Authors: Gary Braver

ELIXIR (30 page)

BOOK: ELIXIR

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“You’re not my only client who spends his weekends in a cellblock.”

The guard left.

“Harry Stork?” Wally whispered.

“Don’t ask.”

“Christ, you have a name for every occasion.”

“Something like that.”

“What’s happening to me?”

“You’ll be okay,” Roger whispered.

Although this was a low-security holding cell, they had a ceiling mounted security camera for suicide watch. And Roger felt it gawk at him.

The guard had frisked Roger thoroughly and checked his briefcase. But he had missed the syringe and vial of Elixir which were wrapped in gauze and wedged into his crotch under his underwear.

Somehow with his back turned Roger had to unzip his fly and reach into his pants and extract the packet without drawing attention. He tried not to imagine what his movements would look like from the rear, but if the guard were watching the monitor he would become suspicious.

“I feel like hell,” Wally whispered. “Weak, blurry vision, itching all over.”

“We’ll get you back.”

Roger pretended to converse softly while Wally lay on the cot with his head propped up. He looked jaundiced. His eyes were out of focus and glassy, and his mouth was white and dry. His fingers were trembling. He was in pain. But he had to hide it or they would call in a doctor. What he needed were the four ccs of what rested uncomfortably in Roger’s pants.

He had to be quick.

With his back to the camera and pretending to huddle, Roger undid his fly and slipped his hand into his pants. With a clean motion he pulled out the packet, and unfolded the contents. There was no time to swab Wally’s arm and tap for his vein.

He pulled the cellophane wrapper off the syringe with his teeth and in one clean motion, stabbed the needle into the septum, sucking out all 4 ccs of fluid.

Somebody shouted something, and Roger froze. Sudden commotion from down the corridor.

Shouting and the sound of feet. The guard. Jesus! He had been watching the whole time.

“What the hell you think you’re doing?”

The guard was at the door, fumbling with his keys. Roger glanced to see the man throw open the door and charge at him with his baton raised.

“What the hell you doing? What’ve you got there? You guys shooting dope?”

But Roger didn’t stop. He dove at Wally to plunge the needle into him, hoping to hit flesh and not end up on a rib or collarbone before the baton came down on his skull.

But that never happened. The guard caught his arm and slammed him into the wall. The syringe flew out of Roger’s hand.

Then Roger felt the baton smack the back of his knees, instantly folding him. Then a vicious blow across his shoulders that pancaked Roger to the floor.

A moment later he heard a sickening crunch as the guard’s foot came down onto the needle. It was the only needle he had.

Wally let out with a cry—the kind of sound an animal makes when it’s been treed for the kill.

The guard pulled Roger up by the shirt. His pants were wet from the puddle of Elixir on the floor.

As the guard went for his cuffs, Roger chopped him on the windpipe. Instantly he fell backward and landed on the toilet bowl, gasping for air.

The cell door was still open. Roger looked at Wally and held open his hands to say there was nothing he could do. He had the emergency supply around his neck but no way of getting it into Wally’s bloodstream.

The expression on Wally’s face said that he understood. “You tried,” he whispered. Then he noticed the guard catching his breath. “Go! Go!”

Roger had only a moment before the guard was on his feet and calling for help. It sickened him to the core to leave Wally but he was in no condition to run.

The guard stumbled to his feet when Wally reached for the keys and tossed them to Roger who bolted through the door, locking it behind him.

Before he dashed out, Roger gave Wally a last look. “Sorry.”

Wally shrugged weakly. “All rock and roll while it lasted.”

The guard reached for a remote control switch on his belt. Before he could trigger it, Wally rolled off the cot full-body onto him.

By the time the alarm went off, Roger was out the front door and into his car, feeling as if his heart would break.

They moved Wally to another cell in the basement of the building. He did not let on how bad he felt. Even if they brought him to a hospital, they could do nothing for him. The antidote for his condition lay in a dried up puddle on the floor upstairs.

He slept most of the afternoon. At suppertime a different guard brought him a tray of food. He didn’t touch it. When the guard asked if he was feeling okay, Wally nodded that he was fine, just tired. The guard asked if
he wanted to call anybody—his lawyer, friends, wife—but Wally grunted no. He just wanted to be left alone to sleep.

In a semi-dozing dream state, he imagined Roger had returned, this time disguised as a guard and quietly giving him his stabilizing shot. So convincing was the dream that he fell into a deep peaceful sleep. And for several hours, nobody again disturbed him. Sometime the next morning, which was Monday, he would be taken to the Madison courthouse for arraignment. Then he would be released on bail.

A little after midnight, Wally shook himself awake from an awful dream of being eaten alive by lice. He woke up clawing his face and ears. He pushed himself up. His whole head felt inflamed and swollen including his eyelids, which were so thick he could barely open them. And when he did, his vision was fragmented, as if looking through cracked lenses.

Worse, his ears were filled with a high-pitched tinnitis that over the minutes became louder, as if somebody were turning up the audio.

Soon the sound was unbearable, condensing into hot filaments of pain shooting through his brain; yet he could not stop it with his fingers. It was coming from inside his skull—as if a million insects were filling his head with mad music.

What’s happening to me?

He heard himself yell, but it seemed to come from somebody else.

In his mind he floated high above the cell. He banged his head so hard against the ceiling that he was sure his skull was crushed. But it wasn’t, nor did the chittering stop. Nor did he pass out as hoped.

He dropped to the floor screaming. Blood trickled over his brows and into his eyes from where the skin split. He rolled around the floor as a strange hot pain twisted the muscles and tendons of his limbs, throbbing in agony as if turned on a rack. Voices yelled at him.

“Cut the fucking noise.”

“The sumbitch woke me up.
”

“Somebody shut him the fuck up.”

His brain was a noisy animal thing that couldn’t hold awareness. He’d focus on a thought, and suddenly it was gone as if holes were opening up in his brain like bubbles in cheese.

Help me
.

For an instant, he was in his dorm suite at Pennypacker, playing bridge and drinking a Haffenreffer because it was the cheapest stuff at the package store, and when you’re low on cash a good beer is whatever you can
afford. And the Beatles were singing “When I’m Sixty-four,” and Wendy and Chris were dancing naked, and Sheila was sitting on his lap kissing his new hair.

Somebody opened the window, and hot yellow pus poured over the sill.

His mind screamed,
Help me. Chris gotta help me
.

Lungs filled with wet air. He was having trouble breathing, flushing out the sacs. As if the old tissue had lost its suppleness.

Drown. You’re going to drown
.

He rolled to his side and spit up stringy fluid. His lungs were filling up. He couldn’t get air.

More yelling.

Then hands were on him. Turning him. Wiping his forehead.

“It’s only superficial. Put a Band-Aid on it.”

“Chris? That you?”

“What he say?”

“He wants to know if you’re Christ.”

“Yeah, J. Christ himself at your service.”

“We get a screamer once a month, which is why we got this.”

Somebody pulled his arm and pushed up his sleeve.

“His buddy came in yesterday and tried to shoot him up. Bopped Clint in the throat, and this one held him down while needle man got away. Want a little fix?” he asked Wally. “Well, here you go.”

Wally could barely feel the prick of the needle.

Thank you, Chris … Roger
.

He heard his mouth mumble something.

“What he say?”

“Thislicksa?”

“He wants to know if you lick it.”

“Yeah, lick this, pal.”

Jab.

“A lick sir?”

“Yeah, a lick, sir, and a promise, buddy boy. Now go to sleep.”

“Frensfalife.”

“Yeah, friends for life. You’ll feel better in the morning.”

Monday morning came six hours later.

Outside a cold sun rose over the horizon and sent shafts of light through the window of the guard’s office.

The Monday day deputy was Lenny Novak. On the docket filled out by Clint Marino, a weekend night guard, was the name of the men being held. In cell number four was one Walter P. Olafsson, age fifty-seven, brought in two nights ago for assaulting a federal officer. He was to be taken to the courthouse in the center of town by 9:30 where he would be arraigned.

Every morning Lenny would slip in a breakfast tray. He was a new guy who made an effort to say good morning to the inmates. At cell three, he said, “How you doing this morning, Tom?”

Tom shuffled to the tray slot. “Be doing a lot better if that asshole didn’t keep me awake half the night.” He nodded to the cell on the other side of his wall.

“Happens sometimes. The walls close in, and they flip out.”

Lenny pushed the cart down to the next cell. “Hey, Mr. Olafsson, breakfast.” And Lenny pushed the tray into the transfer slot.

No response.

“Time to get up. I’m taking you to courthouse at nine.”

Nothing.

Lenny called again. Still no response. Not even a stir. It must have been the sedative they’d given him.

He checked his watch. It was 7:38. He had to be fed and ready to go in little over an hour.

“Hey, pal. Rise and shine.”

Nothing.

Because Olafsson was sleeping on his side against the wall, Lenny could not see his face.

He took out his keys and unlocked the door, automatically dropping his hand onto the handle of his baton. It was an unnecessary precaution in this case, because the guy was probably still dopey from the shot. Lenny put his hand on the man’s shoulder and shook it. “Come on, guy, time to get up.”

Still the man did not stir.

What hit Lenny first was the odor. A sweet sick smell of dead meat. An instant later it registered that Lenny had felt no heat from the man’s body.

In one smooth movement he tore off the blanket and pulled the man onto his back.

The man was dead, all right. Lenny’s first thought was that he had the
wrong prisoner. The docket said the man was supposed to be Caucasian. But this guy was black.

He flicked on his pocket flash. “Jesus Christ!” Gooseflesh spasmed across his scalp.

The man’s head did not look human. It was twice the size of normal and covered with dark red lesions. The eyes were swollen balls. His nose looked like a huge deformed black potato covered with lichens. One exposed ear had doubled in size—a fat ragged leaf with dark liquid running out of the canal.

What nearly stopped Lenny’s heart was the realization that those scaly lesions were moving. No trick of the light—the skin on the man’s face—if you could call it skin—was actually rippling as wet new growths continued to bud off from the man’s flesh like some alien organism.

The next moment, Lenny was bounding down the hall for the phone, concentrating all his might to hold down the scream pressing up his throat.

L
aura tried to conceal her panic so Brett wouldn’t think Roger’s condiction was critical. Yet she did a feeble job of it.

When he turned on the radio, she snapped it off, fearful there would be a police report on their escape. Brett protested, saying he would keep it low, but she refused. When he asked what the problem was, she exploded. “‘No’ means
NO!
I don’t want to listen to the damn radio, okay?”

A moment later she apologized. He had never seen her so anxious.

“Mom, tell me the truth. Is Dad going to die?”

She looked at him. His gorgeous tawny eyes were so wide with fright that she nearly burst into tears.
So damn unfair
. “No, honey, he’s going to be fine. It’s probably just muscle spasms. They’re doing tests.”

It was the best she could do. To elaborate would thicken the lie and make her feel worse. Her objective was simply to minimize his fear.

He didn’t respond, and she wasn’t convinced he believed her.

Someplace near Hudson on Route 94, she pulled into a gas station to fill up. Before the attendant stepped out, she stuffed a twenty into Brett’s hand and dashed into the restroom.

Inside she dialed Roger. The sound of his voice filled her with relief.

He was just approaching Black River Falls. She told him how she had picked Brett up and the excuse she used to get him out of the game. He listened, then trying to sound calm, he told her that it was the feds and he had gotten away in his safe car.

When they clicked off, she threw up into the toilet. The Awful-Awful had begun.

“Whose house is this?”

“A friend of Dad’s.”

“What friend?”

“Nobody you know. One of our growers. He uses it for business associates when they’re in town.”

Brett seemed to buy the answer. Laura thought grimly how good she was getting at deceiving her son. She could now do it by reflex.

But there was no way she could tell him that it was their place or he’d want to know why they never mentioned it or brought him before. She also couldn’t pass it off as a rental or he’d wonder why Roger didn’t save money and get a hotel room. They had always treated Brett with respect, so he trusted that they held few secrets and never dissembled. He accepted her explanation without question.

When eventually he learned that the last thirteen years had been a grand lie, she wondered if he’d ever trust them again.

She also wondered how long she could maintain the illusion before cracking up.

The condo was located on the west end of Minneapolis—a five-room place in a large, anonymous complex occupied by young business couples. They had selected it because its residency included few retirees who might be around all day to keep tabs on them.

“Why can’t we see Dad?”

An expected question, and she was ready. “Visiting hours aren’t until tomorrow.”

“Aren’t you going to call the hospital at least?”

He was still in his baseball outfit. She looked at her watch. “In a few minutes. Why don’t you take a shower and I’ll get dinner ready, okay?” Reluctantly Brett agreed.

She waited until he was in the bathroom and the water was running to call Roger again. He was still in his car but now on his way to Madison. But the news was bad.

Through field glasses he had watched federal agents escort Wally from the motel to a waiting car. Either he had put up resistance or the Feds had dug up incriminating evidence. Whatever, he was in custody and probably on his way to be booked and jailed until arraignment next week.

Laura groaned. “What are we going to do?”

“Hold tight.”

“Hold tight? Brett’s worried sick you’re in a hospital bed.”

“I’ll be back tomorrow.”

“What are you going to do?”

“I want to see where they’re taking him. He needs his next shot.”

“And what do I tell Brett?”

“That I’m okay and will be home tomorrow.”

“He’s scared.”

“Let me talk to him then.”

“I hate this.”

“Me too. Put him on.”

She tapped the bathroom door then handed Brett the phone. “It’s Dad, but you’ll have to make it short.”

A few minutes later Brett handed her the phone back. “He sounds pretty good,” and went back to showering.

Laura closed the bathroom door. Another lie well done.

When Brett was out of the shower and dressed, he looked around the rooms. The place lacked any personal character reflecting real inhabitants. It was furnished with generic sofas, chairs, and tables sitting on beige wall-to-wall carpet and displayed reprint art on the walls. It could have been Motel 6, but it was the best they could afford. The bureaus and closets contained a few items of clothing, some with tags still on them.

While Brett explored the place, Laura put together some dinner. She felt better since Roger had eased Brett’s mind. But she wished he were here because being so far made her feel all the more vulnerable.

Was this how they would be living again—in hiding? And how were they to explain that to Brett? He had finals next week and was to graduate middle school in three, then go to overnight camp in the Dells with Brian. How could they tell him that all that was over? That he would never see his friends or go home again? That his parents were not who he thought they were?

Roger’s attitude was that they would manage. He had withdrawn $65,000 cash the day he first spotted the tail just in case. They had more money buried with the other half of the Elixir supply. They could move to places far from urban centers. It meant sacrifices—changing their names
again, buying more IDs, home schooling, and disguises. But Brett was young enough to adjust.

“Chris, we’re not the Unabomber family,” she had said.

“The alternative is life imprisonment for us and foster homes for Brett. Which would you prefer?”

She was halfway through cooking the pasta when Brett appeared at the kitchen doorway.

“Feel better?” she said looking up.

He was still in his uniform because it was the only outfit he had. But his hair was wet from the shower and his face was shiny.

He held a book in his hand. “Is this you?”

Laura nearly fainted on the spot.

If I Should Die
.

The copy Jenny had given her years ago. She had forgotten it was on a shelf in the other room. Brett was staring at the black and white dustjacket photo.

Of all the nightmares Laura had lived with, this was the one she had dreaded the most. They had thought about making up a story about Roger stumbling upon a bank robbery one day, and how because he had seen the face of the man who killed a teller, they had entered a witness-protection program and taken on new identities.

Brett’s eyes shifted form the photo of Wendy Bacon to Laura, reading the author’s bio on the inside. She knew she could not mouth another lie. “Yes, it’s me.”

Confusion clouded Brett’s eyes. “But it says Wendy Bacon.”

Laura felt the press of tears but tortured her face into a smile. “Well, honey, that was the name I used back then.”

“Back when? When did you write it?”

She took a deep breath and put her arm on his shoulder. This was not how she wanted to break it to him. “A long time ago.”

“It says, ‘Ms. Bacon makes her home with her husband and son in Carleton, Massachusetts.’” He looked up at her for an explanation.

“That’s where we used to live.”

“But you said I was born in Kansas.”

“We moved.”

Brett glanced back at the photograph. “But you look so different. Your hair … .” The look in his face was utter bafflement. “The license plate said Massachusetts in Dad’s picture I gave you.”

“Why don’t we sit down inside and I’ll explain.”

She walked him into the living room. Brett did not take a seat, but stood facing her with the dustjacket photograph of a brunette Wendy Bacon beaming out into the world from a simpler time.

Laura cupped his face in her hands. “Honey, I first want to say that we love you very much, and that it was because we love you—”

“Mom, cut the crap!” He dropped the book on the table. He looked scared. “It’s Dad. He’s dying, or something.”

“No, that’s not it. We’re both perfectly
fine
. You just talked with him. He’ll be here tomorrow. Believe me.”

“I thought he was in the hospital.” There was a frantic look in his eyes. “Where is he?”

She took a deep breath. “Madison.”

“You lied.”

“Honey, you asked about the book—”

“I don’t care about the dumb book. What are we doing here? What the hell is going on? Where’s Dad?”

“I’m telling you Dad’s in Madison. And he’s not in a hospital. I swear to it.”

Brett wiped his eyes. He didn’t have a clue.

It was obscene.
This is the worst moment of my life
, she told herself.

“Honey, there are some things we’ve not told you, so I wish you’d sit down—”

“I not going to friggin’ sit down!”

“Okay,” she said trying to find a center. “I’m going to start from the beginning, and everything I’m going to tell you is the truth, I swear to God. I swear on my life.”

He looked scared.

God, give me strength
.

“Long before you were born, we used to live in Massachusetts where Dad had a job as a biologist. About twenty years ago, he went to Papua New Guinea where he discovered a very rare flower that …”

And she told him the story.

At first, Brett didn’t believe her, thinking it was some roundabout tale to say how Roger had picked up an exotic disease that was killing him. When it was clear that she was not making it up, he sat in stunned bewilderment.

“But Dad’s hair is turning white.”

“Because he uses makeup.”

“No, he doesn’t,” he protested angrily.

“Brett, I know how scary this all sounds, but he’s perfectly healthy. Elixir keeps him from aging. The only problem is that there were some bad people who wanted to get hold of it and sell it illegally—people who blew up that airplane so we would be killed; but because we weren’t on it, they blamed it on us.”

Brett’s eyes filled up. “What’s my real name?”

“Brett’s your real name.”

“But you said I was born before you took off and got new IDs. When you lived in Massachusetts.” His voice was trembling.

“We had named you Adam, but after seven or eight months we … you were … Brett.” She just couldn’t tell him that Brett was the name off some dead boy’s Social Security card.

“Adam what? What’s my whole name?” he demanded.

Laura summoned every last bit of strength to keep from breaking down. “Adam Bacon.”

“What?”

“Adam Bacon.”

“Adam Bacon?” He spoke his birth name for the first time in his life.

“But that was only while you were a baby.”

“I’m adopted. That’s what this is all about. You adopted me and my real parents want me back.”

“No, no, that’s not it.”

“Yes, it is. That’s why I’m short.”

She felt the absurd impulse to laugh. “Brett, honey, I’ve told you the God’s honest truth. You’re our son. I gave birth to you. Please believe me. You can see your resemblance in Dad, the shape of your face, your eyes and features … and you’re not short.”

Brett looked as if he were suddenly trapped in a whirlpool and grasping for low-hanging branches. “How old am I? For real,” he shouted. “How old am I?”

“You’re fourteen. You’ll be fifteen in November. You were born in—”

“That’s not me in the photograph I gave you, is it?”

“No … it was your brother who died before you were born. His name was Ricky.”

“I knew that wasn’t me, but you said it was. You lied.
You lied!
”

Before she could explain, he jumped to his feet and cried out, “I don’t believe this.” His face was flushed and beginning to crumble.

“I know how hard it is coming at you all at once—”

He turned toward her, his face wild. “Dad’s a freak,” he cried. “He’s a freak. He can’t grow old like everybody else. He’s a freak, and you’re criminals.”

Laura came toward him with arms, but he recoiled. “Don’t friggin’ touch me!” he screamed. “I don’t even know who you are.”

“I’m your mother. I’ve always been your mother.”

Frantically he looked around the room again as if for the first time. “We’re going to be put in prison. Dad’s probably already in prison.”

BOOK: ELIXIR

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