The Killing Vote

by Bette Golden Lamb

  She dropped into a chair opposite him and rested her head on her arm. “Didn’t you ever realize how lonely my life was while you were chasing around all over the world?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “Raising two kids by myself. Taking any half-assed job so I could quit at the drop of a hat to spend time with you when you finally came home. I think you forget my major was journalism, too, before we even got involved with each other.”

  “I didn’t forget. That’s why I thought you’d understand how important all of this was. Without newspapers there’s no national focus on any one issue. The electronic media isn’t hacking it yet, and they may never.”

  “My God, you were in and out of Viet Nam for fifteen years. And who cared? Who gave a good goddamn? Sometimes I think I was the only person who read, or even believed what you wrote.”

  “You’re probably right about that.” He said the words without an ounce of humor.

  She looked across at him for several silent seconds, tears welled in her eyes. “That’s not true! Lots of people read what you wrote. If it’s truth you want, I think those stories were a big part of why the U. S. finally left that hellhole.”

  “I’d like to believe that.”

  Melissa got up, rushed around the table to her husband, and wrapped her arms around him. “I’m sorry. But I need you now.”

  “Don’t be sorry. Everything you said is true.” She squeezed him tighter; he took a deep breath, felt like he could breathe again. “Mel, I can’t lie to you—given the same circumstances, I’d do it all again.”

  “I know.”

  Chapter 13

  “Tana residence.”

  “Are you the maid?” Ted asked.

  “Who wants to know?” The young girl giggled.

  “A dirty old man from California.”

  “Hi, Uncle Ted. It’s me, Patty.” She covered the phone, but he could still hear her yell, “It’s for you, Dad. Uncle Ted.”

  “So you’re not going to talk to your godfather, just toss me away like an old shoe?”

  “Never! But Tommy’s picking me up in a few secs, Teddy bear. We’ll talk next time.” He winced as the receiver cracked loudly when she dropped it, and was gone.

  “Thought I’d changed this to an unlisted number,” Bill Tana said when he picked up.

  “You can’t hide from the press.”

  “Unfortunately, that’s all too true.” A long suffering sigh followed.

  “Sounds like that daughter of yours has turned into a real teenager. What happened to that sweet little thing who used to play Chinese checkers with me?”

  “Tommy-the-boyfriend happened. That and hormones.” Another heavy sigh. “Spit it out, Yost. What’s up?”

  “No how-are-you, how’s Mel? Where’s all that charm everyone always talks about?”

  “Fuck you, man. I’ve had a helluva day. No, make that a helluva week. Not in the mood for small talk from pseudo friends.”

  “Pseudo? Hey, it’s me, your old buddy Ted. Remember?”

  “Yeah, yeah. Get to the point.”

  “I need a nose job.”

  “No way, man. Last time I snooped around for you I almost lost my ass.”

  “Big corporate shenanigans warping that brain of yours?”

  “What the hell are you talking about?”

  “The way I hear it, you’re up for executive VP at that stuffy PR firm you’ve hunkered down into. Pretty high up on the corporate ladder, if you ask me. And to think you used to be a pot head, among other things.”

  “Enough of my sordid past. Just tell me why you called, because I really am beat.”

  “That little plum about ditching Medicare you tossed my way?”

  “Gotcha.”

  “It’s more like ditching Medicare patients.”

  “So it was worth looking into?”

  “Yes. And now I’m up to my ears in it and need a solid, discrete D.C. connection. You!”

  Bill’s breathing pattern noticeably changed. Ted realized his friend was walking through his house, phone in hand, probably looking for an out-of-the-way quiet spot.

  “Poor timing, Ted. At least as far as I’m concerned. This new job is all-consuming. Don’t have time to wipe my ass or pull up my pants before I’m running again. Maybe I could get someone—”

  “Don’t try to palm me off, Tana. I know you thought you were doing me a favor, but you know as well as I do that favors can be very expensive, no matter how well intentioned. Besides, you’re the only reliable D.C. denizen I trust.”

  “Retirement must be getting to that Twinkie brain of yours. You used to do all your own fucking leg work.”

  “Sure, when I had someone footing the expenses. I don’t have that kind of budget anymore.”

  “Yeah, I suppose not. Maybe you could get a grant.”

  “Turning fifty hasn’t changed you from being the smart-ass you’ve always been.”

  “Yeah, and moving through the sixties hasn’t morphed you into anything brighter than you ever were. Still looking for some fucking windmill to tilt. Only this one’s already been toppled by others.”

  “You keep forgetting that it was you who put the fucking windmill in my path; I didn’t go looking for it.”

  There was a long pause. “Got to admit, it was sort of a knee-jerk reaction on my part—secret political shenanigans, call Yost. But the more I think about it, what the hell, you know? Euthanasia isn’t something new. There’re already laws in some states that condone it.”

  “But that’s assisted euthanasia … for people who request it.”

  “So?”

  “So, this is selective euthanasia. You know, the kind based strictly on economics—if you’re too old, die; if you’re too sick, die.”

  There was an even longer pause. “Okay, okay. So you’re right.” Bill’s voice dropped to a whisper. “The rumors are growing, coming from more quarters. But so far no one’s talking about the epicenter, who or what’s at the core.”

  “Exactly. So how about following through with this and start chasing down some of those rumors? And a good place to start might be to find out who Hygea Corporation has its hooks into back there.”

  “Hygea?”

  “That’s the best I can do right now. I need to know what you can come up with. And no, it can’t wait until Monday.”

  “You’ve got this saving a life shtick all fucked up, Ted. When you saved my life, it means you’re responsible for me, not the other way around.”

  “Whoever thought of that didn’t know squat about gratitude, and knew damn little about human nature.”

  “Fuck you very much, Ted Yost.”

  Chapter 14

  Garrett Rudge stepped from his office into the hallway of the Administrative Satellite and headed for the rear exit that led to the employee parking lot.

  There were few people in the hallways and, as he’d hope, no one stopped him along the way. Once outside, he took a deep breath and admired the clear bright sky as he waited for the keyless lock to click open.

  He’d had the sleek, black AMG E-Class Mercedes for only three months; but he’d fallen in love with it from the moment he saw it on the dealership showroom floor and was still learning new things about it.

  He slid into driver’s seat and allowed himself a moment to breathe in the luxurious new-leather aroma. Eyes closed, he again mentally ticked off the items on the checklist he’d covered prior to leaving his office—the status of Della Paoli, Hygea corporate affairs, and routine hospital matters.

  Nothing could be left to chance.

  Satisfied, he tapped the button that brought the powerful engine to life, then drove out of the parking lot for the first leg of his trip to Sacramento. Once on I-80, he removed his tie, shifted into a comfortable position, tuned in KCSM-FM, the local jazz station, and reviewed the day’s events:

  The face-off with Ted Yost dominated his thoughts.

  Wilson had sent over a full bio on Yost, who was not only a respected journalis
t, but a Pulitzer Prize winner for a series of hard-hitting articles that exposed much of what had gone wrong in Vietnam. The old hack’s nose had been into just about every conflict around the globe.

  Rudge didn’t like the man. There was a looseness about him that he coupled with unpredictability. And it was the worst possible time for veteran newsman like Yost to show up as the Desisto Project was nearing completion.

  His Friday evening glow was fading. Doubts were creeping in.

  Maybe he should have steered clear of Wilson and his D.C. pack—the lobbyist could definitely bring him down.

  I won’t go down alone, W. W. I know how to become a fucking canary.

  But, there were real advantages working with a pro like Wilson. The lobbyist had been able to investigate every member on the ethical committee, from their diaper years to the present. He probably knew more about them than they knew about themselves.

  He forced Yost and Wilson out of his head only to replace them with the sharp exchange he’d had with John Bradberry during at the Bioethics Committee meeting.

  The Reverend’s holier than thou façade about the poor populations seemed empty under close scrutiny. He headed the largest and richest church in the West—politicians screamed for his endorsement. He was never denied a permit to do anything he desired for any of his properties.

  None of it looked kosher to Rudge. Especially when the redevelopment of the condemned areas drove the minister’s wealth way over the top.

  Turns out the good reverend was no different than any other fat cat.

  I suppose kicking those poor people around doesn’t count when you do it, Reverend, Fucking hypocrite. That must be how it works when you marry a mousey little heiress and become rich.

  Rudge rubbed at the stiffness in his neck, then clutched the leather-covered steering wheel a little tighter

  They tell me you’re a Vietnam vet? Yeah, well, careful, Reverend! You could end up in another bloody fiasco

  * * *.

  Robert Holt stood at his office window, looking down into the hospital parking lot. He should have been at his desk working, but he’d stepped away from his computer, dizzy from the rush of endless information, endless requests, endless streams of words demanding some kind of action. All he could think about were the lovely days he and his wife had spent at the ocean—how the tides would ebb and flow around them.

  He yearned to lay in those waters again, yearned to float away to nowhere.

  He was jolted from his reverie. Garrett Rudge was leaving early.

  Holt watched the CEO stride towards his Mercedes in the reserved section of the parking lot.

  Like he doesn’t have a care in the world.

  Holt smiled. Now he could sneak out early, too. He snatched up a pile of professional magazines and stuffed them into his portfolio until it bulged. He had no intention of reading them, but a heavy load of homework was the mark of a productive administrator.

  He hated the façade.

  Galen had been his life for more than twenty years. And as its Hospital Administrator, he’d taken great pride in his management style and accomplishments. But the hospital he’d had so much pride in had become a factory that “processed units” instead of treating people.

  His whole world was turned upside down. The buyout by Hygea brought Garrett Rudge into his life. Since that day, he’d become a powerless, ineffectual automaton, nothing but a high-priced paper pusher. A puppet. A yes-man. An employee who had to stuff his portfolio with piles of nothing in order to look as though he was really something.

  Even thinking about it made him feel more useless.

  Maybe if Rudge went down?

  Some other SOB would only take his place—maybe someone worse. And he knew he was through, no matter what happened.

  Right from the start he’d known Hygea wanted to reduce the length of hospital stays for elderly patients, cut back on the number of elderly sick patients they admitted. Was it strictly money?

  He didn’t think so. Rudge and Hygea were up to something. But he just didn’t care what it was.

  Before leaving, he glanced back at his neat, organized desk; his hand shook as he reached to open the office door.

  * * *

  Holt left the hospital, cut across the large parking lot, and continued down the street to the bus stop, hardly noticing his surroundings. The wooden passenger bench was empty--he sighed as he collapsed into it and stared at the departing rear end of the bus he had just missed. He tilted his head back and stared at the sky.

  Joan had been dead for almost a year. He tried to visualize her, but lately it was getting harder to do—as each day passed, he was losing more of her essence. Now she only appeared to him in his dreams

  Within a few minutes another bus arrived.

  By leaving early he’d avoided the start of the rush hour and he was able to slip into a window seat for the 20-mile ride home. The bus carried him away from the congested area surrounding the hospital grounds. Soon he was on the freeway, staring out at vistas of rolling hills and the blue waters of Richardson Bay. He nodded off into a light sleep, Joan’s face floated above him.

  The hiss of the bus brakes jolted him awake. He looked out the window at the sky—the sun was melting away, leaving behind traces of pink haze. It was his stop.

  He walked home through the suburban neighborhood loosening his tie as he entered the front door; he dumped keys and briefcase on the sofa before kicking off his shoes and padding through the house. Without really caring, he inspected the job performed by the cleaning lady.

  The mindless routine reassured him, allowed him time to anticipate, to savor, the scenario that was to follow.

  He turned the radio to a station with bland pop music, set the volume so the sound would follow him to the bathroom. He stripped off his clothes and took a hot shower, washed his body carefully and systematically. As he dried, he avoided the large mirror over the twin sinks. His sagging white flesh would only make him sadder. In the shortest possible time he’d become a person his wife would not have recognized.

  Holt thought about his dream of Joan while he was on the bus. Her eyes were soft and inviting and she was mouthing his name.

  But it was only a dream. Joan was gone—really gone. He’d scattered her ashes on a pine-shaded hilltop overlooking the ocean in the exact spot where they’d made love on their last anniversary,

  It was still early in the day but he pulled on a pair of clean pajamas and drifted into the kitchen. He wasn’t hungry, yet he reached for a thick chunk of cheese and wrapped a piece of week-old bread around it. He took a small bite, chewed without tasting.

  Returning to the living room, he sank into the same chair where he sat every evening. He glanced at the television, then turned away with a heavy sigh, reached over to a wheeled serving cart next to his chair and picked up an unopened bottle of Chivas Regal. Now and then he considered buying a less expensive Scotch but he always rejected the idea—there wasn’t much else he wanted to buy.

  He cut through the plastic wrap-around seal, pulled the cork, and carefully filled an old-fashion glass. He took a long swallow, and then a second, before closing his eyes to more fully experience the sharp, almost searing sensation in his throat. Warmth radiated down, spread into his chest. Without opening his eyes, he took another long swallow. Then his head fell back against the upholstered headrest.

  Chapter 15

  On the outskirts of Sacramento, Garrett Rudge slowed to the speed limit after spotting a California Highway Patrol cruiser. He’d made the near-90-mile trip in good time for a Friday afternoon. At the next exit, he took the off-ramp and drove a short distance to Capital West Lodge and checked in.

  Rudge’s oversized room had a panoramic view of the Capitol’s manicured lawns and lush gardens. He was partial to this hotel, where he ran into senators, congressmen, governors, state politicians. And he knew he would see many of them tonight.

  After unpacking, he ordered a bottle of single malt Scotch from room service,
then took a long, hot shower. Stepping out into the large room, he forced the day’s events out of his mind and focused on the feel of the plush carpeting under foot as he dried himself. He stood in front of the double closet’s full-length mirrors and slapped his hard, flat abs. A near-religious program of bodywork since his late teens had paid off with a physique few men in their late forties could claim

  He turned to view his backside in the mirror, snorting as he remembered overhearing some female’s snide comment about how men’s asses tended to flatten out as they grew older.

  “Not yet, sweetheart,” he told his image, “Not yet!”

  A tap at the door interrupted his thoughts. He wrapped the bath sheet around his middle, and opened the door for room service.

  The waiter gave him a quick up-and-down look before asking, “Will there be anything else, sir?”

  The twenty-something was hitting on him, but he was in no mood to play. Instead, he signed for the Scotch and added an overly generous tip before sending the sex hustler on his way.

  He poured a couple fingers of the liquor and downed most of it in a single gulp. The buzz hit him, reminding him of the many days in his past that were lost to drinking in order to forget.

  He stared again at the mirror. “You’re still there, aren’t you, Evie?”

  Almost thirty years since the death of his twin sister, Evelyn, but it was her eyes that stared back at him when he looked into a mirror, any mirror.

  The momentary alcohol high disappeared. He remembered Evelyn when she was diagnosed with muscular dystrophy.

  Twelve years old.

  By fifteen, the weakness had progressed to the point that she seldom left the house for anything other than medical appointments. She made it through one desperate year of attending high school, then had to quit. But she never stopped studying, learning; going through one tutor after another until they had nothing left to teach her.