Authors: Gary Braver

ELIXIR (40 page)

BOOK: ELIXIR

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“I don’t give a damn about your word. It stays with me until I see Nathan David in person.” Roger could feel Laura nudge him toward the car.

Parrish’s face flushed in anger, but he was also aware of the wall of cameras humming at them. He made his best conciliatory smile. “Fine.” And he backed away to allow them to get inside the Hummer.

Brett jumped in with Laura.

But Roger did not follow. Instead he walked across the yard by himself to the media people. He found the TV 4 woman with the red hair. While the feds stood waiting by the cars, he pretended to shake her hand while slipping her the audiotape of his conversation with the president.

Discretely she closed her hand around it. She pressed toward his ear. “What’s this?”

“Protection for my wife and son.”

“Gotcha,” she said.

Then Roger went back to the Hummer and got in the back seat between Laura and Brett, the two carriers in hand.

Brown took the front seat beside the driver. Zazzaro, Pike, and another agent took to the rear.

Outside Parrish and his men stood stonefaced as they pulled away. Laura took Roger’s hand. “If looks could kill,” she whispered.

Roger nodded.

He was sitting directly behind Brown with the other agents behind them. Nobody said anything, but all he could think about was the firepower under the jackets of the men in back, and the naked vulnerability of their own three heads.

The Hummer fell behind police motorcycles and three escort vehicles. Behind them pulled two more FBI vehicles, and tailing the procession were several press vans forming an extensive caravan. Roger wondered how far the authorities would allow the press to dog them.

With the escorts, the trip to the heliport on the Vermont side of the Crown Point Bridge would take less than an hour.

Outside, the blanket of snow had already begun to melt.

As they proceeded to Route 10, Roger considered his gut instincts: What if, when they arrived in New York, the Feds decided to prosecute in spite
of the promise? Who would stop them even with the news footage about an agreement? All they had to say was that such matters would be determined in a court of law, which had outstanding warrants for their arrest on a battery of charges beyond murder and sabotage.

What if Janet Jamal and associates apply for a patent of some production process and market Elixir?

Or if some sleazeball creep like the late Quentin Cross decides to process a few hundred ccs of his own on the side?

Or if the stuff got out like Laura’s renegade Russian nukes scenario? The Antoine Ducharmes of the world were a dime a dozen.

Where was the control? Where were the watchdogs? Who would prevent the horrors from becoming global?

Then he began to raise some hard questions regarding their own future. He knew in some primitive way that he was a liability. The Feds would have to monitor a sustaining supply for him indefinitely. That was inelegant. And it was risky. It made the three of them vulnerable. And him expendable.

What if the Feds had a .38-caliber slug with his name on it—one to be put through his brain one evening while walking to his car? The papers would momentarily lament just-another-senseless-act-of-violence.

Worse—and the question he kept coming back to, the one that had been snapping at him for days: What if somebody decided to go after Brett and Laura to get at his dole?

The brutal conclusion that Roger reached as they made their way to the FBI choppers was that he was as much a liability to them as was Elixir. That Laura and Brett were in danger for their lives as long as he remained alive.

The realization was stunning. And, yet, it had been squatting there all the time licking its chops.

From a back pocket of his mind he heard a familiar voice.
The treatment
comes with a
cyanide pill.

An even worse punishment for them, because he wouldn’t just die. They’d find him one morning like Wally and Abigail.

Roger put his arms around his wife and son and tried to blank his mind of all but thoughts of them.

Because the local police had been alerted, the traffic was stopped at the few intersections for the motorcade to pass without sirens.

While Brett checked out the scenery through the windows, Laura relaxed her head against Roger’s shoulder. He kissed the top of her head.

Her hand slid to his shoulder as she kissed him on the mouth. Suddenly her head picked up. She could not feel his emergency ampule. Her eyes widened for an explanation. Before she could say anything, he pressed his finger to his lips and shook his head so Brett wouldn’t know.

But she wanted to know why it was missing. He hadn’t removed it all these years. Never. Even when he showered.

He shook his head to say he’d explain later.

But what would he say? That he did it for Brett’s sake, a gesture of closure? A renouncing of temptation? He could always get more. There were 204 amuples between his feet. They would arrange regular maintenance dosages with medics from Public Citizen to keep him alive.

Or was it motivated by some darker impulse he was only beginning to understand?

“I love you,” he whispered.

Laura nodded and kissed him.

There were age spots on the back of her hand.

The caravan rolled through small villages to Port Henry. Outside people looked in wonder at the motorcade this far upcountry, and the long line of news vehicles dogging them.

In the distance they could see the high arching steel bridge spanning the southerly end of Lake Champlain from Port Henry to an open field on the Vermont side where several helicopter transports waited. The bridge was a high steel structure of two generous lanes. Two New York state cruisers waited by the side to keep the lane open.

They were halfway across the bridge when the driver slowed.

“What’s the problem?” Zazzaro asked.

“Those trucks. There wasn’t supposed to be any oncoming traffic till we got across.”

Through the windshield they could see two eighteen-wheelers in the oncoming lane. One continued pass them, but the other slowed and turned a sharp left coming to a stop, blocking both the lanes on the far side of the crest.

“What the hell?” The driver checked his rearview mirror. “Aw shit!”

Behind them the other truck screeched into a jack-knife, cutting off the trail of cars about five back.

They were trapped.

Before they knew it, the rear doors of both trucks opened up and out poured dozens of people with automatic weapons firing.

A screech of tires and the motorcycles skidded sideways. Two drivers were thrown to the side, the other ended up with his leg pinned under the machine. As he rolled in agony to pull free, somebody shot him dead. A chatter of guns and the others were killed.

Laura’s scream filled Roger’s head.

Zazzaro and Brown instantly had their weapons drawn, and behind them the men produced Uzis. But they were far outgunned.

From behind came a volley of automatic weapons as men from the rear truck unloaded their magazines at the escort vehicles and at the first press cars. Windshields shattered and people screamed as the bullets sprayed the convoy.

“They’re killing everybody,” Brett cried.

Ahead Roger could see a wall of people with guns marching slowly in formation toward the Hummer. They were all wearing white jumpsuits. And red shoes. All holding weapons.

And in the lead wearing a flowing white robe and clutching something to his chest was Lamar Fisk.

Brown was on his radio phone calling for support. But they didn’t have a chance to get here in time.

Zazzaro opened the door with his Uzi raised.

“Don’t!” Roger shouted. “They’ll wipe us all out.” From the dashboard he snatched the mouthpiece to the outside loudspeaker flicked it on.

“Fisk, this is Roger Glover. Stop shooting,” he shouted. “Hold your people back. I’ve got what you want. I’ll bring it, just stop shooting.”

Laura grabbed him. “Roger, they’ll kill you.”

Through the windshield they could see Fisk raise his hand. The mob stopped. So did the gunfire.

Roger pushed open the door and gripped the two carriers.

“No, Roger,” Laura screamed.

“Dad, don’t go!” Brett begged.

“It’ll be a bloodbath otherwise,” he said.

Zazzaro pressed in front of him. “I can’t let you do that.”

“Then you’re going to have to shoot me,” he said and pushed his way out.

Laura and Brett were still screaming for him to stop as he moved away from the vehicle.

Brown jumped out after him. He had explicit orders to get the serum into federal protection, no matter what.

Roger knew that now, but it was no time for anybody to play cop. “There’s an army of them with more firepower than you’ve got in fifty miles,” Roger said. “Go tend your wounded.”

Brown heard the cries of the men behind them. He saw the wall of white uniforms and the weapons. It wasn’t worth the sacrifice. “Just give them the shit and haul ass.”

“Dad,” Brett cried. “Daaaad.”

Roger looked back.
I love you, beautiful boy
.

A quick glance at Laura. Her face was twisted in horrid realization.

Then he turned and walked toward Lamar Fisk and his army in white.

From behind him, the dozens from the first truck closed around Roger, leaving in cars the dead and wounded, and those who had been spared. The Witnesses had no more interest in them. Nor in the distant sounds of sirens. Nor the media people cowering with their microphones and cameras running.

Nobody tried to stop Roger as he approached Fisk. But all their weapons were trained on him—automatic weapons stolen from military arsenals.

As he approached, he noticed the looks on their faces. A wild intensity. Perhaps rapture, perhaps drugs. Men and women, young and old, mostly white, but with some blacks and Asians. Some women holding babies.

“It’s all here,” Roger said. “Please let the others go. There’s been enough killing.”

Fisk raised his bible as Roger had seen him so many times on the news. The look of bloodless piety in his face. “‘And one by one the Angel of the Lord opened the vials and poured forth the plagues upon the earth …”

Roger stopped a few feet before the man. He raised the twin cases. “It’s all yours.”

But Fisk disregarded his plea. “
This
is the one true elixir,” he shouted, holding up the bible. “This is the only way to eternal life. Not your snake oil.”

The creep was going to preach to him first, Roger thought.

In unison the Witnesses cried “Alleluia.”

Roger said nothing. The man was not to be reasoned with. He was beyond reason. He was beyond the moment. Beyond this bridge. Beyond the here and now. His eyes were huge glazed orbs. He looked insane with mission.

Roger’s eye fell on Fisk’s other hand, half-hidden in the folds of his robe.

“Lay them down,” Fisk said.

Roger set the two boxes between them.

“Open them.”

Roger unlocked the boxes and opened them.

He then stepped back as Fisk inspected the contents. When he was satisfied, he nodded at a woman who overturned the contents making a large pile of glass ampules.

“Vials of abomination,” he said.

All around him guns poked angrily in the air. For a moment, Roger saw the Okamolu warriors. “Fisk, please let the others go. You have what you want.”

Roger braced himself to be shot dead. That was also what they wanted. Death to the Antichrist. He just wished it didn’t have to happen in front of his wife and son.

Fisk shook his bible at him. “‘And I heard the voice of a great multitude, and as the voice of many waters, and as the voice of mighty thunder saying”Alleluia, for the Lord God omnipotent reigneth.”’” And he stomped his foot onto the vials, the contents splattering.

That was the cue. Instantly others began to smash the vials under their shoes.

As Roger stood there, they crushed each of the ampules until all that lay on the tartop were shards of glass and wetness.

When they were through, they dropped their weapons and embraced each other across the shoulders, forming a circled wall around Roger and Fisk.

It was insane: They had just killed a bunch of people, and now their faces were glowing with beatific light as if at any moment Jesus Himself would materialize.

Spontaneously they broke into a chant of “Alleluia” and kicked and stomped the smashed glass.

It was then Roger noticed the red backpacks they were wearing. Fisk, too.

BOOK: ELIXIR

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