For Everything a Reason (4 page)

The figure
walked to the other hospital bed. In contrast to the feeble, ancient in the
first, this bed was filled from top to bottom and from side to side with a
giant of a man. His dark ebony skin glistened slightly, a fine film of sweat
catching the meager light available like moonlight on a pond. This patient’s
chest rose and fell steadily, rhythmically, and with strength.

The visitor
smiled underneath a surgical mask. “Don’t worry, you’ll soon be joining him…”
the voice said, devoid of any compassion or warmth. Eyes filled with cold
contempt traced over the second patient’s face, mapping every curve, feature
and characteristic to mind, with the same attention to detail as would an
expert cartographer. Then, silently, the visitor disappeared back through the
doorway, leaving the old man and this silent witness alone.

Chapter
Six

What sounded like the roar of a mating walrus drew their
attention. Even the penguins surrounding Presley’s feet flinched at the sound.
The jarring bark came again, only this time it took on a human quality.

“What the hell’s going on
here?” a voice demanded. 

Carter dropped the gun to his
side.

“The park’s closed, you
shouldn’t be in here,” the security guard said, stepping out of the shadows.

A heap of blubber stepped out
of the darkness, wrapped in a dark blue uniform with
‘
Bronx
Zoo Security Enforcement Officer’
stitched across its chest pocket. The
man’s undersized shirt covered swollen breasts that any teenage girl would have
died for. A large, bushy moustache wandered across the lower half of the ruddy
face at an odd angle; he barked again, his voice breaking with a bronchial dry
rasp.

“What the hell are you doing
here?” the guard asked.

What seemed like a hundred
different questions and answers raced through Carter’s head, all within a
second. Was he prepared to shoot Perkins in front of a witness, possibly
endangering an innocent bystander? Would he be able to convince the security
guard that he was indeed a cop, tracking down a cop-killer? Possibly. But the
guard would probably want in on the action, offering to assist – no doubt. No,
Carter thought, he couldn’t allow someone else to intervene. Perkins was not,
under any circumstances, heading towards a prison cell this night – or any
other night.  

None of these things mattered
in the end, because it was something else entirely that stopped Carter from
blowing away the figure before him.

Hate.

Surprisingly, this hate was to
be Presley’s saviour – for now.

Was Carter ready, willing, able
to relinquish this hate? Hate: an emotion that had driven him like an obsessive
and tormented drug addict for the last three months. If he did, what would be
left? Grief?

Grief was too potent an emotion
for Carter to handle. The detective knew now, unquestionably, that if he was to
kill Perkins then all that would be left for him to do was grieve. And he also
knew that that would tear him apart, piece-by-piece. What he needed was a
reason for being. Only Perkins offered that now, and incredibly, only if he
continued to live.

His mind reached this
conclusion before the guard had a chance to either draw his weapon or activate
his flashlight. And, before his identity had been compromised, Carter turned
his back on them both.

In a show of bravado, the guard
took a few faltering steps, demanding for Carter to freeze. But Carter was back
through the torn tent flap, returning the way he’d come, before being forced to
explain or identify himself.

The guard’s attention returned
to Perkins. “What the hell is this?” he questioned, now unbuttoning his
holster. “You’d better not be some goddamn animal activist.  We had us a few of
those earlier. Idiots opened up a load of cages, chanting a load of crap about
equal rights and love to all God’s creatures. We had to kick their butts all
the way back to suburbia first thing this morning.”

Surprised to be alive, Presley
uttered a nervous laugh.

“What the fuck’s so funny,
wiseass?” the guard asked.

 “Nothing,” Perkins replied.
“Just thankful to be alive on such a wonderful night.”

“Really?”

“Yeah – really.”

The guard grunted something
under his breath. This wasn’t how things should have gone. This asshole and his
disappearing friend should have pleaded for forgiveness, regretful for their
intrusion, and followed him heads bowed and in tow until they’d been escorted –
permanently - out of the main gate.

Not knowing what else to say,
the guard said, “Get the fuck out of my pool.”

Perkins dutifully obliged,
leaving his captivated audience behind him. He stepped out of the shallow
water, quickly forming a small pool of his own around his scuffed shoes.

“I should arrest you for
trespassin’,” the guard said.

Thinking on his feet, Perkins
replied, “Listen, buddy, I ain’t got anywhere to go and I was just hungry.”

“What?” his captor gawped.
“Wait… You weren’t gonna eat one of… those, were you?” One fat finger pointed
towards the group of assembled penguins.

Presley almost laughed at the
absurdity of the remark, but then realising he was in the presence of an
intellect even more inferior than his own, a rare occasion indeed, he decided
to play out the situation. “I’m real hungry, haven’t eaten in weeks.”

The guard eyed him with
indecision. “My Mary’s gonna kill me if she finds out, but I’ve got a few
sandwiches left over in my lunch. She always packs a few too many,” he said,
patting his ample gut. “Okay, I can let this minor incident go – this time.
You’d best come this way,” he directed, tipping his double chin. 

Presley took the lead, with the
guard trailing a few paces behind.

***

As they made their way towards the security station, the
guard felt his initial anxiety surprisingly lifted. Just a homeless guy in
search of food was all that had transpired, nothing he couldn’t handle. In all
honesty, the guard actually felt relieved at having company, no matter how
unsavoury the source. All this darkness and hootin’, hollerin’ and squawkin’
had started to get the better of him. And, although the morning’s clean-up had
gone well, just a few native pigs and monkeys to round up, he couldn’t shake
the feeling that something far more malevolent had been released and, was out
there, somewhere, licking its lips hungrily, and just waiting for a tasty bit
of prey to cross its path. At least now there’d be two of them to tackle, and
the guard had already decided a shot in the homeless guy’s leg would give him
the advantage to get away. Afterwards, he could simply say he’d accidentally
shot the tramp while trying to save him. There could even be a medal awarded if
such a thing happened.

The guard followed the hobo,
happily oblivious to the fact that the only thing free to kill a man tonight
was walking a few feet in front of him.

Chapter
Seven

Eugene Profit’s gnarled hand punched the vending machine.
A female orderly passing by witnessed the confrontation; she sucked air through
clamped teeth in a show of disdain, and unwittingly brought herself within
striking distance of the old coach’s venom.

“They did what?” he said again,
his hand banging out another hollow boom.

Marianna reached out to take
the old guy’s arm. “They posted Joseph in the wrong unit. He spent the night in
geriatrics, instead of intensive care.”

“Ridiculous!” Profit barked,
turning his anger away from the drinks machine.

“I know,” Marianna agreed.
“Anything could have happened to him.” She looked tired. Her hair was scraped
into a tight ponytail, and although she only occasionally wore make-up – her
skin naturally healthy and flawless – today two dark rings had fixed themselves
around russet eyes. Her cheeks were drawn, making her normally radiant face
look gaunt.

“How did this happen?” Profit
asked.

Marianna shrugged her
shoulders. “Some sort of mix-up with names… I’m not sure.”

“So where is he now?”

“Back in intensive care.”

“C’mon,” Marianna said, “Jake’s
already with him.”

“You thought about suing this
goddamn hospital?” Profit snarled.

“That can wait. Joseph’s our
only concern, for now.”

They left the battered vending
machine behind them and, after a short elevator ride, arrived on Joseph’s
level. Marianna led them towards his room.

“Mrs. Ruebins,” a voice called.

Marianna spun on her heels to
find Joseph’s doctor heading quickly towards them. She sensed Profit tense, as
if he was readying himself for a much wanted – and needed – confrontation.
Having already endured a torrent of apologies regarding last night’s blunder,
Marianna decided that diplomacy, rather than dispute, would be more helpful
towards Joseph’s immediate future.

“Doctor,” she greeted, forcing
a weak smile.

The man caught up to them, his
necktie askew slightly and lungs breathing heavily. Feeling he hadn’t
apologised nearly enough, he began to offer another string of apologies, hands
raised in submission.

Profit took an unconscious step
forward, and Marianna watched as his gnarled fingers formed into tight fists.

 “Eugene,” she said, bringing
herself between the two men. “Why don’t you see if either Joseph or Jake needs
anything? Both must be getting hungry by now.”

The doctor started to speak –
something about Joseph needing to follow a restrictive diet – but, then seeing
the hostility written across the old man’s features, apparently decided to let
protocol slip on this one occasion.

Profit grumbled an expletive
under his breath before turning to disappear through the door.

The doctor too looked as if he
hadn’t slept well the previous night. Twin bags, large enough to take away on
vacation, hung around the bottom of bloodshot eyes. His face had a hint of
stubble and a dishevelled necktie completed his frazzled look.

“We had a major incident last
night,” he began. “Tanker truck jack-knifed out on Highway 97, killed three
instantly and brought another six seriously injured here just before dayshift
was ready to handover to nights. One of the nurses in emergency made a stupid
mistake: she sent Joseph to our geriatrics care floor and a ‘Rueben Jackson’ to
intensive care. She got the notes mixed up. Things got really intense for a
while last night. I’m so sorry.”

Marianna nodded, having already
endured two similar explanations and apologies. “Okay, I accept that, but what
about last night? You said Joseph suffered a second attack?”

“Not an attack as such.” He led
Marianna a few paces away from the closed door. 

“Tell me,” Marianna pushed.

“Okay, Joseph’s condition is
stable now. We’ve given him a small combination of antiplatelet and
anticoagulant drugs, to help stop any further blood clots.”

“Blood clots?” Marianna asked
nervously.

“It’s a precautionary measure.
Our CAT scan didn’t reveal any abnormalities with Joseph’s brain. But until we
can follow that up with a full MRI scan then we can’t be one-hundred percent
sure.”

“Wait, I thought CAT and MRI
scans were the same?”

The doctor shook his head.
“Common misconception. A CAT scan is very similar to your standard X-Ray. Only
difference is, we sometimes inject dye into the patient’s veins to enable a
clearer picture. Still, it’s only good for picking out the most severe of
clots, tumours and haemorrhagic bleeds. Where the MRI, Magnetic Resonance
Imaging, scan differs is that it uses magnetic waves to build up a
three-dimensional picture of the entire brain tissue. From this, we can detect
even the slightest of aberrations.”

“So when is Joseph scheduled
for this MRI scan? Today?”

“Yes, later this afternoon.
Then we’ll have a greater understanding of what we’re dealing with.”

“Right,” Marianna acknowledged.
“But what do we know now?”

“That your husband’s most
likely suffered a stroke.”

There it was: the word Marianna
had been dreading to hear. Stroke.

“Are you okay, Mrs. Ruebins?
This is a lot to take in all at once. Maybe we should wait until all our tests
have been carried out.”

“No, please, continue,”
Marianna said, taking a deep breath.

“Okay, I need to explain that
there are three different types of strokes. The first is the ischaemic stroke.
This is the most common. This type of stroke can occur when a blood clot forms
in the brain - a cerebral embolism, or, when a clot is formed somewhere else in
the body and is then carried to the brain via the blood supply. The second most
common stroke is called a lacunar stroke, which is a blockage in the tiny blood
vessels deep within the brain.”

“So which one has Joseph
suffered with?” Marianna asked.

“The MRI scan may reveal he’s
had a lacunar stroke, but I think that’s unlikely. We could be looking at the
third type of stroke, though.”

“Which is?”

“This is what we call the –
haemorrhagic stroke, or bleed. In other words, when a blood vessel bursts, this
causes haemorrhaging into the brain. This can come in two different forms. An
intracerebral haemorrhage, which is when a blood vessel bursts within the
brain, or, a subarachnoid haemorrhage, a bleed between the brain and the
skull.”

Marianna felt herself go faint.
All this talk about clots and blood and strokes was making her feel nauseous.
She leaned heavily against the hospital wall. “Okay, so what type of stroke has
Joseph had? In simple terms, please.”

“That’s just it, I honestly
don’t know. Until we perform the MRI, we’ll just have to make him as
comfortable as possible and monitor him at all times.”

“But what about last night, you
said Joseph had suffered another attack, or something.”

“Yes, I did.”

Marianna’s throat clicked as
she tried to force herself to swallow, her mouth suddenly, completely dry. “Go
on.”

“Okay, there is an uncommon
fourth type of stroke – a mini-stroke – if you would. This is called a
Transient Ischaemic Attack, or TIA for short. This happens when the blood
supply to the brain is interrupted for a very brief time. The symptoms are very
similar to a full stroke, i.e. weakness on one side of the body, loss of sight
and slurred speech. This is temporary and usually passes within no more than
twenty-four hours.”

Marianna’s face flushed with
hope. “So that’s good, right?”

“As far as the stroke is
concerned, yes. These next twenty-four hours will be crucial. If Joseph starts
to recover during this time we can rule out a full stroke and start looking at
a TIA.”

Marianna sensed the doctor had
more to say. “And?”

“The more worrying thing is the
fact that Joseph has had at least two of these ‘incidents’, which suggests that
there may be something more malevolent at work here.”   

“What?” she asked, the colour
draining from her face.

“We can’t at this point rule
out that this condition is an indicator to something far more serious.”

“Like what?”

“Like heart disease – for one.”

***

By the time Marianna entered the room, Jake was busy
explaining how Captain Jean Luc Picard had thwarted yet another attack on the
Starship Enterprise, thus saving his crew heroically. The old coach had seated
himself in a chair and was splitting his time between, watching Jake’s animated
face flip from emotion to emotion as he drew his tale to a conclusion, and the
dog-eared magazine, which was opened out across his lap.

“Hey, you,” Marianna said,
flashing Joseph a smile.

“Honey,” Joseph replied.

Jake stopped abruptly, his
father’s almost incomprehensible reply sending an obvious beat of fear through
him. Marianna stepped forward to place her hand on Jake’s head. “Maybe you
should finish your tale later, when Pop’s feeling less tired?”

“Okay Mom,” Jake agreed. The
young boy hopped off the side of the bed and ran the short distance to Profit.
“What’s that?” he asked, now interested in the magazine.

“This?” Profit said. “This is
the August ninety-six edition of Ringside Magazine – the one with your father
on the cover. You remember, from when he stopped Jonnie Tucker inside of three
rounds.”

Years ago, Joseph had already
been on the brink of international success. Admittedly, the title belt he’d
taken from Jonnie Tucker had been one of the less prestigious of them, awarded
by the IBO, International Boxing Organisation, which was a governing body based
outside of the US; thus bestowing its titleholder with only a small measure of
moderate success.

Still, as a stepping-stone to
greater achievements, this had launched Joseph into the top ten ranked fighters
in the world, and had surely been the beginning of something special. Until,
that is, his untimely accident. Nothing too spectacular, either, just a slight
bump while pulling out of the driveway one morning as Joseph was heading
towards training. The resultant collision had jarred his neck severe enough for
him to miss three months of solid training, during which he’d missed a
mandatory defence of his title.

By the time he’d made a full
recovery, his world ranking had slipped, along with any immediate chance of
another title fight. The next few years had proven difficult. A young street
fighter had exploded onto the scene, rising quickly to the top, unifying all
major belts, and totally dominating the heavyweight division. That left the
lesser belts to contend for. Most of the top ten fighters had competed for
these, pushing Joseph out of contention. Only Joseph’s grim determination had
offered him his second shot. Something that in Joseph’s mind, and heart, had
simply come too late. 

Now, as Jake stood on tiptoes
in an attempt to peek over the magazine, the old coach chanced a glance over
the young boy’s shoulder to see how Joseph was doing. He felt a stab of pain
and anger in his chest, and cursed himself for not seeing this potential
life-threatening event before it had happened. Then as he looked over at
Marianna, anger turned to deepest regret as he saw in her face both pain and
fear.  

Profit climbed to his feet,
intent on offering her his support, but before he’d taken two steps, the door
opened with a mighty bang.

The doctor stood in the
doorway, his face a mask of worry. He took a deep breath and, speaking directly
to Joseph, said, “We’ve got a problem. A real emergency!”