The Chemist

Chapter 17

April 20th, 10:30 p.m. Chelsea-Clinton, New York City

The paramedics arrived at the club within five minutes after the 911 call. One removed a Naloxone syringe-like container and inserted its plastic atomizer tip through one of Kate's nostrils, still ringed with powdery residue. Weak, Kate started breathing. More doses would be required to maintain a steady rhythm until they reached the hospital to access the damage to her brain and respiratory system. Danny knew that although she'd just earned a reprieve, the paramedics still had to find the correct dosage. Too little would mean repeated doses; too much could mean violent withdrawal-like side effects.

Danny rode along with her in the ambulance headed to RooseveltHospital while Monique and Shannon trailed behind, briefing Joanne on the evening's events. A light rain fell as the ambulance rolled up Tenth Avenue. Inside Danny brooded, wanting to help but powerless to do anything. Joanne had given him the syringe to encourage Kate's penchant for drug seeking activity. The pure form was supposed to be just enough to impress Kate, but that plan went terribly wrong when she added cocaine to the equation.

One paramedic motioned Danny to remain seated as they continued to monitor her vital signs. As the ambulance pulled up to the emergency room entrance an excruciating seven minutes later, Kate's breathing stopped, causing one paramedic to administer another burst of Naproxen. Amidst a flurry of voices, they wheeled the stretcher out onto the ground. Danny saw Kate's torso convulse upward, back arched, body held in place only by the straps tightened around her chest. Her body suddenly went limp. She expelled a sickening wheeze. The heart monitor's blip-blip pulse turned into a long, high-pitched drone.

"Code!" shouted the ER doctor on the receiving team. He and a nurse at his side accompanied Kate and the paramedics through the double doors.

Danny was told to stay in the waiting area, which was almost filled to capacity and the cries of infants. Having taken a seat, he opened his wallet and stared at Kelly's photo, looking for answers.

After she died, he withdrew and was no longer viewed as a reliable government agent, being a no-show at briefings on a consistent basis while wallowing in despair. The investigation into the tragedy resulted in an inconclusive report. It all happened in a distant Afghan mountain village during the dark of night, a 50-pound bomb dropped from an F-16 fighter jet, killing most of her platoon, having mistaken them for hostiles. The rumor was that the friendly fire was caused by the ineptitude or corruption of a private mercenary contractor, yet no one was implicated, let alone court marshaled. His relationship with the CIA severed, unresolved grief led to a depression and pain killer dependency, then heroin addiction. He could thank a former Delta force buddy for that. He was too ashamed to admit to the habit and retreated inward. Only through the generosity of an anonymous source was he able to join a rehab program in the SmokyMountain foothills of North Carolina—near his original home. Last he'd heard, his mother still lived in a trailer park. He never knew his father, who—he'd been told--perished in a training accident while serving in the army.

The tap on Danny's shoulder returned him back to the present. He flinched and quickly shut his wallet.

"Come," the familiar voice beckoned. Joanne led Danny to a hallway leading to a mezzanine overlooking the front entrance of the hospital. "How is she doing?" she asked, more, he thought, out of concern for the operation than for Kate. "Did they say anything about her condition?"

"Nothing yet. She crashed when they brought her in."

"What happened? The dosage shouldn't have been strong enough to do this."