Bill nodded his agreement.
“Hey, it happened. Someone has to tell the truth.” She smiled. “Now there’s a novel idea: ‘Truth in Washington’.” She waved goodbye and walked away.
Ted held up the newspaper so both of them could read it:
WASHINGTON—Legislation that would legalize selective euthanasia throughout the U.S. could well be on its way to passage in the form of a rider to the House/Senate compromise Medicare Funding Bill, according to Congressional sources.
This so-called ‘midnight rider’ reportedly has the full backing of the healthcare industry, if not a majority of House and Senate members.
The White House issued a “no comment” when asked whether the President would sign the Medicare appropriations bill if it carried what has been called “death panel” legislation. He has expressed no opposition to the bill as it now stands.
The funding measure is scheduled for a final vote in the Senate later today. It sailed through the House without a ripple last Friday, and is expected to receive near unanimous approval by the upper body.
Sen. Charles Austin (R-IN), chairman of the Senate Finance Committee, said he had no knowledge of such a rider. He suggested it might well be “a figment of someone’s fertile imagination.” He rejected speculation that such a rider was poised in the wings, that it might be the work of someone on his HHS subcommittee.
“If something like that was brewing, I certainly would be aware of it,” he said.
Attempts to reach Sen. Angelle Savage (D-NV), ranking member of a select Medicare subcommittee, were unsuccessful. She has a long record of opposing any such legislation.
A spokesperson for Hygea Corporation, the leading U.S. healthcare conglomerate, denied any knowledge of a legislative rider that would authorize selective euthanasia as an option in the end-of-life treatment of Medicare patients.
They finished the story almost simultaneously, whooped, pounded on his each other’s shoulders, and finally had to calm themselves when they saw security headed their way.
* * *
Dick Abrams stared at the portrait of the President of the United States, then glanced at the folded newspaper on his desk. The Medicare money saver, the big deficit-reducing measure was out the window.
Just a few minutes earlier he got the word— there’d been no last-minute rider. Senator Angelle Savage had not followed through as W.W. had promised. Desisto was finished
And now the dreaded get together with the President was only a few minutes away.
Abrams would go to the Oval Office, sit in a chair with a false smile on his face, sip some afternoon tea, and look hopeful and optimistic. Then he would offer up lame excuses why the promised legislation didn’t make it to the floor for an affirmative vote; make lame promises of a big voter turnabout—the electorate would come to their senses and vote for the incumbent—and tell lame lies about how the President was poised for historical greatness, poised to help every citizen achieve the American dream.
And the lamest action of all would be his enthusiastic report that John Armistead Tyler could still win the coming election and make his adversaries eat cake
Chapter 45
Hygea’s Chicago office was on the line again. Larry Epps had tried to reach Rudge four times on his cell and three times at the office, leaving complicated messages that the CEO ignored.
He’d told his assistant he was unavailable. He wasn’t talking to anybody, not after he saw the screaming banner headline on the Washington News-Sentinel web site.
But it was more than that.
It was supposed to be a slam dunk. All of Hygea was ready. Garrett Rudge had delivered, as promised, and it still went wrong.
Several calls verified the end result. An even more chilling confirmation—W.W. refused to take his calls.
Garrett Rudge’s next stop was not going to be Washington, D.C. It was over.
But Larry wouldn’t stop calling and his assistant said that with all the interruptions, she couldn’t get any work done. Was he mistaken or did he notice a subtle change in her attitude toward him?
Of all the people in the world, Larry was last on the list of those Rudge might want to speak to right now. He needed time to think this through, to regroup, to know what he was going to say and do. But there was no time; he picked up the phone.
“This is Rudge.”
“You must know what’s happened.”
“If you’re referring to this morning’s headline in the Washington News-Sentinel, then, yes, I know what’s happened. If there’s something else on your mind, you’ll have to be less cryptic.”
Larry’s voice turned to ice. “Have you spoken to the other facilities? What we are to do with all the selective euthanasia candidates?
Silence. And more silence.
“Garrett?”
“Has it occurred to you, Mr. Epps, that there’s no final decision as yet? Maybe that could be the reason I haven’t returned your numerous irritating calls. What do you think, Larry?”
What do you think, you son-of-a-bitch!
“I think you better make that decision, Garrett. And make it soon.”
“And what would your decision be, Larry?”
“I’d say we go ahead with our plans and not provide continued expensive care. It’s the only right thing to do.”
Rudge started the set of silver ricochet balls in motion. Click, click, click. “You know, Larry, we do have laws in this country. You might not agree with them, but we are bound by them. Like it or not, we do not act outside the legal system. Is that clear, Mr. Epps?”
“Perfectly.” There was a disconnect. The Chicago office was off the line.
But Rudge saw the writing on the wall. Epps was in, he was out. It was inevitable. It made no difference that he took the high road with Epps; he’d plotted and connived and it had all failed. Come to nothing.
Hygea didn’t like to lose and they would have to hang the blame around somebody’s neck. He could see himself as the obvious candidate. And Larry Epps would probably be the next head honcho, or someone like him
He walked to the mirror in the far corner of his office and stared at himself—his twin sister’s eyes stared back at him.
“You were right, Evelyn: I was being too ambitious, too heartless. And my failure won’t stop them—they came too close to winning this time. They’ll all just sit back and wait for the next best opportunity, and people like Larry Epps and W. Wade Wilson will be there waiting to help them reach their goals.”
* * *
Dr. Terence Emory was standing at the computer in the ICU Nurses’ Station, reviewing patient transfer notes.
“Well, that’s weird,” he muttered to himself.
“What is it?” one of the nurses said, moving in closer.
“Probably nothing.” He pointed to the screen. “Those are your notes, aren’t they?”
“Yes, they are,” the nurse said.
“Della Paoli was showing signs of extremity motion before we sent her to hospice? Are you sure?”
Emory sat down in one of the caster chairs and the nurse sat down next to him.
“She was starting to have movement in her arms. Maybe I should have called you.”
“No shit.”
* * *.
Della was back in a world of sound and motion. A place where machines clicked, alarms and personnel were a constant presence. A nurse came to her bedside; Sarah Silver was etched on her name pin. “How are you Della?” she said, taking her hand. “It looks like you’re doing better.” She smiled. “We wanted to watch you a little closer so we brought you back into ICU. Do you understand?”
Della blinked once for yes.
“I know it’s noisy in here and hard to get any rest. Would you like to have medication to help you get some sleep for awhile? Is that okay with you?”
Della blinked once.
Sarah smiled, pulled a syringe from her pocket, and emptied the contents into Della’s IV line.
* * *
> A warm sensation spread throughout Della’s body. She lightened, lifted until she was spinning round and round and round, floating through daffodils and lilacs, drifting through velvet and taffeta, lost in all the softness, the grandeur.
A blaze of light brought the music. She had to get to it, get to the music.
She ran, pushed hard, burst through wisps of floating dreams.
Please, please, please don’t stop.
Don’t let it end before I can get there.
Louder now. Faster, faster, faster.
And then she was there, twirling, twirling; turning, turning; and singing—lost in the beauty of sound that carried her down, down, down, down into her beloved Gino’s arms. And they danced, danced, danced away; lost in a universe of glittering stars.
Chapter 46
Ted Yost walked slowly up the steps to the front porch of their Sonoma house. He carried their suitcases, filled mostly with dirty clothes, set them down and started to look for his keys.
Mel, a couple of steps behind, walked over to their redwood swing, an old fashioned two-seater. The supporting chains hung from the rafters, a patina of rust covering every loop. The swing moved gently in the breeze. She leaned over and ran her hand across the bright blue and orange striped pad and wiped away the dust.
“I’m glad you didn’t leave Washington while I was in Carson City,” Ted said softly.
Mel reached out for his hand and they both sat down on the swing. They swayed back and forth. Back and forth.
She shifted in the seat and stared at their luggage next to the front door. “I know what you did was important, very important. But right now all I can think about is how everything in our house is torn and wasted. Everything we loved, gone!”
He squeezed her hand. “They’re only things, Mel. Things can be fixed, replaced. What I’m really worried about is us.”
“Me, too.”
She turned to look at their garden—all of her summer flowers were long gone and every plant and shrub looked drowned from the winter rains.
“Everything needs fixing,” she said, “inside and out.”
“I’m here, Mel.”
“Do you know how long I’ve been waiting for you to say that?” She looked at him with sad eyes. “Can’t you see we’re running out of time?”
“I know.”
“You can’t run off and leave me alone, ever again.” Then the rest flew out in a rush before she could stop. “I know killing that legislation was an incredibly important thing to do. And I know how passionate you are about news writing … and I’m so proud of you … so very proud of you … still—”
“I promise, Mel, this time I’m home for good.”
She turned and looked into his eyes. “Can I believe you—”
“I’ll be here from now on, Melissa Yost. From now on it’s the blog, and only the blog … right here from my study. I’ve even been thinking of creating more news features. And this is as good a time as any to ask if you’d like to make it a dual byline? You know, Ted and Mel Yost, or Mel and Ted Yost.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Hell, Melissa, you were a damn good writer, and you’re a whiz at the computer. Why not get back to it? Let’s try something new together. Something fresh. “
A wide smile spread across her face. “You mean it?”
He wrapped his arms around her, drew her close. “Don’t you dare think of leaving me. I can’t live without you.”
She laughed out loud. “We’ll worry about who gets top billing later.”
“Let’s go in and put our lives back together again.”
Her smile faded away. “I don’t want to, Ted. I don’t know if I can handle the broken furniture, torn books, torn pictures, torn memories. And my piano. It’s all I can do to keep from bawling when I think about how totally ruined it is.”
“We’ll fix it, Mel. We’ll fix everything. I promise.”
He stood, offered a hand, pulled her up from the swing. “There’s nothing you and I can’t do together.”
He unlocked and pushed open the front door, then picked up the suitcases and barged in before they could change their minds.
At the end of the foyer, they stopped so fast they stumbled into each other.
The living room was neat, everything returned to normal, like nothing had ever happened.
“What’s going on?” Ted said, peeking into the dining room and kitchen.
Mel ran over and sat down on a new piano stool, tossed off a C major scale from bass to treble, and said, “It’s perfect. I can’t believe it.”
They held hands and tiptoed into their bedroom; everything was back in its place—no slashed mattress, no dresser drawers emptied onto the floor.
They burst into laughter and ran into the kitchen.
On the table was a bottle of Dom Perignon, two crystal flutes, and a note.
Ted ripped open the envelope, Mel read over his shoulder.
It’s the least we could do. CORPS thanks you for everything.
Nathan Sorkin
PS: Now don’t be strangers
-The End-
Acknowledgements
To our exemplary critique group of Margaret (Peggy) Lucke, Shelley Singer, Nicola Trwst, and Judith Yamamoto, who know the very special difference between critiquing and criticizing. Their observations, suggestions, and encouragement have been an integral part of everything we write.
Cover Design: Sue Trowbridge
www.Interbridge.com
About the Authors
Bette Golden Lamb & & J. J. Lamb have co-authored more than a dozen crime novels, plus a few other individual fiction titles as both books and short stories.
Bette is not only a writer, she’s an award-winning painter, sculptor, and ceramist. She’s also an RN and the model for Gina Mazzio, protagonist for their “Bone” medical thriller series.
J. J. has spent his entire career behind a keyboard as journalist, freelance writer, editor, and fiction author, plus, when the occasion demands, he’s a competent jack-of-all-trades.
The Lambs have lived in Virginia, New Mexico, New York, Nevada, and currently make their home in Northern California. If you see them at a writers’ conference, or anyplace else, say Hello!
www.twoblacksheep.us
Other Books By
Bette Golden Lamb & J. J. Lamb
The Gina Mazzio RN Medical Series:
Bone Dry
Sin & Bone
Bone Pit
Bone of Contention
Bone Dust
Bone Crack
Bone Slice
Bone Point
By Bette Golden Lamb & J. J. Lamb:
Sisters in Silence
Heir Today...
By Bette Golden Lamb:
The Organ Harvesters
The Organ Harvesters-Book II
By J. J. Lamb (Zachariah Tobias Rolfe III P.I. Series):
A Nickel Jackpot
The Chinese Straight
Losers Take All
No Pat Hands
# # #
The Killing Vote Page 27
