Eggs Benedict Arnold Read Free

wasn ’ t. Suzanne couldn ’ t recall any recent obituaries in the Bugle. Could only think of the one last Thursday for Julius Carr.
    And she ’ d just encountered him.
    So... okay.
    But as the door continued to swing inward, it clanked hard, hitting a rolling metal cart. Suzanne did a double take. The cart lay wheels up, half blocking the door. To either side of her, stacks of blue and white pharmaceutical boxes, no longer lined up nice and neat on their grid of shiny metal shelving, were tumbled haphazardly on gray linoleum. Suzanne could read the labels on the upended boxes —Hizone, Lynch, ESCO.
    What just happened here? she wondered.
    And suddenly heard a faint clink.
    What was that? The snick of a metal door, the click of an instrument being set down?
    Sure it was. So Ozzie was back here. Probably.
    “ Ozzie, ” Suzanne called, rounding a corner. “ What the heck hap ... ”
    Suzanne stopped dead in her tracks, her words segueing to a sputter, then a dying gasp. Her mouth opened re flexively, snapped shut, the n opened again. But no sound issued forth.
    Because Ozzie was back here, all right. Splayed out on an enormous metal table like some sort of medical experi ment gone horribly wrong.
    Suzanne ’ s eyelids fluttered uncontrollably as she took in the ghastly scene. Plastic hoses kinked around Ozzie, his right arm stuck rigidly out to one side. And there , sticking into that arm, his very white, waxy arm, was a large needle attached to a length of tubing.
    Suicide? The word exploded in Suzanne ’ s brain like a thousand points of light. Oh no, not Ozzie Driesden. He wouldn ’ t do that, would he?
    Suzanne ’ s stomach lurched unsteadily and the beginnings of bitter, hot bile rose in the back of her throat .
    Struggling to force her mind to work, to reboot her brain ’ s frozen hard drive, she thought to herself, Got to get help.
    As that thought popped into her head like a bubble above a cartoon drawing, there was a sudden, sharp snap, like a freshly laundered towel jerking on a clothesline. A soft shuffle sounded behind Suzanne, then a cold, wet, foul-smelling rag was clamped viciously across her nose and mouth.
    Throwing up her hands in protest, the pie flipped end over end and crashed to the floor. Struggling blindly, not thinking clearly now, Suzanne inhaled sharply and involuntarily breathed in the prickly chemical that soaked the rag. Her heart lurched painfully in her chest and her lungs burned like hot coals. Staggering drunkenly, Suzanne ’ s spinning mind spat out a single word: Camphor?
    Then her head was filled with the drone of a thousand angry hornets and her knees began to buckle like a cheap card table.
    No . . . chloroform, was Suzanne ’ s last semi-lucid thought as blackness descended and she crumpled atop the ruined cherry pie.
    Chapter Two
    “ Breathe deeply, ” urged a voice from above her. Suzanne ’ s eyes fluttered wildly for a few moments, then peeped open. And Suzanne found herself gazing up into the face of a kindly-looking EMT wearing a blue uniform with a red-and-white patch. He was young and good-looking, with an olive complexion and curly, dark hair.
    When did EMTs get so young? Suzanne wondered to herself. And when did I start thinking guys in their early thirties were young?
    That brought a semblance of a giggle mixed with a few hiccups.
    “ She ’ s coming around, ” said Petra.
    At hearing her friend ’ s calming voice, Suzanne lifted her head. Not a great idea. Her brain was still spinning like a centrifuge even though her body was laid out flat on the floor, right where she ’ d fallen.
    Cotton in my head, Suzanne thought, crazily. And bright red cherry pie all over the floor.
    The EMT, whose name tag read J. Jellen, held a plastic mask to Suzanne ’ s mouth and smiled encouragingly. “ Breathe, ” he instructed.
    Suzanne fought to bat the mask away.
    “ It ’ s only oxygen, ” Jellen told her, calmly. “ Help clear your head. ”
    “ Breathe the Os,