The Killing Vote

by Bette Golden Lamb

He visualized the gun in his closet waiting for him. Then he shunned even that fantasy. He knew he would never use it.

  If he was ever going to change his life, the turning point was in this room. It was now or not at all.

  But he needed to think.

  Wanted his Chivas. Now!

  He watched Rudge become more and more aggressive. The man was ambitious and his future was probably riding on delivering the right vote. It was now or never for him, too.

  Rudge continued to stare hard at him as though he was accusing him for Reverend John Bradberry’s gaining the upper hand, bit-by-bit.

  “I think this committee needs to express itself in regard to our prototype,” Rudge said, standing again.

  “Express ourselves in what way?” Michaels said.

  “What action the hospital should take with respect to Mrs. Paoli’s future treatment.”

  Bradberry jumped in almost before Rudge had the words out. “Oh, for God’s sake! Stop making it sound like a hypothetical exercise. This is a human being we’re talking about, Garrett. She will die very shortly without effective medical support.”

  “I’m suggesting that Bob,” Rudge said shifting from foot to foot, “call for a vote. Should we continue or discontinue aggressive medical treatment for Della Paoli?”

  “I propose we have an open ballot,” Sarah Silver said.

  “Why on earth would we do that?” Michaels asked in surprise.

  “As the Reverend said, this is not a hypothetical exercise. I think all of us need to openly share the responsibility for this woman’s fate.”

  * * *

  No!

  The exchange brought Holt fully to the moment. He looked directly at Rudge.

  “Will you consider an open ballot?” Rudge said.

  It took all of Holt’s strength to respond with a weak nod.

  “Then I suggest you put the question to the committee.”

  When Holt didn’t respond immediately, Rudge added, “I would like to make one final comment. I ask only that each of you carefully consider the quality of life and the future Della Paoli faces.” He paused, looked at each committee member. “What would you want for yourself?”

  Holt looked into Rudge’s eyes, then glanced down at the sheet of paper Rudge had given him some time ago.

  “The question before you is,” he said in a quavering voice, “should aggressive medical treatment be continued or discontinued for Della Paoli? Should the committee vote for the latter, medical care will bypass present medical protocols.”

  The sounds of shifting chairs cut through the heavy silence. Holt said, “Starting on my left, Sarah Silver, RN?”

  “Discontinue treatment.”

  “Dr. Zach Wolfe?”

  “Discontinue treatment.”

  “Reverend John Bradberry?”

  “Continue treatment.”

  “Mr. Clifford Michaels?”

  “Continue treatment.”

  At one level, Holt knew what was expected of him. At another, he stood apart, viewed the room, its participants in a large animated diorama.

  The exhibits looked at him, eyes wide, bodies frozen in place. Frozen in time.

  But he was slipping away. Only a single finger kept him from falling into a bottomless black hole.

  And if he could just hold on, he could go back to the comfort of his soft nothingness.

  “Discontinue treatment.”

  Chapter 41

  Garrett Rudge carefully set one foot in front of the other, forcing himself to move at his normal pace. It was the hardest thing he’d ever done.

  Someone spoke to him in the corridor almost breaking his concentration. He nodded and kept going, hoping that he had given an appropriate response.

  He made it to his office, and once inside he collapsed against the door, let it hold his weight for a moment. Deep breathing helped, but his head remained fuzzy, and his heart was erratic, like a wild, trapped creature. He held a hand tight against his chest and made his way to his desk and fell into his chair. Eyes closed, he waited to feel normal again.

  It’s done.

  Then he stared at the phone.

  No, it wasn’t done unless all of Hygea hospital ethical committees came through with their positive votes—everyone had to have a positive vote.

  Without realizing it, he was restacking piles of papers that were already perfectly aligned. He caught himself and stopped, forcing his attention to the set of clicking silver balls on the edge of his desk. He pulled an outer ball, released it, and submitted to the orderly, relaxing click, click, click that followed. He could feel himself returning to his daily world of purposeful, directed action.

  At least now all communication to the other Hygea offices could be on the conference line. No more disposable cells, no more hiding, no more secrets.

  Don’t kid yourself, there are enough secrets here to bury you and everyone else. Don’t lose sight of that. Ever.

  He sighed, reached over and pulled out a new cell from the bottom drawer.

  Twenty minutes later, Rudge put through the last of the calls to the administrators, this one to Chicago.

  “Hi, Larry. It’s me, Garrett.”

  “So, are we set?”

  No wasted social niceties. The man was all business. “You’re the last one, Larry. Did your committee meeting go well?”

  “I could have taken that vote two months ago; it was that solid.”

  “I’m sure you could have. But I’d like an answer.”

  “Garrett, it was a piece of cake.”

  * * *

  W. Wade Wilson checked his watch again: 3:30. Where was Rudge?

  His office seemed small today, almost claustrophobic. But his moping dissipated when he heard the muffled ring of the cell in the desk’s bottom drawer. He yanked it out. It could only be Rudge. “‘Bout time,” he muttered to the empty room, taking a quick sip of his now-cold coffee.

  “Wade?”

  “Who else were you expecting to answer?”

  “Right.”

  “So, Garr, how’s the day goin’? Did you hit the magic number?”

  “In the end, they bought the package.”

  Wade Wilson took a deep breath, let it out slowly. “Good! That’s real good. But remember, Garr, they didn’t just buy it, you sold it to them. I’m damn proud of you.”

  “Thanks, W. W.”

  “I’ll call you Wednesday as soon as everything is in place and the vote is in on the appropriations bill. Then we can crack a bottle of champagne and celebrate. You’re a real American…a patriot, Garrett Rudge. The country’s gonna owe you a lot.”

  “Wade—”

  “Gotta go now, Garr. We’ll talk more later.”

  W. W. immediately hung up before the Hygea CEO could say anything else.

  He stared hard at the mug of coffee and the spill-ring it had left on the surface of his desk. He reached out and pulled a tissue out of the small box he kept on the opposite edge, mostly for those who needed it when they sat across from him. No denying the facts—he had a way of making people cry. All for a good cause, of course. Methodically, he rubbed back and forth over the mess until it was gone.

  He reached for his phone and punched in Angelle Savage’s private number. Without her, it all goes south.

  “This is Senator Savage.”

  “Angelle, just a reminder—that vote is coming up in two days and I’m counting on you.

  “I want my friend back, Wade. Make no mistake about that. If you don’t follow through with your end, I’ll not only have you thrown in jail, I’ll make it my business to hurt you in any way I can.”

  “You do your part and I promise you’ll see Ms. Paige right quick.”

  “You son-of-a-bitch, I don’t trust you.”

  “Well now, little lady, ya can see why the world has become so cynical.” He paused and chuckled, then let the silence grow between them. “Trust is the foundation of our political careers, my dear. As soon as you do what you’re supposed to do, you
can have your little lesbo girlfriend back.”

  “Bastard!”

  “Senator, I may be a bastard, but I’m a man of my word.”

  “Listen, Wilson, I don’t know how, but you’re going down, if it’s the last thing I do.”

  * * *

  Dick Abrams sat back in his chair and wondered how he had ever allowed himself to get involved with W.W. Wilson. If anyone asked him, he could honestly say that lobbyists held way too much power. They irked him and he worried about them constantly. You never knew for sure whether they were truly on your side, or just playing you, no matter what the issue.

  Nothing but a bunch of leeches.

  And Wilson was the biggest and sleaziest. But the money from the drug and healthcare industries was stashed in that bastard’s pocket. And that support was needed to ensure Tyler’s success at the convention and in the primary and general election.

  And W. W. does get things done.

  The President had buzzed him three times already wanting to know about Hygea, each time reminding him of Senator Savage’s need to attach the much-needed rider.

  Like Abrams needed reminding.

  He’d never trusted anyone left of center, yet here they were being forced to place all bets on some liberal from Nevada, of all places. And if Savage didn’t climb on board as, W. W. had promised, things were going to get ugly.

  Either come up with some other real money to drive the deficit down, or President John Armistead Tyler would be walking out of the Oval Office with his tail between his legs.

  But save a trillion dollars in Medicare and that will capture everybody’s attention.

  Selective euthanasia was not going to be an easy sell, but it was doable. When the public was given the right spin—only the people who were penniless and terminally ill would be affected—chances are the voters would swallow it.

  Abrams learned a long time ago, no one wants to accept being a poor schlub, barely making it from paycheck to paycheck. They may shiver in their cold-water flats, but they’re still certain that one fine day they, too, would become rich.

  Dreams die hard.

  The cell in his pocket vibrated against his leg. He swallowed hard, answered the call.

  “Yes, W. W.”

  “Hygea did it. The entire organization.”

  “Any problems?” Abrams said.

  “Not a one.”

  Abrams thought W. W.’s usual chuckle sounded … off.

  “The only major thing left, of course, is for Savage to drop the rider into the right slot.”

  “And you’re sure she’ll do it?”

  “I think our President will be signing the funding bill before Congress flees town on Thursday for the Christmas holidays. He’ll do it quietly, of course. Too early for any hullabaloo.”

  Dick Abrams sat up, then leaned all the way back into the chair, looked around his comfortable office, and let his gaze settle on the portrait of John Armistead Tyler.

  “You damn well better be right, Wilson.”

  Chapter 42

  “You’re going where, to do what?”

  Ted Yost looked at his wife, held his hands out to his sides, and said, “I’ll just be gone overnight.”

  “Provided you don’t get killed.”

  “Bill and I have worked out a plan.”

  “Oh, great—dumb and dumber. Who the hell do the two of you think you are, Castle and Beckett?”

  He risked a small smile. “Beckett’s a woman.”

  “Whatever!” Mel stepped to the other side of the Tanas’ living room and plopped down in one of the reading chairs. “I’m not going to try to stop you,” she said, “I mean, how could I? But I’ll tell you this, don’t be surprised when … and if … you get back, I’m not here.”

  He walked over and bent down to give her a kiss goodbye, but she turned her head away.

  * * *

  “That was one God-awful flight,” Bill said as he and Ted walked to where their rental car was parked and waiting for them. “Who would have thought there could be that many winter storms between D.C. and Carson City? I would have been a lot happier in something much larger and with more engines; thought I was going to puke a couple of times.”

  “Sorry, but going commercial wasn’t an option,” Ted said. “No direct flights available to Carson City or Reno, and nothing at all until tomorrow. It was a charter a plane or forget it.”

  “Yeah, but you know I really do hate to fly … in anything.”

  “Well, we’re here, on the ground, and in one piece. Now let’s go see what we can do to get Angelle Savage off the hook.”

  Ted took the car keys to the Jeep Liberty from the female rental agent and asked. “How far to the Carson Capital Motel?”

  She gave him a quizzical look. “Are you sure you want the Capital? There are a lot nicer places to stay around here.”

  “Carson Capital Motel is the one, for better or worse,” Ted said.

  “Suit yourself.” She opened the car door for him. “Take Airport Road to Highway Fifty, west to Three-Ninety-Five, then north. It’s just past the city limits.”

  “Thanks.” He started the car and as soon as Bill was seat-belted in, accelerated out of the airport. He barely slowed at the first intersection, hung a right, and punched the accelerator again.

  “Take it easy, cowboy,” Bill said. “I may have left my stomach back at that last turn.” He straightened in his seat. “And getting stopped by a cop isn’t going to—”

  “I know.” But Ted continued to speed ahead. “I’m worried we may already be too late to save the Senator’s friend.”

  “My guess,” Bill said, “is that those pricks who nabbed her are probably just a bunch of yahoos. All talk, no bite.”

  “We can’t afford to take that chance. They may be idiots, but that doesn’t mean they’re not dangerous. Anyway, thanks for coming along. Don’t know what I would have done without you.”

  “Probably never would have gotten out of the house,” Bill said, then cringed as Ted ignored a red traffic light. “Mel was pretty pissed at you.”

  “Got that right.”

  “Man, don’t you think it’s way past time you gave that woman her due?”

  Ted was silent for a moment, looked up to check the rearview mirror, then added another 5 mph to their speed. “There’s a good chance I’m going to lose her, Bill.” He used his sleeve to wipe away the tears that were clouding his view.

  “Hey, man, I’m in no position to be giving marital advice, but it’s obvious you’re going to have to work pretty damn hard to win back that woman … and I don’t mean with candy and flowers.”

  “But why now? Why not twenty, thirty years ago? Why’d she hang around all this time if she was so unhappy?”

  “You really are a dummy sometimes.” Bill tapped Ted’s head with an index finger. “Duh! She loves you, you dip-shit.”

  * * *

  “What’s your take?” Bill asked after they’d slowly circled the single-level building twice. The only exterior light came from a dim, blinking sign: Carson Capital Motel; and, over the office door, “Apartments Available,” showed in dull fluorescent script.

  “I think if we go around one more time, someone’s going to get suspicious and call the cops.” Ted pulled to the curb, turned off the lights, and let the engine idle.

  “My guess is they’re in that room in back where the Dodge four-door pickup is parked,” Bill said. “Seems only logical they wouldn’t want to be in the front part of the motel”

  “I agree. And it doesn’t appear there all that many people staying here. And probably for good reason.”

  “Sure wouldn’t be among my top ten choices.”

  Ted let out a humorless laugh. “Did you see the number on the door where the truck was parked?”

  “One-eleven.”

  “Good,” Ted said. “We’ll try to get a room on one side or the other. If it’s the wrong one, we’ll try something else until we find them.”

  They drove ar
ound to the entrance and went in.

  “Like a room in the back,” Ted said to the clerk through a round, metal speaker plate in the thick, bullet-proof Plexiglas. “Two queen beds.”

  “Only got doubles.”

  “Then doubles; it’s not critical.”

  The night man turned to the key cabinet on the wall behind him, put on a little show of pretending it was going to be difficult to find an appropriate room, then looked around as he pulled a key, gave them a pleased-with-myself expression, and said, “Got it. Room one-fifteen. Cash or credit?”

  “Been here before,” Ted lied. “I’d prefer one of the even-numbered rooms, like one-ten or one-twelve.”

  “Those ones are housekeepin’ units—sittin’ room, bedroom, bath, kitchenette. Cost you more.” Bill stepped up to the window to stand next to Ted; they both stared at the clerk, said nothing.

  “Okay. Okay. Have it your way.” He went back to key cabinet, quickly exchanged #115 for another key and said, “One-ten, will that do it?”

  Ted nodded. “Whatever.” He tossed a credit card into the tray beneath the see-through partition. He signed for the room, took back his credit card, and pulled out the #110 key.

  “How long you plan on stayin’?” the desk man said.

  “Don’t know,” Bill said and pushed through the door. When they were both outside, he added, “Shit. What does he care how long we’re going to stay? This place is nothing but an overpriced pimple on a coyote’s ass.”

  “Got that right. But if this is where we’re supposed to find Joanne Page, making a scene with that jerk would be counterproductive.”

  Bill gave him the finger.

  They piled back into the rented Jeep and drove around to the back of the run-down adobe building. They parked on a pile of fresh snow in the #110 slot, next to the huge Dodge Ram crewcab. There were still no other vehicles parked on that side of the motel.

  “Got a feeling we called this one right,” Bill said. He grabbed their two soft overnighters from the back seat and carried them to the door. “Time to call Savage’s cop friend?” he asked.

  “Not yet. The Senator wants us to play this close to the vest, for as long as possible. If we can rescue the woman without having to call in reinforcements, that will make her very happy. I promised her and Nathan we’d try to carry out this little caper with as little police assistance as possible.”