The RX Factor (6 page)

Ryan twisted in his seat and squeezed the bridge of his nose as he contemplated the best way to respond. "Excuse me," he said abruptly. He shoved back his chair as he rose and took his lemonade into the kitchen. Muttering to himself, he dumped a generous portion of Tanqueray into the glass before returning to the veranda. After a healthy swig, he said, "The entire medical community is thankfully not aware of this and no one is following up on my research because the FDA halted the human trials when my drug started killing people."

Jordan's eyes dropped to her drink and a somber silence hung in the air for several seconds. "I'm so sorry, Ryan. I had no idea." She set down her drink and twisted her hands nervously. In a gentle voice, she said, "We can talk about something else." She couldn't seem to raise her gaze to his.

Ryan shook his head. "I don't mind talking about it. Don't worry about me. How are you holding up?"

"As good as can be expected, I guess. Talking with you about all this is helping me take my mind off my own sorrows. I know they each had a long and wonderful life." Jordan bowed her head before continuing. "I know they would have wanted me to celebrate their life and not mourn their death, but the way they died just seems so senseless."

She raised her head up, gritted her teeth, and stared into Ryan's eyes. "I just can't get to the cele-bration-of-life point of view until I know exactly what happened, and why."

"That's very understandable." Ryan's face became sullen as he dropped his head down a few notches. "I guess when someone passes away of normal causes, it is much easier to celebrate their life, but when they are suddenly taken in a tragedy, mourning feels more appropriate."

"Yeah, I guess that makes sense."

Ryan fell silent and stared off into the distance. His heart was racing and his palms began to sweat. He wiped them on his shorts and then rubbed them through his hair. He drained his spiked lemonade, excused himself again, and went into the house. A few minutes later he returned with a fresh drink and a pack of Marl-boros. He took a swig from his glass and lit up a smoke. As he exhaled, he shot a half-hearted smile towards Jordan. "Bad habit I know. . . ."

Before he could finish his thought, Jordan interrupted. "Ryan, clearly something is bothering you. You have known me less than a day, yet have treated me with nothing but compassion. If you want to unload, I am here for you."

"I appreciate that Jordan, but you have enough on your plate and don't need to get involved in my psychosis."

With a stern yet smiling face, Jordan replied, "Nonsense. That's it. Start talking Matthews."

Ryan sighed, took another drag of his cigarette, and then crushed it out in the overfilled ashtray sitting on the table beside his chair. "I lied to you." He paused. "Well, not exactly
lied,
just didn't tell you the whole story. I told you from the get-go it was a long one."

"Yes, you did. I'm all ears."

"It wasn't just people who died in the human trials of Tricopatin."

"Tricopatin?"

"Yeah, that was the registered name of my serum. Anyway, my wife, Cindy, was a participant in that trial." He dropped his head for a moment and then stared directly at Jordan. "And I made sure that she was not in the placebo group."

"I'm so sorry, Ryan, but you cannot blame yourself. If your wife was approved to be in that trial, then . . . I don't mean to sound callous, but that had to be her last hope of long-term survival."

"Of course I know you're right, but I have just never been able to accept my failure."

"Tell me about Cindy. How did the two of you meet?"

Ryan took a swig of his drink before continuing. "I met Cindy at Wake Forest. She was a freshman biology major and mistakenly walked into my organic chemistry lab. I was awestruck from the beginning. She was the most gorgeous specimen I had ever seen." Ryan smiled a knowing smile and sat in silence contemplating the moment for a few seconds before continuing.

"From that day on we were inseparable. We dated all through college. After undergrad, I went to Duke for my MBA and we married the summer after my graduation. Two years later, our daughter, Karly, was born."

Jordan stared at Ryan with knowing and caring eyes. Her compassion and sincerity did not go unnoticed as Ryan sensed a level of comfort that he had not felt in years and began to speak more freely.

"It was near that time that my mom died from ovarian cancer. It was at her funeral that I made a commitment to go back to school and earn my doctorate degree and devote my life's work to finding a cure. I know now that this was a naive goal, but at the time I was as certain as a person can be that I was capable of making the miracle happen."

"There is a fine line between confidence and naivety and that is nothing to beat yourself up over, Ryan."

"There may be a fine line between the two, but it's that same fine line that separates success and failure, winners and losers, and . . ." He paused. "Life and death."

Jordan did not attempt to counter Ryan. She simply agreed with him and asked that he continue.

"Three years later, everything was going as planned. We were blessed with the birth of our son, Jake. I was still pursuing my doctorate and spending every spare moment I had working on my thesis. When I was finished, my theories drew much critical acclaim and by the time I graduated, I had more offers than time to legitimately consider all of them."

"Sounds like a good problem to have."

"It was not really a problem. I was so focused on what I wanted to accomplish that when I was approached by a venture capital firm that fancied itself as an incubator for start-up biotechnology firms with an offer of virtually unlimited funding to pursue my research, I jumped at the opportunity."

"Wow!" Jordan smiled. "That must have been some thesis."

"I guess it was, but it was only a thesis, a hypothesis, supported with facts, but, unfortunately, not yet backed up with results. As I mentioned earlier, we had some miraculous breakthroughs as we attempted to prove my theories and develop a serum that would cure ovarian cancer, but that is another fine line."

Jordan shifted in her chair and cleared her throat. "I guess that was a foolish statement I made about a fine line."

"I didn't mean it like that, Jordan."

"I know, but it was a stupid comment and condescending. I am a scientist like you and know full well the difference between close and exact. Unfortunately, if you are on the wrong side of the fine line in our work, the results are not . . . are not . . . well, let's just say it is not like the difference between a triple and a home run."

"Amen. Listen, I really do not need to dump all of this on you. After all, I am supposed to be comforting you."

"Nonsense. I am feeling very much comforted by your willingness to open up to me. Please continue."

Ryan hesitated and shook the ice in his now otherwise empty glass. "A few days after Cindy's annual OB-GYN appointment, the doctor called to tell her that routine test results indicated that she had a pelvic mass. Follow-up blood tests revealed advanced-stage ovarian cancer."

Ryan stopped and took a deep breath to steady himself. Jordan reached for his hand.

"She was given less than a year without surgery and chemo. But we both knew that that would only buy her another six to twelve months. Instead of living out the rest of her life in a hospital, we decided to move to Exuma and try to enjoy her remaining days free from the pain and misery that accompany the only treatments practiced for stage four ovarian cancer." "Why Exuma?"

"This is where we spent our honeymoon. We fell in love with the beauty, serenity, and wonderful people. I came down before everyone else to set up our living arrangements. Cindy, Jake, and Karly boarded an island hopper in Miami for the last leg of their trip. About halfway here . . . ," he paused and looked out at the waves playing upon the bay, ". . . the plane malfunctioned and crashed into the sea."

Jordan squeezed his hand but kept silent. Even the birds had ceased their constant warbling, as if in respect for the gravity of Ryan's loss. Then, without warning, Jordan sprang from her chair and said, "Do you mind if I take a swim? The water looks wonderful and I need a pick-me-up."

Ryan had started to relax thanks to the alcohol's effect but was still plagued with the feelings dredged up from his revelations. Jordan's abrupt outburst sliced like an axe through his emotions and he began to regret opening up to her. Was his sad story depressing her and now she wanted to change the subject?
How could she be this insensitive?

"Well . . ." he fumbled, "I don't have any women's swimsuits."

"I've got one in my tote bag. Would you like to join me?"

To his surprise, he found himself rising. "I guess I need to clear some cobwebs, too."

He remained standing, immobilized in the thought of Cindy, Jake, and Karly, while Jordan changed in the bathroom. She emerged a few minutes later wearing a lime-green bikini, ready for a frolic in the sea.

"Hurry up and get your suit," she said. "I'll be in the water."

By the time he got down to the beach, all he could see was her black, shiny hair disappearing in the crystal-clear surf. He plunged in and stroked out toward her. The ocean was cool and refreshing. The salt water buoyed his body and the exercise invigorated his spirit.

By the time he caught up with her, he was panting. She was out farther than he had thought.
Must be a good swimmer to come way out here.
She stretched out on her back and floated with her face to the sun. He followed suit. It was a transformation, a cessation of all things worldly. He could have gone to sleep, and nearly had, when she said, "We're drifting out pretty far. Better get in closer."

They set out swimming until they were in safer waters near shore. Jordan was the first out of the water, striding up the beach. Ryan followed close behind and settled onto a blanket he had brought out with him. She wrung the water from her hair before dropping down next to him, tugging at the bottom of her bikini.

Stretched out side by side, with the huge fluffy cumulus clouds racing by, both of them dozed off in the afternoon sun.

The sun was beginning to sink on the second day since the tragic explosion when a four-door Chevy, outfitted with standard law enforcement communications equipment and a government license plate, pulled into Ryan's driveway. When Ryan answered the door, he found Superintendent Pritchard and a tall, thin man he had seen several times, but never met before, standing on his front porch. Pritchard introduced the man as Neville Bradshaw, his lead investigator.

Once inside, both men greeted Jordan; neither looked surprised to see her there. The superintendent said, "I thought we might find you here. We have some information about the explosion that might interest you."

Ryan had been on friendly terms with Pritchard ever since his first visit to the island. Since taking up permanent residence, they had become true friends. They got together for dinner and cocktails several times a year and, as a result of Ryan's specialized background, Pritchard had even consulted with him on several official matters, off the record, over the past few years.

Ryan invited them back to the patio. As they took their seats around the outdoor fire pit, he offered drinks. Both men declined, as did Jordan. Noticing that Pritchard was not his usual jovial self and that the man he introduced as Neville Brad-shaw was as stiff as a board, Ryan felt a twinge of tension and decided to excuse himself. He returned moments later with a snifter of Jameson mixed with a couple ice cubes.

Pritchard, who was seated between Jordan and Ryan, skipped the small talk, plunging right into the topic on everyone's mind. "Nassau surprised me with a rare bout of efficiency and sent a couple of salvage divers down yesterday."

Jordan leaned forward expectantly.

"Okay, here it is," Pritchard went on. "As I told you, I sent one of my men to follow those three strangers. Except now one of them is missing and customs has no record of his departure. This made me wonder about the unidentified charred body from the yacht. It's too early for a positive ID, but the man had a brass charm on his wrist that escaped the explosion. It was a voodoo charm, which makes me think he may have been from Haiti. Haitians, of course, are well known for their strong belief in voodoo. Anyway, we now believe we know who he is. . . . or was. He'd only been on the island for a few months and went by the name of Gerard Duval. We've identified the others as Rene Edmond and Manno Sanon, also from Haiti and both arriving just a few weeks ago. I'm still waiting on background checks on these men from Interpol."

Ryan took a belt of his drink before prodding Pritchard along. "And?"

"And we just received the report back on the boat wreckage that was analyzed by Nassau."

Ryan and Jordan waited, full of expectation.

"It was definitely a bomb, and a sophisticated one at that. These guys were obviously well financed. The man we suspect to be Gerard Duval was the one who placed the bomb. At this point we are operating under the theory that he screwed up the timing mechanism and it went off prematurely."

Bradshaw pulled a small notebook and pen from his jacket pocket before speaking up for the first time. "Dr. Carver, we have received information dat on da very day of the explosion you spoke with dis Duval character at Talbot's Market."

Jordan hesitated before responding, choosing her words with care. "Yes, I was out shopping and I do remember talking to a black man at the market. I had no idea who he was."

"What did you talk about?" Bradshaw probed.

"I think he was admiring my dress and hitting on me, but I had a difficult time understanding him."

"Yes, da Haitian dialect can be difficult for Americans to understand, but dat shouldn't surprise you."

Jordan bristled at the accusatory tone in the man's voice. "Wait a minute. What are you saying? I want to know wh—"

Bradshaw cut her off. "I'm sorry, Dr. Carver, but in an official investigation—and dis
is
one," he emphasized, "I ask da questions.
You
will please answer."