Tom was too busy coughing up blood to reply.
*****
For five endless days, Tom lay on the sofa with the television on and imagined the things Ignatius Mayflower would make Sydney do. It was about all he could manage, as he was having trouble breathing and was growing steadily weaker from his illness.
And it drove him crazy. He couldn't sleep for worrying about her.
What would the billionaire ask her to do? And how far would Sydney be willing to go?
With her husband's life on the line, Tom was afraid she might go far.
He thought of Mayflower on his balcony, looking out over the beautiful gardens...with Sydney on her knees between his legs, her face in his lap.
Tom imagined her naked with Mayflower in a vast, luxurious bed...or with Mayflower and another woman, or two or three or more. Or with Mayflower and other men, doing things. Having things done to her.
Enjoying it in spite of herself.
Tom pictured her carrying a gun into a darkened room, as he had, and killing a man. Or killing a woman. He imagined her doing it with a knife, or sprinkling poison powder in someone's drink...or killing a man while having sex with him in a hotel room or the back of a car or on stage in front of an audience.
Enjoying it in spite of herself.
And the worst of it was, at the same time that he was repulsed and enraged at the thought of her being used sexually or forced to commit some murderous act, part of him couldn't stop hoping that she would come through. That she would comply with the billionaire's wishes and come home with the cure.
He hated himself for thinking like that. For being so selfish that a part of him would be willing to live at the cost of his wife's suffering.
For wanting her to save his life whatever it took.
For wanting her to prove she loved him as much as he loved her.
*****
On the fifth night, he took a sleeping pill--three of them, actually--and finally managed to get some rest. It was a deep, dreamless sleep that stretched long into the next morning, a sleep as heavy and black as death itself.
When he woke, he saw garlands of tinsel hanging from the ceiling fan.
Turning his head, he saw the dancing Santa on the dresser and candles in the windows. Rolling over, he saw the artificial Christmas tree in the corner, strung with lights and hung with ornaments.
Tom's heart skipped a beat. The decorations could mean only one thing.
Sydney had come home while he was asleep.
Forcing aside his lingering grogginess, he swung his feet to the floor and sat up on the edge of the bed. "Sydney?" he said, peering through the doorway and listening expectantly for some sound of her. "Honey?"
There was no reply. "Sydney?" he called out again, but there was still nothing. Not even a sound.
Maybe she had come home and gone back out again to go to the store.
Tom turned to check the time on the digital clock on the bedside table...and frowned. A manilla envelope was propped in front of the clock, leaning back against the lamp.
And the envelope had his name on it, written in black marker in Sydney's cursive scrawl.
Tom undid the envelope's clasp and folded back the flap. As soon as he had it open, Sydney's favorite perfume wafted up at him.
Reaching inside, he drew out a clear plastic baggie full of fine white powder. Relief flooded him; she had brought back the cancer cure, after all. She hadn't let him down.
Placing the baggie on the sheets alongside him, he reached back into the envelope...and found another
powder-filled baggie. It was the second dose, he realized, the one that would make his recovery complete. Somehow, she had managed to get both doses in a single visit, instead of coming home with the first dose and having to return to Mayflower for the second.
Tom laid the second baggie atop the first and reached back into the envelope. He slid out a single sheet of Sydney's stationery, covered with more of her familiar scrawl in blue ink.
"Dearest Tom," she wrote. "This is the hardest letter I've ever written. This is the hardest thing I've ever had to do.
"Mr. Mayflower gave me your cure. He gave me all of it at once. Please take the first dose as soon as possible and take the second dose one week later.
"I'm so glad I could help you, Tom. I love you so much! I want you to live!
"But you were right about him, Tom. He did ask me to do something terrible."
Tom's mouth got dry, and his stomach clenched. His hands shook a little as he continued to read.
"It's something that will last for the rest of my life," wrote Sydney. "In order to save you, I can never see you again.
"There's no other way. If you ever try to find me, he'll have you killed."
Tom was seized by a coughing jag. He sprayed blood on the note but couldn't tear his eyes from the terrible words as he hacked.
"I'm so sorry," wrote Sydney. "It's so hard to go through with this, but I'd rather be apart from you than let you die. I'd give anything for you, Tom, even our life together.
"Please don't hate me! I love you, Tom! I love you!
"Goodbye! I'll love you forever!
"Love, Sydney."
Tom tried to read the note again, but his cough was too severe. He doubled over on the bed, eyes filled with tears, and sprayed blood all over himself and the floor.
Wracked with rage and sadness and physical pain, he looked at the powder-filled baggies on the bed, the miracle cure paid for by his wife's sacrifice. The thought of being healed didn't hold the same appeal for him anymore.
He had lost the woman he loved. She might find suffering...she might find happiness...but she would never return. If he tried to get her back, he would be killed.
And yet...
And yet, he reached for the baggies anyway, scooped them up and hobbled to the kitchen to make tea. If he had to die, and he had the option, he would rather do it later.
He would rather do it for a good reason.
*****
Special Preview: Backtracker
A Thriller by Jason Koenig
Chapter 1
For a split-second, he tasted cool air and opened his eyes to look around. Then, he hit the water with a sudden, violent force, and could no longer breathe.
As he sank, the water rushed into him, flooding his lungs, freezing him from the inside as well as the outside. Stunned and numb, he dropped further into the icy reaches, propelled by the momentum of his fall. Down, down he plunged, a senseless, dead weight, stars flashing behind the lids of his eyes, blooming and winking like holiday fireworks.
Then, instinctively, desperately, he flung away the shock, heaved it off like a blanket, and he realized what was happening.
He was drowning! For God's sake, he was drowning!
With renewed awareness, he fought the water, flailed and kicked and twisted wildly. Still sinking, he writhed and pedaled, battered at the frigid envelope, struggling to end his descent. He couldn't let it stop him; there was so much to do.
Though his limbs were numb and his lungs burned, and the fireworks on his eyelids blazed more brilliantly than ever, he surged with strength at the thought of his mission. Thrashing his legs against gravity, he felt himself slowing, felt the speed of his fall diminish. He continued to kick at the water, and finally felt himself stop, and then he opened his eyes and looked up.
Above him, there wasn't anything but blackness.
How far down was he? How many feet had he sunk?
Closing his eyes then, he started for the surface, trying to think only of what he had to do, not how far he had to swim. He chopped his hands and feet through the water, pushed against it with all his might. Propelling himself upward, he focused on his dream, climbed toward the open air with all the force of will with which he'd pressed toward his dream's fruition.
He had to survive, had to get there, had to do it. Everything depended on this moment.
He wondered how far he was from the surface. He'd been swimming f
or so long, and he still wasn't there yet. How far...how far?
A sharp tingling sparked over his body, and he felt himself weaken, begin to succumb. Squinting upward, he saw only more blackness, a mercilessly dark infinity.
He was drowning! He was going to die.
It wasn't fair. He'd come so far.
He gave himself a final push, a last, angry jolt, and cursed the world for the millionth time. After all it had done to him, how dare it rob him of his last chance?
And then, he couldn't kick any more.
Full of rage, a hurricane rage, he stopped swimming.
Miraculously, he felt himself breaking the surface.
Shooting his head up and back, he choked, spat water from his lungs, gulped at the air. He slipped under again, but wouldn't let it grab him this time, instead kicked and swept his arms so that he could regain the surface. Bolting his head upward once more, he coughed up water, gagged and spat and actually took in some air.
Snapping his eyes open, he gaped at what lay around him. It was dark, but there was enough moonlight to see the rippling surface of the lake, the tree-lined silhouette of the shore.
The shore was a long way off.
Still kicking and sweeping at the water, he managed to slowly turn around. Watching the shoreline, he saw it fold away in the distance, curl along the length of the lake. Turning, he followed the curve of the shore, watched it reach a final, far extension and roll back toward him. That tree-lined rim flexed away into a wide cove, then angled sharply inward, protruding into the lake before it swept off toward a distant dam. When he'd finished his rotation, he realized that the protrusion was the closest point to where he floated, and he started to swim toward it.
Though it was the closest point, it was still far away, and would take him a long time to reach. He was bolstered, however, strengthened with fresh, flaming resolve; he'd blown himself back from the brink of death, and he had so much to do, and he couldn't give up.
Freezing, aching, gagging, he dragged himself across the lake with long, painful strokes of his arms. As he crawled toward the shore, he felt jubilant, thrilled to have survived this latest misfortune.
And he felt excited, full of anticipation for his coming venture.
He reviewed his plans, all the places he had to visit...
...all the things he had to do...
...all the people he had to kill.
*****
What happens next? Find out in Backtracker, a thriller now on sale
for your e-reader device!
*****
About the Author
Robert T. Jeschonek is an award-winning writer whose fiction, comics, essays, articles, and podcasts have been published around the world. DC Comics, Simon & Schuster, and DAW have published his work. According to Hugo and Nebula Award winner Mike Resnick, Robert "is a towering talent." Robert was nominated for the British Fantasy Award for his story, "Fear of Rain." His young adult urban fantasy novel, My Favorite Band Does Not Exist, is now available from Clarion Books/Houghton Mifflin Harcourt and was named one of Booklist’s Top Ten First Novels for Youth.
*****
E-books by Robert T. Jeschonek
Fantasy
6 Fantasy Stories
6 More Fantasy Stories
Blazing Bodices
Earthshaker – a novel
Girl Meets Mind Reader
Groupie Everlasting
Rose Head
The Genie's Secret
The Return of Alice
The Sword That Spoke
Horror
Bloodliner – a novel
Diary of a Maggot
Dionysus Dying
Fear of Rain
Road Rage
Humor (Adults Only)
Dicks – a novel
Literary
6 Short Stories
Getting Higher
Mystery and Crime
6 Crime Stories
Crimes in the Key of Murder
Dancing With Murder (a cozy mystery novel)
The First Detect-Eve
The Foolproof Cure for Cancer
Who Unkilled Johnny Murder?
Science Fiction
6 Scifi Stories
6 More Scifi Stories
Give The Hippo What He Wants
My Cannibal Lover
Off The Face Of The Earth
One Awake In All The World
Playing Doctor
Serial Killer vs. E-Merica
Something Borrowed, Something Doomed
Teacher of the Century
The Greatest Serial Killer in the Universe
The Love Quest of Smidgen the Snack Cake
Universal Language – a novel
Superheroes
7 Comic Book Scripts
A Matter of Size (mature readers)
Forced Retirement
Heroes of Global Warming
The Masked Family – a novel
Thrillers
Backtracker – a novel
Day 9 – a novel
Trek Trilogy
Trek Fail!
Trek Off!
Trek This!
Young Readers
Dolphin Knight – a novel
Lump
Tommy Puke and the Boy with the Golden Barf
*****
Now on Sale from Robert T. Jeschonek
A Young Adult Fantasy Novel That Really Rocks!
One of Booklist's Top Ten First Novels for Youth
Being trapped in a book can be a nightmare—just ask Idea Deity. He’s convinced that he exists only in the pages of a novel written by a malevolent author . . . and that he will die in Chapter 64. Meanwhile, Reacher Mirage, lead singer of the secret rock band Youforia, can’t figure out who’s posting information about him and his band online that only he should know. Someone seems to be pulling the strings of both teens’ lives . . . and they’re not too happy about it. With Youforia about to be exposed in a national magazine and Chapter 64 bearing down like a speeding freight train, time is running out. Will Idea and Reacher be able to join forces and take control of their own lives before it’s too late?
School of Rock meets Alice in Wonderland in this fast-paced, completely unpredictable novel of alternate realities, time travel, and rock ‘n’ roll. If your favorite band does not exist . . . do you?
"Overall, My Favorite Band Does Not Exist is a wacky and enjoyable trip...full of intriguing, imaginative concepts that keep a reader hooked." –Thom Dunn, The Daily Genoshan
"This first novel has all the look of a cult fave: baffling to many, an anthem for a few, and unlike anything else out there." –Ian Chipman, Booklist Starred Review
"Chaos theory meets rock 'n' roll in adult author Jeschonek's ambitious, reality-bending YA debut." "...this proudly surreal piece of metafiction could develop a cult following..."–Publishers Weekly
"Reading this reminded me of authors like Terry Prachett and Neil Gaiman…"
–BiblioJunkies
Now Available from Clarion Books!
*****
THE FOOLPROOF CURE FOR CANCER
Copyright © 2011 by Robert T. Jeschonek
Cover Art Copyright © 2011 by Ben Baldwin
Published in November 2011 by Pie Press by arrangement with the author. All rights reserved by the author.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Design by Pie Press
Johnstown, Pennsylvania
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