Fatal Cure
by E. J. McGill
E. J. McGill’s story, “Breathing,” appeared in
Blue Murder #10. His mystery novel, Immaculate in
Black, published by St. Martin’s under the Thomas
Dunne imprint, has been reissued in electronic format
and can be purchased at http://www.mightywords.
com/. The opening chapters of Immaculate in
Black and other novels can be sampled on his web site,
http://home.att.net/~immagine/home.htm, along with
several of his published shorter works. McGill flew
B-52s before earning an M.F.A. in Creative Writing
from the University of Arizona.
©Copyright 2001
E. J. McGill

We graduated from the same high school and college, Business
for me, Med school for Thack. After spending our thirties and forties
getting rich and buying airplanes, we took turns flying to Montana
to catch trout. We hunted elk in Wyoming and pheasant in South
Dakota. Everywhere we traveled we closed bars and eventually took
our last drink together. Dr. Thackery is my oldest friend. So when I
ask for it straight, I expect it straight.
I watch him mentally struggling to find the right words. There
aren’t any. I’m going to die; it’s that simple.
It isn’t even a matter of time- which is what’s giving Thack the
most trouble. Telling a friend he’s going to die is a bitch; telling him
he’s got less than three months, well-
“How sure are we?” I ask.
Thack looks down at his hands like he wants to wash them “I
wish I could say eighty percent, even ninety.” He shakes his head.
“It’s into the bone.”
I try to smile, however grimly. “So its curtains?”
“Yeah,” is all Thack can say.
I slap him on the shoulder. “Hey, old pal, we all gotta go some
time.”
“I wish I was God,” he mumbles.
“Sure, maybe next time around. I’ll put in a word.”
My front is no put on. It’s the way I look at everything. The
market, dice, love: all luck. I used to call it managed luck, then I
dropped the “managed” part. Once you handle the basics, the rest is
luck. You meet a guy at a ball game. He tells you about this new
internet company and you ask, “What’s the internet?” On Tuesday
you see the company listed and say, “What the hell, maybe it’s time
to splurge.”
Now I’ve got more money than Pamela, my ex, could spend in
ten years- and less than three months to spend it in. This is luck
too- called bad.
Thack tells me there’s more.
“What, the market’s collapsed?”
“Market’s up,” he mumbles, then one word,“Pain.”
Thack knows I can’t take pain. I popped him once for calling me
a cry baby because he was right.
“So dig into your bag of earthly delights,” I say, “and dole me out
some strong medicine.”
“They don’t make it that strong.”
The pause is definitely pregnant. I take a minute to digest this
latest piece of dirt. “Come on, Dr. Thackery, you can fix a dying
man with a little Demerol, opium, cocaine- whatever it takes,
right?”
“Only to a certain point.”
“Like what are we talking about, hours, days before taking off to
the Jolly Fishing Creek in the Sky?”
He says no, the pain will start soon and we’ll be able to control it
for maybe two months, then it would require so much, he says, that
the medicine itself would kill me.
“Then kill me, for Christ’s sake.”
“I can’t do that, Steve.”
“So the bottom line is, I’m doomed?”
“Unless someone comes up with a miracle cure, yes.”
An image of a certain Sunday morning in a Montana motel lights
up my mind. We’d spent all day Saturday on the Lamar in the midst
of a legendary caddis hatch. We caught and released so many
cutthroat we lost count. Later, when we learned Willie Nelson blew
into Cooke City, we went to a bar to see him and downed so many
JDs we lost count of those too. Our collective hangovers were as
legendary as the caddis hatch. Also an epiphany of sorts. We’d
gotten our feet on the motel floor, but didn’t have enough left to get
on our feet. We just sat there on our respective beds, chins in
hands, ruing the night Willie came to town. Thack made the
ultimate move. He motioned toward the near empty bottle of Jack
Daniels, uttering the immortal words, “There are two shots left. Let’s
each have one and make it our last.”
I took that empty bottle home and placed it on a stand in the
front hallway of my foothills mansion to remind me coming and
going that the book on booze had been closed. But it wasn’t easy.
Through the years that followed, we formed our own private AA. I
was Thack’s sponsor and he was mine. We kept ourselves sober
and in the process learned more about each other than anyone,
except maybe a priest, has a right to know.
Thack can’t kill me and I don’t want him to. “Dr. Death” just lost
his last appeal and will be spending what’s left of his life in prison,
essentially for curing pain. So I’m not going to sentence my best
friend when I can take care of it myself. Maybe I should say
“arrange for.” I wouldn’t even want to try. I might start thinking and
miss a vital spot and be in worse pain than I would’ve been if I’d
not tried. So I’ll hire someone with a proven track record.
What good is money if you can’t spend it on something useful?
The problem is who. Then I remember this guy, Deaver, from a
murder-for-hire case. Deaver shot another guy’s wife and later
squealed when the county offered reduced charges if he’d finger the
husband.
I call Slake, the lawyer I use when I’m looking for ways to bend
rules. “I need to talk to a prisoner in the Florence prison, face to
face, no ears.”
“What about?”
“Real estate.”
The only way Slake can look in a mirror is by telling himself
we’re all liars. This time he’s right.
Slake convinces the authorities he’s representing Deaver and I’m
his assistant. He pulls a few strings so we get a room to ourselves.
Problem is, I don’t want Slake hearing this either. I tell him to go
have a cigarette.
“I don’t smoke.”
“Start.”
Like they say, money talks. It also spends. Slake leaves and I see
him through the wire reinforced glass bumming a cigarette from a
guard.
I reach into my jacket and thumb through a pack of hundreds.
“Deaver,” I say, “I haven’t got even one spare minute for bullshit, so
if what I’m going to ask gets a correct answer right now, your
financial worth will swell by one hundred thousand dollars that will
be waiting in your personal bank account when you leave this
joint.”
“I don’t have no bank account, personal or otherwise.”
“And you never will if you don’t put me in touch with the right
jobber.
Deaver dons a dumb mask. “What kind of job?”
“I’ll answer your question with a question, which is: Why are you
here?” I hitch a thumb in the direction of the wide open space that
surrounds Arizona State Prison. “And not out there?”
The dumb look falls away. “You gotta pencil?”
I hand him my pen and a hundred dollar bill. “Write in the
margin.”
Deaver scribbles the phone number. I glance at it and hand the
bill back. “If the job goes the way I want it to go, there’ll be nine
hundred and ninety-nine more of these waiting in your personal
bank account when you vacate this place.”
Deaver smiles, “I like that.”
“A hundred thousand is easy to like.”
“I mean vacate.”
I shake my head. “Do you know who I am?”
He glares. “I’ve seen your face, but- you’re not Steve Garrett-
are you?”
I wave Slake into the room.
We all spend a moment in silence before Slake asks what’s the
matter.
“Who’s this guy?” Deaver asks.
Slake glances at me, then back to Deaver. “Probably the richest
son of a bitch in Arizona.”
I get up to leave when Deaver suddenly tugs on my coat sleeve.
“Tell him Danny didn’t do it and he’ll know you’re okay.”
• • •
My development secretary cross references the phone number. It
belongs to a Cecil B. Wilson, no address, no local background. IRS
lists him as a consultant. He won’t talk over the phone so we meet
in front of a mall restaurant, then walk to another at the opposite
end of the complex.
“So what’s your business?” he finally asks.
“I’m supposed to tell you Danny didn’t do it.”
Cecil B. Wilson’s expression is like stone. “Who knows?” he says.
The waitress comes over to the table but Cecil gets up.
“Is something wrong, sir?” she asks.
“Fork’s dirty.”
We walk halfway back the way we came, then peel into an oyster
bar.
Wilson wants a booth in the back where he can watch the door.
We sit there long enough for the bus boy to bring our water before
Cecil opens up.
“This is the way it works,” he says. “In this business nobody’s
supposed to know nobody else. Danny screwed up by letting
someone know- even though he says he didn’t. See, they had a
name and that name belongs to Danny. So he might or he might
not have done it. Immaterial. All anyone knows for certain is they
got the right guy, the husband. He’s for sure; the rest is conjecture.
Which means you’re the one taking the risk. No one else. Only you.
Is that a problem?”
“That is definitely not a problem.”
“Okay, it goes like this: You get what you pay for. The more
dinero, the better the service. Deposit the dinero where you will
later be instructed to deposit it, one sum, up front. Absolutely no
money trail. Take it or leave it.”
“How much are we talking about?”
“Is that a problem?”
“No, the only requirement is that it be soon.”
“That could be a problem. What do you mean by soon?”
“A month, maybe two.”
Wilson rocks back slightly, then leans forward, grinning. “I
thought you might be talkin’ about today.”
• • •
That is the last I hear from Cecil.
The following Wednesday I get another call: “Mr. Wilson,” the
woman’s voice says, “has directed me to make arrangements for the
business proposal you submitted. But first I’m going to ask if you
know the Lord’s Prayer.”
“Yes, but what- “
“Recite it, please.”
I’m baffled but go on, “Our Father, who art in heaven . . .”
When I finish two lines, a man comes on. “Sir, the person you
just talked to has compared and authenticated, by voice print, that
you are the same person as the one recorded by the anonymous
individual who employed her for this task. I do not, nor do I wish
to know who her employer is, nor do I know who you are, nor do
you me. Someone from my office will be contacting you within
three days by cellular phone. In the meantime you will receive a
key and instructions on its use.”
“How will the key arrive?”
The connection breaks off.
This stuff is getting a little spooky even for me, and when the
phone rings again I nearly jump out of my skin.
This time it’s Thack. “I need to see you right away, Steve.” He
won’t say why over the phone. When I get to the clinic, his waiting
room, as usual, is overflowing. I start to take a seat vacated by the
next patient in line when Thack’s receptionist calls out, “Mr. Garrett,
Dr. Thackery will see you now.”
Thack’s sitting on one of those chromium beds on wheels, hands
clasped, brow deeply furrowed. “Steve,” he says, “the last of your
lab tests came back this morning.”
“You’re going to tell me they made a mistake, right?” I’m only
kidding, but Thack looks devastated.
“Yeah, right, they did, but the news just got worse.”
“It couldn’t get worse, Thack.”
My doctor looks sicker than I actually am. “Look, Steve, I’m really
sorry about this. We were trying to be optimistic- “
“Three months is optimistic?” This time I have to sit down. I drop
onto the only chair in the room and let out a breath that sounds like
my last.
“I want to put you on an experimental drug,” is all he will say.
“Sure, yeah- whatever.”
“It’s something they’ve had pretty amazing results with in South
America,” Thack says. “FDA won’t touch it though. It’s processed
from the skins of frogs found in the Pacific lowlands of western
Colombia.” His sigh is even greater than mine was. “A substance the
Chocós use to poison their darts.”
“Thack, what’s my latest ETA on reaching the Jolly Fishing Creek?”
My old friend looks me straight in the eyes and says, “Without
treatment, one month. With treatment, maybe two.”
“The pain?”
“I’m really surprised you’re not feeling it now.”
He reaches into the pocket of his white coat and extracts two
vials. The larger is amber, the smaller, purple. “Amber contains pain
pills,” Thack explains. “Very small but very potent. Start out with
one every six hours to keep the lid on, so to speak, then as
needed.” He stares at the purple vial. “I had this flown in from Cali,
Colombia. It arrived this morning.”
“The pygmy poison?”
“Not pygmies- short Indians.” He almost smiles. “It’s taken by
scratching the skin and is administered in extremely small amounts.
I’ll personally handle your daily doses.”
“You want me here every day?”
“I’m going to put you in the hospital.”
The last place I want to spend my final month is in a hospital, so
I make myself such a pain in the ass that Thack agrees to let me
roam so long as I promise to stop by for my daily scratch.
• • •
The key that arrives in a UPS box also contains payment
instructions. The key is to one of those poorly painted aluminum
rental sheds you see around airports. I bumble a while looking for
the right number and when I open the double door I see a big
empty room with a small cardboard box in one corner. Inside the
box is an old cellular phone with a spare battery and plug-in
charger. As instructed, I exchange the cellular stuff for an envelope
of cash and the key. It doesn’t take a genius to put it together that
I’m supposed to keep this thing turned on, awaiting my special call.
In spite of Thack’s snake oil, by the time the call arrives I’m
definitely into pain. The caller’s instructions ask for specific
identification, including a photo, to be mailed to a post office box
so delivery occurs within three days.
“Look,” I clench my teeth. “I need to have this transaction over
with sooner than I’d thought, in the next two weeks at most, okay?”
“We’ll do our best.”
There is no way for me to continue the way I am. I call Thack at
home and tell him I’m ready for the hospital or funeral home,
whichever he prefers, but I can no longer make it on my own.
They take me into Northwest Hospital, next door to Thack’s
clinic, and he stops by to tell me he’s going to run daily scans to
monitor the effect of the experimental drug.
“Jeez, doc, aren’t you afraid I’ll get too much radiation?”
Within a few days Thack is showing signs of being less morose.
He tells me the scans indicate a slight change. “Maybe I should call
it a difference,” he says. “It could be in the scan itself. Whatever,
we’ll keep an eye on it.” He wants me back Friday.
I tell him I’m not going anywhere.
“Yes, you are,” he says.
Thack’s been thinking it over and has decided to acquiesce to my
desires. He’s releasing me and doing something definitely not
kosher. He’s letting me have the pygmy poison.
“It’s got a short shelf life so there’s no point in keeping it around
here,” he says. “But if you say anything, I’ll be up the proverbial
creek.”
He gives me the paraphernalia and instructions how to use it. The
trick is to keep the doses minute, at least in the beginning.
“When the pain gets really bad,” Thack says, “give yourself what
you think best. Don’t inject it into the blood stream, however, or
anywhere near the base of your brain.”
I suddenly realize that my best friend really is. I hug the guy but
he sort of pulls back and says, “Hey, what’s that for?”
• • •
So now I’m on my own. I arranged for plan A and Thack has
provided plan B. His plan could get tricky though. For one thing
this pygmy poison seems to be working. The pain has slackened
some and I’m feeling better- though I’m well aware that my body
is practically numb from the stuff. I consider what would happen if
it hit me all of a sudden, knocked me off my feet and put me
where I couldn’t take the killer dose. It’s the most depressing
scenario I can come up with, so I decide to do something about it.
For the next few days I surf the internet for information. The
common name for the source frog really is “poison dart.” My vial
indicates that I got the lulu of the lot, the most toxic member of the
group, Phyllobates terribilis, a bright yellow baby found only in
Colombia. The bright coloration of the poison dart frog serves as a
warning to potential predators that it is one of the most poisonous
animals on earth. It’s favorite food in the wild is ants, thought to be
the source of its poison. From tiny pores in its skin, the frog
secretes a defensive toxin that makes it unpalatable to curious
predators and could easily kill if injected into a human or other
animal. Chocó Indians, my research tells me, employ this secretion
to poison the tips of their blowgun darts for hunting monkeys and
other small game. When using frogs other than terribilis, the Chocós
force a sharp stick into the frog’s throat and hold the frog over a
fire. Like roasting marshmallows. This causes the stressed out frog to
release its alkaloids. Darts dipped in this frothy secretion and
allowed to dry remain potent for about a year. A single frog can
produce enough poison to treat 50 darts. That’s for other poison
dart frogs. When using terribilis, all they have to do is scrape the
darts on the animals’ back to stimulate the poison secretion.
This is one bad ass frog.
Forearmed with a little knowledge, I begin to experiment with my
pygmy poison. I start out with the prescribed scratches but shorten
the interval between. If I screw up, what the hell? This is really a
win-win procedure in a lose-lose situation. Shortly after noon on my
second day of experimentation, the needle goes in a bit farther than
I’d bargained for. I’m aware of convulsions, then being unable to
move. Within the minute the room shuts down, then starts up, only
I’m on a raft in the middle of the Amazon. Huge catfish are sucking
air all around and I can hear monkeys screeching in the jungle on
both sides of the river. Time rolls forward and I find myself
rummaging among long, stiff leaves, colorful flowers, and the showy
bracts of tropical bromeliads in search of brightly spangled frogs.
When I finally know where I really am and what time it really is,
the clock’s short hand points at five. Shortly thereafter I get an
audible on movement out front. A surprise visitor shows up on my
video security monitor, approaching the door.
Thack’s been thinking it over and has sent someone to look after
me. Not just “someone.” This babe looks like she fell out of a
centerfold. Just seeing her in her white starched uniform and little
peaked cap, even if it’s only video, gives me six sorts of fantasies.
“I’m Sheila,” she says into the outside speaker. “Doctor Thackery
asked me to drop by each evening to check on you.”
Good old Thack, I think. I ask her in but she says she has other
patients. She’ll be back Friday evening, she promises, to stay longer
if I wish. I like the way she says “longer” and mumble something
stupid.
“Oh, I almost forgot. Dr. Thackery asked that you please not say a
word about this to anyone. He said you would understand.” Sheila
gives my monitor camera a look that makes me want to understand
everything about Sheila.
Two hours pass before I learn that I just lost a day from my
shortened life. When I tune in ABC to catch “Millionaire,” I’m
treated instead to a sitcom. Checking the cable schedule I see the
date up in the corner and suddenly realize that I just spent my last
twenty-four hours on the Amazon.
I’m not as disturbed over having been out for a day as I am over
the other realization that not a single person knew or cared. No
wife, kid, parent, or sibling. Except for my doctor, not a soul in the
world gives a shit whether I live or die. Some legacy.
• • •
What I really have trouble understanding is Thack’s complete
change of demeanor when I show up for my Friday scan. He tells
me to sit down because if I don’t, what he’s about to tell me will
knock me down.
“Let me guess, I’ve got less than twenty-four hours?”
When I’ve secured my butt to the chair he says, “You’re better.”
“What do you mean, better?”
“Better, better, I mean better! Not the same, not in remission,
better. He whips an x-ray out of a sheath and clips it to the viewer.
“Look!”
All I see are black and gray blobs.
He slaps me on the shoulder. “The pygmy shit did it!”
“Tell me in English.”
“I think you might make it.”
“Might?”
Thack quickly sobers. “Well, yes, we have to proceed with
caution. We’ll keep you on the experimental medicine, of course. In
fact, let’s pull you back into the hospital where we can keep a daily
watch. And goddamn, I’m going to write this up in a medical
journal!”
“I’m glad you’re so friggen happy.”
Thack looks at me like maybe I’ve slipped over the edge. “You’re
not?”
“Shit man, I was just getting ready to put the moves on Sheila and
you’re jerking me back into the hospital.”
“We won’t keep you here long. You’ll be back with- what’s her
name?”
“Sheila.”
“If you keep up this rate of progress, you’ll be back with Sheila in
no time.”
We spend the remaining minutes talking about the pygmy poison
and possibly, after this is all over, flying up to Montana. Thack,
though, sees through my artificial exterior and knows something is
wrong. He just doesn’t know that I’m trying to figure a way to stop
my own execution.
On the taxi ride home I keep an eye on the road behind us. As
we pull up to the house, I ask the driver to back into the driveway
and let me off as close to the garage door as possible. I tip enough
to bring out a grin, then stay put until I’ve used the remote garage
opener and am sure the coast is clear. I duck into the garage, close
the overhead, double lock the connecting door, and call a
locksmith. He arrives a few minutes before three and has new locks
on each entrance by five. I disable my electric garage door and
make sure the burglar bars on all the windows are secure. I turn on
the security TV and scan with the remote. When I’m sure all
approaches are covered, I inventory my firepower. Unfortunately,
the inventory registers zero. My handguns are scattered elsewhere:
one in the Land Rover, another in the airplane, one in each of my
two offices.
I call the local gunsmith.
“Can’t sell away from the licensed premises,” he says.
“Look, I already own handguns. It’s just a matter of having one
here at home.”
“Sorry. You know, you could be a fed yourself, trying to trap me.”
Suddenly I feel a tinge of panic. Inevitable death doesn’t bother
me as much as the prospect of being killed when there’s a fair
chance I might live.
I’m in the process of administering my next dose when I come up
with an idea. I make sure the garage is clear and search through my
boxes of cast off house parts until I find a length of pvc pipe. It’s a
hare brained idea, maybe the result of too much pygmy poison
already. I cut the plastic pipe to the right length and take it inside.
The next step is to fashion tiny darts from sewing needles. I use
Epoxy to fasten fins clipped from plastic stays. When I’m finished, I
practice blowing darts at a styrofoam head my ex-wife used to store
her spare wig. It takes hours and some tinkering with my
improvised blow gun and the darts, but I’m finally scoring eight out
of ten hits in the neck region.
So there’s nothing to do now except sit back and wait for the hit
man.
I’m nodding off when the doorbell rings. A quick check of my
security TV show Sheila standing there in her starched white
uniform and well-proportioned charm. It’s not right that I put her at
risk too by inviting her in; but then I think maybe the mere
presence of a witness could deter a hit man. Sheila could be my
insurance policy and who knows what else?
As I open the door she says, “I brought you something.” The
neck of a familiar bottle sticks out of the top of the paper sack
cradled to her bosom.
I’d missed seeing the sack on the monitor- or she’d somehow 
concealed it from the camera.
Then it hits me. What had Thack asked, What’s her name?
I point to the paper sack. “Is that black label?”
“I hear it’s your favorite.” Sheila’s face brightens as she nods
toward the empty bottle on the hall stand. “And I see that it most
definitely is.”
“Dr. Thackery said Jack Daniels is my favorite, didn’t he?”
“You guessed!” She seems to relax but her hand has dipped into
the bag as she moves toward me.
I’ve been wrong expecting a hit man.
I move away and motion toward the wet bar. “Whoa, would you
get me two of those glasses off the shelf, please.”
She hesitates, perhaps alerted by something in my voice or the
way I said it. She scans the area around me, checking for a gun or
knife, perhaps. Seeing nothing more than a whiskey glass filled with
pins and a piece of plastic pipe on the counter I’m leaning on, she
turns to get the glasses.
I have one shot. It has got to be good.
Sheila swats at her neck and as she starts to turn she’s suddenly
aware that she’s lost the high ground. Her hand comes out of the
bag and her finger squeezes off a round. The shot ricochets off of
the Saltillo tile into the wet bar. She tries to raise the gun and aim it
at me but the convulsions have taken over and in a moment Sheila
will be taking her long last trip down the Amazon.