By Your Side Page 6

  Seth pressed his finger against the muffin crumbs on his napkin. “So maybe he’s out of ammo?”

  “Yeah, right. More reasonable to hope that his target practice got whatever it was out of his system. Rough day at work, someone cut him off on the freeway, girlfriend told him to take a hike, or life just ain’t fair.” Fletcher realized he qualified for at least a couple of those himself.

  “No.” Seth reached for his coffee. “It isn’t fair—but it can still be good. That’s what people need to know. What we all have to hang on to.”

  Though the chaplain tended to keep his personal life to himself, Fletcher suspected he’d seen the unfair side of life up close and personal. Some fifteen years back, Seth had been on his own path to a law enforcement career, scheduled for a slot in the sheriff’s academy. Until an “interpersonal conflict” left him with a shattered knee and legal issues. Seth referred to that period in his life only as “Having the time to find my faith.” Fletcher didn’t press him further.

  “It’s the reason I’m out there,” Seth continued. “Running Dad’s uniform stores gives me a chance to know a lot of folks—we’re equipping first responders. But my crisis care work is much better.” A deep chuckle rose, amusement warming his eyes. “Kind of like trading donuts for these bran muffins. I never expected to be ordained as a minister, but that legal confidentiality lets me volunteer with law enforcement and fire too. And maybe stop some people from making the mistakes I did.” Seth nodded, hard-won wisdom etched on his face. “I’ve sold body armor all these years and now I’m looking after the souls behind those vests. Not easy, but feels pretty good.”

  More than “pretty good,” Fletcher figured, considering the countless hours Seth donated to that cause. Not only was he an active crisis chaplain; he operated as shift leader, outreach coordinator to local police and fire agencies, and had also gone through the extra training required to teach new volunteers.

  Fletcher smiled. “You don’t have to convince me that you’re doing something you’re excited about.”

  “I’m guessing your mother has told you that same thing.”

  “A time or two,” Fletcher agreed, crumpling his napkin. “Though I still don’t like the idea of her being available for activations tomorrow. It seems too soon.”

  “And there’s a shooter out there?”

  “Crossed my mind.”

  “I only have a minute,” Macy told Elliot, uncomfortable that he’d tracked her down in the ER supply closet. She pointed to the infusion pump she’d been ready to wheel out before he arrived in the doorway—suit and tie, briefcase, no observable wounds after the sparring round with his wife. “I’ve got two patients who need fluids, one who’ll climb the walls if we don’t get some pain medication on board.”

  “I saw him.” Elliot glanced over his shoulder. “The young man with the knit cap and the tattoos. Kidney stone?”

  She regarded him for a moment. “You know I can’t give out any patient information, Elliot.”

  “Of course not. I’m sorry.” His smile was sheepish. “I had one of those evil things once, that’s all. And when I saw him, it’s the first thing I thought.”

  “No problem.” Macy decided not to remind him that he shouldn’t be here to see anything at all; he was as familiar with HIPAA privacy laws as anyone. He met with employees in an office in the administrative suites, not in patient care areas. “But I do need to get back to work.”

  “Sure. I wanted to leave some information with you. I meant to talk with you about it Friday evening, but . . .” His lips twitched. “Anyway, I’ll give you this and we’ll talk more tomorrow.” He slid a color brochure from his briefcase. “I think it’s something that could work for you.”

  Macy squinted at the cover. “Viatical investments?”

  “The rates of return are surprisingly good. With comparatively little risk. Plus it’s medically related. Right up your alley.”

  “I’ve never heard of this. What is it—research, pharmaceuticals . . . ?”

  “Life insurance. The purchase of existing plans. As an investor you’d be providing a much-needed service.”

  “For whom?” Macy asked, suddenly uncomfortable. “Who sells their life insurance policies?”

  Elliot raised one palm as if in divine supplication. “People who need funds to pay medical bills, make their remaining time more comfortable. Terminally ill patients who want to ease their—”

  “Terminally ill?” Macy grimaced.

  “Good people who want to ease—”

  “No thanks.” She handed the brochure back, then pushed the IV pump forward with a clatter. “You’ll need to move so I can get out of here.” As if on cue, a deep wail rose from an exam room in the distance. “Out there. Where I can ease pain and save lives. That’s why I’m here. And you shouldn’t be.”

  He didn’t belong here, he reminded himself as he warmed his hands over the small campfire. He’d built it close to the water and as far as possible from the other fires that dotted this part of the Sacramento River levee. Homeless people with tarps and cardboard shelters, shopping carts piled high with junk. He heard them out there—talk, laughter, sick-sounding coughs, that out-of-tune guitar. He’d smelled them too: rotten teeth, boozy breath, unwashed armpits and filthy clothes, vomit . . . and worse.

  It’s why he’d built his fire and hunkered down way out here. Because of the stink and the people who caused it, and because he knew for certain that a sizable number of those people were undercover police and government agents. When everyone was asleep, they’d move through the camp, planting evidence and injecting people with toxic Chinese drugs. The kind of drugs that poisoned dogs and altered people’s minds. It would be conveniently explained away as heartworm, schizophrenia, and dementia, but it was really part of an ugly and complex scheme. He was still mapping it out, connecting the dots. But he was on to them. For right now, it was safer out here. And not so bad. It smelled like wet oak leaves and grass, riverbanks and woodsmoke. Better times. When he and his dad would load up the old truck and go hunting.

  “Dude . . .”

  He whipped around, heart hammering as he yanked the skinning knife from his belt.

  “Whoa! Easy, dude.” The young man, barely more than a kid, backed off with hands raised. His nose ring glinted in the firelight. “I was only going to bum a smoke. No worries.” He forced a smile. “Understand, totally. Everyone’s spooked by that sniper. You could, like, come up to main camp, you know?” He pointed toward the largest fire in the distance. “Good people there. You can trust them.”

  He shifted the knife from one hand to the other, slowly rose to his feet.

  “Okay, man. It’s cool. I’m out of here.”

  He watched the young man go, then sank back down on his haunches and fed the rest of the morning newspaper to the fire. The front-page story was about the “Freeway Sniper.” The kid was right about that; folks were spooked. But he’d never believe the other thing the kid said. “Good people there. You can trust them.”

  It wasn’t true. Anybody ever worth trusting was dead.

  He checked his watch: nearly ten. He could head back to the house soon. The neighbors never stayed up much past nine. Even if the front door was being watched, he could get in from the back. Cut through some yards—he knew all those properties. He needed to get there. It was home. And he needed more ammunition.

  11

  A DEATH NOTIFICATION. Her first time.

  Taylor Cabot looked up from her Bible study workbook to check the clock on the painted wood mantel. Charly Holt wouldn’t arrive for another ten minutes or so. When the text came in for an activation, Charly had insisted on driving, saying if she was coming back, she’d be back 100 percent.

  Taylor smiled, remembering the woman’s twangy version of Schwarzenegger’s line, “I’ll be baaaack.” The immediate addition of a hearty “Praise God!” was Charly’s own twist. Taylor couldn’t be more grateful to be shadowing Charly during her hours of field training. Today esp
ecially, when they’d walk up to someone’s home bearing the worst possible news.

  She found herself in front of the flagstone fireplace, gazing once again at the framed photos on the mantel. A brightly enameled frame holding a close-up of her youngest nephew, enormous green eyes and a bit of a blond curl, the rest of his cherub face hidden by full ninja headgear. Her older brother’s oldest daughter primly holding a daisy bouquet at grammar school graduation. And the photos of her husband, Greg, newly framed after his death—alive, he would have objected to them as vanity.

  Her eyes moved over the collection of random and unrelated images that held so much meaning for her, as if the camera had freeze-framed singular beats of her heart. Her husband as she’d known him, in a journey that had led her to love him more each day. On his college basketball team, caught midair as he went for an impressive dunk shot. Grinning into the camera while steadying his fire helmet on a shy kindergartner’s head at a community service event. Asleep on the couch with his fat golden retriever puppy in his arms. Taylor glanced at the old dog, sleeping on his fleece bed beside the couch. Her gaze returned to the photo display. Greg on the day he was finally baptized, hair wet and uncharacteristically solemn. And then . . . their wedding photo.

  Taylor touched a fingertip to the etched silver frame as if testing a healing wound. She could finally look at it without crying. She saw the love on their faces, the hope in their eyes, and found the blessings in that. She could do that now without railing against all they’d lost, grieving all they’d never have . . . including children. She was a survivor. Two years of sleeping alone, two sets of major holidays, birthdays, and anniversaries endured. She’d finally finished the endless changes in paperwork and policies. She was working at a career she loved and had found a new calling that spoke to her heart, made her feel alive again.

  She checked the clock. A death notification . . .

  It had been an ER physician at UCD trauma center who’d offered the official confirmation of Greg’s death. He walked into the sequestered “quiet room” with a nurse and a female hospital chaplain. And though Taylor had done that same thing a hundred times—on the other side of the Kleenex box—her mind refused to believe what was coming. Even though she’d seen the tragic expressions on the faces of Greg’s fellow firefighters and paramedics, heard their emotion-choked whispered exchanges of “changing a tire . . . never saw the car coming . . . massive head injuries . . . no blood pressure . . . ,” she couldn’t accept it. Until that hospital chaplain led her to the room where Greg lay. Too pale, too still. . . . She’d stood beside Taylor in silence, then slipped an arm around her as her knees weakened.

  “I’m sorry, Mrs. Cabot.” The chaplain’s whisper had been filled with compassion. “I’m very sorry your husband died.”

  Only that caring moment had made it real.

  Taylor glanced out the window and caught a glimpse of Charly’s Suburban at the curb. Today she’d be the one to do that for someone else. She reached for her purse, then stopped for a moment and bowed her head. Help me to offer comfort and compassion, Lord. Be there with me, please.

  “Coconut shrimp?” Andi Carlyle offered one trapped between disposable chopsticks.

  “No thanks, I’m good with this egg roll.” Macy smiled at the young doctor, glad for the unexpected early lunch. A miracle they’d both been able to ditch the ER for this outside table, even for a few minutes. “Got to love the drug reps. They usually come around with the best goodies on my days off—and this isn’t half-bad. Of course it’s nothing like what I used to get in San Francisco.”

  “You worked there?”

  “I was born there,” Macy explained, instantly wishing she hadn’t. “My mother was from the Bay Area.”

  “Oh, I see.” Andi regarded Macy for a moment, curiosity in her expression. “Was she Asian? Your coloring and features, that wonderful hair—I don’t mean to be too personal,” she added quickly. “But when you’re stuck with a Keebler elf face like this—” she gestured to herself—“you can’t help but be intrigued by people who look far more interesting.”

  “Chinese,” Macy told her. The truth, but she’d learned how to hedge it. “Not my mom. On the other side of the family.” She smiled. “It’s okay. Everyone asks eventually.”

  “Well, then . . .” The doc pointed her chopsticks. “I’m envious. And I’m not kidding; my maiden name was Kuebler. Far too close to the cookies and crackers. You can imagine the teasing in school lunchrooms. I used to pray I’d grow to six feet tall. Instead I got thicker skin. Then traded Kuebler for Carlyle.” Elfin dimples framed her grin. “For all the right romantic reasons.”

  “Of course.”

  Macy had good reasons for changing her name too. From Wen to Wynn. It had nothing to do with love. She picked the name because it was close enough in sound not to feel so jarring. And . . . changing her name was the closest she could get to erasing her father’s DNA. Macy had no doubt that wherever he was now—Hong Kong, Dubai, or some other high-powered foreign business setting—he was okay with that. Mr. Wen had never allowed Macy’s mother to take his name. And certainly hadn’t meant it to be shared with his unwanted child.

  They both looked up as Elliot approached from the parking lot, briefcase swaying. He offered them a quick wave before hurrying on. He was holding lunchtime staff appointments again today, offering retirement plan investment information.

  “Hey,” Macy said, recalling her last conversation with him. “Ever heard of viatical investments?”

  “Sure.” Andi reached down to hike up one of her signature socks, a Big Bird pattern today. “Investors purchase life insurance policies from patients with terminal illnesses. The patient receives a lump sum, a percentage of the policy payout. The investor takes over the payments and essentially becomes the beneficiary of the full policy payout.”

  Macy grimaced. “And what . . . ? Waits for the person to die so they can collect? Isn’t that kind of ghoulish?”

  “Depends on your perspective. Viaticals started getting attention back when HIV/AIDS first hit the news. Long before there were effective treatment options like we have today. Young people who saw no chance of a future jumped at the chance to sell their life insurance policies.” Andi sighed. “Unfortunately their desperation fueled greed and unscrupulous practices. There was a lot of controversy over viaticals. And some major lawsuits.”

  “That’s changed?”

  “I’m no expert, and viaticals aren’t in my meager portfolio. But I’ve known a few very ill patients who felt that a viatical policy would make all the difference in their remaining months. Pay the bills, lessen their worries—help their families.” Andi tilted her head. “Why do you ask?”

  “No real reason,” Macy answered, always hesitant to bring up the root of her relationship with Elliot. “I just heard about them and wondered what they were.”

  “Again,” Andi told her, “I’m no expert. I defer to my standard default: google it.”

  “Thanks.” Macy scooped the crumbs of her egg roll into her napkin. “Maybe I’ll do that.”

  They’d gathered their things and were about to leave the table when a man signaled to them from a distance.

  Macy squinted. “Is that the son of our stroke patient from a couple of days ago?”

  “Bob Harrell,” the doctor confirmed with a sigh. “He wants to talk with me about his mother’s condition. I think he believes there was something else that could have been done, that maybe I should have been able to save her. He needs someone to blame.”

  Macy winced, glad once again that she wasn’t a physician. “What will you say?”

  “That I’m very sorry his mother’s condition is so desperate. And I wish there had been something else we could have done. But there wasn’t.” Her fingers moved to the cross pendant at the neckline of her scrubs. “I’ll tell Bob the truth: that his family is in my prayers. And I’ll make sure he has the chaplaincy phone numbers.”

  “It’s been up there for a long time,” the
elderly neighbor explained, tapping the Bank Owned notice in the front window of the two-story tract home. Her mouth puckered, etching wrinkles like ruler marks into her upper lip. “Too much of this lately. That poor young man was working hard to hang on to this place. His daddy would have been proud. Rest his soul.”

  Taylor glanced at Charly, then met the neighbor’s gaze again. “Mr. Archer—Ned—knew about his father’s death? The Stockton authorities have been trying to reach him for almost a week without success. That’s why we came.”

  “Ned knows. He told me last Thursday, I think it was. He didn’t let on, but I could tell he was pretty shook up. I can’t say anybody in this neighborhood was surprised, though. We’ve all had a turn bringing Abe home when he wandered off. Sometimes in the middle of the night, wearing nothing but his skivvies and that old hunting cap. He’d get so confused. A blessing, I suppose, that he was taken so quickly.” She shook her head. “That old-timer’s disease is a terrible thing.”

  Alzheimer’s. Taylor couldn’t count how many times she’d heard it said the other way. According to the medical examiner’s office, Mr. Archer had died in his sleep. The neighbor was probably right—a blessing.

  “The phone numbers they had for Ned don’t seem to be working,” Charly said gently. “Would you happen to have his work phone or new address? E-mail?”

  “I don’t have any of that. And he’s not working now—he was laid off a few months back. Couldn’t have been worse timing. His dog died not even two weeks before that. The bank wouldn’t cut him a break. He got the eviction notice, the utility companies shut things down, now this news about his daddy . . .” The woman sighed. “Ned’s never been much of a talker. Even as a little tyke. But I saw it in his eyes; I think he was here to say good-bye to this house. I don’t expect we’ll see him again.”

  Too many good-byes—Taylor knew how that felt. “There’s no other family?”