T Wave (5 page)

WEDNESDAY, JULY 11

CHAPTER 10

The following day, Alton and Mallory once again passed the evening with Jacob, David, and Fahima. Shortly after their late-afternoon arrival at the hospital, a nurse appeared to prepare Jacob for a specialized exam.

After an orderly wheeled Jacob out on a
gurney, Mallory turned to David. “What procedure is your dad having?”

“An endoscopy. The docs will stick a camera down his throat to see what’s going on down in the esophagus and stomach. They’re hoping to see exactly how well the stent is working and if there’s any new bleeding.”

“I see. Hopefully, they’ll have some good news.”

The two couples hurried to the cafeteria to grab a bite to eat before Jacob returned from the procedure.

While they ate, Mallory updated her companions on the progress of her drug investigation. She recounted her conversations with Nancy Goins and William Cline, sharing all pertinent details except the names of employees and patients.

“My investigation into the leftover medicine of deceased patients hasn’t turned up any evidence of wrongdoing,” Mallory concluded, “but everybody told me that would probably be the case. They all said it’d be harder to steal the meds of deceased patients than of the living ones.”

“Interesting,” said Alton. “I wouldn’t have guessed that. So what’s your next step?”

“Tomorrow morning I’m going to check the hospital’s purchase orders to confirm they match the pharmacy records. Assuming that doesn’t turn up anything, I’ll head back over to the hospice, probably tomorrow afternoon. I’ll start checking into the records of meds disbursed to patients who
didn’t
die soon afterwards.”

For a moment, Fahima looked at the wall behind Mallory’s head, deep in thought. “When I worked in Gandamak’s Lodge in Kabul, I had to buy alcohol. It was expensive but small, so I was always watching to make sure none of the workers were stealing it. Maybe is the same for the hospice drugs. They are expensive and even smaller than a bottle of whiskey. Maybe one of the workers is taking them.”

In the past, Fahima’s quiet nature had at times led others to underestimate her savvy. Mindful of Fahima’s keen intellect and the help she had rendered in an investigation several months earlier, Mallory asked, “You’ve heard me describe the case. Do you have any ideas? Is there anything else you’d check?”

“I cannot think of anything more than what you are already doing,” replied Fahima, “but I will let you know if I do.”

Shortly after the two couples returned from their meal, Jacob appeared, his test complete. The orderly who wheeled him back into the room was a bit more slovenly in appearance than most, and a two-inch scab ran from the man’s right eye almost to his ear. Nonetheless, he showed expertise and caution while moving the unconscious patient from the gurney back onto the hospital bed.

Jacob awoke from the anesthesia within the hour, grimacing in pain. “Son, can you give me my pills—the ones the nurse brought in just before they wheeled me out for the endoscopy?”

“Sure, Dad.” David looked around but couldn’t locate them. “That’s funny. I thought they were on the nightstand, but I’d don’t see them now. I’ll talk to the nurse about getting some more.”

As he left, Alton and Mallory exchanged perplexed expressions. Mallory leaned close to Alton. “Surely not,” she whispered. “Not here in this room. Someone would have to have some seriously big
cojones
to steal medicine from the father of a Secret Service agent.”

Alton shrugged. “The thief wouldn’t know that. The pills may simply be misplaced, but we can’t rule out a theft, either.”

David returned shortly and leaned over his father. “The nurse is bringing more medicine. You’ll feel better in no time, Dad.”

THURSDAY, JULY 12

CHAPTER 11

The next morning, Mallory called Alton from the hospital.

“Jacob had another endoscopy and an MRI first thing this morning. The lab also ran blood tests. The results just came back.”

“And…?”

“They weren’t good. The esophageal varices haven’t grown any bigger, but results of the blood tests are terrible.” Mallory had difficulty continuing. “Doctor Chupp, Jacob’s doctor, said Jacob has sepsis. His blood is infected and is causing general organ failure. He doesn’t think Jacob will recover.”

For a moment, Alton recounted his own private hell, a place in which he had stood helpless after learning almost all of his Army subordinates had died in a tragic explosion. Perhaps Mallory felt that way too. In the past, she had certainly spoken passionately of feeling helpless when her father had died, and her current tone resonated with sorrow.

After a few moments of silence, Alton responded. “Did Doctor Chupp say what caused the sepsis? Is it a product of the esophageal varices?”

“He didn’t think so. He’s a little perplexed that Jacob has it.”

Alton restrained his frustration over the doctor’s admitted ignorance, knowing such thoughts to be fruitless. “So what happens next?”

“There’s nothing else they can do. They’re going to transfer him to Serenity Hospice at dinner time. Can you come?”

“Yes. I’ll be early.” He ended the call and exhaled slowly.

At the hospice, Alton watched Nurse Corroto, a plump and smiling creature in white scrubs and floral lab coat, wheel Jacob into his room. The faux hardwood floors, floral drapes, and landscape-in-oil over the bed belied the somber purpose of the room. Corroto pulled back the drapes, revealing a screened-in porch with a charming view of the thick woods bordering the property.

“You can call us to wheel your father’s bed onto the porch, if he doesn’t mind the heat,” she said. “The view is best from the second floor, but it’s still quite nice down here
.
” She leaned in towards David. “We have a lot of paperwork that needs to be completed. Could we knock it out now, and then you can focus on being with your dad?”

“Sure,” said David, who appeared to be in a bit of a daze. He and Fahima left with the nurse.

Alton and Mallory kept company with Jacob, recounting some of David’s more humorous Army escapades in an attempt to keep their sick friend cheerful. Before long, though, the combined effects of illness and pain medicines sent Jacob into a deep slumber.

As they waited for their friends’ return, Alton and Mallory heard a commotion in the hall.

“Code—room one-oh-seven!” came a terse announcement over the public-address speakers.

Several staff members rushed past their door. One of them wheeled a cart with medicines and equipment. Alton heard several more shouts from the end of the hall.

In a quarter of an hour, the same staffs members filed slowly back up the hall, their conversations momentarily audible as they passed Jacob’s room.

“I can’t understand it,” a nurse was saying to a bearded man who had briefly stopped by Jacob’s room upon check-in. The man had worn a “Dale Sampson, Physician’s Assistant” badge.

“Was he on monitoring?” asked Dale.

“We don’t monitor patients here in hospice,” replied the nurse.

“Sorry—I meant back at the hospital, before he came here.”

“No. Mr. Thrash was admitted with a tumor of the lower intestine. It was a terminal condition, but it shouldn’t have caused respiratory failure or an MI.”

“Weird.”

The two continued down the hall and were soon out of earshot. Nurse Corroto, David, and Fahima returned to the room several minutes later.

“Sorry for all the hubbub, folks,” said Corroto.

“That’s okay,” said Mallory. “It sounded like the patient didn’t make it.”

“I’m not allowed to discuss details of other patients,” replied the nurse, but grim lines in her countenance betrayed the patient’s fatal outcome.

“Excuse me for asking, but isn’t it unusual to call a code for a hospice patient?” asked Mallory. “It just seems odd that lifesaving efforts would be implemented…here.”

“You’re right, dear. Most of our patients are listed as a “no code”—no lifesaving measures will be attempted if their heart or breathing stops. However, sometimes we have patients we
are
supposed to save, typically ‘respite care’ patients.”

“‘Respite care’?” asked Fahima.

“That means a patient who is normally looked after at home is brought here temporarily so the home caretaker can take a break. Those patients are still terminal but usually aren’t as sick, so they have a longer life expectancy. We’re typically directed to try to save respite care patients, but it’s up to each person or family to decide.”

“Yep,” confirmed David. “That’s part of the paperwork I just filled out.”

“I see. Thanks for satisfying my curiosity,” said Mallory. She turned to David and Fahima. “Are you all hungry? Can I get you some dinner?”

David looked up with a distracted smile. “Um…sure.”

Fahima also replied in the affirmative as she studied her husband with a worried gaze. Neither seemed to give any real thought to the meal. David’s obsession with chili dogs and Fahima’s recent interest in the ubiquitous American cheeseburger couldn’t break through the misery of Jacob’s illness.

“I’ll surprise you,” said Mallory.

“Why don’t I stay here?” asked Alton. “Can you pick me up a little something, too? Anything you choose is fine.”

Mallory departed, and the three friends were left in silence to watch Jacob’s life slowly ebb away. Remembering his own dark times after the Afghanistan bomb, Alton felt grateful for the opportunity to do what he could to assuage the anguish of his friend and former brother-in-arms.

CHAPTER 12

Two days after his brush with death, Scrubs and his wife balanced TV dinners on their laps in the den while watching
Family Feud,
a program Scrubs made a point to watch whenever possible. The phone rang, and—as usual—neither he nor Jeanette moved to answer it.

“Crap,” grunted Scrubs as he eventually lifted himself off the couch. “Who’s calling on the land line, anyway?”

He walked over to the phone and picked it up. “Yeah?”

“It’s me—Leroy.”

“Dude—what the hell happened at your place on Tuesday? You know I got shot, right?”

“Look, I’m sorry, man. I don’t know who those punks were. I never got a look at them. I would ‘a helped you, but as soon as I heard everything going down in my yard, I dove behind the kitchen counter and didn’t come out ‘til they was gone. They shot up the house pretty good.”

“At least it wasn’t your arm and face that got shot.”

“Yeah—true.” Leroy paused. “Look, my buyers are all over me for more stuff. You think you can get some?”

“There’s no way in hell I’m going to your place again, Leroy.”

“You don’t need to. I moved. It got too hot for me. That gang is still there, and the cops was around. Whoever those guys are, they’ll just be waitin’ for the next supplier to try their ambush thing again. I couldn’t stay there.”

“How do I know I can trust you? How do I know you didn’t put those guys up to it?”

“Look, I see why you’re nervous, but I didn’t have no part in that business. We can meet wherever you say, and you can bring someone else if you want to. That’s fine with me. I just need more stuff, man.” He sounded on the verge of panic. “These guys—they’re tough. I don’t wanna keep them waiting too long.”

Scrubs was uneasy with the prospect of meeting Leroy again. Then he considered the overdue mortgage. He didn’t know anyone else who would buy his stuff. It wasn’t like he could ask around at the hospital, and he had already consumed the two pills he had swiped from the patient’s room the previous day.

“Okay,” said Scrubs, “Like you said, only if I get to choose the location. And you won’t know where until it’s time to meet. I’ll call you with the locale.”

“And how soon—”

“I don’t know, man,” cut in Scrubs. “I know you need the stuff. I need the money, too, but Jeanette can only get it when she has the chance. If she gets busted, your supply is cut off for good.”

They ended the call, and Scrubs pondered the financial advantages of somehow stabilizing the supply of patients’ narcotics.

FRIDAY, JULY 13

CHAPTER 13

Before work the next day, Nancy Goins sipped coffee and read the digital version of The Washington Times on her tablet computer. She caught herself scanning the words without the slightest comprehension of what she had just read. Acknowledging to herself that her mind was elsewhere, she decided to abandon the news scroll and devote full attention to her inner dialog.

Dennis…Without realizing she had been on a precipice, Nancy now felt herself falling into a delicious and dangerous abyss of love with no hope of escaping. She didn’t want to escape. She wanted to fall straight into his arms and stay there forever. Last night had been a breakthrough. Now that they had both admitted their mutual desire for a deeper relationship, the constraints Nancy had unconsciously erected to protect herself were swept away, and she admitted her true feelings without reservation. She knew she had to be with Dennis—always.

Despite Nancy’s high spirits, a part of her felt saddened by the dismal state of her marriage. She shook her head as she wondered how it had disintegrated to its current condition. As she traced the course of her marriage, she realized how much her husband had changed. No—not changed. The real change was in her understanding of his true nature, which he had only revealed over time. Before their wedding nearly five years ago, Nancy had been captivated by Ken’s refined manner and gallantry, especially towards her. Within half a year after the ceremony, however, she had begun to understand the fickle nature of his charm: it wasn’t genuine, nor was it reserved for her. Ken used it as a tool to facilitate his goals. If Nancy didn’t possess something he wanted, he saw no need to exert himself and seldom did, becoming cold and indifferent to her.

Eventually, Ken’s indifference had deteriorated into psychological abuse. He began employing a dominating, demeaning manner to keep her in line. As a result of Ken’s neglect and callousness, the bloom of Nancy’s affection had slowly withered away until it was a dried husk, an insubstantial reminder of the love that had once existed. Only anger and resentment remained.

Ken was style without substance, while Dennis stood in marked contrast in almost all respects. Although charming, Dennis lacked Ken’s suave, “sweep-you-off-your-feet” nature. Instead, Dennis was sweet and practical, just as ready to put gas in the car as offer romantic words or flowers. He had a quiet, thoughtful nature, more interested on focusing his attention on others rather than insisting they focus on him. Last week, he had offered to stop by the grocery store and dry cleaners for her on the way to their meeting at Uncle Carl’s Steakhouse. Ken would never stoop to that.

And yet, Ken wouldn’t divorce her. Nancy was absolutely certain of that fact without having to ask him. Ever the control freak and perfectionist, Ken viewed Nancy as an acquisition to be flaunted and manipulated, then returned to the shelf when not needed. He wouldn’t permit a split without repercussions. If Nancy initiated a divorce, would Ken’s verbal abuse turn physical? Would he continue to stalk her later as punishment for defying his will? And would he attempt to harm Dennis as well? All of Nancy’s instincts told her the answer to these questions was “yes.”

Gathering her haphazardly-packed work bag and insulated coffee mug, Nancy climbed into her Rav4 and departed for the hospice. Her mind continued to churn as she drove, pondering how to construct a life with Dennis. She knew there had to be some way to make it happen. She just needed to figure out how.