What would happen now? He would have to focus on every sensation, every symptom he would experience. For now he felt no different than if he had ingested a multivitamin. He’d just have to wait and see.
Chapter 40
For all his years of research, despite his supposed expertise, Lloyd really didn’t know what to expect. Would he feel something like an epiphany, see a flash of light as if a switch were thrown, or would the effects of the prions arise insidiously? Would anything happen at all? Had he calculated the dose correctly? Would a human brain respond to the preparation the same way as that of a mouse did?
Or would he be poisoned? Would he have to endure the agony of mercury toxicity?
Barred from his work, Lloyd felt a biting need to fall into some form of routine. He started his mornings with a brisk run to Mills Park, passing just a block away from Erin’s apartment. Then he fed Frederic and filled his water dispenser with tap water (with apologies to Kaz).
One morning, as he sipped on a hot mug of coffee, he spied the mouse sprinting on his exercise wheel, his tiny body repeatedly tumbling as if in a miniature clothes dryer when he broke his stride and the wheel kept spinning. Lloyd decided that the mouse’s quarters were inadequate. He immediately drove to a big box pet supply store and dropped two-hundred bucks on a six-level “habitat” intended for ferrets.
In the afternoons Lloyd spent some time reviewing his back-dated medical journals, tearing out articles he was likely to read and tossing the rest of the journals in a blue recycling bin. He scanned the rescued articles onto his computer wondering if he’d ever have the chance to practice medicine again.
One afternoon, he was sitting at the dining table perusing an article on a promising new antiepileptic drug when he heard a cooing sound. He glanced at the window. The white pigeon with brown splotches was back, strutting along the ledge. Lloyd grabbed a journal, rolled it up and was about to toss it at the window when he stopped, his arm already cocked in a throwing position.
“Okay, I’ll let you stay this time,” he said. “Just don’t make it a habit.”
Another routine he engaged in was setting a stopwatch as he subjected himself to a variety of memory exercises, recording his disappointing lack of progress in a soft-covered notebook with a black elastic strap. But much of the day was spent deep in thought: thinking of the events of the previous weeks, of the death of the mice, of Lasko. And at night he would think of his mother, of Roy, and most of all, Erin.
There was one more memorial service to attend. Kaz’s remains were cremated and an informal service was held to scatter his ashes over Lake Michigan. An eclectic collection of people climbed onto the tour boat that was rented out for the purpose: a half-dozen lab technicians and other hospital employees, a larger gathering of friends from the community garden (Lloyd wondered if the attractive woman with long braided hair was the Guatemalan rose who didn’t drink coffee), and a small contingent of stout men in dark suits who huddled at the aft of the boat, wincing as they smoked cigarettes, giving them an appearance that suggested annoyance more than sorrow. These must be the Russians, Lloyd thought.
An easterly zephyr blew across the lake in stiff gusts. After a fifteen minute sail, the pilot revved down the engines and a tall thin man with a streak of gray in his goatee began to speak. Lloyd was distracted. He kept thinking of Lasko, certain that the Chief of Staff must have played a role in Kaz’s death.
An urn was handed to the speaker. He said a few more words and then paused, glancing at his sides anxiously. The boat had turned with the current and the wind was now blowing straight into the bow. A discussion on wind direction ensued. Finally, a guy in a guayabera and khaki slacks approached the pilot and asked him with excessive politeness if he could turn the boat around.
The pilot sighed and said, “Suit yourselves.”
The bow was now pointed straight at the John Hancock building. The thin man removed the lid of the urn, gave the receptacle a shake and the ashes were caught in the wind, but rather than being picked up by a draft to be scattered every which way, they were shoved quite unceremoniously straight down into the water just a few feet from the boat, creating a muddy stain. Some mourners tossed flowers overboard missing their mark, as the hull of the boat steamrolled over the stain. The Russians lit up cigarettes in near unison.
Back at home, Lloyd fired up his laptop and typed “Cardio-Prime Technologies” in the search window of his web browser. The heading on the company’s home page declared, “The world leader in cardiac pacing and monitoring science”. Lloyd scanned the web site, not finding anything that roused his interest. He looked through the names of the board of directors and the directory of the “distinguished speakers’ bureau” without recognizing anyone. Finally, he typed the name “George Lasko” in the website’s search box. He found only dated references to talks Lasko had given, but not a mention in more than a year.
Lloyd sat back and looked out his window. He stared blankly for a minute, then straightened, went to the kitchen, pulled out a slice of multigrain bread from a plastic sack and walked to the window. He cranked the glass pane open, removed the metal screen and scattered crumbs on the ledge. He sat down again leaving the window open.
His cell phone rang. The screen lit up with the tag, “Uncle Roy”. Lloyd stared at it. He let it ring a few more times before answering.
“How are you feeling Lloyd?” Roy’s voice was calm as always. “I was hoping we’d be able to see each other again before I head back.”
There was a fluttering of wings at the window. The white pigeon alit, folded its wings and bobbed its head, twisted it to the side to peer into the open window with a round orange eye. Then it settled into pecking the bread crumbs.
“Yeah, that would be good,” Lloyd said.
The first sign came that evening. Lloyd went out to his favorite deli for a Ruben. As he walked up to the shop he noticed a Mustang with Wisconsin plates parked with its tail sticking into an alley. He sat at a table, the Tribune in one hand, his sandwich in the other, when a guy in a Black Hawks jersey opened the door to the deli and stepped up to the counter.
“Anyone here with a yellow Mustang?” he asked the clerk. “The damn thing’s blocking the alley. I can’t get out.”
“You got the license plate?” the clerk said, his eyelids drooping.
The guy opened his arms. “No, I ain’t got the license plate.”
“Wisconsin, WX2 541,” Lloyd said.
The guy turned around. “Is that your car pal? You’re blocking the damn alley.”
“No, that’s not my car,” Lloyd said.
The guy furrowed his brow and stared at Lloyd for a moment. He turned to the clerk, who shrugged and walked away. “Hey smartass, move your damn car already.”
Lloyd swallowed the last bite of sandwich and wiped his mouth with a paper napkin. “I already told you, it’s not my car.” The guy walked up to the table with a wide stance, his fists dangling at his side.
“You looking for some kind of trouble, mister?”
“You know how to read?” Lloyd asked.
“What the hell? Yeah, I know how to read.”
Lloyd folded the newspaper shut and handed the man the front page. “Right there, on the lower left,” Lloyd said. He held the paper in front of the guy’s face and started reciting. “The Chicago City Council Finance Committee could not agree on a budget proposal for the fifth time in as many meetings Thursday morning. Alderman Alonzo Gutierrez called it yet another sordid example of an established pattern of callous disregard for the neediest members of our citizenry who stand to lose the most in the face of looming budget shortfalls. You see,” Lloyd said, “I just have a good memory.” Lloyd tossed the newspaper on the table and walked towards the exit.
The guy stood there watching Lloyd’s back and muttered, “Goddam freak.”
Lloyd proceeded at a brisk pace as he made his way home. He didn’t feel any different, but he’d have to check his vitals. He needed to record his temperature,
heart rate and blood pressure at the very least. He decided to memorize the license plates of all the cars on the block. As he unlocked the door to his home he marveled at the ease with which he could recall them all. The trick now was to push them out of his mind. He couldn’t stuff himself with useless information.
He paced around his apartment. Something told him that Lasko’s relationship to Cardio-Prime Technologies was at the bottom of all the events that had happened to him: the sabotaging of his research, his suspension, his pending dismissal. But how? He remembered what Erin had said. Lasko wanted a witness to verify that he no longer had a financial interest in Cardio-Prime. Did he do it in an overblown demonstration of transparency or was there more to it?
The key question was, what did Lasko stand to gain by blocking Lloyd’s research? He called Kowalski.
“Stanley, do you have some toxicology reports for me?” Lloyd asked.
“I should have them by the morning,” Kowalski said.
“Tomorrow? That’s great. Will you have time to meet me for a beer after work?”
“Hell yes, my friend. Hell yes.”
Their call had barely ended when Lloyd’s phone rang. It was Martin Bender.
“How are you holding up my boy?” Bender asked.
“I’ve been better,” Lloyd said.
“Listen, Lloyd,” Bender said, “Lasko is getting ready to throw the book at you. He intends to personally present the case against you at the disciplinary tribunal. The man’s on a crusade, said he wouldn’t be happy with just having you expelled. That he’d soil your reputation so you’d never be able to hold a post in academics. He was boasting that the most you might aspire to career-wise is handing out antibiotic prescriptions to teen-aged prostitutes on the South Side.”
“Yeah, well I still have my health,” Lloyd said.
“Don’t take this lightly, Lloyd,” Bender said.
“Well, what do you want me to do?”
“I have an alternative,” Bender said. “I know men like Lasko. I know what makes them tick. He’s a little general and you inflicted the gravest insult by challenging his authority. What he wants now, more than anything, is your submission. If you don’t submit to his authority, he won’t be happy until he destroys you.”
“So you want me to beg on my hands and knees and apologize?”
“Not quite. I’ve been able to negotiate a deal with him on your behalf. All you have to do is apologize to Lasko in person, put an end to this research project and return the property that you stole from the university–”
“What property that I stole?”
“The prions, Lloyd. We must have the prions. You do all this, you submit completely to Lasko and he’ll grant you a resignation without censure.”
“Great deal!” Lloyd said, his voice drenched in sarcasm.
“He’ll sign off on a letter of recommendation to support your candidacy elsewhere. Lloyd, I’ve taken the liberty to inquire around and I’ve located a prestigious position in Milwaukee. They’d love to have you and they’re willing, with your experience, to offer you a position at the level of Associate Professor.”
“You’ve been a busy man, Uncle Marty.”
“You can have your life back, my son. Put all this unpleasantness behind you,” Bender said.
“Forgive and forget?”
“Something like that.”
“Problem is,” Lloyd said, “It seems I’m unable to forget.”
“Lloyd, I know how hard-headed you can be. Just think about it for a few days. You don’t have much of a choice. Get back to me as soon as you can. We’re coming up against a deadline and then there’s no turning back.”
That night Lloyd had strangely vivid dreams. The scenery and people kept changing in a disorganized jumble, an unending succession of scenes from his life recreated with amazing detail of light, texture, color and even smell, but the context was somehow all wrong. By the early morning hours, he settled into a long dream of Erin. Erin walking through a swimming pool, her wet dress clinging to her. Erin telling Lloyd to open his mouth so she could instill drops on his tongue. Erin showing Lloyd her Cracker Jack ring saying, “I’ve always loved you.”
It’s strange how dreams can affect our perceptions of a person, Lloyd thought as he lay in the sticky torpor of awakening. But the dream of Erin did not change his view of her as much as it made him realize, right then, that he would never be able find happiness in his life without her. He would never be able to shrug off her memory. She was permanently etched in his mind now.
He showered, went about his day, but the thought of her was always front and center in his mind. In the early afternoon, he rode out to Caffé Amalfi to meet Roy. They exchanged few words, but were surprisingly comfortable in their silence.
“I need you to do something for me before you head back to Rome,” Lloyd said, breaking the silence.
“Of course. What is it?” Roy asked.
“I’m not quite sure yet. I’ll let you know.”
Later, Lloyd met Stan Kowalski at a pub a few blocks from the university.
“They were packed to the gills with mercury. Every single one,” Kowalski said. “All the mice were poisoned.”
“I figured as much,” Lloyd said.
“You have any idea what’s going on?” Kowalski asked.
“Don’t worry about it.” Lloyd swallowed a mouthful of beer. “Stan, tell me about your family.”
“About my family? What do you want to know?”
“I don’t know. Anything. What’s it like?”
On the way home, he stopped to pick up Chinese take-out and ate dinner with Frederic sitting atop the table gnawing on a piece of fortune cookie.
“Kaz would kill me if he saw what I feed you,” Lloyd said. “Eat it up buddy. Starting tomorrow, you’re back on organic veggies.”
By nightfall, the longing to hear Erin’s voice became unbearable. He lay on the couch listening to the jeering of the cicadas for the better part of an hour before he dialed her number.
Chapter 41
“You haven’t returned my calls,” Erin said.
“I’m sorry. I just had a lot to think about.”
“Yeah, well, me too. So did it help?”
“Did what help? Lloyd asked.”
“The thinking.”
“I’m getting there.”
Neither of them spoke for a while. Lloyd listened to her breathing. Finally he said, “Can I call you again tomorrow?”
“Sure.”
Lloyd hung up. He poured himself some scotch. He lifted the glass to his mouth but stopped, looked at the amber liquid and emptied it in the kitchen sink.
He paced to the living room, picked up his phone from the coffee table and dialed again.
The now-familiar voice answered, “De Luca.”
“I hope it’s not a bad time,” Lloyd said.
“Who is this?”
“Nick, it’s Lloyd Copeland. Listen, I need your help.”
There was a pause. “I’ve been waiting for this call.”
That night the dreams started as jumbled fragments again: short, rapid visions, muffled sounds. But by the small hours of the morning, when Lloyd settled into a prolonged run of REM sleep, the scenes became longer and took on a nearly meaningful thread.
George Lasko stood at a podium embossed with the logo of Cardio-Prime technologies. He was flanked by his wife on one side and Bill Clinton to his right. His voice thundered in the microphone: “Brain sections show global spongiform changes with neuronal loss and the formation of amyloid plaques.”
An invisible crowd cheered and applauded. Lasko shook Bill Clinton’s hand then turned to kiss his wife. Lloyd realized from his vantage point that he was sitting in the audience so he too started clapping. A voice next to him said, “He’s right you know.” Lloyd turned in the direction of the voice. It was Martin Bender with a textbook resting on his knees. “It says so right here in my book.”
Standing by a door of the conference roo
m was Beverly Spalding. She was waving at Lloyd frantically with a grim expression. Lloyd sidestepped through the crowd which now was clearly visible, all wearing long white doctor coats, pockets overflowing with dollar bills. He ran down a side aisle but slowed to a walk as he approached her.
“You have to come right away,” she said. “He’s gotten much worse.”
“Who?”
“My husband.”
They walked through the door and were in Cecil Spalding’s living room. Mark O’Keefe was sitting at the easel painting. Lloyd was about to tell Beverly, “That’s not your husband,” but then Mark spoke with Cecil’s voice and Lloyd figured he must be her husband after all.
“I’ve always loved science fiction,” Spalding said. “I’ve always been fascinated with the idea of space exploration. Do you know NASA found water on Mercury? Well, they have. They’ve found Mercury on water!” He laughed. “I meant to say, water on Mercury.”
Lloyd took a step back. He remembered something. “I have to save Kaz,” he said. “I’m sorry, I have to go.”
He was on his motorcycle swerving through traffic when he realized he was doing it all wrong. His motorcycle was able to leap over cars. He grasped the handlebars tightly and brought his weight back, effortlessly leaping over one car, then another. Kaz hadn’t died after all. He could still save him.
He broke through the window of the basement apartment, stepped around and opened the front door. Todd English was on the stairs peering down at him.
“I need your help. Please,” Lloyd said.
They loaded Kaz into the car. Lloyd pushed down on the gas pedal but the car seemed to hover just above the pavement, the wheels unable to gain traction. Cars darted around them, honking. Lloyd pumped the gas pedal and the car picked up a little speed.
“Don’t worry, Kaz,” Lloyd said. “We’ll make it this time.”
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