Die Before Your Time (Elia Christie / Luis Echevarria medical mysteries)

by Polonus Mucha, Susan

  He checked; other patients in the trial experienced the same side effects, which are really no surprise for any type of chemotherapy. But their cancers, like Jeannie's, grew. Grew fast. Grew wildly.

  Everybody had signed waivers exonerating the drug company and oncologists from any wrongdoing. These patients just wanted a chance at living. Instead they died too soon.

  Jeannie became obsessed with the failure of the drug and the fact that it was manufactured by Pavnor. She wanted to destroy Pavnor. Harry felt so guilty that his company had manufactured the drug that little by little, he decided Jeannie was right.

  He had been in the dark about the problems with Cyptolis, and only found out after Vicente's death when he started researching the drug. If Vicente hadn't died, the problems with Cyptolis would have been exposed. Pavnor would have fallen. Jeannie would have died in peace. And he could have stayed in the background. But Lorraine tried to keep the lid on. She almost ruined everything. She almost ruined Jeannie's peace.

  Jeannie was adamant. Pavnor had destroyed her chance of living. Granted, it had been a lucrative job for her husband, but now it had to die; she would kill it. Like it was killing her.

  Jeannie surprised Millen with her zeal, her determination. When he thought of his wife's fervor, he borrowed an adage to his purpose: “Behind every diabolical plan there's a woman.” His job was to carry out her plan.

  Millen finished his breakfast, called for a car to the airport, checked out of the hotel, and rode away from The Sanctuary with just two more items on his list.

  He placed a call to Jack Alexander at The New York Times, as he sat on the plane waiting to take off.

  “I'm ready, Jack.” He told his story and left nothing out, except his wife's hand in the matter, and the ending. Jack would add that later on his own.

  Luis called Raf's room. “We're going down to the Jasmine Porch for breakfast, can you join us?”

  “You look good, brother,” Elia said when Raf sat down at the table. “After that flying leap through the air and the landing in the sand, I thought you'd never get cleaned up.”

  He smiled sheepishly. “You don't know the half of it.” He looked down at his black suit and gave a satisfied nod. “The hotel cleaned it for me.”

  Elia told Raf about the conclusion she had come to. “But as to why, I guess we'll have to ask Millen.”

  “If he'll tell us,” Luis said. He looked at Raf. “You do look good, Raf. Rested, or something.”

  “I am. Rested, or something.” He looked from one to the other. “I'm staying.”

  “Here?” Elia asked, her brow wrinkling in confusion.

  He reached across the table and took her hand. He smiled. With his other hand he touched his Roman collar. “Here. I am a priest. Forever.”

  Elia's eyes filled with tears. “I knew it.” She nodded. “I knew it. You just had to know it for yourself.” She squeezed his hand. “Where will you go? Back to Colombia?”

  “I'll see my bishop in Pittsburgh and go where I'm sent.” He leaned back in his chair with a pleased smile on his face. “A good feeling.”

  “Do you want to tell us what…?” She let her question fade.

  “Someday.” He put his hands flat on the table and tapped it twice in finality.

  Luis and Elia said goodbye to Raf at the Charleston airport and continued on to Augusta. Home.

  Chapter 105

  Harry Millen tiptoed into his wife's room. She opened her eyes and raised her eyebrows in question. He nodded.

  “Why don't you take the afternoon off?” he said to the nurse. “I'll stay right here with Jeannie.”

  “I was just about to give her some morphine.”

  “I'll do it.” He took the bottle and stood at the window until he saw her car travel down the driveway.

  He emptied the morphine into his hand, went to his closet and pulled out his own stash. He smashed the pills and mixed a large dose with apple juice, and an even larger dose with Scotch.

  He sat on the edge of Jeannie's bed and helped her drink her juice. He gulped down his drink. He told her about the beach scene.

  She smiled.

  He went to the bathroom and filled a basin of warm water and came back to his wife's bedside. He gently washed her face, then removed her nightgown and helped her into a fresh one, a soft rose-colored cotton with long sleeves and ruffles at the neckline and wrists. He combed her hair and touched her lips with a pale lipstick.

  “You're beautiful; know that Jeannie?”

  She smiled and shook her head. Even that was an effort.

  He returned to the bathroom, washed up, and put on clean sweats.

  He lay down beside his wife and put his arms around her. “Pavnor will be finished tomorrow when the paper comes out.” There were no more items on his list.

  Again she smiled. Her eyes closed.

  Harry let his mind wander. He thought of the “plan” and the people who were harmed by it. When he had discovered that Abecour and Cyptolis were the same drug with the same side effects, he and Jeannie waited for Pavnor's star to fall. But Fegan got involved, stopping Pereda from reporting his findings.

  He frowned. What was your motivation, Lorraine? What were you after? What did you want? My job? What?

  All he and Jeannie wanted was Pavnor to be ruined for producing the drug she took for her cancer. He had no idea that another drug was causing problems, not until Vicente came to him about Cyptolis and Abecour. He encouraged Vicente to write his paper. The meeting in Bermuda would have exposed the problem — exposed Pavnor.

  He put his head in his hands. Am I responsible for Pereda's death? All this trouble? God, what did I do?

  He kissed his wife. She seemed to be barely breathing. The interval between each breath grew longer. It wasn't only the violently growing brain tumor that affected her lung function, but the massive dose of morphine he had administered. For fleeting moments during the past weeks he had thought how easy it would be to cover her face with her pillow and help her along. Help her rest. End her suffering. Now it was time. She had suffered enough. He shook his head and smiled ruefully as he thought of the trite expression: her work here is finished. Our work here is finished. Well, it was finished.

  As he lay beside Jeannie, he prayed he would be forgiven for his silence. And he prayed that Jeannie, too, would be forgiven for her zeal, her… He shook his head; he didn't want to have such thoughts of Jeannie, especially now at the end. But the thoughts lingered. So he prayed that she would be forgiven for the hate she had for anyone involved with Pavnor.

  He was gentle with her in his arms. His eyes grew heavy, his own breathing depressed. “You did well, my love,” he whispered. “We did well.”

  Acknowledgements

  Dear readers, thanks for coming back.

  So many people have encouraged me since I first began writing. Of course, family in the States and in Perú come first, but strangers who read my first book are the ones who pushed me to write this one. People I met at book signings and through e-mail kept after me. So to all of you out there, whom I no longer consider strangers, but friends, I say thank you.

  To those who read sections of the book, or the whole enchilada, I say thank you. Gerry Munroe taught me the ways of native Cape Codders, my daughter Suzy took me to the Avenue in Greenwich, Connecticut, the coffee shop in Port Chester, New York, and rode the train with me to New York City. The rest of the kids, Ted, Maria, and Carlos, read drafts and gave me suggestions. My sisters Ann Heckel (who also appeared in my story) and Helen Collins, and my mother Margaret Polonus read drafts. To Don Rutledge, my good friend and realtor extraordinaire on Kiawah Island, thanks for lending me your nickname and Kiawah expertise.

  To my friends who appear in this book, I hope you like yourselves. If not, hey, this is fiction.

  Seton Hill in Greensburg, Pennsylvania, my alma mater and that of four of my six sisters, is important to me, as that is where I learned my craft, so naturally, it has a “cameo” in the book.


  Colleen Ryan, my editor, friend, cohort, read this story after each draft. She made my book better with her astute criticism. And to all the people at Mason Dixon House: Gosh, I love you guys!

  My husband, Edgardo, kept throwing ideas at me; in fact, this story was his idea. His experience treating Vietnam veterans during the late 1960s and early 1970s in New Orleans and Pittsburgh is the impetus for this book. As I wrote this story, I had our men and women in uniform in my thoughts and prayers. To them I say thank you, be safe, and God bless you.

  And thank you, Jesus.

  spm