The RX Factor

The RX Factor by J. Thomas Shaw

Mayday, Mayday, Mayday! Piper Foxtrot X-ray. Nassau, Nassau. Sixty miles northwest of George Town, altitude 7,500 feet and falling, heading 270. Tail exploded, ditching aircraft, six souls on board. Piper Foxtrot X-ray. Nassau, Nassau! As the aircraft burst into flames a few hundred feet over the Atlantic, Ryan Matthews bolted upright. His heart pounded and a cold, clammy sheen of perspiration covered his trembling body. Swinging his legs over the side of the bed, Ryan glanced at the clock and dropped his sweaty face into his hands. Hell, you didn’t even make it to 6 p.m. this time. He was drenched as he sat in the dim room, head spinning, while his heart returned from the racing panic of his nightmare. He wiped his face with the sleeve of his T-shirt. My god! Has it been five years? Time hadn’t eased his longing for Cindy and the kids. Even the most fleeting thoughts of them caused a searing pain that gripped him in his waking hours of sobriety almost as often as in his repeated nightmares. He switched on his bedside radio to one of the island’s few stations, his sole company most days, and picked up the half-empty bottle of Jameson. He poured a glass, took a swig, and lit up a cigarette from a pack of Marlboros on the nightstand. Well, I guess you’re starting this evening earlier than usual, Matthews. Alcohol was the best jump-start he knew and the thing he did these days when he was not busy attempting to escape reality fifty feet below the sea or training for the marathon that he would never run. It was in pushing his limits that he felt he might escape the stranglehold of grief. As he sat on the edge of his bed, his bleary eyes panned the room, from the tropical bamboo furniture to the kitschy flamingo photo on the far wall and finally to the deep-sea fishing calendar. He stood up and ripped off the sheet that read January, crumpled it up, and flung it toward an overflowing trash can in the corner. Lying back down, his eyes hypnotically followed the rotating ceiling fan, and he could feel himself cool down. His usual drinking post was Rosey’s, a place run by his friend Roosevelt Aranha. Rosey’s was one of those quaint drinking places in George Town right on Exuma’s Elizabeth Harbor that the tourists sought out for the breathtaking views. The joint had the unique ability to capture all the flavor of the island in a single setting. In some ways, it was the epitome of the Bahamas, catering to both tourists and locals alike—unpretentious, welcoming, and friendly to all. The fronds of a coconut palm outside his window were beginning to whisper in the tropical evening breeze. The reddish-purple leaves of a nearby bougainvillea added a papery rustle to the air. The sun had ceased shimmering on the vast ocean and was starting its descent to the other side of the world, leaving the sky a brilliant orange-pink. By the time he had taken a quick shower, run a razor over his face, and left for Rosey’s, darkness had fallen. Ryan turned the key and the jeep lurched to life. It was time to hit his stride. ~~~ Rosey’s Place was just beginning to stir. As Ryan scanned his familiar evening haunt, he noted a smattering of locals spread out among the small tables and a few brightly festooned tourists talking too loudly as they leaned against the polished bar. Behind the bar, a mirror reflected an impressive array of liquor bottles set up in rows along the shelves, capturing a spectacular panorama of the ocean. Even at night the mirror made the place look bigger than it was, scattering the fleeting hints of the moon’s trail on the waves through the bottles and glasses. Rosey’s had no need for artificial air-conditioning, as it was open on all sides to the soft, balmy trade winds. Ryan sauntered over to his accustomed spot at the bar and ordered his usual, Jameson on the rocks. He was well into his second drink when his buddy Franklin Rolle slid in next to him. “Hey, champ,” Franklin said, patting Ryan’s shoulder. “Good to see you, Frankie. What would a night at Rosey’s be like without you?” In a subtle gesture reminiscent of a baseball manager giving the steal sign, Franklin ordered a Kalik, the local beer of the Bahamas, with just a nod and an index finger to the side of his cap. Ryan had met Franklin—who hated being called “Frankie”—several years back at Rosey’s. A volunteer with the Bahamas Air Sea Rescue Association (BASRA), Franklin was a regular, and stopped by for a beer or two after work most days to socialize with friends and tourists. Rosey delivered the Kalik to Franklin and topped off Ryan’s glass without his asking. Franklin clinked his bottle to Ryan’s glass and took a long swig of his icy brew before sharing the news of the day. “Did ya hear about them tourists who ran their boat aground today, mon?” “Not yet Frankie, but I’m sure that I’m about to. Let me guess. They’re from the States.” “Ya mon, these two were a real piece of work. Said they got a fishing lure stuck on some coral and tried to maneuver the boat in position to get it unsnagged.” Franklin laughed and took a gulp from his bottle. “Sounds reasonable to me. What’s so funny?” “Patience mon, I’m gettin’ to that. Once da boat was almost on top of da lure, dis real fat guy leaned over to try to free da line, but fell overboard when a wave side-swiped the boat. Then de other guy panicked, threw the throttle in full speed reverse and plowed the back of da boat right up onto a reef. Ended up burning up the motor and put a crack in the hull.” Franklin cackled even louder this time and took another swallow of his beer before continuing. “When the fat guy tried to swim to shore, he somehow lost his shorts and got his legs all scratched up on the coral reef. He was sunburnt, half naked and looked like a beached whale by the time we got to him and his friend.” Ryan snickered at the image that popped into his mind before taking a jab at Franklin. “I suppose a by-the-book hard-ass like you levied a fine against these tourists for damaging the coral reef.” “That is not in my jurisdiction, but I probably would have reported him had dey not already been out many thousands of dollars for da boat repairs.” Franklin drained the remainder of his beer, then jumped up from his barstool and took a few steps towards the door before turning back to Ryan with a jab of his own. “Besides, I have compassion for anyone who is dat damn stupid. Dese morons said dey were from North Carolina. Isn’t that the same state where you came from?” Before Ryan had a chance to tell Franklin to go fuck himself, the door to Rosey’s slammed shut and Franklin was gone. Just as Ryan drained his glass, the door to Rosey’s began to open, but quickly closed with no one entering. Figuring Franklin was returning for a few more rounds, Ryan leapt from his barstool to greet his friend with the first stinger in what was certain to be a new round of gibes. Standing in the doorway and waiting to gain the upper hand, Ryan was momentarily tongue-tied when a gorgeous woman with long black hair, full pouty lips, and curves in all the right places entered the bar with an armful of shopping bags. Stunned by the sight of Rosey’s new patron, Ryan hypnotically held the door open with his foot while simultaneously relieving her of the shopping bags. “What a gentleman. Thank you so much,” she exclaimed. “Table for one, madam?” Ryan teased. The woman looked at Ryan with a cautious grin and hesitated before responding. “No thanks, a seat at the bar will do just fine.” “Very well then, right this way please.” Ryan escorted the woman to the barstool where Franklin had been sitting a few minutes earlier and set her bags on the floor between the bar and toe kick. He then held her barstool and waited for her to position herself up onto her seat. “Thank you.” She hesitated and then smiled. “I don’t recall Rosey’s having a maître d’, and you don’t look Bahamian, but it’s a very nice touch.” Ryan hopped back onto his barstool and gave the lady a devilish smile. “Just having a little fun. The name’s Ryan.” The woman looked surprised before composing herself and extending her hand. “Hello Ryan, my name is Jordan. Jordan Carver.” As Ryan released her hand, Rosey came up to the couple. Seeing Rosey beside her, Jordan jumped up off her barstool and gave him a big hug. “You two know each other?” Ryan asked. “She has been visitin’ Exuma for years mon. Her aunt and uncle too. Comes here every year. She’s my favorite tourist.” “Hey, what about me? You know, I can go spend my money somewhere else, Rosey.” “Ah, come on mon, you been livin’ here way too long. You ain’t no tourist, yuse what dey call an expat mon.” Rosey flashed a brilliant white smile. How ’bout a couple of drinks on da house.” “Sounds good and why don’t you get Jordan here a drink as well,” Ryan quipped. Rosey smiled and shook his head at Ryan. “You got it mon, double Jameson on the rocks and, let’s see, Captain Morgan, Diet Coke, and lime for Dr. Carver, correct?” “You got it. Great memory Rosey.” “Doctor?” Ryan questioned. Before Jordan could respond, Rosey jumped back in. “Oh ya mon. Miss Jordan is a doctor. In medical research, mon, just like you used to do.” “You don’t say.” “Tis a remarkable ting, doncha agree, mon?” Rosey said, a bright white smile on his dark face. “Dat she is brilliant and beautiful, too?” Ryan raised his eyes a fraction, enough to see Jordan’s eyes lower to her drink. “Oh, Rosey, you’re overdoing it,” she said. Rosey flashed another brilliant smile. “Two drinks coming up.” As Rosey maneuvered through the growing crowd to his station behind the bar, Jordan followed up on Ryan’s background. “You were in medical research? What area did you specialize in?” Suddenly sullen, Ryan hesitated before responding. “Seems like a lifetime ago. But back in the day, I ran a small biotech company that was searching for a cure for cancer.” “Wow! Very impressive. What happened? And how did you end up in Exuma?” “That’s a very long story. Let’s just say that I wasn’t as good at it as I thought. I sold my company for the right price at the right time and decided I had had enough of the bureaucracy and bullshit of the industry for a while. And what better place to escape that rat race then right here in the Bahamas?” Ryan was losing the desire to discuss his background any further and felt a great rush of relief when Rosey delivered the drinks. He immediately grabbed his glass, gave Jordan a half-hearted “Cheers!” and slammed half his drink in one gulp. Gathering himself, Ryan took control of the conversation. “What area of research are you in?” “It’s a unique area.” “Unique? How so?” “Well, I used to oversee a clinic in Chicago that ran FDA trials. And, like you, I’ve had enough of the ‘bureaucracy and bullshit,’ as you put it, for a lifetime. Now I’m getting out of the mainstream and am preparing to open a clinic in Sayulita, Mexico. My new medical clinic will offer real hope for terminal patients by providing them with drugs that can actually cure their disease as opposed to just keeping them alive until their bodies burn out or the insurance dries up.” Her response was filled with such venomous sarcasm that Ryan was taken aback. He felt that he had unintentionally entered an emotional minefield. In an earlier time and place, he had lived for riddles. He loved the taunt of a challenge and wouldn’t be able to rest until he had mastered its puzzle, assailing it from every angle and pounding it into submission. “I am well aware of the bureaucracy involved in the U.S. drug industry, but—” “Bureaucracy is one thing,” Jordan interrupted, louder than before, “but I’ve been dealing with complete and utter incompetence. Hell, the FDA wouldn’t recognize a real breakthrough drug if it drove up and parked in its fat ass.” Deferring to her obvious passion for the subject, Ryan let her continue without comment. “The big pharmaceuticals are only interested in coming up with their me-too coping drugs, and because of all the lobbying dollars and backroom deals, those are all the FDA is interested in approving. Sad to say, but if you really want to get good medicine, you have to leave the country. America, ‘land of opportunity’? What a crock!” Now she was striking too close to his own experience. “I agree that on top of the bureaucracy there is a sizeable dose of incompetence, but all in all, I think the FDA does a fair job of keeping bad drugs off the market.” Ryan’s expression turned somber, and he felt his shoulders slump. “Trust me. I know better than anyone that even the most promising drugs can turn out to be killers.” Rosey slipped in front of them on his way to deliver cocktails to a nearby table. “Jordan, I tink ya cell phone’s buzzing.” Jordan thanked Rosey, grabbed the vibrating cell phone sitting on the bar behind her, and headed outside to answer her call. Rosey smiled at Ryan. “She be a regular Madame Curie, don’ she?” “Yeah, sounds that way. I just hope she knows what she’s doing. Hey! If she’s been coming here all these years, why is it I never met her before?” “We usually see her in the afternoon mon, when she is not out sailing. Aren’t you usually sleeping one off around dat time?” Ryan scrunched up his face, giving Rosey a look that he hoped conveyed the message Screw you, but Rosey just smiled and walked away. Jordan returned from the outside deck just as Ryan was finishing off his drink. With a smirk, he asked, “And who was that? Did the FDA track you down already?” “Ha ha, very funny. No, the FDA is crooked and incompetent and they couldn’t track down an elephant in a coat closet.” Her mouth changed expressions from a pout to a grin as she continued. “It was just my overly protective uncle wondering why I wasn’t back yet.” “Does he live on the island?” She took a sip of her drink. “My aunt and uncle own that sailing yacht out there in the harbor,” she said, as though it were nothing special. “I’ll be living on it for the next two weeks.” He glanced out over the bay. “You mean that white beauty all lit up like a Christmas tree?” “That’s her. The Bulls and Bears.” “Your aunt and uncle must be doing well. I bet they have a whole staff with them on that whale.” “They are doing very well, but they both fancy themselves as sailors with salt in their blood. They maintain the yacht themselves while at sea and hire locals at each port of call to keep her sparkling. It doesn’t hurt that the yacht is equipped with the most advanced electronics and instrumentation that money can buy.” Jordan smirked before adding, “My uncle is Henry Carver. He’s funding our project in Mexico. Perhaps you’ve come across his name?” This last question came laced with an edge of condescension. Ryan straightened up in his chair. “The Wall Street Henry Carver?” “Yes,” she said with a twinkle in her eye. “Well, then, this must be some clinic you’re starting up in Mexico.” “Yes, we are very well funded. Money is not going to be a problem.” “Then maybe I’ll come down and apply for a job?” “I can’t imagine you have already run out of the money you received from selling your company, but if you did come down to Mexico, then maybe I would hire you.” Ryan laughed and ordered a couple of shots of tequila. Handing Jordan the shot glass filled with the generous pour from Rosey’s hand, Ryan declared, “Then let’s celebrate—Mexican style.” It was nine o’clock when the music started playing and Ryan and Jordan realized they were starving. Ryan ordered the conch chowder and a batch of conch fritters and Jordan decided on the fresh grouper with rice and beans. As the food was being prepared they moved to an open table, shopping bags in hand. They enjoyed their freshly caught meal over the jubilating sounds of the usual Thursday night three-piece calypso band that was jamming to its own special blend of Caribbean jazz. As Ryan and Jordan finished their dinner and their plates were being cleared, the band started in with “Day-O”. Jordan immediately jumped to her feet, grabbed Ryan by the hand, and dragged him to the makeshift dance floor that was starting to overflow with Rosey’s well-lubricated patrons. As the band and the audience sang the refrain for the seventh time, Ryan shook his head and smiled. He was staring into Jordan’s eyes but began to think back to his honeymoon when he and Cindy were here in the same place, dancing to the same song, not a care in the world. As the last refrain echoed through the bar, Ryan returned to reality and immediately felt uncomfortable when Jordan kissed him on the cheek. It was a fleeting sense of remorse. Ryan quickly rebounded and gave Jordan a twirl as they headed back to the bar to refill their empty glasses. Most of the patrons had gone home for the night when Jordan’s cell phone began to buzz again. This time she did not answer, but jumped up and gave Ryan another kiss on the cheek and said goodnight before stumbling over to where Rosey was sitting to give him a big hug and tell him she would catch up with him again soon. She was already at the door when Ryan called out to her. “Hey, you forgot your shopping bags.” Embarrassed, Jordan returned to the table where they had moved her bags and thanked him before heading back outside. She was still on the deck when Ryan caught up with her. “How do you plan on getting back to your uncle’s yacht? Is someone coming to pick you up?” “I have a dinghy in the harbor.” “You’re in no condition to run a dinghy in the dark,” Ryan lectured. She lowered her gaze, mischievous. “And I suppose you are?” “This is my natural condition. Besides, I can drive a boat better drunk than you can sober.” She started to protest but he had already taken two of the bags from her and was stomping off toward the dinghy mooring. “Let’s go! I can bring the dinghy back out to you in the morning.” Jordan directed Ryan to the spot where the dinghy was tied down. He put her shopping bags in the boat and held out his hand for hers. As Jordan stepped aboard, the dinghy lurched suddenly to starboard, but Ryan’s firm grip and unwavering balance saved her from a cool night swim. He started the outboard after a couple of drunkenly overzealous pulls, unmoored the vessel and guided the dinghy out of the docking area. He set a course for the ostentatious yacht rocking slowly on the harbor swells. The full moon hovered over her main mast. Ryan was just thinking how elegant she was when a violent blast shattered the still night, filling the sky with eye-searing light. With mouths agape, Ryan and Jordan watched as the blinding flash of flame and smoke sent the beautiful yacht skyward in thousands of pieces. Ryan stopped the dinghy dead in the water just before the outer ring of falling debris. Jordan stared in horror at the carnage. She began swaying from side to side, emitting sounds of disbelief, tears coursing down her cheeks. “Oh my god! Oh my god! Auntie! Uncle! This isn’t happening.” At that moment, déjà vu struck Ryan hard as he relived his own words five years before. “No, no! This isn’t right, can’t be. My god, Cindy, Jake, Karly! No!” He gazed thunderstruck at the roaring, ravenous flames, hypnotized by their beautiful and horrendous power. Yet Ryan did not see the yacht’s devastation before his eyes. Instead, the image of a raging, fiery plane wreck was superimposed over what was left of the boat’s burning hull. He was experiencing his nightmare again, but this time he was awake. Horribly awake and abruptly sober. An uncontrollable shuddering overcame him, filling him with a foreboding that his life’s course had once again been forever altered. Continues...