Michael Palmer - Flashback

Beaulieu chewed on a bite of sandwich as he gauged Zack's reaction.

"Did you perform the operations? " Zack asked. The surgeon shook his head. "The Coulombes had been my patients for many years, but shortly before Yvette began having symptoms, the rumors about me began circulating. Like most of the other people in town, they decided, or were told-I'm still not exactly certain which-to go and see Jason Mainwaring, instead. They were also told that their insurance coverage was quite limited, but that barring complications, most of Yvette's bills would be covered."

"But complications there were."

"Four separate operations, all of them indicated and due to unforeseeable circumstances, as far as I can tell, but four nonetheless.

Then there was a protracted stay in the Sterling Nursing Home. In fact, Yvette never did return home before she died."

"And, of course, there were more bills for that. I get the picture."

"Actually, " Beaulieu said gravely, "you haven't gotten the picture at all… yet. You see, Ultramed Corporation not only owns our hospital, it now owns both nursing homes in town as well. Did you know that?"

"No, " Zack said. "No, I didn't."

"The corporate name is the Leeward Company. They own nursing homes and rehabilitation centers all over the east and midwest, and about three years ago they purchased the two here in Sterling. But what not so many people know, including me until just a few months ago, is that Leeward is a division of Ultramed, bought out by them precisely four years ago.

The bills for all three institutions-Ultramed-Davis and the two nursing homes-are actually spit out of the same computer. I'm not going to tell you who's in charge of that computer, but you can guess if you wish."

"I don't have to, " Zack said, wondering why Frank had never mentioned the purchase of the nursing homes to him. "Coulombe's story is a very sad one, especially with the unfortunate outcome for his wife. But I see nothing evil or even immoral in it."

"That is because you are missing a piece of the puzzle, " Beaulieu said.

"A crucial piece. And remember, " he added, "what I am about to reveal to you is just the tip of the iceberg."

"Go on, " Zack said, wishing now that the man would not. Beaulieu pulled a folded typed sheet from his jacket pocket, smoothed it out on the table, and slid it across to Zack. "As I mentioned before, " he said, "I do not have too many allies in my little crusade. But I do have some.

One of them has spent nearly six months traveling from place to place, trying to gather information for me. Just last week he came up with this. It's a list of the boards of directors of two companies."

Zack scanned the parallel lists of names, headed simply R and EPSS. Five of the ten names on each list were identical. "What do these letters stand for? " he asked. The fire in Guy Beaulieu's eyes intensified. "The R stands for RIATA of Boston, the megaglomerate that owns Ultramed. In a sense, they are our bosses, Zachary. Yours, mine, and every other doctor's in town."

"And the other?"

"The other, my friend, stands for Eagle Pharmaceuticals and Surgical Supplies-the corporation that bought out Richard Coulombe. Their boards of directors interlock."

Beaulieu illustrated his point by sliding the fingers of one hand between the fingers of the other. Before he could respond, Zack saw movement at the corner of his eye. He slid the paper onto his lap at the instant a shadow fell across the table. He and Beaulieu looked up.

Frank, smiling benignly, stood not five feet away from them, holding a tray of food. "Are you gentlemen having a heart-to-heart? " he asked.

"Or do you have room at the table for one more?"

Carefully, Zack folded the sheet of paper and slid it into his pocket, although he sensed the move was a fruitless one. Frank had heard at least part of their conversation. Of that, he was almost certain.

A Bach fugue was playing on the small cassette deck by the sink. Barbara Nelms, staring glumly at the bathroom mirror, ran a finger over the furrows in her forehead and the crow's feet at the corners of her eyes.

The creases had, it seemed, appeared overnight. Instinctively, she reached for her makeup kit. Then, just as quickly, she snapped off the tape, turned and walked from the bathroom. If she was bone-tired, if she was stressed close to the breaking point, if frustration and fear had aged her six years in six months, why in the hell should she try to hide it anymore?

The product of a perfectly uncomplicated unbringing in Dayton, Ohio, and four idyllic years as a business and marketing major at tiny St. Mary's College in Missouri, she had always prided herself on being a model parent, wife, citizen, and member of society. She was a registered Democrat, a voting Republican, an officer in the PTO three years running, a scout leader, a reader at church, a better than average pianist and tennis player, and, at least according to her husband, the best lover a man could ever want. But now, after six months of haggard guidance counselors and harried school resource workers, of evasive, pompous behavioral psychologists and bewildered pediatricians, none of that mattered.

She had dropped off all committees, hadn't picked up a tennis racket in weeks, and couldn't remember the last time she and Jim had had sex.

Something was wrong, terribly wrong, with her son. And not only could none of the so-called specialists they had seen diagnose the boy's problem, but each seemed bound and determined to convince her that it fell in someone else's bailiwick. The violent episodes, occurring at first monthly, but now almost once a week, had enveloped Toby in a pall of melancholy and fear so dense that he no longer smiled or played or even spoke, except for occasional monosyllables in answer to direct questions-and then only at home. Situational depression, delayed autism, childhood schizophrenia, developmental arrest with paranoid ideation, acting out for secondary gain, the labels and explanations for Toby's condition were as varied-and as unacceptable-as the educators and clinical specialists who had applied them. The boy was sick, and he was getting sicker. He had lost nearly ten pounds from a frame that had not an ounce of fat to begin with. He had stopped growing. He had failed to satisfy the requirements for promotion to the fourth grade. He avoided interacting with other children. He had been given vitamins, antidepressants, Thorazine, Ritalin, special diets. She had taken him to Concord, and then to Boston, where he had been hospitalized for four days. Nothing. Not a single objective clue. If anything, he had returned from the medical mecca even more uncommunicative than before. Now, as she prepared to drag her son to yet another specialist-this one a young psychiatrist, new in town, named Brookings-Barbara Nelms felt the icy, all-too-familiar fingers of hopelessness begin to take hold. Toby's episodes at first seemed like horrible nightmares. Several times she had actually witnessed them happen-watched helplessly as her son's eyes widened and grew glassy, as he withdrew into a corner, drifting into a terrifying world he would share with no one. She had listened to his cries and had tried to hold him, to comfort him, only to be battered about the head and face by his fists. In the end, there was nothing she could do but stay close, try her best to see that he didn't hurt himself, and wait. Sometimes the episodes would last only half an hour, sometimes much longer than that. ' 518 Always they would end with her son mute, cowering, and totally drained. Perhaps this will be the day, she said to herself. Perhaps this man, Brookings, the first full-time psychiatrist in the valley, would have the answer. But even as she focused on this optimistic thought, even as she buttoned her blouse and smoothed the wrinkles she should have ironed from her skirt, even as she went to her son's room to fetch him for yet another evaluation at yet another specialist's office, Barbara Nelms knew that nothing would come of it. Nothing, perhaps, except another label. And time, she also knew, was running out. The drive from their house to the Ultramed-Davis Physicians and Surgeons Clinic took fifteen minutes. For most of the ride, Barbara Nelms kept up a determined conversation with her son-a conversation that was essentially a monologue. "This doctor's name is Brookings, Toby. He's new in town, and he specializes in helping people with attacks like yours… We're going to get to the bottom of this, honey. We're going to find out what's wrong, and we're going to fix it.