ELIXIR (33 page)

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Authors: Gary Braver

BOOK: ELIXIR
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They explained to Brett that for a day or two they were going to visit Laura’s sister Jenny who lived alone with her sixteen-year-old daughter. And that while they were being processed through the judicial system, he would stay with them. But that wouldn’t be for a while. Maybe weeks.
They would take Laura’s Subaru and another set of IDs—Peter, Ellen, and Larry Cohen.
“Dad, when it’s all over, you going to go back to your old names again?”
“We’ve been Roger and Laura for so long, it might be kind of confusing. What do you think?”
“Yeah. I don’t have to change to Adam, do I?”
“Of course not.”
“No offense, but it sounds kind of dumb—you know, Adam and Eve. Running around naked and naming the animals. I’d rather stick with Brett.”
“Besides, no one named Brett would be caught dead in a fig leaf, right?”
“I’m glad you see my point.”
Laura wore a dark wig and tinted glasses, also tanning lotion which turned her a few shades darker. Meanwhile, Roger shaved off his beard and cut his hair to a whiffle. He looked eerily young. So much so that Brett commented, “You could be my older brother,” and looked away unnerved.
Roger also carried cotton absorption wads—the kind dentists used—to be packed in his mouth to alter the shape of his face when they stopped for tolls and gas.
In the middle of the night they loaded the car undetected.
Amidst suitcases of clothes sat the cooler containing chopped ice and two hundred vials of frozen Elixir serum. The remaining supply and
notebooks were miles from here, buried nearly a decade ago. And with them, one hundred and twenty thousand dollars in cash.
Before they left, Brett asked to see a sample, so Roger removed the emergency supply from around his neck. He snapped open the tube and extracted the long glass ampule.
Brett held it up to the kitchen light. He had heard about it all week, but this was the first time he had actually laid eyes on what all the world was howling about.
“Looks just like water,” he said and handed it back to his father without further comment.
They left just before midnight.
Using secondary roads, Roger calculated the trip would take about seventeen hours. Jenny had insisted on their arrival tomorrow afternoon—as if she held them to some deadline.
As the lights of the condo disappeared in the mirror, the thought circled Roger’s mind that there were hordes of people under that black sky who would do anything to lay hands on them. Anything.
To help Laura and Brett doze off, he put on a tape of “Swan Lake” and turned the volume low.
Laura was too anxious to sleep, although Brett spread out on the rear seat with his pillow and a blanket. In the mirror Roger had flashes of that night thirteen years ago when in another car and under different names they drove northward to Black Eagle Lake. Another night, another flight of fear.
By the time they reached Faribault, Laura was asleep against headrest. And Brett was a long lump under the blanket.
At this hour traffic was sparse. Even though U.S. 35 was indirect, it avoided Madison and any police checkpoints.
It was odd, but being on the run made Roger feel closer to Laura than he had in a while. They were doing something together, as a family, bizarre as it was. At one point, she woke up and took his hand. Nothing was actually said in words, though the gesture warmed him. He needed to believe in them still, and in her love. Yet, when he tried to imagine their future, it came up blank.
Someplace in the middle of Odette’s transformation into a cygnet, Brett sat up.
“Dad, what would happen if I took Elixir?”
The question came out of the dark like an icepick. He was about to answer, when Laura cut him off. “Don’t even think about it,” she said, suddenly awake. She spun around to face him. “Everything we’ve ever warned you about the dangers of drugs—this is far worse. One shot and your body is instantly dependent. And if you go off it, you die a horrible death.”
So startled by her reaction, Brett chuckled. “You’re just saying that.”
“Only because it’s true. We told you about the animals.”
“Can that happen to you, Dad?”
“Monkeys and humans have the same reaction.”
“Has it ever happened to anyone?”
“Yes, but no one you know.”
“Then why did you take it?”
“I told you it was a mistake.”
“But you’ll live forever, right?”
“Not forever. Just longer. But it was still a mistake.”
“If you could go back, would you do it again?”
It was like Brett to hammer away. “No, I wouldn’t.”
“You’re just saying that.”
There was no reason for Roger to play up his regret or Brett would pursue that. “I’m not. It was wrong.”
“How about when I’m older?”
“Brett, you’ve got a long life ahead of you. You don’t need the stuff.”
“But someday …”
They were caught between minimizing and maximizing the dangers. “We can’t think that far ahead.”
“But you’re going to live a long time, why not both of us? You too, Mom.”
“We’ve already been through this, Brett,” Laura said. “I’m not going to take it. And you’re not going to take it. It’s unnatural and dangerous, simple as that. End of discussion.”
But Roger could hear the turn of Brett’s mind. Laura had protested too much. “Brett, listen to me,” he said, summoning his best voice of fatherly reason. “If you took it now, you would never get older. You would never fully grow up. You would never age but stay fourteen for good. Is that something you’d really want?”
There was long silence.
“Well?”
“Maybe.”
“I don’t believe this.”
President John Markarian turned up the sound on the TV console in the Oval Office. Tim Reed and two other aides had come in to inform him of the latest. With them was Kenneth Parrish, director of the FBI.
As feared, Elixir rumors had snowballed and were barreling down on the White House like an avalanche.
On the screen were videos of laboratory mice and rhesus monkeys.
“What you’re seeing are the same animals, just a few weeks apart,” the commentator said. “According to former Darby employees, the animals had been treated with Elixir, a secret compound that allegedly had the capacity to prevent aging.” The screen split with a BEFORE and AFTER caption under each.
“Sources who had once worked at the Darby labs claim that treated animals on the right had actually rejuvenated over the period.”
The split screen gave way to another pair of still photos, that of Christopher Bacon and Roger Glover.
“Speculation holds that Dr. Bacon may have used the serum on himself …”
On the president’s desk sat faxes and e-mails from scientists, religious leaders, and government officials from around the world demanding to know if the rumors were true, and, if so, to share the secret with the rest of the human race. There were also entreaties from the heads of AARP frantic for the government to find this Christopher Bacon and his secret of prolonged life.
Everywhere White House disclaimers were rebuffed. One commentator declared the Oval Office might be either the stupidest place in the world or the most deceitful.
The television scene shifted to anti-American rallies in Cairo.
How the hell do people mobilize so rapidly? Markarian wondered.
People were toting signs proclaiming “Death to America” and “Markarian is Saten.” And “Elixir is Devel’s Potion.” “Elixir—American/Israeli Plot.” And “ELIXIR: Genetic Imperialism.”
“Middle East spokesmen view Elixir as a threat to international peace,” the reporter continued. “One diplomat warned of possible military conflict unless the U.S. admits to hording the compound and makes it available to all people …”
The scene shifted to a fiery preacher addressing a congregation from a church pulpit in Baltimore.
“Meanwhile, here at home, religious leaders are calling for calm while others see Elixir as a Pandora’s box. In the words of Reverend Colonel Lamar Fisk, the anti-aging drug is a ‘hellish violation of the dominion of God.’”
“‘Ye know neither the day nor the hour wherein the Lord doth come!’” Fisk shouted. “‘And in that hour when the seventh seal is broken the armies of the lord will lay waste the evil that is Babylon …”
The camera panned devoted followers as they howled and hit the air with fists and sticks.
“Goddamn field day for the nutcakes,” Markarian said.
“Except this one’s dangerous,” said Parrish. “They’re Heaven’s Gate with fangs.”
“Meaning what?” Markarian asked.
“Meaning they’re not going to pop suicide pills and wait for the flying saucers to whip them away. This Fisk guy has warlord mentality. He preaches that they’ll take an active part in Armageddon. A lot of whambam, and while they get beamed up to heaven, the rest of us fry.”
“Nice religion.”
“What’s scary is that he knows guns and preaches violence. He’s also charismatic and uses mind control and physical abuse to keep followers in line. He’s like Charles Manson and David Koresh rolled in one, except he hasn’t broken the law yet. I’m just worried when he does.”
“What’s the latest on Glover?” the president asked Parrish.
“Every airport, bus terminal, and train station in a four-hundred-mile radius around Eau Claire is covered. Highway patrols have been beefed up. We don’t know what they’re driving because he seems to have a fleet of vehicles. Or he’s stealing one after another. But the local police are checking all leads.”
“You mean you haven’t got a clue.”
“I’m afraid not.”
“We’re already frying.”
R
oger did all the driving, kept alert by adrenaline.
They ate in the car and stopped only for fuel and rest rooms. He preferred the self-serve stations to avoid attendants.
But there were no self-serves in Fairfield, Iowa, and they were on empty. Roger pulled into a Mobil station. A guy about twenty came out and put in twenty-four dollars worth of gasoline.
It wasn’t until it was time to pay that Roger spotted the hand-written sign in the window: “SORRY. No Fifties or Hundreds.”
Big bills were all they had left, which meant having to pay by credit card. Roger was not too worried the attendant would recognize him out here between endless corn fields, especially in his disguise. But he had not counted on an overdue balance.
The kid returned from inside to say that payment was denied.
While Brett slept and Laura tried to doze off, Roger got out of the car and returned the card to his wallet then pulled out another.
But as the guy headed back into the station, Roger suddenly realized that the second card was made out to Peter Cohen, while the first said Harry Stork.
If the attendant was alert, he’d catch the discrepancy and wonder why two names. If he reported it, that could prove disastrous since Harry Stork was the name Roger had used as Wally’s attorney—a name that was surely in the police network. In fifteen minutes every road within fifty miles would be blockaded.
Roger had about ten seconds before the guy reached the credit card machine.
If he jumped into the car and took off, the kid would pounce on the phone. If he did nothing and the kid caught on, there’d be a flag on the field. Even if the discrepancy were missed, there would be an American Express record of Harry Stork traveling east into Illinois.
Roger dashed into the office and snatched the card from the kid’s hand just as he was about to run it through the machine.
“Hold it, but I’m overdue in payments on that too. You know how it is.” He flapped a fifty in the kid’s face. “I know it’s against company policy, but it’s all I’ve got, and it’s real.” He held the bill up to the light to point out the water mark and the hidden thread. “See? can’t duplicate that.”
The kid inspected the fifty, then looked at Roger, wondering if that beaming smile was the front of a fast-talking counterfeiter.
“And, I’ll tell you what. For being such a good guy, you can keep the change.”
“You serious?”
“You betcha.”
The kid inspected the bill in the light again, thinking about the twenty-six dollar tip, weighing that against the manager finding a fifty in the till. The tip won.
“Thanks, mister,” he said. And Roger was out the door before he could change his mind.
For the next couple miles his insides felt like gelatin. He was losing his grip, he told himself. That was a double slip-up—pulling the wrong card, and not keeping up with account balances. He should have been more careful.
What made it worse was that Roger Glover had now gone the way of Chris Bacon—right to the top of the wanted lists. So had Harry Stork. He was down to three different cards—under three different aliases, different addresses, different birthdates. Christ! He was beginning to wonder who the hell he really was. Peter Cohen? James Hensel? Frank D’Amato?
He rode into the graying light feeling schizophrenic.
A few hours later, they stopped at a truck stop where Brett bought them breakfast. They ate in the car then took turns using the rest rooms. Roger was dying for a hot shower. They all were.
At about ten, Laura called Jenny to double-check directions. Laura could hear the relief in Jenny’s voice that they were only a few hours away.
But when she said they were bringing Brett, Jenny’s reaction turned bizarre.
“Oh, no. That won’t do. No visitors. We can’t have visitors.”
Laura didn’t want to spell out the importance of their meeting, not with Brett in earshot. “What’s the problem? You said we can stay for the night.”
There was a pause as Jenny muttered something inaudible. Then she seemed to find herself. “Some other time. Abigail is sick in bed, and the doctors said no visitors because her resistance is low to infection.”
“What’s wrong with her?”
“Ooops. I have to go,” Jenny declared and hung up.
So Brett wouldn’t suspect anything, Laura continued to fake conversation. “I see, well I’ll drop by myself then. I hope she gets better soon. We should be there about three. Bye-bye.”
Roger looked at Laura for an explanation.
“Abigail’s sick.”
“So where we going to stay?”
“I don’t know.”
Around two-thirty they reached the driveway of number 247 Farmington Road, Prairie, Indiana.
Roger drove by, then circled back looking for signs of police. The nearest house, about a quarter mile away, looked dead. But that didn’t satisfy Roger. He found a back road behind Jenny’s place to check for signs of a stakeout. There were none. It was farming country consisting of open fields of low-growing corn and wheat, and devoid of human life.
Roger pulled into the driveway. From a distance it looked like a Jenny place—a neat little farmhouse in pink and green located at the end of a long drive set back in some trees from the main road and miles from the festering social diseases of big-city America.
But up close, shudders were broken, shingles were missing, half the chimney had lost bricks, and the paint had faded to a yellowy flesh color and was peeling badly. The place looked diseased. The lawn hadn’t been cut in weeks. Yet, beside the garage was a small power mower—one that looked manageable by Jenny or a teenage girl.
The plan was for Laura to find out what the story was with Jenny while Roger drove Brett to a store for provisions. If there was a problem, they had a police scanner and cell phones. Jenny was irrational, but not enough to blow the whistle on her own private savior.
Roger pulled up to the front door. All the shades were drawn. No sign of Jenny. No sign of life.
Laura got out and went to the door. A small handwritten note on the bell said OUT OF ORDER. Another said NO SOLICITORS.
Taped to the door was an envelope on which in small fastidious script was the name “Wendy.”
Furious that Jenny had posted her name, Laura tore open the envelope. Inside was a note in tiny meticulous handwriting done in pink: “Please leave orchids in mailbox. Good Luck.”
That was it?
Laura thought. Drive sixteen bloody hours with every law enforcement agency on their ass, and what Jenny wanted was for them to drop the stuff off then beat it. Find a motel someplace or hole up in a cornfield. No way! If Jenny was dumb enough to plaster her name up, what else would she pull?
Laura banged on the door.
Nothing.
And standing in the open like this only heightened her anxiety. She waved for Roger and Brett to wait in the car, then went around back.
The kitchen door was also locked. But one window was open and the screen was up a few inches so she could get her fingers under it.
Laura slid up the window. Then she went around front and waved Roger and Brett off. Around back again, she climbed inside.
The immediate impression was how dark and lifeless the place was—like a house whose occupants were away on vacation.
Although the curtains were drawn, the small kitchen appeared tidy. It was done in white and pink. Magazine pictures of kittens were magneted to the refrigerator. Also some baby photos.
On the table sat a bowl of overripe fruit with some tiny black flies buzzing around it. Beside the bowl was a small pile of mail. On the top sat an electric bill addressed to Jennifer Phoenix, 247 Farmington Road. Under that were other bills and some toy catalogs all made out to Jennifer Phoenix.
Jennifer Phoenix?
Laura was shocked. Jenny had changed her name and never told them. How many years had it been? And why?
Feeling a hum of uneasiness, Laura moved to the dim front foyer to call upstairs when she glanced into the living room. Her heart nearly stopped.
It was decorated for Christmas.
By the fireplace sat a large artificial tree fully decked with bulbs, icicles, and lights. Opened presents lay in boxes on the floor. By the fireplace sat a large pink dollhouse, its rooms neatly laid out in miniature furniture and figures. It was a vague replica of Jenny’s own house. The fireplace mantle was decorated in colored candles and artificial pine and big red Santas. Over the mantle hung a pastel portrait of Abigail as a young child.
Across the foyer, the dining room was decorated for a birthday party, but it must have been from a while ago because some of the colored streamers criss-crossing the ceiling had come loose and most of the balloons had deflated. A partially-eaten cake sat in the middle of the table around which were several chairs, all but two occupied by large stuffed bunnies, bears, and kangaroos.
A sick chill rippled through Laura.
From the second floor she heard a faint sound. A tinkling, barely audible.
She moved toward the stairs and froze. She had heard it before. The same high metallic plinkings, almost like windchimes.
Music. Background sounds in their last telephone conversation. “
Frere Jacques.”
The tune was “
Frere Jacques.”
An irrational sense of dread gripped her as she began to climb the stairs. The music box Jenny had bought in Boston years ago.
“Her first Christmas
present.”
A few more steps, and she could hear Jenny singing softly.
“ … Morning bells are ringing. Morning bells are ringing. Ding, Dang, Dong. Ding, Dang, Dong.”
She reached the door.
Inside Jenny said: “Now in French …”
“
‘Frere Jacques, Frere Jacques,
Dormez vous? Dormez vous? . .
.’”
The door was decaled in cartoon animals. A porcelain plaque in big happy letters said ABIGAIL’S ROOM.
A second voice sent a shard of ice through Laura’s heart. A voice small and thin and singing along with Jenny.
Laura swung open the door.
“‘ … Sonnez
les matines.
Sonnez les
matines.
Din, Don, Din. Din, Don,
Din.”’
Jenny looked up, her face in a radiant smile. She was sitting in a rocking chair holding a small child.
In a telescoped moment of awareness, Laura registered the silky blond hair, the brown liquid eyes, the ruddy porcelain cheeks. The pink flowered dress from the photos.
“We’re singing in French,” Abigail proudly announced.
Horror surged through Laura. The room was a mausoleum of little girlhood: Bunny wallpaper, pink lace curtains, stuffed animals, dolls, a big pink toddler bed, pillows mounded with stuffed kittens and Raggedy Anns. A white decaled bureau with ballerina figurines and the big red music box that filled the room with its soulless ditty.
“Ooooo, look,” Jenny sang out. “It’s Auntie Wendy. How nice. And she brought you your medicine.”
“Jenny!” Laura gasped.
“Oh, of course: And
this
is Abigail. I forgot how long it’s been.” Jenny beamed.
“Hi, Auntie Wendy. You look like your picture,” the child said. She opened a small photo album from the shelf. “Your hair is different, but it’s very flattering. I like it better.” Her pronunciation was perfect.
“We have lots of pictures,” Jenny piped in proudly.
“Do you know how to speak French?” Abigail asked.
Laura’s mind scrambled to land on something that made sense: The girl was somebody else, not Jenny’s daughter.
No, Jenny had adopted another child but had not told her for some reason.
No, it
was
Abigail, but she had some growth disorder—some awful disease that had stunted her limbs.
“Well, do you?”
Laura made an inarticulate sound and shook her head.
“Well, I do.” And she rattled off a string of words, none of which registered. “And Spanish.” And she said something in Spanish. “I haven’t learned to read yet, but Mommy says that’s for older children. Don’t you think I’m old enough to read?”
“Now, let’s not be silly,” Jenny said. “You’re always in such a hurry to do this and that.”
There was nothing in Jenny’s manner that betrayed the appearance that she was anything other than a sane, willful, and rational woman going through the motions of indulging her toddler daughter.
“You must forgive me,” Jenny said. “We’re not used to company, so we don’t have extra chairs.”
Laura’s eyes fell to the table beside the bed and bit down on a scream. On it sat a syringe and an empty ampule of Elixir. Roger had said some were missing but had blamed it on faulty memory.

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