Authors: Gary Braver
ELIXIR (14 page)
“Are you serious?”
Quentin chuckled good-naturedly. “Yes, and it’s on us, free of charge.”
“Oh, Quentin, I’m speechless. How generous of you!”
“The only catch is that you have to book with the airlines today. I hope you don’t mind, but, just in case, I took the liberty of making reservations in your names. All you have to do is call Eastern and confirm. But it has to be today. What do you think?”
“My God, yes, we’ll take it!” Wendy said. “And thank you, Quentin. Thank you so much. Wow!”
“Well, think of it as a little token of appreciation for what Chris has done for us—and you, for standing by him all the way.”
Thrilled, Wendy thanked him again. After she hung up, she called Eastern and confirmed their reservation, thinking, How considerate of Quentin. Maybe Chris had misjudged him.
JANUARY 29
E
very morning at five, Betsy Watkins would drive to the Cambridge Y and swim fifty laps in the pool before going to work.
very morning at five, Betsy Watkins would drive to the Cambridge Y and swim fifty laps in the pool before going to work.
At forty-eight years of age, she would do her regimen in forty leisurely minutes, letting her mind free-play, while her body kicked into autopilot, guided by the lane lines.
At that hour, especially in the winter, the place was nearly empty but for the lifeguard. By six-thirty a few people would dribble in. But this morning with a sleeting rain, she did her laps alone.
As she swam, she thought about the new position she was taking at the National Cancer Institute in two weeks. She would have started the day after Jimbo’s death had Chris not pleaded for her to delay her departure so he could find a replacement. She agreed on the condition that no more animals be sacrificed. Chris swore to it, and no more animals were withdrawn.
At the NCI she intended to study how tabulone deprived cancer cells of the telomerase enzyme, which was not the interest at Darby. And before she left, she would approach Ross again in hopes of getting him to agree to a watchdog agency coming in to monitor the development of Elixir. Quentin was dead set against that, but Ross would appreciate the need for the assurance of ethical practice and accountability. Prolongevity was frontier science fraught with frontier dangers.
On lap forty-four, she thought about her approach to Ross should he stonewall her. It was not beyond her to let the FDA in on what they were doing.
She also thought about Chris—how he was a good man and fine scientist
torn between ethical considerations and a near-personal appeal of Elixir. His wife held the opposite sentiment, yet they seemed very much in love. Betsy would miss Chris and those wonderful two-tone eyes.
torn between ethical considerations and a near-personal appeal of Elixir. His wife held the opposite sentiment, yet they seemed very much in love. Betsy would miss Chris and those wonderful two-tone eyes.
On lap forty-five, she looked up to see the lifeguard step out for a coffee refill. She flashed the okay.
On lap forty-six, at midpool, she noticed some movement out of the corner of her goggles. Another swimmer was in the other lane moving toward her on a return lap. A man wearing a white bathing cap, snorkle and fins. Betsy preferred swimming unassisted.
On lap forty-seven, she felt a sudden blow to the top of her head. The pain was blinding, and instantly she slipped into thrashing confusion, sucking in water and feeling arms embrace her legs like an anaconda and pull her down. A flash of the white cap. Under the pain and choking anguish was utter disbelief. She was being attacked underwater.
On what would have been lap forty-eight, her mind cleared for a split second. She saw the bottom of the pool rise up, while her diaphragm wracked for air and her arms flapped against the grip.
On lap forty-nine, bubbles rose up around her … so many bubbles … and panic filled her chest … and the weight on her leg … so heavy … all so heavy and dark, and her lungs burning for oxygen against the water filling her throat … and a face in a mask … eyes staring back at her … and the glint of chrome from a SCUBA regulator … black hoses and bubbles . . the leaden weights of her limbs … her mind filling with dark water … and she kept swimming … swimming … toward a man with two large black eyes …
On lap fifty, she was dead.
LONG ISLAND, NY
JANUARY 29, 1988
JANUARY 29, 1988
V
ince Lucas handed Quentin a Chivas on the rocks as he stepped inside his Hampton estate—a building that the designers had fashioned after Monticello.
ince Lucas handed Quentin a Chivas on the rocks as he stepped inside his Hampton estate—a building that the designers had fashioned after Monticello.
Dressed in an elegant double-breasted suit with a white shirt and white silk tie, Vince led Quentin inside where a large crowd of people spread throughout the rooms. At the far end of a large and opulent ballroom, a jazz combo played. Waiters and waitresses in black and white worked their way through the crowds with champagne and hors d’oeuvres.
Quentin kept his briefcase gripped in his right hand as he made his way. Every so often he would spot someone he recognized from magazines and television—athletes, entertainers, New York politicians.
At the rear of the building, under a glass ceiling, lay a serpentine pool in small groves of palm and other tropical plants—all fed by fountains and waterfalls that emanated from rock-garden formations leading off to a poolside bar at one end. It looked like a jungle-movie set. Several men and women cavorted in the water while patio guests sat in lounge chairs as waiters moved about with drinks and food. In the distance through the rear glass wall spread the vast black expanse of the Atlantic, whitewashed by a full December moon.
Quentin had a drink and met some people, then at ten o’clock he was taken to a back room where they entered a private elevator that took them two flights down to a sub-basement where the sounds of the band and revelry could not be heard. They made their way down a corridor with several rooms including a mirrored gym full of exercise machines. At the end was a heavy oak door that Vince unlocked.
Quentin stepped into a room full of men and women around a huge oval conference table—people he had seen upstairs, some from the island.
“Long time no see.” Antoine Ducharme.
Quentin shook his hand, thinking that if it weren’t for Elixir Antoine would have eliminated Quentin and his family. Now they were partners again.
They chatted for a moment as the place settled down. Quentin asked how Lisa was, and Antoine made a rueful smile. After the bombing of Apricot Cay, she had left him for another man. “The flesh is weak,” he added crypticly.
On the far wall was a screen for the slide and video projectors. They had discussed the proceedings several times, yet Quentin’s heart was doing a fast trot. Some 30 billion dollars sat around the table. He knew very little about individual Consortium members except that they embodied an exclusive international coterie of power brokers—financiers, foreign government officials, sheiks, retired oil execs, and the like—people whose word could send ripples throughout the stockmarkets around the world or incite international incidents. An untouchable elite who got where they were by being consummate opportunists. And here they were assembled for the ultimate conquest.
Vince’s job had been to assemble them with just enough bait. Quentin’s job was to sell them the goods with everything he had. And he was well prepared. He stepped up to the small lectern and described Elixir, taking the group through the various stages. He showed them slides of medical charts and procedures, and a video of the mice and the monkeys. The crowd was amazed at the before-and-after scenes of once infirm elderly primates suddenly jumping around as if transported back in time. Quentin explained how the animals could go on indefinitely. About the consequences of withdrawal, Quentin was forthright—or nearly so. As with any patient dependent upon medication, the animals would eventually suffer adverse symptoms leading to death. He did not go into detail.
What sold the group was the video that Antoine had brought.
Vince dimmed the lights, and the screen came alive. The locale was not immediately clear, but several people were shown sitting in a room. Most were black. All of them were in their seventies or older. At first it appeared to be a hospital, but a quick pan of the camera revealed barred windows. An off-camera male spoke in a crisp Caribbean accent. Each of the eight patients wore a first-name tag around the neck. A large woman
sat in a wheelchair. They were all dressed in white T-shirts and shorts to reveal their physical condition.
sat in a wheelchair. They were all dressed in white T-shirts and shorts to reveal their physical condition.
The narrator asked each patient to walk across the room. Three men were bald, one with a full white bush. Some had missing teeth. Skin was loose and wrinkled, eyes discolored and rheumy. Two women were quite frail; one large white woman could barely walk for arthritis and remained in her wheelchair. The rest hobbled a few times around the room as best they could. Two used canes. “Very good, very nice,” said the narrator.
To document the dates, the camera zoomed in on that day’s
New York Times
. The first day was December 16. The patients were told to sit again. Without showing his face, a man in white injected a clear liquid into each patient’s arms. Before the fadeout, the voice asked each how he or she felt, and all mumbled that they were fine.
New York Times
. The first day was December 16. The patients were told to sit again. Without showing his face, a man in white injected a clear liquid into each patient’s arms. Before the fadeout, the voice asked each how he or she felt, and all mumbled that they were fine.
The screen went to black for a moment, then lit up on a tight focus of
The New York Times.
The New York Times.
December 30. The same featureless room. The same elderly group in chairs against the wall. The same clean white outfits. Some stared blankly, a couple smiled. At first, nothing seemed different. But as the camera moved, subtle differences were discernible. The dark wrinkled man named Rodney seemed a bit more alert; his eyes were clearer and more open. He was also sitting straighter, as were two others. When asked, the frail woman named Francine said she felt better than the last time.
January 11. Same room. Same group of eight. But what summoned a response from the Consortium was the appearance of Alice, the fat, wheel-chaired woman. She was on her feet and shuffling around the room. When asked about the arthritis in her feet, she said that her feet were “much happier.” Likewise, the others circled the room with posture more upright and greater agility. Ezra and Hyacinth, who had previously used canes, now walked unassisted. The camera tightened on their faces which looked smoother and tighter. According to the narrator, each was feeling considerably better, more energetic. Two also remarked that their memories had improved.
January 19. This time their spirits were visibly high. Chatting and laughing, the eight of them walked their circles with smooth, steady gaits—including Alice, now with a cane. She had lost weight, and her face was thinner, her eyes wider. The camera shifted to Robert arm-wrestling with Rodney, the others cheering them on.
January 27. The group of eight was in the middle of the floor dancing
to a reggae tape. The transformation was astounding, and the Consortium gasped in astonishment. In a matter of six weeks, each patient had regressed a decade or more. All laughed and swayed to the music, including Alice, who was on her feet unassisted, her hair neatly brushed, her face made up and smiling brightly.
to a reggae tape. The transformation was astounding, and the Consortium gasped in astonishment. In a matter of six weeks, each patient had regressed a decade or more. All laughed and swayed to the music, including Alice, who was on her feet unassisted, her hair neatly brushed, her face made up and smiling brightly.
When Vince flicked on the lights, the place exploded in cheers. One Frenchman asked where he could get a liter of the stuff tonight, and pulled out a checkbook. Others had the same response.
Quentin was peppered with questions.
Somebody asked about the fate of the patients, and Antoine said that they were being well cared for, and secure—an answer that satisfied the Consortium. An answer far from the truth.
By the end of the meeting, Vince was taking orders for Elixir treatments at $2 million per year.
Around midnight the conference room cleared out, leaving Vince, Quentin, and Antoine to themselves.
Vince removed the video cassette from the projector. “By the way, your Betsy Watkins had an unfortunate accident this morning.”
“What a pity,” Quentin smiled.
“And the other problem is being taken care of as we speak.”
Quentin felt a rush of relief. All was going so well. In a matter of weeks, they would be in full swing, all obstacles removed. Elixir would be sub-contracted to pharmaceutical firms outside New England, distribution would be handled by Vince and Antoine’s people, and international bank accounts would be opened for proceeds. In a handful of years, Elixir would be their billion-dollar molecule.
“Are you familiar with the novel
The Picture of Dorian Gray
by Oscar Wilde?” Antoine asked.
The Picture of Dorian Gray
by Oscar Wilde?” Antoine asked.
“No,” Quentin said.
“How about the short mystery story ‘The Facts in the Case of M. Valdemar’ by your own Edgar Allan Poe?”
“Not really.”
“Too bad. It’s a wonderful tale about a man put into a state of hypnosis at the moment of death, prolonging his life for months. The fun is when he’s snapped out of his trance. In less than a minute he rots away into a liquid mass of putrescence.”
Quentin looked at him blankly for an explanation.
From his valise Antoine pulled out another video and slipped it into the projector. “Watch, my friend.”
Blue sky filled the screen. Slowly the camera pulled back to reveal an ocean horizon, boats floating in the misty distance. The camera canted to reveal Lisa posing at the bow of the
Reef Madness
. She was just as Quentin remembered her—stunningly beautiful with a gleaming smile and long tight body. Dressed in a baseball cap and a white one-piece suit that fit her like damp tissue paper, she could have been a supermodel posing for a calendar spread. The small rose tattoo on her right shoulder glowed like a medallion in the sunlight. She was laughing and poking a still camera at whoever was taping her.
Reef Madness
. She was just as Quentin remembered her—stunningly beautiful with a gleaming smile and long tight body. Dressed in a baseball cap and a white one-piece suit that fit her like damp tissue paper, she could have been a supermodel posing for a calendar spread. The small rose tattoo on her right shoulder glowed like a medallion in the sunlight. She was laughing and poking a still camera at whoever was taping her.
The scene suddenly shifted to the same barred featureless room of the first video. It looked empty until the camera panned to a darkly clad figure in a wheelchair. Somebody off-camera said something, and the figure raised its head.
“Jesus Christ!” gasped Quentin.
It was Lisa. She was withered and stooped. Her hair was a wispy white film across her scalp, the skin of her face like weathered parchment. Her mouth was open to labored breathing, her lips chapped and split, most teeth missing. One eye was a gaping milky ball, the other eye a jellied slit.
Quentin’s hope against hope was that it was trick photography or some fancy theatrical makeup job. But it was real. And it
was
Lisa—he could make out the rose tattoo. They had conditioned her on Elixir from the same batch that Quentin had stolen some weeks ago from the lab for the elderly patients. Somehow Antoine had injected her either against her will or with the promise of immortality, then withdrew treatments so she would rot.
was
Lisa—he could make out the rose tattoo. They had conditioned her on Elixir from the same batch that Quentin had stolen some weeks ago from the lab for the elderly patients. Somehow Antoine had injected her either against her will or with the promise of immortality, then withdrew treatments so she would rot.
Enjoying Quentin’s reaction, Antoine paused the video on a closeup of her miserable face. “Some things don’t age well, especially a cheating heart.”
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