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Stress Test

By Richard L. Mabry, MD

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Dr. Matt Newman knew all about the high. He’d experienced it many times. The high was intoxicating, even when the low inevitably followed. Of course, sometimes there was no high at all, no pleasure, only the sadness, the melancholy. How many times had Matt asked himself if it was worth it?

It began tonight, as it frequently did, with a phone call that rolled Matt out of bed after less than an hour’s sleep and sent him speeding to the hospital. A teenager lay bleeding to death from internal injuries, the victim of a car crash that killed the girl riding with him.

Tonight, Matt’s efforts were rewarded with a high unmatched by anything from a glass, a bottle, a syringe. Tonight there would be no heartbreak of telling a grieving family your best hadn’t been enough to save their loved one. Tonight, Matt could savor the high—at least for a little while. This case was a good way to go out, to leave private practice behind.

But already Matt’s exhilaration was giving way to fatigue. His eyes burned. His shoulders ached. His mouth was foul with the acid taste of coffee left too long on the hotplate. He was running on fumes.

The pneumatic doors closed behind him with a hiss like an auditory exclamation point. As Matt moved from the brilliance of Metropolitan Hospital’s Emergency Room into the mottled semi-darkness of the parking garage, he imagined the weight of responsibility slipping from his shoulders. Tomorrow, Tom Wilson would take over his patients and his practice. Tomorrow Matt would assume his new position as assistant professor of surgery at Southwestern Medical Center here in Dallas. He’d teach medical students at Southwestern, and instruct residents at Parkland Hospital, always emphasizing not only the science, but the art of medicine. Matt knew he had a lot to give. He could hardly wait.

One of the benefits of the new job was supposed to be a more structured life: less on-call time, responsibilities shared with other faculty members, assistance from residents in patient care. Matt was looking forward to the change, not just for himself, but for the way it might benefit his relationship with Jennifer.

Matt couldn’t give up medicine entirely—he’d invested too much of his life in it, and it remained a passion with him—but he also felt a passion for Jennifer, perhaps even loved her. She was beautiful, witty, and fun to be around. She might be “the one.”

It wasn’t hard for Matt to spot his silver Chevy Impala in the darkest corner of the deserted garage. There weren’t many cars still there at two a.m., and soon there would be one fewer. He fished his keys from the pocket of his white lab coat and thumbed the unlock button on his remote. His hand was on the door handle when something yanked him backward and cut off his air in mid-breath. Matt dropped the keys and reached up with both hands to pry at the arm that encircled his neck.

In an instant Matt was slammed facedown to the cement floor. He heard a crack and felt the knife-like agony of breaking ribs. The searing pain in his chest made each labored breath more difficult. A weight pinned him to the ground like a butterfly on a specimen board.

Matt struggled, but his assailant held him fast. Fire shot through his shoulders as his arms were yanked together. There was a quick rip of tape and in seconds, his wrists were bound tightly behind him. Rough hands encircled his ankles with more tape, leaving him helpless and immobile. At the same time, someone else grabbed his hair and lifted his head. Matt gave a shrill cry before three quick turns of tape muffled his voice and turned the world black.

He tried to lift his head, but stopped abruptly when something hard and cold pressed against the back of his neck. Matt lowered his face onto the garage floor and went limp. He felt hope escape like air from a punctured tire.

There were murmurs above him, questions in a high-pitched singsong, answers from a harsh rasp like grinding gears. At first the words were indistinguishable. Then they became louder as the exchange heated.

“Why not here?” Was there a faint Hispanic accent to the whining tenor?

“The boss said not at the hospital.” The growling bass flung out the words, and spittle dotted the back of Matt’s neck. “I know just the place to get rid of him. Let’s get him into the trunk of his car.”

In the darkness that now enveloped him, Matt struggled in vain to move, to speak. He strained to hear what was said. He could only make out a few words, but they were enough to drive his heart into his shoes. “Get rid of him.”

He angled his head to catch the sounds around him: a jingle of keys, the sharp click of the trunk lock. Hinges squeaked. Matt had a momentary sensation of floating as he was lifted, carried, dropped. His head struck something hard. Splashes of red flashed behind his closed eyelids, then vanished into nothingness.

Matt floated back to consciousness like a swimmer emerging from the depths. How long had he been out? Hours? Minutes? A few seconds? At first he had no idea where he was or what was happening. Little by little, his senses cleared. He tried to open his eyes but there was no light. He tried to speak, but his lips were sealed. He cried out, but the result was only a strained grunt. Finally, he heard the faint sound of voices from inside the car, a menacing rumble and a high-pitched whine. The voices brought it all back to him.

He was on the way to his death. And the trunk of his car would be his coffin.

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