Gary Braver - Elixir

On what would have been lap forty-eight, her mind cleared for a split second. She saw the bottom of the pool rise up, while her diaphragm wracked for air and her arms flapped against the grip.

On lap forty-nine, bubbles rose up around her… so many bubbles… and panic filled her chest… and the weight on her leg… so heavy… all so heavy and dark, and her lungs burning for oxygen against the water filling her throat… and a face in a mask… eyes staring back at her… and the glint of chrome from a SCUBA regulator… black hoses and bubbles… the leaden weights of her limbs… her mind filling with dark water… and she kept swimming… swimming… toward a man with two large black eyes…

On lap fifty, she was dead.

Vince Lucas handed Quentin a Chivas on the rocks as he stepped inside his Hampton estate-a building that the designers had fashioned after Monticello.

Dressed in an elegant double-breasted suit with a white shirt and white silk tie, Vince led Quentin inside where a large crowd of people spread throughout the rooms. At the far end of a large and opulent ballroom, a jazz combo played. Waiters and waitresses in black and white worked their way through the crowds with champagne and hors d'oeuvres.

Quentin kept his briefcase gripped in his right hand as he made his way. Every so often he would spot someone he recognized from magazines and television-athletes, entertainers, New York politicians.

At the rear of the building, under a glass ceiling, lay a serpentine pool in small groves of palm and other tropical plants-all fed by fountains and waterfalls that emanated from rock-garden formations leading off to a poolside bar at one end. It looked like a jungle-movie set. Several men and women cavorted in the water while patio guests sat in lounge chairs as waiters moved about with drinks and food. In the distance through the rear glass wall spread the vast black Atlantic, whitewashed by a full December moon.

Quentin had a drink and met some people, then at ten o'clock he was taken to a back room where they entered a private elevator that took them two flights down to a sub-basement where the sounds of the band and revelry could not be heard. They made their way down a corridor with several rooms including a mirrored gym full of exercise machines. At the end was a heavy oak door that Vince unlocked.

Quentin stepped into a room full of men and women around a huge oval conference table-people he had seen upstairs, some from the island.

"Long time no see." Antoine Ducharme.

Quentin shook his hand, thinking that if it weren't for Elixir Antoine would have eliminated Quentin and his family. Now they were partners again.

They chatted for a moment as the place settled down. Quentin asked how Lisa was, and Antoine made a rueful smile. After the bombing of Apricot Cay, she had left him for another man. "The flesh is weak," he added cryptically.

On the far wall was a screen for the slide and video projectors. They had discussed the proceedings several times, yet Quentin's heart was doing a fast trot. Some 30 billion dollars sat around the table. He knew very little about individual Consortium members except that they embodied an exclusive international coterie of power brokers-financiers, foreign government officials, sheiks, retired oil execs, and the like-people whose word could send ripples throughout the stockmarkets around the world or incite international incidents. An untouchable elite who got where they were by being consummate opportunists. And here they were assembled for the ultimate conquest.

Vince's job had been to assemble them with just enough bait. Quentin's job was to sell them the goods with everything he had. And he was well prepared. He stepped up to the small lectern and described Elixir, taking the group through the various stages. He showed them slides of medical charts and procedures, and a video of the mice and the monkeys. The crowd was amazed at the before-and-after scenes of once infirm elderly primates suddenly jumping around as if transported back in time. Quentin explained how the animals could go on indefinitely. About the consequences of withdrawal, Quentin was forthright-or nearly so. As with any patient dependent upon medication, the animals would eventually suffer adverse symptoms leading to death. He did not go into detail.

What sold the group was the video that Antoine had brought.

Vince dimmed the lights, and the screen came alive. The locale was not immediately clear, but several people were shown sitting in a room. Most were black. All of them were in their seventies or older. At first it appeared to be a hospital, but a quick pan of the camera revealed barred windows. An off-camera male spoke in a crisp Caribbean accent. Each of the eight patients wore a first-name tag around the neck. A large woman sat in a wheelchair. They were all dressed in white T-shirts and shorts to reveal their physical condition.

The narrator asked each patient to walk across the room. Three men were bald, one with a full white bush. Some had missing teeth. Skin was loose and wrinkled, eyes discolored and rheumy. Two women were quite frail; one large white woman could barely walk for arthritis and remained in her wheelchair. The rest hobbled a few times around the room as best they could. Two used canes. "Very good, very nice," said the narrator.

To document the dates, the camera zoomed in on that day's New York Times. The first day was December 16. The patients were told to sit again. Without showing his face, a man in white injected a clear liquid into each patient's arms. Before the fadeout, the voice asked each how he or she felt, and all mumbled that they were fine.

The screen went to black for a moment, then lit up on a tight focus of The New York Times.

December 30. The same featureless room. The same elderly group in chairs against the wall. The same clean white outfits. Some stared blankly, a couple smiled. At first, nothing seemed different. But as the camera moved, subtle differences were discernible. The dark wrinkled man named Rodney seemed a bit more alert; his eyes were clearer and more open. He was also sitting straighter, as were two others. When asked, the frail woman named Francine said she felt better than the last time.

January 11. Same room. Same group of eight. But what summoned a response from the Consortium was the appearance of Alice, the fat, wheelchaired woman. She was on her feet and shuffling around the room. When asked about the arthritis in her feet, she said that her feet were "much happier." Likewise, the others circled the room with posture more upright and greater agility. Ezra and Hyacinth, who had previously used canes, now walked unassisted. The camera tightened on their faces which looked smoother and tighter. According to the narrator, each was feeling considerably better, more energetic. Two also remarked that their memories had improved.

January 19. This time their spirits were visibly high. Chatting and laughing, the eight of them walked their circles with smooth, steady gaits-including Alice, now with a cane. She had lost weight, and her face was thinner, her eyes wider. The camera shifted to Robert arm-wrestling with Rodney, the others cheering them on.

January 27. The group of eight was in the middle of the floor dancing to a reggae tape. The transformation was astounding, and the Consortium gasped in astonishment. In a matter of six weeks, each patient had regressed a decade or more. All laughed and swayed to the music, including Alice, who was on her feet unassisted, her hair neatly brushed, her face made up and smiling brightly.

When Vince flicked on the lights, the place exploded in cheers. One Frenchman asked where he could get a liter of the stuff tonight, and pulled out a checkbook. Others had the same response.