Twenty-six
By five o’clock Saturday morning Peter was in bed at Gretchen’s side. She had not stirred when he entered the room, nor had she made any response when he stood at her side and spoke her name. He had done so on the chance that she was awake, hoping that even so she would pretend to be sleeping. After a few minutes in bed with her he relaxed. This time she was genuinely asleep. He had learned to tell the difference.
He would not sleep himself. He was keyed so tightly that sleep might have been impossible in any case, and the fifteen-milligram spansule of Dexedrine he had swallowed an hour earlier had eliminated any possibility of sleep. He felt the speed working within him now. His mind was working with the clarity that nothing else on earth could supply. He was so much smarter now, so much more capable. And that, of course, was the drug’s blessing and its curse. You could not function so perfectly without wanting that perfection to last forever, and so you piled speed on speed until your system over-amped and your mind’s legs ran out from under you.
Warren had given him a handful of the pills. They’d been discussing the role he had to play, had spent hours putting the details together and fitting them in place, until Peter mentioned that, in his few appearances onstage, he had always felt more competent and surer of himself when he was behind a little speed.
“Then by all means drop some,” Warren had said. “We need all the help we can get.”
“The thing is, I was into it pretty heavily at one time. It took a long time to crash completely. What I’m getting at is I’m a little afraid of it.”
“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 own mask stayed in place.
He got out of bed just as she was emerging from the bathroom. He met her in the middle of the room and took her in his arms and kissed her. He had thought this would be difficult. The ease of it surprised him.
“You’re up early. I was creeping like a mouse. I thought I would let you sleep.”
“I’m surprised I slept as long as I did.”
“How long was that?”
“What time is it now? Seven thirty? It was around five when I got home, so what does that make it? Two and a half hours.”
“Christ, Petey. You want to crawl back in bed?”
“No, I couldn’t.”
“I mean, less than three hours.”
“I’m all right, though.”
“Warren told me that something went wrong at the Playhouse. Is that why you can’t sleep? Shit, baby, it’s just a job.”
“Something went wrong, all right.” He lowered his eyes and let anxiety show on his face. “Something went wrong. And it’s a lot more than a job.”
“What do you mean?”
He hesitated. “Warren and I were up the whole night,” he said. “Gretchen, it wasn’t an accident that I was fired.”
“I don’t—”
“I have to tell you this. And I’m not sure I know how.”
“You can tell me anything.”
“I know that.”
“I’m myself again, baby. I’m a very strong person, stronger than I ever knew.”
“I know you are, Gretch.” He drew a breath, “There’s a plot against us. That’s why I lost the job last night. That’s why a lot of things have happened There’s a plot and we’re the ones it’s aimed at.”
“Oh my God.”
“I just found out last night. That’s why I’m a little shaky. You’ve known all along, haven’t you?”
“For a long time, yes.”
“I wish I could have known earlier.”
She bit her lip. “I tried to tell you. But I was afraid. That you would think—”