The Society

by Michael Palmer

  “I can manage. How about yours?”

  “The right one where I stepped on the glass is starting to kill, but I can handle it. The sneaks are a godsend.”

  “And they really look good on you, too.”

  As rapidly as they could manage, they pushed deeper and deeper into the forest. At one point early on they both heard voices, but those quickly died away. Soon, there was only silence, intense darkness, and the damp chill of night. After an hour, they sank down at the base of a tree and held each other.

  “Should we keep going, or try to wait until morning?” Will asked.

  “I don’t mind resting for a bit, but I think we should push on. Halliday has a big meeting in the morning. He spoke about it when he thought I was in a coma. A number of companies are going to sign themselves into a merger with Excelsius. The way corporate lawyers operate, these sorts of business dealings are much easier to stop before they happen than they are to untangle afterward. If we can’t stop it, Halliday may not only get away with murder, but he’ll get away richer than ever.”

  “I see what you mean. We really have no proof of anything. We may not even be able to find our way back to the farmhouse.”

  “I think with a chopper we’ll be able to, but I’d be surprised if Hollister and Sanderson and the rest didn’t have the place cleaned up by then.”

  She sighed.

  “What? What?”

  “I have a feeling it’s going to come down to our word against Halliday’s. Without those X-rays we don’t have much in the way of hard evidence. I suspect the fake slides have already been taken care of, and the pathologist who cooperated with Hollister and Newcomber dealt with one way or another. So at the moment, there’s nothing tangible to connect Excelsius and Halliday to the killings, or even to the breast-cancer scam.”

  “We’ll come up with something,” Will said. “That bastard isn’t going to get away with what he’s done, even if he wasn’t the one who pulled the trigger. Come on. If you’re up for it, let’s keep going.”

  Will helped Patty to her feet, then kissed her softly.

  “You’re right,” she said. “One way or another we’ll get him. Just the same, I hate that we don’t have one hard piece of evidence. . . . Will? Will, are you all right? What did I say?”

  Will was smiling down at her in an I-know-something-you-don’t-know way. He had just brushed his hand across his pants pocket and remembered, for the first time since Roxbury, what he had thrust in there. He slid his hand into the pocket and slowly withdrew the creased, damp, sweat-stained letter Charles Newcomber had sent him in the envelope of mammograms. He had no doubt that it contained the link between Halliday and the cancer scam.

  “Merry Christmas, Sergeant,” he said.

  Bullock and Carruth, widely referred to as B&C, had been the brightest star in the Boston legal firmament for 150 years. Ed Wittenburg, in his twenty-fifth year with B&C, was the senior partner in charge of acquisitions and mergers. Now, he looked across the fortieth-floor conference room, past the massive floor-to-ceiling windows with their grand view of the harbor islands, and silently asked Halliday when the show was going to get under way.

  Janet Daninger was worried. She had come over to Excelsius Health along with Halliday and Gold after Halliday had been wooed away from Bowling Green Textiles to become the new CEO. Marshall Gold had been his executive assistant at Bowling Green, just as he was now. It was absolutely out of character for Gold to keep his friend waiting—especially for a meeting as significant as this one, which represented the pinnacle of Boyd Halliday’s career to this point. Janet smiled inwardly at the objections from those who initially opposed his appointment as CEO by pointing out that successfully repositioning a textile manufacturer did not necessarily translate into dealing with the highly competitive and volatile managed-care industry. How wrong they had proven to be.

  “Try once more, Janet,” Halliday said. “I think we’ve got to get going. It’s just that Marshall did so much to ensure that this day came to pass, it seems only fitting that he should be here.”

  He turned to the twenty men and women seated a comfortable distance apart from one another around the massive mahogany table. In front of each of them was an elegant name plate with their name and the name of the company they would be bringing into the Excelsius family. Premier Care, Unity Comprehensive Health, Steadfast Health, Coastal Community Care. In front of each of the attendees was an inch of documents, flagged where signatures would be needed. Beside those documents was a glossy brochure, trumpeting the new corporation: Excelsius National Health.

  “When ENH stock comes out,” Halliday had told Janet with a wink, “I recommend you have those in your family buy a share or two.”

  Now he fidgeted for another minute, until he sensed the increasing restlessness of those in the room, then he cleared his throat and stepped to the table. Over more than a decade together, he and Marshall Gold had functioned as a unit, with virtually no philosophical or professional differences. Marshall’s missing a meeting as monumental as this one would be a first.

  You’d better have a damn good reason.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, I’m sorry for the slight delay. I was waiting for Marshall Gold, my executive assistant, whom I believe most of you know. He’s tying up some loose ends relative to this meeting, and I’m sure he’ll be here shortly.” He took a deep, proud breath. “And so, without further ado, it’s time for us to make history. By the time we adjourn this meeting, each of us will be an important part of one of the largest, most influential health-care delivery companies in the nation, indeed, in the world—Excelsius National Health. The two-thousand-dollar custom-made diamond and gold Diablo de Cartier fountain pen on top of each stack of documents will be your souvenir of this day, but another pleasant and constant reminder of it will also be your bank accounts.”

  The laughter from around the room was generous.

  “Now, then, if you will each take your pen and refer to item one, we—”

  The elegant double doors at the far end of the conference room swung open.

  Welcome, Marshall, Halliday almost exclaimed. Instead, he watched in stunned silence as Will Grant and Patty Moriarity stepped shoulder-to-shoulder into the room. They were showered and dressed in clean, casual clothes, but nothing could hide the fearsome bruising covering their faces. Will’s left eye was completely swollen shut, and his hands were bandaged. Patty’s eyes were enveloped in violet, with gentian streaks running down her cheeks and over her jaw. Both were limping.

  Moments after they entered the room, a third person followed—a tall, distinguished man, marching ramrod straight, wearing the uniform of a colonel in the state police. Tommy Moriarity remained there, unmoving, as Patty and Will split apart and slowly rounded the massive table, giving each of the people seated there a slow close-up of the battering they had taken. When they reached Halliday, Patty handed him a folded piece of paper . . . then another.

  “Boyd Halliday,” she said, “this is a warrant for your arrest.”

  “On what charges?”

  “The DA is just getting started on those, but the one you have in your hand is for fraud and accessory to murder. I can promise you that there will be others. The fraud part is outlined in that letter from a certain radiologist at the Excelsius Cancer Center.”

  “Would you like us to add copies of these documents to those already in front of your business associates?” Will asked.

  Boyd Halliday raised himself up and stared stonily out the window.

  “That won’t be necessary. Ed, will you come here, please, and make certain these people don’t violate any of my rights.”

  No one around the table moved as Ed Wittenburg held whispered conversations first with Patty, then Halliday. Finally, he stepped aside as Patty handcuffed Halliday’s wrists behind him and led him from the room, joined at the doorway by her father.

  Will, bracing himself on the back of a chair, turned and faced the others.

  “I hope mo
st if not all of you are completely in the dark about what is happening here,” he said. “In time, much will become clear to you. For now, all I can say is: The stakes in the struggle between organized medicine and managed care have just gone up considerably. None of us should be taking care of the health problems of others until our patients’ or clients’ concerns come before our own. I challenge each of you to go back to your companies and figure out just how to put those words into practice. Oh, and meanwhile, feel free to keep your souvenir pens.”

  EPILOGUE

  Chicago

  Ten months later

  Winter sun glistened off the surface of Lake Michigan and the new, powdery snow that blanketed much of the city. Physicians, more than 25,000 of them, streamed across neatly shoveled walks and into McCormack Place South on the vast convention campus. The healers, including several thousand chiropractors and hundreds of optometrists and podiatrists, represented every specialty and medical organization, as well as every state. Organized by the Hippocrates Society, the gathering was unprecedented in its spirit of cooperation and its mission, which was to carve out the framework of a single-pay, national health-insurance plan and to back up its demand for implementation by Congress with the threat of a slowdown or even a general strike.

  “It’s going to happen,” Will said. “Can you believe it, it’s gonna happen.”

  “Thanks to you.”

  Patty tightened her grip on his arm and led him over to a spot where they could look out across the lake.

  The magnitude and cruelty of Excelsius Health’s perfidy had galvanized physicians in ways that had previously been unimaginable. Almost overnight, chapters of the Hippocrates Society sprang up in cities across the country, and membership swelled. The AMA threw the force of its 260,000 members behind the search for a solution to the crisis. A widely publicized and completely televised congressional hearing uncovered unacceptable business practices on the part of a number of health-care provider companies. Patients and physicians at the hearing were joined on the witness stand by employees of a number of those companies, suddenly anxious to share shortcuts they had encountered that adversely affected patient health. Subsequent to that, a significant number of congressional seats had gone to candidates advocating immediate action on revamping the health-care delivery system toward federal control.

  Meanwhile, desperate corporations were quickly restructured. CEOs were replaced. Other officials simply took off, some of them absconding with tens of millions in ill-gotten profits. Sentiment against continuing the status quo in health care grew like a tidal wave. The uninsured middle class became martyrs to the cause of change.

  The Society national steering committee, charged with organizing the Chicago conference, had originally planned for ten to fifteen thousand attendees. Twenty-five thousand was beyond anyone’s wildest imagination, but adjustments had been made.

  “I really love Chicago,” Patty said dreamily.

  “And I really love . . . Chicago, too.”

  “You know, I hope the day you realize you’re not very funny isn’t too hard on you.”

  “Okay, that’s it. I’ve taken enough verbal abuse. If you don’t think I’m funny, then the wedding’s off.”

  “You can call it off if you want, but you’re going to have to tell my father.”

  “On second thought, I think I’ll opt for the verbal abuse.”

  “Wise move.” Patty guided him back toward the convention center. “I just wish your old partner, Susan, could be here with us. She worked so damn hard in the interests of better health for all.”

  “Especially for folks like Charles Newcomber.”

  “Ah, yes. And let’s not forget all those women from Steadfast Health whom she helped to experience the joys of learning they had cancer and undergoing surgery and chemo. God, but I wish that bullet I fired at her had actually gone where I was aiming.”

  She pointed to the center of her chest.

  “What goes around, comes around,” Will said. “It ain’t over.”

  “I hope not, baby, but take it from a cop, bad guys do get away.”

  And Susan Hollister had most certainly vanished.

  Even with lawyer Ed Wittenburg’s help, it had taken the state-police chopper most of the day to locate the farm. When they finally did, Susan was gone. There were bullets and bullet holes everywhere, but the bodies of the torturer Krause and Marshall Gold and his man Watkins were gone. The farmer and his wife were questioned extensively and threatened with charges, but neither caved in, and they were ultimately sent back to their farmhouse.

  The Excelsius pathologist who had been paid to cooperate with Hollister and Newcomber by labeling cancerous slides with the names of women who were “given” breast cancer agreed to a plea bargain, which helped to send Boyd Halliday to prison, though not nearly for as long as Patty and Will felt he deserved. The pathologist’s statement also led to the indictment in absentia of Hollister. The lawsuits from patients were just beginning, but soon after Halliday’s arrest, Excelsius Health was dissolved. It would be years before the finances of the conglomerate were untangled and settlements awarded. In addition to the individual suits, Augie Micelli was assisting a top Boston law firm in a class action against the former health-care giant.

  It was the opening session of the four-day Consortium for Effective National Health-Care Coverage, and the vast convention hall was rapidly filling up for the keynote address, to be delivered by Diana Joswick, a Texas anesthesiologist and the recently elected president of the Hippocrates Society. A banner proclaiming AFFORDABLE HEALTH CARE FOR ALL stretched across the wall behind the dais. The atmosphere was electric. Will had tried to decline the Society’s request that he be seated on the dais with Joswick and other notables, citing his resignation for personal reasons from all but general membership in the organization. In the end, though, for the sake of unity, he demurred. At his request, seats in the center of the third row had been set aside for Patty and Augie Micelli.

  “There’s Augie,” Patty exclaimed, pointing.

  Will followed her into the row and settled temporarily into an empty seat next to hers. Micelli, much lighter and healthier-looking than he had been the day he first met Will, was beaming.

  “This is a bigger happening than frigging Woodstock!” he gushed. “Talk about making a difference. You two have changed the world.”

  “Let’s not get carried away, Augie.”

  “Who’s getting carried away?”

  “You look great,” Patty said. “How many pounds?”

  “Nineteen and three-quarters, but who’s counting? It’s amazing what cutting alcohol out of your diet can do for the old waistline.”

  “How long has it been?”

  “Since I left for rehab? Eight months tomorrow.”

  “Has it been hard?”

  “Reasonably, but I’m still not ready to cave in. I keep telling myself that anyone who can come up with as much fentanyl solution as I did in as short a time can stay away from a drink for a day at a time. All those AA people I used to make fun of have helped, too.”

  “In time, maybe you’ll consider going back into practice.”

  “Not until this mess is straightened out I won’t.” Micelli gestured toward the banner. “Plus I still have some big-league suin’ to do.”

  “Medicine’s ready for you as soon as you’re ready for it,” Will said.

  “Go, they’re waving for you up there,” Micelli replied.

  “I still don’t feel comfortable being—”

  “Just go!”

  Will took his place on the dais. He had been reasonably prepared for his introduction, in which he was presented as a physician whose courage, spirit, and dedication defined what the Hippocrates Society was all about. What he was not prepared for was the ovation—25,000 standing spontaneously and applauding, whistling, and shouting out for fully two minutes. Below him, Patty was beaming and laughing out loud at his discomfiture.

  Finally, the tribute subsided a
nd Diana Joswick was introduced.

  “Never in our history,” she began, “have our medical students and residents been better prepared for the rigors of taking care of patients. But ironically, never has the care their patients are receiving been poorer. Hospitals are no longer safe, accessible havens for the ill and injured. Getting admitted to one is often more difficult than getting into an Ivy League college. Cost of care has become our standard of care. The stethoscope and careful physical exam have been replaced by paperwork and excessive documentation. And all of this for only one and a half trillion dollars a year—many, many times what the very effective and accessible Canadian health-care system costs.

  “Health care in America, the most affluent and resource-blessed nation in the history of the world, is a disgrace, and expecting change to come from insurance executives, who are the oilmen of medicine, is just not going to cut it. That is like asking the fox to build improvements in the chicken coop. It is time, my friends, to step forward and be heard. It is time to step forward and be counted. It is time we made health care something other than an oxymoron.”

  Applause reverberated throughout the cavernous hall, as it would again and again throughout her forty-minute address.

  Five thousand miles to the south, in a barrio of the village of Talavera, in the state of Guaira, in south central Paraguay, the assassin sat slumped on a rickety wooden bench near the corner of a cantina, asleep to all appearances. In truth, beneath the broad brim of her straw hat, her dark hawk’s eyes were open a slit and fixed on the doorway of the building across the street—Clinica Médico.

  Beneath her loose cotton robe, her right hand, inside a rubber glove, was loosely wrapped about a snub-nosed .38. Not daring to try to bring a gun into the country, she had settled for the best the shopkeeper in Asunción had to offer. The pistol, which he said was Russian, felt cheaply made, and the price was inflated, but no matter. He had let her fire it at some bottles, and her plan called for only close-range shots—very close range. The .38 would be enough.