Bad Doctor

V

Most doctors play golf.

I don’t.

Nor am I a member of a country club.

But I used to be.

Ten years ago I paid twenty-five thousand dollars to join Deer Springs Country Club in Woodhaven. Though I never played, I faithfully paid my dues for three years. Then one day I decided to cancel.

I’d been told I could sell my membership back to the club at any time for eighty percent of what I paid. In other words, they owed me twenty grand.

Imagine my surprise when club treasurer, Penny Caulfield, informed me I’d been misled by their overzealous sales team three years ago.

“You’re joking,” I said.

“Don’t give up,” Penny said. “This isn’t the first time we’ve heard this.”

“What should I do?”

“Call Grady Sanders and tell him what happened. I’m sure he’ll refund your membership fee.”

“You can’t refund it?”

“No. The board agreed only the president can make the decision to refund on a case-by-case basis. I can’t guarantee he’ll say yes, he’s said yes to everyone else.”

“That sounds promising,” I said.

Imagine my surprise when Grady Sanders refused my request.

“What’s twenty grand to you?” he said.

“Excuse me?”

“You know what’s funny Dr. Box?”

“Please enlighten me.”

“It’s always the wealthiest members who look for loopholes.”

“You’re refusing to refund my money because I’m wealthy?”

“I’ve got a club to run, Doc. Twenty grand is gnat shit to you. To us, it’s crucial.”

“That’s it?” I said.

“That’s it.”

“Have a nice day,” I said.

And he did.

Grady Sanders had lots of nice days over the past ten years.

But a few days ago he began experiencing chest pain. And last night he was admitted to our heart center for tests.

Today he’s scheduled for a heart catheterization, which means he’ll be sleeping soundly tonight. His wife, Becca, will probably be in his room. No problem, I can work around her. It’ll be dark, and she’ll be in the recliner, trying to sleep.

Night time is the right time.

Like all hospital patients, Grady will be hooked up to a series of tubes. Hospitals use millions of tubes every year. To save money, all are the same shape and color, and none are labeled.

You might be surprised to know sixteen percent of all hospital patients experience tube mix-ups, resulting in hundreds of deaths each year. We could avoid these senseless deaths by color-coding or labeling them, but that would add a few bucks per patient to our expenses.

A simple tube switch would kill Grady, as would a well-placed injection into his drip, what I like to refer to as Willow’s Way.

So these are good possibilities.

Unless I want him to really suffer.

I’ve got hours to think about it.

Grady Sanders became a dead man the moment he checked into the hospital.

Because even after all these years, he’s on my list.