Nelson DeMille - Death Benefits

Jack stared at Stan, but his sight was getting blurry and tears formed in his eyes.

Stan said, “Bills coming in, no money in the bank, and no prospects for the future. It’s very frightening. But where there’s life, there’s hope. Don’t you agree? No, don’t answer that. It was rhetorical.”

Stan finished his smoothie and went on, “So, when I saw the bill… well, you’re a bright man, and you have-or once had-a great imagination. So you can imagine what passed through my mind. But then I said to myself, ‘No, I can’t do that. Jack and I have been through thick and thin together. We go back almost fifteen years.’ You were there for me when Cindy left and I liked you for that-even after I heard about that joke you were telling everyone. The one about Cindy getting an A and me getting an F.U.” He frowned. “Not funny.”

Jack felt his throat constricting, and he tried to stand but fell back into his chair. Heart attack?

Stan glanced at his watch and said, “Just a few more minutes.” He let Jack know, “Cindy is considering coming back. Part of our problem was money, but I think I have that straightened out now.” He asked, “Isn’t that good news? Jack?”

Jack was concentrating on trying to breathe, but it felt like someone was sitting on his chest.

Stan watched him for a few seconds, then said, “Hang on. I’m almost finished.” He leaned across the table and continued, “Anyway, as I said, when I saw that life insurance bill, I had a bad thought, an evil thought, and I felt very guilty about it. So, when you invited me here, I thought this would be a good opportunity for us to reconnect. I actually have some good news for you about a movie deal I’m working on for two hundred thousand for one of your older and better books. I was going to tell you about it when we got back here last night.” Stan looked at Jack, frowned, and said, “But you tried to kill me.”

Jack managed to shake his head.

Stan seemed annoyed and impatient, then snapped, “Well, you were thinking about it. But Mr. Macho got cold feet. Or maybe you realized how stupid your plan was.” Stan added, “You’re losing your balls and your brains.”

Jack felt a flood of acid rising in his stomach and he thought he was going to vomit, but nothing came up except a stream of sour-tasting bile that made him gag.

Stan seemed not to notice and said, “So, I thought to myself, if Jack wants to kill me for the insurance money, then maybe I should kill Jack for the same reason.” He looked into Jack’s eyes and asked, “Do you see my point?”

Jack noticed that the backs of his hands were turning purple and swelling.

Stan noticed, too, and said, “I think you’re having an allergic reaction. Like anaphylactic shock. Did you eat something that you’re allergic to?”

Jack managed to croak, “You… bastard…”

Stan stood and retrieved the can of nutritional supplement and read the ingredients. “Vitamins… minerals… uh-oh… ground oyster shells.” He looked at Jack and asked, “Aren’t you allergic to shellfish? Deathly allergic?” He put the can down and gave Jack a look of contrite concern. “Oh, Jack, I’m so sorry. I put this stuff in the omelet, too. Oh, my God, Jack, I think you’re going to die.” Then he suddenly smiled as though just realizing something and said, “But it’s not all bad news. The good news is that I’m going to make five million dollars. That’s the best deal we’ve ever done together.”

Jack managed to stand and stagger to a kitchen drawer. He opened it and withdrew an EpiPen filled with adrenaline, the antidote to the deadly allergic reaction.

Stan snatched the device out of Jack’s hand and said, “You don’t need that. I’ll call an ambulance. Right after you stop breathing.”

Jack felt his knees buckling and slumped against the counter. His eyes were so swollen he could barely see, but he did see the chopping board that Stan had used to cut the chives, and on the board was a knife. With all the strength that remained in him, he grabbed the knife with his swollen purple hands and plunged it into Stan’s chest.

Stan looked at the knife in disbelief, then staggered back, blood spreading over his yellow silk pajama top.

Jack Henry and Stan Wykoff stood staring at each other; then Jack slumped to the floor, followed by Stan.

They lay side by side on their backs, each of them in respiratory distress-though for different reasons-and each on the verge of cardiac arrest. Jack felt his airway closing and the room was getting dark. Stan’s chest wound was bubbling frothy blood, and wheezing sounds came from his mouth.

Jack drew a final gulp of air through his constricting windpipe and got a single word out of his mouth. “Bastard.”

Stan felt himself drowning in his own blood but managed to reply, “Has-been.”

Both men lay on the cool terra-cotta floor, staring up at the rotating ceiling fan.

Jack’s last thought was of a silly cartoon he’d stuck over his desk-horned demons with pitchforks driving a crowd of people through the gates of hell, and there was a sign over the gate that said, “Authors Must Be with Their Agents.”