by Thomas Locke
Once they were seated, Deborah said, “Mind if I ask you something?”
“Of course not.”
“Why don’t you go on for a higher degree? Quite frankly, you’ve got ten times the smarts of some of the people on my staff.”
“I’ve thought about it.” Blair used long fingers to draw back her long, honey-colored hair. “But I decided I would be doing it for other people and not for myself.”
“Come again?”
“Don’t get me wrong, I admire you and what you’ve done with your life. But having a profession and rising up in the world just never has interested me all that much.” She turned anxious. “Does that sound just awful?”
“I’m not sure.” Deborah watched the waiter set down their iced teas and sipped before asking, “So what is it you want out of life?”
“All the old-fashioned things,” Blair answered briskly. “A home, a good husband, lots of kids, some dogs, maybe a couple of horses if we can afford them. I know this will probably cost you your appetite, but there’s not a thing I’d like more in the world than to be a good mom.”
“Why are you here?”
“You mean, why am I sitting here a single woman, or why am I working for Pharmacon?”
“Both, I suppose.”
“I’ve had my share of maybes.” Her face took on a pinched look. “They never worked out. At least, they didn’t the way I was hoping. I may be asking too much, but I sure would like to find myself a settling-down kind of man who doesn’t treat the good-old-boy macho creed as something handed down from on high.”
“How long have you been out of school?”
“Four long years. And let me tell you, sister, I’m getting awful tired of looking.”
“There doesn’t appear to be a whole lot of single-male ground to cover out here in Edenton,” Deborah pointed out.
“I know. But I couldn’t stand the strain of staying in Norfolk.” She gave a weary smile. “That town is filled with good-time boys and all that goes with them. Like temptations too strong for this girl.”
“At least you’re not too far away.”
“Yeah, going home is a real treat. My brothers are always on the lookout for marriage material. It’s gotten so I spend all my weekends listening to sales pitches for whichever buddy of theirs has just broken up or just gotten out of the service or something. I feel like I’m being shuttled around a used-car lot.”
“You going home this weekend?”
“I’d thought about it, but I’m not sure I’m up to it. Why?”
“Just wondering.” Deborah played it as casual as she could. “I’ve got a friend coming down from Washington I thought you might like to meet.”
“That might be nice,” Blair said neutrally. “So what about you, Debs? Do you have a score of lovers stashed away somewhere?”
“Not hardly. I’m just not a romantic person, I guess. I don’t think I ever have been. When I was growing up, I couldn’t understand what all the fuss was about, with makeup and clothes and boys. I remember going to Zeffirelli’s Romeo and Juliet, did you ever see the movie?”
Blair nodded. “On video. Seven times. Cried my eyes out.”
“Once was more than enough for me. I went with some girlfriends right after it came out. They all sat there and bawled. I thought it was silly. Not the movie, it was really well done. The way they carried on, though, I never could understand that.”
Blair cocked her head to one side as though trying to study something that remained just slightly out of focus. “Don’t you ever get lonely?”
“The million-dollar question. Sometimes, yes. I wish I had a good friend. Especially now, when there are bad days, I wish . . .” She shrugged. “But my wishes aren’t ever for a lover, not in the way you want a husband. Not that I think you’re wrong for wanting that. I just never have.” Debs smiled. “I find comfort where comfort is offered these days. And I have my cats.”
“Cats, plural?”
“Two. Cassandra and Rapunzel. They are as spoiled as cats can be. Himalayan. Probably the most expensive cat you can buy. Bred for looks, not brains.”
“I think Himalayans are adorable.”
“Thank you. Cliff used to call them my walking decorative items.”
“Cliff?”
“My friend, the one who’s coming down this weekend. He also referred to them as the pillows that pee.”
“And you stayed friends?”
“Cliff is a darling man who has a sort of skewed perspective on just about everything. I used to call him my perpetual challenge. He is very handsome, or at least I think he is. Maybe a year or two older than you. Blond and big and freckled, sort of like an overgrown kid. He is one of the most good-natured men I have ever met, which used to drive me crazy at times.”
“What do you mean by a skewed perspective?”
“Oh, Cliff is the kind of guy who thinks the world ought to run along the track of what is right and good. I used to think he would have been better off being born in the days of chivalry, when he could go riding off on a white charger to rescue the damsel in distress. If Cliff had his way, he would spend his days righting wrong. As it is, I’m afraid that the system is just going to beat him down. He works for the FDA, and nobody was ever less suited for the cynical government environment. I tried to get him to take a job in the private sector, but he wouldn’t listen. He has this idea that maybe someday he’ll be able to do something to make the system better.”
Blair’s look carried a timeless wisdom. “Maybe bringing us together wouldn’t be that good an idea after all.”
“There is nothing between Cliff and me romantically,” Deborah said, understanding her perfectly. “And there never has been.”
“No?” Blair said doubtfully.
“Cliff is, well, was my best friend.” Her eye took on a wounded distance. “I hope he still is. We haven’t seen each other in a year and a half. Longer.”
“Why was that?”
“A long story.” Debs forced a smile for the waiter who deposited their food. “Saved by the bell. Let’s reserve that story for later and just enjoy the meal, okay?”
* * *
Horace Tweedie had a nervous, fawning air that irritated almost everyone at the office. His graying crewcut revealed an oblong and bumpy head. His glasses were dark and square as his speech. He wore white, polyester, button-down shirts, short-sleeved in summer or winter, and no one knew if he owned two or two dozen, for he never altered his dress. Every day it was a white shirt, a tiny red bow tie, dark trousers, and dark lace-up shoes.
Had Horace been brilliant, his habits would have been forgiven and laughed over. But Horace was a plodder, just one step above dull. Instructions more than three sentences long had to be repeated to the point that superiors wished they had simply done the job themselves. Horace had long since been shunted into the filing department, where the work was boringly repetitious and nobody had to force feed Horace Tweedie new instructions.
But Horace Tweedie didn’t see himself as a plodder. He considered himself to be anything but dull. And he deeply resented not being recognized and rewarded for his gifts and his efforts. He had watched younger people rise within the FDA hierarchy while he remained stationary, plodding toward an early pension. The older Horace grew, the more bitter and angry he had become. As his retirement date approached, Horace’s entire department had begun keeping a calendar, counting down the days until they could finally see the back of Horace Tweedie.
But Horace had plans for revenge.
After watching Cliff Devon speak with his boss and then depart through the main doors, Horace returned to his windowless cubbyhole and switched on his computer. Being in files had its advantages. Horace Tweedie had access to all sorts of fascinating data.
Horace worked quietly and intensely through the remainder of the afternoon, certain that in the long-honored tradition of Federalville most people would spend their Friday either preparing for, discussing, or getting an early start on their weekend
s. His work was not disturbed.
Long after the others in his department had left, Horace switched off his console and massaged the cramped muscles in his neck. He punched out the disk from his computer, slid it into his pocket, grabbed his coat, and made for the door.
The black car was exactly where it was supposed to be, parked on a backroad halfway between the FDA and Horace’s Metro stop. He recognized the vehicle as a brand-new Infiniti, and for a moment he wondered if he shouldn’t perhaps use some of the money to buy a car like that for himself. Why not? For the first time in his utterly frustrating life, Horace Tweedie was almost within grasping distance of just about anything he could name.
The window glided down as Horace approached. “Well?”
“I have it,” Horace said, and waited.
An impressively thick packet emerged through the window. Horace could not refrain from a tentative fondle before sliding it into his shapeless leather satchel—another item on the replacement list. He then plucked the disk from his pocket and handed it over. “It has everything you asked for. Initial trials, formula, doses, the works.”
Despite the heat, the hand that reached for the disk wore an Italian driving glove. “We need more information from you.”
Horace made his face as blank as he possibly could. He had known this was coming. He had spent a dozen sleepless nights working out what to say when the man with the dark liquid eyes and slicked-down black hair made the request. Horace knew the man was foreign. His heavy accent and aquiline features and languid gestures were unmistakably alien. Horace had decided the man was Spanish. He asked, “What else?”
“We need the exact method by which the drug was prepared. A step-by-step explanation of the production process.”
Horace swallowed. “We don’t have that on file. The team’s microbiologist keeps that separately. With the final application, sure. But not now.”
“Can you get it?”
He pretended to think. “I have a friend in the patent office, a guy I play poker with. When a new drug is patented, the compound is usually listed both by molecular structure and process.”
“How much?”
His bow tie was suddenly as tight as a noose. “Twice as much as this time,” he replied. “There will be two of us to pay.”
A long moment passed while the blank-faced foreigner almost melted Horace with his inspection, then a single nod. “I must have it immediately.”
“Next Wednesday. Same time. Here.”
The window powered up. Horace stood and watched the car move off and moved his lips silently, working to commit the license plate to memory. All of this was going down in writing, to be kept in a safe place. There was never enough insurance when dealing with people like this. Horace turned and started down the street on rubbery legs.
Another five days, and he could thumb his nose at the whole shooting match.
Five days, and he was finally a free man.
3
Cliff Devon crossed the Carolina border a very happy and a very heartsore young man.
He was happy for two reasons. First and foremost, because he was finally going down to see his best friend in all the world. Second, because he was doing so alone.
His reasons for the deep-down case of heartache were exactly the same.
Deborah had been less than fully healthy for as long as he had known her, which had been since his sophomore year in college. It had been at that point that a brilliant researcher and part-time lecturer had taken pity on a bumbling student, coached him through biology, and refused to take payment for her services. A deep and abiding friendship had resulted.
At that point, Deborah’s illness had been characterized by frequent bouts of flu and severe migraine headaches. His senior year, she had felt tingling sensations in her limbs. His first year with the FDA, she began to experience extensive numbness for no apparent reason.
And all the while she had refused to go in for a medical checkup.
The worse her condition became, the harder it had been for Cliff to stand by without knowing what was happening.
Deborah, on the other hand, was a virologist. She had understood that a diagnosis would probably make no difference. For virtually every suspected cause of her symptoms, she had known there was no cure. Or at least that is what she had told him. And the knowledge had not helped him cope.
Gripped with the fervor of watching a dear friend decline, Cliff had argued with a force that had wounded them both. She had turned understandably stubborn. He had stormed out, promising not to return until she came to terms with her illness. Deborah had shouted at his back that he was the one who couldn’t accept it.
That had been exactly twenty-one months ago.
During the ensuing period, Cliff had not forgotten her. Far from it. Deborah remained with him everywhere, that and the pride which had kept him from calling and trying to patch things up. He cursed his own pride almost as often as he did her stubbornness.
Two months ago, she had called. Since then, their renewed contact had come in gradual stages. They had exchanged letters. They had talked on the phone. They had tested the waters, speaking about everything except what was most important.
Then, this past week, she had asked him to come.
It never occurred to him not to accept.
* * *
Cliff made the trip in what he called his hobby car. The day was far too hot for open-air driving, but as the car had no air conditioning and little insulation between the engine and cockpit, the choice was either drive with the top down or bake.
His final year in high school, Cliff had come across a ’67 Jaguar XKE sportster in absolutely wretched shape. A succession of uncaring owners had reduced the once-proud auto to little more than a rusted hulk. Cliff had spent the entire four years of college and every nickel he could earn or scrounge restoring the Jag to its former glory. He knew every screw, every coil, every stitch along its entire length by name.
The Jag was long and low and ridiculously cramped for his six-foot-three frame. His feet rested on pedals a scarce eight inches behind the rumbling engine. From where he sat, the cowling ran on for miles. The car was hideously impractical, had more quirks than an old maid, and was so loud passengers had to shout to be heard. Cliff loved it to distraction.
The body was a dark ivory, the color of milk with a dash of coffee. It shone with the rich luster of eleven coats of paint and weekly waxing. The canvas top and leather interior were matching saddle-brown. The chrome-and-wood dash shone like new, as did the wire-spoke wheels. The car turned heads everywhere it went.
Cliff entered the Edenton city limits and purred his way down tree-lined streets. Deborah’s faxed instructions rested on the seat beside him. He was too distracted to notice much about the town, except that it seemed both quiet and picturesque. Then he spotted her waving from the veranda of a well-kept home. He steadied his nerves and wheeled into the parking lot.
The first thing she said when he cut the motor was, “Still driving the old clunker?”
“Nice to know your tongue hasn’t lost its edge,” he said, pushing open his door.
“Don’t ever gain weight,” she added, watching him swing himself to his feet. “You do, they’ll need a crowbar and a can of grease to pry you free.”
Cliff stretched, played at casual, looked at the vast white house behind her. “Impressive. Is it yours?”
“Hardly. This is the town’s nicest guesthouse. There is no hotel. It’s called the Granville Queen and was built a year or so before the Revolutionary War.”
Cliff nodded at the news. “I’ll have to pay for everything out of my own pocket.”
“I’ve already been through this with the bean counters, who would just as soon treat you to a free weekend in Vegas and a real car. I did get you the company rate here, I hope that doesn’t stretch your ethics too far.”
“Long as I pay.” Cliff dropped his gaze and inspected her.
She looked old. And tired.
Her
hair was chopped short, as always. As long as he had known her, Deborah had treated her hair as a sort of curious biological accessory that had no modern purpose—sort of like an external appendix. But there was a lot of gray interrupting the mouse brown now, much more than there should have been for someone her age.
Her face was drawn into sharper angles than he recalled. Fatigue lines traced their way out from her eyes.
Her eyes, her brilliant probing eyes. Her eyes looked weary. Yet immensely happy.
“I knew it was going to be great to see you again,” she said, taking both his hands with hers. “But not this great.”
In all the days that had come before, he never missed her as much as he did in that moment. “Oh, Debs.”
“Straighten up, Junior,” she said softly. “I didn’t ask you down here for pity.”
“Sorry.” He struggled to recover.
“That’s better. Now, then. We will get the worst part over and done with, all right?” She took a breath. “You were right to be angry with me.”
“No I wasn’t.”
“Just shush up for a minute, please. I was fooling myself, thinking that if I ignored it everything would somehow go back to normal, or at least back to the way it was before. I hid behind a lot of scientific gobbledygook because that’s the way I am. And you were the only one who cared enough to make me see the truth.”
“Debs, please.” Her words were tearing at his heart. “You don’t have to say this.”
“Yes I do. I have MS, Cliff. Multiple sclerosis. It’s certain now. I really went through the wringer, though, before I could get it confirmed. I had tests done that curdle the blood just thinking about them. The results were confusing. I heard diagnoses for everything from leukemia to sleeping sickness to a severe psychological disorder. Finally I went to a specialist up in Minneapolis, and he did a couple of MRIs—that’s magnetic resonance imaging to the uninitiated.”
“I know what it is,” he said quietly.