Receptor

by Alan Glynn

  As Proctor reaches down to pick up the travel bag, Sweeney lunges forward to try to grab it first. But in that same moment Blair cuts in, blocks Sweeney, and pushes him back. When Sweeney straightens up again, he sees that Blair is pointing a gun at him.

  “Easy, soldier.”

  This is escalating fast, and as it becomes clear to Sweeney just how far it’s likely to go, a second wave of exhaustion hits him.

  “What am I looking for?” Proctor asks. He’s got the bag open now and is rummaging through it.

  “I don’t know,” Sutton says. “A bag for shaving gear, I guess, or toiletries, something like that.”

  Proctor pulls out a shirt, drops it to the floor—some socks, the same—and then a small leather bag with a zip.

  “Yep,” Sutton says, doing another hand wiggle.

  Proctor tosses it to him.

  Sweeney can still feel the MDT in his system, but only just. He can picture the final sparks and embers of it dimming to ash.

  Sutton opens the small leather bag and quickly extracts the tiny bottle of MDT. He discards the bag, throwing it onto the bed. He holds the bottle up to the light and examines it.

  “There’s quite a bit left.”

  As Sweeney stares at the bottle now with a combination of longing and incredulity, he is tormented by a series of very obvious questions. Why wasn’t he more careful? Why didn’t he divide the MDT up? Why didn’t he analyze it—learn how to analyze it—synthesize it, reproduce it? Why didn’t he find out what it was? It was always his intention to do these things, and more—to share his experience of MDT with the world. He planned to do this through the book he’s been writing, in which he explicitly mentions MDT, and then later, who knows, he’d do it through some other, more practical means. He thinks of the way that recent psychiatric drugs—tranquilizers such as Equanil and Miltown, for example—have become as widely available and irresistible to people as a cigarette or an ice-cold soda. Why couldn’t there be an MDT pill that would be just as widely available, he wondered, and not only to the patient with a doctor’s prescription, but to everybody, and for free?

  “So Ned, you lied to me.”

  “Huh?”

  “You lied to me. You told me you’d dropped this on your kitchen floor, that it all spilled out and you had to clean it up. Tsk, tsk.”

  Sweeney doesn’t say anything.

  With his foot, Sutton moves some of the loose pages to one side, clearing a space on the parquet floor.

  “No,” Sweeney says, leaning slightly forward, but all too aware of the gun Blair is still pointing at him. “Don’t. Please.”

  Sutton holds the bottle up between his thumb and index finger. Then, with a thin smile, he releases it.

  Sweeney groans, barely able to watch.

  The bottle lands on the shiny wooden floor, but doesn’t smash. It bounces a couple of times before settling on its side.

  Intact.

  Sweeney feels a surge of, what…? Relief, hope?

  “I guess you must have a harder floor in your kitchen,” Sutton says, and then steps on the bottle with his heavy brown leather shoe, crushing it. The glass and liquid make a crunchy, squelching sound.

  Sweeney gets a little sick in his mouth again. “What have you done?” he says, gulping it back down.

  Sutton gestures at Blair to put his gun away. “What have I done?” he says. “I just destroyed the evidence, that’s what. And of a federal crime, I might add. But at least now we don’t have to arrest you.”

  Feeling woozy, Sweeney takes a step backward and slowly lowers himself onto the edge of the bed.

  Crouching down to the same level, Sutton clicks his fingers to get Sweeney’s attention, to make eye contact with him.

  “On the other hand,” he says, “there are some people back in New York who’d like to ask you a few questions.”

  This time, when Sweeney gets sick, it doesn’t stop at his mouth.

  20

  We get back to my place after midnight. Molly roots around in the fridge and cupboards. As she’s chopping parsley and mint, she talks about how weird it is to meet someone like Clay Proctor, so briefly, in such an intense way, and then to hear he’s died. I open a bottle of wine and put on some Tomasz Stanko. Five seconds in and Molly asks me if I’m fucking serious. She scrolls through my iTunes library for another five seconds, and then finds a radio station on her phone that plays Lorde and Lana Del Rey.

  The three bulky envelopes are stuffed in the duffel bag I had to buy at the airport, which is still on the floor. I really want to break it open, but something is making me wait. With Clay Proctor gone, it’s all I have left. What if it’s nothing? What if it’s unrelated?

  I’m not sure I can stomach the thought.

  After we’ve eaten, Molly gets lost in her phone for a while. I stare at my bookshelves.

  Maybe Jill is right, though. It was sixty years ago—and it ruined Tom’s life. Am I going to let it ruin mine?

  As I’m thinking about this, a message alert pings on my phone. I extract it from my pocket and look at the screen.

  “That’s odd.”

  Molly looks up. “What?”

  “I just got a text from Stephanie. She wants to know if I’ll meet her tomorrow.” I pause. “Her place, 10:00 a.m.”

  I can’t tell if Molly is uncomfortable with this, but I wouldn’t blame her if she were. I immediately give her a quick rundown of my interactions with the congresswoman, the advice I’ve given her, how mundane most of it was. “And besides,” I say, “full disclosure, her father told me he was the one who set the whole thing up in the first place.”

  “Full disclosure?” Molly says. “What is this, Meet the Press?” She leans forward. “You think I give a fuck about this? Believe me, I don’t.” She waves a hand in the air. “I may be a little curious about what’s going on between us right now, okay, but that’s an entirely separate matter.”

  * * *

  On the elevator ride up to Stephanie Proctor’s apartment, I wonder what I’m going to say to her, what form of words I’ll use. Sorry for your loss? I hate these situations.

  The elevator opens onto a vestibule that leads directly into Stephanie’s apartment. One of her staff accompanies me into a fairly fabulous Architectural Digest–style living room. I glance around. The empty whiskey bottles and overflowing ashtrays have been removed. The congresswoman is sitting in a floral chintz armchair and doesn’t look too good. Her face is a little puffy and her eyes have a faraway expression. As I approach her, she stands up and we shake hands. It’s oddly formal. Then I remember that that’s appropriate.

  “Sorry for your loss,” I say.

  “Thank you.” She nods, and sits back down. “Please.”

  I take an armchair opposite hers.

  “I expect you heard that I haven’t been ‘well,’” she says, throwing ironic air quotes around the last word.

  “I heard something.”

  “Yes. It was glorious. For about an hour. Those first three glasses of Scotch, oh my God, a sensation that was twenty-five years in the making. And the first cigarette wasn’t bad either.” A sigh. “But then…”

  She closes her eyes.

  I sit there, waiting. Has she fallen asleep?

  “What did he want from you?”

  Her eyes are still closed.

  It’s a direct question and I suppose it deserves a direct answer. “That’s really none of your business, Congresswoman.”

  She opens her eyes. “Oh, for Christ’s sake, call me Stephanie, would you? I’m not going to be a congresswoman for much longer anyway.”

  “Okay. But the answer’s the same.”

  “Yes, yes, and how would it be any of my business? But that’s not the point. I still want to know.”

  “Why?”

  “Because whatever this thing is he had with you, it seems to be the key to … to…”

  She looks out over the room, exasperated, avoiding eye contact with me. Then she stands up and paces around.<
br />
  “Two years ago,” she says abruptly, “he changed. Fundamentally. He seemed to be getting sick, he was going downhill, we thought it was some form of dementia, but then he changed. He changed. There’s no other word for it. He was put on various medications, and I know they can alter moods and so on, but this was more than that.” She stops pacing and looks directly at me. “One thing is that in the midst of this change, for some reason, he developed a keen interest in you.” She pauses. “Can you explain that to me, Ray?”

  I don’t answer.

  “He pointed me in your direction, recommended you, told me to hire you.” She waits for a response. “Did you know that?”

  “Yes. He mentioned it.”

  “But for the longest time he seemed to be just circling around you.” She shakes her head. “I had to report back every time we met. Eventually, he said he wanted to meet you himself.”

  I shift around in my armchair. This is extremely awkward. “How did he change?” I ask. “In what way?”

  “Oh Lord.” She sits down again. “He got … he got nice. Considerate. Reflective. I thought it was an act. I kept waiting for him to revert to type. Because let me tell you, Clay Proctor was a lot of things over the course of his life and his career, but nice was never one of them. He was a bully and a manipulator and a liar.” She drums her fingers on the arm of the chair. “I’ve been a psychological wreck for the last two years waiting for him to take off the mask and go boo. And now he’s gone. And I’m confused.”

  She’s not the only one. Does she really not know anything?

  What do I tell her?

  “He knew my grandfather,” I say. “In the early 1950s.”

  She looks at me. “And?”

  “He wanted to talk about him. I figured it was old-man stuff … you know, looking back over the years.”

  She holds my stare. It’s clear that she’s unconvinced. “Look, the only reason he would do that,” she says, “seek someone out from the past, would be if he had an outstanding score to settle.”

  “Or if he felt guilty about something?”

  “Guilty?” She shakes her head and emits a mirthless laugh. “Clay didn’t do guilt.” She leans back in the chair, then immediately sits forward again. “But why did you say that? Why would he have a reason to feel guilty?”

  Now I wish I hadn’t said it. “Look, not long after they met, a few months … my grandfather committed suicide.”

  “Oh God.”

  It’s as if I’ve just gently stabbed her in the heart.

  I want to follow up by adding that the two things aren’t necessarily connected. But of course I know they are. At least in some way. At some level. I try to anticipate her next question. Because how much can I tell her? How far can I go? It’s actually puzzling to me that she doesn’t know this stuff already.

  But in the end it doesn’t seem to matter.

  “You know what,” she says, “you’re right, this isn’t any of my business, and I’m sorry for pestering you about it.”

  “If it helps,” I say, “I didn’t get any satisfactory answers out of him.”

  “That doesn’t surprise me.”

  We sit in silence for a while.

  “You know,” she says, “he kept trying to talk to me. Especially in recent months. But all I did was push him away. I didn’t trust him. I couldn’t. He sounded like a different person.”

  I feel bad for her. Because this clearly isn’t an act. It’s just more damage, more fallout.

  “Maybe in some strange way he was a different person,” I say. “Dementia can affect the brain in some very weird—”

  “You’re sweet, Ray, but this wasn’t dementia.” She throws her hands up in surrender. “He was in full control of his faculties.”

  “As a matter of interest,” I say, “do you know what medications he was on?”

  “Pffh. God knows. He had a team of doctors looking after him around the clock. I didn’t get involved.”

  She really doesn’t know. I change the subject. “What did you mean earlier when you said you wouldn’t be a congresswoman for much longer?”

  She looks at me. “Did I say that?”

  I nod.

  She smiles, her first. “I could insist that I misspoke, I suppose. Play the game. But that’s the whole point. I’m tired of this.” She lowers her voice. “I haven’t told anyone officially yet, but I’ve decided I’m not running for reelection.”

  I’m surprised, and show it, but don’t say anything.

  “For some reason, I trust you, Ray, so please, hold on to this for a bit, will you? I’ll announce something soon enough.”

  “A lot of people will be disappointed.”

  “I know. But my heart was never in it. This was his show from the very beginning. And the system is rigged anyway. Campaign funding these days is an unending flood of dark money from nonprofits and super PACs, and that only leads to one outcome: they own you. In my case, we’re talking about Eiben-Chemcorp.” She sighs. “And look, I know I’m not the only one, they collect us like baseball cards. That’s how it works. But I am sick of it.”

  “It’s a solid seat, and you’re good at this, so won’t they just keep hounding you to run again?”

  “Oh, sure, and they have been, because let’s face it, they have their agenda, which is, one: fight any increased regulation of drug pricing, and two: resist any relaxing of the rules governing generics. It’s that simple.” She laughs. “I mean, old drugs are coming off patent faster than new drugs are being developed, so it’s like an existential crisis for these guys, and they’re in a permanent state of anxiety about it. This won’t be easy for me. They know how to pile on the pressure.”

  “So what will you do?”

  “Ha. That’d be telling you.” She studies me for a moment. “But you know what, I actually think I will tell you. I have to tell someone. The plan I have is sneaky, ingenious, and very dangerous.” She pauses. “You know how I fell off the wagon the other day? That wasn’t an accident. I knew what I was doing. It was a test. I wanted to see if I could still bring the crazy, and boy, you should have seen me. I think I scared a few people.” She leans forward. “The thing is, if I go back on the sauce, I’m no good to anyone. They can badger me all they like, harangue me, twist my arm, they can even try to blackmail me, but if I’m shitfaced at ten in the morning, what difference does it make? A story or two in the Post or on BuzzFeed and then it’s game over. They’ll move on to someone else in time for November, and … I’ll be free.”

  * * *

  As I’m about to step into the elevator, the soon-to-be-former congresswoman puts a hand on my arm. “By the way, is it true what I’m hearing, Ray?”

  “What’s that?”

  “About you and Molly?”

  I feign surprise.

  “Well, I hope it is,” she says. “Because Molly’s great. And she’s smart. She deserved a better break than the one I gave her.”

  I can’t help thinking that if anyone is catching a break here it’s me. It’s certainly not Stephanie.

  “She’s going to ask me how this went,” I say. “Our little sit-down.”

  “Tell her the truth.” She gives my arm a squeeze. “Always do that.”

  On my way home, I think back over everything Stephanie told me. I try to square up the two Clay Proctors—the one I met a handful of times and the one she knew all her life.

  Could taking MDT have changed him that much? I guess I’ll never know for sure. The only remaining link to that time is lying in a duffel bag on the floor of my apartment.

  I send Molly a text about meeting up later on. She took the train out to her place in Astoria this morning. I promised her I’d keep her in the picture, and I will—but when I see her.

  Back in the apartment, I take the three big envelopes out of the duffel bag and put them on the table. I gather all of the typed pages together into a single pile. It’s a substantial manuscript.

  I put on some coffee.

  *
* *

  The first thing I do is try to establish if the pages are in any kind of order. They don’t seem to be. Some of them are numbered, but not all, and as far as I can see the manuscript doesn’t have a title page. So where does it begin or end? The whole thing is confusing.

  I read random sentences here and there, but find it hard to place as a text. Some of the language is dry, some is technical, some flowery. So is it a scientific paper? A political tract? A sermon? I don’t know. However, with each new fragment I read, I feel an increasing sense of curiosity and excitement. I glimpse ideas in passing that strike me as peculiarly modern. I pick up on what appear to be some fairly astounding predictions.

  But aside from what it actually is, I can’t help wondering who the author was—though given where the manuscript has been all these years, I don’t think it’s idle to speculate that the author might, in fact, have been my grandfather.

  I flick through it again and come across a blank page I must have missed before. I flip it over. On it, centered and in bold type, is the following:

  The Paradox of Emergence

  by

  Tom Monroe

  And there it is, the name Clay Proctor said my grandfather was using out in Santa Monica.

  Over the next few hours, I make a more concerted effort to get the pages into order, determining thematic sequence, working out if there are gaps and where they might be—solving the puzzle of how it all fits together.

  Then I start reading from what I judge to be the beginning.

  * * *

  In the evening, after a long Sunday of laundry and podcasts, Molly comes back into the city.

  As she walks through the door, I can tell that she’s preoccupied about something and probably wants to talk. But when she sees me—sees the look on my face—she stops in her tracks.

  “What happened?”

  I point at the manuscript over on my desk.

  “It’s the most extraordinary thing I’ve ever read.”

  Her eyes widen.

  She walks over to the desk. Sitting on top of the neat pile of manuscript pages is the bottle of pills that Proctor gave me. Next to the manuscript is a glass of water.