Gary Braver - Elixir

Wendy couldn't believe how Jenny was twisting this around. "If I didn't trust you, I wouldn't be calling you, for God's sake."

"Then, for God's sake, what are you holding back? Unless he really did kill that woman and blow up the plane."

"Damn it, Jennifer, Chris is innocent! He's constitutionally incapable of murder, and so am I, period!"

After another moment of silence, Jenny said, "Well, you can understand my suspicions."

Wendy had scolded her like a child and she could hear the woundedness in Jenny's voice.

Clearly it was important for Jenny to know what her sought-after collusion was rooted in. Wendy looked around her, feeling her resolve crumble. She was at a callbox at a small strip mall just out of the center of Lake Placid. Cars and people were moving about their daily business. Nobody cared about her. Nobody eavesdropped. Nobody knew she was on the FBI's Top Ten List. And Jenny was right: Nobody had tapped these lines.

She just hoped that Chris would understand. In a low voice, she said, "It has to do with an anti-aging substance Chris discovered." While Jenny listened intently, she explained in the barest details, emphasizing the fact that its very success was the cause of all the bloodshed.

"And he took it with him?"

"Yes."

"It's at the cottage?"

"Yes."

"Oh my."

When Jenny seemed satisfied with the explanation she said she would talk to Ted.

"Thanks."

Before she hung up, Jenny had one final question: "Does it work on people?"

"It never got to that stage," Wendy said.

When she hung up, she felt drained and guilty. Yet, curiously, she experienced some relief at having told someone, of getting it out. It was like lancing a boil. She just prayed that her revelation would go no farther than Jenny. She had promised as much, but Jenny did have her spells.

Wendy walked up the street to a market to buy food and hair rinse. She moved down the aisles envying other customers who did their shopping without worrying about police photos. The simplest things in life were suddenly fraught with mortal terror. What kept her going was the illusion that it was all temporary-that life would return to normal so she could raise her son in the open. Jenny had suggested getting a lawyer. But that was risky. Even in the outchance they were exonerated in court, unknown killers were still after them. And living in a police-protection program would be worse than jail. Their only other option was to remain in hiding.

So, at forty-two, the mother of a newborn and the author of the forthcoming mystery novel If I Should Die, Wendy Whitehead Bacon bought herself a Cover Girl hair kit to bleach-strip away the first half of her life.

Quentin left the Regine filled with relief that he was still breathing-a realization that produced in him an odd sense of obligation to Antoine. By the time he pulled into his slot at Darby, he knew he would kill to find Chris Bacon and Elixir.

On his desk was the usual pile of work and call slips. He pushed that aside and on his computer he looked up personnel records on Chris Bacon-original letters of employment, transcripts from grad school, letters of recommendation-anything that would yield names of relatives, associates, and the like.

Because of all the sensitive records, Quentin had installed lock-check softwear that would signal if anybody tried to access his files, giving the password of the intruder. As he logged in, a box lit up on his monitor: UNAUTHORIZED ACCESS. Shocked, he tapped a few keys, and the screen lit up with ROBYN.

Ross's password. Startled, he tapped a few more codes.

Shit! Ross had called up files of financial transactions from last year. If he cross-referenced, he would discover payments to Antoine.

Quentin collected himself, then called in Sally.

"Yes, he wanted to look over some of the last year's quarterly reports. So I gave him the access codes."

Quentin felt himself turn rigid. "I see."

"Will that be all, Mr. Cross?"

"Yes, thank you."

Sally left, and a few minutes later Quentin walked down the hall to Helen Goodfellow's office in accounting. "Helen, Ross came by earlier today for some files," he said, trying to maintain a tone of casual interest. "Do you recall which ones they were?"

Instantly she turned defensive. "Ross?" she said, pretending to rummage through her memory.

Quentin bore down on her. "Yes, Ross. Sometime this morning."

"Well, yes, I guess he did come by, now that you mention it," she said. "But, gosh, we handle so many files all day than I can't say which ones they were."

Helen, who was in her early sixties and not looking to retire for another five years, did not equivocate well. Her face had darkened as she was struggling to maintain her composure.

Meanwhile, in his mind, Quentin saw himself in the cabin of the Regine with Vince hanging over him like some carrion bird.

"Helen, the efficiency and operation of this office falls under my responsibility, including the handling of its files-which, I need not remind you, are very important and confidential. In turn it is your responsibility to be certain that such files are not casually passed about. Is that clear?"

"Certainly, Mr. Cross," she said, hearing the suggestion that she could be replaced by a younger woman with better recall.

She then moved to the cabinets and went through the motions of trying to determine which files had been removed. "Ah, yes," she said after a brief while. "I believe it was Alpha-Chemie."

Quentin was barely able to squeeze out a thank you.

Ross knew.

Back at his desk, Quentin sat in numb realization, half expecting Ross to come storming in for an explanation. But that didn't happen. Ross had left early without dropping by.

An hour before closing, Sally came in to say that Ross had telephoned to ask that Quentin drop by his house that evening.

For the rest of the afternoon, Quentin attended paperwork and made calls, while in the back of his mind a notion took form. While it was still soft, he took and squeezed it like clay, kneading it, examining it from different angles, pressing here, poking there, molding it until by the time he left, the thing had shaped and hardened like a brick.

After the last employee had left, Quentin let himself into the restricted area of the storage room and into a vault accessible to only a handful of people. It was where they stored highly sensitive compounds such as cocaine, heroin, lysergic acid, and other psychotropic drugs-some in purities approaching 100 percent.

At the rear of one shelf he removed a small glass vial. He slipped it into his pocket and left.

Ross lived on prestigious Belmont Hill in a handsome brick garrison on two woodsy acres set back against tall oaks. It was the home he and his late wife had purchased when the company began to flourish some years ago.

Around nine o'clock, Quentin pulled up the long driveway. Ross watched him get out of the Mercedes, thinking how this would be the last time he would be dropping in like this. After tonight, all would be changed. Sadness undercut Ross's anger and disappointment. After Quentin's marriage to Margaret, Ross had come to look upon him as the son he never had. Yes, he had suffered from pie-in-the-sky ventures that had cost them dearly. But Quentin was bright and aggressive and capable of acting with prudence, Ross had told himself. Now he was a crook.

Ross met him at the door, unable even to feign a smile. He led him into the living room where a small fire burned. A bottle of scotch sat on the bar with a bucket of ice. Quentin helped himself. Ross sat by the fire with a brandy. Since his heart attack five years ago, he was restricted to one drink a night.

"Refill?" Quentin asked. Ross handed him his empty. Quentin's eye twitched. "Police say they're following leads. Wendy's got a sister in Michigan someplace."