Gary Braver - Elixir

All project accounts were under Quentin's control. That may not have made good business sense since it left no checks and balances. But, after all, Quentin was family. What shocked Ross was that checks for over $3 million had been written to two corporations in the Caribbean: Global Partners Inc. in Grand Cayman and Fair Caribe, Ltd. in Apricot Cay.

"Either you're part cat, or that Elixir stuff's for real." Vince popped a wedge of honeydew melon into his mouth.

They were aboard Antoine's new yacht, a huge sleek craft named Regine after Antoine's mother. The interior was larger and more elegant than that of the late Reef Madness. But, like its predecessor, there were bookshelves stocked with mystery hardbacks. Quentin imagined Antoine moving from port to port making drug deals between P. D. James and Sue Grafton.

"They say he's hiding someplace," Antoine said. "Which means he has Elixir and the notebooks. Is that what you think?"

"Yes," Quentin said. "Absolutely."

Outside a cloud bank closed in from the west. There would be snow that evening. Quentin wondered where Antoine would sail to next. He was like a phantom, appearing and disappearing at will. He seemed to have unlimited power and resources.

"How long has he been working for you?"

"Fifteen years."

Antoine wore a forest-green fisherman's net sweater, but his face still sported a tropical tan. He leaned forward. "I am going to explain something to you in very simple terms, Quentin." The intensity in his eyes took Quentin back to that night when with the same heat of expression Antoine had held forth about loyalty and trust just moments before Marcel was hurled to his death. "Every man has one major mission in life-one that he dates the calendar from, understand? A turning point in the progression of his days-the point after which nothing will ever be the same again, and all things that came before are forever gone. Like birth and death, it happens only once. Do I make myself clear, Quentin? Do you understand?" Antoine's face had a rigid fixity. His eyes were like laser beams focussed to score the message on the back of his skull.

Quentin felt parched with fear. "Yes, I understand."

"A mission with no margin for error."

Quentin glanced at Vince Lucas, who stood against the windowed wall of the cabin dressed in black glasses and black leather, looking like the allegory of death from some medieval painting. "I understand."

"A mission whose stakes are beyond mortal. This is yours, Quentin Cross: To find out the names of this Doctor Christopher Bacon's intimates-friends, relatives, his wife's friends and relatives, where they go on vacation, what they do for hobbies and recreation-anything and everything and anybody that could lead us to him. Check your files, talk to your people. Do what you need to do to find him because everything you hold dear in life depends on it. Comprende?"

"Yes."

If the police weren't all over Jenny yet, they soon would be-interrogating her and Ted, tapping their telephone, reading their mail, tailing their every move.

From a call box in Lake Placid, Wendy phoned Ted's work number in Kalamazoo and made arrangements for Jenny to call her from a public phone as they had the other night.

It took nearly half an hour for Jenny to find a phone booth where she would not be noticed. When they finally connected, Wendy got right to the point: "I know what the news reports say, but it's all a setup," she explained.

"So, why don't you go to the police?" Jenny asked.

"Because we have no proof that Chris was out of town when Betsy Watkins was killed, nor that he didn't check a bomb on the plane." Security photos placed him in the crowd with a shoulder bag not shown in the shots with the Foleys. With Quentin's help, the media had already convicted Chris for murder and sabotage. "Jenny, we were meant to die in that explosion. It was meant for us, I'm telling you."

"That's awful! But who on earth would do that to you, and why?"

"I don't know. I don't know. Chris thinks it's his boss Quentin Cross and some criminal element he's tied up with."

"I don't believe it," Jenny said. "Why would he do something like that? I mean, this is unbelievable."

"That's another story," Wendy said, wanting to deflect the subject, wanting not to yield to the panic that she heard in Jenny's own voice. "It's not worth getting into. But we need your help."

"The reports said something about stolen company property."

"That's not the issue."

But Jenny would not let go. "Well, did Chris steal something from them? That's what they're saying."

"Jenny, I'd rather not discuss that. Please, I need help, not an interrogation."

"Wendy, I'm on the other side of town in a different telephone booth from the last time. Nobody's in sight and nobody's listening in."

"That's not important-"

Jenny cut her off. "If you want us to help you, I'd like to know just what we're getting ourselves into. It's only fair."

Exasperation was beginning to fill Wendy's chest. But Jenny was persistent, and she had every right to be. "It's something to do with a secret new drug."

"But everybody knows about the cancer drug. It was on the national news months ago."

"Not that."

"Something else?"

"Yes."

"You mean you won't tell me."

"I'm sorry, Jen, but I promised Chris."

Wendy could hear Jenny's hurt mount in the silence of the open line as she wondered why she and Chris were putting company confidentiality ahead of family-especially when that company was out to destroy them.

All her life Wendy had tried to protect Jenny from pain because of her medical condition and her fragile state of mind, and because she was a bird with a broken wing who could not handle crises but whose life was a concatenation of crises-from a troubled childhood, to jilting lovers, to the death of her first husband, to her daughter Kelly's mental problems, to a second marriage to a man who verbally abused her. Not to confide in Jenny at the moment would simply confirm her suspicion that she was inferior or untrustworthy or incapable of handling critical matters.

Yet, ironically, Wendy was calling to ask for Jenny's help at the worst crisis in their lives. Still, she refused to explain the cause. And Wendy hated herself for it, but she had sworn to Chris not to make mention of Elixir.

"I don't like it, but we're going to hole up at the cottage, I'm not sure how long," Wendy said.

"So, I suppose you're asking for money." Wendy could hear the resentment in Jenny's voice.

"No, we have money. What we need are fake IDs-driver's licenses and social security cards." With them, they could get a post office box, open bank accounts, and apply for credit cards, even passports. "I'm just wondering if you could do that for us through Ted's contacts: We can pay whatever it costs. But we need them to survive."

Ted owned a car dealership, and years ago he had run into some trouble with the law for illegally selling cars overseas. She was hoping he still had contacts who could get them bogus credentials.

There was another long pause as Jenny let Wendy's request sink in. Finally she snapped. "I see-you're asking us to break all sorts of laws that could send us to prison for years, but you won't explain why. All because little sister can't keep a secret, right? Because she might blab to the neighbors or tell the police. But just call her out of the blue for fake IDs, and she's right there like an old dog ready to please."

"Jesus, Jen, it's not that at all," Wendy pleaded. "I hate this more than you know, but they're after us for mass murder. And there may be unknown killers gunning for us. We have nowhere else to turn, and you're my sister."

"Yeah, the same sister you can't bring yourself to trust."