by Len Vlahos
Jared didn’t know if he should laugh or cry, if he was relieved or distraught. It’s not that he was caught between conflicting emotions—though he was—it was that the tumor, at the very moment, happened to be sampling the part of Jared’s brain responsible for emotional comprehension. It was both amused and touched by the conflict going on around it. Synapses were firing and misfiring like a bad cell-phone connection. To Jared, it just registered as more confusion.
Either way, his eBay experiment was over and he was none the richer. He let out a long slow sigh.
And that is exactly when Jared’s cell phone rang.
PART TWO
A Deal Is Offered
Friday, September 18
Ethan Overbee was not a man who left things to chance.
When he was in middle school, Ethan was caught red-handed selling bootleg cassette tapes on school property. He’d been in the fiction aisle of the school library selling a scratchy copy of Bon Jovi’s Slippery When Wet to another student. To make matters worse, the library was supposed to have been closed at the time. To make matters much worse, the principal was giving a tour of the school to a group of visiting dignitaries from the Board of Education, and he and his guests rounded a corner just in time to witness the exchange of goods for money. It must have looked like a drug deal, because everyone gasped. When Ethan let the cassette tapes fall to the floor, making it clear that there were no narcotics involved, the school brass exhaled a collective sigh of relief.
The principal smiled broadly at Ethan and his customer, a fellow eighth grader at Henry Wadsworth Longfellow Middle School in suburban New York, and said, “Boys, why don’t you drop by my office when you’re done here.” And he and his guests carried on. None of them looked back.
Ethan’s partner in crime, an honor student named Winston Swale, bounced from one foot to the other as he wondered how to explain to his parents that he was being suspended from school for sponsoring an illicit music-copying ring. This is exactly the scenario the principal was laying out for the two boys as they stood before him an hour later. The principal was a humorless man whose ears turned red when he was angry, and on that day they were the color of a dodgeball from the school gym.
But Ethan was Ethan, and he had stacked the deck.
Unbeknownst to the principal, and unbeknownst to Winston, Ethan had a hall pass from the school librarian. The pass gave the boys permission to use the library during their free period to work on a report about Marco Polo and the Silk Road.
When the principal called and questioned the librarian about the permission slip, she acknowledged its legitimacy. She, of course, didn’t know the boys were going to use the library to buy and sell black market goods, but the truth was, she liked Ethan and didn’t want to see him get in trouble.
“Honest, Mr. Finn,” Ethan began, almost slipping and calling the principal “Mr. Fink,” the nickname students more commonly used, “we were just taking a break from the report to swap music tapes.”
Ethan then produced a half-finished report with the title “Marco Polo and the Silk Road” emblazoned across the front page. Winston, who knew for a fact that no report writing had been attempted in the library, managed to keep his astonishment in check. Had Principal Finn flipped through the report, he would have spotted it for the fake it was. Other than the title page, it was a report about the differences between igneous, sedimentary, and metamorphic rocks.
Viewing the hall pass and report like pieces of surprise evidence presented by lawyers for the defense (in this case, Ethan representing himself and his friend), the principal decided it was just easier to declare a mistrial and let the boys off with a warning. Ethan made out nicely. He escaped without a blemish on his record and earned a reputation for outsmarting the principal. He became a kind of cult figure in his school.
Now, nearly two decades later, Ethan had once again stacked the deck. Getting the auction delisted was easy. The eBay rules on selling humans and human remains left no room for negotiation. It only took a complaint from another user to bring it to the attention of the eBay goon squad.
Getting Jared’s cell phone number was also surprisingly easy.
Because each state had its own arcane laws governing the ownership of media outlets, the network employed paid lobbyists in all fifty state capitals to protect its interests. It was a stroke of luck that their lobbyist in Salem had worked with Jared on a bill a year earlier, and that the two had hit it off. When Ethan called, the lobbyist gave him Jared’s cell number without skipping a beat.
By the time Ethan dialed Jared’s phone, he knew exactly what he was going to say.
***
“Hello?” Jared said as he answered the cell phone, a ring of uncertainty in his voice.
“Hello, Jared,” said the voice on the other end, and Jared wondered if it really was a voice, or if the brain tumor was trying to talk to him. “May I call you Jared?”
“Sure.”
“Do you know why I’m calling?”
“That depends,” answered Jared. “Are you real, or are you my brain tumor?”
The voice on the other end of the line hesitated but only for an instant.
“No, Jared, I’m not a brain tumor. I’m a man. Same as you.”
“You have a brain tumor, too?” Jared asked.
“Well, no. But I’m a man, same as you.” Jared didn’t know what to say, so he waited. “My name is Ethan, and now that your eBay listing has been removed, I think I can help you.”
“Help me how?” Jared knew he should be suspicious, but at that precise moment, Glio was consuming a memory of Jared bathing Jackie when she was a toddler—the warm water, the soap bubbles, her toy boat, her unfettered laughter—and it was releasing a wash of melatonin over Jared’s gray matter.
The memory had been buried so deep in his brain that it wasn’t directly available to Jared; when Glio found it, flooding his host’s basal ganglia with the calming enzyme, the side effect was to help Jared focus.
“I’d like to meet you in person to explain,” Ethan answered.
“Hey, wait.” Jared thought hard for a moment before realizing what it was he needed to ask. “How did you get this number? And how did you know the listing had been removed?”
“I got your number from Hannah Hinawi.”
“The lobbyist? Are you a lobbyist? If so, you should call my number in Salem, and—”
“Hannah works for me. Or, to be more accurate, she works for someone who works for someone who works for someone who works for me.”
That was a lot of someones for Jared’s brain to process, but he got the point. “So what do you want from me?”
“I can help ease your suffering, and I can make sure your family is well provided for. I’d like to explain in person.”
The wave of melatonin was fading; it was being replaced by a rush of adrenaline. Jared’s heart was racing, and his mind was fogging up again. Not knowing what else to do, he said okay.
“Great. Where can we meet?”
Even in this less than fully lucid state, Jared knew the answer. It was public, comfortable, and one of his favorite spots in the world. “When?” he asked.
“Now.”
***
When Jackie rubbed the sleep out of her eyes the next morning, Megan was gone. She grabbed her iPhone and saw that it was already eight forty-five. She was missing first period. Why hadn’t anyone woken her up?
She was just about to go downstairs and find her parents when she noticed she had a new Facebook message.
Max
I am sorry I miss you. Yes, this was bad time because I am in school. LOL! Will you be online at school today? I will like also to talk to you. I will look for you.
Jackie loved how Max typed a broken version of English. She thought it made him seem even cuter than his photo. He had been teaching Jackie Russian a few words at a time. Her favorite was “nimnoshka,” in English, “a little bit.” She liked the way it sounded.
“As in ‘I don’
t like school, not one nimnoshka’?” was Jackie’s response when Max had taught her the word. Jackie wasn’t playful like that with anyone other than her dad, but with Max being so far away it was easy. She got an LMAO from Max, and wondered if he knew what the acronym stood for.
Jackie pocketed her phone and went in search of her parents.
She wasn’t two steps outside her door when she ran into her father.
She looked at her feet and mumbled, “Hi, Daddy.”
Jared wrung his hands and cleared his throat. “Why don’t you go downstairs, Snowflake. Your mom and I want to talk to you. I’ll be there in a minute.”
Jackie nodded. The walk from the second floor to the kitchen felt miles long. She found her mother at the kitchen table, staring blankly at the wall, a coffee cup clutched between her hands. The cup was empty save a few drops of brown liquid littered with black specks.
“Mom?”
Deirdre hadn’t noticed Jackie come in, and she jumped at hearing her daughter.
“Oh, Jax! You scared me.”
“Why didn’t you wake me up?”
Deirdre didn’t know how to respond. “I thought maybe you needed sleep,” she said in a quiet voice.
“Because of Dad?”
“Because of Dad.”
An entire conversation passed between mother and daughter unspoken: the knowledge that nothing about their lives would ever be the same again, and the helplessness in their complete, utter, and mutual inability to do anything about it.
Jared rounded the corner into the room, gave Jackie an awkward pat on the shoulder, and took a seat at the table. He struggled for words but came up empty. His shoulders sagged, he shook his head, and he finally said, “I’m so sorry.”
Jackie didn’t understand. Why was he sorry? Not knowing what else to say, she asked: “Is it all true?”
Jared nodded.
“Even the eBay stuff?”
Jared nodded again.
“Can’t you stop it?” Jackie asked, trying to keep the hopefulness out of her voice.
“I wish I could, but the doctor said there’s no cure. I’m going to die.”
Jackie was referring to the eBay listing and wasn’t prepared to confront the reality of her father’s illness so directly. A lump formed in her throat, climbed up the wall of her esophagus, and tried to push itself all the way out of her mouth. She made a short, clipped noise of anguish.
Deirdre, realizing that Jared had misunderstood his daughter’s question, jumped in and steered the conversation in a different direction. “Your father and I talked about the eBay listing. He knows how upset we all are. But it doesn’t matter now. eBay took the listing down. Apparently we’re not the only ones who think selling a human life is a bad idea.” Deirdre’s tone and glare at Jared left no room for misinterpretation; she was pissed off. Jackie was upset, too, but couldn’t be mad at her father knowing what she now knew. She wanted to ask her father so many questions—Did the cancer hurt? Was he scared? How could he do this to her?—but it was all too raw, too new. She decided to change the subject.
“Where’s Meg? Shouldn’t she be part of this conversation, too?”
“We talked to her earlier this morning,” her mother said.
“And?”
“Your sister, whatever faults she may have, is a strong girl.” Her mother paused and looked at Jackie a long moment before continuing. “We’re going to need you to be strong, too, Jax.”
Jackie nodded but pushed the thought away. Everything about the world was off-kilter. Jackie felt like she was on a spinning ride at the amusement park and wanted to get off. “Is she still here?”
“Meg? No, I took her to school.”
“Can I go, too?”
Deirdre and Jared looked at each other, and then looked at Jackie like she was a stranger.
“You want to go to school?” Jared asked.
“Kind of.” Jackie put her head down, letting her bangs fall over her eyes.
Neither one of her parents answered right away. Jackie knew why they were surprised. Other than the day of the Kevin Memmott affair, no one in the Stone family could remember a single day in the entire history of their lives when Jackie actually wanted to go to school.
“Of course, honey,” she said. “Your dad will drive you.”
“Yeah, sure,” Jared said, then shook his head like he was remembering something important. “Oh, wait. I have a meeting downtown. At least, I think I do.”
“Okay, get dressed, Jax. I’ll take you. And, Jare,” Deirdre said, standing up, “don’t do anything stupid.”
Jackie wasn’t sure what her mother meant, but she was glad to see her father smile and nod in agreement.
***
After Glio was done giving Baby Jackie a sponge bath, he stumbled onto something truly remarkable. There was a part of Jared’s cerebral cortex that had never been consciously tapped. In fact, no human had ever consciously tapped this part of his or her cerebral cortex. It was part of that apocry- phal 90 percent of the brain that a person never uses. Only it wasn’t apocryphal, at least not to a high-grade glioblastoma multiforme.
As he dived deeper and deeper into the cortex, Glio swam through shimmering curtains of neurons flashing with bursts of fuchsia, indigo, and aquamarine, the light show a borealis of the mind. Eddies and jets of intelligence carried him through funnel-shaped clouds of thought ending in a Class V rapid, where Glio dropped without warning into a synaptic sea, entering the warm, enveloping waters with a pronounced splash.
He paddled through unchartered lakes and canals, devouring schools of thought that defied category or explanation, existing like the dark matter of the universe, heavier and with more gravity than could ever be seen, heard, smelled, tasted, touched, or realized. It was π to the 4,790,523rd digit, the complete understanding of the human genome, and the one true meaning of love. These were the thoughts, ideas, and truths that formed the background hum of humanity, the music all people heard without knowing it. It was the fuel of desire, ambition, and curiosity. And, cell by cell, Jared Stone was losing it all.
These neurons were a power boost to Glio, propelling him forward with greater speed and resolve.
With each bite Glio took of this previously inaccessible corner of the brain, Jared’s eyes lost an iota of sparkle. It was as if he were the personification of a story where someone was removing all the adjectives, conjunctions, and adverbs, so the only things left were nouns and verbs.
Glio swam on. Or rather Glio swam.
***
Hazel Huck was talking to a newspaper reporter when she got the news about the auction.
“I’m looking now,” the reporter was saying, “but I don’t see the listing anymore.”
The reporter wouldn’t reveal the source that had confirmed Hazel’s real-world identity, but Hazel figured it had to be a War Craft admin. They would be the only ones to know.
Once she had been outed, Hazel saw no reason not to cooperate. Perhaps by going public, she thought, the fund-raising effort could be defibrillated back to life.
Hazel knew this would mean the end of her online anonymity, and her guild friends would know she was just an awkward high school kid from the heart of Dixie. But some things, she thought, trump self-interest.
“Can you tell me the auction number so I can search again?” the reporter asked.
“Auction number?”
“Well, it’s really called an item number. On the right side of the screen.”
Hazel opened her laptop and maneuvered to eBay. And then she saw. The listing was gone. She had a message in her in-box that the auction had been removed by the administrator for a violation of eBay’s service agreement.
“I’ll have to call you back,” Hazel said, and she hung up.
***
When Sherman Kingsborough saw that the auction had been delisted, he was caught between waves of relief and anger.
Like so many people of unchecked wealth, Sherman was a broken soul. He had spent his t
een years in a drunken haze, his father—or really, his father’s lawyers—always there to bail him out when he got into trouble, which was often. When the old man died, Sherman thought for a moment that perhaps he should grow up, assume a responsible position in society. But he had no frame of reference for doing so. In fact, it was just the opposite. With no parental or authoritative oversight, and with unlimited funds, Sherman could indulge his most perverse desires. He struggled against it at first, but it was no use; he gave in and let his id take over.
He argued with himself, made promises that each time—whether it was carnal relations with a fourteen-year-old Thai prostitute or bribing nature-preserve wardens to hunt Bengal tigers—would be the last. He would lead a better life, put his money to more constructive use, practice tai chi, eat well, and go to church. But as time passed, his internal exhortations grew more hollow. He had waded so often into the waters of depravity that he’d lost the ability to disgust himself.
Cold-blooded murder, though, was new and frightening ground. And while that excited Sherman, it also gave him pause. Perhaps, he thought, this is one step too far, even for me.
On the other hand, this Jared Stone was going to die, and Sherman could help him financially, so really, it was nothing more than an agreement between gentlemen. It wasn’t as if Sherman were going to walk down the street and murder a vagrant just for the fun of it. No, this was reasonable, this was right.
His anger, as was inevitable, won out over his relief. He had been mentally preparing to kill another human being—psyching himself up, as it were—and now he was being denied that pleasure. Not pleasure, he thought, opportunity.