The Killing Vote

by Bette Golden Lamb

  He’d had it. He planned to return to the States after one final helicopter assault and he didn’t give a rat’s ass if the Chronicle dumped him.

  He’d been under heavy fire on most of these runs and managed to keep it together. But today, he knew the damn chopper was going down. He was going to die.

  The pilot dropped them on the exposed shore of a muddy river and he forced himself to jump out with the others. The deafening jet engine, the thumping rotor blades, flying dirt, and the clatter of automatic weapons sent him dashing up an embankment. He burrowed into dense underbrush, shaking.

  Then silence.

  He looked around for some sign of the others.

  He was alone—only the sound of his pounding heart thumped in his ears.

  He slapped hard at a cloud of bugs eating his face and crawled through the thick undergrowth. One hand after another, he shoved ahead. The only thing that kept him moving was sheer panic and the hope he was going in the direction given at the pre-mission briefing. Right now he couldn’t remember any of it.

  After 20 minutes in the sopping undergrowth, an explosion startled him—scores of birds flapped skyward.

  Ted jammed a hand into his pocket and withdrew his only weapon—a Swiss army knife. After unfolding the largest blade, he pushed himself up into a crouch, knife extended.

  The dense vegetation slit open and an American in blood-spattered fatigues stumbled forward cradling the nude corpse of a small Vietnamese girl. The child was ripped apart, bowels bounced against the bloodied man’s thigh.

  Transfixed by the image, Ted clamped his jaw down against a scream clawing at his throat. He almost didn’t see the second blood-drenched girl clinging to the man’s leg.

  He forced himself upright, stood tall on rubbery legs. The child stared at him with solemn eyes, but the man looked right through him. Ted stepped into their path. The stench of the over-ripe corpse made him gag. He reached out and grabbed the man’s dog tags, read the name.

  “Chaplain Bradberry!” Ted shouted. “Put her down!”

  “I can’t,” Bradberry whispered. “If I do, she’ll die. I have to get her to a field hospital. Now!”

  “She’s dead, Chaplain. There’s nothing anyone can do for her.”

  In a sudden lunge, Bradberry grabbed a fistful of the girl’s intestines. “They can! They can! They can put them back. I’ve seen them! They can do it!”

  Ted swallowed hard, positioned his arms under the body, and started to lift her away. The chaplain watched for a moment, then yanked at the corpse, thrusting the two of them into a grotesque tug-of-war.

  Only when the tiny girl at Bradberry’s side began to cry did they stop. The chaplain tried to soothe the little girl, but held tight onto the dead body.

  Ted let go of the corpse and picked up the wailing child. He hugged her close to him, rocked her back and forth, but she still continued to cry.

  Loud rustling in the underbrush sent Ted into a panic. He swallowed hard, knew they were surrounded. He pulled the child closer to him, wrapped a protective arm around the chaplain. A figure jumped up through the brush.

  “Goddam it, Yost, where the hell have you been?”

  “Here! Right here!” he choked out.

  “Friggin’ civilians!” the Marine sergeant yelled, shaking his head in disbelief. He gave a hand signal to his platoon, then shouted at Ted and the chaplain:

  “Get your ass in gear. We’re gettin’ the hell out of here.”

  It was only when they got back to the base that Bradberry surrendered the tiny corpse to the medics and became so physically violent, so out of control, he had to be restrained.

  The scuttlebutt was that Bradberry had been living with the murdered mother of the girls and had “gone native.”

  Before leaving Vietnam, Ted visited Bradberry at the military hospital in Saigon. He wanted to know more about the man, more about what had happened in those hills. But the chaplain would talk to no one.

  Back in the States, unable to block the visions of the chaplain and the two young girls. Ted searched until he found Bradberry in a California VA hospital.

  For six months he visited Bradberry, but the chaplain would sit in silence, stare straight ahead as though Ted wasn’t there.

  He stopped going.

  Now, sitting in Galen Hospital, Ted shivered.

  Chapter 5

  “Hey, Garr? How’s it hangin’? That California sunshine still holding—”

  “Someone bombed CORPS yesterday.” Rudge blurted it out into the disposable cell. It cut right through the Mickey Mouse gibberish Wade Wilson liked to toss around. “Nailed an old woman. She’s close to death.”

  “CORPS, you say?” Wilson spoke without missing a beat. “Those the left wing bastards who marched on our fair capital last year? “

  “The same.”

  “Them and every other nut group in the good old U S of A. You’d think they owned Washington.” Wilson chuckled, obviously amused by his own cleverness.

  Rudge held his breath, then let out a long sigh. “You know damn well who they are.”

  “Why on earth would anyone want to burn out a bunch of old geezers like that?”

  Rudge remained silent. He reached across the desk and pushed a chrome ricochet ball, starting the series bouncing one against the other. The rhythm of the sharp clicks calmed him, kept him focused.

  “Someone hurt, you say? Well, that’ll teach those people to behave with more gentility. Most unbecoming for senior citizens to act like a bunch of teenage hooligans.”

  “I don’t seem to find it as amusing as you do.”

  “Uh, huh. Uh, huh! Well, lighten up. You got to know they had it coming.” A soft snort emphasized the next words. “Can’t make an omelet without breaking eggs.” Then his voice turned sour. “That old bird was there at the wrong time. That’s all. Just some old lady, anyway.”

  Rudge envied Wade Wilson’s power base, but he disliked the way the man made him feel like a sun-dulled lizard.

  “Easy for you to say, sitting in your comfortable office three thousand miles away.”

  “Boy,” Wilson’s voice turned brittle, “there’s nothing comfortable about sitting in D.C. You certainly won’t climb that ladder by being comfortable either.” A long meaningful pause set Rudge on edge. “You get what I’m saying?”

  “What makes you think this will keep CORPS out of our hair?”

  “I think it’ll slow them down for a spell, and that’s all we’re buying. Time.”

  “I suppose you’re right.”

  “Do the police have any suspects?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Too bad.”

  Rudge could visualize the man leaning back in his chair, feet on his desk, mouthing that phony Southern accent.

  “It’s going to make it tougher dealing with Ted Yost, though. I haven’t been able to wiggle out of meeting with him later today.”

  “Yost? Now where have I heard that name before?”

  Rudge brushed some imaginary lint from his pants. “He’s a retired hotshot newsman turned blogger. My informants say he’s somehow hooked into CORPS.”

  “Garr, you worry too much. Who cares about some old newsman? Pretty soon all those newspaper pricks will be dead anyway.”

  “And your point?”

  “Open your eyes, man. Newspapers are like senior citizens.” Wilson chuckled. “They’re on the way out.”

  He tapped a pencil on his desk and said nothing.

  “Just see what the old fart has to say.”

  Rudge rolled his eyes to the ceiling. “Again, easy for you to say.”

  “For cryin’-out-loud! Be respectful, then get rid of him.” Wilson’s voice had turned to ice. “Listen, I’ve got to go. Just wanted you to know everything’s fine and dandy.” He paused for an instant. “I trust there’s no trouble with our time frame at your end?”

  “Everything’s under control.”

  “That’s what I like to hear, Garr. That’s what I like to he
ar.”

  With a click, Wade Wilson was gone. A mental replay of the terse conversation echoed in his head. It left behind an uneasiness that made him shift in his chair.

  That phony southern gentility of Wilson’s never camouflaged the deadly snake in the grass. Rudge refused to think about what would happen if he failed to hold up his end.

  Deliver … or cut himself a real piece of trouble.

  Chapter 6

  The Bioethics Committee members were due any minute. Garrett Rudge needed to pull himself together, to forget about the D.C. call. But he was troubled. Partnering with a man like W. Wade Wilson kept you dangling, and as much as Rudge hated it, Wilson owned him...for now.

  He sat down and studied the oversized conference table that extended to almost the full length of the small room.

  Give them a place to spread their arms and legs or they become inattentive and restless.

  But this morning, he was the restless one.

  He pushed a finger between his shirt collar and neck, toyed with the knot of his rep silk tie. He sat up tall, shoulders thrown back—slouching wasn’t an option when you were shorter than everyone else in the room.

  He doodled a scraggly looking five-pointed star, then wadded up the paper and tossed it across the room, smiled as it landed in the wastebasket.

  It had been a roller coaster ride since he joined Hygea on his forty-fifth birthday. But in two years he’d accomplished what he’d set out to do: Galen Hospital was now a total healthcare facility, Hygea was a national star, and he was the reason why.

  If he could only bring this Wade Wilson project off, and do what else that had to be done, the career payoff would be huge.

  “Morning, Garrett.” Robert Holt, the hospital’s administrator smiled at Rudge and pulled up a chair at the opposite end of the table.

  Rudge said nothing, raised a hand, not ready to give up his reverie.

  “Helluva week, huh?” Holt said. When Rudge still refused to respond, the man busied himself scribbling notes, probably some useless piece of information.

  He stared at Holt. He detested the 63-year-old, couldn’t help it. He was a constant reminder of what Rudge couldn’t allow himself to become—a burnt-out shell, barely hanging on to his job until retirement. It was hard to believe that this man spent twenty years guiding Galen through some of the most cataclysmic changes in the healthcare industry.

  All Rudge saw was someone who didn’t contribute much of anything, and had the energy of a slug. Each meeting the drone planted himself in a chair and uttered barely a word when Rudge really needed his support, his voice, his vote.

  From day one, he’d wanted to fire Holt, had bitten back the final words any number of times. But the man’s twenty years as administrator gave him important alliances, and he had the medical staff in his hip pocket.

  It seemed everyone liked Bob Holt—except Rudge.

  The other committee members started to file in one by one.

  Sarah Silver, the ICU nurse, and Zach Wolfe, the gerontologist, edged into their chairs, and continued to hold hands, even after seating themselves.

  If he’d known they were bed partners six months ago when this special committee was created, they would never have been seated at this table. Pillow talk could literally fuck things up

  Wolfe had a good reputation with patients but he wasn’t one to toe the line. And both he and Silver’s smiling faces and easy going manners were deceiving. They had sharp tongues and were aggressive patient advocates. Hard to shut them up at times.

  Typical woman—talk an issue to death and come up empty. And the doctor/boyfriend was a smart-ass. Could do without him, too.

  The CEO briefly eyed Clifford Michaels, an engineer and the committee’s token black. His 6’4’’frame barely fit into his chair.

  Word is that you’re a fiscal conservative, Mr. African-American. That’s why you’re here. But I’m still waiting for useful feedback.

  Rudge’s secretary slipped past the seated committee members and handed Rudge a note. He scanned it and looked up at her.

  “He’s here? Now? He wasn’t supposed to come in until later this afternoon.”

  She nodded.

  “Did you tell him I’m not available?”

  “He insisted on waiting.”

  Rudge waved her away, but knowing that Ted Yost was early made him even edgier.

  The other committee members were all in their places when the last member, Rev. John Bradberry, finally slid into his seat.

  Like an oversized chessboard, they sat ready to play the game. But could Rudge manipulate the moves of the various pieces scattered around this table or would he find himself with five rogue knights?

  * * *

  Good morning,” Rudge said after Holt called the meeting to order. He paused to pull a small sheaf of papers from his briefcase and placed them carefully on the table in front of him. For a moment he pretended to search for the appropriate words to begin.

  “It’s been six months since this special committee was formed. Six whole months of weekly meetings. And where are we in the process of altering patient care?” He looked slowly around the room. “Let me enlighten all of you: we are right where we started.”

  The CEO studied each member again—an actor into his soliloquy. “We need to get down to brass tacks. Effective solutions!”

  He picked up the papers in front of him and tossed them into the middle of the table. “We have nothing of substance here. Talk, talk, talk. Do nothing.” He smiled stiffly at each person. “Time to take the initiative. That’s what you’re here for.”

  “And what’s wrong with talking?” Sarah Silver said. “How else can we absorb the mountain of information we’ve been buried under?”

  “What’s the bloody hurry, anyway?” Zach Wolfe said, shifting in his seat.

  “The number of hospitals throughout the country is decreasing drastically every year,” Rudge said. “It doesn’t stop while we sit here and shoot the breeze.”

  “Is that what we’re doing?” Wolfe asked.

  “I wouldn’t call these get-togethers shooting the breeze,” Silver snapped. “At least it’s not my idea of fun and games,”

  “Galen’s under the hammer, Sarah.”

  “Brass tacks! Hammers!” Bradberry blurted. “Hype. Industry hype. That’s all it is.”

  “We need to take action. Now! That’s not hype, Reverend.”

  “We all know the state of healthcare in this country. We didn’t need to invest six months of meetings to find that out.”

  “Your point, Reverend?”

  “Excuse me.” Wolfe held up a restraining palm to the minister. “Let him cut to the chase, Reverend.” He turned to the CEO. “What do Galen and Hygea have planned, Garrett?”

  “I have—”

  “—specifically,” Bradberry said, “what does Hygea have planned to assist old people, poor people?”

  “More questions? We all know the questions,” Rudge said. “It’s the answers we’re looking for.”

  “And your answers?” Bradberry said, pointing a finger at Rudge.

  “Look at our older population, Reverend. Their numbers have increased at a staggering rate. And then we have the baby boomers. They’re further complicating the whole scenario.” He tossed out a hand. “Basic facts you seem to keep sliding over.”

  “Me slide? You’re the one who still refuses to answer direct questions. Where are the healthcare standards planned for Medicare patients and people with no money?”

  “We all know that funds subsidizing that kind of care have melted faster than the Arctic ice. This is a for-profit hospital.” Rudge glared at the minister. “Bottom line: Galen can no longer afford to treat everyone who comes through our doors.”

  “Galen will not treat certain patients?” Michaels asked.

  “People still die. We all die. Ultimately, there are no miracles.”

  “Don’t patronize me,” Michaels said. “You haven’t answered my question … you haven�
�t answered any of our questions. We’re talking about those who will never get a shot at Galen’s state-of-the-art technology.”

  Rudge pointed at the black man. “Are you accusing Hygea or Galen Hospital of discrimination?”

  “Can you guarantee it doesn’t exist?” Michaels shot back.

  Rudge took a deep breath. He needed to slow down the pace. “Let’s do what this committee was designed to do: focus on the seriously ill and dying elderly population. These are the patients who can run up astronomical costs for a single hospital admission.”

  Bradberry shot up out of his seat. “Garrett, you want us to underwrite a policy that allows selected patients to die without the hospital making any effort to save them … because of the expense?”

  “We need new guidelines, Reverend. That’s why we’re here in the first place.” Rudge lowered his voice. “If a patient’s prognosis is poor, and he or she is elderly, then we should seriously consider termination of care.”

  “Shut down life support systems?” Silver’s eyes went wide, her mouth dropped.

  Rudge cringed. The nurse’s soft malleable face had turned to stone.

  “Cut medical care when the cost-to-benefit ratio doesn’t meet corporate goals?” Bradberry said.

  “You all know,” Rudge said, “that we’ve been turning off life support systems for a long, long time.”

  “I’m not interested in yesterday,” Michaels said. “We’re talking about tomorrow.” The black man was composed but his eyes probed Rudge.

  “What I’m suggesting,” Rudge said, “is that we take the next logical step.”

  Bradberry slammed a fist down on the table. “Selective euthanasia of the elderly? That’s your next logical step? That’s your solution to the high cost of healthcare?”

  “We need a policy that allows us to devote the appropriate time, care, and resources to patients whose prognoses are more favorable.”

  “And can afford them?” Silver said.

  “You’re asking us to condone murder!” Bradberry shouted at Rudge.

  Rudge jumped up. “That word is not acceptable. We’re here to find medical solutions within the law.” He glared at the reverend. “What did you think these meetings were about?”