Elixir

by Charles Atkins

  ‘Like a facelift,’ Petra Jeffries offered.

  ‘Good analogy,’ Grace said.

  ‘It’s never been tried on humans?’ a parent asked.

  ‘No.’ Frank made eye contact with each of them. ‘None of the infusions have started yet. And while you’ve had this explained, and signed all sorts of things, it’s not too late to back out.’ He resisted the urge to tell them of the only study he’d conducted with tumorous rats. Data that Jackson had insisted he bury, and this study was what he’d wanted to prevent. But looking at these children and their parents, Jackson was wrong …

  ‘No,’ Marnie Owens said. Her words echoed by the others.

  ‘Then let’s begin,’ Frank said. Feeling a bit like a master of ceremonies, he unlocked a small red refrigerator which contained six glass ampules of UB482. In the rats the results had been fast and undeniable. Six children are too many. I should try it with one first.

  ‘You OK?’ Grace whispered.

  ‘No.’ Careful to keep his voice below what anyone else could hear. ‘Scared. This is too fast. We should have done a large-scale rodent study … a primate study.’

  Grace placed a hand on his shoulder. ‘No, look at them. Frank, how many children have we walked to the grave? None of these kids has time for those studies. Even if this goes south, you’ve given them hope and an awesome time in a beautiful place with their families. Nothing here is bad. Even Jackson, for all his big pharma paranoia, would have to give you this. But just like you gave them a way to back out … this is your last chance. It’s your decision. Do we move forward?’

  He looked from Grace to the sealed ampules.

  ‘I’m ready for my facelift, Dr Frank,’ Jen Owens, who’d overheard his mini lecture, shouted from her pink pod.

  It turned into a chant of the parents and the kids. ‘Facelift. Facelift. Facelift.’

  Frank slapped on gloves as Grace did the same. They grabbed vials and one by one broke the tip, drew up syringes, and introduced a molecule that had never been tested on a human being into bags of fluid that over the next four hours would bathe the cells of six dying children.

  TWENTY-ONE

  At work in the Brookline PD, Sean completed his report on Jackson Atlas’s murder. The perp was Brian Baker, a thirty-two-year-old product of the opioid crisis. It was too familiar. Good family, cheap drugs, crushing addiction. And Brian, who should have had the world on a string broke into neighbors’ homes to feed his habit.

  Sean should have felt relief as he got set to clear the case off his desk. He didn’t. Straight up, murder for drug money. Then a few bags of fentanyl-laced dope, and Brian was another face on someone’s Don’t Do Drugs poster.

  ‘This feels wrong. Why?’ His thoughts flew to Frank and their make-out session in the closet. Like a couple of teenagers with Mom and Dad downstairs. He felt the distance between them, and like probing an unfilled cavity with his tongue, he thought of all the reasons they wouldn’t work. He’s too far away. We have zip in common … he could have been a perp. And that’s a problem … don’t shit where you eat. You know better. He’s not a perp. He’s … not like anyone you’ve ever dated. And he’s keeping stuff from me. Big stuff. Sean, as he did with anyone involved in a homicide had done his research. It was easy to learn about Frank’s mother. The sensational murder of his father had made it to the national news cycle. From there piecing together why he was in Croton New York hadn’t been difficult. He lied to me about his parents … wouldn’t you? Hi, I’m Frank my mother killed my father, tried to kill me, and is locked away in a loony bin. He stopped. And what must that have been like? Jesus. What kind of childhood did he have?

  He replayed their whirlwind tour of Litchfield Connecticut. UNICO was throwing big bucks at Frank and his research. As a non-scientist he got the gist, Frank was onto something huge. Its proximity to a murder was discordant. It gnawed at him. He wanted to stamp Atlas’s murder closed but couldn’t ignore the dead man’s tirades against big pharma. Or what Frank had told him about Jackson’s one-man crusade to sink popular drugs and those who’d brought them to market. And Frank. ‘Frank, Frank, Frank.’ Billions of dollars in drug company profits seemed a better motive for murder than a few five-dollar bags of fentanyl-laced dope.

  ‘And that’s the way it is.’ He could not make himself hit send. And that Lang woman and her son. Dalton; the guy creeped him out. Really, is that all? Heat rose in his cheeks, nerves prickled at the back of his neck. Dalton had easy access to Frank, Sean did not. Jealous. I’m fucking jealous. And why does he have to be so fucking gorgeous? And why did Frank neglect to mention that? What else hasn’t he told me … or told the truth. That last bit rankled. Lies and liars, too much like a day at the office, not what one wants in a boyfriend. And that’s the rub a dub dub. You want him. But what if he’s not who he seems? Not the first time you read things wrong.

  He pushed back from his desk and the unsent report. His gaze landed on a just-arrived FedEx package stuffed with UNICO paperwork. Boiler plate documents, confidentiality agreements and attestation statements that anything he was privy to at UNICO, or apparently through his relationship with Frank, could never be divulged. As a cop he couldn’t just sign this kind of crap. He’d need to read it and ensure it wasn’t forcing him to cross lines he’d sworn to observe.

  ‘Seriously?’ He felt manipulated. The message was clear. If he didn’t sign they’d put obstacles between him and Frank. Like a couple hundred miles between Litchfield and Boston. Why there? Why pull him out of Cambridge and MIT? It stank of abusive relationships, where the over-controlling guy – typically the guy – separated his woman from friends and family.

  He pulled out his cell and dialed Frank. His gut clenched, as he remembered all the times Frank reflexively sent calls to voicemail.

  ‘Sean?’ Frank’s voice.

  He exhaled. ‘I was expecting voicemail.’

  ‘I saw Brookline PD. Figured it was either you or I was being arrested.’

  ‘Not funny. You know how much shit I’d be in for kissing a perp?’

  ‘I wish you were here,’ Frank said.

  ‘Me too.’ Sean thought of all the reasons why you weren’t supposed to say shit like this after a single date and an especially hot macking session. But there it was. ‘What’s happening there?’

  ‘Waiting. We’re about to hit the forty-eight-hour post-infusion mark. No one’s dead.’

  ‘You know you’re bad with jokes.’

  ‘I’ve been told. In a few hours we’re going to scan them. It’s too early to tell anything, but … This shit is boring you.’

  ‘No,’ and that was the truth. ‘Keep talking. What do you hope to learn from the scans?’

  ‘I know every inch of these children inside and out. Jen even named her tumors. She figured that maybe if they had names and faces she could make friends with them. They’re like the seven malignant dwarves. Blinky, Stinky, Jinky, I think one’s Drinky because I told her it was filled with fluid.’

  ‘And that’s what the scans will tell you. How the dwarves are doing?’

  ‘Yeah, if they’ve had babies, how big they’ve gotten.’

  ‘Or how small.’

  ‘Yes …’ Frank’s voice trailed. ‘I wish you were here. What are you doing?’

  Sean glanced at his screen with the Atlas report ready for his electronic signature. ‘About to sign off on Jackson’s case.’

  ‘The junkie did it.’

  ‘Looks like.’

  ‘You don’t sound a hundred percent.’

  ‘I’m not. You introduced reasonable doubt, and my gut screams that the scene was staged.’

  ‘But no evidence,’ Frank conceded.

  ‘Strong motive … but right, no evidence to back it.’

  ‘And funny timing,’ Frank added.

  ‘You read minds now?’

  ‘Maybe,’ Frank said.

  ‘Jackson knew what your research was worth. Where it could lead.’

  ‘He did. He also knew
that once I made the compound and tested it there’d be no turning back.’

  ‘Can I ask about that?’

  A moment’s pause. ‘Sure.’

  ‘You obviously just passed that point and have a human trial going. Which, even from where I sit, seems way fast and like the Langs pulled strings. Which, billions of dollars, good on them. But that’s not the part that sticks. It’s you Frank. You synthesized what sounds like something damn complex, damn fast. Is it the same as what you did with Caesar and Lavinia, and their tragic brethren?’

  ‘That was an awful morning, but yes. I tweaked it slightly, but not much.’

  ‘Next question.’

  ‘Shoot, detective.’

  ‘Who else knew about that study?’

  ‘Grace, Jackson, and no one else.’

  ‘Until you published that article.’

  ‘Yeah, but you read it. It’s theory, not test results.’

  ‘The ones you brutally slaughtered, admittedly at Jackson’s urging, so you were just following orders … which kind of makes it worse, but what did you find when you looked inside their tiny murdered bodies?’

  ‘The tumors were either markedly shrunk or gone.’

  ‘And no one ever saw that actual test data other than you, Jackson, and Grace? And no one else knows about Caesar and Lavinia?’

  ‘No one … but you.’

  ‘Obviously the Langs knew … know. How?’

  ‘I can guess,’ Frank said.

  ‘Spill.’

  ‘Those emails on Jackson’s computer, the ones that get mushy. I think they were from Leona Lang. He said she broke his heart. I think they stayed in contact.’

  ‘Hope springs eternal,’ Sean remarked, wondering when Frank had made this connection and why he’d not shared it. If true … shit, too many fucking coincidences.

  ‘From his perspective, but from hers?’

  ‘Hard to say,’ Sean admitted. ‘But if we look at what’s transpired with your … talent.’ He glanced at the time. Two hours up, two hours back … I can do this. ‘You want company?’

  ‘Yes please.’

  ‘Good. I’ll see you in a couple hours.’

  They hung up. Sean looked at Jackson’s ready-to-sign report. He hit save, didn’t sign it, and with more doubt than he’d had ten minutes ago, about Frank, the Langs, and the murder, he grabbed a duffel he’d packed that morning, just in case, and headed out.

  TWENTY-TWO

  Leona stared up into Dr Ramon’s puzzled expression. The plastic surgeon squinted and pushed his glasses to the bridge of his nose. He studied her from different angles. She turned and looked at her magnified reflection. For the first time in years she thought, not bad … not great, but not bad. Better, undeniably better. She adjusted the angle of her chin, aware of his scrutiny and tickled by his confusion. She catalogued the changes. Subtle, but real. My chin, less loose skin, the neck, maybe a third fewer of those awful lines. She raised and lowered her brow. The furrows aren’t so deep. I’ve not had Botox for more than a week. The moments of doubt and raw terror she’d experienced during her infusion, she now knew had been worth it. She’d taken a huge risk, but a calculated one.

  ‘What did you do?’ he asked.

  ‘Facial Pilates. It’s new,’ she said.

  ‘Never heard of it.’ He sounded dubious. ‘But look here, your skin, your chin, under your eyes, everything is tighter. You’ve been to see someone else, haven’t you?’

  ‘Never.’

  He ran the back of his forefinger down the angle of her jaw. He crouched lower to examine her throat, as he sought the source of her transformation. ‘This is … this is not possible. I’ve warned you about those quacks down in Chinatown. What you think are herbs are laced with horrible things. Yes, you get tighter skin, but you also get liver cancer.’

  ‘I swear, just exercise and diet.’ Her spirits soared. He’s not going for the black pen.

  ‘Hmmm.’ He sounded unconvinced. ‘Let me see you back in a month, and if you have articles on this facial Pilates shoot me an email.’

  ‘Of course, Doctor.’ And feeling pounds lighter and years younger she bid him farewell. She pulled on shades and traipsed out into a brilliant spring day. The visit had lasted half as long as usual. Free time.

  Let’s check on Frank and the kids. She thought about little Jennifer what’s her face, ‘I’m ready for my facelift.’ And I’m not. She paused. Ramon hadn’t even offered her Botox or to plump her lips and cheeks with collagen. She glimpsed her reflection in Park Avenue windows. Facial Pilates. She laughed. ‘Even my voice sounds younger.’ Certainly not twenty, but thirty-five, possible. As she walked a good-looking businessman in a bespoke suit and Gucci tie locked eyes with her. He smiled. She didn’t look away. And when’s the last time that happened?

  She wandered across Fifth Avenue and into Central Park. Flowers everywhere. Exuberant, she didn’t know where to look first. Each person she passed was a universe of their own, from the homeless man on the bench with his bags and cans to the au pair wheeling someone else’s baby. She thought of Dalton, and of his father, his real father – Jackson – a man who without question had adored her. Would he still love me? Men love the pretty face. He thought he loved me. But did he?

  She checked emails and ran through her phone messages. She pressed on the app for Eternal Buddies and was afforded a web-cam view of a two-week-old fuzzball of a golden retriever. On the side she toggled through a catalog of his features; he was indeed a perfect replica of her beloved Rex. A date-stamp in the upper right let her know that she could pick him up, or have him delivered, in six weeks, or sooner if she was prepared to bottle feed, which she was.

  She hung up, called her assistant, Patrick, let him know about the imminent arrival of Rex IV. And told him to have Rex III brought to the vet and euthanized, like ripping off a bandage, she wanted it done fast. But a deep sadness, old as the first time she came home from school to find her mother passed out naked with a strange man, threatened to pop her euphoria. ‘No you don’t. Out with the old and in with the new. You were a good dog. And you won’t be really dead, but reborn, and this time …’ She focused on her new puppy as he tumbled around a red rubber ball, ‘Forever.’ This one would stay with her. She’d infuse him with Frank’s telomere extender and he’d live twice as long? Three times? She cooed into her cell, ‘We’ll be together a long time, you and I.’ What had been pure theory days and weeks ago was now all giddy new possibility.

  She found a guano-free empty bench, settled, and swiped across to a video surveillance app. She started with the family condos around Hollow Hills, then zipped from patient to patient. For the past three days she’d obsessively checked in on the six children. All still alive, nothing obviously wrong with five of them … it’s working. I feel it. Ramon saw it.

  The children, except sad little Jennifer Owens, whose dose she’d stolen for herself, looked well, albeit with shaved heads and skin so thin you could see the difference between the red blood in their arteries and the blue in their veins. Too soon to tell. They’re all alive. They seem healthy. I feel fabulous. She clicked from bedrooms to kitchens. Observed the parents, who’d had years of practice pretending that everything was fine when it wasn’t. She sensed it in their expressions, barely contained. ‘They see it.’ They know something is happening. She paused on an intimate kitchen scene of Daryl and Douglas with Tara. Nothing special, the assembly of a quick lunch in a strange kitchen. She put in an earbud. Douglas bemoaned the fact that there was no smooth peanut butter, while Tara had enthusiastically located a jar of marshmallow fluff. ‘That stuff will kill you, sweetie,’ Daryl said. But she wasn’t having it and insisted on a marshmallow, banana, chunky peanut butter sandwich. She’s got them wrapped around her finger. Leona couldn’t look away, from the gentle touch of the two men as they passed behind the quartz island, to the ease of Daryl delivering Tara’s sandwich with a kiss to the top of her head. Good for her. That child is loved … and she’s going to get better. Wi
th a pang, she thought of Dalton. There had been no such tenderness between her and Lionel. No butterfly kisses on the top of Dalton’s head … at least not from her.

  ‘And the good doctor …’ She scrolled to a folder within the app and found him. In the lab, of course, with best friend Grace. She turned up the volume, as they prepared to view MRIs and X-rays.

  ‘OK Buster, why are you so fucking happy?’ Grace asked.

  Why indeed, Dr Garfield? A memory of Jackson popped to mind. One of his axioms, ‘Listen, ask good questions, and don’t think you have the answers until you do.’ With that in mind, and alert to her surroundings, she focused on Frank and Grace. A thought intruded – this is historic. True, but if no one ever learns about it … like a tree falling in the woods. What was potentially the most-important scientific study of the twenty-first century was in process, all below the radar. Four people knew its significance: her, Dalton, Grace, and Frank. And that’s two too many, she mused … possibly three.

  TWENTY-THREE

  Grace trailed beside Frank as he pulled up radiology files in the dimly lit viewing room.

  ‘OK, Buster, why so fucking happy?’

  ‘Don’t know what you’re talking about.’

  She turned from a SPECT scan of Ben Bradley’s liver she’d just analyzed and looked him dead on. ‘You got laid.’

  He smiled. ‘Not saying a word.’

  ‘Details,’ she said.

  He grinned.

  ‘Oh fuck you. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you this happy. Where’s my mopey best friend? Where’s Eeyore? What have you done to him?’

  ‘So that’s what this is? Happy? This is really happy. It’s scary.’

  ‘Where is he now?’

  Frank’s smile fell. ‘Too tired and back in Brookline. He shouldn’t have come up yesterday.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because now … Well, this is interesting.’ His focus pulled by a month-old SPECT of Lakeesha Thomas’s brain tumor. ‘Grace, what do you see?’