He ran his hand over his cherrywood desk. Thomas Kincaid paintings decorated the wall. He’d paid thousands of dollars for each, assuming the serene images would help soothe rough consultations with anxious patients. They never did.
The window of his sixth floor office looked over the verdant canyon behind the hospital. A stream trickled through the bottom, and the sun glinted off the clear water.
How much money had he made at this hospital? How intimidating would it be for a thirteen-year-old girl to come in and ask for a simple blood test? Nichole lived in the squalid town of Hailey. Her father had very little money. He worked hard for his meager paycheck while Slate collected six figures a year. How difficult would it be for the socio-economically strapped denizens of Hailey to walk into the heart of opulence? How much humility would it require? How many refused medical attention out of spite? He couldn’t blame them.
Nichole and others like her needed a free clinic where personnel asked few questions and ensured confidentiality. Something like that cost a lot of money.
* * *
The last time he saw his daughter, she was eight years old and playing soccer. He’d driven her to the Saturday afternoon game in his silver BMW, her bag of equipment in the trunk. He packed waters and apples for the team.
She couldn’t have been cuter in her blue shorts and jersey with the big white “8” in the middle. Her smile lacked both upper lateral incisors, but could still warm him on a cold Newland evening. The sheer, trusting joy broke his heart. She didn’t know about the trouble he’d had with her mother, and he wouldn’t tell her. He couldn’t shatter her joy, her trust. He only hoped his wife wouldn’t follow through on her threat to leave him.
After three hot hours in the sun, he drove his daughter and her friend home. They ran upstairs the minute they arrived, and Malcolm found his wife in the kitchen. She sat at the table drinking a rum and coke. “Not even noon yet. Little early for that, don’t you think?”
“Don’t you dare lecture me, Malcolm Slate. You have no room to talk.”
He sat down across the table from her. “I’ve already apologized for that. I made a mistake and I wish I could take it back. She’s transferred to a hospital in Eve’s Horn. I won’t see her again. You know that.”
“A mistake you made six times.”
He put his hands up. “Can we do this quietly, please? I understand you’re still mad at me. I don’t blame you. I deserve your anger. But let’s not ruin our daughter’s life because I made a mistake.”
“Oh please.” She swallowed the last of the drink and left the table. “I’m going to my sister’s.”
“You’re not driving there.”
“I’ll walk, you self-righteous hypocrite.”
Malcolm rolled his eyes, but walked her to the door. “I’ll be here when you get back, okay? We can talk more about counseling, okay?”
“I don’t need counseling.”
“But I do, and I want you to know I’ll do whatever it takes to make up for my mistake and keep this family together.”
“Should have thought about that before you got friendly with your nurse.” She slammed the door behind her.
When he came home from the hospital the next day, his wife and daughter were gone. She’d not left a note.
He called her sister, but she insisted his wife hadn’t mentioned anything about leaving. He called her mother, her father. No one knew where she’d gone.
He held his breath as he went into his daughter’s room. Her posters hung on the wall, but her dresser and closet were bare.
Feeling the wind flee him, he dropped to his knees by his daughter’s bed, still unmade, the pink comforter kicked down, the sheets untucked, and cried on the hard wood floor. That night, he slept in his bed with her comforter and pillow.
* * *
Could his daughter turn into Nichole? Under what little drunken supervision she got from her mother, the chances were good. And if she did, there would be places she could go in Vegas. She’d be smart enough, educated enough, to find the help she’d need. It’s something Nichole might never have.
No one would open a clinic in Hailey, not on their own. He’d have to convince his friends and family to help raise funds, maybe work the clinic part-time. He tried, but each phone call ended in disappointment.
Slate listened to their list of excuses: They’re crooked, it’s dangerous, they’re degenerates; they’re strung out on meth and whatever else they can get their hands on. He didn’t agree, but he understood their perception. One particularly unkind colleague referred to the populous of Hailey as “carriers,” as if they were animals.
Still, he refused to be dissuaded. The people of Hailey needed a clinic. For once, he’d be on the front lines of medicine. He’d do community outreaches on drugs and addiction and rehabilitation options, on contagious diseases and preventative medicine. But he needed money.
He gave up on friends, family, and possible partnerships with colleagues and devoted his time to local, state, and national grants. His good credit afforded him a sizeable loan to cover the rest of the start-up costs. In the year and a half it took to open the clinic, Slate had no more than four hours of sleep each night. He didn’t mind. He had a purpose, a calling even, and nothing would stop him. Nothing but money.
* * *
“You look distracted.” Adam scratched his arm. His red nose, flat and round, sat in the middle of his face like a cupcake.
Slate pressed a stethoscope to Adam’s bare back. “Breathe in for me.”
Even with the loan and the grants and the money he put in from his own savings, Slate found himself short on operating costs each month. Free clinics didn’t operate for profits, and often lost money. Hailey was financially devastated; it proved to be more of an economic drain than Slate anticipated. He worked long into the nights searching for more grants, but could never find enough. Worse, his inability to stay current on technology or to hire new doctors disqualified him from many of the continuing grants.
“Lungs sound a bit better. I’d still like to see you explore those tobacco-quitting options we talked about last time.” He set Adam’s chart on a stack of bills.
Adam sat on the brown padded exam table. The paper wrinkled and crinkled under his shifting weight. He scratched his cheek, then behind his ear. His eyes shot around the room as if he’d never been there, as if he were a detective hunting for clues.
Slate asked, “What seems to be the trouble today?”
“Just the back again.”
“You’ve been resting?”
“Yeah. Need some more meds is all.”
He checked Adam’s chart. “You just got some, what, a week ago?”
Adam frowned. “I kinda lost that bottle.”
“You lost it?”
His fidgeting became more agitated. “Can I get some Percocet?”
Slate had prescribed Percocet before he realized Adam had issues with other drugs. By that time, he worried it was too late. He spoke firmly. “What you’re asking me to do is illegal.”
“It’s not like that, Slate. You know me.”
“That’s the problem.” He closed Adam’s chart.
Adam jumped up, grabbed his yellow shirt and winced as he put it on. “I’m dying here, man. Can’t you do something?”
Slate shook his head. “It’s not worth my license.”
Adam rushed in front of the door leading back to the lobby. “I have money.”
Slate arched an eyebrow. “What are you getting at?”
“I’m saying you give me some papers, and I give you some. It’s a trade really. We both win. I never say anything, you never say anything. No one ever knows.”
Slate said nothing for a time. He picked up the stack of bills and slipped them into his pocket. “How many papers are you suggesting?”
* * *
It’d been months since he’d let Adam pay for his prescription. In that time, he’d seen more patients than normal. Paying patients.
Each time guilt ran up his throat, he thought of Nichole, who died weeks before the clinic opened. He swallowed his guilt and let it fester in his stomach as his pen scrawled another prescription.
He’d helped the elderly, the poor, the young, frightened teens since the clinic opened, and thanks to his paying patients, he could help more. The clinic didn’t have to close. The thought should comfort him. Instead, his conscience and guilt swarmed him like so many bees.
Inside the office, he paid bills and thanked God that creditors didn’t ask where his money came from.
He yawned as he walked into Exam Room One. He didn’t recognize the young patient who waited for him. The man couldn’t be more than twenty-two. Well-built, healthy. He wore a white shirt and jeans with holes in both knees.
“Morning,” he said. He looked over the patient’s chart. “Xavier, is it? French?”
“Only in name.” The man smiled with yellow teeth. His unkempt hair shone black under the lights. He spun his wedding ring on his finger. Yellow stained his fingers, a trait of chain smokers.
“What can I help you with today?”
The man leaned forward and whispered, “Couple of friends said I could score some Percs here.”
Slate raised his eyebrows. “Sounds like you need new friends. Percocet is a powerful pain medication. It’s not Advil.”
“I have money. If it helps, I need it for my neck. I was in an accident a year ago and my neck’s been messed up ever since.”
“Mind if I look?”
Xavier shook his head.
Slate did a cursory inspection of the neck. No major damage. No bruising or breaks. Alignment looked fine. “Necks can be tricky. Who’s your normal doctor?”
“Don’t have one.”
“Who did you see after your accident?”
“Don’t remember. It was a year ago. Just someone in the hospital. He wrote me a prescription for Percocet and I’ve been taking it ever since. But now he won’t fill it anymore. It’s not like I’m an addict or anything.”
Slate sighed. He read over the chart again. “Considered chiropractic? Acupuncture? They might help.”
Xavier leaned back. “Chiropractors suck, and I don’t do needles.”
The story matched the chart, but something didn’t feel right. “What did you say you did for a living?”
“The quarry. Gotta have a good neck and back for that kind of work.” He pulled his wedding ring off, then slipped it back on. He didn’t make strong eye contact. Was he lying?
“Ever been in law enforcement?” Slate asked.
The man shook his head.
Slate leaned against the wall and crossed his arms. “How bad do you need it?”
“About two hundred dollars bad.”
Slate closed his eyes and sighed. “Percocet can be addictive. Make sure to take it exactly as directed. If you OD, it could kill you. If you take it too long, it can hurt your liver. If I write this, you have to promise me you’ll not take too much and you’ll start to wean yourself off of it. It’s pretty strong and you really should be off it now. Try supplementing with some basic ibuprofen or aspirin.”
Xavier smiled. “Thanks, man. You don’t know how much this means to me.”
Slate turned around, pulled a prescription pad from a locked cabinet, and scrawled the appropriate dosage. When he signed his name, Xavier yanked Slate’s arm behind him. Something cold and hard clicked around his wrist. He tried to pull away, but Xavier yanked his arm up. Pain shot through his elbow and shoulder and he fell forward face-first into the cabinets suspended from the ceiling. Another click and both his hands were fastened behind his back. “What in the world?”
Xavier spoke in a firm voice. “You have the right to remain silent.”
Chapter 30
Wednesday, September 9th
“And that’s it?”
“That’s it,” Slate said. “Funny thing is, since they arrested me, I’ve been sleeping a lot easier.”
Made sense. He no longer had to worry about guilt. “Every cloud, I suppose.”
He smiled. “I knew you’d understand.”
My heart hurt for him. Had anyone given as much of themselves to Hailey as Doctor Slate? He’d thrown himself into the town; he did a thankless job and risked his own well-being for those in the town.
I lowered my voice and leaned forward. “Here’s what I don’t get. Seems like the cops don’t care if the people out there live or die. Why would they care about you writing illegal prescriptions?”
“I wondered that myself.” He licked his lips. “I’m not proud of it, but I remember thinking at one point that the cops didn’t care what happened out in Hailey, so it was safe for me to do what I was doing. But mostly, it helped me keep the doors open. That’s all I wanted. I can’t tell you how many teenagers came in to get regular checks, who picked up pamphlets on protecting themselves, who were able to get treatments without question. I saved lives, Mr. Reedly.” He paused. “Maybe that was the issue. They didn’t like me saving the lives of the people of Hailey.”
“Ever write prescriptions for people living in Newland or Eve’s Horn?”
He switched the phone to his other ear. He’d done this numerous times throughout the interview, and I wondered if he had a bad neck.
“None I recall. They wouldn’t make the drive out to Hailey for medical treatment, even if they wanted a prescription. There are more than enough doctors in those cities to give them what they want. They wouldn’t have to come to me.”
I checked my watch. The morning had moved to afternoon. I wondered about Nadine and Mason. I wanted to call them, to check on them, but didn’t want to leave if I could get more information from Slate.
“Want to talk about anything else?” He sounded hopeful.
“Can’t think of anything off the top of my head.”
“You came all this way just to talk to me?”
I shifted in my seat. “Not just you, exactly. I’ve been collecting articles on different people in Hailey.”
“Sounds like an odd assignment. Who thought of it?”
I paused, ran through different answers to his question, and settled on the most honest and most vague.
“My wife had something to do with it. Nadine grew up in Hailey. She’d seen some bad press about it and wanted people to know it wasn’t all bad.”
“Must be a good woman.”
“The best.”
“Who else are you interviewing? Anyone I know? I might be able to make a suggestion.”
I smiled. “A suggestion would be fantastic.”
“Just a second.” He looked to the guard. Like with Greg, I tried my best to read his lips.
More time? Thanks. “Did you speak with Veronica Milburn or Nick Ulin?”
“Got ‘em. Also got Mason Becker, Aida Mitchell, Greg Becker …”
“Greg Becker?” Surprise shot the words.
“I heard his story. It’s a little tougher to spin that one, admittedly.”
He nodded and switched the phone to his other ear. He crossed his legs. “Still hard to believe he and Mason came from the same family. I can’t imagine Mason hurting anyone, but Greg, he did a number on that other kid.”
“The kid was no shining role model.”
“Maybe not, but he never killed anyone.”
I decided not to pursue the conversation further. I didn’t want to violate Greg’s confidence and had no desire to spend any additional time defending the killing of a seventeen-year-old kid, no matter how bad he was. Instead, I continued the list, “Caleb Harper, Bernard Wellington, Alex Paspaloff, and you make nine.”
/> “Never heard of the others, except for me of course.”
“Interesting people.”
“What about Adam Vivaldi?”
“Same Adam in your story?”
“That’s him.”
“Hadn’t heard his name mentioned. Is he good for an interview?”
He licked his lips again. “Great story, that Adam. Gets a little sad at the end, but it sure starts off with a bang.”
“That a fact?”
“Let me get you his number. Tell him I told you to call. He’d probably be more than willing to talk.”
“I’d appreciate it.”
* * *
The hail worsened as I turned back onto 29. The temperature dropped like a breaking fever. I turned the heater up, warmed my hands by the vents. The weather would be more appropriate in Colorado in September, but not in the California desert.
I called Adam, who sounded surprisingly pleased to hear from me. “Any friend of Slate’s,” he’d said. “Stop by anytime.”
“How’s now work for you? I’m on my way.”
“Place is a mess, but don’t let that stop you.”
“I never do.” I wanted these articles done. After this I could stay with Nadine full-time and plan our next steps, which might just be packing up and getting out of town.
I called Mason, and he assured me all was well at the hospital. Everyone safe and healing. Caleb made it to the hospital okay, but Mason asked me to drive past his place on my way to Adam’s, just to make sure.
Thankfully, his home still stood. I drove the perimeter slowly, peered in the windows. Had it not been hailing, I’d have gotten out to take a closer look, but my cursory inspection satisfied me that all was well. No signs of forced entry, no doors had been kicked in, no windows smashed, all lights off, as Caleb left them.
The dirt roads transformed from bad to near impassible. I wished I’d brought the Trail Blazer, but figured the luxury sedan would be more comfortable for the long drive from Colorado. I drove slowly, and made it past the rivulets of water and frozen puddles back to the highway. Adam said he wasn’t far off 29, and I shouldn’t have much trouble getting there. It’d be pretty easy to find. He’d marked the road with an orange cone wrapped in reflective tape on a tall wooden post. Even with the gray skies and Egyptian hail, I found the marker easily enough. He’d bought a small mobile home on a plot of land about a quarter mile down the road. I parked in the back.
The Bargain - One man stands between a destitute town and total destruction. Page 27