Gary Braver - Elixir

"Oh, God, no."

"She took an overdose. But she's in a good hospital where they've got a special ward for young people. It's clean and the staff is very professional." Tears streamed down her face. "We talk freely. And I guess it's good…" Her mood suddenly changed. "Wendy, she hates me. She says I made her crazy. She says she's going to grow up to be like me, living on pills and trying to stay sane." She let out a mirthless laugh. "She's a chip off the old block. She's got my crazy gene. Every family has one, I suppose, and I'm ours."

"Jenny, that's ridiculous! You're not crazy, for godsake."

"I sometimes feel crazy. I do."

"We all do at times. That's human. But you're not crazy, and you didn't make Kelly crazy."

"But something went wrong. I lost control. She's in a mental institution and I can't reach her. Something went wrong. I didn't watch her closely enough."

"Stop blaming yourself. Jim died and left you with a baby."

"Other single mothers manage. I lost control. I should have protected her better. I'm a nurse, for heaven's sake." She took a deep breath and adjusted the blanket around the baby. "But things will be different with her. She gives me strength to go on. She really does."

Wendy hugged Jennifer. "I know, and thank God you have her."

"Which is why I think you should have another."

"Nice how you circled back," Wendy laughed.

But Jenny did not respond as expected. As if talking to herself, she said, "Of course, we still have the 'terrible twos' around the corner, then the 'horrible threes' and 'furious fours.' Frankly, I think five's the best age. You're still the center of their universe, and they're not old enough to be influenced by others or reject you. Five. That's when they're most manageable. Don't you think?"

Jesus! Wendy thought. Had she forgotten when Ricky had died? But Wendy just said, "Yes."

Still in a semi-trance, Jenny gazed at her daughter. "I wish it could last forever." Then, as if at the snap of a magician's fingers, Jenny was back. "Oh, gosh, what's the matter with me?"

Wendy said nothing, suspecting that Jenny had had one of her spells.

When she was younger doctors had diagnosed her as mildly schizophrenic because she would occasionally recede into herself, unaware of her behavior. Medication had helped; so did the passage of time. By adulthood, her condition had stabilized, although she still had occasional blank-out spells.

Out of big-sister protectiveness, Wendy let it pass. "Even if I wanted to get pregnant," she continued as if nothing had happened, "Chris isn't around long enough to get down to business."

"Even big-time scientists have to go to bed on occasion." Jenny took Wendy's arm and headed for the door. "You have to be understanding. He's brilliant, and one day they'll give him a Nobel Prize for his cancer drug." Because it was all so secret, Wendy could not tell her about his real research. Nor could she explain how obscene she found it. Nobel Prize: If only his aspirations were so modest, Wendy thought and turned off the lights.

Quentin's stomach leaked acid when he heard the voice.

Vince Lucas didn't have to explain why he had called. The $2.5 million for the apricot pits was supposed to have been wired to a Bahamian bank by November 1, and here it was the middle of December-two extensions later-and the next payment of equal amount was due in six months.

He had explained to Antoine his problems collecting debts from European jobbers. But the real reason was that Quentin was buying time for Chris Bacon to synthesize the toxogen. All else was in place-the chemical patent, fabulous clinical results, the marketing strategies. And with Ronald Reagan's help, FDA approval was just around the corner. All that was left was a commercially viable yield and he could pay what he owed and be out from under Antoine Ducharme, his Consortium, and his lousy apricots which were costing them nearly thirty dollars per pit-a rate which would make the toxogen astronomically expensive.

But that hadn't happened because Bacon said he needed more time-months more. The fucking golden boy with the youngest Ph.D. from M.I.T. in decades, and he couldn't come up with a decent yield!

What nearly stopped Quentin's heart was that Vince Lucas was in town. His message was brief: Meet him at nine that evening in the parking lot of Concord 's Emerson Hospital which was a few miles from the lab. No mention of money or deadlines. But it would not be a social call. Nor was it like being indebted to legitimate creditors or the IRS. Quentin was beholden to men whose penalty for duplicity was execution.

But they couldn't do that to him, he assured himself. They needed him because he was the only link to the money. Ross knew nothing about Antoine. His sole concern was that his company not be ruled by the whims of Nature-invasion by some apricot-loving caterpillar or a tropical hurricane. If anything happened to Quentin, all deals were off.

Quentin's eyes drifted to the photo on the far wall-the 1932 Eureka football team with Ross standing behind Ronald Reagan who had signed it, "Win one for the Gipper." Two weeks ago, Quentin had pushed Ross to fly to Washington to get Reagan to expedite FDA testing. Ross first refused to exploit his friendship, but Quentin reminded him that Reagan prided himself on helping his friends. It was people like Ross who had put him in the White House-raising millions to support Nancy 's White House decorations including all the fancy china.

Ross had conceded, but he lacked the Darwinian edge. He was not the opportunist Quentin was. Just as well he was retiring soon. He had become soft. He was an obstacle to progress.

A little before nine Quentin pulled his Mercedes into a slot under a lamp post. Only a handful of cars sat in the lot. A solitary ambulance was parked by the emergency room, its lights turned off. Christmas lights in a few upper windows gave the scene a comforting glow. To ease his nerves, he found a station playing Christmas carols. At about nine fifteen, midway through "Here Comes Santa Claus," Vince Lucas rolled up beside Quentin's Mercedes. He nodded for Quentin to get into his car. Quentin went over to the passenger door and opened it hesitantly.

"You're letting the heat out," Vince said.

His heart jogging, Quentin got in and closed the door. "Good to see you, Vince," he chirped and offered his hand like an old business colleague. Vince was wearing leather gloves but did not remove them, nor did he take Quentin's hand.

"Bullshit," Vince said. "It's not good to see me," and peeled onto the road.

Quentin's chest tightened. This was not going to be a good night. The car turned onto Route 2 then cut up a side street toward Concord center.

"Where're we going?" Quentin tried to affect an easy manner.

"For a ride."

"Uh-huh." After a long silence, Quentin said, "Look, Vince, I know why you're here. I explained to Antoine that I need until the turn of the year. There's money coming in from Switzerland. It's just taking more time than expected."

Vince still said nothing. From Concord they crossed into Lincoln not far from Quentin's neighborhood. Houses along the way were lit up with Christmas lights. Quentin tried again. "Vince, we're businessmen. We've got a contractual arrangement which I intend to fulfill, but these things happen around the end of the year, and Antoine knows all that. You'll get the money-"

Vince pulled the car over with a jerk. To Quentin's horror, they had stopped in front of his own house. The Christmas tree was visible through the family room window. The upper floor was dark except for the master bedroom where Margaret was in bed reading or watching television.

"Now, we talk," Vince said, turning in his seat to face Quentin. His face was half in shadows, making his teeth flash white as he spoke. "Antoine Ducharme is two thousand miles from here. The last time you talked, he gave you an extension until December first, twelve days ago. You missed it, which makes you my responsibility now. And I don't do extensions."