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Tom Porter, a Marine who fought in Iraq, makes a deal with a devil to save his wife from terminal cancer. Mr. Mayflower, the Billionaire Samaritan, has a miracle cure...for a price. To save his wife, the Marine must cross a line he thought he'd never cross and commit a crime that goes against his deepest convictions. He does it all for his wife, but Mayflower's deal has dark and terrible strings attached. The double-crossing billionaire drags Tom deeper into a nightmare of pain and brutality, one in which the final price for a foolproof cure might be everything he cares about and the only salvation he has left in the world. Don't miss this exciting tale by award-winning storyteller Robert Jeschonek, a master of unique and unexpected crime fiction and mysteries that really pack a punch.
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THE FOOLPROOF CURE FOR CANCER
A CRIME STORY
ROBERT JESCHONEK
CONTENTS
Also by Robert Jeschonek
The Foolproof Cure for Cancer
About the Author
Special Preview: The Masked Family
THE FOOLPROOF CURE FOR CANCER
Copyright © 2023 by Robert Jeschonek
http://bobscribe.com/
Cover Art Copyright © 2023 by Ben Baldwin
www.benbaldwin.co.uk
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.
All rights reserved by the author.
A Busted Books book
Published by Busted Books
411 Chancellor Street
Johnstown, Pennsylvania 15904
www.piepresspublishing.com
ALSO BY ROBERT JESCHONEK
Crimes in the Key of Murder
Six Crime Stories Volume One
The First Detect-Eve
The Masked Family
The Other Waiter
THE FOOLPROOF CURE FOR CANCER
"I've had cancer three times," said Mr. Mayflower, teeth gleaming in a magnificent grin. "Each time in a different part of my body. Each time incurable and inoperable by the standards of so-called modern medicine.
"And I stand before you now without a single malignant cell in my body. The cancers are not merely in remission. They are gone forever."
As Tom Porter listened, he felt hopeful in spite of himself. In his search for a cure for his wife, Sydney, he had been down countless dead ends before, like a rat blundering through a maze with no exit...but he was still a sucker. His features were fixed in an expressionless stare, but underneath, he listened with all the goggle-eyed raptness of a child hearing the story of Santa Claus on Christmas Eve.
Maybe there was a chance. After all, now he was dealing with Ignatius Yawheh Mayflower, the famous Billionaire Samaritan.
"How were you cured?" said Tom, shifting in his chair.
Mayflower winked and reached for the jewel-studded cigarette case on the glass-topped patio table. "I'll never tell," he said, drawing out a skinny black cigarette, "but I have no doubt we can do the same for Sydney."
Tom watched as the Billionaire Samaritan put down the case and lit the cigarette. Though he had read that Mayflower was at least ninety years old, Tom thought the billionaire didn't look a day over sixty. Mayflower had a mane of pure white hair, but his face was smooth and tanned. His tight, black turtleneck revealed a frame that was lean and muscular instead of shriveled and knobby.
With a sigh, Tom gazed out at the vast, sunbathed gardens fanning out below the mansion balcony where he and Mayflower sat. "I hope you're right," he said. "We've had so many disappointments."
Mayflower leaned over and patted Tom's forearm. "I won't let you down," said the billionaire. "You must know that, if you've been reading Good as Gold."
Tom nodded. Good as Gold, Mayflower's nationally syndicated newspaper column, was what had brought him here in the first place.
Mayflower received letters from readers in dire straits--the more dire, the better. Once a week, he picked the people he wanted to help and printed their letters in Good as Gold, along with an offer of help for the lucky few. The requests he granted could be anything from a hundred dollars for a pair of glasses for a poor child to a couple of grand for a struggling senior center or community library.
Tom had never seen a letter from someone begging for a miracle cancer treatment, but he had sent one anyway. Sydney had given him the idea, saying wouldn't it be nice if her problem could be solved so easily, and he had sent a letter even though he knew she hadn't been serious about it. He had never expected to hear back from the Billionaire Samaritan, had never believed it was more than a lark...and sure enough, his letter had never appeared in Good as Gold.
But to his surprise, he had gotten something better. A personal invitation to Mayflower's mansion, and a plane ticket.
He'd come, of course, because he'd had nothing to lose...and Mayflower was telling him everything he wanted to hear. It was filet mignon to a starving man, and he devoured it.
Even though, in his deepest heart of hearts, he didn't really believe the billionaire could save Sydney.
"I don't mean to sound ungrateful," said Tom, "but I can't help wondering. This miracle treatment...why haven't I heard about it? It's pretty big news, I'd say."
Mayflower chuckled, puffing out sweet-smelling smoke. "Have you heard the saying 'Money can't buy everything'?"
Tom nodded.
"It's a damn lie," said Mayflower. "You'd be amazed at what money can buy."
With that, the Billionaire Samaritan reached into a pants pocket and pulled out a rolled-up plastic baggie. "This is the cure for cancer," he said, dropping the baggie on the table in front of Tom. "We've had it for nearly a century."
Tom rolled out the bag and stared at the fine white powder inside. "Who's 'we'?" he said evenly.
"A very exclusive club," said Mayflower, sucking on his cigarette. "We also have a fountain of youth pill and a gas that reverses Alzheimer's, obesity, and sexual dysfunction all at the same time."
Tipping the baggie to one side, Tom let the powder trickle into one corner. "Again, I'm not ungrateful," he said, "but why not share this with the world? Why keep it to yourself?"
Mayflower chuckled. "Because I can," he said.
"Then why give it to me?"
"I may be selfish," said Mayflower, "but I'm lonely. I don't want to throw open the floodgates, but once in a while, I like to help someone who deserves it. Someone who appreciates it. Someone I can talk to for a little while.
"Now do you want the cure or not?"
"Sure I do," said Tom, rolling up the baggie and stuffing it into his shirt pocket.
"I thought so," said Mayflower, blowing out another cloud of sweet smoke.
"So what do I do with it?" said Tom. "How do I give it to her?"
"Mix it in her tea like sugar," said Mayflower, stirring a finger in the air. "Make sure she drinks it all down."
"And that's all there is to it?" said Tom.
Mayflower shrugged. "Easy-peasy," he said. "With one caveat. If you try taking it to a lab or selling it to anyone, we'll stop you. We'll be watching in ways you can't imagine, and we'll know if you try anything."
"Okay," said Tom. "I understand."
"Good, good," said Mayflower, looking pleased. "I'll see you in a week, then."
"A week?" said Tom.
"For the rest of the cure," said Mayflower. "And your assignment."
Tom frowned and leaned forward. "What are you talking about?"
Mayflower laughed. "That's just the first dose," he said. "You get the rest after you do a little work for me. After you make someone else's wish come true."
* * *
Though Tom loved his wife, he hated to enter the apartment where the two of them lived. He loved her, but he dreaded seeing how far her illness had progressed while he'd been away.
It seemed to get worse every time he saw her...and this time, he'd been away for nearly three days, meeting with Mr. Mayflower. Whatever she looked like, whatever she'd become, he knew it wouldn't be good.
Sure enough, when he walked through the bedroom doorway, she looked terrible. Even with the lights out, he could tell that she had deteriorated significantly since the last time he'd seen her.
She lay in the bed with all the covers thrown off, her emaciated wick of a body curled into a fetal position. Her wrinkled nightshirt was stuck to her sweaty skin...the same nightshirt she'd been wearing when he'd left three days ago.
Incongruously, the room itself was festooned with Christmas decorations...part of Tom's futile effort to cheer her up during the holidays. Even though Christmas had been over for two months, he'd left the decorations up for whatever residual lift they could give her. As much as she'd always loved Christmas, though, none of it had done any good--not the wreath on the door or the candles in the windows or the dancing Santa on the dresser or the artificial tree in the corner, layered with colored lights and glittering balls. It had gotten to the point where Tom thought the decorations were doing more harm than good...but he had come to fear, superstitiously, that if he took them down, Sydney would die.
At the sound of his approach, she rolled her hairless head on the pillow and stared at him with sunken gray eyes. Though she was just forty years old, her face was as pinched as an ancient crone's, the skin drained of luster and sucked tight over doorknob cheekbones.
"Tom?" she said weakly, her voice barely audible to him. "Is that you, honey?"
Tom took a breath and forced a smile onto his face. The room smelled like sweat and vomit and dust. "It's me," he said softly, fighting the urge to gag. "I'm home."
"Thank God," she said. A tiny smile flickered over her lips, then faded into a grimace. "It's been a bad couple days."
Tom wanted to turn around and walk back out--of the room, of the apartment, of the building--and he hated himself for feeling that way. He loved her, he truly did, but it was hard to take, seeing her reduced to this wasted, shadowy remnant.
