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  Scrubs was drinking a Pabst Blue Ribbon and watching Family Feud with a dinner plate balanced on his lap when Jeanette closed the door to the garage. “I left beef stew on the stove,” he called.

  Jeanette fixed herself a plate and walked into the den, a lit cigarette already dangling from her lips. After watching television for a minute, she turned to her husband. “I’m worried about trying to get any more stuff right now.”

  “How come?”

  “There’s been some lady at the hospice asking questions all week.”

  “What kind of questions?”

  “What our procedures for narcotics are—how we check them out, give them to patients, dispose of them after a patient dies… that kind of thing.”

  “Is she a cop?” asked Scrubs.

  “I don’t know. She doesn’t look like one, but does it matter? Probably somebody has figured out—or is at least suspicious—that drugs are going missing. If I get busted, I’ll lose my job and my nursing license…maybe even go to jail if they have enough evidence. Then what would we do?”

  “Take it easy. You won’t get caught. Maybe you need to be extra careful, though. When do you usually take the stuff?”

  “The best time is around shift change, when the nurses who are getting ready to leave start giving report to the new ones coming in. We spend more time giving report than we do with the patients. If I have a confused or especially-sick patient who doesn’t have any family members around, or at least not any who are paying attention, I can usually go in and snag some of their meds. It’s usually easiest a few days before the patient dies, when they’re really out of it. As long I chart that the med was given while they were still alive, I can skim them off pretty easy.”

  “How did your bosses get suspicious, then?”

  “I’m not sure.” Jeanette shook her head in perplexity. “However, when patients are more aware than they seem, they complain that they didn’t get their meds. Same goes for the families…sometimes they’re paying more attention than you think.”

  “If the patients are that zoned out, couldn’t you just give them, like, a Sweet Tart instead? That way, they’d think they took the real deal and you could keep their stuff. No one would complain.”

  “Their meds look and taste too different from candy. And if anyone caught me giving candy instead of medicine, I’d be busted on the spot.”

  Scrubs pondered for a moment. “Maybe to be safe, you should lay low until your curious friend is finished.”

  “She’s not my friend. I’ll be glad when she’s gone. What about you? Can you get any more stuff at the hospital?”

  Scrubs shook his head. “I can’t hang out in the patients’ rooms like you can. I have to drop them off and go, or someone would get suspicious right away. When I’m dropping off or picking up, there’s usually a nurse and family members all crowded around in there. Most of the time, I can’t make a move.”

  “You got those Oxy pills the other day.”

  “Yep. I got kinda lucky on that one, but that don’t happen too often.”

  At the conclusion of the game show, Scrubs called Leroy. “Listen, man. The heat’s on at Jeanette’s work. She probably won’t be able to get anything for a while.” He recounted the hospice inquiries.

  “How long do I have to wait?” demanded Leroy.

  “I don’t know, man. Until that lady stops asking questions…probably a week or two. If Jeanette gets busted, you’ll be cut off for a lot longer than that.” He began to pace the floor, holding the cell phone to his ear.

  “What am I gonna tell my dealers?”

  “That’s your problem. I never promised you a schedule. It’s not like we can tell the patients when to die.” He ran a hand through his greasy hair.

  “Yeah, but if I can’t count on you, I’ll have to find a new source. And you’ll have to find yourself a new buyer.”

  “I get the message. I’ll let you know when I have something.”

  Scrubs knew his finances were precarious. He dropped onto the couch and tipped his head backwards to stare at the ceiling. He remained motionless for a minute, contemplating his options, but said nothing.

  CHAPTER 17

  Ken was away on a business trip, as usual. Nancy wondered if he had packed his new bottle of Polo aftershave. He seemed to be taking it with him more frequently these days.

  In the early days of their marriage, Ken’s infidelity would have been cause for despair, but now Nancy viewed it philosophically. “Fine,” she mumbled to herself. “Let him have his fun on the road. It just gives me more time to be with someone who actually cares about me.”

  Nancy closed her office door and called Dennis on her work phone.

  “Hi—are you busy?” she asked. She could hear the shuffling of papers and the squeak of his office chair as he swiveled. She smiled as she visualized him moving a stack of patient charts off his desk and trying to balance the office phone against his ear at the same time.

  “Uh…no, now I’m not,” he replied. “Hi, Babe.”

  Dennis had never called her “Babe” before. Nancy’s face felt pleasantly warm.

  “Would you like to meet for dinner?” she asked. “I’m free tonight…I’m free all night, as a matter of fact.”

  Dennis chuckled. “Talk about making me an offer I can’t refuse. Where would you like to go?”

  “Someplace new. We both like seafood—how about Captain Tom’s at eight?”

  “Perfect. See you then.”

  “Okay…Babe,” said Nancy. She hung up and smiled as she stretched her arms straight overhead. She attempted to plow through the pile of remaining hospice e-mail messages, but visions of dinner and an extra-special dessert with Dennis insisted on intruding upon her thoughts.

  Dennis was already in the restaurant by the time Nancy arrived. The maître d' guided Nancy to a small table in the secluded corner in which Dennis waited. A dark-paneled replica of a ship’s bow shielded their private nook, and two candles gracing a ship’s “rail” above their table cast Dennis’s profile in a soft light. It was picture perfect, except for the fact that the man Nancy was meeting wasn’t her husband. If only…

  As Nancy approached, Dennis stood and kissed her. Public kissing—another first! They sat and ordered two glasses of Sauvignon Blanc and the stuffed sea bass to share.

  “How was your day?” asked Dennis.

  “Oh, the usual,” replied Nancy. “Remember that tech who called in sick yesterday? She didn’t make it again today, but she didn’t call in, either. I don’t know what I’m going to do with her. Other than that, it was pretty quiet. No admissions or deaths. How about you?”

  “Work was fine, but my drive here was a little unusual. I thought you might end up beating me here.”

  “Why? What happened?”

  “I saw a cop get a flat tire right in front of me, so I stopped to see if he needed help.”

  “That was nice.”

  “Yeah. Maybe I should have asked for a ‘Get out of Jail Free’ card, huh?”

  “Ha! That’s an idea. Did you end up helping him?”

  “No. He said he’d take of it. Hey, at least I tried.”

  After chatting a bit more about work, Dennis rested his hand atop Nancy’s. She looked up into eyes set with quiet determination.

  “Nancy,” he began, “I’m not one for speeches…you know that. I feel so strongly right now, I can’t think straight. Someone else, someone not so in love, could probably prepare the perfect speech. But…when I look at you, I get so lost in your eyes—I can’t think about words. All I can think about is how much I love you.” He swallowed. “I know that’s not very romantic, but it’s the truth.”

  Nancy felt herself tearing up. “That’s the most honestly romantic thing anyone has ever told me. Dennis, I love you, too…so much.” She knew precisely how much value to place on Ken’s empty speeches.

  Dennis squeezed her hand. “I’m determined for us to be together.”

  “Are you saying that you want
us to be together permanently? As in man and wife?”

  “Yes,” he stated, staring into her eyes. “Please tell me that’s what you want, too.”

  Nancy wished the butterflies in her stomach would settle down. She hadn’t felt this way since the early days of dating Ken. “Yes, it is. The next question is how do we make that happen? We need to get creative—you know, think outside the box.”

  “Why? Can’t you just divorce Ken?”

  “No—he won’t agree to that.”

  “Can’t you just divorce him whether he agrees to it or not?”

  “It’s not that simple. Ken has a temper. Everyone thinks he’s this great guy, but under the surface, he’s a cold-hearted narcissist.” Nancy glanced away, concerned her eyes would betray the extent to which she feared Ken. She didn’t need Dennis rendering their relationship impossibly complicated by directly confronting her husband.

  “Does Ken know you don’t love him?” asked Dennis.

  “Oh, yes.”

  “He’d rather stay in an unhappy marriage?”

  “Knowing him, I’d say yes,” replied Nancy. “I’m the outlet for his need to control everything. That’s why he hasn’t asked for a divorce. I know he doesn’t care about me, but he does view me as a play toy that should be at his beck and call.

  “I think he’s playing around on the side, too…not that it bothers me anymore. I do know one thing. I’ve never had any vibe from him that he’s even thought about asking for a divorce. To be honest, I’m afraid of what he might do to me, and maybe even you, if I suggested a divorce.”

  “You mean physically?” asked Dennis, bristling.

  “No,” Nancy hedged, “but he’d make the divorce a logistical and financial nightmare. And while I worked to finalize it, I’m sure he’d focus his efforts on showing his displeasure: the ‘anonymous’ call to my boss about you and me, nasty e-mails—that kind of thing.”

  “I can see why you’d be worried about his reaction if you started divorce proceedings, but what if you moved in with me as soon as the divorce was over?”

  “That would really send him over the edge,” replied Nancy. “He’d dedicate his life to making our lives hell. Nothing we could prove, of course, but we’d always be wondering when the next flat tire or cut phone line would appear.” Or something worse.

  “If you can’t get a divorce, what other options do we have?”

  “That’s exactly what we need to consider.”

  The couple returned to Nancy’s house at the conclusion of dinner. After enjoying the carnal pleasure of each other’s company, they removed to the kitchen. Dennis uncorked a bottle of champagne and scoured the pantry for snacks. He plucked cashews and crackers off a shelf, pulled some sharp cheddar from the refrigerator, and arranged them all them on a plate.

  He leaned both elbows on the kitchen island and rested his chin on his hands. “Why are we always so hungry afterwards?”

  Nancy peered at him over a glass of bubbly held at eye level. “‘Cause we’re working up an appetite.”

  They moved to the back porch. Dennis set his drink and the food on a glass side table and wrapped a strong arm around Nancy. The murmuring of crickets and nocturnal frogs provided a soft background chorus to their conversation.

  Nancy sipped her champagne and leaned her head against Dennis’s shoulder. “We’ve got to find a way to be together—always.”

  SUNDAY, JULY 15

  CHAPTER 18

  The next day revealed a cloudless, azure sky. Heat waves rising off the surface of the hospice’s parking lot lent the building a wavering, surreal quality, as if with the snap of a mischievous genie’s fingers, the building might disappear altogether.

  Inside the hospice, Peggy Ronquillo skirted the edge of consciousness, her perceptions of reality blurring as a result of her illness as well as the medicines designed to make her more comfortable. The monitors attached to her arm and chest emitted the regular tones which offered reassurance that—for the moment—all was well. Her doctors had predicted she would live at least a few more months, so the hospice staff had orders to intervene if her life began to slip away.

  Peggy had been admitted for respite care so her family could travel to an out-of-town graduation for a few days. Prior to leaving, her family members filed into the room throughout the day, reminiscing more among themselves than with Peggy herself, who scarcely registered their presence as a result of the heavy narcotics the hospice staff continued to administer every few hours. Eventually, the family members departed for their journey, leaving Peggy alone.

  As the day drew to an end, a new visitor entered the room, quietly shut the door, and turned toward the prone figure. The sound of footsteps ceased as the visitor reached the side of the bed.

  “Miss Ronquillo,” whispered the visitor, “you’ve been quite tenacious, but it’s time to let go.”

  As the visitor touched the “off” button on the monitoring equipment and moved the alarm switch to the “disable” position, the room fell into silence. The visitor flipped the toggle switch on the wall’s oxygen port, discontinuing the flow of life-sustaining gas.

  The patient’s shallow respirations slowed. To ensure a thorough job, the visitor placed a heavy hospital blanket over the prone figure’s nose and mouth. Within seconds, Peggy’s respiration slowed, and her skin color gradually shifted from pale to white to grey. Without a sound, her chest made a last, feeble rise, slowly sank, and fell still.

  The visitor reactivated the flow of oxygen and flipped back on the monitoring equipment and alarm switch. The visitor scurried from the room while the equipment booted up. By the time the alarm began to sound, the visitor was standing by the elevator door, whistling an absentminded rendition of “The Yellow Rose of Texas.”

  Several nurses and a Physician’s Assistant rushed to the room as the claxon from the monitors began to wail. The sound of their life-saving efforts could be heard in the hallway.

  Several minutes later, Nurse Donahue appeared at the nurse’s station wearing a resigned expression.

  “Miss Ronquillo just passed,” she told the shift supervisor. “We need to notify the family.”

  CHAPTER 19

  Two days after Jacob’s death, Alton waited with Mallory in her apartment to hear from their friends, whom they had offered to take to dinner.

  “Are you having any luck with your drug investigation?” asked Alton.

  “Yeah, I have a few good leads. If I had to guess, I’d say one of them will pan out.”

  “That’s cool—not that I’m surprised.”

  “I heard an interesting conversation yesterday when I was at the hospice working my case. William Cline called Nancy Goins and was ragging her about Serenity’s lack of patients.” She recounted the side of the brief conversation she had heard.

  Alton shook his head. “It always comes back to money—at least for some people.”

  Mallory glanced at her watch. “It’s a little after six. Have you heard from David or Fahima yet?”

  “No, but they should be done by now. Let me text David.”

  As Alton began to craft a text message, he received one from his friend. His eyes darted across the screen. “David said they’ve finished at the hospice. He asked if we could meet them at the Chili’s on Twenty-Third Street. Is that good for you?”

  “Wherever they’d like to go is good for me.”

  Alton and Mallory arrived at the restaurant to find their friends already waiting for them just inside the door.

  As he entered, a rush of déjà vu passed through Alton’s mind.

  “It’s not Gandamak’s Lodge, but it’ll do,” said Alton, whose opinion of their former Afghanistan watering hole was favorably shaded with the recollection of the many hours the four friends had spent there. In appearance, Gandamak’s Lodge had been a rather plain, insufficiently air-conditioned restaurant and bar, but it had provided the fertile soil in which Alton and Mallory’s mutual knowledge and understanding of each other had taken root and
as such was the closest thing to perfection in his eyes.

  As the hostess led the friends to a table, Alton dwelled on this thought. He supposed everyone had a place like this: a single location most meaningful to them, a spot perhaps unremarkable to others but which, because of the profound moments passed there, had been endowed in their eyes with superlative qualities—such was Gandamak’s Lodge, not only to Alton and Mallory but also David and Fahima. David had first met Fahima there as she had plied her bartending trade. How could the friends remember Gandamak’s Lodge with anything but fond recollections?

  The hostess stopped at a snug corner and gestured them in. The three combat veterans and former barmaid crowded into a corner booth. When the waitress arrived, they each selected the same brand of beer they had ordered back in “the Lodge.” While Livin’ on a Prayer thumped from the restaurant’s sound system, the friends drank their brews without speaking, each feeling strangely reassured in the resurrection of their former Afghanistan ritual.

  “Just like old times, huh?” said David with a feeble smile.

  Alton nodded and produced a wistful smile of his own. Eventually, he spoke. “So how did it go at the hospice?”

  “Okay, I guess,” replied David. “They had Dad’s stuff in a ‘personal effects’ bag. All I had to do was sign for it. It’s all very efficient—just take this bag and remove every trace of his existence from their halls.”

  “David—,” began Fahima.

  “I know,” he acknowledged with a sigh. “They’re just doing their jobs.”

  “I wish I had more time to know him,” said Fahima. “But in a way I feel like I know him for a long time already when he and I meet the first time.” She turned to David. “You spoke of him often when we were in Kabul.”

  David swallowed and nodded, requiring a moment to overcome a surge of emotion. “Dad being gone…it just hasn’t sunk in yet. I don’t even have a reason to return to the hospice now.” After another pause, he continued in an apparent effort to mitigate his sorrow by focusing elsewhere. “Speaking of the hospice, I heard another patient died there this evening. Do you remember Mrs. Ronquillo, the lady next door to Dad?”