Gary Braver - Elixir

As Quentin jerked himself off the body, the sudden release of pressure forced a plug of vomit to spasm out of Ross's throat and into Quentin's face.

Revolted, Quentin dashed to the toilet and scrubbed himself clean, fighting to contain the contents of his own stomach, aware that the stench was seeping into his clothes. He removed his shirt and lathered it until all traces of odor were gone.

When he reentered the bedroom Ross was staring directly at him, a thick pudding of vomit on his mouth. Quentin's heart froze as he expected Ross to rise up. But he was dead. Unmoving, unbreathing, unfeeling. His face blue.

Quentin wiped the liquid from Ross's offended eye which was red and swollen but which would shrink to normal by morning once the body fluids had settled. He then turned him onto his side to affect the sequence of events of a heart attack. Vomiting is a symptom, not the cause of death; by reflex a victim would try to keep his throat open. Given Ross's age and heart condition, Quentin was certain there would be no autopsy. The brandy glass in the sink and Xanax on the nighttable made the perfect scenario. Even if there were an autopsy, his body would manifest no visible signs that he died of anything other than natural and predictable causes. Which was why Quentin had targeted Ross's eye. The blood vessels would disseminate the substance throughout his system while the hole would be virtually invisible.

And in two days the obituary would read that Ross Darby had passed away at his home at the age of seventy-four, suffering a heart attack in his sleep, and leaving behind a grieving daughter, Margaret Darby Cross, and granddaughter Robyn, and son-in-law, Quentin W. Cross, who would assume the position of Chief Executive Officer of Darby Pharmaceuticals, Inc.

And God was in His heaven, and all's right with the world.

Quentin turned off the light and went home to bed.

By their third week, they had worked out a communications routine with Jenny. She would call every fourth night at a designated time from public phones in Kalamazoo to public phones around Lake Placid.

The good news was that Ted had made contact with a couple of street-wise guys who could get them phony licenses. It would cost two thousand dollars and they would need photos and signatures under new names. Jenny would drive out in a safe car to be swapped for Chris's rented van, which Ted would turn over to a chop shop. Before they hung up, Jenny mentioned that Wendy's book had been published to good reviews, and because of all the publicity it had made some local bestseller lists. "Too bad I'll miss the book tour," Wendy said grimly.

Four nights later Jenny arrived in a two-year-old Ford Explorer. In case she had been followed, Chris met her at a highway rest stop twenty miles away. When he was certain that nobody had tailed her, he led the way to the cottage.

Jenny had brought forms to sign and a Polaroid for IDs. In blackened hair and beard Chris would not be easily mistaken for the TV photos. And Wendy was now a blond and twenty-five pounds lighter than in her author photos.

Jenny had not been to the lodge for nearly fifteen years. Besides the remoteness, it was not her kind of place. Nor Ted's, whose idea of a getaway was Las Vegas.

"Better you than me," Jenny had said, looking around the old place.

"But we had some good times," Wendy reminded her, still amazed at the fact that Jenny had arranged for their new IDs and driven all the way out here by herself and undetected. Sometimes Jenny's reaction was so unpredictable that Wendy felt guilty for ever underestimating her. The element of danger seemed to have given Jenny new resolve. Perhaps new motherhood had created a greater sense of family, sharpening her protective instincts.

"Between the snow and mud, the bugs and mice, this place would drive me crazy. But," she added, "I supposed it's a good place to raise kids. They'd be far from all the rot out there. Unless, of course, you got one of those awful satellite dishes. Gosh, the stuff they're showing on television these days. No wonder kids are so screwed up."

Following dinner, they settled by the fire while Jenny showed them photographs. She had brought maybe two dozen-all of Abigail at Christmas dolled up a variety of different outfits and sitting among mountains of presents. "She's getting so big," Wendy said.

"Too big. Her babyhood is just flying by."

"How's Karen doing?" Chris asked.

"Karen? Who's Karen?"

"Your other daughter," he said, suddenly feeling a chill of embarrassment.

"Kelly."

"Kelly," he said, and slapped his forehead. "What's the matter with me?"

I'll tell you what's the matter, a voice inside whispered. It's happening: Your brain is dying.

Wendy shot him a look of concern. She knew what he was thinking.

Like how you forgot where you left the axe this morning, and how you have to make lists to remind you of things, and how you put the milk in the pantry and the cereal in the fridge the other day, and how simple head calculations you now have to do on paper, and those moments of disorientation when you step into the next room.

Wendy had said it was stress and anxiety, but he knew better. He could almost feel clusters of brain cells clot and die.

His eyes dropped to the photo of Abigail and thought how he would never see his son grow up. How he would never know Adam as a boy or young man. How in two years, if he were still alive, he would look at Adam and not know who he was from all the other alien faces in the world. Like Sam.

A particularly virulent form of Alzheimer's.

He'd rather die first than put Wendy and Adam through that.

"She's better, thank you," Jenny continued with an exaggerated singsongy voice that said she had nothing else to say about Kelly. "But would you believe it that in just five months Abigail will be two years old? I'm going to have a big party. Which reminds me." Without missing a beat, she pulled a bright red package from her bag. "Belated Merry Christmas."

Wendy unwrapped it and froze. It was a copy of If I Should Die. She studied the cover and dustjacket copy and photo. Then she put the book in a desk drawer and left the room without a word.

Perplexed, Jenny looked at Chris. "I didn't mean to upset her."

There was one thing Chris hadn't forgotten. March third. "Tomorrow was to be the publication party."

But the gaps in Jenny's thinking had less to do with pathology than thoughtlessness, Chris concluded.

"Oh, I forgot. Well, it's not like you'll be living in hiding forever. You're getting yourself a lawyer, right?"

Chris tried to shake his mind clear. "We're working on that."

For a moment they both stared into the fire which sputtered and flamed vigorously.

"So," Jenny said finally, "tell me about this Elixir stuff. Does it really work?"

Chris wished Wendy hadn't broken down and told her. "On lab animals it does."

"What does it actually do?"

"It appears to protect them from diseases associated with aging."

"Like what?"

Like Alzheimer's.

Like Alzheimer's.

Like Alzheimer's.

And he saw Methuselah whipping through complicated mazes as if wired.

"Arthritis, cancer, heart disease."

"Oh my, that's wonderful. And somebody thinks it's good enough for people." She rubbed a kink in her neck. "Frankly, I could use a little of that myself. Ted, too. He's pushing fifty."

Chris could hear Wendy upstairs in the baby's room. It was feeding time. He could also hear the ticking of the old grandfather clock in the corner. In a year he could be brain-dead.

"Is it possible to see what the fuss is all about?" Jenny asked. "The Elixir stuff?"

"There's really nothing to see."