AC05 - Death Mask by Kathryn Fox Page B

felt giddy looking down, even though it was only an illusion. A photographer offered to take her picture, but she declined. Rockefeller still had had a duty to his employees to ensure their safety and that of the people below who might have been affected by his employees’ actions.
    She hoped Buffet felt the same way.
    Ethan answered a call and his face became solemn. His hair flopped over his eyes as he listened to the caller.
    ‘We have to go.’
    ‘You mean you brought me here and we’re not going to go all the way to the top?’
    ‘Don’t worry, we’ll make it back before you go home. That’s a promise. But right now someone is in serious trouble.’

11
    A nya and Ethan arrived at the private gym. Two ambulances and a police car were already outside. A large group of curious onlookers were being kept at bay by a couple of uniformed officers.
    Ethan grabbed Anya by the hand and pushed through the crowd. ‘Doctor coming through, it’s an emergency.’ He said something to one of the police officers, Anya didn’t hear what, and they were allowed past.
    A gym worker opened the door and pointed in the direction of the change rooms. Techno music blared over the sound system, while players sat on equipment or stood around, towels draped over their shoulders. Eerily, no one spoke.
    ‘Players get four hours’ exclusive access a day to train at specific private gyms when they’re in New York,’ Ethan explained as they entered the men’s locker room. Inside, a large Caucasian man was being worked on by four paramedics. One had the head, another performed cardiac massage. The other two administered drugs and kept notes.
    ‘Heard someone needed a doctor,’ Ethan announced. ‘What happened?’
    The man at the player’s head checked the cardiac monitor, which showed a spike only when his partner compressed andreleased the patient’s sternum. He obscured part of a large tattoo across the man’s chest.
    ‘Looks like an OD. We found that by his body.’ He gestured towards an empty vial. From the appearance, the markings had been removed. A needle and syringe lay nearby, drops of blood in its tip.
    ‘Is there a chance he’s diabetic?’ Anya asked, hoping to rule out something reversible. A quick scan of his naked torso failed to show any medical alert tag or bracelet.
    Anya recognised him from the ballroom that morning.
    ‘Not according to his friend here.’ The paramedic nodded to a red-headed man.
    ‘We’re about to give dextrose,’ the paramedic announced.
    Anya noted it was the same protocol as in Australia. The man temporarily stopped cardiac massage long enough to inject around fifty ml into a prominent vein in the back of the patient’s hand. The monitor remained silent.
    ‘What locker was he using?’ Ethan wanted to know.
    The red-head showed him. ‘Is he going to be all right?’
    No one could answer that.
    Ethan rummaged through the locker contents.
    Anya concentrated on the resuscitation attempt. ‘What do the pupils look like?’
    ‘Constricted and nonreactive,’ the man with the dextrose replied before returning to his tackle box.
    If he were hypoglycaemic from an overdose of insulin, the injection of sugar should have made a difference. He could have been in a hyperglycaemic coma, but if he were diabetic there should have been signs before he collapsed. Fixed small pupils suggested opiates. The syringe could have contained heroin, methadone or a similar potent concoction.
    ‘How was he behaving before he collapsed?’ she demanded of the friend.
    ‘He had a good workout. After that, I saw him down a couple of bottles of Gatorade and we were joking around.’ The man clutched his head with both hands. ‘Why isn’t he waking up?’
    ‘Did anyone see him collapse? Any detail would help.’
    The friend struggled to remain calm. ‘He came in here to do a couple of press interviews where it was quieter … I wanted an extra towel and he was … he was right there on the floor. Not