402 Graham Avenue, Brooklyn. Land to Sea Café.
An Asian waitress carried a tray through the quiet space—espresso and a freshly baked pineapple bun—her footsteps soft against the tiled walls.
Neon strips glowed faintly in the shadows. A teaspoon tapped twice against the rim of a porcelain cup.
"Got something to say, Murphy?"
John Hastings took a sip of his hot coffee, lowering the New York Times just enough to meet Daniel's eyes.
"Shit, John… you finish the crossword already?"
Daniel tugged the black cowboy hat down from his face and hooked it on one finger. The thick silver ring on that finger was worn smooth in places. He'd ordered an iced Coke and a takeout box of chow mein; the soy sauce smell was strong.
"Forgot my pen, so no, Daniel."
John rubbed his aching temples. He had a bad feeling about this.
"Then let's get to it, boss."
Daniel sighed, leaning forward from the low sofa chair.
He scratched the long scar on his cheek and let out a dry, complicated laugh—half relief, half dread. From the pocket of his oilskin jacket he pulled out the two prescription bottles and dropped them on the table with clear displeasure.
"You were right, John."
His mouth twitched unnaturally; the sun-browned crow's-feet around his eyes trembled as he fixed his gaze on the former captain across from him.
"There's something else in the PTSD meds. Either one on its own might've passed, but…"
He paused, dragging a hand across his face.
"Anyway—how much of this stuff had you taken before now?"
John Hastings shook his head slowly, offering a helpless half-smile.
"Didn't touch a single pill before I handed them over to you. Just broke the seals to take a look."
He picked up the pineapple bun as if nothing had happened and took a deliberate bite. Daniel stared at him in disbelief, then flicked his eyes to the bottles.
"Seriously? And you can still eat?"
"I've been starving these past few days, Murphy."
"What?"
"There's also an order of drunken chicken coming. Hold your horses."
"For Christ's sake, John, skipping one bite won't kill you."
"I said I've been especially hungry lately. Which part of that didn't you catch?"
Daniel, long accustomed to his old commander's bullshit, pressed a palm to his forehead, then pinched the bridge of his nose before steering them back on track.
"See this one labeled sertraline? Every pill tested positive for low-dose roxarsone—an animal feed additive. Pretty much harmless on its own."
He nudged the bottles with one finger as he spoke.
"Then there's the paroxetine. I found high concentrations of selenium dioxide in those tablets—supposedly for 'nerve support and sleep.' They're calling it a 'new compounded formulation.' Hear anything off about that?"
Daniel tapped the table corner with his forefinger. John folded his left arm across his chest, chewing steadily.
"How'd they tell you to take them?"
Daniel leaned in, eyes wide.
"Both together."
"You didn't think to Google it first?"
"I thought I'd hand them to you first, Murphy."
"Any idiot with a phone could've seen something was wrong, you asshole."
"Fuck, relax, cowboy."
The former shot his palm against the table in frustration; the latter finally set down the half-eaten bun and gave him his full attention.
"Truth is, these two meds aren't even supposed to be combined—harms outweigh benefits by a mile. But that's not the worst part."
Daniel leaned closer, locking eyes with John, enunciating every word:
"The worst part is… the roxarsone and the selenium dioxide react together in stomach acid and inside the body. They form selenium arsenide. Targets the heart and nervous system with pinpoint accuracy."
He grimaced, unscrewed both bottles, and poured their deadly contents into the trash bucket by his feet. Then he sank back into the sofa and let out a long breath.
"Seven days, John Hastings. Just seven days."
Daniel nodded repeatedly, certain of his findings. John blinked once, piecing together the infiltrator's plan to silence him forever.
Bracing both arms on the table, Daniel lowered his voice:
"You'd go through the latent buildup phase, then acute onset, then total system failure. Dead."
John glanced sideways at the pills scattered in the black plastic liner, the casual smile finally gone from his face. He scratched his stubble and spoke to the man who'd just confirmed the truth.
"So…the instruction to take them together was just cover. Make the side effects look like normal adverse reactions while the real poison synthesized quietly inside me."
Daniel nodded. They sat in silence on opposite sides of the low table, the understanding heavy between them.
Until the waitress returned with a plate of drunken chicken and a pair of bright plastic chopsticks.
"Still got an appetite, Captain?"
Daniel asked grimly. Right on cue, John Hastings picked up the chopsticks.
"Why wouldn't I, Murphy."
In the retired sergeant's second stunned silence of the morning, he deftly pinched a piece of pale chicken skin and meat, brought it to his mouth, and chewed thoughtfully on one cheek.
Between bites, he answered:
"Life's short."