The Protocol: A Prescription to Die (8 page)

Chapter 13

Three weeks after the mad man crashed his soccer match, he was summoned to his commander’s office. Butch provided a precise, snap salute, and stood at attention at the commander’s office door.

“Staff Sergeant Rheumy. Take a seat,” instructed his commander.

Butch sat in the metal folding chair in front of his commander’s desk. He wasn’t sure what was going on, but could tell from the face of the man sitting behind the desk that it wasn’t good. He was a stern, straight-forward, no-nonsense guy. But Butch had never seen him look this rigid and uneasy.

The commander looked down, and broke eye contact with Butch. That single action sent shivers down Butch’s spine, and confirmed to him that this meeting wasn’t going to be good. He just didn’t know why.

“I need your weapon, Staff Sergeant.”

“Sir?” said Butch while raising his eyebrows, but not his voice.

“I need your weapon, Staff Sergeant,” he responded more sternly. He held out his hand.

Butch acquiesced. He ensured the safety was on, that there wasn’t a chambered round, and placed it into his commander’s outstretched hand, handgrip first.

“Sir?” Butch repeated.

“Staff Sergeant Rheumy. You are under arrest for the murder of an Afghani civilian,” said the commander. He looked down to the paper in front of him, “An Afghani civilian named Mohammad Abu Detani,” he then motioned for the MPs. They were standing outside, and had apparently come into the office tent after Butch sat down. He hadn’t noticed them when he first arrived.

“Please stand up, Staff Sergeant,” said one of the MPs. “Put your arms behind your back.”

Butch felt the zip ties secure each wrist then a third, smaller one was used to connect the two. “Sir?” Butch tried again to get his commander’s attention.

“It’s out of my hands, Staff Sergeant.” He looked at the MPs, then down at the floor.

The MPs guided Butch in front of them, and escorted him outside to a waiting Jeep.

*

Now he was back at home. Thirty-three and living with his parents. He had lost everything. Although ultimately acquitted, his record still indicated a dishonorable discharge. He’d been denied his appeal to re-join his unit. He had wanted to spend another fifteen years in the Army, to retire as a Master Sergeant.

But that was not in the cards.

He had two jobs now. During the day, he was an office security guard for Aequalis Health. On Wednesday, Friday, and Saturday nights, he was a bouncer at a nightclub in Eden Prairie. At the end of the ordeal, he had more than two hundred thousand in attorney fees to pay off. Luckily, donations made to him from individuals, and organizations throughout the United States who heard his story, helped him with three quarters of the debt. The remaining fifty thousand still seemed daunting and insurmountable.

He felt betrayed.

He never watched the news. To him, they were all bastards and could go on a fast train to hell.

Now, Butch was wide awake.

He spent the ninety minutes in bed reading and thinking. He had five minutes before his alarm went off. He didn’t want to sleep the day away. There were things to do around the house, and if he didn’t do them, his father would try and Butch didn’t want him to strain himself. Things were so different now, not anywhere close to what he’d planned.

But his parents needed him now.

And that was his focus.

Chapter 14

Because Carl was a janitor, and had to ensure every wastebasket and bedpan was spotless, he had access to virtually every area of the nursing home. He had the key that opened doors to a plethora of available meds to play with, most of which he tried on his mother. Some he tried on residents who had pissed him off.

Most experiments did nothing overtly visible. It wasn’t until he switched a bottle of his mother’s insulin with a bottle of epinephrine that he was able to witness obvious results. It was exquisite to watch and still, after fifteen years, brought a distinctive stirring behind his zipper. Within seconds after the injection, her forehead broke out in sweat. It wasn’t a small amount either. She was raining sweat.

“Carl!” she gasped in panic.

She didn’t need to yell, he was standing right by her after all.

“Carl. Call 911. Something’s wrong,” she gasped. Her eyes pleading with him and not understanding why he wasn’t moving.

Carl just stared in awe.

He studied her and his stopwatch.

It didn’t take long. She started gasping. She clenched her jaw, and reached for her chest.

Then she was quiet.

Carl put his hand on her throat. He didn’t feel any rhythm under her fat, but he had to remind himself that the rhythm of her pulse did have to travel through layers of fat before it reached his fingers.

He pushed the button on the stopwatch. From injection to where Carl thought she was dead, was two minutes nine seconds.

A record for him. And her.

She beat the cats.

Card liked to beat records.

He was so enthralled with the scene, his mother’s bulging eyes, her red face, her rippled, sweating fat that he almost forgot to cover his tracks. It wasn’t until after he called 911, that he took the bottle of epinephrine and replaced it with an untainted version of insulin.

After her funeral, Carl turned his focus to the geriatric ward at the nursing home.

Carl learned to be very careful.

And patient.

He just provided a shortcut to those heading for heaven’s highway.

Chapter 15

The first word that came into Eat’s head when the woman walked in was “pointy.” Everything about her was angular. Her cheeks. Her nose. Her forehead. All were at severe angles to one another. She had a mouth of an arowana and seemed to be in a constant sneer. She even wore what had to be incredibly uncomfortable high heels that came to a drastic point that stuck beyond any part of her body. They matched her necklace. Both were blood red. Her black pantsuit and pale skin made her look cadaverous. Her obsidian hair was so tightly wrapped, it pulled her eyes back toward her ears.

“Mr. Parsons. Who do we have here?”

She had one of the most condescending voices he’d ever heard. It was the voice of a high school cheerleader who thought she was better than any other living human.

“This is Eat Teague, Betty Lou’s son.”

She regarded Joey then looked over to Eat. Her eyebrows crunched down, questioning what Joey had just said.

“I’m sorry. Evan Teague,” Joey clarified.

Her eyebrows returned to their normal position, and she walked further into the room. She extended a skeletal arm and hand in his direction.

“Mr. Teague. Nice to meet you. Barbara Nordstrom. I’m the Senior Vice President of Operations for Aequalis Health Services.”

Eat stood up, and shook her outstretched hand. His father had always chastised him for jumping to conclusions when he first met someone, but she truly sent shivers down his spine. His radar was rarely wrong. Her hand was cold and clammy.

“Ah. There it is,” she said as she noticed the manila folder on Joey’s lap. “I was looking for that.” She didn’t ask for permission or even if they were done with their discussion. She just took the folder, abruptly closed it, and turned to leave the room. Before she reached the doorway, she made eye contact with Joey. “Don’t you have rounds to finish Mr. Parsons? You have three floors to cover now,” she said as she turned her attention to Eat and nodded. “Mr. Teague.”

Eat figured this was his opportunity to ask so naturally, he just jumped in. If she wanted to be a cobra, he could definitely be the mongoose. “Ms. Nordstrom. Before you leave.”

She turned back to them. The annoyance on her face was clearly evident. “Yes?”

“My mother’s report. It says ‘Protocol U.’ Can you tell me what that means?”

“That’s proprietary to Aequalis, and the federal government. Good day.”

Eat watched her back as she slithered down the hallway in her high heels. The sound of her heels echoed throughout the floor. There was no sway whatsoever in her walk. It was as taut and pointed as her features. From behind, Eat was provided with a valuable view of her tightly bound hair and he understood why her eyes seemed to be pulling back to her ears. Her hair was pulled back into a single, tight braid that was in turn spiraled and bound. The signal she sent was clear. She had finished with the minions and they had been summarily dismissed.

“Welcome to the new world order of government-run health care,” said Joey.

“I have a feeling she heard everything you said.”

Joey nodded and didn’t say a word.

This was not at all what he’d signed up for. Eat’s mother deserved better, and he knew that he had to start digging into Aequalis. He pulled out his phone, activated the main screen, and then clicked through to the Wi-Fi settings page. It told him exactly what he was looking for:

SunshineCenter – Public

AequalisHealth – Secure

Eat needed a bit more information. “So Joey. When everyone gets a laptop, are you going to be able to roam around with them?”

“That’s what they are saying. Aequalis has set up a wireless network separate from what the residents use.”

Bingo.

He touched the AequalisHealth entry.

Secured using WPA2. Please enter password

Eat smiled and put away his phone. This was perfect. It was a simple 256 bit encryption scheme and he had the tools to get through that like a hot knife through butter. His laptop was in the car, and it had all of the tools he needed.

“Well, Joey. I’m going head out, say goodbye to mom, and get going. I have some errands to run.”

Joey returned to his desk, and moved the mouse on his desk. The screen came to life, and he typed a command. Another video of his mother displayed.

“Looks like she’s in the common area playing cards with the gang.” He got up from behind his desk and stuck out his hand. “Thanks for stopping by Eat. I’ll take good care of her.”

“I know Joey. I know,” smiled Eat as he left the office.

Chapter 16

Eat approached his front door, and heard its magnetic device click as its lock was released. An aroma greeted him as he opened the door and walked in. It wasn’t a bad smell. Quite the contrary. It was absolutely splendid. Andy was in the kitchen with a knife in her hand, and multiple sauté pans and pots on the cooktop. The smell was stunning, and made his mouth turn into Niagara Falls.

Eat’s toes began to quiver in his flip flops.

Not because of Andy’s cooking. Her culinary skills were on the exquisitely edible end of the culinary scale. His skills, on the other hand, tended towards the opposite side of the scale from where Andy was: barely edible. Eat had inherited the same cooking skills that his mother had, which is why he tried to keep his culinary forays limited to the two skills of rehydration or microwave button pushing. Sometimes he stretched himself and incorporated both techniques into one meal.

Eat appreciated a challenge.

He had improved since his early attempts at both rehydration and microwave operation. There were times when his culinary experiments became somewhat explosive and, in turn, led to an in-depth cleaning of said microwave.

Eat was able to make great reservations that Andy always appreciated.

She didn’t like Hot Pockets, no matter what flavor he served.

No, Eat was scared for another reason.

The foot.

He knew she had news.

Although they had talked, she had been skirting the issue since the day the foot was delivered to her lab. Eat eventually came to call that fateful day, the “Day of the Foot.” Since today was Wednesday, it had been almost ninety hours and thirty-five minutes, since she left him alone in her office.

Eat looked at his watch.

Forty minutes and fifty-three seconds.

He tended to be very exacting by nature, but when he became anxious, his predisposition for accuracy tended to border on the neurotic.

And tonight he was anxious. And without his pen readily available to twirl, his numerical psychosis became much worse.

Forty-one minutes and twenty-two seconds.

Since The Day of the Foot, every time they had talked, texted, emailed, or kissed her goodnight before fluffing his pillow, he had inquired about what she’d learned about the argyle-socked foot sealed in that plastic bag on her lab table. She’d never come out and directly answered any of his questions. Instead, she had dodged him by providing vague, evasive answers: “Still waiting on lab results,” “Toxicology came in yesterday.” When Eat became impatiently direct, she simply changed the subject. “Have you modified the flow charts?” “Mother wouldn’t let me turn on the music this afternoon. Can you check her out?”

She was very good at keeping him off-topic. She and Mother had a love-hate relationship. Mother wasn’t Eat’s mom, but a nickname for the primary processor that controlled the home, work environment, and his entire computing world. Eat named the computer Mother because it was all-seeing, all-knowing, just like his mother once was. Eat communicated with Mother without trouble. She and Andy, however, seemed to have started off on the wrong foot.

In Andy’s vernacular, Mother was being a
mother
.

Eat sat at the dining room table, between two lit candles, and sipped a glass of Chianti that Andy had waiting for him. He watched her as she brought out the first course: butternut squash soup.

One of Eat’s favorites.

Along with the soup, he could actually taste the fear now and had the feeling that there would be no attempts at avoidance tonight.

Eat looked at his watch again.

Forty-four minutes and two seconds.

In lieu of his pen, he twirled a fork.

Andy sat down and broke the tension.

“So what has it been? Ninety hours,” she looked at the clock on the wall then up at the ceiling apparently adding things in her head. “Ninety hours, thirty minutes, and some odd number of seconds?”

“Close,” he said. “Ninety. Forty-five. And ten.”

“You’re right. I was close. More wine? Soup? I have the sauce for the alfredo primavera ready. The pasta is almost done. Al dente, just the way you like it. Bananas foster for dessert. I hope you’re hungry.”

Oh. She was good. Really good.

So was the soup.

Eat was still scared.

He twirled his fork faster.

*

After dinner and dessert, Eat was more relaxed, and had moved to the living room at Andy’s command.

“Go sit while I clean up here.”

“But we always clean up together.”

“Not tonight. Go sit down. I’ll be right out,” she said as she pushed him out of the kitchen.

He was sure that was her plan from the beginning. She wanted him relaxed, which was very difficult for him to accomplish on his own. By the time they finished off the Chianti, Eat was on his third glass. Eat was a lightweight when it came to alcohol. He was surprised that he hadn’t fallen asleep at the dinner table and did a face planted into the primavera.

“Mother.”

“Hello Eat.”

“Television, please.”

“Yes, Eat.”

“See, she’s listening just fine, Andy,” he yelled to Andy who was still in the kitchen.

Eat sunk himself into the sofa, pulled a pillow onto his lap, and started to watch the show that Mother knew was one of his favorites: a re-run of
Law and Order
. Sam Waterston’s character ADA Jack McCoy was pleading for the death penalty for some guy who’d murdered an old lady.

Eat started laughing. He couldn’t stop.

“What’s so funny?” Andy asked from the kitchen as she was loading the dishwasher. Normally, their meals together were a team event. Eat was slowly mastering knife skills, and had graduated to cutting vegetables. He was very proud, even though she always gave him the smallest knife in the kitchen.

“
Law and Order
. Sam Waterston. He is hilarious! I’ve never realized that before now.”

Eat heard her close the dishwasher’s door followed by the distinctive clink of ice falling into a glass. Then he heard the
phhhht
of a bottle opening, and the gurgle of liquid being poured into a glass.

“Here,” she said as she handed him a glass.

“What’s that?”

“Perrier,” she said as she took the wine glass out of his hand, and set it on the table next to him. “When you start convulsively laughing at an episode of
Law and Order
, you’ve had way too much. You’re cut off.”

He looked at her. Hurt.

“Don’t give me your boo-boo face. You know that doesn’t work on me.”

Eat put his head down, and looked up without moving his head.

“You are so bad,” she laughed and shook her head. “Let me finish up in the kitchen, and I’ll be out to join you.”

Eat watched her walked back into the kitchen.

“You have a nice ass, you know that?”

Eat put the glass of Perrier down, steadied his hand, and traded it for his wine glass.

“I heard that. Don’t make me come back in there! Remember what I do for a living, Eat. I know how to dissolve a body.”

Feeling properly chastised, he returned the wine glass to the table and finished the Perrier.

“And yes. My ass is fine, isn’t it?”