The Trouble With Eden - Lawrence Block [157]
“Can you get hooked in thirty-six hours? I really don’t think you can. I don’t doubt it will improve your performance. It would do that much if it merely increased your confidence. And it does boost IQ by around ten points in test situations.”
“I’ve heard that.”
“It also comes closer than anything else to duplicating the symptoms of schizophrenia. Have you heard that?”
“No. That explains why total speed freaks are such terrific company, wouldn’t it? That’s just what we need. I’ll turn into a temporary Gretchen.”
“Not in the dosage you’ll get. But consider the part you’ll be playing. If it gives you just the slightest nudge in that direction, you’ll be more convincing, and you’ll also be more sensitive to Gretchen herself.”
“Right. I can dig it.”
He would also be awake until it was over. He was already exhausted, running on nerves, and the drug would keep him running. It was worth it. He did not want to be asleep while Gretchen was awake. If she flipped, he wanted to be able to handle it.
Assuming that he could handle it. He was slight, and by no means strong. She was not strong herself; the weight she had put on was a great improvement over the way she had been, but she was still in far from perfect physical shape. She would have the strength of madness, and Warren had assured him that this was no myth. She would not hold back, she would act flat out with nothing held in reserve, and this would make her faster and stronger and more deadly.
Well, at least he would be awake. The drug in his bloodstream would see to that, and when it began to wear off another pill would reinforce it. And it would give him a little bit of an edge if he needed it; he, too, would be a little faster, a little stronger, a little deadlier.
But he knew he would feel better once Robin was out of her reach.
At daybreak Clem McIntyre spoke his wife’s name. She woke instantly in the bed across the room from him.
She said, “I’m right here, darling.”
“You ought to be at home, baby.”
“We both ought to be at home. It won’t be much longer. How do you feel?”
“A little better.”
“We’ll be out of here in a few days, darling. Because you’re getting better.”
He was silent for a few minutes. She eased her legs over the side of the hospital bed and got to her feet. She stood at his bedside looking down at him, then seated herself in the chair at the side of his bed.
He said, “We’ve never played games with each other, Olive. This is no time to start.”
“I thought you’d gone back to sleep.”
“Just ran out of words. I’m not getting better. I know what cirrhosis is. You don’t have to be a doctor to know what it’s all about. Every alcoholic knows the prognosis and it ain’t good. When the liver goes it’s time to make reservations at the boneyard.”
“I’ll make you a deal.”
“What?”
“I won’t talk about getting better if you won’t talk about getting worse.”
“You’re some woman.”
“Deal?”
“Deal.”
“And you’ve got a hell of a nerve anyway, Clem. Saying we never played games with each other. We played a game the first day we met.”
“A game?” He closed his eyes for a moment. His color was better today, she noticed. Not good, but better. “Yes, I guess you would have to call that a game. We both knew the rules right from the beginning.”
“And we both won.”
“And we both won. That was a good day, wasn’t it?”
“They’re all good days,” said Olive McIntyre.
When Gretchen got out of bed Peter was instantly wide awake. Until then he had coasted in a waking dream, running Warren’s plan through his mind, hearing voices speak the various lines until what he was going through was closer to dream than thought. Her movements snapped him out of all that, and he was alert.
It was a temptation to pretend to be asleep, to squeeze out an extra hour before he had to step onto the stage. He knew better. He was not at all certain that he could act the part of a sleeper well enough to fool Gretchen, and the most important thing he could do was make sure his