FIC: Supernatural: Recrudesence 4b - ?
Title: Recrudescence
Author: ghost4
Disclaimer: So totally not mine. And that thought alone depresses me to tears.
Author’s Notes: First and foremost: Mikiya2200 is awesome. The poor little test-subject that she is. All the good, is from her… all the bad, is all about me.
This chapter was weird. I actually wrote two versions, this one and a ‘Dean POV’. But this seemed to read better. Any feedback on that would be welcome: keep this POV, or switch to Dean? Because I don’t know if this works as it is… or is distracting. Please let me know if this works. Thanks in advance.
And a big thanks to everyone who reviewed… as soon as life lightens up, I will start replying. *desperately wants more time*
Oh, and for the people who have wondered about the title:
Recrudescence: lat. re(again )crudus(bloody/ raw): To make raw again. To reopen a wound. Modern English usage: A re-occurrence of symptoms after a period of inactivity.
As always: any feedback, good, bad, or indifferent, is completely welcome.
_____________________________________________________________
Long as I remember, the rain's been coming down.
Clouds of mystery pouring confusion on the ground.
Good men through the ages, trying to find the sun;
And I wonder, still I wonder, who'll stop the rain?
~Credence Clearwater Revival - Who'll Stop the Rain
________________________________________________________________
Three hours, twenty-four minutes later, and Dean was sitting in his car across the street from the Michael Street Free Clinic. He'd been in Kansas City for the last hour, trying to figure out just how he was going to pull this off. Hospitals were out; even though they was the obvious place to get his hands on both a doctor and medical supplies; but the security and ridged schedules of the employees would make getting away with it almost impossible. And he had to pull this off. If he got caught, he'd end up in jail… and Sam would end up dead. So he could not get caught.
Free clinics were the next best bet. They had both doctors and medical supplies, but less money meant less security. Dean figured a free clinic would be his best bet of pulling this off, and not leaving a trail.
A trip to Google had gotten him the addresses of every free clinic in Kansas City. Then he'd started cruising, looking for the right place, the right set-up -the first two locations were busts, though. The first was closed, so no doctors in house. The second had a likely candidate, but the building was newer. It had metal detectors on the doors and at lest one security camera that he could see - and he couldn't take chance on there being others, better hidden. If the cops came looking for him, he couldn't risk staying with Sam - and he was staying with Sam.
He'd moved on.
His third stop was the ticket. The clinic was a small, brick building that looked like it had once been a store of some kind. It sat in a rundown neighborhood, three blocks from a derelict church bearing a plaque that read: St. Michael's Church. The building which looked abandoned and was covered in graffiti.
Fitting, that the church named after Heaven's crappiest, discarded angel was now a discarded, crappy hole, in a discarded, crappy neighborhood. Couldn't have happened to a more deserving guy, really.
Dean had parked the car on the street across from the clinic, under the shade of a couple of old trees that looked like they were refugees from the years when this neighborhood had been kinder than it was now. He mentally crossed his fingers and pulled out the laptop.
The website for the clinic was already up. The mission statement made a big deal out of the fact that the place was owned and operated by retired physicians who 'felt the desire to give back to their community'. The clinic was open in the morning for walk-ins, closed at eleven for lunch, and reopened at one for appointments and children only.
So far so good.
Dean opened a second browser, and logged into a law-enforcement site using a very illegal backdoor that Sam had taught him awhile ago.
He ran the plate numbers from the cars in the clinic's parking lot. The first was a little Toyota, belonging to an LPN named Mary Jenkins. She wouldn't know enough to help Sam, not with the shape he was in. The second car, a beat up Ford SUV, was owned by a Tyrone Bennett, RN. A nurse was closer, but still, not what he was looking for. Sam needed a surgeon. The third car was registered to Sadie McMillan. No letters after her name, so she might be a patient, or a secretary - either way, she wasn't helpful. The fourth tag was gracing a two year old Jeep, owned by a Dr. Marshal Degarza.
Yahtzee.
Dean pulled the social from the registration and plugged it back into another site, one often used by private detectives.
Doctor Marshal Degarza had gotten his medical training in the army, where he specialized in field medicine and trauma care. He'd retired from service a couple of years ago, after serving in both Dessert Storm, and doing three tours in Iraq, and started the free clinic.
Dean figured he counted as a surgeon. Hell, the guy was practically gift-wrapped.
But Dean supposed the gift-wrapping was his job.
He put the laptop away, hid his pistol under his shirt, and glanced at his watch.
It was ten-forty. Which meant he had twenty minutes to come up with a fool-proof plan to kidnap a war-vet, and steal enough medical equipment and drugs so that the kidnapped war-vet could perform surgery. In a formerly haunted house.
"Oh, yeah," Dean breathed, smoothing his shirt and eying the building nervously. "This should be cake."
He huffed out a ragged breath, rubbing a hand over his face.
*
Marshall Degarza was running late. Again. Damn paperwork was always getting ahead of him. His lunch date would be wondering where he was at. Being late to a first date - a blind date at that - was never a good thing. Why had he ever let Sadie talk him into trying online dating in the first place? He was too old, too grumpy, and too out of shape for this dating bullshit….
His thoughts were so caught up in the coming embarrassment of blind-dating that he didn't notice the man staggering across the parking lot until he half collapsed across his Jeep.
"Shit." He moved automatically. The date was forgotten as he hurried up to the man leaning heavily against his car. He was already guessing about gunshots and stab-wound damage - it wouldn't be the first time he'd seen that kind of injury come into the clinic on foot. It was a rough neighborhood.
The man was leaning over the Jeep, one hand under his body as he pressed on a hidden stomach wound. Vague smears of red stood out against the yellow of the hood. Marshall reached out, turning the man over, trying to get a look at the wound. "Easy. I'm a doctor. Let me see…"
The body rolled limply, and Marshall glanced down -
At a very large pistol, aimed directly at his chest.
"What's up, Doc?" the guy said, and winked at him.
"Shit," he said again.
"That about sums it up, yeah," the guy replied, his voice biting. "Put your hands down."
Marshall instantly dropped the hands he'd unconsciously been raising. The guy straightened, leaning back against the car now, almost casually. The gun was too close and too big, and Marshall felt sweat beginning to gather between his shoulder blades. The doctor automatically glanced around, but the lot was empty. He had been the last out of the building as it closed for lunch. A bolt of pure fear ran through him at the realization. He was alone, and there was no one who would notice what was going on, or call for help.
The guy seemed almost more dangerous in the way he was so deliberately relaxed, posed against the car; and the doctor realized that anyone who happened to see them would simply think they were chatting.
Christ.
"If you're after drugs," Marshall started, "I don't keep any on my person or in my car."
The guy looked a little offended. "I don't want drugs."
The doctor swallowed, those words scared him more than just about anything. He might survive a robbery - he had before - but if this wasn't a robbery his chances of surviving plummeted. "What do you want?"
"I want you to go back inside, doctor Degarza. Now." The young man's eyes were clear, focused… and held a glint of cold that let Marshall know he was no one to fool with.
He was confidant - and he knew Marshall was a doctor. He knew his name. This was planned.
Oh, fuck.
Marshall shook his head, taking a step backwards. "No. Son, I'm forty-seven years old, been in two wars, and seen more shit than you can imagine. And I know if I go back inside with you, I'm good as dead. So, no. You want to kill me, you do it right here."
The guy looked totally unimpressed by his little speech. "Dude, if I wanted you dead, you'd be bleeding out right now. Truth is, I need you. That requires you being alive. At least for now." He cocked the gun. "But I'm not really comfortable discussing this out here. So close your mouth and go open the door." His eyes were hard. "And don't call me 'son'."
Marshall knew soldiers; he knew people who lived by the gun, and died by it - and he could see the professionalism in the man holding him hostage. He'd been in the military too long not to recognize that look. Guns and fear were this guy's job, and one he was really good at. This kid was not playing.
Marshall shut up.
The guy nodded, and gestured again at the door.
If he obeyed, he might, eventually, have the chance to fight back, maybe escape. If he balked…the guy wouldn't need him. People who weren't needed, weren't kept. More, the quiet voice in his heart, the one that had keep him alive in the gang-ridden slum of his childhood, seen him through two wars, and three years of working down here - it told him the guy was stable enough to trust at the moment. It said his best chance to survive this was to do as the guy said.
He wavered for a second, but that voice had kept him alive when everyone around him was falling. Listening to it had kept him alive.
Taking a deep breath, the doctor walked with his captor to the door of the clinic, wincing as the gun dug into his ribs.
As they reached the door, the guy pulled him to a stop. ""Is anyone still inside? And don't lie, because I tend not to do well with surprises."
The doctor hesitated, but the truth would be obvious as soon as the door opened, and he wouldn't risk a coworker, a friend, getting shot because he lied. Not just for the off chance she could get help. Reluctantly, Marshall was honest when he answered. "Sadie, our receptionist. She was still getting ready to leave when I took off. She was the last."
His captor nodded. "Okay. You talk her out the door; be quick, be sincere. Do not warn her, or set off any alarms. I don't have time to play with the cops right now. And you don't want to get on my bad side at the moment, do you understand?"
Marshall swallowed. "I do."
"So get the door open."
He unlocked the door. He also disabled the alarm, though he wanted to push the emergency button so bad his hand was shaking - but somehow he seemed to know the guy with the gun would know the second he did.
As soon as the alarm beeped its change to inactive state, he heard Sadie chuckle. "What did you forget this time, old man?"
The guy slid into the corner, out of Sadie's line of sight; but the gun was still leveled at Marshall.
The doctor forced a smile that felt like a grimace as she popped around the small turn in the entry way. She had her purse over her shoulder, and he felt the relief of that like a cool wind down his back. "I, uh, forgot the address of that café I was supposed to meet her at."
Sadie sighed. "You can't fool me, Marshall," she said, frowning at him.
He swallowed, forcing himself not to look at the guy who was glaring at him from the shadows. "I can't?"
She shook her head, stepping into the room, her back to the corner. Behind her, the gunman shifted, moving that little bit that would put her in his range of fire. "You're hoping that if you're late enough, she'll leave." Sadie chuckled, as the doctor's heart pounded. "I've never seen you so nervous! Look, you're sweating." Giggling, she reached up and ran a finger over the bead of moisture along his jaw. "Imagine, the big old war-vet, scared of a blind date! Wait till I tell Tyrone!"
He used her proximity to take her arm and hurry her toward the door. "You'll leave, right now, if you want to stay healthy," he threatened, trying to mask the urgency of his words with a playful tone.
He must not have done very well, because she turned toward him at the threshold. "Are you okay? I mean, if you're really this against it, you don't have to go. It's just a date."
They were too close to miss; that fact fizzed in his brain, distracting him. The gunman couldn't miss them at this range. And Marshall didn't dare glance over to see what the guy was doing. Instead he locked his eyes on Sadie's, and pasted what felt like a sickly smile on his face. "I'm fine. I want to go. It's just, warmer than I thought, outside, and my jacket is wool. Now quit teasing the nervous old guy, and get out of here before you miss lunch." He opened the door for her.
She looked him over again. "If you're sure…"
"I'm sure," he almost snapped - he could see it in his mind; she would turn just that last little bit that would let her spot the stranger in the shadows, and, framed by the bright light of the open door, he couldn't fail to hit her…oh, God. "Go on, now," Marshall encouraged in a friendlier tone, but with a hand at her back. "Your husband will be wondering where you're at."
"Okay," she said, looking more distracted than worried. "I'll see you in a couple of hours, and you better tell me everything!"
"You got it," he called to her as she started toward her car. For half a second his foot hesitated in the open door. He could run. Maybe make the safety of his car before -
The pistol barrel brushed against his temple.
"Shut the door," came the now familiar voice, cool and calm. Marshall did as told, glancing at the guy who had slipped up beside him. He was behind the door, using it to keep out of sight.
As the door latched shut, Marshall felt a weird swoop in his stomach. He was alone with a man who might kill him at any moment… and there were no witnesses. No one would ever know who had murdered him….
"Okay, we need to get some supplies. Fast." The guy said, popping the moment and kicking Marshall's thoughts back into gear.
So it was about drugs. This was just an overly elaborate scheme to get into the pharmacy. Part of Marshall relaxed… while another part panicked all over again. This man made no attempt to hide his face. That was bad news. That meant he wasn't planning on leaving witnesses.
"What should I get?" Marshall asked. He was glad, so glad, that Sadie had gotten out. He didn't want this lunatic to hurt anyone else when he was done.
"Whatever you need to take care of a chest wound."
That was… unexpected. Marshall couldn't help glancing at the young man's chest…his clean, clearly whole chest. "You're obviously not the one hurt."
"Me? I'm awesome. Thanks for asking." The guy glanced at his watch. He was nervous - but not about the gun or the kidnapping, he was too steady for that. It was something else, something that was grating on him - and it was getting worse with every passing moment. The young man shifted restlessly, his fingers worked around the grip of the pistol. He glanced again at his watch… and Marshall realized that he was fretting.
"If you're not hurt, who is?"
Worried eyes slid his direction. "My brother."
"Chest wound?" Marshall asked, keeping his voice calm and professional.
"Shot. Twice."
The doctor took a careful breath. "That's serious. You need to take him to the hospital."
"I wish I could. You have no idea how much I wish I could. But we can't. It's not safe."
"Look, so -" he caught himself before the 'son' escaped. Barely. He glanced at the gun and tried again. "Um, Sir, if your brother is that badly hurt, I probably won't be able to do much for him." And Marshall didn't want to take the blame if the guy died - or the punishment for it. "Are you hiding from someone? Because I could help register you under an assumed -"
The guy smiled grimly. "Trust me, we wouldn't need any help for that."
"Okay," Marshall swallowed…and tried again. "So why don't you do that? You know the longer you delay treatment, the less likely it will be that he survives. A hospital is your best bet, no matter who's after you."
The look they guy turned on Marshall was cold and just done; he was plainly unwilling to put up with anymore conversation. "Thanks for your opinions. Now go get the supplies you need."
Marshall stopped talking and went. He unlocked the supply room, feeling the guy behind him, like a shadow and a threat. He resisted the urge to spin and check on the location of that gun every few seconds, but the knowledge that it was pointed at his back made his skin twitch and crawl.
The doctor flipped on the lights and stepped into the room, sliding sideways as the guy joined him. Marshall tried to ignore him and his gun, distracting himself by running lists through his head of what he had, and what he might need. If his captor wasn't overstating the injury, then he basically needed a portable ICU.
Marshall grabbed one of the clinic's two LSTAT machines. It had the capabilities of a ventilator, physiological monitor, infusion pump and fluid warmer. That was about as close to a portable ICU as you could get. Though the units were horribly expensive, the clinic had needed them for the overdose cases they often got.
He'd never expected to have to test it in the field, however.
The LSTAT had its own bag, but he found a plastic sack to hold the rest of the things. He took five suture kits. Loaded up several boxes of gauze and bandages, IV ports, and needles. Took a bottle of antiseptic wash… and a surgical kit he'd brought with him from his army duty. He kept for emergency patients that wouldn't make the hospital in time. In three years, he'd never had to use it.
He was turning to the drug cabinet when the guy moved. Marshall froze, watching nervously as his kidnapper reached into a pocket… and pulled out a cell phone. The young man hit his speed dial without looking. The gun never wavered from Marshall's chest.
There was a moment, then the guy spoke into the phone. "Yeah, it's me. …Sorry -"
The young man listened, growing grimmer. "I know. It took a little longer than I hoped. But I think I've got what we need. I'm going to get some supplies and be on the road in five. I'm bringing help.… Cas has to keep him going until I get back. I know. … I know. How is he?" the question came out softer than the rest, almost fearfully.
Marshall watched as whatever reply he got, upset him. The man took a deep breath, pressing the heel of his gun hand against his head for a second, his eyes closing.
Marshall took a breath. His captor's concentration had waned… the gun was up… he was venerable….
Marshall saw his chance, and he took it - or, rather, he started too. He tensed, ready to jump the gunman, now, while he wasn't looking, wasn't paying attention - but as soon as Marshall shifted his weight, the guy reacted. Marshall didn't know what had tipped the guy off, what he heard or sensed, but he reacted so fast - those eyes snapped open and refocused on him, sharp and angry. The gun came down as his captor stepped back, just enough to make it impossible for Marshall to reach him before he could aim and fire. And the doctor's little escape attempt was over before it even started.
The guy cocked his head, his gaze narrow and annoyed. He waggled the gun like a parent shaking a finger, no, no, no.
Marshall hadn't seen anyone react like that - that quickly - since the war. Back then he'd lived and worked with men and women who fought and risked death daily, and they had all had that kind of edge to them, instincts honed that sharply. And he knew better than to try moving on the man again.
The guy nodded a little, reading the capitulation in his eyes. "We'll be there in two," he said into the phone, and Marshall was amazed when none of what had just happened showed in his voice - he was that unruffled. He hadn't even lost the thread of his conversation. "Yeah, I will. Bye."
Marshall watched as his captor snapped the phone shut - and for just a second, the young man looked so… stressed, so distressed, that Marshall felt a reluctant bubble of sympathy.
Someone this man loved was dieing. Marshall had seen that look too many times, both on the battle field, and in countless waiting rooms, not to recognize it. Someone this man loved was dieing… and he couldn't stop it. But he was hoping that Marshall could.
The young man looked up, his eyes hard and scared and half-panicked. "Hurry. Please."
What kind of hard-edged criminal says 'please' when they have you at the end of a gun? And with that tone - the one that said he was loosing…everything.
The doctor bit his lip, feeling pity and fear mixing uneasily in his gut. He opened the drug cabinet, grabbing what few painkillers they had, and loading up on all the limited supply of IV antibiotics, saline, and Ringer's lactate they kept. He might not be happy about the situation, but if he had to go and try to help this man's brother, he'd at least do the best he could. He was a good doctor…and he'd practiced battle-field medicine too long to let someone die just because of a gun.
Two minutes later, he said, "I'm ready." And the man nodded, swallowing.
"Good. Okay. We need to move."
They left the building together, the guy still watching him carefully… still holding the pistol. Marshall carried the supplies, and did his best to ignore the gun.
His kidnapper led the way to a big, black car, parked down the street. He unlocked the door, and Marshall stowed his equipment in the back. Then he slid into the passenger seat after the guy, moving carefully and slowly, keeping an eye on the gun, which never wavered.
Once they were seated, the guy pulled out a pair of cuffs, instructing him to lock his hands behind his back.
One more glance at the gun, and Marshall complied.
His captor reached over, tightening the cuffs where the doctor had left them loose. He gave Marshall a wry look.
Marshall shrugged.
The car started with a rumble that Marshall felt in his feet and his back. The guy had his gun low, laying on his lap - but still aimed at him from across the seat. "Sorry, but I can't risk you doing something stupid," he said, pulling the car out on the road.
Marshall nodded. "I have never felt less stupid in my life."
The guy smiled just a bit. His eyes were wary… and worried. "Good, because I really don't want to have to go shopping for a replacement." And Marshall could hear what he thought was real regret in the man's voice.
Marshall swallowed. "I know that you know my name. What should I call you?"
The young man glanced over, then sighed. "Dean. My name's Dean."
"Okay," Marshall felt something in his chest loosen, just a bit. The wheels of the big car hit the highway. "Okay, Dean…so where are we going?"
*
Part 5 Part 4
Author: ghost4
Disclaimer: So totally not mine. And that thought alone depresses me to tears.
Author’s Notes: First and foremost: Mikiya2200 is awesome. The poor little test-subject that she is. All the good, is from her… all the bad, is all about me.
This chapter was weird. I actually wrote two versions, this one and a ‘Dean POV’. But this seemed to read better. Any feedback on that would be welcome: keep this POV, or switch to Dean? Because I don’t know if this works as it is… or is distracting. Please let me know if this works. Thanks in advance.
And a big thanks to everyone who reviewed… as soon as life lightens up, I will start replying. *desperately wants more time*
Oh, and for the people who have wondered about the title:
Recrudescence: lat. re(again )crudus(bloody/ raw): To make raw again. To reopen a wound. Modern English usage: A re-occurrence of symptoms after a period of inactivity.
As always: any feedback, good, bad, or indifferent, is completely welcome.
_____________________________________________________________
Long as I remember, the rain's been coming down.
Clouds of mystery pouring confusion on the ground.
Good men through the ages, trying to find the sun;
And I wonder, still I wonder, who'll stop the rain?
~Credence Clearwater Revival - Who'll Stop the Rain
________________________________________________________________
Three hours, twenty-four minutes later, and Dean was sitting in his car across the street from the Michael Street Free Clinic. He'd been in Kansas City for the last hour, trying to figure out just how he was going to pull this off. Hospitals were out; even though they was the obvious place to get his hands on both a doctor and medical supplies; but the security and ridged schedules of the employees would make getting away with it almost impossible. And he had to pull this off. If he got caught, he'd end up in jail… and Sam would end up dead. So he could not get caught.
Free clinics were the next best bet. They had both doctors and medical supplies, but less money meant less security. Dean figured a free clinic would be his best bet of pulling this off, and not leaving a trail.
A trip to Google had gotten him the addresses of every free clinic in Kansas City. Then he'd started cruising, looking for the right place, the right set-up -the first two locations were busts, though. The first was closed, so no doctors in house. The second had a likely candidate, but the building was newer. It had metal detectors on the doors and at lest one security camera that he could see - and he couldn't take chance on there being others, better hidden. If the cops came looking for him, he couldn't risk staying with Sam - and he was staying with Sam.
He'd moved on.
His third stop was the ticket. The clinic was a small, brick building that looked like it had once been a store of some kind. It sat in a rundown neighborhood, three blocks from a derelict church bearing a plaque that read: St. Michael's Church. The building which looked abandoned and was covered in graffiti.
Fitting, that the church named after Heaven's crappiest, discarded angel was now a discarded, crappy hole, in a discarded, crappy neighborhood. Couldn't have happened to a more deserving guy, really.
Dean had parked the car on the street across from the clinic, under the shade of a couple of old trees that looked like they were refugees from the years when this neighborhood had been kinder than it was now. He mentally crossed his fingers and pulled out the laptop.
The website for the clinic was already up. The mission statement made a big deal out of the fact that the place was owned and operated by retired physicians who 'felt the desire to give back to their community'. The clinic was open in the morning for walk-ins, closed at eleven for lunch, and reopened at one for appointments and children only.
So far so good.
Dean opened a second browser, and logged into a law-enforcement site using a very illegal backdoor that Sam had taught him awhile ago.
He ran the plate numbers from the cars in the clinic's parking lot. The first was a little Toyota, belonging to an LPN named Mary Jenkins. She wouldn't know enough to help Sam, not with the shape he was in. The second car, a beat up Ford SUV, was owned by a Tyrone Bennett, RN. A nurse was closer, but still, not what he was looking for. Sam needed a surgeon. The third car was registered to Sadie McMillan. No letters after her name, so she might be a patient, or a secretary - either way, she wasn't helpful. The fourth tag was gracing a two year old Jeep, owned by a Dr. Marshal Degarza.
Yahtzee.
Dean pulled the social from the registration and plugged it back into another site, one often used by private detectives.
Doctor Marshal Degarza had gotten his medical training in the army, where he specialized in field medicine and trauma care. He'd retired from service a couple of years ago, after serving in both Dessert Storm, and doing three tours in Iraq, and started the free clinic.
Dean figured he counted as a surgeon. Hell, the guy was practically gift-wrapped.
But Dean supposed the gift-wrapping was his job.
He put the laptop away, hid his pistol under his shirt, and glanced at his watch.
It was ten-forty. Which meant he had twenty minutes to come up with a fool-proof plan to kidnap a war-vet, and steal enough medical equipment and drugs so that the kidnapped war-vet could perform surgery. In a formerly haunted house.
"Oh, yeah," Dean breathed, smoothing his shirt and eying the building nervously. "This should be cake."
He huffed out a ragged breath, rubbing a hand over his face.
*
Marshall Degarza was running late. Again. Damn paperwork was always getting ahead of him. His lunch date would be wondering where he was at. Being late to a first date - a blind date at that - was never a good thing. Why had he ever let Sadie talk him into trying online dating in the first place? He was too old, too grumpy, and too out of shape for this dating bullshit….
His thoughts were so caught up in the coming embarrassment of blind-dating that he didn't notice the man staggering across the parking lot until he half collapsed across his Jeep.
"Shit." He moved automatically. The date was forgotten as he hurried up to the man leaning heavily against his car. He was already guessing about gunshots and stab-wound damage - it wouldn't be the first time he'd seen that kind of injury come into the clinic on foot. It was a rough neighborhood.
The man was leaning over the Jeep, one hand under his body as he pressed on a hidden stomach wound. Vague smears of red stood out against the yellow of the hood. Marshall reached out, turning the man over, trying to get a look at the wound. "Easy. I'm a doctor. Let me see…"
The body rolled limply, and Marshall glanced down -
At a very large pistol, aimed directly at his chest.
"What's up, Doc?" the guy said, and winked at him.
"Shit," he said again.
"That about sums it up, yeah," the guy replied, his voice biting. "Put your hands down."
Marshall instantly dropped the hands he'd unconsciously been raising. The guy straightened, leaning back against the car now, almost casually. The gun was too close and too big, and Marshall felt sweat beginning to gather between his shoulder blades. The doctor automatically glanced around, but the lot was empty. He had been the last out of the building as it closed for lunch. A bolt of pure fear ran through him at the realization. He was alone, and there was no one who would notice what was going on, or call for help.
The guy seemed almost more dangerous in the way he was so deliberately relaxed, posed against the car; and the doctor realized that anyone who happened to see them would simply think they were chatting.
Christ.
"If you're after drugs," Marshall started, "I don't keep any on my person or in my car."
The guy looked a little offended. "I don't want drugs."
The doctor swallowed, those words scared him more than just about anything. He might survive a robbery - he had before - but if this wasn't a robbery his chances of surviving plummeted. "What do you want?"
"I want you to go back inside, doctor Degarza. Now." The young man's eyes were clear, focused… and held a glint of cold that let Marshall know he was no one to fool with.
He was confidant - and he knew Marshall was a doctor. He knew his name. This was planned.
Oh, fuck.
Marshall shook his head, taking a step backwards. "No. Son, I'm forty-seven years old, been in two wars, and seen more shit than you can imagine. And I know if I go back inside with you, I'm good as dead. So, no. You want to kill me, you do it right here."
The guy looked totally unimpressed by his little speech. "Dude, if I wanted you dead, you'd be bleeding out right now. Truth is, I need you. That requires you being alive. At least for now." He cocked the gun. "But I'm not really comfortable discussing this out here. So close your mouth and go open the door." His eyes were hard. "And don't call me 'son'."
Marshall knew soldiers; he knew people who lived by the gun, and died by it - and he could see the professionalism in the man holding him hostage. He'd been in the military too long not to recognize that look. Guns and fear were this guy's job, and one he was really good at. This kid was not playing.
Marshall shut up.
The guy nodded, and gestured again at the door.
If he obeyed, he might, eventually, have the chance to fight back, maybe escape. If he balked…the guy wouldn't need him. People who weren't needed, weren't kept. More, the quiet voice in his heart, the one that had keep him alive in the gang-ridden slum of his childhood, seen him through two wars, and three years of working down here - it told him the guy was stable enough to trust at the moment. It said his best chance to survive this was to do as the guy said.
He wavered for a second, but that voice had kept him alive when everyone around him was falling. Listening to it had kept him alive.
Taking a deep breath, the doctor walked with his captor to the door of the clinic, wincing as the gun dug into his ribs.
As they reached the door, the guy pulled him to a stop. ""Is anyone still inside? And don't lie, because I tend not to do well with surprises."
The doctor hesitated, but the truth would be obvious as soon as the door opened, and he wouldn't risk a coworker, a friend, getting shot because he lied. Not just for the off chance she could get help. Reluctantly, Marshall was honest when he answered. "Sadie, our receptionist. She was still getting ready to leave when I took off. She was the last."
His captor nodded. "Okay. You talk her out the door; be quick, be sincere. Do not warn her, or set off any alarms. I don't have time to play with the cops right now. And you don't want to get on my bad side at the moment, do you understand?"
Marshall swallowed. "I do."
"So get the door open."
He unlocked the door. He also disabled the alarm, though he wanted to push the emergency button so bad his hand was shaking - but somehow he seemed to know the guy with the gun would know the second he did.
As soon as the alarm beeped its change to inactive state, he heard Sadie chuckle. "What did you forget this time, old man?"
The guy slid into the corner, out of Sadie's line of sight; but the gun was still leveled at Marshall.
The doctor forced a smile that felt like a grimace as she popped around the small turn in the entry way. She had her purse over her shoulder, and he felt the relief of that like a cool wind down his back. "I, uh, forgot the address of that café I was supposed to meet her at."
Sadie sighed. "You can't fool me, Marshall," she said, frowning at him.
He swallowed, forcing himself not to look at the guy who was glaring at him from the shadows. "I can't?"
She shook her head, stepping into the room, her back to the corner. Behind her, the gunman shifted, moving that little bit that would put her in his range of fire. "You're hoping that if you're late enough, she'll leave." Sadie chuckled, as the doctor's heart pounded. "I've never seen you so nervous! Look, you're sweating." Giggling, she reached up and ran a finger over the bead of moisture along his jaw. "Imagine, the big old war-vet, scared of a blind date! Wait till I tell Tyrone!"
He used her proximity to take her arm and hurry her toward the door. "You'll leave, right now, if you want to stay healthy," he threatened, trying to mask the urgency of his words with a playful tone.
He must not have done very well, because she turned toward him at the threshold. "Are you okay? I mean, if you're really this against it, you don't have to go. It's just a date."
They were too close to miss; that fact fizzed in his brain, distracting him. The gunman couldn't miss them at this range. And Marshall didn't dare glance over to see what the guy was doing. Instead he locked his eyes on Sadie's, and pasted what felt like a sickly smile on his face. "I'm fine. I want to go. It's just, warmer than I thought, outside, and my jacket is wool. Now quit teasing the nervous old guy, and get out of here before you miss lunch." He opened the door for her.
She looked him over again. "If you're sure…"
"I'm sure," he almost snapped - he could see it in his mind; she would turn just that last little bit that would let her spot the stranger in the shadows, and, framed by the bright light of the open door, he couldn't fail to hit her…oh, God. "Go on, now," Marshall encouraged in a friendlier tone, but with a hand at her back. "Your husband will be wondering where you're at."
"Okay," she said, looking more distracted than worried. "I'll see you in a couple of hours, and you better tell me everything!"
"You got it," he called to her as she started toward her car. For half a second his foot hesitated in the open door. He could run. Maybe make the safety of his car before -
The pistol barrel brushed against his temple.
"Shut the door," came the now familiar voice, cool and calm. Marshall did as told, glancing at the guy who had slipped up beside him. He was behind the door, using it to keep out of sight.
As the door latched shut, Marshall felt a weird swoop in his stomach. He was alone with a man who might kill him at any moment… and there were no witnesses. No one would ever know who had murdered him….
"Okay, we need to get some supplies. Fast." The guy said, popping the moment and kicking Marshall's thoughts back into gear.
So it was about drugs. This was just an overly elaborate scheme to get into the pharmacy. Part of Marshall relaxed… while another part panicked all over again. This man made no attempt to hide his face. That was bad news. That meant he wasn't planning on leaving witnesses.
"What should I get?" Marshall asked. He was glad, so glad, that Sadie had gotten out. He didn't want this lunatic to hurt anyone else when he was done.
"Whatever you need to take care of a chest wound."
That was… unexpected. Marshall couldn't help glancing at the young man's chest…his clean, clearly whole chest. "You're obviously not the one hurt."
"Me? I'm awesome. Thanks for asking." The guy glanced at his watch. He was nervous - but not about the gun or the kidnapping, he was too steady for that. It was something else, something that was grating on him - and it was getting worse with every passing moment. The young man shifted restlessly, his fingers worked around the grip of the pistol. He glanced again at his watch… and Marshall realized that he was fretting.
"If you're not hurt, who is?"
Worried eyes slid his direction. "My brother."
"Chest wound?" Marshall asked, keeping his voice calm and professional.
"Shot. Twice."
The doctor took a careful breath. "That's serious. You need to take him to the hospital."
"I wish I could. You have no idea how much I wish I could. But we can't. It's not safe."
"Look, so -" he caught himself before the 'son' escaped. Barely. He glanced at the gun and tried again. "Um, Sir, if your brother is that badly hurt, I probably won't be able to do much for him." And Marshall didn't want to take the blame if the guy died - or the punishment for it. "Are you hiding from someone? Because I could help register you under an assumed -"
The guy smiled grimly. "Trust me, we wouldn't need any help for that."
"Okay," Marshall swallowed…and tried again. "So why don't you do that? You know the longer you delay treatment, the less likely it will be that he survives. A hospital is your best bet, no matter who's after you."
The look they guy turned on Marshall was cold and just done; he was plainly unwilling to put up with anymore conversation. "Thanks for your opinions. Now go get the supplies you need."
Marshall stopped talking and went. He unlocked the supply room, feeling the guy behind him, like a shadow and a threat. He resisted the urge to spin and check on the location of that gun every few seconds, but the knowledge that it was pointed at his back made his skin twitch and crawl.
The doctor flipped on the lights and stepped into the room, sliding sideways as the guy joined him. Marshall tried to ignore him and his gun, distracting himself by running lists through his head of what he had, and what he might need. If his captor wasn't overstating the injury, then he basically needed a portable ICU.
Marshall grabbed one of the clinic's two LSTAT machines. It had the capabilities of a ventilator, physiological monitor, infusion pump and fluid warmer. That was about as close to a portable ICU as you could get. Though the units were horribly expensive, the clinic had needed them for the overdose cases they often got.
He'd never expected to have to test it in the field, however.
The LSTAT had its own bag, but he found a plastic sack to hold the rest of the things. He took five suture kits. Loaded up several boxes of gauze and bandages, IV ports, and needles. Took a bottle of antiseptic wash… and a surgical kit he'd brought with him from his army duty. He kept for emergency patients that wouldn't make the hospital in time. In three years, he'd never had to use it.
He was turning to the drug cabinet when the guy moved. Marshall froze, watching nervously as his kidnapper reached into a pocket… and pulled out a cell phone. The young man hit his speed dial without looking. The gun never wavered from Marshall's chest.
There was a moment, then the guy spoke into the phone. "Yeah, it's me. …Sorry -"
The young man listened, growing grimmer. "I know. It took a little longer than I hoped. But I think I've got what we need. I'm going to get some supplies and be on the road in five. I'm bringing help.… Cas has to keep him going until I get back. I know. … I know. How is he?" the question came out softer than the rest, almost fearfully.
Marshall watched as whatever reply he got, upset him. The man took a deep breath, pressing the heel of his gun hand against his head for a second, his eyes closing.
Marshall took a breath. His captor's concentration had waned… the gun was up… he was venerable….
Marshall saw his chance, and he took it - or, rather, he started too. He tensed, ready to jump the gunman, now, while he wasn't looking, wasn't paying attention - but as soon as Marshall shifted his weight, the guy reacted. Marshall didn't know what had tipped the guy off, what he heard or sensed, but he reacted so fast - those eyes snapped open and refocused on him, sharp and angry. The gun came down as his captor stepped back, just enough to make it impossible for Marshall to reach him before he could aim and fire. And the doctor's little escape attempt was over before it even started.
The guy cocked his head, his gaze narrow and annoyed. He waggled the gun like a parent shaking a finger, no, no, no.
Marshall hadn't seen anyone react like that - that quickly - since the war. Back then he'd lived and worked with men and women who fought and risked death daily, and they had all had that kind of edge to them, instincts honed that sharply. And he knew better than to try moving on the man again.
The guy nodded a little, reading the capitulation in his eyes. "We'll be there in two," he said into the phone, and Marshall was amazed when none of what had just happened showed in his voice - he was that unruffled. He hadn't even lost the thread of his conversation. "Yeah, I will. Bye."
Marshall watched as his captor snapped the phone shut - and for just a second, the young man looked so… stressed, so distressed, that Marshall felt a reluctant bubble of sympathy.
Someone this man loved was dieing. Marshall had seen that look too many times, both on the battle field, and in countless waiting rooms, not to recognize it. Someone this man loved was dieing… and he couldn't stop it. But he was hoping that Marshall could.
The young man looked up, his eyes hard and scared and half-panicked. "Hurry. Please."
What kind of hard-edged criminal says 'please' when they have you at the end of a gun? And with that tone - the one that said he was loosing…everything.
The doctor bit his lip, feeling pity and fear mixing uneasily in his gut. He opened the drug cabinet, grabbing what few painkillers they had, and loading up on all the limited supply of IV antibiotics, saline, and Ringer's lactate they kept. He might not be happy about the situation, but if he had to go and try to help this man's brother, he'd at least do the best he could. He was a good doctor…and he'd practiced battle-field medicine too long to let someone die just because of a gun.
Two minutes later, he said, "I'm ready." And the man nodded, swallowing.
"Good. Okay. We need to move."
They left the building together, the guy still watching him carefully… still holding the pistol. Marshall carried the supplies, and did his best to ignore the gun.
His kidnapper led the way to a big, black car, parked down the street. He unlocked the door, and Marshall stowed his equipment in the back. Then he slid into the passenger seat after the guy, moving carefully and slowly, keeping an eye on the gun, which never wavered.
Once they were seated, the guy pulled out a pair of cuffs, instructing him to lock his hands behind his back.
One more glance at the gun, and Marshall complied.
His captor reached over, tightening the cuffs where the doctor had left them loose. He gave Marshall a wry look.
Marshall shrugged.
The car started with a rumble that Marshall felt in his feet and his back. The guy had his gun low, laying on his lap - but still aimed at him from across the seat. "Sorry, but I can't risk you doing something stupid," he said, pulling the car out on the road.
Marshall nodded. "I have never felt less stupid in my life."
The guy smiled just a bit. His eyes were wary… and worried. "Good, because I really don't want to have to go shopping for a replacement." And Marshall could hear what he thought was real regret in the man's voice.
Marshall swallowed. "I know that you know my name. What should I call you?"
The young man glanced over, then sighed. "Dean. My name's Dean."
"Okay," Marshall felt something in his chest loosen, just a bit. The wheels of the big car hit the highway. "Okay, Dean…so where are we going?"
*
Part 5 Part 4