Although David lived in the same town as Mallory, he nonetheless conversed more regularly with Alton, his closest colleague while in the Army. Normally, David’s conversations consisted of quirky insights into his work assignments and married life. In the current phone call, though, Alton sensed an uncharacteristic seriousness in his friend’s voice.
Alton closed his office door to block out the sound of muted conversations and clacking keyboards drifting in from the cubicles just outside his doorway. “What’s wrong?”
“My dad is in the hospital,” replied David.
Alton remembered the stories David had told in Afghanistan about growing up on a cattle ranch in Wyoming. Most of the stories had centered on the challenges he and his father had overcome—wayward calves, complicated birthings, coyotes on the hunt.
Just over a year ago, Jacob Dunlow had retired from the ranch and moved to Washington, DC to live closer to his son. Alton remembered the cookout he and Mallory had attended in Jacob’s backyard last fall. The string of David’s barbeque apron had caught on fire, and Jacob had laughed until tears had rolled down his face. Alton had difficulty imagining the tough cattle rancher brought low.
“I’m sorry, David. Is it serious?”
“Yeah. He’s had esophageal varices for a few years now. It’s like high blood pressure in the blood veins at the top of the stomach. The doctors thought they had it under control, but he’s taken a turn for the worse.”
“What happened?”
“The biggest risk from varices is that the blood veins under pressure will rupture. The docs put Dad on medicine for high blood pressure when they first diagnosed his condition. They also restricted his diet—no salt, no alcohol, that kind of thing. Dad called me last night. He’s been bleeding internally for a few months. The docs put in a stent—a kind of tube to reinforce the vein—a few months ago, but he’s starting to bleed anyway. They’re not sure if they can stop it anymore.”
“What can the doctors do now?” asked Alton.
“They’re going to try the stent one more time. They weren’t optimistic, though. Last night, they said that if he has any family, now would be a good time to call them. Al…can you come? I know it would mean a lot to Dad.”
“Of course. I’d be honored. David…I’m really sorry. Is there anything I can do for you or Fahima in the meantime?”
“Just come. We’ll all feel better if you’re here.”
“I’ll be there straight away.”
Alton called Jake Hines, President and CEO of Kruptos. After a recent promotion, Alton was now a member of the Executive Board, reporting directly to Hines. Alton explained his friend’s request and made arrangements to work remotely for the next few days. After notifying his team members, Alton hurried to his condo to pack a few essentials. He gathered Buster into his SUV and found himself cruising north on I-85 within the hour.
As he drove, Alton considered the grim task that awaited him. He felt thankful that his friend at least had a good support network. Two months ago, David had married Fahima, a resourceful Afghani citizen he had met during his deployment in Kabul. Alton felt grateful for Fahima’s presence in David’s life, as she was sure to play a key role in maintaining David’s spirits through the trials to come. In addition to the natural ties and fidelity of newly-acquired love, Fahima possessed a unique window into David’s difficulties: her own father had died only a year ago, and the empathy she derived from that experience, as well as her normal compassion, would guide her well as she helped David navigate the turbulent waters that lay ahead.
As he cruised up the interstate, Alton called Mallory to bring her up to speed.
“I’ll be glad to see David and Fahima,” said Mallory, “but not so glad about the circumstances. First Fahima’s dad died last year, and now this.”
“I know. I feel so helpless. Really, what can we really do to alleviate their grief?”
“Just being there is the best thing we can do for them,” said Mallory. “That reminds me…what hospital is Jacob in?”
“Let me check my notes…Stokely Memorial.”
“Weird—that’s where I am now. I’m working that drug case I told you about last weekend.”
“That will be convenient, at least,” said Alton.
“Yeah—for sure. When will you be here?”
Alton checked the travel app on his phone. “Not until ten p.m.”
“I’m going to go visit Jacob and David for a few minutes and then run home for a little while. Let me know when you’re close, and I’ll meet you in the main lobby.”
“Okay—thanks, Hon.”
Alton pocketed his phone and sighed, a wave of melancholy washing over him.
As promised, Mallory was sitting in one of the lobby chairs when Alton arrived at Stokely Memorial Hospital. They exchanged a quick kiss and turned towards the lobby elevators, shared worry for their mutual friend overshadowing the pleasure of their unexpectedly-early reunion.
Alton felt the weight of his friend’s sorrow. For a moment, he recalled the old sense of dread, helplessness, and despair he had experienced when the explosion in Afghanistan had killed the majority of soldiers under his command. He once again lifted a silent prayer of thanks for Mallory’s timely intervention in that dark period of his life, and he hoped David would find an equal solace in Fahima. As he made his way to the elevator, the intensity of his feelings passed, but the shadow of the emotions lingered.
The couple stepped off the elevator onto the fifth floor. They turned left and entered the section of the hospital in which Jacob Dunlow rested. A small “Gastrointestinal Disorders” sign appeared over the double doors leading into the wing.
They entered Jacob’s room and discovered David and Fahima already there.
“Remember when El Loco kicked Clyde in the family jewels?” David was asking his father. “He limped for three days and told everyone it was saddle sores.”
Jacob shook his head and emitted a wheezing laugh. “That was a hoot. His leg was purple for a month, too.”
Alton and Mallory stepped up to the bed and exchanged heartfelt embraces with their friends.
“Thanks for coming,” said David. “I’m glad you’re here.”
Fahima grasped her husband’s hand and nodded in agreement.
“You know it,” said Alton, resting his hand on David’s shoulder. “I want to be here.”
Mallory shared her special brand of sympathy and cheer, and Alton noted the spirit of the room becoming a little less somber. As Alton studied Jacob’s prostrate form, he struggled with his helplessness in the face of his friend’s grave condition. Alton decided the best gift he could give Jacob was a final confirmation that his son was a man of honor, a man who would continue the traditions Jacob himself had established. With this goal in mind, Alton pulled up a chair and regaled Jacob with stories of David’s friendship and courage in Afghanistan. Mallory seemed to sense Alton’s design and skillfully recounted the occasion on which David had rescued her and Alton from an ambush at a seedy hotel in Virginia, saving their lives. Fahima as well described David’s unwavering friendship and round-the-clock efforts to free her from a band of Al-Qaeda kidnappers in Kabul. Jacob acknowledged the stories with all the fatherly enthusiasm and pride Alton could have hoped for.
The four friends talked well past the official visiting hours. Eventually, Jacob’s nurse chased off Alton and Mallory but allowed David and Fahima to remain.
“Will you be able to visit them tomorrow while I’m working?” Alton asked Mallory as they wound their way through hospital corridors on their way to the parking deck.
“Sure. I’ll be in the hospital for another day or two anyway for my drug case. I’ll just slip up here in the morning and again in the afternoon. And I’ll be here when you visit in the evening, of course.”
Alton nodded and slipped his hand into hers, pleased but not surprised. Mallory was always cognizant of the needs of others and knew exactly what needed to be said and done. It was one of her most
defining qualities. Unfortunately, it was a skill she would be putting to use more than usual in the coming weeks.
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 c
all 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.
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