A knock, and the waiter entered with a cart laden with polished brass tureens. He arranged them one by one on the table, removed the lids and announced the contents, then left an ornate tantalus with three crystal decanters labeled: Maker’s Mark Bourbon, Islay Single Malt Scotch, Gray Goose Vodka.
Once he left, she continued, ‘Dr Garfield … may I call you Frank?’
‘Sure.’
‘And Leona works for me … I knew that academia was not me. I won’t bore you with the parts you know. The competition for grants, equipment, lab space. The constant jockeying for promotion. Being female made it worse. The glass ceiling is real. Then and now.’
‘So you married Lionel Lang.’
She stiffened. ‘You don’t pull punches. Yes, I did.’
‘And now you’re the CEO of UNICO.’
‘Yes, I am. And I’m sitting in the penthouse of a beautiful hotel, with the single-most important researcher on the planet, though I’m not certain you’re aware of that. But you do know … I assume, that the work you said I walked away from is connected to yours.’ She risked a smile. ‘Is it fair now to ask about your work, and see if we can come to a meeting of minds?’
Frank assembled rice and fall-off-the-bone braised lamb onto a torn-off piece of Naan, folded it and bit down. ‘Delicious.’ He looked up from his food. ‘You’ve done your homework.’
Dalton nodded. ‘Yeah, it’s a bit much, isn’t it?’ He gave a half-smile that on YouTube and Insta might garner a few thousand thumbs up, and swooning comments.
‘You think?’ Frank said. ‘But I’m here, so let’s flip it around. Let me see what you know … or think you know.’ He looked to Leona, ‘Specifically, what is it about my work that interests you?’
‘You’re at the cutting edge of genetics, Frank.’
‘Epigenetics,’ he corrected, ‘but you knew that.’
‘Yes, epigenetics. Which evolved from the abject failure of my generation and our belief that sequencing the DNA would unravel the mysteries of the body, how and why we get sick, all of it.’
‘Yes,’ Frank said. ‘It was too simplistic. You got the sequence but no answers. At least not the ones we need. You wanted War and Peace but got Dick and Jane. Do you ever notice how if someone repeats a lie over and over, it sounds like the truth?’
‘Sure,’ Dalton said, entranced by the change in Frank’s demeanor. ‘Look at the Trump administration. Anything that veers from his twisted version of reality must be fake news.’
‘Right, they’re not big on science and reality. But that’s what happened with genetics and a lot of that early work. People came to wrong conclusions. Which makes me a little critical about how you didn’t pursue your hypotheses on leader sequences. For decades they called it genetic garbage, and then you came with your thesis and laid down possibilities of their true purpose. Or at least some part of it.’
‘It wasn’t time,’ she said almost sadly. ‘You can’t imagine the pushback I got. But now … here you are.’
‘They were idiots,’ Frank said. He glanced at Dalton. Their gazes connected. ‘DNA holds the face of God, the layers of complexity that cause it to bend and conform are miraculous … There is no garbage, and there are answers. This is where epigenetics begins, and it’s connected to everything.’
‘What answers have you found?’ Dalton asked. He leaned closer and noted how Frank swallowed hard and ran a hand threw his tangled bangs. Fish is on the hook. Reel him in. He refilled Frank’s bourbon.
‘You’re trying to get me drunk.’ Frank broke the connection. He looked from his half-eaten shank of lamb, to Leona, and then back to Dalton. ‘You think because I’m gay and awkward that your looks will … How far would you go, Dalton?’
‘Far as you want.’ But as the words left his mouth, he knew he’d miscalculated.
‘Pimps and whores.’ Frank pushed back from the table.
Leona interceded. ‘What I want to hear is where your research is headed. What it is you—’
Frank stood. He tossed back the bourbon and winced. ‘We’re done. I may not know my next move, but it’s not with the two of you.’
Dalton felt him slip away. He stood and pulled his ace. ‘And the little girl on 8C? Jennifer Owens.’
‘How the fuck do you know about her?’
Dalton was startled but did not back down. ‘Jen Owens. Disseminated small cell, stage 4. And 8D Carter Jeffries with an undifferentiated sarcoma. Or Lakeesha Thomas with an inoperable astrocytoma spreading through her brain, not expected to see her sixth birthday and likely blind within the month.’
‘How the hell do you know this? You shouldn’t know any of this?’
‘Frank … Dr Garfield,’ Dalton said. ‘In the big picture, Mother and I don’t matter. Your work does. That you can’t see the next step forward is a great problem and not just for you … but for those children. So forget what I just said, I misjudged you. I’m sorry. I can be an idiot … but just so you know, you’re not that awkward.’ His words spilled out fast. ‘Here’s the big difference between us, we have no hesitation or doubts about the importance of your work. More than that,’ he locked gazes with Frank, ‘we can take it and you from the lab into clinical trials with those children … now. Not a year from now, not after Jennifer and Carter and Lakeesha are dead and buried, but now.’
‘No. You’re lying,’ Frank said. ‘No one gets approval that fast. No one. None of those kids has more than a few months.’
‘Wrong. We can. And we will. The bigger question Frank, is what will it take for you to stop jacking off and make this happen? Not a year from now, or two, or three, or ten, but now. Not with some theoretical future children, but with your current patients, who between all of them, don’t have even a year.’
Frank looked from Dalton to Leona. He appeared confused. ‘But that’s not why you want my work. It’s not for those kids.’
Leona nodded. ‘You’re right.’ She too stood. ‘It doesn’t have to be one or the other. It can be both.’
‘No. Say what you’ve got to say. Two minutes.’
‘The other obvious application is life extension,’ Leona said. ‘There, the questions are how much? How long?’
He stared at Leona, his gaze narrowed. ‘You want to live forever.’
‘Who wouldn’t? If you’re in decent health. So how far can you push it?’
‘Don’t know,’ Frank admitted. ‘It’s going to depend on the person and their telomere age.’
Dalton watched the space between Frank and Leona. He now realized that she had something he did not … scientific credibility.
‘For someone like you, in good health, maybe an extra ten years, maybe a hundred, maybe more. It’s unknowable … without studies.’
Leona let out a slow breath. ‘That’s what I needed to hear.’ She looked to Dalton. ‘What would someone give for another hundred years?’
‘What wouldn’t they?’
‘Frank,’ Leona said. ‘The question is what will it take to get you to work with us? You tell me and I will make it happen. If it’s fast-tracking a human study with those terminally ill children, we’ll have you in a lab with everything you need by the end of the month. June one at the latest, possibly sooner.’
Silence.
Dalton knew that Mother had just tossed out their best ploy. It would be those kids … or nothing.
‘Thank you for the bourbon and the lamb,’ Frank said to Leona, and then to Dalton, ‘and the offer to fuck me.’ Without another word, he grabbed his jacket from the back of his chair, and left.
SIXTEEN
The late April night held a warm chill and oblivious to the dangers of walking the Commons after dark, Frank needed air. He pictured Jackson. Again, that weird lost-limb feel. The person he needed to talk to was gone. Worse, the background buzz in his head, made it hard to think. Don’t focus on it. It makes it worse. Walking helped and talking, if he did it loud enough, muffled the crazy. ‘What am I supposed to do?’ he said loudly.
&nbs
p; A pair of late-night joggers glanced and then sprinted past.
‘Jackson would say no.’ He replayed their conversation. ‘She said she’d tried to recruit him. I wonder what she offered.’ His thoughts bounced to handsome Dalton, ‘Whatever you want.’ He snorted, knowing exactly what Jackson would say, ‘Pimps and whores.’ He’d say they’re in it for the money. ‘Pimps and whores.’ But then they brought up, ‘Jen … Carter, Lakeesha.’ Young faces scrolled through his mind. Most of them now dead … and not easy deaths. ‘Children shouldn’t have to suffer … They said they could get me into human trials within a month. Impossible. What if it’s not? What if …’ As he lapped the Commons, time slipped away.
A heavy-set man in a shiny red jogging suit approached and intruded, ‘You got a light?’
‘I don’t smoke.’
‘Neither do I. You looking for company?’
‘Yeah,’ Frank said. Good idea. He pulled out his cell.
Perplexed, the man watched.
‘Grace.’
‘Frank, it’s two in the morning.’
‘I know. I need to talk.’
‘Where are you?’
He glanced up. ‘The Tremont Street side of the Commons.’
‘By yourself?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Call an Uber and get over here. Can you do that?’
‘I’m not a child.’
‘I know, Frank, but you’re peculiar. And we peculiar folk need to watch out for each other. Get out of there. It’s not safe.’ He headed towards the street.
‘Where you going?’ the guy asked. ‘I thought you wanted to, you know …’
Frank looked at him and realized what was being asked and offered. ‘No thanks.’
He walked away. The man followed. ‘Then give me your wallet and your phone.’ And he pulled out a switchblade.
Frank responded reflexively. He grabbed the man’s wrist and jabbed his forefinger up and back into the release point. His pulse raced. Then a flashback of his mother’s deadly rampage flooded his mind. He heard his father’s shouts, ‘Get out of the house, Frank. Run!’ His mother’s rants a muddle of bible verse. ‘Child of Satan, I abjure thee to hell.’
The man shrieked and fell to his knees. The knife dropped to the ground.
Frank kicked it into the bushes, but didn’t release his grip; he increased the pressure and twisted the guy’s wrist up and back to near breaking.
‘Let go of me, you psycho!’ the man shrieked. ‘Help! He’s killing me.’
A patrol car, parked on Tremont, flashed its lights and cruised towards them. A window slid down and a blinding white light illuminated them. ‘What’s going on?’ An officer exited the car, and clicked open his holster.
Frank startled, aware that he’d just lost track of the past few moments. He relaxed his grip but held on.
‘He attacked me.’ The man on the ground shouted. ‘He’s psycho.’
‘Let go of him,’ the officer said. ‘Then take two steps back and keep your hands where I can see them.’
Frank complied … barely; his thoughts in freefall. He focused on the feel of his feet and his breath. I watch my breath come in. I watch my breath go out. A mantra learned decades ago. It helped … some. But the flashback, fueled by the attack and the glint of killer steel in the night, would not stop. Only back then it had been a hammer, smeared red with blood.
‘Be careful,’ the downed man cried, ‘he has a knife.’
‘Officer,’ Dalton Lang suddenly emerged in the flood of a streetlight, ‘I saw the whole thing. Doctor Garfield,’ emphasis on doctor, ‘was attacked by that man. He was defending himself.’
‘IDs, now!’ the officer ordered. And to Dalton, ‘And you are?’
He reached for his ID.
The attacker bolted into the park.
The officer shook his head. ‘Great. You two get out of here,’ and he gave pursuit with his partner trailing in the cruiser.
‘You followed me,’ Frank stated. He felt a sharp pain in his chest. I watch my breath come in. I watch my breath go out.
‘Yes. And with reason.’
‘What reason?’
‘You didn’t say yes at dinner.’ Dalton smiled and raised a hand. ‘To coming to work with us, nothing more, and again I apologize for being an idiot.’
‘I said no.’
‘True, sort of, kind of.’ Dalton dropped the smile. ‘So what will it take for you to say yes? I know it’s not money. But seeing your work come to fruition has to mean something.’
Frank said nothing. He looked from Dalton towards the flashing lights of the cruiser, now deep in the Commons.
It was a good question. What do I want? The answer came fast. It was Jen’s voice as she reassured her parents that a six-year-old dying from monster tumors was OK. It wasn’t. Or four-year-old Carter whose sarcoma had already cost him a leg and would soon end his life. Or Lakeesha, or Ben, or … ‘Your mother said she could get me into human trials within a month. How?’
‘The children,’ Dalton said. ‘If you could do any study, you’d start with the kids you’re seeing at St Mary’s, correct?’
‘Yes.’
‘Would it have to be there?’
‘No, but I’d want to offer the kids … their families, the option.’
‘You have a protocol ready?’
Frank nodded. Something in Dalton’s gaze held him, an intensity, a sincerity. ‘Yes, a simple one. Treatment as usual as the placebo arm vs my compound.’ He stopped himself from saying more. Yes it was a compound, but in fact was more of a process. No one needed to know that.
‘You wouldn’t need big numbers to show an effect,’ Dalton said. ‘If even a couple kids separated from the treatment-as-usual arm of the study, we’d get you fast-tracked into a large stage-two trial.’
He’s not kidding. Possibility, and hope surged. He imagined Jackson’s protest, but also knew that his mentor had railed against the crushing weight and petty in-fights of academia that slowed research to a glacial pace. Even Jackson might be tempted by what Dalton and his mother offered. But it’s not just lamb and bourbon. Pimps and whores. ‘What’s in it for you?’
‘Are you kidding? I’m no scientist, but I see the ramifications.’
‘Dalton. Just tell me. What’s in it for you and your mother?’
‘Those hundred years, she wants them. And Frank, if you say yes, I promise you that it won’t be a month. Jen Owens doesn’t have that long.’
Frank grimaced. ‘She doesn’t. And how the fuck do you know about her?’
‘Because for the past six weeks, I’ve had you under surveillance. And Mother has tracked your progress much longer.’
‘Right,’ Frank said, having read hundreds of Jackson’s emails with Sean, and seen a steady thread between his dead mentor and the mysterious writer, who he now knew was Leona Lang.
‘Yes.’ Dalton closed the space, inches now separated them. ‘UNICO has facilities that we will put at your disposal. You say yes, and I say tomorrow. We’ve got a spread in Connecticut you won’t believe. We can house the families and get you all the equipment and lab support you want. Even a farm next door where the kids can play with the animals, horses, sheep, llamas. We have our own research review board for whom getting your study FDA approved will be their only priority. We … I personally will pull in every favor, of which we are owed many. But here’s the deal, Frank, you have to say yes. You have to sign a contract that will give you what you want and a whole lot more. You can save Jen. You can save all of them.’
Frank’s cell rang. Grace’s number flashed. ‘I’m supposed to be somewhere.’
Dalton nodded, ‘True. You are supposed to be somewhere. In your own lab, running a study with kids and families who through no fault of their own, got dealt shit hands.’
This was horrible manipulation, beyond anything Frank had ever experienced. But the offer … and this surge of excitement. Like waking from a coma. He stared at Dalton who was everything Jackson loathed. S
lick, too handsome, with truckloads of money and research shortcuts, even willing to jump into bed to seal a deal, and then just as quickly twisting to offer something wonderful and game changing. His thoughts raced as he weighed the proposal. Jen’s face appeared in his mind’s eye, her quirky expression as she stated the things no one else would. And it wasn’t just her, but all the dead children he’d cared for and couldn’t save. Like an army of translucent skinned baby birds. They haunted him. I can do this. And what’s the worst they can do? Make an infusion to extend life? Not what I’d intended … not so bad.
‘I’ll do it.’
‘Good.’ Dalton extended a hand.
Frank paused. Stared at Dalton’s perfectly groomed nails, and long fingers. Jackson and his own crazy mother wailed in his thoughts: Pimps and whores. I abjure thee Satan.
He took Dalton’s hand. As he did, Dalton gripped tight and pulled him in to a kiss. His lips mashed against Frank’s as his tongue sought entry.
‘What the fuck, Dalton?’ Frank pushed back hard. ‘Does everyone just fall into bed with you?’
Dalton stumbled. A speck of blood blossomed on his lower lip. ‘I misread, again … sorry.’
‘You did,’ Frank said. ‘And please stop.’
‘Understood.’
‘Good.’
‘Did I just screw the deal?’ Dalton asked.
‘No, but stop trying to screw me.’
Dalton extended his hand a second time. ‘Do over?’
Frank hesitated. ‘What the hell am I getting into?’ But the thought of putting his theory into practice and maybe preventing Jen’s death was too strong. I can save her. I can save all of them. ‘Yes.’ He took Dalton’s hand and shook. ‘I’m in.’
SEVENTEEN
Frank drove the dreaded route to upstate New York’s Croton Forensic Hospital. He’d come twice a year since he was nine, when his mother, Candace, had been admitted under a not-guilty-by-reason-of-mental-defect plea for his father’s murder. At first, in the company of his grandparents, Ida and Henry, who shielded him from the worst of it. Then just Grandpa Henry, and for the last ten years, alone. He had to, because if he didn’t, some well-intended pro-bono lawyer would turn the lock and let her out. So twice a year he faced his worst fear with a single goal; she never leaves.
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