The RX Factor

Chapter 1

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.