Elixir

by Charles Atkins

  ‘They,’ he began, ‘she … called again, the person pretending to be you.’

  ‘What did they say?’

  He wondered if she really didn’t know or was this an act. ‘That they had Grace. That if I don’t write down the formula they’ll kill her. She said something else. Something strange.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘That Jen Owens never got her dose, even though I know I administered it. They said it was stolen.’

  There was a pause on the line. ‘It wasn’t me, Frank.’

  ‘On the line? Or are you saying something else?’

  ‘Oh hell. Both, Frank. I took the dose and infused myself.’

  ‘Why? She’s going to die. Why would you do that?’

  ‘Make more, Frank. Either way you need to do it. And I know who your caller is.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Dalton, who else?’

  ‘Pretending to be you?’

  ‘It’s a trick. It was cute when he was five. Now … not so cute.’

  ‘And Grace. He threatened to kill her.’

  ‘I’ll handle this, Frank. I’ll be there in an hour, this will be OK. I will make certain that nothing happens to Grace, or to any of those kids. But don’t goad Dalton. You don’t know him … what he’s capable of. When pushed, he is not stable.’

  ‘And what if I decide not to make the telomere compound?’

  She sighed. ‘End of the day, we all have decisions to make. Yes, I took Jennifer’s dose … you know she has little time. And Dalton will make good on his threats. Trust me on that. But these are your choices, Frank. I’ll be there soon and do what I can.’

  Questions queued. ‘Dalton said he’d been watching me for weeks. How much and how close?’

  ‘A lot and very. Best not to think about it. He’s listening to this. Do what you’re going to do, Frank. One way or another we’re coming to an end.’ She hung up.

  Her confession about Jen’s dose stunned him, but more than that, there was a weird pathos to it. She didn’t need to tell him that, or that her son was unstable and homicidal. Lies on top of lies, and Dalton’s surveillance of him for weeks before Jackson’s murder. Everything now fit like gears in a clock, or the careful walls of a rat maze.

  Dazed, he walked down the long room to the thick glass that overlooked the atrium. Three stories below he saw the children and their families. He wondered what they’d been told about why their day at the Crestview Farm had been cut short and they needed to be brought back to Hollow Hills. Tara James spotted him and waved. He couldn’t hear her through the glass. Parents and children alike looked up, smiled and waved. He stepped back as he spotted Jen and her mother. The six-year-old was now wheelchair bound with an oxygen mask strapped to her face. Years of painful experience told him she no longer had weeks, but days, possibly hours.

  ‘Tick tock.’ He thought of Leona’s confession and Dalton’s masquerade. Both strong-arming him into handing over the formula. He’d come full circle, back to those arguments with Jackson. He knew his formula worked. So did the Langs. It could save dying children. It needed to be studied and developed. Important questions remained. Were the effects permanent? If not, how long until a further infusion is needed? His scientific curiosity was piqued by Leona and the stolen dose. Why? And what were the effects on a healthy adult subject?

  He stared out at the high fence that circled Hollow Hills. He thought of his mother and wondered what she’d try next. But something else. Her delusional belief that he was the son of Satan. What if that weren’t pure insanity? His telomere compound had wonderful potential, but Jackson had warned of a darker side. If something could heal and prolong life, could it also be used in the opposite direction? It was possible. Horrifying, but possible.

  Tick tock.

  He looked down at Jen.

  ‘I’ll do it,’ he said to his hidden audience. He wondered if Dalton understood the science. Leona would. He turned on a sequencer and pulled chemical reagents off the shelves and from a refrigerator. He spoke aloud as if giving a cooking class. ‘You start with two parts thymine, one part adenine, and three parts guanine.’

  THIRTY-FOUR

  Leona let herself in to Dalton’s rental at Merryvale. She’d not called ahead, but had no illusions of surprise. On the drive, she’d ruminated over the conversation with Frank. The ball was in play. The Hollow Hills surveillance showed him complying. Now came the not-simple matter of parsing her son’s oppositional behavior, getting him back in line, and if that was not possible …

  She unwrapped a colorful Hermes scarf and checked her reflection in the hall mirror. She touched a finger to her cheek. Incredible. Only this time, beauty and her brain would not be her only powers. But something greater. Total control over the most-desired commodity on the planet. Youth, and the possibility of a greatly extended lifespan.

  A guitar strummed lush cords from the bedroom. She padded towards it. Dalton was singing. She listened to the lyrics.

  ‘Blood red chrysanthemum spread upon my lover’s cheek.

  Blood red chrysanthemum you took me for a ride.’

  She stopped by the entrance to his room. He’s not bad. Good, actually. She rapped her knuckles against the doorframe.

  The music stopped. ‘I don’t need housekeeping today, just towels.’

  ‘Not housekeeping. It’s your mother. Are you decent?’

  ‘What a surprise. And you let yourself in. I don’t remember giving you a key.’

  ‘You didn’t.’ She entered. ‘Another video?’ She stated the obvious as she took in her son in front of a makeshift green screen with his Gibson, carefully gelled hair, skin-tight black jeans, camcorder, and open laptop. He had a pop rockabilly vibe.

  ‘Yes, and?’

  ‘You sound good.’

  ‘You’re here because? I thought you were hiding away from the world until …’

  ‘Things change, Dalton.’ She stopped and studied him. Tall, model-handsome, good voice, good enough to have done something. And I wouldn’t let him. ‘Do you hate me?’

  He cracked his neck and returned her gaze. ‘Interesting question.’ Seconds stretched. ‘No.’

  ‘You don’t love me,’ she stated, and didn’t break gaze, but wondered, why is he staring … right, he hasn’t seen me in a few days … is it that apparent?

  ‘Why are you here?’ He put the guitar on its stand and headed towards the kitchen.

  She followed. This is how he wants to play this. Fine … ‘Grace Lewis is missing. Frank says someone pretending to be me said she’d had an accident.’

  ‘That would be me, of course. But you knew that. Tea?’ He poured water into an electric kettle.

  ‘Sure. Why did you do that?’

  ‘Just taking your lead. You said Candace Garfield was a catalyst, I’m helping things along.’ He flicked the kettle on. ‘Like turning up the flame on a pot set to boil … that’s a good title. Pot set to boil. Turn up the flame … also not bad.’ He grabbed a journal off the table and jotted them down.

  She weighed his words, and something else, his attitude towards her. What came to mind was contempt. ‘Is she alive?’

  ‘Yes. For now. She and Frank are the only two with your magic potion in their heads. I won’t mess that up.’

  ‘He’s making another batch as we speak,’ she said. ‘I told him that I took Jennifer’s dose.’

  ‘I heard. Interesting.’ He looked at her. ‘But makes sense. Now you can show up at Hollow Hills and he’ll know why you look so … refreshed. And you do. You got what you want. You don’t look a day over thirty-five. Hell, if you weren’t my mother, I’d date you.’

  She winced, having done her own assessment as not a day over thirty, at least from certain angles.

  ‘Are you sure he’s making the real thing?’ Dalton asked. ‘It could be a ploy to buy time. Maybe feed his cute detective enough for a warrant. We skate on such thin ice.’

  She chuckled. ‘This is your mother you’re talking to. We’d take care of tha
t, wouldn’t we? And besides, he’ll give it to little Jen. Once he does that, we’ll know it’s real.’

  ‘Of course,’ Dalton said. ‘Saint Francis of Litchfield. That is if his mother doesn’t kill him first. She is quite determined. In fact, you and she …’ He chuckled. ‘What is it about mothers?’

  ‘Cute.’ She made eye contact. ‘Dalton. I am getting what I want. And I realize I’ve not been fair to you. You’ve done what I’ve asked. It’s your turn. What do you want? What do you really want?’

  ‘Huh. There’s a twist. Perhaps the potion has done more than turn back the hands of time. Why this interest in me and what I want?’

  ‘You’ll take the potion, as well … if you want. Chances are good we’ll be around a long time … together. I want whatever has poisoned our relationship to get better. I know much of the fault rests with me. I was not the best mother.’

  ‘No arguments here. But you know what I want, what I’ve always wanted.’

  ‘To be a singer.’

  ‘Singer/songwriter. Yes. Without any of your help I have almost a hundred-thousand followers on Instagram, seventy-eight thousand on Twitter. I maxed out on Facebook years ago. And have two YouTube videos approaching a million hits. Other artists have asked to record my songs. I’ve always said no.’

  ‘Because of me,’ she stated.

  ‘Yes, Grandma Karen put it well. What Leona wants, Leona gets. And if she doesn’t, bad things happen.’

  ‘OK then, here’s the new deal. We both get what we want. Not only won’t I stop you, I’ll support you. You sound good, Dalton. I know that. It’s why I agreed to you going to NYU. But I thought … hoped, it would be something you’d get tired of.’

  ‘It’s not. It’s who I am. And it makes me sick to see my classmates have careers while I’m—’

  ‘I see that. And I’m sorry for not taking you more seriously. But you’ve made my last few years at UNICO easier. The sharks are circling. One bad quarter and they’ll come for the kill. I want you by my side, but I’ll make sure you can do both. Do we have a deal?’

  ‘I’m not certain what’s on the table. You help me with my music in exchange for …?’

  ‘No more fighting. No more going behind my back. Maybe even use you and your music in ad campaigns … if you wanted.’

  He laughed. ‘Careful there, I don’t know that jingles about erectile dysfunction and ulcerative colitis will help my career.’

  ‘No, but a well-produced anthem and ad campaign for UNICO could.’ She weighed the effect her words had on him. He was, after all, a man, and they were predictable. Stroke his ego and make him purr. ‘You’ll be big. Huge. But we can’t ignore what will make this all possible. What exactly did you do with Grace Lewis, and what’s the plan?’

  ‘Leverage of course. To make Frank stop farting around and give us the fucking formula.’

  ‘Where is she?’

  ‘In a bomb shelter.’

  ‘You intend to kill her.’

  ‘Yes. Once we have the formula.’

  ‘She has family. There will be an investigation.’

  ‘Mother, this is your son you’re talking to. Do you really want the details?’

  ‘No. I’m aware of your skills.’ She mulled over this twist; it had merit. As long as Frank thought there was a chance Grace was alive, he’d do as told. ‘The detective will be a problem.’

  ‘Yes. Is that a statement or a request?’ The kettle whistled.

  ‘The former. I don’t want you taking more risks.’

  ‘And then there’s Frank,’ Dalton said, as he poured boiling water into matching Welcome to Litchfield mugs.

  ‘You have something in mind.’

  ‘Yes, actually.’

  ‘Care to share?’

  ‘It’s a mousetrap. Grace Lewis is the cheese. Once we have the process, and know that it’s correct, Frank will miraculously figure out Grace’s location. He’ll run to save her.’

  ‘And there’ll be an accident.’ She sipped her tea.

  ‘Yes. Now about that anthem.’

  THIRTY-FIVE

  Frank lost time as he went through the familiar – at least to him – synthesis of the telomere compound. As the sequencer popped nucleotides together like beads on a necklace, he’d go to the windows and check on the children and their families. Hours passed and he’d watched as cots were brought in and the sun disappeared with brilliant splashes of orange and pink over the hills. He spoke the steps aloud. It reminded him of MIT and late-night talks with Jackson. He thought about Sean, and hoped he’d done as told and stayed away.

  Day dragged into a sleepless night and then early morning, he felt lightheaded. He’d not eaten since … hard to remember, at least a day now. Trays were brought by the guards who carefully entered, placed them down, and then exited. The last one who’d come with a pot of coffee and a plate of Danish, commented, ‘You need to eat something.’

  ‘I’m fine,’ Frank said. The coffee smelled strong. He poured a mug, and then a second, and a third. The sequencer hummed and clicked in the background.

  Not long now, he thought, as he worked at the last few steps, the ones that added a sugar coating to the molecule. This was his Trojan horse that tricked the cells into thinking his molecule was food. The inspiration had come to him in a dream over a decade back. It had involved M&M candies. When he’d woken the clarity had hit like lightning.

  Now, he thought to call Leona, but figured she and Dalton had been watching him like CNN or FOX election results. ‘I need an infusion pump,’ he said aloud, ‘and someone needs to tell the Owens that Jen will get another dose.’ He paused. ‘What happens if they refuse?’ He shook his head, they wouldn’t. Dizziness made him sway. What have I done? But he knew. The compound and process were now in the hands of the Langs. Giving it to Jen would be the final proof they’d want … and then what? What are they capable of? Watching me for weeks … months. Which means the night Jackson was killed they’d have known … Did they kill him? Why?

  Then came a thought. If Jackson were still alive, would I be here?

  His cell rang. It was Leona.

  ‘Frank, it’s best if you tell the Owens yourself. Don’t you think?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Good. We’ll have her infusion pump and pod sent up to your laboratory. You will administer the solution. I’m aware it will take hours. During that time, you are not to leave, and you are not to say anything about the changed circumstances to anyone. Am I understood?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Good, because Dalton is on a tear. When he gets like this there’s nothing I can do. He told me that Grace is alive and safe. I’ll work on him, but be clear if he were to suspect you’d betrayed us, or told the Owens, or your detective …’

  ‘What happens after the infusion?’

  ‘Business as usual. I put a leash on Dalton, smooth things over with Grace, who will be suitably furious. We figure out what to do with your wonderful compound. We build an ad campaign with children and puppies. We’re a pharmaceutical company, Frank. What do you think we do?’

  He did not answer. Her words sounded plausible. And he knew they were lies. Has he already killed her? Grace … what have I done?

  ‘The Owens are being told that you want to speak with them,’ she said.

  Frank walked over and looked down into the atrium; most of them were still asleep. Blood-red streaks pierced the retreating night sky. He held his breath as Marnie Owens walked to Jen’s hospital bed, like a coffin. From the distance he couldn’t see the rise and fall of the little girl’s chest. Marnie’s posture was tentative, and for several moments he feared the worst, that she’d died in the night. But then Jen pulled a hand to her oxygen mask and tried to take it off. Her mother helped her to sit, and offered her a sippy cup. Jen pointed up in his direction.

  He waved, and forced a smile.

  ‘I’ve got to go,’ he said to Leona.

  ‘Yes, and I’ll be watching. Good luck, Frank.’

  T
HIRTY-SIX

  Parked on a stretch of abandoned dirt access road that overlooked Hollow Hills, Sean stared at his GPS screen. Around him, daybreak exploded with color. Red in the morning, sailor take warning. He glanced at thickening clouds. Rain was not his friend, as it washed away ephemeral clues. His thoughts fixed on a single objective. Find Frank and get him the hell away from the Langs and his murderous mother.

  Yesterday afternoon he’d arrived at the gates and been denied access. His calls to Frank had gone unanswered. He could imagine what would happen if he’d attempted a missing-person report. New boyfriend won’t take your call after the twelfth try … take a hint, Buddy. Is that it? I said I loved him. Doubt swelled. And he said nothing. Fuck! And why didn’t he tell me about his mother? What else hasn’t he told me?

  It had been a busy afternoon and overnight. He’d reviewed news accounts of the horrifying circumstances of Frank’s childhood, his father’s murder, and his mother’s hospitalization-slash-incarceration after being found not guilty of first-degree murder by reason of mental defect. Her escape and murder of a hospital guard thrust her back in the news. Though not the part about her reappearing in scenic Litchfield, Connecticut. That he’d gotten from a pair of FBI agents. He’d spotted their black SUV with the tell-tale plates and found agents Derrick Clarke and Amelia Jones eating twenty-dollar burgers in a bistro across from the old jail, which now housed trendy shops and offices for life coaches and psychotherapists. He’d introduced himself, shown his shield and told them he was working on a related homicide in Brookline, the murder of Professor Jackson Atlas.

  The burger was good, but the information they shared made it hard to swallow. He took notes, exchanged cards, and then followed the trail of Frank’s Monday morning and afternoon.

  His mood worsened at the accident site. He’d sheered a telephone pole in half. The splintered stump gave a stark testament to the force of impact. Then his gaze caught on a scarred boulder across the street. He touched the bumper-high gash and a chunk crumbled beneath his fingers. He reminded himself that Frank walked away from it; they’d spoken on the phone. He’d said he was fine … and then he stopped taking my calls.