Nowhere Man

Acknowledgments

Grateful appreciation to my wife, Sheila, who sacrifices so that I can write, and who is my beta reader and strictest critic.

Disclaimer

This is an original work of fiction. Any similarities to any person, living or dead, or any organization or situation, or any other literary work, are strictly coincidental.

The City of Jefferson City and some of the street names, parks, monuments and University of Missouri at Columbus, Missouri are real, in keeping with the Smart Fiction tradition. To avoid potentially unwelcome attention at real places, the Cargit Tower Hotel, the Saint Anthony Hospital, and other buildings mentioned are entirely fake and in no way resemble existing buildings or institutions.

Procedures used by the CDC, Homeland Security, and Emergency Management may not have been portrayed accurately in some instances. CDC procedures were definitely exaggerated. See Author's Notes for additional information.

Images

Cover background image: 5187396 , CCO Creative Commons License, no attribution

pixabay.com/en/romance-love-couple-heart-design-2258599/

Cover man silhouette: Pixabay, Mohamed Hassan

CCO Creative Commons License, no attribution

pixabay.com/en/silhouette-isolated-man-people-3069733/

Cover art: Dorian Scott Cole

Author's Picture: Dorian Scott Cole

Dedication

This novel is dedicated to the men and women who defend us in the Department Of Homeland Security, the CDC, Emergency Management, the military, police, and first responders, and medical personnel, who face unusual situations and threats to their person every day. Apologies if I have misrepresented any. Characterizations are of necessity not always complimentary.

Chapter 1

Jane stepped out the door of their farmhouse and looked out at their beautiful farm. There is no place more pastoral than a farm. A large grassy lawn was punctuated by green trees much taller than those decorative subdivision trees, surrounded by waving fields of golden wheat, with barns and outbuildings rising like monoliths to complete the scene.

She saw her husband, Phil, owner, principal worker, age 40, dressed in blue jeans. His face had already taken on a leathery look common to farmers who got too much sunshine and too much weather. He was beautiful in a rugged way and she loved him.

Phil was sitting under a tree playing with a toy tractor and making engine sounds with his mouth. Jane approached him from behind, watching, pleased to see him enjoying himself. They were having a dry spell and the weather was way too hot to be doing manual labor. She presented him with a glass of iced tea.

Second childhood, Phil? she asked with a smile.

Where is my frog? he asked without looking up.

This puzzled Jane. Frog? What frog?

My frog! You know, green, red tongue, long legs, jumps. The one I play with all the time.

Jane laughed. Her husband must be in a frivolous mood. She was pleased to see him happy and taking a break after all the spring work. Farmers endured long hours and a lot of hard physical labor. He deserved rest and fun. Okay, Phil. You’re so funny.

Phil became demanding. Well, where is it?

Jane played along, and said playfully, Why, I haven’t seen it. Maybe it jumped away.

Phil demanded angrily, Where is my frog? What have you done with it? He stood menacingly.

Jane stepped back, confused. He moved toward her. She moved slowly backward, and then unnerved by the look on his face, began moving toward the house. He continued to approach and Jane moved more quickly, until it became a chase.

Phil yelled after her, Give me my frog, Jane, or I won't have sex with you anymore.

Jane paused just inside the door to the house. The screen door blocked Phil’s approach. She locked it. You’re scaring me. Phil, what’s the matter?

Phil reached the door and tried to open it, then paused as if confused. He looked up at her, then blinked rapidly, shook his head, and looked at her in confusion.

I ... I ... don’t- He sat down on the porch steps, then looked around him as if he didn't recognize his surroundings. Something's wrong, but I don't know what. Maybe you should take me to the hospital. No! I'm afraid I'll hurt you. Just ... don’t .... He sat down on the porch steps, and then looked around him as if he didn't recognize his surroundings. Just … just call an ambulance. I might be having a stroke."

####

Most ambulance runs from the southeast of Jefferson City, Missouri, went to Saint Anthony Hospital, just off Stadium Boulevard and 54. In football season the ambulances frequently found it blocked and had to plow through. It was what it was, but it was convenient to Route 54. The hospital was smaller than the other two hospitals, but it had a well-respected staff and a good emergency room.

The EMTs had found it necessary to strap Phil to his stretcher. When they unloaded him he was struggling to get free and cursing the EMT and the paramedic. Phil was a big man, well-muscled, and his thrashing carried a lot of momentum, nearly turning the gurney over and they struggled to keep it upright while they wheeled him in.

Inside, Jane sat at an admitting booth, with a hospital clerk seated opposite her at a computer. Jane was shocked when the gurney came in, with her struggling husband, and quickly rose to her feet. Phil was thrashing even harder to get free and being very noisy, disturbing others. He seemed not to recognize Jane.

June 26, the clerk mumbled as she continued to fill out the form. Jane ignored her and followed Phil.

Hey! Hey! The clerk yelled, but Jane paid no attention.

Doctor Ray approached Jane, all but blocking her path. Ray was nothing like the goliath of a man struggling on the gurney, but he had a kind face and a pleasant demeanor. How long has he been like this?

Just today. He was okay when he got up this morning, and then I found him in the yard this afternoon acting very strange, and he just got worse and worse. What’s wrong with him? she asked anxiously. Jane peered around the doctor at her husband, who still seemed unaware of her presence. A nurse took him into a treatment area and pulled the curtain.

I don’t know what's wrong yet, but we may have to put him under sedation immediately for his own good.

The strain caused deep furrows on Jane's forehead and her eyes were wide with fright. How long will this take? He won't want to be away. Our farm will suffer without him there every day.

There's no way to tell at this point. Dr. Martin Linderman will be his doctor. Now excuse me, I need to look at him. Dr. Ray strode purposefully into the curtained area. Jane followed and watched through an opening in the curtain.

Moments later Dr. Martin Linderman entered and saw the struggle. Martin was in his mid-40s, and had the physique of an athlete. His face had a slight dark beard and a light peppering of gray that was becoming predominant at the temple. His brow seemed to have a permanent furrow of concentration. Piercing dark eyes seemed to see all the way through every lie and fabrication. Yet his face and bearing presented a kind look.

Phil appeared very frightened and fought the orderly who was trying to restrain him. A hypodermic needle lay on a tray loaded and waiting for use, an ER nurse stood nearby in wait with her hand on the tray. Martin took one look at Phil then nodded to the nurse. She picked up the hypodermic.

Dr. Ray and the orderly struggled to restrain Phil. He thrashed wildly and cried out very loudly like a trapped and threatened animal. The orderly held Phil’s arm down and the Nurse gave him the injection. After a moment Phil calmed, relaxed, lost all expression, and then just stared at the ceiling. In a few moments his eyes closed and he was in a deep sleep.

Martin wrote orders on a chart, then said, "I want him kept under sedation for 24 hours, and hopefully whatever is in his system will work its way out. Admit him to psychiatric with restraints and seclusion.

Jane put her hand on Martin's arm, looking at him anxiously. Martin gave her a reassuring smile and patted her hand. Don't worry. We'll take good care of him. A nurse will ask you a few questions to try and help us determine if he ingested something that might cause this.

CHAPTER 2

Martin’s living room was modern, with glass tables, bronze statues, AV electronics, and a desk area with a computer that served as a study-office. Wooden bookcases lined the walls, shrinking the room, full of medical books and bestselling fiction.

Martin was talking on the phone to a head psychiatric nurse, Elizabeth. This one has the same symptoms?

Elizabeth said, Yes. Some kind of diagnosis is required to continue medical treatment. Psychiatric evaluation isn't going to cut it very long.

Martin didn't know what to say. Insurance companies were a pain in the butt if it wasn't a medical threat. I don’t know what they have. Just call It … a Provisional Diagnosis: Acute Psychotic Disorder.

Theresa, Martin’s wife, came down the stairs into the room. She wore a robe and looked like she had been sleeping. She took a seat. Martin ignored her.

Elizabeth continued, His insurance isn’t going to like that. I've dealt with them before. It’s too open ended.

Martin groaned. I’ll be there shortly. I need to see him. He put his cell phone away.

Theresa said bitterly, 'More interesting people to fix?

This was an old accusation to Martin. He knew if he got started responding to Theresa, he would be here the rest of the evening, which was what she wanted. He said curtly, Yes. Did he really have to go? Could this wait until morning? Maybe. But it might also mean the insurance company might not pay for this day. It wasn't his problem, he supposed, but actually it was his responsibility. Insurance companies were endless, unsympathetic, heartless, and demanding. He had better go.

Too bad it isn’t me.

Martin walked toward the door. Don’t start that again.

Theresa was not a large woman, in fact she was a waif of a thing with a narrow face and blond hair pulled tightly back, but she was spoiling for a fight. There was no avoiding it, and he had work to do that he shouldn't put off. He really couldn't help it.

Theresa continued, It’s true! You’re a psychiatrist, and from what I hear a very good one. When are you going to fix me?

Martin grew angry and barely controlled his temper. I’ve tried! I’ve tried and tried and tried! You’re … !

Martin shook his head in extreme frustration. This isn’t productive. Let’s not talk about this, please. As a psychiatrist he knew it was good for people to vent. To get their feelings out. To talk about it. But there was a point people could cross in which they were simply wallowing in it and it did more harm than good. Theresa was way beyond that point.

I want you to fix me, Martin! I’m your wife for God’s sake! I should be your first priority, not your last!

Don’t crucify me, Theresa. The best doctors I can find haven’t fixed you. What do you want me to do?

Work on me like I was one of your patients, she pleaded.

To what end? You’ve sucked up most of my life already with your … 'illness!' He immediately wished he hadn't said that, but he was very frustrated and in a hurry, so there it was.

You can fix me. You just don’t want to! And there was that accusation again. And she looked very hurt from Martin's callous words.

Martin decided it was best to leave before this got worse. I have to go.

Theresa stood to stop him from going. She was going to get physical. Fix me first! He would not get physical. He would do his best to stay calm and do what he had to do.

Martin quickly tried to walk past her. This is important. I’m leaving now.

Theresa stepped into his path to stop him. You know you can’t leave me like this, not in this condition.

Martin looked toward the door and back at Theresa, and saw the momentum was against this coming to a good end. But what could he do to stop it? Showdowns were showdowns, even if contrived. Maybe it wasn't contrived. Maybe she was as frustrated as he was.

He took a deep breath and calmed, hoping there was something he could say to get past this impasse. Okay, look. You have to stay in therapy until your anxiety disorder is controlled. I don’t know of any other answer.

I’ve done therapy over and over.

You haven’t worked at it! he shouted. Where had staying calm gone?

It doesn’t work! She shouted back. You can find an answer!

Martin tried to move toward the door again, but she stubbornly moved in front of him.

This is final! Psychiatrists don’t fix people. You have to get into therapy and really work at it.

Is that an ultimatum?

Yes! He shouted it before he could stop himself. His direction had momentum also.

Theresa seethed. Well here’s my ultimatum. You fix me or I’m leaving you.

Martin studied her for a moment. You leave me no choice. If you want to leave, then just leave! I have to go. People depend on me.

Martin moved quickly past her and out the door. Theresa looked after him for a moment, then began to cry. They had gone too far. There was no quick way to fix this. She went to the closet and pulled out a bag and just looked at it. After a moment, still crying, she went to the bedroom to pack.

CHAPTER 3

In a comfortable suburban home in South Jefferson City, Don was sitting and watching TV, a beer in his hand. He had a lifelong thin build and was balding. At 62 he was looking forward to his railroad retirement. His wife, Angela, once the prom queen but with her pretty face now beginning to sag, was sitting on the sofa, playing Solitaire. She worked as a clerk at a retail shop that sold women's clothes, one of the few jobs of that type not eliminated by mall stores. A 1950s Zorro TV series program was playing.

On TV, Zorro snapped a whip. Don snapped an imaginary whip in play. His wife gave him a puzzled look, and they continued watching.

Don said, Larry acts weird.

Larry who? Angela asked.

Our Son, Larry. I think it’s his marriage doing it to him.

He’s been happily married for 30 years.

Don looked puzzled. It ... It was ... today ... We are ... playing Zorro ... and Larry is married and he acts weird.

Angela took the beer away from Don.

I’m okay, he said and reached for the beer, which Angela kept just out of reach.

Don looked at Angela more closely. Your hair. Did you color it? It’s lovely. He rose and adoringly brushed her brown hair with his hand. So pretty, gold, and brown, and violet highlights. And green.

Angela frowned. This was not her husband.

#####

Angela was seated at a St. Anthony hospital registration booth. A hospital clerk was seated opposite her at a computer. Don was behind her, strapped to a gurney, struggling to get free.

Martin hurried in. Dr. Ray stood with him. When did this start?

Just this afternoon, Angela said. He started talking all weird and everything, like he didn’t know our son has been married for thirty years.

Is that it?

He just got worse and worse, like he didn’t know one day from another, and then he got all angry and in a rage. I think he's hallucinating. What's going on? Has he lost his mind? She trembled with fright at the thought.

Are you having any symptoms like these, Dr. Ray asked her. Angela shook her head no.

Put him under observation, Martin said to the nurse, Angela. And sedate him so he doesn’t hurt himself. Dr. Ray handed her a form.

Martin and Dr. Ray stepped out. Do you suppose someone put LSD in the water supply? Dr. Ray asked.

#####

Martin went to check on Phil in the psychiatric ward, hoping he was getting better. The small psych ward didn't have room for many beds, and had minimal monitoring equipment. Phil was going to be sharing a room.

Overnight he had changed Phil's sedation level to keep him in a minimally conscious state. Phil potentially could wake up from it and respond.

Martin entered the isolation room. Phil was in a hospital bed, his legs and arms secured with straps, and he appeared agitated. Agitation was not a good sign, but maybe he was just fighting the straps and wanting to get up. Maybe he just had to pee.

With the door open, sound from a TV program echoed from the patient lounge area. Martin closed the door in case the noise was stimulating Phil's brain. Phil seemed unaware of Martin's presence.

Martin moved to the rear of Phil's bed and stood observing the medical monitors and his behavior. He didn't want Phil to see him or associate him with anything traumatic. Phil's chart looked normal. Pulse was maybe a little elevated for a man of Phil's size, but