered without conviction.  "I promise."

Perhaps it was a medication-induced hallucination, but Johnny could have sworn he saw Roy cross his fingers as he pledged his sobriety.

+ + + + + + + + + + + +

Three days after his myocardial infarction, Brackett enjoyed the relative peace and quiet of his private room.  He had been relocated to the cardiac ward late Sunday afternoon, and was scheduled to begin his rehab either today or tomorrow.  The transfer was a mixed blessing.  It was extremely difficult for him to sleep while he was confined to the ICU.  In addition to the continuous cacophony of unsynchronized electronic sounds that the various monitors emitted, a seemingly endless parade of doctors, nurses and technicians frequently intruded upon his capricious slumber.  Every time he finally managed to fall asleep, someone needed to check his vital signs, perform a perfunctory examination or extract samples of various bodily fluids.  How in the hell did they expect people to get any rest when they were constantly being poked and prodded?  Yet, as exhausting and stressful as the ICU environment was, he almost missed the constant interruptions.  If he couldn't sleep, then he couldn't dream.

Every time Brackett achieved REM sleep, the nightmares returned with a vengeance.  His dreams varied in the details, but the theme was always the same.  He had disappointed his father in some way, and he had to pay the ultimate price for his transgressions.  Brackett knew he was going to die soon; it was merely a matter of how.  Unlike his father, he had survived his MI.  Did that mean that his ulcer would be the cause of his demise?  Or was there another, more severe heart attack lurking around the corner?  A massive coronary thrombosis perhaps?

Brackett was so engrossed in his morbid ruminations that he didn't notice anyone enter his room.  However, the sound of multiple footsteps caught his attention, and he instinctively turned his head toward the noise.  He was startled to see Early at his bedside at some ridiculous hour on a Monday morning, flanked by the cardiologist and gastroenterologist.  Brackett clutched at his chest and sputtered something that vaguely resembled a greeting.  "Shit!  Are you guys trying to give me another heart attack?  Don't sneak up on me like that."

Early exchanged a quick glance with the two specialists.  They had knocked on the door to announce their arrival, several times.  Obviously Brackett's mind was on other things.  Early tried to appear adequately contrite.  "Sorry about that, Kel."

By now, Brackett had finally grasped the significance of their appearance, and he groaned with displeasure and a sense of dread.  "Uh oh.  All three of you at one time?  What is this, some sort of damned intervention, or just a tag-team event?"

Dr. Mueller rested his foot on the bed's undercarriage.  "Kel, we're not trying to gang up on you.  It's just that with your concurrent medical problems, we need to make some decisions."

"Such as?"

The cardiologist decided to lay the groundwork for the discussion.  "As you know, you're making significant progress from a cardiovascular perspective.  Everything looks good -- your daily EKGs and lab work, as well as the echocardiogram you had done yesterday.  Your blood pressure has been a little bit elevated, but I strongly suspect that's more due to anxiety than anything else."

"Then why does my chest still hurt?" Brackett complained.  "Angina?"

Dr. Chan shook his head.  "Panic attacks, most likely.  Aside from some sinus tachycardia that coincides with these episodes, you haven't developed any new EKG changes.  Also, your last ABG shows that you've been hyperventilating."

Brackett remained unconvinced.  "But the pain under my sternum feels a lot like it did just before my MI.  Sort of a weird, gassy pain."

Dr. Mueller took Brackett's comment as his cue.  "That's probably referred pain from your ulcer.  Your hemoglobin level has been steadily dropping over the past couple of days.  Not precipitously, but enough to warrant concern.  Especially since you're still throwing up coffee-ground emesis.  In a perfect world, I'd like to insert an NG tube and suction your gut until I can do the surgery."

"But?" Brackett asked warily.

"I'd like to get you on your feet and start your cardiac rehab, and we can't do that if you're tethered to the wall," Dr. Chan replied.  "That was the whole purpose of moving you to the unit and hooking you up to a telemetry pack."

Dr. Mueller nodded in agreement.  "So you can see our dilemma.  If we adhere to your cardiac rehab schedule, that limits our options from a gastroenterology standpoint.  And if I stick a tube up your nose, that limits David's options."

Brackett sighed loudly.  No matter what they did, it wouldn't affect the inevitable outcome.  Dead was dead.  Still, he knew he was expected to go through the motions of participating in the conversation.  "So what do you propose?"

"For the moment, I'm willing to defer to David's diabolical plans for you.  We'll let you get up, go for supervised walks on the unit, start your stress management program, meet with the dietician and all of that other fun stuff.  In the meantime, we'll keep close tabs on you, especially your CBC.  If your hemoglobin takes a sudden nosedive, obviously we'll have to reassess our plans."

"Surgery," Brackett mumbled despondently.

Brackett's dejected tone didn't escape Dr. Mueller's notice.  "Kel, you know it's not a matter of 'if', but 'when.'" When Brackett didn't respond, the gastroenterologist proceeded cautiously.  "There are a couple of other issues that we need to address -- your nutrition status and your sleep patterns.  I know hospital food sucks, especially this low-salt, low-fat, caffeine-free, flavor-free diet that David ordered for you.  I'm sure that gnawing on your hospital gown would taste a hell of a lot better.  And yes, I know it's common to not feel very hungry right after an MI, but you haven't been eating well for several months.  You've wasted away to skin and bones, Kel.  You can't afford to lose any more weight.  We need to build you up a little before your gastric surgery.  Plus, you're going to need energy for your rehab.  So if you're agreeable, I'd like to start you on hyperalimentation today.  I've already talked to Ted Poe from anesthesiology, and he can put the subclavian line in this morning.

"Fine.  Whatever."

Relieved that Brackett had agreed to their plans thus far, Early decided to field the next topic.  "As Bob mentioned, we're also concerned that you're not getting enough rest."  Not wanting to reveal what Brackett had told him in confidence, Early opted for a different approach.  "The nurses have reported that you've been experiencing some rather vivid nightmares.  Have you ever had an adverse reaction to Valium before?"

Brackett was thankful for his friend's discretion and tact.  In order to justify a change in medication without disclosing the real reason, Early was suggesting that the Valium was the source of the horrifying dreams.  They both knew the nightmares had preceded his heart attack, but Brackett appreciated the gesture.  If a different anti-anxiety agent could make his problem go away, no one else would ever need to know about his embarrassing secret.  "I don't recall taking diazepam before all this happened."

Dr. Chan appeared thoughtful.  "Maybe we could try switching you to another anxiolytic.  Let me check the PDR and see what we can come up with."

The gastroenterologist proposed an entirely different solution.  "Better yet, let's set up a consult with Jeff Gannon or Chris Hauser.  They're more familiar with the various side effects and whatnot."

Brackett was less than enthusiastic about the idea.  "You want me to see a shrink?"  Damn it.  This was exactly what he was hoping to avoid.

"Consider it part of your stress management program," Dr. Mueller suggested.

Dr. Chan flipped the chart open to the appropriate page, his pen poised to write the necessary order.  "Kel, do you have a preference?"

"None of the above."

"That wasn't one of your options," Dr. Chan answered sternly.  "Or did you have someone else in mind?"

What Brackett had in mind was to suggest that the cardiologist perform an anatomically impossible act upon himself.  However, in the interest of getting everyone off his back for the time being, he'd play along for now.  He could always refuse to see the psychiatrist when the moment of truth actually arrived.  "All right.  Chris Hauser."  Brackett didn't dare explain that he had seen Dr. Hauser before, when Dixie had blackmailed him into a group session in the aftermath of the accident that had seriously injured Joe Early and Johnny Gage.

Apparently Early didn't care to divulge his first-hand experience either, and he abruptly changed the subject.  "I need to run.  My shift starts in about fifteen minutes, but I'll be back to check in on you during my lunch break.  Do you need for me to bring you anything?"

Brackett was tempted to ask for the Yellow Pages so he could make his own funeral arrangements.  Instead, he merely shook his head.  After all, he reasoned, there wasn't really anything anyone could do for him at this point.  There would be plenty of time for them to grieve later.

+ + + + + + + + + + + +

Chet excitedly paced back and forth in the station's dayroom as he noted the time.  It was almost ten 'til eight, and Johnny was nowhere in sight.  Maybe if the paramedic showed up late enough, Captain Stanley would forget that about that unfortunate supply closet incident and grant him a reprieve from his month-long latrine duty sentence.  The mischievous firefighter's confidence grew with each passing second, and he could hardly contain his delight over his apparent good fortune.  The scent of victory was so strong that he could practically taste it.

Roy knew what his shift-mate was thinking, and he buried his face in the newspaper lest his smug smirk give him away.  He had spoken to Captain Stanley a couple of times over the weekend, and he knew who had been lined up to fill in for Johnny during his absence.  At times like these, the senior paramedic could almost understand what motivated the Phantom to pick on his favorite pigeon.  It wasn't necessarily the execution of the prank that was so enjoyable and satisfying, but the expectation of the priceless expression on the victim's face that would inevitably follow.

Unable to help himself any longer, Chet rubbed his hands together with fiendish glee.  "Gage, my boy.  Looks like you're going to spare me a shift of latrine duty!"

"No he isn't," Roy remarked casually as he pretended to read the sports section.

"Yes he is.  Just watch."

"Nope.  Not a chance."

Chet was starting to become suspicious about the paramedic's apparent nonchalance.  "Okay, Roy.  Spill.  What do you know that I don't?"

"Where do you want me to start?"

A sinister laugh at the doorway made the hairs on the back of Chet's neck stand on end.  There was only one person capable of producing that bloodcurdling sound, namely his alter ego's arch nemesis in the form of Gabriel Martinez.  Chet's eyes suddenly grew wide as saucers as an icy chill ran up and down his spine.  The last time Gabriel had subbed for one of the paramedics, the Phantom had pulled an incredibly cruel prank on the Shadow, and now it appeared that Judgment Day was nigh.

Chet turned around as the temporary paramedic entered the dayroom.  In addition to the nylon gym bag slung over his shoulder, Gabriel carried a supply of extra uniforms draped over his arm.  Obviously he planned to be here for quite a while.  Chet audibly gulped as he struggled to regain his composure.  "Martinez!  Good to see ya again, pal."

Gabriel gave the skittish firefighter an affectionate slap on the back with his free hand.  "I'm glad to see you, too.  I can't tell you how much I'm looking forward to working with you again."

Captain Stanley rested his hands on his hips and motioned toward the dorm with a quick nod of his head.  "Chet, why don't you go show Gabriel where he can store his extra uniforms and his gear?"

"He already knows where everything is," Chet protested.

"Show him again.  We wouldn't want him to think he's not welcome, now would we?"

"Yes, sir."  Chet's shoulders slumped as he headed toward their intended destination.  "Come on, Martinez."

Mike waited until the two men were safely out of earshot before commenting on his shift-mate's plight.  "Poor Chet.  Or should I say poor Phantom?"

However, Marco didn't share the same compassionate concern.  "I can't say that I feel sorry for him.  Chet has it coming after that last stunt he pulled on Gabriel.  This ought to be fun.  It's always nice to see him get a taste of his own medicine, and Martinez really knows how to dish it out.  He's the only guy I know who can out Phantom the Phantom in the practical joke department."

Captain Stanley folded his arms across his chest.  "I had a nice chat with Gabriel over the phone yesterday.  He agreed to leave the Shadow at home, with the understanding that if he wants to exact revenge after his tour here is over...well, what a man does on his own time is his business.  But I'm not going to clue Chet in on that little arrangement.  The way I see it, sometimes the fear of what might happen can be a heck of a lot worse than what actually does."

"That's so cruel!" Roy opined with a chuckle.  "Funny, but cruel."

Cap mimicked his temporary paramedic's signature catchphrase.  "Who knows what evil lurks in the hearts of men?  The Shadow knows!  Bwahahahaha!"

Marco had been so busy relishing Chet's predicament that he had momentarily forgotten that there was a reason why Gabriel was here.  Johnny didn't say anything about taking some days off, so obviously some kind of problem had arisen over the weekend.  But whatever it was, it appeared that Johnny knew about how long he was going to be out.  Gabriel had brought enough uniforms for at least the next four shifts.

Obviously the same thought had occurred to Mike as well.  "Uh, Cap?  Why isn't Johnny here?  Is he okay?"

"He fell down some stairs.  Roy took him over to Rampart on Saturday."

"So what did the doctor say?" Marco asked.

Roy folded the section of the paper he had been holding and tossed it toward the end of the couch near the ever-sleeping Henry.  "It's not too bad, considering.  He sprained his ankle, broke some toes on the other foot, busted a few ribs and he's basically bruised from head to toe, especially his back.  The doctor said Johnny's going to be really sore for at least a week or two, and it might even take up to six weeks before his ankle heals completely."

"Six weeks!" Marco exclaimed.  "Chet will be a basket case if Gabriel has to cover Johnny's shift for that long.  His imagination is going to conjure up all sorts of horrible ways that the Shadow might get even with him, and he'll be torturing himself for no reason at all."

Cap grinned.  "It's like what FDR said.  Sometimes the only thing we have to fear is fear itself."

+ + + + + + + + + + + +

Over the weekend, Johnny had debated whether or not to keep his Monday morning appointment with Dr. Grant.  The ER doctor at Rampart had already prescribed what he required most, namely a week's supply of pain medication and a heavy-duty muscle relaxant.  However, unless he wanted to call someone at Rampart to chase down the results of his throat culture, he would have to see Dr. Grant soon anyway to find out if his antibiotic needed to be changed.  Besides, if it took about two weeks for the muscle spasms in his back to go away, he was going to run out of pills long before he could walk around without looking like Quasimodo.

Johnny eventually decided to keep the appointment.  He felt it wouldn't be right to call the doctor's office and cancel on such short notice, and it would be rude to call Boomer at the last minute to let him know that his services as a chauffer wouldn't be needed.  He was amused when the young man showed up on his doorstep an hour before the specified time.  Boomer had been positively ecstatic that Johnny had given him the opportunity to make amends for dropping the sofa on him the other day, and had even brought a box of doughnuts and several individual-sized cartons of milk for breakfast.  This was definitely a man after Johnny's heart, or at least his stomach.

Two hours later, both men sat in Dr. Grant's sparsely decorated waiting room while Johnny filled out all of the requisite paperwork.  Boomer's eyes grew wide when the ailing paramedic had to finish summarizing his medical history on the back of the form.  Throughout all of his years of playing football, Boomer had never known anyone get injured that many times.  He stared at Johnny in admiration and awe, as though he was some kind of superhero.

After Johnny had completed all of the forms and his chart had been assembled, a young medical assistant brought him back into an exam room.  The furnishings were even more austere than those in the waiting room.  Johnny thought that the treatment rooms at Rampart provided a less sterile and utilitarian atmosphere.  Or maybe he just spent so much time there either as a paramedic or a patient, the surroundings merely seemed cozy by comparison.

Darcy, the petite medical assistant, shamelessly flirted with Johnny while she weighed him and took his vital signs.  He responded in kind, reducing her to a fit of girlish giggles when he graced her with a crooked grin.  Darcy was so flustered that she almost overlooked something rather important.  "Oh my goodness!" she squealed.  "I can't believe I almost forgot to have you change before the doctor sees you."  She hurriedly grabbed a paper gown from the cabinet and thrust it into Johnny's hands.  "You'll need to strip down to everything except your underwear and put this on."  Darcy blushed as she gathered the chart and fled the room.

The harsh fluorescent lighting accentuated Johnny's multiple bruises.  Some were still a purplish-black color, while other areas had faded to a dark pea green or a medium shade of yellow.  He felt oddly reassured by the variances in the mottled discoloration.  Each change in hue meant that the bruises were resolving.  Johnny was disappointed that there was no such visible indicator to provide clues as to when the muscle spasms would abate.  All he had to measure his progress by was Deke Coulter's recent experience.  So far only four days had elapsed since his injury.  That meant he had about another ten days of misery ahead of him.  Ten very long, agonizing days.  Johnny contemplated that sad fact while he donned the flimsy paper gown and seated himself on the edge of the table.

While he waited for the doctor to arrive, Johnny started to shiver.  That was funny.  He hadn't felt particularly cold a minute ago.  Had the air conditioner suddenly kicked into high gear or was he more feverish than he realized?  Or was it remotely possible that he was shuddering from sheer nervousness since a regular doctor's office seemed like such a foreign environment to him?

The door suddenly opened to reveal a handsome man of average height.  Johnny now understood why Mrs. Murphy was so enamored with her new doctor.  He looked strikingly similar to the leading character in her favorite soap opera.  The physician reviewed Johnny's chart and spoke without glancing up.  "I'm Dr. Grant.  What brings you here this morning?"

Johnny was momentarily taken aback by the doctor's brusque manner.  He was used to making small talk with the staff at Rampart before he could be coaxed to reveal the nature of a problem.  This guy was obviously all business.  "Well, it's sort of complicated," Johnny began almost apologetically.  "I've had this sore throat for about a week.  That's why I called your office in the first place to schedule an appointment.  Then on Friday, I fell down some stairs while I was helping someone move.  That was right before the sofa fell on top of me.  If that wasn't enough, I stubbed my toes on a lamp when I jumped up to answer the phone when your receptionist called to reschedule my appointment.  My partner..."

Before Dr. Grant jumped to the same conclusion that Dr. Dunn nearly had, Johnny felt the need to clarify his statement.  "You see, I'm a paramedic with the county.  Roy is my partner at work.  Anyway, he insisted on dragging me to the emergency room at Rampart on Saturday.  The doctor over there said that I broke three of my toes, fractured a few ribs and sprained my ankle.  But he said I didn't do any serious damage to my back.  Just a lot of deep bruising and muscle spasms.  He also said there was a trace amount of blood in my urine, but he didn't think it was anything to worry about."  Johnny slapped his forehead as he remembered the main reason why he had bothered to keep his appointment.  "Oh, yeah.  The doc also said that I had some sinus drainage, and that my throat and right ear were inflamed.  He thought it might be a strep infection, so he did a throat culture.  They said they were going to send you a copy of the results, as well as my records for that visit."

Dr. Grant scanned the form that Johnny had completed earlier.  "You have quite an extensive medical history, Mr. Gage.  Were all of these injuries and illnesses work related?"

"More or less, except for the bouts of pneumonia.  Those happened during the first year after I had my spleen removed.  My immune system was really screwed up there for a while.  Still is, actually.  That's why my partner dragged me to the emergency room this weekend.  I have a hard time fighting off infections, and he was afraid that my sore throat would turn into something a lot worse if I didn't get it checked out."

"I don't have a copy of the report yet.  You say you were seen at Rampart on Saturday?"

"Yeah.  They took a bunch of x-rays and did some lab work.  The doctor I saw prescribed Flexeril for the muscle spasms, Tylenol #3 for the pain and penicillin for the upper respiratory infection.  But he said that you might need to change the antibiotic, depending on what the throat culture shows.  He said the lab should have the results sometime today."

"I see," the physician answered distractedly.  "I'll call over there in a few minutes to get the report."  Dr. Grant plucked a tongue depressor from one of the glass jars on the counter and then reached for the otoscope.  "Let's take a look, okay?"

Dr. Grant quickly examined Johnny's ears, nose and throat.  When he was finished, he returned the instrument to its cradle on the wall mount.  "Not too bad," he remarked noncommittally.

"As compared to what?" Johnny wondered.  It felt like he had a giant Brillo pad stuck in his throat, especially when he swallowed.

The doctor then proceeded to inspect Johnny's other injuries, repeating many of the same tests that the emergency room physician had performed.  He lightly patted Johnny on the knee when he had completed his exam.  "Your back is really bruised, but the damage isn't as serious as it looks.  The muscle spasms will probably start to abate in another week or so."

"That's what the ER doc said."

"Did he prescribe any exercises?"

Johnny stared at the doctor as if he had sprouted an extra head.  "No, he just suggested that I take it easy for a few days and spend some quality time in bed with the heating pad, especially with both of my feet being messed up."

Dr. Grant smiled indulgently.  "Recent studies have shown that most back pain tends to improve faster if you perform some muscle strengthening exercises and resume normal activities as soon as possible."

Johnny mulled over the doctor's comment.  "Hmm.  I guess that makes sense.  Sort of like needing to back into the saddle after you've fallen off a horse, huh?"

"Exactly."  Dr. Grant tucked Johnny's chart under his arm.  "I'm going to go call the lab over at Rampart.  I'll send Darcy in with a booklet about back pain.  It has several illustrations of some simple exercises you can do."

"Thanks, Doc.  I appreciate it."  Johnny was beginning to feel guilty about his earlier impression of Dr. Grant.  The general practitioner wasn't a jerk after all.  He simply got right to the point.  The last minute cancellation of his Friday afternoon appointment now forgotten, Johnny decided that he was going to like this guy after all.

+ + + + + + + + + + + +

Having changed back into his clothes, Johnny browsed through the booklet that Darcy had provided.  The recommended back strengthening exercises looked easy enough to perform, and many of them could be done while he was lying down.  He wasn't sure why, but Johnny had envisioned bizarre contortions like something out of a yoga instructor's manual or the Kama Sutra.  He was reading the last page when the doctor practically bounced back into the room.  The contrast in the doctor's demeanor was dramatic.  Whereas Dr. Grant had seemed rude and irritable before, he now appeared downright euphoric.  Hopefully that meant he had good news.

"It's not strep," Dr. Grant announced without preamble.  "You have a viral infection."

Johnny frowned at the news.  Not that he necessarily wanted a bacterial infection, but the ER doctor had been so sure that it was strep.  "Viral?" he repeated.

"I'm sure it doesn't make you feel any better, but we've been seeing a lot of viral upper respiratory infections for the past couple of weeks."

The paramedic cleared his still painful throat.  "So do I keep taking the antibiotics?"

Dr. Grant shook his head.  "No, go ahead and discontinue the penicillin.  I don't recommend taking antibiotics unless it's absolutely necessary.  They won't help a viral infection, and you run the risk of developing an immunity to them.  And since you've had a spleenectomy, you really need for antibiotics to be as effective as possible."

Johnny was beginning to appreciate the general practitioner's straightforward manner.  No matter what his concerns were, Dr. Grant always offered a reasonable explanation.  "So what do I do about the Flexeril and the Tylenol #3 when I run out?" Johnny asked.  "Do I have to come back in, or can you call in a prescription?"

"How many did they give you?"

"A week's supply, enough to last until the weekend.  I told the emergency room doctor that I already had an appointment lined up to see you."

Dr. Grant wrote a quick note in the chart.  "If you're not feeling any better by Friday morning, we can call something in.  Any other questions before I turn you loose?"

"Nope.  I think that about covers it."  Johnny stuffed the booklet into his back pocket as he stood up.  He'd try some of those exercises later, preferably after he took another muscle relaxant and a pain pill, curled up with the heating pad and took a nice, long nap.  Johnny could be open-minded to change when circumstances warranted, but he wasn't crazy.  Those exercises were probably going to make his back hurt a lot more than the doctor let on.  Oh, maybe not right way, but probably within a day or two.  Johnny groaned at the thought.  That meant his back was probably going to get a lot worse before it got better.

+ + + + + + + + + + + +

A few minutes before noon, a young nurse's aide delivered Brackett's lunch tray.  The plump young woman with the cherubic face scarcely looked a day over sixteen.  He wondered if Rampart had started to hire high school kids as part of a vocational program, or if he simply felt so old and decrepit that anyone who appeared to be in better physical condition than he did just appeared to ooze youth and vitality from every pore.  Had the stresses of the past two years really affected him that much?

Brackett scarcely recognized himself in the mirror anymore.  He had wasted away to a mere shadow of his former self.  His once muscular body was now exceedingly gaunt, and the chronic dark circles under his eyes provided a ghastly contrast against his wan complexion.  Brackett couldn't remember when he didn't feel overwhelmed by fatigue...and guilt.  Some days it hardly seemed worth the effort to crawl out of bed when his imminent death was a foregone conclusion.  Had his father had the same kind of premonitions before he passed away?

A familiar figure appeared in the open doorway while he brooded about his mortality.  Brackett was more than mildly annoyed at the intrusion upon his melancholia, especially considering who the visitor was.  His shoulders slumped in defeat.  Someone had sicced the friendly neighborhood shrink on him.  It was now official.  The day was definitely going to hell in a hand basket.  Brackett grunted his displeasure.  "So who couldn't wait to call you?  Bob?"

The psychiatrist feigned mock indignation.  "What kind of a greeting is that?  Usually most people start a conversation by saying 'hello', and then at least pretend to be interested in how I'm doing before they ask about the wife and kids."

"Fine," Brackett growled.  "Hi, Chris.  How are you doing?  How are the wife and kids?"

Dr. Hauser smiled as he brushed his long sun-streaked hair out of his eyes.  "Why gee, Kel.  I'm doing great, never better.  I just bought a brand new catamaran, celebrated my eighteenth wedding anniversary, my oldest daughter is threatening to run away from home if she doesn't get store bought boobies for her birthday, my son likes to play with his sisters' Barbie dolls and my youngest daughter was recently suspended from school for three days for writing naughty limericks in the boy's restroom.  But thanks for asking."

Despite his grim mood, Brackett grinned at the psychiatrist's response.  "I thought you guys were supposed to have perfect, well adjusted families."

"That's just a myth.  We're just as screwed up as everyone else.  The only difference is that we know how to use the DSM-II to quantify how screwed up we are."  Dr. Hauser clutched the metal chart against his chest and rocked back on his heels.  "Anyway, it was David who called me this morning.  He said you might be having an adverse reaction to the diazepam.  I understand that you've been having some rather intense nightmares?"

"Yeah."

"Want to talk about them?"

"Not really."

Dr. Hauser wasn't willing to let the subject drop that easily.  "Okay, let me rephrase that.  We need to talk about your nightmares.  I can't recommend a different sedative unless I have a better idea of what we're dealing with here."

When Brackett didn't reply, Dr. Hauser lifted the lid from the lunch tray that had been placed on the bedside table.  He scowled at the untouched meal.  "Not hungry?"

"Not for that crap," Brackett complained.  "Low-sodium, low-fat, caffeine-free, flavor-free clear liquid diet.  Why bother?"  He gestured toward the catheter in his chest.  "Besides, I've already had lunch."

Dr. Hauser glanced at the bottle of yellow fluid hanging from the infusion unit.  "That doesn't look very appetizing either."

Brackett shrugged his shoulders.  "At least I don't have to worry about it making a dramatic reappearance."

"Yeah.  I understand that you've been tossing your cookies quite a lot recently.  When did that start?"

"I've had an ulcer for nearly two years, but the vomiting didn't start until about a year ago.  But it's not like it happens every day.  I can be asymptomatic for weeks, and then I'll go through cycles where I can't seem to keep anything down."

"That's what I hear."  Dr. Hauser pushed the table with the abandoned meal aside so he could move one of the upholstered chairs closer to the bed.  Then he sat down, laying the chart down in his lap.  The psychiatrist chewed on the end of his pen while he mentally reconstructed his telephone conversation with Dr. Chan earlier that morning.  If Brackett was reluctant to talk about his dreams right away, perhaps he might be willing to discuss another topic of concern.

Dr. Hauser propped his elbows on the chair's armrests and rested his chin on his steepled fingers.  "I understand that your father passed away from a massive coronary thrombosis."

Brackett eyed the psychiatrist suspiciously at the apparent non sequitur.  Lest Dr. Hauser try to divine anything from his expression, he turned his head so that he faced the windows.  "Yeah.  He also had a history of peptic ulcer disease.  That's why he couldn't take any anticoagulants for his clotting disorder.  About three years ago, he developed a clot in his leg.  One of the surgeons here at Rampart performed the surgery.  It was risky as hell.  Everyone was concerned that he'd hemorrhage, but he did fine."  Brackett fidgeted with the IV tubing before he continued.  "I sort of lost contact with Dad for a while.  Then the April before last, I got a phone call from a hospital in Santa Cruz.  One of the ER nurses found my name and telephone number in Dad's wallet and tracked me down.  By the time I drove up there, he was already gone."

"You said you 'lost contact' with your father.  What happened?"

A lump formed in Brackett's throat.  "We had a falling out about a year after his thrombectomy."

"So you weren't exactly on the best of terms when he passed away."

"No."

The psychiatrist was silent for a moment while he tried to put the pieces of the puzzle together.  Dr. Hauser was beginning to understand the genesis of Brackett's guilt, but he couldn't figure out how the nightmares factored into the equation.  Had Brackett been having them since his father's death, or were they a new development?

As Dr. Hauser straightened in his chair, the chart slid from his lap and began its descent to terra firma.  He frantically reached for it, but his efforts were in vain.  The heavy metal chart hit the floor with a resounding thud.  The minor mishap was purely unintentional, but it served to redirect Brackett's attention back toward his side of the room.  Dr. Hauser flushed from embarrassment at his uncharacteristic clumsiness.

"Sorry about that, Kel," the psychiatrist apologized.  "I guess it's a good thing I'm a shrink and not a surgeon."  Having collected both the chart and what was left of his dignity, Dr. Hauser resumed his line of inquiry.  "Kel, do you recall when you first began to compare your medical problems to your father's?"

Brackett hesitated before answering.  "I'm not sure.  It's been a while.  Maybe about a year ago."

"A year ago?  Was that before or after your father's death?"

"After.  Definitely after."

"Was that when the nightmares started?"

"No, that was more recent.  I guess about two or three months ago.  Probably closer to three."

"So you had the nightmares before you were started on the Valium."

Brackett cursed himself for his accidental confession.  Damn it.  That was exactly the reason why he avoided psychiatrists like the plague.  They lulled people into a false sense of security, and then got them to admit to all kinds of humiliating secrets.

Dr. Hauser stood up and gently squeezed Brackett's shoulder.  "It's okay, Kel.  I think I understand what's going on.  Unfortunately, it's going to make my job more complicated in the short term.  Switching you to another mild sedative isn't going to solve the problem since the diazepam didn't cause your nightmares in the first place, although I'll concede that it could be making them worse.  I want to run a couple of possibilities by David and Bob.  I'll stop by later today to let you know what we've come up with, all right?"

"I can't wait," Brackett muttered despondently.

+ + + + + + + + + + + +

Bracing the fishing rod's heavy grip against his abdomen, Kel felt a peculiar affinity for the poor unsuspecting bluefin tuna that he hoped to reel in.  The tempting lure of a weekend fishing trip off the California Channel Islands on his father's new boat, the Tempus Fugit, had been dangled in front of him as bait to tempt him to swallow the hook.  James Brackett hoped to entice his son to take a six-month leave of absence so that they could spend some time together, and work toward resolving their differences once and for all.

Kel didn't object to his father's plan in theory.  The two men had a complex and turbulent relationship, interrupted by frequent estrangements that lasted for months or even years.  Unfortunately, recent budgetary cutbacks had absolutely decimated the emergency department, and Kel simply couldn't afford to take off for half a year to go gallivanting about the Pacific Ocean in search of adventure.  He felt extremely conflicted about his reaction to his father's proposal.  Kel believed that his primary obligation was to his beleaguered emergency department.  But he wanted to please his father, too.  In spite of his many accomplishments, Kelly Brackett still desperately craved his father's approval and affection.

By mid-afternoon, the two men had little to show for the day's labors, fishing or otherwise.  They were both as stubborn as mules, and neither Brackett was willing to give an inch in this fierce battle of wills.  James was adamant that Kel take some time off from work, and when his arguments failed to persuade his headstrong son, he resorted to emotional blackmail.  He announced that he would die soon, and that their failure to rekindle the familial bond would forever be on Kel's conscience.  The younger Brackett was infuriated by his father's underhanded ploy, and retreated into withdrawn silence rather than attempt to argue his case.  If they hadn't been so far away from land, Kel would have jumped overboard and swam for shore to get away from the source of his frustration.

Kel was relieved when his father suggested that they head back to the marina.  It was the only point on which they had been able to agree upon all day.  He quickly reeled in his line and set about the task of putting away their fishing gear.  James Brackett had barely turned the key in the ignition when a spark from one of the inboard motors ignited.  A split-second later, the Tempus Fugit was ripped apart by a violent explosion.  The concussive force of the blast hurled both men into the air with alarming ferocity.  As he fell toward the water, Kel was only vaguely aware of the fiery ball that engulfed what was left of his father's new boat.  Then, he mercifully slipped into oblivion.

It was after nightfall when Kel finally regained consciousness.  He initially panicked, thinking that he had been blinded by the blast.  But as his eyes gradually adjusted to the scant illumination of the quarter moon, he focused on the trail of debris that surrounded him.  He ignored the fierce pain in his side and his leg, and swam toward the area where he thought his father had been thrown.  After what seemed like an eternity, Kel found the lifeless form of James Brackett floating face down in the water.  A large splintered section of the flybridge impaled his father's torso, making the corpse resemble a macabre fishing bob atop the ocean's surface, rising and falling with the rhythm of the waves.

Kel wept as he cradled his father's broken body in his arms.  Because he had refused to put his foolish pride aside or make a small personal sacrifice, he would never be able to tell his father that he loved him, in spite of everything that had transpired between them.  And perhaps worst of all, he would go to his grave never knowing if he had ever fully earned his father's approval and respect.  If only he had remained conscious immediately after the explosion, then maybe he could have used his medical skills to prevent his father's death, or at least bought them a few precious minutes to say their goodbyes.  Now all he could do was wait for the Grim Reaper to claim his immortal soul as well.  He had failed to save his father.  Therefore, he had no choice but to forfeit his own life to atone for his failures as a son.

He knew that he wouldn't have to wait much longer before his corporeal existence came to an end.  Kel had counted at least seven dorsal fins slicing through the water as the sharks circled around him.  Intoxicated by the scent of blood, the cold-blooded predators moved closer and closer toward him.  Could they detect the scent of his fear, too?  Kel had never been a religious man, but he fervently prayed that he would be spared the agony of a protracted, painful death.  Or was that the whole point, that he should suffer hell on earth before he was condemned to suffer for all of eternity for his woeful transgressions?

Suddenly, a sharp crushing pain ripped through his midsection as razor sharp teeth sank into his flesh.  Kel made no effort to hold his breath when he was pulled below the ocean's surface during the feeding frenzy.  He fervently hoped that he would drown before the sharks could devour him limb by limb.  But his reflexes refused to cooperate with his plans, and he brought up what seemed like gallons of fluid from his lungs when he momentarily resurfaced from the bloody water.  Perhaps it was a cruel hallucination, but he thought he heard voices.  He couldn't explain why, but they sounded vaguely familiar.  Then without warning, he felt several hands turning him onto his side.  Hands?  Was he being rescued?

Brackett opened his eyes, and was startled to find himself in a hospital bed.  He appeared to be the focus of the frenetic activity, but he couldn't understand why.  The confusion quickly cleared as he realized that he had awakened from yet another nightmare.  Part of him felt that he should be embarrassed for alarming the medical staff for such a trivial matter, while another part of him simply felt too miserable to care.  Brackett clutched at his stomach, hoping the futile act would somehow alleviate the gnawing pain in his stomach.  If he could just get a sip of water to rinse the weird metallic taste from his mouth, then maybe the nausea would abate.

He was about to ask for something to drink when he noticed that one of the nurses was injecting something into his IV port.  "It's okay," she cooed.  "Dr. Mueller is on his way.  He should be here in about ten minutes."

While he wondered why they had awakened Dr. Mueller at some ungodly hour just because of a stupid nightmare, the nausea overwhelmed him.  A nurse held something under his chin as he violently expelled the contents of his stomach.  Brackett lost all track of time as he heaved into the emesis basin.  When he finally finished, he slumped back against his pillow.  Only then did he become aware of a warm, wet sensation on his chest.  Brackett instinctively looked down, and was horrified by what he saw.  His gown and the bed linens were drenched in bright red blood.

+ + + + + + + + + + + +

The sound of a ringing telephone shattered the pre-dawn stillness, rousing Early from his restful slumber.  He squinted at the clock/radio as he reached for the phone.  It was a quarter after three.  At this hour, there were only two reasons why anyone would call him.  Either someone had dialed a wrong number, or he was about to be notified of an emergency.  He sincerely hoped it wasn't the latter.  This was the first time he had managed to get a good night's sleep since Brackett's heart attack, and he wanted nothing more than to slip back into that blissful somnolent state and finish sharing that bottle of rum with Papa Hemingway in some seedy Caribbean bar.

Early picked up the receiver and mumbled into the mouthpiece.  "'Lo?"

The man on the other end of the phone quickly introduced himself.  "Joe, this is Bob.  Bob Mueller."

Early immediately sat upright in bed.  It was amazing how a surge of adrenaline could clear any lingering cobwebs of sleep.  The fact that his best friend's gastroenterologist was calling him in the wee hours of the morning did not bode well.  Now fully alert, Early launched into his interrogation without bothering with any social niceties.  "What happened?  Did Kel's ulcer perforate?"

"Not yet.  But he's hemorrhaging something fierce.  It looks like he's vomited up about 200 cc of frank blood.  We've slammed two units of packed cells, but his blood pressure is still trying to bottom out on us.  But aside from some sinus tachycardia, his EKG otherwise looks okay.  I'm in the OR now, getting ready to scrub in.  I just thought you'd want to know.  I'll give you a call back as soon I'm done."

Early was already rummaging through his closet for something to wear while cradling the receiver against his shoulder.  "Don't call me here.  I'll be in the OR waiting room.  I'll see you in a couple of hours or so."

As soon as Dr. Mueller acknowledged the message, Early hung up.  Then he immediately began dialing Dixie's phone number.  She would want to be notified right away, but he still felt a twinge of guilt for waking her.  In light of Brackett's latest medical crisis, he knew that neither one of them was likely to enjoy a decent night's sleep again for a long time.

+ + + + + + + + + + + +

The excruciating pain in his back awakened Johnny with a start.  He wiped the gooey sleepers from his eyes as he reached for the clock.  Johnny groaned when he noted the time.  It was only ten after five, which meant he still had about another hour to go before he could take another muscle relaxant or a pain pill.  If only his heating pad hadn't conked out during the night, maybe he could have eked by until then.  Soaking in a hot bath to ease the muscle spasms was definitely out of the question.  He couldn't get in or out of the tub without assistance, and at this hour, he wasn't about to further impose upon Boomer's good graces and call the poor man for assistance.

He longingly gazed at the plastic vials and the thermos of cold water that Boomer had left on the nightstand for him.  Johnny hated to yield to the temptation to take his medicine earlier than the instructions dictated, but he was miserable.  After a brief debate with his conscience, he opted to go ahead and take the Flexeril, but force himself to wait until the proper time to take the Tylenol #3.  He was glad that Boomer had promised to check in on him after breakfast, although Johnny had no idea what time of day that might be for a recent college graduate who had yet to find gainful employment.

As Johnny uncapped the bottle of muscle relaxants, he decided that if Boomer didn't drop by before a quarter 'til eight, he would call Roy at the station before the shift change and ask him to pick up a new heating pad for him on his way home.  Johnny took some small comfort in knowing that Roy would be sober this morning.  He might be depressed about his marital problems, but Roy wasn't stupid enough to drink on the job, at least not yet.  But deep in his heart, Johnny had an awful feeling that his best friend had lied to him about not drinking anymore.  Painful experiences from his childhood had taught him that once a person started to look for answers at the bottom of a bottle, the dependence on alcohol only got worse.

+ + + + + + + + + + + +

In the sanctuary of the deserted OR waiting room, Early and Dixie awaited news of their friend's condition.  They had arrived at the hospital shortly before four o'clock, still dazed by the last vestiges of sleep and the news of Brackett's acute gastric hemorrhage.  Although the complication had always been a very real possibility, they had both hoped that surgery could be deferred until the cardiologist had given his blessing, and more importantly, when Brackett could be persuaded that he wasn't doomed to follow his father to the grave any time soon.  Unfortunately, Brackett's latest medical crisis was going to wreak havoc with Dr. Hauser's plans to start the brooding physician on an antidepressant, as well as psychotherapy.

If there was a silver lining to the day's events, it was that Early and Dixie had been able to find someone to cover for each of their shifts on such short notice.  But after pacing the floor and drinking countless cups of bitter vending machine coffee, Early was beginning to question his judgment.  If he hadn't made arrangements to take a day's vacation, he wouldn't have so much time on his hands to worry and obsess about everything that could possibly go wrong during the surgery.  This was one of those rare occasions when Early wished he wasn't a physician.  Otherwise, he would be blissfully ignorant of what could be transpiring in the operating room right now.  He knew it was irrational, but as the procedure dragged on, he couldn't help but imagine a myriad of complications.  If they didn't get an update soon, Early was convinced that he was going to go stark raving nuts.  Then Brackett wouldn't be the only Rampart physician in dire need of psychiatric help.

Early wadded his empty paper cup into a ball and tossed it at the wastebasket with more force than the task required.  Not surprisingly, the crumpled piece of cardboard overshot its intended target by several feet.  As he stood up to pick the mutilated cup off the floor, he could have sworn he heard a muffled giggle from the room's only other occupant.  He quickly spun around and stared at Dixie in genuine confusion.  "What's so funny?" he asked as he dropped the paper cup into the trashcan.

Dixie made no effort to conceal her mirth.  "You are."

"Me?"  Early failed to understand the humor of the situation.

"Yes, you.  That's the third time you've missed that trashcan this morning."

"It's probably the caffeine.  I'm not used to drinking real coffee anymore."  No sooner had the words left his mouth, Early realized how ridiculous they sounded.  He sat back down beside Dixie and rubbed at his eyes.  "Oh, who am I kidding?  Kel was right.  Being on the waiting end is no picnic either."

Dixie nodded in understanding.  "Let me guess.  About a million possible complications are running through your head right now.  And the more time that passes, the more your imagination runs wild.  You've probably envisioned at least a dozen worst care scenarios by now."

"Only a dozen?" Early half-heatedly joked.

"Well, that's what I've come up with so far.  I'm sure I'll dream up a few others before this is all over."  As if to emphasize her point, Dixie pulled on a strand of her hair.  "You see this?  How do you think I got all of these gray hairs?  Considering how much I've worried about you, Kel and Johnny over the years, it's a miracle I still have a blonde hair left on my head!"

Now it was Early's turn to laugh.  "Oh, come on.  That's hardly fair to lump Kel and me into the same category with Johnny Gage.  He's in a class by himself."

"That he is," Dixie admitted.  "You know, I almost hate to say this, but it's been a while since we've seen him in the ER as a patient."

Early immediately placed his finger over his lips.  "Shhhhh.  You're going to jinx him."

"Drat.  You're right.  Forget I mentioned it."

Their banter was interrupted when a scrub-suited figure emerged from the OR.  Early and Dixie immediately rose to their feet, anxious for news about their friend.  They searched the gastroenterologist's face for clues as to how the surgery had gone, but Dr. Mueller's expression was maddeningly impassive.  Then, his mouth slowly turned upward into a smile.

Early immediately felt the tension in his body begin to dissipate.  "So everything went okay?" he asked hopefully.

"Yeah, eventually."  Dr. Mueller pushed his wire-rimmed glasses further up on his nose as he elaborated upon his comment.  "We had some trouble keeping Kel's vital signs stabilized until we finally got the bleeding under control.  The ulcer had eroded the left gastroepiploic artery, which was the source of the hemorrhaging.  Once we got the artery clamped, his blood pressure leveled off quite nicely, and the rest of the procedure was relatively uneventful.  The ulcer didn't perforate, so hopefully we can scratch peritonitis off the list of potential complications to worry about.  But the damage to the mucosa was far more extensive than I anticipated.  I wound up having to resect more than I thought I would for the partial gastrectomy.  There were several small areas adjacent to the primary lesion that appeared to be pre-ulcerative.  Don't get me wrong, it's not that I don't trust Kel, but..."

"You don't trust Kel," Dixie dryly remarked.

Dr. Mueller smiled at the nurse's astute observation.  "Okay, you're right.  I don't trust him.  That's why I went ahead and resected the newer lesions.  I figured it would save me the trouble of having to do this again in a few months.  Kel may be a terrific emergency room physician, but he's a terrible patient.  No doubt the nurses on the cardiac unit will be thrilled to be rid of him for a few days."

Early unsuccessfully tried to stifle a yawn.  The early morning wake-up call was finally catching up with him.  "So where are you going to transfer him?  The surgical step-down unit?"

"Yeah.  David already knows.  I called him this morning just before I called you."

"What about Chris Hauser?"

Dr. Mueller crossed his arms across his chest and shook his head.  "I haven't spoken to him since yesterday.  This is obviously going to throw a wrench in his plans."  The gastroenterologist glanced at his watch.  "Well, I guess I better give Chris a call before I scrub in for my scheduled surgical patients for the day."  With an impish grin, he added, "You know, the ones who actually do what I tell them to and have the decency to require my surgical skills during daylight hours when it's convenient for me.  I suppose this speaks to the pathetic state of my fantasy life, but I keep hoping that one of these days Kel will experience an epiphany and suddenly become a cooperative patient.  Stranger things have happened."

"That's some fantasy," Early quipped.  "Some might even call it a delusion."

Dr. Mueller sighed wearily.  "Po-TAY-to, po-TAH-to.  I don't care what you call it, as long as it happens before I develop an ulcer or need a psych consult."

+ + + + + + + + + + + +

After a grueling shift, Roy stood at his front door while trying to summon the energy to turn the key in the lock.  He was bone tired, and wanted nothing more than to flop into bed and sleep for at least a week.  In a way, Roy was grateful for the extreme fatigue.  The longer he slept, the less time he'd be conscious and be tormented by his troubles.  Today marked the eighth day since his family's departure, not that the occasion was exactly a cause for celebration.  Somehow he didn't think there was a Hallmark greeting card or an FTD floral bouquet that covered this type of situation.

Roy suddenly found himself sitting down in his La-Z-Boy recliner.  He didn't remember opening the front door, or making the short trip to the living room.  It was if he had been sleepwalking...again.  Ever since Joanne and the kids took off last Monday while he was at work, Roy had been having trouble staying focused in the here and now.  His mind would often wander to the point where he became totally oblivious to his surroundings.  He was afraid that if he didn't snap out of it, he was going to wind up hurting or killing someone.  Yesterday Roy had gotten a traffic citation for running a stop sign.  It wasn't like he was in any great hurry to get to work.  He had just been so distracted, he simply lost track of where he was.  What if instead of a traffic sign, Roy had failed to stop for a child darting out into traffic?  Or what if he spaced out like that on the job while he was treating a patient?  The consequences could be disastrous.

For the past week, Roy had slept in his recliner every night.  The bedroom contained too many painful reminders of Joanne's absence -- the imprint of her body on the rumpled sheets, the scent of her perfume on the pillows and her favorite white tricot nightgown with the tiny pink rosebuds carelessly tossed onto the floor.  But after spending the entire night fighting a fierce conflagration at a dilapidated industrial complex, Roy was physically and emotionally exhausted.  Every muscle and sinew in his body felt tight and sore.  As much as he hated to do it, Roy realized that he needed to sleep in his own bed.  The La-Z-Boy might be suitable for a catnap or two in front of the television set, but it wouldn't provide the necessary support for his aching back.

Roy reluctantly stood up and headed toward to the bedroom.  The memory of his last confrontation with Joanne came rushing back in vivid detail.  It had started over an incredibly petty matter, but the discussion rapidly escalated into a heated argument.  Joanne had once again threatened to leave him and to take the children with her, but this time Roy wasn't in the mood to throw himself at her feet to beg for her forgiveness or plead for her to stay.  Tired of the specter of divorce hanging over his head like Damocles' sword, he had yelled at her to put up or shut up.  Joanne didn't say anything for the rest of the night, or the next morning while he got dressed for work.  However, her response to his challenge was swift and brutal.  When Roy returned home after his shift ended the next morning, his entire family was gone.  He didn't even have a chance to hug his kids one last time.

Giving into his grief, Roy began to sob convulsively.  He couldn't forgive himself for the words he had so foolishly uttered in a fit of anger.  Roy picked up the white and pink gown from the floor and held it against his chest.  The sweet smell of her lavender soap still lingered in the cloth's fibers.  He pressed the discarded garment against his nose and closed his eyes.  If he tried really hard, he could almost imagine holding Joanne in his arms in a tender embrace.

Roy clung to that achingly poignant image as he burrowed under the covers and curled up into a fetal position.  Then he buried his face in the gown and cried himself to sleep.

+ + + + + + + + + + + +

Still slightly drowsy from his medication, Johnny rolled toward the edge of the couch so he could reposition his brand new heating pad.  Boomer had shown up about seven-thirty, and had been more than happy to make a quick trip to the twenty-four hour pharmacy to pick up the urgently needed item.  He had also purchased an extension cord at his own expense.  Yesterday Boomer had noticed how difficult it was for Johnny to pull the heating pad into just the right spot because of the taut pull of the cord, and thought that an extension cord would make the pad easier to maneuver.  Johnny appreciated the gesture, and had promptly offered to reimburse him for the cost.  However, Boomer refused to accept any money, insisting that performing a good deed was its own reward.

Johnny dozed off and on throughout the morning while Boomer tried to make himself useful.  The energetic young man cleaned the apartment, emptied the refrigerator of all leftovers that looked old enough to vote or at least shave and had washed three loads of laundry.  When Johnny woke up around lunchtime, he was temporarily disoriented by the tidy surroundings.  He was impressed by Boomer's industrious labors, but he felt embarrassed when he spotted a stack of neatly folded boxers lying on the arm of the recliner.  There was something oddly disconcerting about having another guy handle his underwear.  However, his discomfort was soon forgotten when Johnny caught a whiff of the pleasant aroma wafting from the kitchen.  Oooooh.  His mouth watered in gleeful anticipation.  Whatever Boomer was cooking sure smelled a whole lot better than the can of chicken noodle soup he would have prepared if he had been left to fend for himself.

He could hardly believe that only four days had passed since he met Boomer.  Johnny had already developed an almost paternal affection for the man Mrs. Murphy had described as "a lovable lug of a teddy bear with big, brown puppy dog eyes."  Boomer's gentle nature seemed wholly incongruent with his muscular build, making it difficult for Johnny to reconcile the former athlete's reputation as one of UCLA's most fearsome linebackers with the kind-hearted soul who cheerfully waited on him hand and foot.

At first, Johnny had felt extremely uncomfortable about taking advantage of Boomer's generous offer to run errands for him and to take care of things around the apartment until he could get back on his feet.  It was obvious that Boomer still felt responsible for the unfortunate staircase accident, although Johnny tried to persuade him otherwise.  In the end, Johnny had agreed to let Boomer perform a favor or two for him in hopes that the guilt-ridden man could go about his merry way in peace once he felt he had repaid some type of karmic debt.  But now Johnny wondered who was really benefiting the most from the arrangement.  Boomer was no longer just a gopher trying to make amends for a perceived transgression.  He had already become a good friend that Johnny could depend on.

That wasn't to say that he didn't miss his partner at a time like this.  He did.  But he understood that Roy needed some time alone to try to sort things out.  Even so, Johnny intended to stay in close touch with him as much as possible to offer whatever support he could.  He didn't want Roy to slip into alcoholism or a deep depression just because he was temporarily incapacitated by an insignificant backache.

During a commercial break shortly before noon, Boomer emerged from the kitchen with a plate of Sloppy Joes in each hand.  The hearty meal comprised one-half of his entire culinary repertoire, with Frito pie being his only other specialty.  He set the plates on the coffee table and ran back to the kitchen to fetch a handful of paper towels and something cold to drink.  Boomer was almost breathless as he hurried back to the living room.  His favorite soap opera was about to start, and he didn't want to miss a minute of it.

Johnny watched the other man with amusement as he set two glasses on the table and filled them with milk.  He didn't know any guys who enjoyed daytime dramas, or at least who would be brave enough to admit it.  Out of sheer boredom, Johnny had become a regular viewer of soap operas during a couple of lengthy hospital confinements.  But once he had sufficiently recovered to go back to work, he quickly lost interest in them.  Johnny felt that between his hazardous occupation and his embarrassing track record with members of the opposite sex, he really didn't need any additional drama in his life.  For the most part, Johnny assumed that the only people who made a habit of indulging in soap operas were elderly blue-haired ladies or stressed out housewives seeking a respite from the drudgery of their never-ending chores.  He never would have guessed that a former college football player could get hooked on them just for the fun of it.

Earlier in the morning, Boomer had explained that he started watching soaps while he was in college as a way to meet girls.  Several attractive coeds liked to congregate in the Ackerman Union lounge and watch television after classes.  By feigning interest in the convoluted plots as to who was having an affair with whom, Boomer was able to ingratiate himself into their company.  In fact, that was how he had met a certain vivacious redhead.  Katie Murphy was a fan of As the World Turns, or to be more specific, she had a big crush on one of the leading characters, Dr. John Dixon.  Boomer thought that Oakdale's cardiologist was a slime ball with no redeeming qualities, but he didn't dare voice his opinion lest it sabotage his chances of getting a date with Katie.  He need not have worried.  Katie made it quite clear that she wasn't interested in any romantic entanglements until she had earned her bachelor's degree in business administration.  And to ensure that she achieved that goal, she was only interested in pursuing platonic relationships.  Boomer readily agreed to her terms, although he was a bit disappointed later that day when curiosity got the best of him and he finally looked up the word "platonic."  Nevertheless, he and Katie became good friends, and now he thought of himself as her protective big brother instead of a rejected suitor.

Boomer had barely taken a sip of his milk when he jumped out of the recliner and raced to the bedroom.  He grinned broadly as he returned with all three of Johnny's medicine bottles.  "Man, I can't believe I almost forgot about these!  The label says that you're supposed to take your medicine with food.  I'm gonna wind up killing you instead of helping you to get better!"

Johnny laughed.  "It's okay.  It wouldn't have been the end of the world.  I might have gotten an upset stomach, but that's about it."

As Boomer doled out the pills into Johnny's hand, the image on the television screen disintegrated into something that looked like blue horizontal lightning bolts streaking across the sky in the midst of a severe snowstorm.  "Oh, no!  Now I've gone and killed your TV, Mr. G.!"  He walked over to the television set and tweaked with the knobs.  To his profound relief, all of the other channels came in nice and clear.

"Looks like it's just this station," Johnny mumbled as he placed the pills into his mouth.

Boomer ran his hand through his unfashionably short black hair.  "Aw, crap.  And today was supposed to be the big day."

"Big day?"

"Yeah."  Frustrated by the turn of events, Boomer turned off the television and sat down.  He balanced his plate in his lap as he recapped the show's convoluted chain of events.  "One of the major characters, Dr. Mark Montgomery, was murdered about four months ago.  Supposedly the actor who played him wanted an obscene amount of money to renew his contract for another season, so the show decided to eliminate the problem by getting rid of his character.  Anyway, this Dr. Montgomery was a real horse's behind, and a lot of people had a motive to do him in.  Take Nurse Blankley, for example.  Dr. Montgomery knocked her up last year, and kept hounding her until she got an abortion.  She's hated him ever since.  Of course, his long-suffering wife, Rebecca, could have done it, too.  Dr. Montgomery had been unfaithful for years, and the whole town knew it.  Just before he turned up dead, Rebecca told him that she was going to make him pay for humiliating her.  Then there's Evelyn Kurth, the former hospital administrator.  The doc was having a fling with her about the same time Nurse Blankley found out she was preggers.  Dr. Montgomery framed Evelyn so that she'd take the fall for a big hospital scandal that involved the deaths of half a dozen patients.  He made it look like she authorized the purchase of a bunch of substandard medical equipment so that she would get kickbacks from the manufacturer."

Boomer paused long enough to wolf down half of his sandwich in a couple of enormous bites.  Then he chugged an entire glass of milk before he continued his narrative.  "I think the women are just red herrings though.  I'm convinced that Geoffrey Wade is the real killer.  He's this hotshot gazillionaire who was bankrolling Dr. Montgomery's research to develop a medical gizmo that was going to save a bunch of lives and make a ton of dough.  Two weeks ago, Geoffrey found out that Dr. Montgomery was diverting funds from the project in order to cover his gambling debts and to finance a risky real estate scheme.  Geoffrey confronted him about it, but Dr. Montgomery warned him that if he blabbed, he was going to do some major prison time.  I don't understand all of the ins and outs of how the finances were supposed to work, but apparently all the evidence was going to point to Geoffrey.  And since his corporation was already losing money hand over fist after that exposé about Wade Worldwide Enterprises' shady business dealings that triggered a federal investigation, Geoffrey snapped.  Oh, he's been acting real cool, but I'm telling you, the guy is totally psycho."  His account of events now complete, Boomer polished off the rest of his sandwich and started on another.

Johnny was fascinated by Boomer's ability to make sense of the Byzantine plot lines.  He always needed a scorecard to keep us with all of the characters' nefarious activities.  "Sounds like you have everything all figured out," Johnny remarked.

Boomer rolled his eyes.  "Not everything.  I obviously can't figure out how to find a decent job.  About all I do these days is sit on my butt all day long and watch television while I wait for the next rejection letter to arrive in the mail.  I have quite a collection.  Maybe I should start pasting them into a scrapbook."

"I'm sure you'll find something soon," Johnny answered in what he hoped was a reassuring tone.

"Nah.  I don't think so," Boomer lamented.  "But it's my own damned fault.  I don't have anyone to blame but me."

"You're being too hard on yourself."

"No, I'm not."  Boomer topped off Johnny's glass of milk before he poured another one for himself.  "I have this piece of paper that says I graduated from an institution of higher learning, but it's essentially worthless.  I'm just a big, dumb jock who went to college on a football scholarship.  I never really thought about what I was going to do after I finished school.  The only thing I cared about was playing ball.  Oh, and partying.  Too bad they didn't offer a degree in that."

"What did you major in?" Johnny asked.

"Sociology.  But it's not the degree that's worthless.  It's me.  There are a lot of fine people who choose to go into the field, even though most of them know that they're probably going to wind up in a job where they'll be overworked, underpaid and under appreciated.  It's sort of like they're on a personal crusade to save the world, one life at a time.  The difference between them and me is that they actually worked their tails off and applied themselves.  They have a real passion for what they do.  Now me?  All I did was goof off for four years."

"But you still earned a degree.  I'd hardly call that goofing off."

Boomer was amused by Johnny's naiveté.  "I don't think you understand, Mr. G.  When you're an athlete, you don't have to study hard.  The coaches want to win games so they can keep their jobs and make sure those fat alumni checks keep rolling in to fund the university's athletic department.  So they arrange everything so that you can eke by in your coursework.  Sometimes that means taking a bunch of basket-weaving classes, other times it means that the coaches work out an 'understanding' with your professors.  At the time, I thought they were doing me a big favor.  It wasn't until the semester after my last football season did I realize that I had screwed myself out of a real education.  Katie tried to warn me, but I thought she didn't know what she was talking about."

The dejected man slumped back in the recliner.  In a voice tinged with sadness, Boomer continued his tale.  "These past few months have been humbling, you know?  When I was a senior in high school, it seemed like every college football recruiter in the country was calling me.  I was a hot commodity back then.  This time before I graduated...well...let's just say no one was beating down a path to my door.  So at the age of twenty-two, I'm a has-been.  I'm not good enough to be drafted by the pros, and my academic credentials aren't impressive enough to dazzle any prospective employers.  If nothing turns up by the end of the summer, I might join the Army.  The structure and discipline would probably be good for me, and I could make myself useful while I try to figure out what to do with the rest of my life."

Johnny thought that Boomer was being too critical of himself.  Yes, it was true that he had made a bad decision or two, but didn't everyone at some point?  Still, Johnny was curious as to how a person could spend four years in college and not have a vague idea of what he wanted to do for a living when he graduated.  "So why did you decide to major in sociology?  Any particular reason?" Johnny asked.

"Promise you won't laugh?"

"Promise."

Boomer appeared reluctant to answer, as if he feared his disclosure would invite ridicule.  "I know this sounds lame, but when the counselor asked me what I wanted to do, I said I wanted to help people.  Pretty dumb, huh?"

Johnny begged to differ.  "Not at all.  I think you'd be good at it.  You have a real gift for getting along with people, and making them feel at ease."

"There aren't many employers that are going to hire me just because I'm a nice guy," Boomer argued.

"But you have a skill that can't be learned in any classroom or textbook."  Johnny concentrated on trying to remain conscious and coherent while he tried to elaborate upon his statement, which was quite a challenge considering how groggy the medication made him feel.  "Boomer, let me give you an example.  There's this guy at work, another paramedic, who's as sharp as they come on the technical stuff.  But he's totally clueless when it comes to dealing with people.  Sometimes he gets so wrapped up in doing everything by the book, he tends to forget that patients and their loved ones don't always behave rationally when they're scared.  If they gave out an award for 'Paramedic Most Likely to Get Beaned by a Patient or a Coworker', he'd win hands down.  Do you understand what I mean?"

"I'm not sure."

Johnny wasn't sure he was making sense to himself either at this point.  Before he fell back asleep, he was determined to finish his train of thought.  "I guess what I'm trying to say is that in some professions, it's easier to teach a people person the technical part of a job than the other way around.  And you're definitely a people person.  You just need to figure out 'what' you want to do.  The 'how' can be learned."

Unable to keep his eyes open any longer, Johnny sank back against his pillow.  He mumbled almost wistfully before he drifted back to sleep, "Too bad you didn't join the fire department.  I bet you would have made one hell of a paramedic."

+ + + + + + + + + + + +

The day after his emergency surgery, Brackett was a mass of conflicting emotions.  Part of him was grateful to still be alive, part of him felt bewildered, while another part of him felt guilty and ashamed.  Brackett knew it was irrational, but his reluctance to undergo the partial gastrectomy had been borne out of a warped sense of self-preservation.  He had fervently hoped that by refusing to acknowledge the seriousness of his condition, he could maintain the status quo indefinitely.  Avoidance and delusional thinking had become valuable allies in perpetuating the tenuous myth of his invincibility.  If he didn't agree to have the surgery, he couldn't die.  It was that simple, at least in the nice little fantasy world that Brackett had created for himself.

However, once he reached the conclusion that surgery was inevitable, his fragile illusion of control was forever shattered and his darkest fears threatened to overwhelm him.  In Brackett's tortured mind, his collapse at the base station five days ago had definitively sealed his fate.  He would die soon, with his father's blood on his conscience.  Therefore, he was required to offer up his own life as a sacrifice to atone for his faults as a son.

Brackett felt paradoxically relieved and scared when he started to hemorrhage early yesterday morning, convinced that the hour of his demise was close at hand.  While the staff prepped him for surgery, he found some small consolation in knowing that his earthly suffering was almost over.  The anesthesiologist would inject something into his veins through his IV, and then it would only be a matter of time before he slipped from a drug-induced analgesia into his eternal slumber.  For a man of Brackett's medical training and experience, the technical details of death were easy to grasp.  Unfortunately, his expertise didn't extend to the supernatural realm, and the uncertainty of what was to come next terrified him.  Would his soul find the peace that had so cruelly eluded him for the past fourteen months, or would the ghost of his father haunt him for all of eternity?  Once his spirit escaped its mortal coil, Brackett didn't know what to expect.

He certainly didn't expect to survive.  When Brackett emerged from the fog of anesthesia, his confusion mounted.  He wasn't sure he believed in a heaven or a hell, but he had assumed that the afterlife wouldn't be an exact replica of Rampart's surgical recovery room.  Brackett had almost been disappointed to discover that he had not traversed the chasm that separated the living from the dead.  His eyes blearily focused on the smiling face of the earthly angel that hovered over him.  Dixie gently squeezed his hand while whispering words of encouragement and reassurance.  However, Brackett was in no mood to be comforted, and he clumsily removed his hand from hers.  By surviving two medical crises in the span of less than a week, he had not fulfilled his debt to his father.  Therefore, he was not deserving of her tender ministrations.

Brackett didn't remember falling back asleep, but his next conscious memory was waking up in the surgical step-down unit later in the day.  His throat was sore from the endotracheal tube, the nasogastric tube irritated his nose and his entire mid-section felt like it had been ripped into shreds from the inside out by an eagle's sharp talons.  Still, the physical discomforts paled in comparison to the pain deep within his soul.  He had failed to be the faithful and obedient son unto death.  Now there was absolutely no hope of ever being reconciled with his father.

Brackett suddenly became aware of the willowy nurse standing by his bedside, and he watched with detached interest as she emptied a couple of syringes into his IV port.  In a few minutes, his fleeting moment of lucidity would fade, and the demons that haunted his dreams would return to torment him.  As he floated on a cloud of morphine and Librium, Brackett wondered if he had been given a temporary reprieve as a form of temporal purgatory.  If so, was the suffering supposed to add to his misery, or would it burn off his sins and thus cancel out his moral debt?  Was it remotely possible that his mere willingness to sacrifice himself upon the altar of guilt was sufficient to provide absolution?  Had the slate simply been wiped clean, thus giving him a new lease on life?  He wanted to believe.

+ + + + + + + + + + + +

Johnny listlessly glanced through a stack of magazines that Boomer had left for him the day before.  The unemployed graduate had a job interview with the county's social services department this morning, and had left the hefty stack of reading material to keep the convalescing paramedic entertained until he could drop by around lunchtime.  After some deliberation, Johnny finally settled upon a six-month old issue of Sports Illustrated, or to be more specific, the annual swimsuit edition.  A picture of Cheryl Tiegs attired in a white fishnet swimsuit caught his attention as he leafed through the pages, and Johnny's jaw dropped in amazement.  Did he actually see what he thought he saw, or was it merely a drug-induced hallucination?

He was about to look at the photograph more closely when the doorbell rang unexpectedly.  Johnny's hand formed a tight fist as he silently cursed at the intrusion.  Damn it!  He had taken his medication about twenty minutes ago, and the pain had barely subsided a tolerable level.  Johnny did not look forward to making the short, albeit agonizing, trip to the front door and back.  That was surely going to negate or at least markedly diminish the pharmacological pain relief that he had so eagerly anticipated.  Before Johnny could push himself into a sitting position, he heard the muffled sound of his partner's voice.

"Johnny?  It's me.  Roy."

Johnny heaved a huge sigh of relief.  Roy had a key to his apartment, which meant that he didn't have to get up after all.  He shouted in a loud voice, "Go ahead and let yourself in."

The coins in Roy's pocket jingled as he fished for the keys.  Once he had them in his hand, he automatically isolated the red one from the rest and slipped it into the deadbolt.  Roy fondly recalled his daughter's excitement when Johnny had presented him with the set of shiny red keys.  Shortly after Johnny had moved into his new apartment four months ago, he had taken Jennifer with him to Seltzer's Hardware Store to have a set made for Roy and Joanne.  Johnny had asked her to pick a color, and the little girl had been disappointed when the nice man at the counter told her that they didn't make pink keys.  However, she quickly warmed to the idea of bright red after Johnny explained that it was the color of valentines.  Ever since that day, Jennifer had referred to them as "the keys to Johnny's heart."  A lump formed in Roy's throat at the memory.  He wished that Seltzer's sold keys to Joanne's heart.  If only the path to reconciliation could be that easy.

An ear-splitting squeak assaulted his ears as Roy opened the door.  The eerie noise sounded like something from a late-night horror movie.  He flinched at the loud creak as he entered the apartment.  "Doesn't look like anyone is going to be able to sneak up on you," he joked.

Johnny turned around as much as his aching back would allow and grinned.  "Sure beats having to install one of those expensive burglar alarms."

Roy closed the door behind him and pointed toward the hall closet.  "Do you have any WD-40?"

"No, but Boomer is supposed to pick up a can for me.  He said he'd probably be here around noon."

"Still showing up on your doorstep every day like a stray cat, huh?"

Johnny chuckled at Roy's description of his new friend.  "Oh, you know how it goes.  If you feed 'em a couple of times, they keep coming back.  Seriously though, Boomer's a good kid.  He needs to feel useful, and I need the help, so it all works out."

Roy moved a stack of magazines from the recliner and sat down.  "So how are you doing?  Are you feeling any better?"

"I'm not sure," Johnny admitted.  "Maybe my throat is starting to get better.  It's not as painful to swallow anyway.  Other than that, I really can't tell.  I'm sore and miserable all over.  My toes throb like crazy if my blanket or anything else brushes against them.  I can't even wear socks.  But the ankle seems to be doing okay as long as I don't have to put any weight on it.  Of course, since I spend most of my time lying on the couch or in bed, that hasn't been much of a problem."

"What about your back?" Roy asked.  "Is the medicine helping with the muscle spasms at all?"

Johnny frowned.  "Not really.  If anything, it feels a lot worse today."

"How so?"

"Well, no matter what I do, nothing seems to help anymore.  It hurts whether I stand, sit or lie down.  I can't get comfortable.  The drugs helped a lot at first, or at least I thought they did.  Maybe they just knocked me out long enough to sleep through some of the pain.  I don't know.  I tried to do those back strengthening exercises that the doctor recommended, but they didn't help.  If anything, they made the muscle spasms a lot worse.  I figured that would happen for the first day or two, but I didn't expect it to be this bad.  To top it all off, my back is sore to the touch now.  I guess I've been spending too much time on the heating pad."

Roy immediately stood up and started toward the couch.  "Here, let me see."

Johnny really didn't want to submit to any kind of an examination, but he knew that Roy wasn't going to take no for an answer.  Resigned to the inevitable, Johnny pushed his cover aside.  "Go ahead.  Knock yourself out."

Although Roy tried to be as gentle as possible, he managed to elicit several hisses and a few choice expletives from his partner as he helped him to sit up.  Roy winced in sympathy when he lifted Johnny's T-shirt to expose the colorful palette of bruises across his mid and lower back.  Most of the resolving contusions were various hues of black, blue, purple, green or yellow, but the overlying area of red discoloration puzzled him.  It didn't appear to be caused from lying on a heating pad.  It looked more like a chemical burn.  Roy gently palpated the affected area, provoking another round of profanities.  He grimaced as he uttered a hasty apology.  "Sorry about that.  It looks like you have a mild-to-moderate chemical burn across the middle of your back.  You have some slight swelling, but the skin doesn't appear to have blistered.  What happened?"

Johnny flushed from embarrassment.  "Oh, man.  I feel so dumb.  I did something incredibly stupid yesterday."

"Like what?" Roy asked as he helped Johnny to lie back down on the couch.

"Well, my back was really killing me last night, I wasn't due for another dose of pain meds for about another hour and the heating pad didn't seem to be reaching deep enough to relieve the muscle spasms.  So I got this brilliant idea to apply some Bengay, thinking it would help the heat to penetrate better."  Johnny dejectedly lowered his eyes as he finished his confession.  "Then I fell asleep for a while, and when I woke up again, it felt like my back was on fire."

Roy nodded sympathetically.  As paramedics, they both knew better than that, but desperate people often did desperate things, especially when drugs clouded otherwise sound judgment.  "If it makes you feel any better, I did the same thing one time when I had a bad case of whiplash.  It's really frustrating when you can't get the heat to reach the right spot."

Johnny was relieved that Roy wasn't going to lecture him about his lapse in judgment, and decided to quickly change the subject.  "Hey, is it true what Deke said about Brackett the other day?  Did he really have a heart attack?  I thought about calling Dixie, but...um...I'm trying to fly under the radar as long as I can.  I don't draw attention to the fact that I'm not going to be around for a few shifts.  You know what I mean?"

"Yeah, but I think it's a dumb idea that's going to come back to haunt you," Roy said in a stern voice that conveyed his disapproval.  "I understand why you're sensitive about stuff like this, especially when people like Chet give you a hard time about your...uh...colorful medical history.  But you know it's just a matter of time before Dixie or one of the docs finds out about this latest little misadventure, and they're going to give you all sorts of hell for trying to keep this under wraps, even if you are under another doctor's care.  They care about you Johnny, and they'd want to know."

Roy ran his hand through the thinning patch of hair on the back of his head as he sat back down in the recliner.  "Anyway, to answer your question.  The last I heard, Brackett seemed to be doing okay.  It was only a mild MI, but I guess that's a matter of perspective when it's your ticker.  Dixie said he's not going to need surgery, just a few weeks of rehab.  She still looked plenty worried though."

"Dixie worries about everyone," Johnny correctly pointed out.  "But I can understand her concern.  It's no big secret that Brackett hasn't been in the best of health lately.  He never talks about it, but you can tell his stomach has been giving him fits.  Brackett's skinny as a rail now.  I don't know why he won't let his doctor go ahead and do the surgery."

"Maybe he's cut from the same bolt of cloth as a certain paramedic I know," Roy dryly replied.  "Always concerned about other people, but in serious denial when it comes to his own health."

Johnny didn't dare acknowledge the comment, especially since it struck a little too close to home.  Therefore, he decided to redirect the course of the conversation once again before Roy had a chance to launch into another well-meaning sermon.  Johnny held up the picture of Cheryl Tiegs for Roy's inspection.  "Hey, do I see what I think I see, or is that my imagination?"

The fair-haired paramedic's eyes widened.  "Um, your eyes aren't deceiving you.  But that swimsuit sure doesn't leave a lot to the imagination, does it?  Remember back when we were kids?  You had to smuggle a copy of Playboy into the house to see a picture of a woman's breasts, or even a National Geographic issue about some remote tribe in Africa or the rainforest or something.  Nowadays, you see women's nipples practically everywhere."

"Roy, just where have you been looking?" Johnny teased.  "Maybe I need to hang out with you more often."

The older paramedic blushed.  "Oh, I was thinking about television shows and ads...that kind of thing.  Remember back when Barbara Eden couldn't show her belly button on I Dream of Jeannie because it was considered too racy?  Times sure have changed.  Take Charlie's Angels for example.  It's on during prime time when little kids are still watching TV.  The show hardly has a plot at all.  It's just an excuse to see three women jiggle all over the place, and they don't even wear bras!  You can see everything!"

Johnny was enjoying his prudish partner's discomfort.  "And the problem with that is?"

Roy appeared wistful as he considered Johnny's question.  "I guess I'm just not cut out for progress.  I liked things the way they used to be.  Life was a whole lot simpler when I knew what to expect.  Maybe Joanne is right, that I'm a selfish knuckle-dragging Neanderthal incapable of changing with the times."

Not being of the married persuasion, Johnny felt uncomfortable offering advice.  He certainly didn't want to make matters worse.  After all, it wasn't like he was another Dr. Joyce Brothers when it came to relationships.  But he was a friend, and Johnny felt morally obliged to help out in any way he could.  He hesitated for a moment while he summoned his courage.  "Roy, is there anything I can do to help?  You know, as a fellow knuckle-dragging Neanderthal?"

The corners of Roy's lips turned upward into a slight smile.  "I don't suppose you'd be willing to go over to her parents' house, club Joanne over the head and drag her back home by her hair, would you?"

Johnny was amused by the mental image that Roy had invoked.  "Sorry, can't help you there.  At least not until my back gets better."

Roy picked the TV Guide off the end of the coffee table and distractedly ruffled through the pages.  "I called Cap at home first thing this morning.  I told him that an out-of-town family situation had come up and that I'll need to take off for a couple of shifts next week.  He was really nice about it.  You know how he is.  Cap gave me the 'my door is always open' speech, but he didn't press for details.  I told him that I'd work my regular shift tomorrow so he has more time to line up a replacement.  I'm planning to drive up to Joanne's parents' house in Sacramento on Friday.  If I show up on their doorstep unannounced, Joanne won't have time to skip out on me before I get there, and with a little bit of luck, she'll talk to me and let me see the kids."

Returning the TV Guide to its rightful place on the coffee table, Roy sought to ease his guilty conscience about his plans to leave town while Johnny was still recovering from his injuries.  "Is there anything I can do for you before I leave?  Maybe run some errands or restock your refrigerator?"

Although Johnny appreciated the gesture, he hastened to reassure Roy that he would survive for a few days without him.  He laced his fingers behind his head and pasted a crooked grin on his face for Roy's benefit.  "Don't worry about me.  I'll be fine.  Besides, I've stumbled onto a good thing here.  During the day, Boomer runs all of my errands, keeps me supplied with reading material, cleans my apartment, does my laundry and watches soap operas with me.  Then in the evenings, Mrs. Murphy stops by with a home-cooked meal or Katie brings me some fancy takeout food and a stack of insurance forms to sign.  Aside from a few temporary aches and pains, I have it made."

Roy was clearly puzzled by one seemingly incongruent reference in Johnny's list of benefits.  "Insurance forms?"

"Yeah.  Remember when I told you that Mrs. Murphy's granddaughter is working for an insurance company now?  Anyway, Katie felt really bad about my little fall down the stairs, so she's taken it upon herself to help me get the medical bills paid.  Katie convinced the company that owns the apartment complex to foot the bill for my medical expenses since she said that their negligence contributed to the accident.  Several tenants had reported the broken stair step weeks ago, and the management office never got around to having it fixed.  I guess they were afraid that I was going to sue them, so they've been really nice about the whole thing.  The only catch is that I might have to see a doctor of their choice at some point, but I don't mind.  Katie said that's because some people fake injuries or exaggerate their extent, and they just want to make sure everything is on the level."

"But you already have insurance through the fire department.  Why would you need for them to pay?"

Johnny shrugged.  "I don't really understand how it all works, but from what I've been able to figure out, insurance companies don't like to shell out dough if they feel someone else should be responsible for the bill.  Katie said it was sort of like being in a car wreck.  If the other guy is at fault, your insurance company wants his insurance company to cover the damages.  And since the people in the management office knew about the broken step and didn't do anything about it..."

"Then it could be argued that the accident was their fault," Roy finished.  "I suppose that makes sense."

"It looks like having a friend in the insurance business is going to come in handy."

Roy laughed as he stood up to leave.  "Just do me a favor and don't keep getting sick or injured just so you can take advantage of Katie's professional expertise."  He surveyed Johnny's tidy apartment one last time before he headed toward the door.  The scene was a far cry from the deplorable condition of his humble abode.  For a second, Roy entertained the idea of throwing himself down a flight of stairs so that he could finagle a volunteer or two to help him get caught up on some chores.  He couldn't bear the thought of Joanne and the kids returning to such a filthy house, assuming they'd come home with him at all.  If they didn't, he'd have to consider jumping from something higher than a staircase, like a multi-story building or a bridge.  Without his wife and children, Roy wasn't sure life was worth living anymore.

+ + + + + + + + + + + +

Chet's eyes nervously darted around the room as he mopped the kitchen floor.  He had successfully managed to escape the Shadow's wrath so far, but how much longer would his luck hold out?  Would Gabriel Martinez exact his revenge within the next ten minutes?  The next hour?  By the end of the day?  The suspense was positively killing him!  Now Chet was beginning to understand how a mouse felt when a cat cruelly toyed with its prey.  He was almost tempted to ask Gabriel to go ahead and inflict whatever torture he had in mind just to get him out of his misery.

Roy, Mike and Marco bemusedly watched their coworker's movements become slower and slower with each passing second.  They knew what that problem was, and they shared a secret smile as they drank their coffee.  Captain Stanley had been right.  The mere fear of what might happen was driving Chet up the wall.

Marco struggled to keep the smirk off his face as he commented upon Chet's lethargic mopping technique.  "What's the matter, Chet?  You look like you're running out of gas."

"Huh?"

"Earth to Chet, Earth to Chet.  Come in, please."

"Oh, sorry.  I was just thinking."

"About what?"

Chet lowered his voice as he cast a quick furtive glance toward the door.  "I was just thinking about the Shadow."

"You're not worried that he's about to strike, are you?" Roy teased.

"Are you serious?" Chet sputtered.  "I know he's going to get me.  It's just a matter of when.  Where is Gabriel anyway?"

Mike thumbed toward the dorm.  "I guess he's still on his bunk."

"Doing what?  Short-sheeting my bed?  Putting a rubber snake under my pillow?  A live one?" Chet asked apprehensively.

"No, nothing like that.  He's reading a car magazine.  He said he's thinking about converting his 1965 Impala into a lowrider and wanted to the read an article about installing hydraulics."

"What in the hell is a lowrider?" Chet asked as he listlessly pushed the mop around a couple of times.

"It's a type of customized car," Marco explained.  "You shorten the springs so that the chassis rides close to the ground, and then add hydraulics so that it bounces up and down."

"Now why on earth would a person want to make his car look like it's doing a crazy hoochie coochie dance?"

Marco shrugged as he prepared to take another sip of his coffee.  "It's a cultural thing.  They're really popular within the Mexican community."

Chet's attention to his assigned task waned again.  "Maybe it was just a ruse.  Maybe the magazine was just to throw you off, Mike.  I'll bet Gabriel is up to something.  It's not like him to want to be by himself in the dorm when he can be out here yukking it up and being the center of attention."

Roy tried to assume the stern tone he used with his children, and yet keep a straight face at the same time.  "Well, if you hadn't put Bengay in Gabriel's shorts the last time he was here, you wouldn't be in this predicament, now would you?"

"Hey, briefs aren't real shorts," Chet argued.  "They're man panties."

"So?  His choice of underwear isn't any of your business, and that certainly didn't give you the right to hurt him like that.  You were way out of line with that incredibly mean prank.  You're lucky you didn't get into any worse trouble than you did."

Chet feebly attempted to defend himself.  "How was I supposed to know he was going to have an allergic reaction and have to be transported to Rampart?"

Roy's voice rose about an octave.  "An allergic reaction!  Chet, the poor guy had blisters and chemical burns on his...well, you know.  That's an extremely sensitive area of a guy's anatomy."

Mike raised a disapproving eyebrow.  "Chet, one of these days you're going to go too far, and someone is going to get seriously hurt, maybe even permanently."

"You guys just don't have a sense of humor," Chet insisted.  "I didn't mean any harm.  Besides, the Phantom usually sticks to safer stuff like water bombs, shaving cream pies and a joke or two at the Pigeon's expense.  You have to admit, Johnny is a perfect stooge!"

"Did it ever occur to you that Johnny doesn't find your jokes and pranks as funny as you do?"

"Aw, Mikey.  He knows it's all in good fun."

Roy pointedly stared at the flustered firefighter.  "Then if a prank is all in good fun, how come you're so worried about what the Shadow may or may not do to you?"

Captain Stanley emerged from his office, rubbing his temples as he walked toward the kitchen.  He set his nearly empty coffee cup down on the counter while he rummaged through the pantry for the desperately needed item.  Their stressed-out leader muttered something unintelligible under his breath as he grabbed the bottle of aspirin and set it on the counter.  Then in a seemingly fluid motion, he popped the top off the bottle, poured a couple of tablets into this hand, tossed them into his mouth and chased them down with the last few swallows of his coffee.

Marco watched him with mounting concern.  "You okay, Cap?"

"Oh, yeah.  I just have a headache from all that damned paperwork.  I don't know who's personally responsible for all of these new policies and procedures, but whoever it is, he should be taken out at dawn and shot.  Now it looks like HQ is going to hold up John's paycheck because I filed an ABS-0402 instead of the new TDS-0411 when I reported his absence in order to get a temporary replacement.  Arrggghhhh!"

Chet resumed his labors with renewed energy as he vigorously pushed the mop back and forth.  "I guess that's why they pay you the big bucks, huh Cap?"

Captain Stanley rolled his eyes.  "It ain't enough.  Trust me."

The reference to their missing shift-mate prompted Marco to inquire about his status.  "Speaking of Johnny, has anyone heard from him lately?  Is he doing okay?"

"He's pretty miserable," Roy admitted.  "I went over to his apartment yesterday.  Even with the pills, he's in a lot of pain.  His back is really giving him a lot of trouble."

Captain Stanley's confusion was clearly evident.  "His back?  I thought his sprained ankle was his most serious injury."

"The ER doc said that the deep bruising and muscle spasms would probably hurt more than his sprained ankle and broken toes and ribs.  Guess he was right.  It's a good thing Johnny has somebody to help him get around and help out with errands and whatnot."

"I'm sure John appreciates your help," Captain Stanley said as he poured a fresh cup of coffee.

The paramedic was quick to correct the misunderstanding.  "Oh, no.  I didn't mean me.  I meant Johnny's friend, Boomer."

"Boomer?" Mike repeated curiously.

"Yeah, Boomer Tom...Tom something.  I never can remember.  He just graduated from college, and hasn't found a job yet.  So he's been spending a lot of time over at Johnny's place."

Marco's eyes immediately lit up.  "Boomer Tomjanovich, the football player?"

"That's him."

Chet was obviously impressed.  "Oh, wow.  So Johnny's rubbing elbows with a famous celebrity these days."  A thought suddenly occurred to him, and his eyes twinkled with glee.  "Hey, I know.  If Boomer doesn't land a job soon, maybe he can get Johnny to hire him as his own personal nursemaid.  Taking care of the disaster magnet would be a full-time job!"

Marco clucked disapprovingly at his coworker's insensitive remark.  "That's not funny.  It's not like Johnny gets sick or hurt on purpose."

"Come on, Marco.  You have to admit he provides plenty of ammunition for the Phantom."

Taking a well-deserved break from his paperwork, Captain Stanley sat down at the table beside the senior paramedic.  "Oh, Roy.  I almost forgot.  I wanted to let you know that I've lined up another replacement for next week."

Chet positively beamed with excitement at the prospect of being rescued from the Shadow's clutches.  "You mean you've found someone else to fill in for Johnny?"

"No, you twit.  I meant for Roy.  He's going to be out next week."

Now it was Mike's turn to be confused.  "I thought you cancelled your vacation."

"I did," Roy replied.  "But a family...situation has come up, and I need to go out of town for a few days.  I'll probably leave directly from here as soon as I get off shift.  My stuff is in the trunk."

"Is it serious?"

"Yeah, Mike.  It's real serious."

Marco offered a faint smile of reassurance.  "Well, whatever it is, I hope everything works out okay.  I'll ask Mama to light some candles at church for you.  She goes to early Mass every morning."

Roy was touched by the gesture.  "Thanks, Marco.  I'd really appreciate it."

Captain Stanley set his coffee cup back down on the table after downing a couple of swallows of the steaming hot brew.  "Marco, maybe you should ask your Mama to pray for the rest of us, too.  You'll never guess who's going to be subbing for Roy."

Chet groaned.  "Oh, no.  Please tell me it's not Brice."

"Sorry, pal."

"Aw, crap."

However, Marco seemed more amused than disappointed.  "I dunno.  This could be entertaining in a warped kind of way.  Brice and Martinez will be at each other's throats."

Roy grinned.  "I'm almost sorry I won't be here to see them hash it out.  That ought to be a real train wreck.  Brice has to do everything by the book, and Martinez is...well, Martinez is a free spirit.  Anything goes, the more outrageous the better."

"I almost wish some of Martinez's devil-may-care attitude would rub off on Brice," Mike opined.  "He needs to loosen up a little."

"A little?!"

Mike chuckled.  "Okay, a lot."

Captain Stanley gestured toward a black splotch on the Hispanic man's shirt pocket.  "Marco, my friend.  It looks like you've fallen victim to the nekkid pen curse."

Marco instinctively looked down at the stain on his shirt and uttered a mild oath in Spanish.  "Hijole!  Not again.  The same thing happened to me during the last shift."

"It's a drag, isn't it?"  Captain Stanley smiled sympathetically.  "You know, I thought John was just venting some frustration last week at having another misguided idea forced upon us when he complained about the perils of 'nekkid pens'.  But now I think he was downright psychic when he said we were going to wind up losing that flimsy plastic top and get ink stains all over our shirts.  I lost my cap during the last shift, and had a nice black spot on my pocket by the end of the day."

Chet howled with laughter at his superior's inadvertent pun.  "Cap lost his cap?  That's just too funny!"

Roy lightly patted his shirt pocket.  "I found a top from a medium ballpoint pen lying around the house.  It's too big, so I had to loosely tape it on.  But I'm sure it's going to go flying off during our first call of the day.  You know what really bugs me?  The manufacturer puts these puny metal clips on the pens so they won't fall out of your pocket, but they don't put a clip on the cap to keep it from sliding off."

Mike removed his unsheathed pen from his pocket and stared at the much-loathed object.  "Actually, I have the opposite problem.  Half the time, I practically dislocate my wrist from shaking it back and forth to get the ink to flow.  I never had that problem with a medium point pen."

Captain Stanley studied his own nekkid pen.  "I've noticed the same thing.  The ink either doesn't come out at all, or it gushes out and makes a real mess.  I can't tell you how irritating it is to already have more paperwork to do than I can shake a stick at, and now it takes me even longer to get done because this fancy new extra-fine point pen doesn't work like it should."

"I can't believe HQ honestly thought these would be an improvement," Marco complained.

"Marco, let's not go and try to inject logic into the equation, okay?" Captain Stanley said as he buried his face in his hands.  "My poor noggin already hurts too much."

The tones abruptly interrupted the conversation.  "Station 51, Structure fire at 1202 Armstrong, 1-2-0-2 Armstrong, cross street Decatur.  Time out 10:07."

Captain Stanley was already on his feet to acknowledge the call.  "Station 51, KMG 365."

Mike gave Marco a friendly slap on the back.  "It's a good thing we'll be wearing turnouts since you won't have time to change shirts."

"That's okay," Marco growled in a low voice.  "With any luck, my pen might 'accidentally' happen to fall out of my shirt and become a fire-related casualty."

+ + + + + + + + + + + +

Dixie's face was etched with concern as Early switched off the base station's microphone after Squad 36 confirmed his orders.  He was rubbing the left side of his head and squinting his eyes like he usually did when he was developing a migraine.  Although Early had always been more prone to develop the debilitating headaches during the summer months as long as Dixie had known him, she tended to view the migraines in a more sinister light ever since the physician had been diagnosed with a brain tumor over a year and a half ago.  Early had been plagued with headaches on a daily basis back then, and like many other people, he had assumed that they were merely caused by the physical and emotional stress of having to work such long hours during the staffing crisis.  That was, of course, until he was seriously injured in that horrific car accident.

A CT scan had been performed to rule out the possibility of brain trauma, and to everyone's surprise, the films revealed a large occipital lobe mass.  Only then did it become apparent that Early's peripheral vision had been compromised by a corresponding bilateral field deficit.  The neurosurgeon had been absolutely devastated when he learned of the impairment.  In his mind, the near-fatal accident was his fault because he had failed to self-diagnose the meningioma.  He initially refused to have the tumor removed as a peculiar form of penance, but after several weeks, he finally agreed to undergo surgery.  Everything had gone well, and thus far, there had been no evidence of recurrence.  But that didn't stop Dixie from worrying about her friend when he suffered from severe headaches day after day.  Like now.

She tried to mask her anxiety as she smiled sympathetically.  "Another headache?"

Early nodded almost imperceptibly.  "Yeah, but it's not too bad.  At least not yet."

"That's what, your fourth one this week?"

If it didn't hurt so much, Early would have rolled his eyeballs in annoyance.  Instead, he settled for an exasperated sigh.  "It's just a migraine, Dix.  If you don't believe me, you can ask Sam Vance."

Dixie skeptically lifted an eyebrow at the mention of his neurosurgeon's name.  "And when was the last time you saw him?"

"Just before Christmas."

"Does he know that this is the third cycle of headaches you've had within the past month, and that the Inderal and Cafergot aren't helping anymore?"

"Well, uh..."

The frustrated nurse folded her arms across her chest.  "In other words, you haven't told him, have you?"

Early offered the first excuse that popped into his throbbing head.  "I have an appointment for a follow-up evaluation."

"When?"

"December 14th."  Early immediately cringed at his inadvertent admission.  He knew Dixie wasn't going to be satisfied with an appointment date six months away, and no doubt a lecture of some form was about to follow.  The silver-haired physician was therefore surprised when Dixie starting flipping through the Rolodex.  "What are you doing?" he asked cautiously.

Dixie picked up the telephone receiver and began dialing.  "I'm calling your doctor.  I'm going to tell him that one of his patients is in the emergency room with a migraine."

"But I work in the emergency room," he whined.

"A mere technicality."  She appeared unfazed as the receptionist answered the phone.  "Hello, this is Nurse McCall from the emergency room.  Is Dr. Vance available?  I'm calling about one of his patients, Joe Early...sure I'll hold."

Early mumbled several vile oaths under his breath.  He couldn't believe Dixie had resorted to such tactics.  Yet, he wasn't terribly surprised by her actions either.  She could be an extremely determined and formidable woman.

Dixie covered the mouthpiece while she waited for Dr. Vance.  "Do you want to talk to him, or shall I?"

"Here, let me."  Early tried to ignore her triumphant smile as she thrust the receiver into his hands, and remarked that there was such a thing as justifiable homicide.  After a brief conversation with his doctor in which he made a full confession of his recent symptoms, Early silently handed the phone back to her.

"So what did he say?" she prompted.

"Oh, Sam wants to see me first thing Monday morning in his office.  He also recommended DHE to try to abort the headache, Demerol and Phenergan if the pain and nausea continue to get worse and to call him if I run into any problems over the weekend.  But you really didn't need to bother him.  I could have had Mike or Roger write up the order."

"Yes, but you didn't."  Her expression softened as she leaned forward and rested her chin on the back of her hand.  "Look, Joe.  I'm not trying to make your life miserable.  But I know how hard it is for you to shake off a cycle of headaches, especially when you don't get enough sleep."

"How did..."

"How did I know?"  Dixie took a deep breath and exhaled.  "Because I've been worried about Kel, too.  I haven't had a decent night's sleep in a week, especially after the gastric hemorrhage.  Part of me feels guilty that I didn't try harder to get him to have the surgery before the situation reached a crisis level, and part of me wants to wring his neck for being so damned obstinate."

"I know what you mean," Early admitted.  "I understand that Kel's been through a lot over the past week, but even so, I was tempted to grab him by the shoulders and shake some sense into him.  It's like he's completely given up."

"Yeah.  I noticed that, too.  Last Friday he was afraid he was about to die.  Now he seems disappointed that he didn't."

Early resumed rubbing the left side of his head.  "I talked to Chris Hauser this morning.  He's decided to go ahead and clamp off the NG tube for short periods so he can start Kel on an antidepressant.  Unfortunately, that could take up to three weeks before there's any discernable improvement.  I don't know what else to do in the meantime."

Dixie stood up and placed her hands on her hips.  "For starters, we need to get you taken care of."

"We?"

"Uh huh.  I draw up an injection of DHE, and you go to Treatment room 2 and drop trou."

Early eyes opened wide in disbelief.  "But..."

Dixie grinned evilly.  "Well, I had planned to give it to you in your hip, but if you insist on your butt..."

A very confused Mike Morton cautiously approached the desk.  "Um, I'm not interrupting anything am I?"

Deciding that Morton was definitely the lesser of the two evils for this particular task, Early grabbed him by the arm and steered him down the hall as he hastily explained the situation.  Mere minutes ago, he would have been reluctant to ask Morton for this favor.  Now it seemed like the only logical option.  Early thought fate had a truly warped sense of humor.

 

Part 3