He sat down heavily on the bed and described the death of the woman’s youngest child; how he felt responsible for the disappearance of the older child.
“I was so crazy. I might have kept her, done something.” He swatted at the tears, the beads of sweat on his face. His voice dropped to a whisper as he spoke of his hospitalization.
“In the end, it was my faith in God that healed me. But I swore that I would never again be vulnerable or powerless.”
“John, did you marry me for my money?” She blurted it out as though she hadn’t heard a word he’d said.
“Audrey, I didn’t even know who you were before I went to that dance. I was visiting; I didn’t know anyone. And then you appeared out of nowhere. It’s true that I was impressed when I learned about your family’s wealth; but I didn’t know before we met.”
“You really didn’t marry me for my money?”
“No, I didn’t.”
She was silent for a long time. When she did speak, her voice was soft and low. “I had no illusions about my physical beauty. I was … I am … a plain woman. That any man could want me for myself was not an option. I simply knew that no one would.”
“Don’t you understand, Audrey? I married you because you were a warm, caring, and loving woman; I needed you desperately. It was pure luck that your father scared away anyone else who might have taken you from me.”
“I want to believe you, John.”
“You know that no one could stand to be around your father, regardless of his wealth. He was a failed human being and I know how miserable he made your life.”
“I didn’t have a choice,” she said. “But you? How did you tolerate him?”
He stared out the window at the moon. Several seconds passed before he could find the right words.
“He was a God-send for me,” he said, gazing at her. “Incredible? Oh, no, not incredible. I came to love your father. He became my personal redeemer. His very being provided me with the daily punishment I needed.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Can’t you see he was the lashing I earned for my life in Vietnam, for what I allowed my life to become afterwards—using your father’s money—your money—to buy up tenement after tenement, profiting from the despair of the poor, the displaced? He was the torture I deserved for forcing all of those people onto the streets as the properties were condemned. That I profited from all of this only gave me the need for even greater punishment.”
Audrey reached over, clasped his hand.
“Every day I ask myself, what happened to all of those people, where did they go?”
“Stop it, John!”
“I cursed the day your father died,” he said. “Who was going to punish me for all my sins now?”
“You’ve suffered enough.”
He turned away, his head bowed. “Audrey, can’t you understand? How will I ever find God again? I’ve lost my way.”
She wrapped her arms around him, rested her head on his shoulder.
“We can help those people, John. Use our money to find homes for the poor, the homeless. They still need you.”
“How do I make it up to you? How do I make up for all the years I’ve taken your love for granted?”
She squeezed him closer, kissed his cheek
“Love me, John. Just love me.”
* * *
Robert Holt sat in his living room staring at an unopened bottle of Chivas Regal. It was eight p.m. and he was still sober.
He had been sitting in the same chair since dinner, staring at a half-eaten bowl of canned tomato soup. He’d turned on the television then put the volume on mute; the flickering images of the programs’ characters and action moved without his understanding any of it, or even wanting to.
He thought only about past committee meetings, recreating them in his mind.
Garrett Rudge’s immediate objective was obvious: He wanted Della Paoli “put down.” Using the euphemism for killing injured and sick animals struck him as dark humor. He wondered if they would use the same terminology for people, or would some marketing genius come up with a more acceptable, more romantic expression, perhaps something grandiose like “the final trip of a lifetime.”
He resented that Rudge expected absolute obedience from him, made it plain without using the actual words that his job and his retirement pension depended entirely upon whether or not he performed to Hygea’s expectations.
And Rudge’s real agenda?
He’d listened to the words, heard the rationale, but it didn’t wash; something was being left out.
Holt stood up and paced through the house, going from room to room, opening and closing closets and cabinets for no reason. He couldn’t stop thinking about the ethics committee meetings. The implications numbed his mind.
Before the last meeting, he’d tried to escape the reality of the proceedings, hiding in a fantasy world, where no one was ever desperately ill, or where no one ever died. It was all a waiting game. Waiting until he could come home, sit in this chair, drink his Scotch.
At this last meeting, the fantasy died. He heard every interchange, every word.
Selective euthanasia.
Holt returned to his chair, sat, and buried his face into his hands. The pain of losing his beloved wife overcame him. He reached out, opened the bottle of Scotch at his side, and poured until his glass was full.
He gulped it down, poured again.
* * *
“Love these weekends, when we’re both off,” Zach Wolfe said, a wide smile spreading across his face. “I mean here we are at La Ginestra, waiting for a fantastic meal, and not worrying about another thing in the whole world.”
Sarah Silver laughed, thoroughly enjoying seeing Zach so happy. He reached across the table and squeezed her hand.
“That’s the first time I’ve heard you laugh this evening; actually, in several days,” he said.
“I know. It’s been ages since I felt this relaxed.”
Zach took in a deep breath. “And can you smell that garlic? Right now I feel like a real, live person instead of some HMO’s puppet.”
She took a sip of her Chianti and looked out the window at the leisurely flow of casually dressed people. It was good to just sit and observe. On Sunday, people were more likely to be into a don’t-need-to-hurry attitude, while on Saturdays, they were always more frantic, intent on getting everything done or having a good time.
Zach squeezed her hand again. “Is it so difficult to talk to me?”
She ignored the question, turned back to the window and tried to embrace the easygoing manner of those strolling by.
When was I ever carefree?
The waiter brought their antipasto, and with a flourish set the plate filled with salami, prosciutto, melon, copa, provolone, olives, and pepperoncini on the red-and-white- checkered tablecloth. Then he put down a large basket of toasted garlic bread.
“Too much, as usual, Gino.” Zach immediately snatched a piece of sourdough, topped it with layers of meat and cheese, and began munching.
Gino pointed at them and said, in a phony Sicilian accent, “Need fattening; too skinny.” The three of them laughed. Sarah knew Gino was a UC Berkeley grad student who often helped his parents in the Mill Valley restaurant, doing everything from washing dishes to serving food to cooking, all the while pretending to be fresh off the boat from Italy.
Zach nodded in the direction of the departing Gino and said, “What about those perfect, white teeth of his? I swear there was a Disney-like glint on a front tooth; it blinded me for an instant. Man, I’m so dentally challenged compared to that guy.”
“Too late to work on your genes,” Sarah said.
“Guess so.”
Sarah studied his relaxed, smiling face. “How come I feel so awful and you’re dancing on air this evening?” She played with her fork, sliding it back and forth between a slice of salami and a dark Sicilian olive. “All I can think about is that conference room with Rudge doing his Three-D talk.�
�
“Three-D?”
“You know: death, dying, disaster,” she said. “And not necessarily in that order.”
“It was pretty grim.”
“All my fears about the future of nursing, medicine, and healthcare make me wonder why I even bother to get up in the morning.”
“I guess we’re both worry warts. I haven’t been sleeping too well. The whole scenario keeps me awake.” Zach cut a piece of copa into small pieces before scooping all of it up with a fork and shoving it in his mouth. “The whole system is in such a state of flux, almost anything is possible.”
“Rudge keeps going on and on about how many hospitals have shut down over the past ten years,” she said.
“It’s true, we’re losing our turf. And when that asshole talks about thinning our overcrowded population to meet reduced available care and facilities, I get the chills.”
“Remember the woman with locked-in syndrome I told you about?
“Of course, who could forget that?”
“They moved her out of ICU,” Sarah said. “She was barely stabilized and they sent her off to hospice. Terence Emory signed off on her. Period. End of discussion.” Sarah felt the hair prickle on the back of her neck “They’re sending her off to die. It’s a scenario out of a sci/fi novel.”
“Terrance Emory is a company man. He’ll do as he’s told. The one I’m disappointed in is Holt. He sits at those meetings like a lump of clay, lets Rudge run the whole show.”
“If Rudge hits me with one more statistic, I’m going to scream … scream right there in the conference room.”
“What else do you expect? He’s only interested in making big bucks for Hygea; screw the patients, nurses, physicians, and everyone else.”
“Still. not much of a Hygea fan, are you?” Sarah said.
“I spent years trying to organize the community docs against the Hygea takeover. Only a few listened; the rest were too independent. Now most of them work for Hygea, or some other HMO-controlled facility.” He grabbed another piece of bread and stuffed it into his mouth. “Ironic, huh?”
“Zach, I’ve got to admit, I’m on the fence about this whole euthanasia business. The idea of patients suffering—well, that’s not why I became a nurse.”
“Nor why I became a doctor.” He picked at the antipasto, shoved some of the meat around on the plate. “You and I weren’t together when my Mom was dying.”
“You’ve always been reluctant to talk about that.”
He was silent for a moment, then it all came out in a rush.
“When I think of all the years I tried to get her to stop smoking. Years before she was diagnosed with COPD. Then the complications, pneumonia.” He took a sip of his wine. “In the final stages, when she couldn’t breathe on her own, there wasn’t anything anyone could do for her. After a week of watching her drown in her hospital bed, I gave her what she needed to die. But to this day, I wonder whether it was me who really needed to be comfortable—or her.”
Sarah took his hand. “A difficult time.”
“Yeah, but dying quicker, according to Rudge, saves not only a lot of suffering, it saves a lot of money.”
“Maybe it’s time for you to move on, Zach. Do something else.”
“Like what? I’m a doctor. It’s what I’ve always wanted to be. And hospitals like Galen have me by the balls; I need them to survive, and don’t think they don’t know it.”
Chapter 36
Joanne Paige was choking on the rag stuffed in her mouth and she couldn’t loosen the bonds that tied her to a straight-back chair. Her throat was so dry she could barely swallow her own spit, if she had any spit to swallow. She began to retch—so hard her chest was instantly sore and tight.
Please don’t throw up, please don’t throw up.
If she did, it was all over. When the spasms finally stopped, she looked around.
The room was dark except for a slash of light that came from under a door. She could make out the outline of a bed, a window with drawn drapes, and a TV sitting on a chest of drawers. She took in the familiar odor of stale liquor and cigar smoke. A motel room, an apartment?
Was this some sicko’s far-out sex fantasy?
Her temple throbbed with pain, and with it came the memory. Two men had snatched her from the Capital City Whore House.
She’d just gotten comfortable in her favorite flannel PJs, was drifting off to sleep when two bozos pounced on her, gagged, blindfolded her, and dragged her out. She’d fought hard when they’d tried to shove her inside some kind of car—braced her arms and legs against a door frame and earned a bop on the head for her efforts.
Now she was really scared. Her heart raced, breathing was difficult.
Why would a couple of goons snatch her? It made no sense. Her head spun with questions. It’s not like she hadn’t heard of other girls being taken, but they were usually the young ones and worth a few bucks. Hell, she was forty-four and on the way down. They must have mixed her up with someone else. No one was going to deliberately steal her from a crib or park her ass in a ship container and tote her off to some sheik or Asian sex factory where blonde women were a big plus.
Shit, they must have known after they got me out of there, must have seen that they had the wrong whore. Why didn’t they turn me loose?
Her chest hurt like she had a bad cold or the flu. She remembered the big hand covering her face, choking her. She started to shiver, strained hard to hear any kind of sound from the other side of the door.
* * *
“Hey, Death, what the hell’s your real name?” Jumbo tapped the ash from a fat Cuban cigar into an empty fast-food container tray they were using for an ashtray. He looked from the cards in his hand to the discard stack between them, and then to the three unrelated cards that had kept him from going out for two turns. He only needed another 60 points to hit 500 Rummy.
Death glared at Jumbo. “Fuck you!” He tossed out a discard.
“Now don’t go mean on me, man.” Jumbo looked at the card that had fallen, smiled, and reached out to pull in all the cards but one. He gave Death a crooked grin as he arranged the three-and four-card runs, slipped in the three cards in his hand, and said, “Out!”
“Fuck you.”
Jumbo grinned again. “Count your cards.”
“You won, asshole.” He swept the cards off the table, poured the last inch from a bottle of tequila into a plastic cup, and downed the liquor.
“Hey, I wanted some of that.”
“So go buy another bottle.” Death pushed back from the table, got up, and went over to plop down on one of the twin beds.
“Before you get too comfortable, why don’t you go check on the broad?”
“Want her checked, you go check. She ain’t making no noise.”
“Got a gag in her mouth, dummy. How’s she gonna make any noise.”
“How the fuck should I know?” Death picked up the remote and turned on the TV. “I still think we shoulda taken her over to Reno instead of keeping her here.”
“Black said keep her in Carson City, so we’re gonna keep her in Carson City.”
“Ain’t nothing to do in this goddam town.”
“What we’re doing is watchin’ the broad.”
“Fan-fucking-tastic! He turned off the TV, got up and stomped into the kitchenette, opened the mini-fridge, and stared at the small cache of food they’d brought in with them along with the takeout. He yanked out a package of salami, another package of sliced American cheese, and a bag of bagels. He ripped open a bagel, stuffed several slices of meat and cheese between the two halves, and started chewing.
“Hey, that’s supposed to last us for a couple of days, unless Black calls us from Washington before that.”
“Fuck you!”
* * *
Washington?
Why were they talking about Washington? So far away. Joanne didn’t know a soul there except Angelle. And Angelle didn’t know where she was.
My lost Angelle. Went away
to college. She was never mine again after she came back and got all involved in politics. People said she asked about me, but she couldn’t have wanted me hangin’ around with all that big stuff she got involved in. Got herself elected to all those different jobs, then she was gone. Gone away to Washington.
Joanne strained against the rope that lashed her to the chair. There seemed to be a little give, but not enough to do her any good.
Got to get loose, get out of here.
Frantic, she strained, pulled really hard against the rope. All it did was make her head buzz—like it always did when she focused too hard on something. Messed up from the meth. Yeah, she’d put the drugging behind her, but it didn’t change anything except everything hurt so much more now that she was straight.
Never going to walk away from the life. Whoring is all I know. No future, only a past. A past of drugging and whoring. Waited too long.
She was still having trouble breathing. Maybe it was those big hands that had clamped down over her face, choked her. It hurt where they smashed her head, and a terrible sadness was welling up inside—then she was crying, remembering.
* * *
Joanne was a good shooter—could take the eye out of a rabbit. Kept her foster father from nailing her, especially after she threatened to blow his balls off if he ever touched her again. Actually, he was a much better man to be around after that, and he treated her foster mom a lot better, too.
Joanne usually loved the deserted mines but tonight she knew in coming to this old mine she was surrendering to her worst nightmare. The blackness quickly smothered her, blocking her retreat.
She’d decided to meet Harlen here, the creepiest mine shaft off Six-Mile Canyon—she was here to save Angelle. She patted the revolver stuck in the waistband of her jeans, felt better for an instant. The gun was as clean and well-oiled as the day it came from the factory. Hadn’t been that way when she bought it off some kid who’d heisted it and needed a quick forty bucks for some meth.
Poor little Angelle. Joanne had wanted her to come to the mine, too, so they could face Harlen together. But Angelle was too scared to stand up to him, to fight back. Joanne would have to take care of it by herself.
The Killing Vote Page 21
