Silent Treatment (31 page)

If nobody else mentioned Desiree, he decided, he was not going to be the one to break the ice.

Gawaine was called upon next to give the group an update on their newest endeavor—legislation that would enable the health insurers to decide what treatment was appropriate and not appropriate for patients with terminal illnesses. Kevin continued to watch him closely, noting how he shuffled papers and fidgeted with a pencil as he spoke. Sir Buttondown was uncharacteristically nervous. No doubt about it.

“Please note,” Gawaine said, “that I refer to patients with terminal illnesses rather than terminally ill patients. Once we are allowed to define what illnesses can be considered terminal, we plan to turn our attention to determining when the treatment for those conditions is no longer cost effective. We need the right to cut off coverage for those patients who are taking up costly hospital beds and specialist care when there is ultimately no hope for them. Of course, the sooner in that process we can step in, the better. The legislative climate is excellent right now. Tristram has brought the commissioner back into the fold, so he won’t be a problem. We’ve been nibbling at this thing for years,
convincing the legislators and the public that since we’re footing the bills, we should make the treatment decisions. Now it appears that we are ready to take a much bigger bite. Lancelot, do you want to go on to your part?”

Lancelot set his half-smoked cigar aside and cleared his throat. He never actually lit up a cigar during a Roundtable session, but he was rarely without his prop. He gave Gawaine a puckish grin and an A-okay sign. Tristram noted that Gawaine barely responded.

“The neat part of this program,” Lancelot explained, “is a network of facilities we are calling palliative centers—PCs. These are the places where patients we determine to be terminally ill can be sent for inexpensive, bare-bones care. The ultimate hospice—something on the continuum after a hospital and a nursing home, but much less expensive to run than either. No treatments, no IVs, no therapy of any kind. Pain medication only, administered around the clock in a totally humane way. And the best part is that we are moving ahead with designing these PCs and even setting up the corporations that will eventually run them. In some cases, we’re actually purchasing the facilities that will one day house them.”

There was half an hour of discussion on the palliative centers, and then Merlin took over.

“This has been a hell of a meeting,” he cheered. “A hell of a meeting. Well, I’m pleased to say that the news from my front is good, too. We’ve implemented the employment modification program on a limited basis, and tonight I’m prepared to present the results and projected numbers on the first ten cases. The policyholder in each of these cases has been terminated from employment. Some have found new employment with companies doing business with insurers other than Roundtable members. Others continue as allowed by law to pay their premiums themselves for eighteen months. Still others now qualify for Medicaid. But in most of these cases, we’re already out of the loop as their insurers. Off the hook, so to speak.”

Loomis could not remember anything called the employment modification program. Apparently, Merlin was
using The Roundtable’s money and influence to arrange the firing of costly policyholders. If so, it was the first time that specific individuals had been, targeted by the group. He scanned his copy of the printout Merlin had passed around. At the top was the heading “Qualifications”:—the factors used by the computer to select cases. Below that were ten names, and beside each of them was an insurance carrier, a diagnosis, and a dollar amount. The smallest amount was $200,000, the largest $1.7 million. The fourth of the ten names was a Crown Health and Casualty subscriber.

Kevin stared at the name, struggling to keep his expression bland. Beth DeSenza was a production line worker at a large garment factory just outside the city. Her son, Ryan, had suffered a freak cardiac arrest and subsequent brain damage after being hit in the chest with a baseball. Thanks to her company’s comprehensive insurance coverage, Ryan was a patient in the most highly regarded—and most expensive—brain injury rehabilitation hospital in the area. Kevin had engineered the coverage agreement with her union. Beth was the only policyholder in all his years with Crown who had taken the trouble to find out his name and to write and thank him for his role in providing care for her child. She included a picture of Ryan before the accident, bat poised, smiling self-consciously from beneath a baseball cap that seemed two sizes too big.

Thank you, Mr. Loomis
, she wrote.
Thank you and Crown for making Ryan’s treatment possible
.

Nancy had taken the note and had it matted and framed. Now, Beth’s coverage for her son, at least at the level provided by Crown, was over. The individual-policy premium was extremely expensive—almost certainly too expensive for her to continue the coverage even for the period allowed by state law. Tristram felt ill.

“… From early indications,” Merlin was saying, “provided the program is not overutilized, once we get up to speed our companies can realize a comfortable ongoing savings of three to six million dollars a month. Not exactly a bonanza, but hardly chicken feed.”

There were appreciative pen taps from around the table.

“I was just wondering why the companies holding the policies weren’t consulted about these individuals before they were terminated.”

There was a deathly silence in the room.

“Tristram, I don’t believe I understand what you mean,” Merlin said finally.

His tone and expression were nonjudgmental, yet Kevin felt his pulse pounding in his ears. Everything seemed to be happening in freeze-frame. The six faces fixed on him were like those in a wax museum—imbued with expression, but not with life.

Then suddenly, his gaze was drawn to movement. Gawaine, sitting across from him, was shaking his head ever so slightly. His eyes, locked on Kevin’s, blazed. Loomis watched his lips move and heard the unspoken word as if it had been shouted into his ear.

No!

With the others focused on him, Loomis felt certain he was the only one who had picked up on the warning.

“I … um … I’m sorry,” he said. “What I meant to ask was why you hadn’t checked with each of us for more names.”

“Ah, I see,” Merlin responded. “Thank you for clarifying that. I did misunderstand.”

“Perhaps I can answer your question, Tristram,” Kay said, “since I designed the program to select the clients. The decisions, purely business, are made by computer to keep them as rational and dispassionate as possible. As you can see from the list of factors considered, a great deal of data is evaluated before a selection is made. Each time, thousands upon thousands of policyholders are screened. This process would be virtually impossible for any of us to do on a
regular basis, and certainly not with the accuracy of a computer.”

The knights’ attention had shifted to Kay, except for Gawaine, whose gaze remained fixed on Kevin. His face was tight and waxen. The unspoken warning continued flashing from his eyes.

“I understand,” Tristram said, forcing a smile. “I understand completely.”

The Roundtable meeting concluded without further incident. The knights left the Stuyvesant Suite in the inverse order of their arrival. Kevin considered trying to waylay Gawaine and demand an explanation. But he did not know the man’s room number, and the danger of discovery in hanging too close to the meeting room was too great. Instead, he returned to his own room, his feelings roiling.

Kelly, wearing only her panties, lay on the bed watching a movie, eating grapes left over from dinner. She seemed completely at ease.

Kevin tossed her dress across her lap.

“Go,” he said.

“But you have me until morning.”

He took a fifty from his wallet and set it in her hand.

“I won’t tell anyone and I don’t want you to. Just be careful leaving. I’ll see you next time.”

Kelly tossed the dress aside, stood on her tiptoes and kissed him hungrily. He cupped her breast in his hand. Her nipple instantly swelled to his touch. Her smooth, lean body melted into his.

“I want you,” she whispered.

For a frozen minute his thoughts were only of her. He had not yet given in and made love with her. But he knew he was drawing closer with every moment they were together. Perhaps that was what he really needed, he began thinking. Not to face the demons that were suddenly tormenting him, but to escape them.

“I want you,” she moaned again. Still on her tiptoes,
she took his swollen cock and worked it between her thighs. “I want you inside me so much.”

He took her by the shoulders and forced her to arm’s length. She was part of them—an extension of The Roundtable. One of the shadow names. The piece she was about to take from him would bind him even more tightly to the society. Perhaps she was even to be rewarded for getting him to fuck her.

See, Tristram, you can do it,
The Roundtable would be saying to him.
You can do anything!

“Get out,” he snapped. “Right now.”

The hurt on her face seemed genuine. Kevin almost laughed out loud at her skill. She dropped her dress on over her head and turned to allow him to zip it up.

“Next time?” she asked.

“We’ll see. Now please, go.”

Kevin waited several seconds after the door had locked behind her and then splashed an inch of bourbon into a tumbler and gulped it down. Until he had read Beth DeSenza’s name on Merlin’s printout, none of The Roundtable’s programs had ever presented even the slightest moral dilemma for him. But they were programs that largely involved laws and the people who made them. The insurance commissioner was a pompous, politically motivated bastard—fair game in Kevin’s view. The corporate sabotage made perfect sense given the dog-eat-dog climate of the insurance business. But this was different. This was a flesh and blood person. He could handle standing back behind the lines, lobbing shells down on the enemy. But this was hand-to-hand combat. And suddenly, the enemy had eyes.

Kevin was in over his head. He knew it now. And there wasn’t a damn thing he could do about it—except to adjust. The price of a ticket on this ride was a twelve-room house and a secure future for himself and his family. He had paid the fare. Now he had no choice but to hang on and make the best of it. The next time Kelly asked, he would be ready for … whatever.

He had poured another two fingers when the phone began ringing.

“Tristram,” he said.

“It’s Gawaine,” the knight whispered. “Can you talk?”

“Yes, I’m alone.”

“You sent your girl home?”

“Yes.”

“Jesus. You are asking for trouble. Mine’s in the other room.”

“What’s going on? Why did you stop me at the meeting?”

“I know your name. Do you know mine?”

“No.”

“It’s Stallings. Jim Stallings. I’m a vice president with the Manhattan offices of Interstate Health Care.”

Kevin knew the gargantuan managed care company well. He had once interviewed for a sales job with them.

“Go on,” he said.

“Loomis, we’ve got to talk. Tomorrow, noon sharp. Can you make it?”

“I can, but—”

“Battery Park. The benches on the Hudson side. Just be damn sure you’re not followed.”

“But—”

“Please, Loomis. Wait until tomorrow at noon, and be careful.”

“One thing,” Kevin said quickly. “Did you see the picture of that woman DellaRosa?”

“Of course I did.”

“And do you think it’s Desiree?”

“I never had any doubt about it. It was
you
I had doubts about. I wasn’t sure if you were one of them or not. But after tonight I’m willing to take the chance that you’re still an outsider like me. In fact, I’m betting my life on it.”

Kevin listened to the dial tone for several seconds. Then he set the receiver down and walked to the window. Fourteen stories below, scant early-morning traffic flowed in slow motion along largely deserted streets. A cab pulled up and stopped directly beneath his window. A woman
wearing a tight, iridescent red dress hurried out and climbed inside. The lady without a name.

The cab rolled to the corner and then turned uptown. Kevin sensed that he had seen the girl, stroked her magnificent, taut body, for the last time. He glanced at his watch. Eleven hours. Eleven hours until Battery Park.

At three-thirty in the morning, Maura gave up trying to sleep and tiptoed from the small guest room to the den. Through his partially open door, she could see Harry asleep in the master bedroom. For a time after they returned from C.C.’s Cellar, she had thought he might ask her to join him there. He liked her. That seemed clear. But there were reasons—plenty of them—why he would want to keep some distance between them. Key among them was that she had given in to her frustration and her demons and had been drinking that afternoon.

It was just as well, she thought. She wasn’t ready for an emotional entanglement any more than he was. Still, she couldn’t remember the last time a man’s looks had turned her on so. And more important, he was one of the kindest, most decent men she had ever met. It would have been nice just to curl up in his arms for a night and let the chips fall where they may.