The Protocol: A Prescription to Die (12 page)

Chapter 28

He looked at his watch. 8:17 pm. He had 9:00 dinner reservations with some chick he’d met online, and he still had one appointment to complete. He made a mental note to go back online to the dating site and double-check her name.

Meghan? Melody? Monica?

Fuck. He couldn’t remember. He pretty sure it started with the letter “M” though. All he knew was that she was seventeen.

He’d worked the logistics out perfectly. He was heading to the Hennepin Convalescent Center, and the restaurant he’d made reservations at was only five blocks away. Carl was the consummate organizer. His last assignment for the night was Matthew Paulson. Age: 13. Room: 4301. Cost: $24,200 per month. ID: 1285-U. Protocol: U.

Carl raised his eyebrows as he read the profile and looked at the orange-haired assignment lying practically lifeless in the hospital bed before him.

He was an expensive little kid.

Evidently he was hit by a car while trying to cross traffic on France Avenue on his bike. He wasn’t wearing a helmet. If his first assignment tonight had been a cabbage, this one was more of a baby carrot.

The government and the insurance company felt that the cost benefit analysis did not provide an adequate return given their projections that he could live as long as another fifteen years in this state, maybe even twenty given adequate technological intervention. It was better to nip this in the bud now, and save the long-term expense.

Carl couldn’t agree more and was more than happy to provide his specialized skills when needed.

He took the last syringe out of his bag and confirmed the ID number.

1285-U.

He had not mixed anything up tonight.

1285-U, unlike the other visits he had made, already had an IV bag attached to his arm, not just an IV port. Carl repeated the pattern that he’d started with the cabbage. He decided that this would be his “signature.” Where some guys might leave a playing card, an exotic bug, or a French fry as death’s calling card, he left a sticky ball of snot. His supply of extra snot was drying up. So he dug deeper. It felt as if he could tickle his brain if he could just press an eighth of an inch further. He pulled a wisp of snot from his left nostril and carefully dropped it onto the tip of the needle.

Very carefully.

Slowly, he inserted it into the bag of saline hanging from the pole attached to the bed and pressed the plunger.

8:29.

He used his phone again to scan the wristband’s barcode and smirked.

He’d made a nice piece of change tonight, and in the process taken a lot of trash out to life’s garbage bin. He’d reward himself and order a bottle of the best red the restaurant had available with the hopes of getting laid later. He hoped they had something as good as Boone’s Farm Strawberry Hill.

His favorite.

In a matter of moments, ten suckers on the government tit would no longer be feeding. Their last expense would be a funeral but that was already accounted for in the cost benefit analysis done by Aequalis, and approved by the HHS Secretary in DC.

And Carl knew all about the “funerals” as he was also the one responsible for the distribution of special garbage bags to various locations throughout the city. He’d be surely seeing them again at the processing facility within a few days.

He’d make sure they were properly frozen.

He had a job to do, after all, and the faster he finished, the faster he was paid.

Chapter 29

Over coffee and croissants the next morning, Eat and Andy developed a plan of attack. They both agreed that information was the cornerstone to solving the mystery. There were three places to start the hunt: his father’s doctor, his father’s home, and with the funeral director who managed his father’s final arrangements.

Thursday was already turning out to be very productive. By nine o’clock that morning, Eat had all of his appointments set.

“The hunt is afoot,” said Eat as Andy tore off a piece of her croissant.

“What?”

Even Eat had to laugh when he realized what he said.

“Sorry. I was channeling Sherlock Holmes. I didn’t mean it that way. I have the appointments set,” he corrected himself.

His first appointment was with Dr. Morgan Fraser. He had been his father’s doctor, and personal friend for more than thirty years. They had served in Vietnam together. Dr. Fraser’s schedule was not easy to wiggle into, but Eat was persuasive, and the fact that the trio used to go fishing once in a while pulled some weight. That meeting was booked for 11:45. Dr. Fraser had to be in surgery by 12:30, so Eat only had his attention for a short amount of his time. He’d agreed to talk while he ate a late lunch in the staff lounge. Before meeting Dr. Fraser, Eat planned on heading to his father’s apartment to see what he could find from any papers his dad had. His last appointment was with the loathsome funeral director. The man who, Eat believed, had given him concrete mix and chicken leftovers, instead of his father’s ashes.

*

Traffic was light on the cross-town expressway, and Eat was able to zip from his loft to his father’s place in fifteen minutes thirty-two seconds. When he opened the door, he half expected his father sitting on his recliner watching ESPN.

At least that’s where Eat
wanted
him to be sitting.

But it was only his ghost and scents of his father.

Old Spice and coffee.

Strong coffee.

Eat tripped over mail that had been pushed in through the door’s mail slot. He had not filled out the form to stop the mail delivery. It was an act of finality he couldn’t bring himself to perform.

Between the pile of unopened mail, and the stack of paperwork on the kitchen table, Eat came across what he was looking for. It added more fuel to an already-raging internal fire.

*

Eat found it difficult to believe what he was reading, but there it was on fancy letterhead written in double-spaced, twelve point, Times New Roman font. It was a letter to his father dating back to eight weeks and four days before he died, stating that his existing insurance policy had been terminated and that he was now required to participate in the new program offered by the government, and managed by a federally funded administrator, Aequalis Health Services. There was nothing for him to accept or reject. Nothing for him to sign.

It just was.

After all of the paragraphs of legal jargon, it politely told Eat’s father that he was scheduled to report for a routine physical in ten days. It instructed him to bring all of his current medications for “assessment and appropriate re-evaluation.” The letter actually had the audacity to say please and even ended with an apparently hand-written thank you and signature.

The letter was signed by none other than Barbara Nordstrom.

Eat put the letter down, and continued scanning the pile of letters. All but one were from Aequalis. The odd letter was the usual beginning-of-the-year-order-magazines-now contest. Apparently he hadn’t won, as Eat didn’t find any million dollar checks. There were two additional Aequalis letters, both postmarked five days before he died, unopened and wedged between the salt and pepper shakers on the kitchen table. The front of the each envelope had a warning printed across the bottom:

“Personal and private. Prosecution and fines up to $25,000 if opened by anyone other than the addressee.”

Eat was touched that they apparently agonized enough about his father’s privacy that they’d actually chase down, prosecute, and fine someone for peeking. Eat imagined the unlucky schmuck sharing a prison cell with some giant fur-chested man with a zillion tattoos who’d murdered five people and eaten their entrails.

“Whatcha in for?”

“I opened a letter from the guv’ment. What’s it to ya?”

Eat tore the letter open with reckless abandon. The document contained the results of his physical. It was virtually identical to the report that Joey showed him that outlined his mother’s situation with numeric precision. It had all of the same results for his blood work. Most were within the normal, Aequalis-approved ranges except, like his mother, his telomeres.

There was a dark rectangle at the bottom of the report. Eat could tell that it was from a black marker. It was a trying to hide a piece of data that his father was apparently not privy to.

Eat held it up to the light.

There it was.

Just like his mother.

His father had also been assigned a protocol.

Protocol U.

Although Eat looked, there wasn’t a definition anywhere in any of the documents that his father had from Aequalis defining the term, Protocol U.

The second page was a list of all of his father’s medications in three columns:

ACE Inhibitor, Generic, Denied, (1) (3)

Beta Blocker, Generic, Denied, (1) (3)

Statin, Generic, Denied, (1) (3)

Anti Coagulant, Generic, Denied, (1) (3)

Acetylsalicylic Acid (Aspirin), Generic, Approved (2)

(** Refer to end of report for explanations **)

Eat didn’t understand all of the medicines his father was taking, but he knew his father had been on these medications for a reason. He’d had his first heart attack two years, five months, and thirteen days ago, and he’d been on these meds ever since. Dr. Fraser had told him they were critical for his survival. Eat had been with his father in the doctor’s office when the doctor had laid everything out and pounded the fear of God, and the pain of another coronary, into his father with the fervor of an ordained Baptist minister. The only thing that had been missing was the slap on the forehead, the fainting, and the echoing howls of “Hallelujah Brother!”

Now some faceless bureaucrat was telling him that these medications, which his doctor had insisted would keep him alive, were no longer needed, and that all he needed was an aspirin. And it couldn’t be brand-name either. Aequalis specifically said generic. Eat referred to the end of the report for the explanations of the numbers.

Instead of twelve-point Times New Roman like the body of the letter, the explanations were microscopic. Even his father, who had wonderful eyesight, would have had trouble reading it.

1. This therapy has been judged to be medically unnecessary.
   
2. Approved for 20 mg or less per day. Generic.
   
3. To appeal the committee’s decision, go to www.aequalishealth.com
   ,
   click on “Customer Claims,” and complete the “Medical Review Board Appeal” form. Please allow up to 60 days for a review and final decision.
   

Eat put this letter and three others that appeared to outline the insurance policy in the folder he brought with him, and then opened the remaining letter leaning next to the salt shaker. Eat had to stifle a laugh. It was a bill from Aequalis for the physical they required his father to obtain.

Eat’s father owed them $199.

Chapter 30

Dr. Morgan Fraser was probably only sixteen inches taller than a leprechaun. Though slight in stature, he had the presence of a bull elephant. In his youth, he had been a Marine Corps doctor who spent four tours of duty in Vietnam. The last tour was the one where Dr. Fraser met Andersen Teague. Now in his mid sixties, he was in private practice, and had been his father’s physician, and friend for more than thirty years. He had a penchant for wearing gaudy, short-sleeved Hawaiian shirts, regardless of the season. Today was no different, as he was emblazoned with red and yellow blossoms and neon green vines that demanded notice. Against his white hair, his shirts were even more brilliant. Eat had always wondered if, because of his size, Dr. Fraser shopped in the boy’s department.

The sleeves were high enough that Eat could still see the assortment of tattoos on his upper arms, as he approached his table. His right arm had a rough image of the Marine Corps logo with Semper Fi written below it. In his more youthful, tighter-skinned days, the tattoo on his left arm was of a beautiful woman named Gloria, his wife. Now, unfortunately, Gloria resembled an octopus that had lost control of its ink.

Dr. Fraser was sitting exactly where he told Eat he would be, the third table by the wall of windows in the hospital’s staff lounge. Technically, Eat wasn’t allowed there, but he doubted that anyone was going to protest, especially since there was no one else in the room. Dr. Fraser appeared to be reviewing reports while pounding down pasta smothered in tomato sauce.

“Don’t know how you do that, Doc.”

“Ha ey do wa?”

The doctor slurped, chewed, and swallowed, then turned his attention to Eat.

“How do I do what?”

Eat pointed at his nose. He had splashed himself with sauce when he slurped that last forkful.

“I don’t know how you eat something like that right before you crack open someone’s chest.”

“Eat, this ain’t fuckin’ nuttin,” he said as he wiped his nose and motioned for him to sit down. “What’s up? You sounded pretty serious on the phone,” he said as he glanced at the clock. “Only have fifteen minutes. Bastards moved things up a bit. Sorry.”

Eat opened the folder, and gave him the Aequalis papers he’d found at this father’s place.

“Can you tell me anything about these by any chance?”

He watched the doctor’s face as he scanned the documents. He furrowed his eyebrows and Eat could sense a storm rising as he put one paper down and picked up another.

“What the fuck is this? They denied his meds? I prescribed those! What’s a fuckin’ telomere anyway?”

Eat knew a rhetorical question when was one thrown out; he shrugged his shoulders nonetheless. The doctor looked back at the reports and, like Eat, held the letter up to the light to reveal what was covered by the black marker.

“What’s this Protocol U bullshit?”

Dr. Fraser’s shirts were not the only things colorful about him, and the words just rolled off of his tongue. He may have retired from the Marine Corps a long time ago, but it had never left his blood or vernacular. Eat pursed his lips and shrugged again.

“Found them at dad’s. Hoping you might shed some light.”

“There’s no medical reason for what they’ve done, not unless they wanted him fuckin’ dead.”

He turned the paper over looking for anything more then shook his head.

“Can’t say I didn’t see it coming though.”

“What coming?”

“This Aequalis bullshit. Government healthcare. I can’t fart without approval from them now. They dictate everything. Looks like the bastards retroactively vetoed everything I did for your father.”

“Didn’t know they could do that.”

“Looks like they can now.” He looked up at the clock and handed the report back. “Eat, I have to scrub up. I’ll see what I can find out and we’ll talk later. Say hi to your mother.” He put his bowl into a plastic bag, patted Eat’s shoulder, and walked through a door marked, “Surgical Staff Only.”

*

Eat thought that while he was still at the hospital, he’d check out the wireless network settings. As expected, it appeared to be set up with minimal security.

Eat smirked. He’d have complete access by the time he put his car in reverse.

“Mr. Teague. Right?”

Eat looked up, surprised that anyone knew him here.

Evidently he was wrong.

It was Barbara Nordstrom.

Eat’s toenails curled. He felt his balls crawl up, and hide behind his lungs. But there she was. She was standing with two men. One was monstrously tall with big ears and sad eyes. The other was a bit taller than Barbara, but looked like he was still battling adolescent acne. He was also missing one of his front teeth. The tall guy seemed to be out of place in the hospital, and should instead be monitoring access to a nightclub, and telling people like Eat that he didn’t have enough class to join in on the fun going on inside. The short guy with the excess grease and facial pus was cocky and dismissive.

“Isn’t this a staff lounge?” She looked around the room trying to be overt about the fact that Eat was not allowed in her domain. This wasn’t territory for the peasantry class like him. Eat was certain that she actually snarled, and even more positive that behind those tight, Botoxed lips, he could glimpse a set of bright, bleached fangs. Luckily, thought Eat, he wasn’t wearing his crucifix or garlic necklace. He was sure she would have poofed into a dust pile before his eyes.

“I was visiting a family friend who just headed into surgery,” he replied.

“Isn’t that what the waiting room down the hall is for?”

“It was a doctor.”

“Oh. Yes,” she looked up at the ceiling. “That must be Dr. Fraser. He should think about retiring, don’t you think?”

Eat shrugged.

“Up to him, I guess. He’s a good doctor.”

This woman was a real gem. Eat tried to hide his surprise that she knew what doctor he’d come to see, but didn’t think he was successful. He could see it in her eyes. The woman apparently knew way more about Eat, than he knew about her. Eat was about to ask how she knew Dr. Fraser, but she had already dismissed him, surely finding the conversation dull at best. She and her cohorts had walked away and were now heading towards a tall rectangular metal box in the corner of the lounge that looked like a vending machine. It had a dispensing tray but didn’t have any spring-loaded trays of candy bars or sodas. There wasn’t a place to insert a dollar bill either, but it did appear to have a place to swipe an ID card.

Eat tried to be nonchalant and act like he was reading an email on his phone, but instead pressed a button that started a small utility he created. It was an exceptional little app that extended the range of the phone’s microphone, amplified, and recorded sounds. As long as the surroundings were relatively quiet, his gadget could pick up a whisper thirty feet away, and make it sound like the people were sitting right next to him. Eat flipped the phone around so the edge with the mike was pointed towards the cabal. To further his act of apparent oblivion to what they were doing, he yawned, stretched, and scratched his head.

Barbara may have thought she knew more about Eat, but he was hoping to turn the tables on her. He had the tools to do it. As he and Andy had said that morning, gathering information was the place to start.

The more information Eat had, the better.