Authors: Gary Braver
ELIXIR (24 page)
“There’s a resemblance,” Brown admitted, “but the guy looks on the young side. According to files, he should be fifty-six. This guy looks about thirty.”
“He’s not. He’s my age.” Wally suddenly felt self-conscious of his big fleshy head and bulging gut. “His kid must be about fourteen like my son, which means there should be over a forty-year difference between them. You saw the videos. They look like brothers.”
“That’s what I’m saying, Mr. Olafsson: You’ve got the wrong guy.” Brown made a flat smile to say he’s wasting both their time. “It’s not Christopher Bacon, it’s Roger Glover.”
“I hear what you’re saying, but I’m telling you, it’s Chris. What convinced me was his eyes. You can’t tell in the photos, but they’re two different colors. I didn’t remember until I got close.”
“Sounds like you studied him pretty good.”
“I did, and I’d bet my life it’s Chris Bacon.”
“Except he’s about twenty-five years too young.”
“Maybe he found good plastic surgeons. Criminals do that I hear.” Brown’s dismissal had put an edge in Wally’s voice.
“Yeah, but when they want a change-over they get their faces restructured, not just a lid lift and tuck.”
He ran the tape a couple more times. Glover had on a tight-fitting pullover that revealed a trim physique. “It’s not just the face. Look at his body, and posture, the flat gut … .”
“Some guys preserve well,” Wally said.
Brown, who was himself trim and about forty-five, glanced at Wally without expression. But Wally could read his mind:
If you’re the same age
,
how come Glover looks like the poster boy for Geritol, and you’re a middle-aged Tweedle Dum in wingtips?
If you’re the same age
,
how come Glover looks like the poster boy for Geritol, and you’re a middle-aged Tweedle Dum in wingtips?
Wally made a sigh of impatience. “Look, instead of dickering around, why don’t you just bring him in and do a fingerprint check? Isn’t that what you guys do?” Wally stopped short of an “I’m-a-taxpayer” harangue.
“Yeah, when we have probable cause.”
“Christ, man, look at the photos! How much more probable cause do you need?”
“We can’t arrest someone because he vaguely resembles a fugitive.”
“Vaguely!” He pushed a photo at him. “Shave the beard and cut the hair, and these are the same goddamn guy.”
“In your mind maybe, but he’s got sunglasses on here, and the wire photo is fuzzy. And if he’s the same guy, he’s Peter goddamn Pan.”
Wally felt his face flush. “Listen to me, Agent Brown. I’m not some jerk groupie of
America’s Most Wanted
. I lived with the guy for two years. We were drinking buddies, we double-dated, we studied together. Roger Glover is Christopher Bacon. And if you don’t do your job and investigate, you will be negligent in apprehending a federal fugitive wanted for mass murder.”
America’s Most Wanted
. I lived with the guy for two years. We were drinking buddies, we double-dated, we studied together. Roger Glover is Christopher Bacon. And if you don’t do your job and investigate, you will be negligent in apprehending a federal fugitive wanted for mass murder.”
Brown’s eyes hardened, but he did not lash back. He gathered the photographs and stood up. “We’ll look into it.”
Wally got his briefcase and moved to the door. He felt wracked. Outside the window a light rain was falling. It was a three-hour ride back to Eau Claire. He’d stop on the road for a sandwich.
To clear the air before he left, he said, “Look, I’m sorry for the outburst, but this has put me on edge for the last two days. I just can’t reconcile the guy I knew with these crimes. He was not some crazy or political fanatic. He was a good guy, a biochemist working to cure cancer. He wanted to save lives. It just doesn’t jive.”
Brown opened the door. “What can I say? People change.”
“Did they ever prove he did it?”
“According to the files, he’s the only suspect.”
“Well, I hope to God I’m wrong.”
Brown frowned. “You do?”
“Of course. We were old friends.”
“Mr. Olafsson, if you hoped you were wrong you wouldn’t be in here.”
“I don’t think I follow.”
“The first question you asked when you called this morning was if the million-dollar reward still held. So much for auld lang syne.”
A
t 12:10, Wally left the Madison FBI offices, and crossed the lot to his big gold Lexus—not the vehicle of a guy who had once had a golden mane down the middle of his back and who had headed up the Cambridge chapter of the SDS. But time had a way of changing things. A high-paying establishment job, a house in the heartland suburbs, and three decades of taxes would turn the pinkest radical into a Republican.
t 12:10, Wally left the Madison FBI offices, and crossed the lot to his big gold Lexus—not the vehicle of a guy who had once had a golden mane down the middle of his back and who had headed up the Cambridge chapter of the SDS. But time had a way of changing things. A high-paying establishment job, a house in the heartland suburbs, and three decades of taxes would turn the pinkest radical into a Republican.
Driving a black unmarked Dodge Caravan, Roger Glover followed Wally north on Route 90 to his home in La Crosse. It was the same car Wally drove yesterday to the UW library where he photocopied microfilmed articles in the periodical room. After Wally left, Roger checked the reshelving box deposit:
The Boston Globe
, February 1988.
The Boston Globe
, February 1988.
The parking sticker on the Lexus said Midland Investment Company, which confirmed in a telephone call that Wally was Senior Marketing VP. It was not a professional post that lent itself to personal visits to the FBI. Nor was it just a casual drop-in to see a friend—not at prime time on a Monday, and not on a five-hour round trip of 250 miles. Wally had come to file a report on Christopher Bacon.
It was a fear that he and Laura had lived with but could never fully prepare for. If they did nothing, the authorities would show up at their doorstep asking for evidence that they were Roger Glover born in Wichita and Laura Gendron Glover from Duluth. They would want documents and take prints. While they had birth certificates, a deep check would reveal that Roger Glover and son Brett had died in a car crash in 1958, and Laura Gendron had died in 1968, age twelve.
Fortunately, Chris and Wendy had never been officially printed. And
even though their prints were all over their home in Carleton, Mass., there was no way of distinguishing them from each other’s or those of the cleaning people, friends, and guests who had passed through their place.
even though their prints were all over their home in Carleton, Mass., there was no way of distinguishing them from each other’s or those of the cleaning people, friends, and guests who had passed through their place.
As Roger drove back to Eau Claire he considered his options. The first was do nothing and wait for the knock at the door. The second was to turn themselves in as a demonstration of their innocence. Either choice would result in long public trials. Since the odds were against him, he could end up convicted. Even if he didn’t receive the death sentence, it would, under the grimly ironic circumstances, be far more preferable than life in prison without parole.
There was also Brett. Even if Roger plea-bargained for a lesser charge, he could still serve time for fleeing federal and state warrants; Laura, too, as an accessory. That would leave Brett parentless—an unacceptable option. So was a witness protection program. Whoever had framed them could still be out there and still thirsty for Elixir.
The third option was flight. Over the thirteen years on the lam, Roger and Laura had devised contingency plans should they be recognized. They had established several different identities with different cars, business cards, bank accounts, and credit cards, as well as alternate residency in Minneapolis. Because Brett knew nothing about this, they would leave him with friends a couple times a year and, under their alias, would spend a few days at the condo and role-play with local business people and neighbors. It was schizophrenic, but it worked. It also made their return to the Glovers of Eau Claire like going home. The Bacons were a couple who died a long time ago.
The money for their alternate lives came from trust funds Sam had set up for Chris when he was in college. Before they disappeared, Roger had transferred the full content to a blind account. Several months after establishing residency in Eau Claire, he again transferred the funds into a new account—a little over $1,200,000—some of which they used to become the Glovers, the remainder of which he converted to cash and buried for an emergency getaway. That was his third option.
The fourth required a gun.
Roger was in the back room working on a funeral arrangement when an agent from the FBI entered his shop.
He knew the guy was a Fed because earlier that morning he had spotted him through field glasses sitting with another man in a green Jeep Cherokee
with tinted glass across the street. His suspicions were confirmed when they later followed him across town on deliveries.
with tinted glass across the street. His suspicions were confirmed when they later followed him across town on deliveries.
The man who looked in his thirties was of average build and dressed in jeans and a Chicago Bulls jacket. He did not identify himself. Nor was Roger surprised. Unless they had probable cause, he could not be arrested on resemblance to a fugitive. And unless they had an arrest warrant for Roger Glover, they could not bring him into custody. For the time being, he was safe. This was a reconnaissance check to verify any resemblance to file photos.
The agent pretended to examine the Boston ferns, but Roger caught him studying his face, knowing full well that his appearance was too young for a matchup. After several minutes, he brought a plant to the counter. Hanging conspicuously on the wall by the cash register was a large blowup of a smiling Roger at a surprise party three years ago. A banner hanging over his head said HAPPY 35TH BIRTHDAY. In the photo Roger was displaying a copy of an old
Life
magazine.
Life
magazine.
The man peered at it as he got his money out. “Looks like John Glenn in his space capsule.”
“Yes, it is,” Roger said brightly. “It was the issue that came out the week I was born.”
The man nodded. “Must have been’62 or’63.”
“Sixty-two.”
“Nice birthday gift.”
“Yes it is. Will that be it?”
The man nodded, and Roger wrapped the plant.
All throughout the transaction, Roger wore his tinted lenses and surgical gloves. When he finished, he placed the plant on the counter and removed the gloves. While the man fished for his money, Roger lathered his hands with lotion from a dispenser by the cash register. Then he slipped the gloves back on. “Chapped hands. A real drag in this business,” he said and gave the man his change.
The man left, but not before he helped himself to a business card.
Through the windows Roger watched him go to the car and drive away.
He would tell his partner about how Roger had worn gloves because of a skin condition. They would have the pot and wrapping paper and business card dusted for fingerprints. It was possible his or Laura’s could be on them, as well as those of any number of customers, assistants, distributors, and manufacturers. But they had nothing on file. The agent would also tell his partner about the photograph—how in spite of any
resemblance, Glover was too young to be Bacon, even with the graying hair.
resemblance, Glover was too young to be Bacon, even with the graying hair.
Roger did not go home that evening. Instead, he slipped out the back and let the air out of a tire of his van so it looked like a legitimate flat. He then cut through some back lots to a street several blocks away where he caught a cab. When he was certain he wasn’t followed, he had the cab leave him off at a municipal parking lot where he had a rental spot for a black Jeep registered under one of his aliases, Harry Stork. He then left town without being followed, and drove for over an hour.
The house at number 213 Chestnut was a handsome modern structure with a two-car garage. A car was parked in one of the bays. The lights were on and the television pulsed against the curtains.
Roger drove up and down the road twice, then parked under a tree. He approached the house. In his right hand he carried a briefcase. In the inside pocket of his jacket he carried a Glock nine-millimeter pistol.
When he was certain there was nobody else inside, he stepped up to the front door. There was no peephole, just narrow side windows along the door. But the hat and scarf hid much of his face.
Roger rang the doorbell. In a few moments the door swung open.
“Hi, Wally. It’s me, Chris Bacon.”
W
ally’s face drained of blood. “I’ll be damned.”
ally’s face drained of blood. “I’ll be damned.”
“Can we sit down?” Roger asked. “We have a lot to talk about.” “Yeah, thirty years worth.” Wally caught his breath and nodded. “Heck, I knew it was you the moment I saw you.” He tried to sound neutral. “But how come I’m fat and bald and you look like you did back in school? Must be the genes, huh? Man oh man, don’t you wish we were back there again?” He was struggling to maintain a casual reunion air.
Roger followed Wally into the living room but did not take a seat.
“Can I get you a drink?” He inched toward the doorway leading to the kitchen.
“No, I’m fine.”
“How did you find me?”
Roger did not answer.
“Well, make yourself at home. I’m going to grab myself a beer. Jeez, it’s good to see you.”
Roger knew what he was planning—go to another room and punch 911. He put his hand up to block him. “Wally, I’d prefer if we talked first.”
Wally stared at him for a moment. “That’s what gave it away. You’re the only person I’d ever seen with two-tone eyes.”
Roger smiled, feeling a flush of warmth for his old friend.
Hey, Chris, are you ambivalent?
Yes and no
.
.
Wally’s manner suddenly shifted. “Chris, what’s this all about—this Roger Glover stuff?”
He was playing dumb, and Roger couldn’t blame him. “Let’s sit down and talk a bit, then you can get us the beers.”
Wally moved to the couch, and Roger took a chair by the doorway. He lay his briefcase on the floor. The gun inside his jacket pressed against his ribcage. If Wally tried to make a run for it, Roger would pull it. Too much was at stake.
As they faced each other, it struck Roger how much Wally had aged. Most of his hair was gone except for an apron around the back of his head and a few strands plastered across his scalp. His gut bulged over his belt like a sack of flour. His shoulders were broad but thin like his arms from lack of exercise. His face was gray and fleshy and the skin was pocked on the nose and cheeks—looking like old melanoma scars. His eyes still held the reef-water blue Roger remembered, but they looked tired and unhappy. It was sad to see what the years had done to his old friend—a guy who had been lean and handsome like a young Alan Ladd.
“Wally, I have just one question, then I’ll explain things.”
“Okay.”
“What did you tell the FBI?”
Wally flinched. “The FBI? What FBI? What are you talking about?” His sincere bug-eyes weren’t convincing.
“Wally, I’m here to be straight with you. And for old time’s sake I want you to be straight back. You visited the Madison office two days ago at ten-thirty and spoke for an hour and forty minutes with agent Eric Brown.”
Wally looked nonplussed. More mock-shock. “He’s an old friend.”
“No, he’s not.”
“What the hell do you mean, ‘No, he’s not …’?” Now he was playing the indignation card.
“Because when I called your office later and told your secretary I was Eric Brown, she asked from what company. Any executive secretary worth her salt knows the names of the boss’s old friends.”
Wally tried to hold the indignation in his face, but it slipped.
“Furthermore, you photocopied some microfilm articles from
The Boston Globe
the other day. February 1988. And don’t tell me you were checking old Beanpot scores.”
The Boston Globe
the other day. February 1988. And don’t tell me you were checking old Beanpot scores.”
After a long silence Wally said, “You seem to have all the answers.”
“I want to hear it from you.”
He looked scared. “What are you going to do?”
“Talk.”
“And if I don’t?”
“I think you should.”
Wally wiped his mouth and stared at the floor for a moment. “The papers said you murdered a colleague and blew up a jetliner with a hundred and thirty-seven people.”
“Thank you,” he said. “Now let’s get those beers, then I’m going to explain how I was framed for those crimes.”
As they walked into the kitchen, Wally looked at Roger. “By the way, you look damn good for fifty-six.”
“Because I’m not, and I’ll explain that too.”
They got the beers and returned. Then over the next two hours Roger told his story, leaving out very little. Without getting too technical, he explained how the tabulone molecule worked on the DNA sequence to prolong cell life. As documentation he showed Wally the old Elixir brochures from Darby and the videos of Methuselah and Jimbo.
Wally was astounded, of course, and asked lots of questions. Every so often he’d examine Roger’s face and hands, amazed at their condition. At one point he even tugged at Roger’s hair to see that it wasn’t a wig.
“You’ve discovered the mother of all miracle drugs,” he said. “But, man, I’m looking at you and seeing something that shouldn’t be. It’s goddamn creepy. If I were religious, I’d say you’d been touched by Jesus.”
A long silence passed as Wally nursed his drink and let it all sink in. Finally, he said, “What’s it like not to age?”
Roger smiled. “Mirrors no longer depress me.”
“I’ve conquered that myself. I avoid them.”
They both laughed. It was the same old Wally, the same self-deprecating wit. And it came back to Chris why he had been so fond of him. Yet, despite the renewed warmth, Roger reminded himself that Wally could still think him a killer.
“Why are you telling me all this?”
“Because I was framed. It’s the truth, and I want you to believe it. I did not kill anybody.”
“There’s got to be another reason you’re here.”
Chris nodded. “I want you to go to back to the FBI and tell them that you were wrong. That you checked old photographs and it wasn’t Christopher Bacon you had spotted, just a guy who resembles him. He’s too young to be Bacon.”
Wally listened without response.
“I want them off my tail, Wally. I’ve got a kid and a wife, and they
don’t deserve to be put on the run again. We have new lives and we want to continue living them out.”
don’t deserve to be put on the run again. We have new lives and we want to continue living them out.”
“Well, I guess my head is still spinning.”
“I understand, but a lot of people have already died.”
Wally’s face hardened. “What does that mean?”
“It means that if I were a guy who blew up a hundred and thirty-seven family people heading for vacation, I would have little compunction eliminating anybody else.”
“You mean me.”
“And your son. Instead I’m drinking beers with you in your living room.”
“Aren’t I grateful!”
“Of course, if you do it you’ll be out the million-dollar reward.”
“Well, there’s that.”
“A lot of money. Could make for a nice early retirement.”
Wally’s face darkened. Roger picked up his jacket, feeling the comforting weight of the pistol. He reached his hand into the right inner pocket, firmly gripping its contents. “I hate to spoil things, but so will this.”
Wally made an involuntary gasp as Roger whipped out his hand and aimed it straight at him: A long glass ampule. “Elixir.”
“What?”
“Elixir,” Roger repeated. “Earlier you asked did it work for anybody. To my knowledge, two people in the world today. You could be the third. Compensation for forfeiting the million dollars: perpetual life.”
Wally stared blankly. It was too much to absorb all at once.
“You don’t have to make a decision now, but it has to be soon. They’re watching us. I’m offering you an unlimited supply of Elixir to keep you alive indefinitely. In return, I ask that you retract your claim.”
Wally contemplated the offer. They both knew he was the perfect candidate—divorced, lonely, overweight, aging all too fast, and looking at maybe ten years at best before he died.
“You don’t have to take it, of course.”
Wally rolled the ampule of tabulone in his fingers, studying the promise locked in glass. Outside the night wind had picked up, and someplace in the dining room a banjo clock chimed midnight.
“Run by me the side effects again.”
“There are no side effects in the ordinary sense—just a rejuvenation surge that sets you back about ten years. It’s hard to measure. But it takes
place over six weeks to three months. Once stabilized, you would need injections infrequently—once every two weeks. Eventually, once a month. But once you start you can’t stop or you’ll die. That goes for me too.”
place over six weeks to three months. Once stabilized, you would need injections infrequently—once every two weeks. Eventually, once a month. But once you start you can’t stop or you’ll die. That goes for me too.”
“What about cancer cells? What if I’ve got a spot on my lungs or something in my liver?”
“The stuff holds them in diapause. They don’t replicate but sit there, while normal cells continue to divide.
“So, it’s like a kind of chemotherapy—the good cells grow while the bad ones are held in check.”
“Something like that, except the good cells go on indefinitely.”
“What happens when the Elixir stops coming?”
Roger could still see Jimbo’s dying, his body exploding in carcinoma gone wild. “You die.”
“What about your organs—heart, kidney and liver? Don’t they eventually wear out?”
“Theoretically, they shouldn’t as long as you take care of yourself. And if they do, there are always transplants—every ten thousand miles or fifty years, which ever comes first.”
Wally laughed. “As we kids say, ‘Holy shit.’”
He got up for another beer. Roger escorted him, though he no longer expected Wally to go for the phone.
When they returned, Wally said: “You’ve lived unchanged for nearly fifteen years. Are you happy?”
Are you happy?
While Chris hadn’t expected it, it was a legitimate question. But the answer was far from simple.
His impulse was to declare,
Of course I’m happy. Never aging. Never growing weary, depressed, infirm. Not watching your body fall apart. Never having to die. Being around to see all the great changes—manned rockets to Mars, nano-engineering, controlled fusion, a cure for AIDS. To go on indefinitely learning and doing the things you enjoy. To prolong your time with those you love. Hell! Who wouldn’t be happy?
Of course I’m happy. Never aging. Never growing weary, depressed, infirm. Not watching your body fall apart. Never having to die. Being around to see all the great changes—manned rockets to Mars, nano-engineering, controlled fusion, a cure for AIDS. To go on indefinitely learning and doing the things you enjoy. To prolong your time with those you love. Hell! Who wouldn’t be happy?
But it was more complicated than that. Yes, he loved his wife and son. They were the fundamental conditions of his life. But all that came at a price. When Chris Bacon took his first injection, they were on the run trying to become strangers. That was behind them now, but he could never go back to the man who wanted to live forever to do his science. Without credentials, he could never step foot in a lab again.
Likewise, Laura had abandoned her dream of becoming a full-time
writer, nor could she go back to teaching without college degrees as Laura Glover. When that all came to an end bitterness and boredom set in. What saved them was Brett. His existence relieved them from the claustrophobia of their secrets. He provided them love and cause outside themselves. He kept them from depression and divorce.
writer, nor could she go back to teaching without college degrees as Laura Glover. When that all came to an end bitterness and boredom set in. What saved them was Brett. His existence relieved them from the claustrophobia of their secrets. He provided them love and cause outside themselves. He kept them from depression and divorce.
While flower arrangements didn’t do it for Roger, he threw himself into fatherhood, and not just the male stuff—baseball, wrestling, and fishing. He took charge of monitoring Brett’s schooling, setting up piano lessons, doctor exams, shopping. To keep the rust off his brain, Roger tutored neighborhood kids in biology, chemistry, and math, sometimes performing simple experiments in a makeshift lab in his garage.
“Are you happy?”
But Wally wasn’t asking about the joys of parenting and playing Mr. Wizard. He wanted to know if there was happiness in being stuck in the moment.
Roger still wore a watch and saw life in segmented chunks, shaped by schedules and deadlines. Yet, biologically speaking, time was what other people experienced. He was a mere spectator, living with clocks, but impervious to their movement. Except for Laura who got older and Brett who grew up.
Like an exile on an island in the timeflow, Roger was unable to determine which was worse—watching his wife drift off or his son pull toward shore.
“Are you happy … ?”
Roger knew what Wally meant. But he’d lie because, in part, he missed his old life and his wife and the tick of the clock.
“Yes.”
“You’re not bored with the sameness?”
“The alternative is watching yourself grow old.”
“Been there, done that,” Wally said. “So, it’s like being thirty-something forever.”
Roger had to admit to himself a selfish impulse to his offer. If Wally agreed, he would have someone else to share vast stretches of slow time with. Laura, of course, had no interest. “Yes.”
“My God!” He again grinned in wonder at Roger. “If you can’t lick’em, join’em,” he said.
“I don’t follow.”
“Just that I’ve reached the age when it’s finally hit me that this ride isn’t forever. I’m beginning to think like an old man even though part of
me still feels twenty-one. As a result, I find myself resenting the younger set because I’m not one of them anymore. I don’t even go to movies anymore because nobody in them is over thirty. Worse still is TV which is a nonstop puberty fest. Christ, I sit here sometimes wishing there was an AARP channel. Instead, I rent Randolph Scott videos or listen to the Russian Five. Sure, laugh, but every morning I go to work expecting to find some kid who hasn’t started shaving yet sitting at my desk. I’m telling you, we live in a culture that eats its old.”
me still feels twenty-one. As a result, I find myself resenting the younger set because I’m not one of them anymore. I don’t even go to movies anymore because nobody in them is over thirty. Worse still is TV which is a nonstop puberty fest. Christ, I sit here sometimes wishing there was an AARP channel. Instead, I rent Randolph Scott videos or listen to the Russian Five. Sure, laugh, but every morning I go to work expecting to find some kid who hasn’t started shaving yet sitting at my desk. I’m telling you, we live in a culture that eats its old.”
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