The Foolproof Cure for Cancer

by Robert T. Jeschonek

  Mayflower had him, they both knew it, and Tom hated him because of it.

  "Think of it as a deductible, if you like," said Mayflower. "Your part of the payment for your wife's medical care."

  "What has this guy done, that you want him dead?" Tom said darkly.

  "Who said I wanted him dead?" said Mayflower, smirking. "I never said it was my wish."

  "But what has he done?" said Tom.

  "You're looking for justification," said Mayflower. "You want me to ease your conscience by telling you he's a serial killer or a pedophile or a terrorist...but I won't do it. The less you know, the better off we'll all be if something goes wrong and you end up questioned by the police."

  Tom wanted to get up from his chair and walk away...but he couldn't do it. If this was his only chance to save Sydney, he couldn't throw it away. "You're a billionaire," he said. "Why can't you just hire a professional hit man?"

  "Because this is more entertaining," said Mayflower. "Now, the question you should be asking is, do you love your wife enough to save her life?"

  Tom met the billionaire's bemused gaze and said nothing.

  "In forty-eight hours," said Mayflower, "if you've completed your assignment, the final dose of the cure for your wife's cancer will be delivered to your door. If you have not done the job in that time-frame, you will not receive the cure. In fact, once the window of opportunity closes, you will never have another chance to reopen it. Any attempts to contact me will be refused."

  Tom's eyes flicked from Mayflower to the photo and came to rest on the brown bag holding the gun.

  Mayflower stubbed out his cigarette and clapped his latex-gloved hands together. "The offer is on the table," he said. "But the clock is ticking. What do you say, Mr. Porter?"

  *****

  It was true that Tom had killed his share of men, but he was still nervous as he opened the door of Fleason's house and stepped over the threshold. He was inside the home of the man he had come to kill, but he was still wrestling with himself over the final decision to pull the trigger.

  Reaching up, he tugged the black ski mask down over his face, adjusting the eye-holes to leave his vision unobstructed. With one black-gloved hand, he slipped the gun from the waistband at the rear of his black denim pants.

  As he slowly crossed the darkened living room, his heart pounded. Adrenaline burned through his body, the familiar heat he'd felt so many times before in the thick of battle.

  Only this wasn't a battle. It was cold-blooded murder.

  Cautiously, he edged down the hallway off the living room, alert for any noise or fluctuation in his environment. Inching up alongside an open doorway, he paused...then peeked inside.

  It was a bathroom, and it was unoccupied. Tom continued past it.

  There was another doorway on the opposite side of the hall, a few feet further on, and he crossed over to press himself alongside it. As he had done at the bathroom, he ducked his head into the opening to size up the room beyond.

  Inside, a cluttered desk with a computer was surrounded by loaded bookshelves and stacks of cartons. Tom took three careful steps inside to make sure no one was concealed by the cartons...then backed out into the hallway.

  Two doors down and one to go.

  The third was on the other side of the hall, and Tom eased up beside it. This time, when he peered around the jamb, he found what he was looking for.

  The man from the photograph lay on the bed before him, sprawled atop the sheets in a white T-shirt and briefs.

  Just as Tom looked in at him, Fleason snorted loudly, and Tom flicked back from the doorway...but it was a false alarm. Fleason rustled on the bed and settled into a soft snore, unwittingly signaling his attacker that he was fast asleep and it was safe to proceed.

  Taking a deep breath, Tom crept into the room.

  When he stood alongside the bed, staring down at Fleason, the momentum that had carried him to that point finally faltered. The reality of what he was planning to do landed heavily upon his shoulders, locking him up.

  Killing a stranger who had done him no harm--a defenseless, sleeping stranger, no less--struck him as being so blatantly wrong that he wasn't sure he could do it. It was not only a crime, but a sin...and though Tom wasn't overly religious, he still feared the spiritual consequences of such an act.

  For all he knew, Fleason was a good man...maybe a better man than Tom himself. Maybe, Fleason had been marked for death because he was getting in the way of someone who meant to do something bad. Maybe something terrible.

  Then again, maybe Fleason himself was up to no good. Maybe he was a criminal or deviant. He didn't look like much, but maybe he was even a murderer. Tom hadn't had time to look into his background, but maybe Fleason deserved to be killed.

  Somehow, Tom couldn't quite bring himself to believe that.

  Not that it really mattered what kind of man Fleason was, anyway. Murder was murder. Either Tom was willing to do it, or he wasn't.

  Either he loved his wife enough to kill for her, or he didn't.

  That was what it boiled down to. If this was the only way to save her, and he let her die, could he live with himself?

  When he thought of it that way, it was a no-brainer.

  Gently, he lifted a pillow from the bed and placed it over Fleason's face. Trembling, he pressed the barrel of the gun into the pillow right where the spot between Fleason's eyes would be.

  Heart thundering, he cocked the weapon. A final doubt screamed up like a speeding tractor trailer from the depths of his mind, and he knew he couldn't do it if he hesitated for one more second.

  Sydney. He had to do it for Sydney.

  As Tom's finger pressed against the trigger, Fleason started gasping for breath under the pillow. His limbs twitched on the bedsheets.

  Tom clenched his teeth, fighting a lifetime's inhibitions and fears. If Fleason woke and fought back, things would get complicated.

  Sydney. He thought of Sydney.

  And squeezed the trigger.

  The gun discharged, the force of the blast kicking hard against his hand, the crack of the shot muffled by the pillow. Immediately, Fleason stopped gasping and twitching. A blossom of blood oozed out from under the pillow and his shattered skull.

  Tom had done it. He had done it for Sydney.

  *****

  On Christmas Eve, the Christmas decorations in Sydney's room finally came down. Tom and Sydney took them down together.

  It had been nine months since the second dose of the cure had shown up on their doorstep in a cardboard box wrapped in brown paper. Nine months since Tom had mixed the white powder into a cup of tea and Sydney had drunk it down.

  Nine months since the tumor in her brain had disappeared.

  While other people were putting up their holiday decorations, Tom and Sydney were putting theirs away. The wreath and candles and dancing Santa and brightly trimmed tree had long ago lost their magic and come to symbolize impending death; taking them down was a celebration for Tom and Sydney, a way of putting behind them the darkest chapter of their lives together.

  After every last ornament and strand of tinsel had been stuffed in boxes and the boxes had been stowed in the attic, Tom and Sydney made love on the pull-out sofa bed in the living room where they'd been sleeping. They planned to haul the bed from the bedroom to the dump for disposal; neither of them could stand the thought of spending another night on a bed that had become so closely associated with her sickness and near-death.

  After they had made love, Tom stroked her hair and gazed adoringly at her face. It had taken hardly any time at all for her to return to her old self...to fill out and firm up, to regain the pink of her skin and the sparkle in her eyes. Her red hair had grown back quickly and now was silky and lustrous as ever.

  Tom still thought about what he had done to make her recovery possible. He still had nightmares about killing Hiram Fleason...but every time he looked at Sydney, every time he saw her smile or heard her voice, he felt more convinced that he had
done the right thing. The price he had paid, the burden he bore, were absolutely worth it.

  He hadn't told her about what he'd done; he knew she wouldn't have taken it well, and he didn't want anything to mar her perfect recovery. The burden was his alone to carry, and he was determined never to share it with her.

  Let her bask in health and happiness. She deserved it. Her reflected joy was more than enough to drown out his guilt whenever it surfaced.

  As she pressed her head against his bare shoulder and gently ran her fingers over his chest, he knew without the slightest doubt that he would do it again in a second if the circumstances were the same. This restoration of bliss was worth killing for, hundreds of times over.

  While snow fell silently outside and neighbors' colored Christmas lights glowed through the window shades, Tom and Sydney made love again, crying out in the night with the rush of life made all the sweeter from having nearly been lost.

  *****

  On New Year's Eve, they renewed their vows on a beach in Maui, then had a second honeymoon that was even better than the first.

  They swam in the glittering blue ocean and baked in the sun on the warm, red sand. They snorkeled in the crater at Molokini, drifting hand in hand over darting schools of multicolored fish. They drove the twisting coastal road to Hana and soared on bicycles down the volcano of Haleakala, soaking in the breathtaking scenery.

  They went to luaus and had candlelit dinners in romantic seaside restaurants. They kissed in secluded gardens and held each other under rainbows in the mist of tropical waterfalls.

  And every night, they made love in their cottage by the beach with the windows thrown open to admit the soft, salty breeze.

  Tom couldn't think of a time in his life when he had been happier. His wife had been restored to him, and maybe she was just the same as she had been before the illness, but she seemed better than ever.

  It was a perfect two weeks. Even when they left the island, the afterglow of paradise lingered, keeping them in a state of love and relaxation and optimism. Tom felt as if his wife's illness had happened in another lifetime or another world, unreal and distorted and distant from where he was now, remembered but insubstantial like a dream.

  Finally, he felt like he could put the past behind him--Sydney's suffering and disintegration, his despair, the terrible price he had paid. He expected only good things from the future, only blessings for the both of them because they'd already been through Hell.

  Then, when they got home, he started coughing up blood.

  *****

  It was just a little at first, but it quickly grew worse. In a matter of weeks, Tom went from spraying the sink with fine, bright droplets to gagging up dark, heavy clots.

  It soon got to the point where he could no longer ignore it and hope it would let up without treatment. He made an appointment with his doctor, more annoyed than worried...convinced that whatever was bringing up the blood could be easily managed.

  But Sydney watched and listened with full-moon eyes and twitching ears, her lighthearted honeymoon spirit fizzling out like a cigarette dropped in a glass of water. She knew from the beginning; she had known the enemy far more intimately than he ever had.

  Which was why she didn't seem to be surprised when Tom's doctor ordered him to see an oncologist. Not that her foreknowledge helped her cry any less when Tom told her about it.

  Or, two weeks later, when he came home from Dr. Singh's office with the terrible news.

  *****

  It didn't seem possible that Tom and Sydney each could have developed cancer within such a short period of time...but according to the tests, that was exactly what had happened. As if they had not gone through enough when she had been stricken with it, as if they didn't deserve more than the briefest breath of the happiness they had so recently reclaimed, he had been afflicted with cancer of his own.

  His, at least, seemed to allow more hope than hers had at the start. While Sydney's brain tumor had been diagnosed as inoperable and terminal from the beginning, Singh seemed to think that Tom could benefit from surgery, followed by radiation treatments and chemotherapy. Dr. Singh wouldn't make any promises, but neither would she rule out the possibility that Tom would make a complete recovery.

  Of course, there might be another route to a complete recovery, one that wasn't available through Dr. Singh. Tom couldn't get it out of his mind, though he refused to bring it up; he was sure Sydney was thinking about it, too, given her history...but he didn't want to encourage her.

  Mr. Mayflower's miracle powder could have cleared up the problem without the ordeal of surgery or the extended agonies of radiation or chemo. Tom could have been as good as new in no time at all, without further risk or pain or expense.

  But Tom knew how high the price could be for Mayflower's gift, and he didn't want to be involved in another transaction with the Billionaire Samaritan...if Mayflower would even be willing to make an offer. Tom had murdered once for Mayflower, and the reward had been worth it, but he didn't want to do it again.

  Not while there were still other options, anyway.

  So he scheduled the surgery and prepared himself for the struggle ahead, willing to suffer if that was what it would take to keep another murder off his conscience.

  *****

  At first, the surgery and treatments seemed to be a success. Tom lost a lung on the operating table, but the surgeon assured him that all traces of the cancer had been excised from his body. After a round of radiation and chemotherapy, Dr. Singh declared him cancer-free.

  But six months later, Tom was back in her office, hacking up blood.

  The cancer, she told him, had spread to his other lung and his liver. This time, she said, there was no need for radiation or chemo.

  This time, it was terminal.

  That night, Sydney begged him to let her write Mayflower, but he refused. Though he hadn't told her about the murder he'd committed, the memory of it plagued him more than ever...especially now that he was facing his own death and judgment before God. He refused to be responsible in any way for the taking of another human life, even if it was someone else's finger pulling the trigger.

  In spite of his protests, Sydney sent off a letter to Ignatius Mayflower the next day.

  *****

  "You don't understand," Tom said to her on the morning when she was supposed to leave for Mayflower's. Though she had tried to slip out unnoticed while he was still in bed, Tom had woken up and interrogated her until she had told him where she was headed. "He'll ask you to do something terrible."

  "Like what?" said Sydney, making no move to let go of her rollerboard suitcase. "You've never told me what you had to do for that cure."

  Tom shook his head. "It was bad," he said stiffly. "It's the kind of thing it's hard to live with sometimes."

  "Whatever it was, I'm still glad you did it," she said. "You know I can't do any less for you."

  "Don't be so sure," said Tom.

  "Maybe he won't even ask me to do the same thing," said Sydney. "Maybe it won't be as bad."

  Images appeared in Tom's mind of his wife being degraded at Mayflower's hands in any of a dozen different ways. "Or maybe it'll be worse," he said coldly. "I won't let you go."

  Sydney reached out to caress the side of his face. "I love you," she said softly. "And I'm going to save you."

  "Don't do this," said Tom, taking hold of her wrist. "Trust me. You'll regret it."

  Her eyes flared, and she shook off his grip. "I won't let anyone stop me from saving you," she said firmly, throwing open the front door. "Including you."

  Sydney rushed from the apartment, and he followed her. "Listen!" he said, playing his last card. Sydney stopped and turned in front of the elevator. "I...I hurt somebody," he said. "That's what I did."

  She smiled. "I don't care what you did," she said. "I can never thank you enough."

  Tom stepped closer to her and lowered his voice. "You don't understand. I killed someone."

  At that, her smile
faded. Her eyes narrowed, and she stared at him with interest and surprise.

  Then, she shrugged. "You did what you had to," she said. "If you hadn't, I'd be dead."

  She turned and pressed the elevator button.

  Tom gaped, unable to believe her matter-of-fact acceptance of his confession...her approval, even. He'd expected a more extreme reaction, either shock or anger or regret.

  He didn't even have to ask for understanding or forgiveness.

  The elevator doors parted, revealing an empty car. "Wait!" said Tom. "I'll go with you."

  "The invitation's for me only," said Sydney. "Mr. Mayflower will only see me if I come alone."

  Tom didn't like the sound of that at all. "Then don't go," he said, grabbing her shoulder.

  Sydney pulled away and stepped into the car. "I won't let you die," she said, stabbing the button to select the ground floor as her destination.

  Tom lurched forward, blocking the elevator doors from closing. "Come back inside," he said.

  Sydney shook her head. "Tom," she said. "If I'd told you not to go to him, would you have stayed here and let me die?"

  For a moment, he stood and stared at her, holding the elevator doors apart. He knew she was right, but still...

  He hadn't saved her just so she could run off and put herself in danger again.

  He reached for her arm, intending to pull her from the elevator. Throwing out both hands, she shoved him away with all her strength. She caught him off balance, and he fell backward and down onto the hallway carpet.

  "I'm sorry," she said as the elevator doors closed. "I love you."