Elixir. Part 18

"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. n.o.body's in sight and n.o.body'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 pa.s.sports. "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 ma.s.s 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."

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

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

"d.a.m.n it, Jennifer, Chris is innocent! He's const.i.tutionally 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. n.o.body cared about her. n.o.body eavesdropped. n.o.body knew she was on the FBI's Top Ten List. And Jenny was right: n.o.body 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.

18.

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, a.s.sociates, 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 pa.s.sword 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 pa.s.sword. Startled, he tapped a few more codes.

s.h.i.t! 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 pa.s.sed 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 gla.s.s 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."

Ross sipped his drink quietly.

"We're trying to reconstruct a.s.says on the compound from old notes, except it's like trying to build a car from memory."

"That's not why I called you," Ross finally said. He got up and put another log on the fire. "I'm asking for your resignation, Quentin."

"My resignation? You've got to be joking."

"I'm not joking. I want you out by Friday."

"Why, for G.o.d's sake?"

Ross handed him printouts of downloaded files. "Over the last year you transferred 3 million dollars of earnings from overseas clients to corporate accounts in Caribbean banks-bogus outfits with nothing more than an account line. My guess is that you used the funds to pay off your drug pals from Apricot Cay. I'd like to believe it's not true, but the evidence is sitting in your lap." Ross looked down at him and simply asked, "Why?"

A long moment of silence filled the room as Quentin struggled to fabricate explanations. But he had none. Finally he cleared his throat and said in a soft voice of defeat, "They threatened to kill Robyn if I didn't pay."

"You could have come to me. We could have gone to the authorities. We could have done something. G.o.d Almighty, Quentin, you had options other than fraud and theft."

"You don't understand."

"No, I don't, because you violated everything that's important-your family, career, your future, your sense of self."

Quentin silently stared into the fire. There was nothing else to say. Next week Ross would begin an outside search for a replacement. Quentin stood up. "I'm sorry about this, Ross."

"You're sorry! Is that it? Is that all you have to say? No explanation why you embezzled money from your own family's company to pay off drug barons? A company I nearly killed myself to build? A company that was going to be handed to you, to build for your own child and grandchildren? Nothing more than a little 'sorry about this,' as if you'd spilled your drink?"

Quentin locked his eyes on Ross's and his face shifted as if something large and dark had pa.s.sed behind it. "I guess not."

Ross sighed as if his heart were breaking.

Quentin started toward the door then stopped. "I'd appreciate it if you would not tell Margaret. It's my problem, and my job to tell her."

Ross nodded. He had not told her. Nor did he want to. It would be like delivering a death warrant. And he was already at the edge of despair. Seventy-four years old, at the threshold of retirement, and facing the biggest crisis of his life. "One more thing," Ross said. "They're saying that the plane was sabotaged. Do you know anything about that?"

Quentin slammed his gla.s.s down. "No, G.o.dd.a.m.n it! And you're not going to pin that on me, too."

"I'm not pinning it on you, but you've been dealing with the kind of people who don't think twice about killing others."

"Well, you're wrong, Ross. Dead wrong! That was your golden boy, and when the cops bring him in they'll fry his a.s.s."

Quentin left and slammed the door behind him, leaving Ross standing there with tears in his eyes and feeling very old and tired and desperately missing his wife. He turned off the lights, and went upstairs and took a double dosage of Xanax to help him sleep. At his age, sleep was a reluctant friend.

He settled in bed and felt a warm mist fill the pockets of his brain, blotting out the last look on Quentin's face before he stormed out the door-a look that said he was lying.