Then Meg got cancer.
Or, more accurately, she found out she’d had cancer for about the last six months. She had been too busy for doctor visits. She thought the weight she was losing was from working too hard. But no. It was a bad diagnosis. It was a virulent type, and it was fairly advanced. The only ray of hope was a bunch of new treatments. They were exotic and expensive, but their trials had been promising. They seemed to work. Their success rate was climbing. No other option, the doctors said. Calendars were cleared, and Meg was booked in for her first session the very next morning.
Which was when the problems started.
Mrs. Shevick said, “There was a glitch with her insurance. Her account number wouldn’t run. She was prepping for chemo, and people were running in and out asking her full name and date of birth and Social Security number. It was a nightmare. They had the insurance company on the phone, and no one knew what was going on. They could see her history and they knew she was a customer. But the code wouldn’t authorize. It threw up an error message. They said it was just a computer thing. No big deal. They said it would be fixed the next day. But the hospital said we couldn’t wait. They had us sign a form. It said we would cover the bill if the insurance didn’t come through. They said it was just a technicality. They said computer things happened all the time. They said everything would get straightened out.”
“I’m guessing everything didn’t,” Reacher said.
“The weekend came along, which was two more sessions, and then it was Monday, and then we found out.”
“Found out what?” Reacher asked, although he felt he could guess.
Mrs. Shevick shook her head and sighed and flapped her hand in front of her face, as if she couldn’t form the words. As if she was all done talking. Her husband leaned forward, with his elbows on his knees, and he continued the tale.
“Their third year,” he said. “When their investors got nervous. It was even worse than they knew. It was worse than anyone knew. The boss was keeping secrets. From everyone, Meg included. Behind the scenes the whole thing was falling apart. He wasn’t paying the bills. Not a dime. He didn’t renew the company health plan. He didn’t pay the premium. He just ignored it. Meg’s number wouldn’t run because the policy was canceled. On her fourth day of treatment we found out she was uninsured.”
“Not her fault,” Reacher said. “Surely. It was some kind of fraud or breach of contract. There must be a remedy.”
“There are two,” Shevick said. “One is a government no-fault fund, and the other is an insurance industry no-fault fund, both of them set up for this specific reason. Naturally we ran straight to them. Right away they got to work on how to apportion responsibility between them, and as soon as that’s done they’re going to refund everything we’ve spent so far, and then take care of everything else going forward. We expect a decision any day.”
“But you can’t pause Meg’s treatment.”
“She needs so much. Two or three sessions a day. Chemo, radiation, care and feeding, all kinds of scans, all kinds of lab work. She can’t get welfare. Technically she’s still employed, technically with a decent salary. No one in the press is interested. Where’s the story? Kid needs something, parents willing to pay. Where’s the punchline? Maybe we shouldn’t have signed that paper. Maybe other doors would have opened. But we did sign the paper. Too late now. Obviously the hospital wants to get paid. This is not emergency room stuff. It can’t be written off. Their machines cost a million dollars. They have to buy actual physical crystals of radioactive stuff. They want the money in advance. It’s what happens in cases like these. Cash on the barrelhead. Nothing happens before. Nothing we can do about it. All we can do is hang in until someone else steps up. Could be tomorrow morning. We have seven chances before the week is over.”
“You need a lawyer,” Reacher said.
“Can’t afford one.”
“There’s probably an important principle in there somewhere. You could probably get one pro bono.”
“We have three of that kind already,” Shevick said. “They’re working on the public interest aspect. Bunch of kids. They’re poorer than we are.”
“Seven chances before the week is over,” Reacher said. “Sounds like a country song.”
“It’s all we got.”
“I guess it almost qualifies as a plan.”
“Thank you.”
“Do you have a plan B?”
“Not as such.”
“You could try lying low. I’ll be long gone. The photograph they took will be no good to them.”
“You’ll be gone?”
“I can’t stay anywhere a week.”
“They have our name. I’m sure we can be traced. There must be old paperwork still around. One level down from the phone book.”
“Tell me about the lawyers.”
“They’re working for free,” Shevick said. “How good can they be?”
“Sounds like another country song.”
Shevick didn’t answer. Mrs. Shevick looked up.
“There are three of them,” she said. “Three nice young men. From a public law project. Paying their dues. Good intentions, I’m sure. But the law moves slow.”
Reacher said, “Plan B could be the police. A week from now, if the other thing hasn’t happened yet, you could head over to the station house and tell them the story.”
Shevick asked, “How well would they protect us?”
“I guess not very,” Reacher said.
“And for how long?”
“Not very,” Reacher said again.
“We would be burning our boats,” Mrs. Shevick said. “If the other thing hasn’t happened yet, then we need those people more than ever. Who else could we turn to when the next bill comes in? Going to the police would leave us with no access to anything.”
“OK,” Reacher said. “No police. Seven chances. I’m sorry about Meg. I really am. I really hope she makes it.”
He stood up, and felt large in the small boxy space.
Shevick said, “Are you going?”
Reacher nodded.
“I’ll get a hotel in town,” he said. “Maybe I’ll swing by in the morning. To say so long, before I hit the road. If I don’t, it was a pleasure meeting you. I wish you the best of luck with your troubles.”
He left them there, sitting quiet in the half empty room. He let himself out the front door, and he walked down the narrow concrete path to the street, and onward past parked cars and dark silent houses, and when he hit the main drag he turned toward town.
Chapter 10
There was a particular block on the west side of Center Street that had two restaurants side by side fronting on the sidewalk, and a third on the north side of the block, and a fourth on the south side, and a fifth in back, fronting on the next street over. All five were doing well. They were always busy. Always buzzing. Always talked about. They were the city’s gourmet quarter, right there, packed tight. The produce trucks and the linen services loved it. One stop, five customers. Deliveries were easy.
So were collections. It was a Ukrainian block, being west of Center. They came by for their protection money regular as clockwork. One stop, five customers. They loved it. They came late in the evening, when the registers were full. Before anyone else got paid. They would walk in, always two guys, always together, dark suits and black silk ties and pale blank faces. Nothing was ever said. Technically it would have been difficult to prove illegality. In fact nothing had been said, even back at the beginning, many years before, except a subjective aesthetic opinion, and then a concerned and sympathetic murmur. Nice place you’ve got here. Be a shame if anything happened to it. Polite conversation. After which a hundred dollar bill was offered, but was greeted with a shake of the head, until a second hundred was added, which was greeted with a nod. After the first encounter the cash was usually left in an envelope, usually at the maître d’ station. Usually it was handed over without a word. Technically a voluntary activity. No overt demands had been made. No offers had been solicited. A thousand dollars for a stroll around the block. Almost legal. Nice work if you could get it. Naturally there was competition for the gig. Naturally it was won by the big dogs. The senior lieutenants, looking for a quiet life.