‘Other than you depriving your best friend of prurient details? This in the setting of the wasteland of her own love life. Selfish, selfish friend.’
‘Other than that. And don’t talk about yourself in the third person. It’s creepy. Look at this.’
She stood beside him and viewed the two SPECT studies, the second obtained just hours ago. She stopped them, rechecked the date and played them a second time. ‘Interesting. Really interesting.’
‘Tell me what you see?’
‘Her astrocytoma is smaller. And there …’ She put her fingers on the screen and pulled down a calibration app to do a volumetric assessment of the tumor. ‘The arm that was going across the corpus callosum, it’s just touching it now. Shit …’
‘What?’
She rechecked the calculation. ‘It’s shrunk, Frank.’
‘By how much?’ he asked, not wanting to lead Grace with his own assessment.
‘By 22.587 percent. And that’s about what I get with Carter’s sarcoma. You can barely detect the one on his remaining humerus. A week ago it was over two centimeters.’
‘That’s two of six.’
Grace pulled up all six scans obtained in the early a.m. It had been something of a marathon, shepherding the sleepy children and the attendant parents through the rigors of SPECT scans. Frank had thought that two days after the infusion was too soon. But Leona had pushed to look for early results … and so they had. Her instincts had been spot on.
‘Forty-eight hours.’ Screens of digitalized data added weight to what the blind eye could see. ‘Five of the six show significant improvement. I wish Jackson could see this.’
‘Me too,’ Grace said, as she ran through each of the children’s data. ‘The only one who isn’t is Jen.’
‘Nothing with her,’ Frank said, ‘if anything Drinky is bigger. Shit! Why isn’t it working for her?’
‘Maybe it is,’ Grace said. ‘And maybe …’
‘Yeah, and maybe pediatric oncology is the worst profession for someone who likes children. Damn.’ He stared at Jen’s scan, and searched for an improvement. There wasn’t any. ‘Maybe she got a bad sample.’
‘Frank, they all got the same thing.’
‘We should check.’
‘How?’
She was right. In his almost-paranoid concern over divulging too much too soon to the Langs they’d destroyed anything that might contain a trace of the compound.
‘There’s got to be a way.’
‘You come up with it, and I’ll help. So, did Sean say anything about the investigation?’ Grace asked.
‘Murder by the numbers. It bothers him.’ Frank stared at Jen’s test results. ‘It should have worked, why didn’t it? Maybe we didn’t give her enough, or the dose was bad, or …’
‘The whole dead fentanyl junkie random thing?’ Grace asked, trying to pull him away from the awful truth about Jen Owens.
‘Yeah, and some other stuff. We should dose Jen again.’
‘We can’t Frank, you know that. Not just that it would screw up the study, which has to be perfect for us to get the go-ahead for a larger trial, but what if her tumors are non-responsive, or worse, accelerated by the compound. You have to let it go, Frank. You have to let the experiment run its course.’
‘You mean I have to let her go.’ His jaw clenched.
‘Maybe, you know this.’ She laid a hand on his shoulder. ‘What was the other stuff Sean told you about?’
‘This … all of this.’ He shrugged off her hand, turned to the screen, and wiped back a tear. ‘He said something that I can’t stop thinking about. We wouldn’t be here if Jackson were still alive. He was dead set against this. He’d have stopped this.’
‘I know.’
‘Did you know that he knew Leona Lang when she was a doctoral student?’
‘What? I did not. When did you plan to tell me this? You and I don’t keep secrets. At least we never did.’
He hesitated. ‘Sean told me something that I shouldn’t repeat.’
‘But you will, because I’m your best friend. The one who—’
‘Hid me in your basement when my mother tried to kill me. Yeah, you know how Jackson got passed over for department chair.’
‘Thirty years ago. He said it didn’t matter.’
‘Sean spoke with the dean and found out he came close to getting canned for conduct unbecoming.’
‘Please don’t tell me he diddled Leona Lang … I don’t want to hear that. He would have been fifty and she would have been …’
‘She started undergrad at fifteen, and had her PhD at twenty-two, not quite a record, but close. He told me that she was the most brilliant student he’d ever had.’
Grace looked from the scans to Frank. ‘I feel sick. That’s one hell of a coincidence. And how old is that Dalton dude? This is just gross.’
‘Which is what Sean said, not the gross part, but the here we are working for a woman who nearly got Jackson canned. And …’
‘Out with it.’
‘I helped Sean decipher some of the technical stuff on Jackson’s computer.’
‘You’d mentioned. And?’
‘It included his emails.’
‘And?’
‘I think he kept in touch with her.’
‘Leona?’
‘Yeah. He was corresponding with someone who knew a lot about my work, about ways to manipulate DNA in living systems. I think it was her.’
‘No name?’
‘No, and an untraceable dark-web address.’
‘Jackson knew lots of people, what makes you think it was her.’
‘Tenderness. He was in love with her. And he talked about my work.’
‘All of it.’
‘Not in detail. But that last night … he made a comparison between her and me. Something about her running away from greatness and me running towards it without realizing the downside.’
‘Typical. Men and the one that got away,’ Grace said. ‘You’re, taking Jackson’s side. He should have known better. His wife was still alive. Everyone knows you don’t fuck your students.’ Her focus shifted back to the scan playing on the monitor. A look of concern flashed across her face. ‘Holy fuck. You know that funky vascular proliferation on Ben’s liver.’
Frank stared over her shoulder. ‘Where is it?’
She rotated the image. Double checked to make sure there was no mistake. ‘It ain’t there. Check your cell. Suddenly, I’m worried that too much of a good thing, might not be … a good thing,’ she said.
He did. There were no new messages only a pervy one from Sean that he’d listened to many times. Something about the way he said, ‘blow job’ created an immediate physiologic reaction. It was fun.
‘We have to check on them,’ Grace said. ‘This is good, but also potentially bad. As in bleeding out bad. No one’s called …’
‘That’s a good thing,’ Frank said.
‘Not necessarily.’
‘Equine therapy. I caved under pressure. Told them they could look at the animals but still no touching.’
‘Come again.’
‘They’re at the farm. Shit …’
‘Exactly,’ she said. ‘Sudden tumor loss, we could be looking at seizures, bleeds, vascular collapse …’ She mimicked Jackson’s Boston twang. ‘Nature hates a vacuum.’
‘If anything happened you know we would have been called,’ he said.
Grace stopped and stared at him. ‘You’re Mr Calm in a crisis, I’m liking Sean more and more,’ and under her breath, ‘and trusting Leona Lang less and less.’
TWENTY-FOUR
‘This data is spectacular,’ Leona said, as she dropped pancake batter onto the griddle and dotted them with plump blueberries. Her kitchen smelled of coffee and bacon.
Dalton fed the tiny pumpkin-furred puppy from a milk-filled eye dropper. He watched his mother and was filled with memories. Some good, some awful, like finding his father, who he now knew was not his father, naked and dead i
n the shower. ‘When do we pull the plug?’ He studied her profile in the morning light that streamed through the windows. She looks good. The fifties housewife act was disconcerting. And where the hell did she get that apron? But I can act as well.
‘We don’t pull it. Not with the six children, or rather the five, who will benefit. We buy time. As long as he believes the study is moving forward and legit he’ll have purpose and won’t—’
‘Won’t see it coming. I wish there was another way. This has so much potential.’
‘There is no other way.’ She turned, spatula in hand. ‘You do see that?’
‘Yes.’ Whatever Leona wants. ‘But there are some pesky unanswered questions about UB482, and by the way, it needs a better name, especially since there is no registered compound with the FDA. And you look good, Mother. Younger. I dig your Donna Reed act.’
‘Before my time,’ she said. ‘I was going for Audrey Hepburn in Breakfast at Tiffany’s.’
Right, he thought. That’s her goal. Young, pretty, live forever … or at least freakishly long. ‘You’ll get there. It’s been what, five days? You look amazing. Ten years younger, maybe fifteen.’
She checked the underside of a pancake. ‘I feel fabulous. And yes, too many unknowns, and I can’t … couldn’t, wait. But now. It’s all I think about. How to get this fucking process out of Frank Garfield’s head and into something I can replicate. Beyond that we’re bumping up against things he doesn’t even know. Or hasn’t shared. Like what’s happening to me. Is this a one-time fix, or will I have to hook myself to an infusion pump every year, month, week, decade? Is the compound stable? Does it degrade? Is it like other biological compounds where you need to be on a schedule, but then the frequency decreases?’
She’s stressed he thought as he saw lines pop on her once Botox-frozen brow. Playing with the new puppy, identical to his predecessors, he noted his mother’s anxiety; it was unexpected and intense. ‘Pity we can’t clone ourselves.’ And this is where I find out why she’s flipping pancakes. What is it you want from me?
‘Our brains mess that up. All those experiences and memories. The body will be the same but that’s where it ends. Little Rex won’t be exactly like numbers III, II, or I. I regret the years I spent thinking there’d be a payoff there. Cloning is an answer, but not for humans. At least not beyond replacing a lost child.’
‘Or dog.’
‘Dalton, unlike you, there were not a lot of bright spots in my childhood. Rex was all I had. I knew he loved me, and if he could have, would have protected me.’
‘Not criticizing, Mother. I’m aware that Grandma Karen has issues. But didn’t you tell me that in research even dead ends are important.’
‘True.’ She stacked pancakes and placed a plate before him and one in front of her. Meanwhile, Rex’s tail went into hyperdrive as he was rewarded with a chopped crisp of bacon.
‘Unanswered questions and timing,’ he said. ‘This is your breakfast agenda?’
‘Yes.’ She stared past him, at her reflection in a glass-fronted white shaker cabinet. ‘If this turns into a Flowers for Algernon scenario I will be pissed. Which is why nothing can happen to Garfield … yet. I need this formula. I need to know what makes it work, how long it will work, and we don’t have time. I’m convinced that not even Jackson knew the details, and if he did … he’s dead.’
Difficult as she could be, Dalton savored moments like this. She needs me. Has no one else to confide in. ‘We have made progress. We know it exists and that it works … to an extent. We know he can synthesize it with the equipment at Hollow Hill. We’ve taped every second he and Grace spent in the lab. You might be able to figure this out with what we have.’
‘I’ve watched the footage. I can’t risk it. He’s made a Trojan horse that gets his molecule into the cell and then into the nucleus. It’s brilliant, elegant, and I don’t know how the hell he does it.’
‘We apply pressure,’ Dalton said. ‘He signed a contract; he needs to hand it over.’
‘No. Jackson’s paranoia is all over him. That approach won’t work, just make him dig in.’
‘But his gal pal Grace knows.’
‘She does, but not the fine details. I’m convinced the miraculous trick is in his head alone. Could Grace figure it out? She’s smart. Maybe she could.’
‘You cared for Jackson,’ Dalton said.
‘He was an impossible man, but yes, I did,’ she admitted.
‘The road not taken,’ he said into his coffee. But to watch her squirm, added, ‘Wonder if maybe he’d written down the details and it’s languishing in that Brookline detective’s office, or in their forensics lab.’
‘Doubtful,’ she said. ‘He’d never trust something that important to a computer file. And Frank has followed suit.’
The puppy returned to Leona and then to Dalton in search of bacon. Dalton picked him up, cradled him, and gave him the bottle. ‘We’ve two potential resources for the formula, Frank and Grace.’
‘Which is why we need to play this farce out. Only when he’s convinced that the compound works and that those children are healed, and that we are going to wage a crusade against childhood malignancies and conquer cancer, will he let us go into production. He needs to believe that it’s a full court press towards stage-two and three human trials.’
‘You know we’d make a fortune with this. Not to mention the PR for UNICO. Think of the before-and-after ads.’
‘Yes. And little Rex will get his infusion as soon as possible. But no, and I wonder if we shouldn’t take a page from our trio of Frank, Grace, and dead Jackson. We make two copies of the formula. One lives in your brain and one lives in mine. Nothing gets written down. Like a family recipe.’
‘Four copies altogether?’ he said and forced her to articulate her endgame.
‘No, just two. Yours and mine.’
He sopped up the last of his pancakes with syrup. ‘It will be quite the old family recipe. What’s the price for others who want to partake and add some years?’
‘It’ll cost what I want it to. Maybe money, maybe something else. The price will vary. And by invitation only.’
‘And the two existing copies of the formula. Frank and Grace?’
‘Accidents happen.’
‘They do.’ He stood and handed her baby Rex. ‘Such a beauty.’
‘He is,’ she said and cradled him to her cheek. ‘Set up a meeting with Frank and Grace to go over the details of a stage-two study. Bring lots of forms and all the human investigations releases and permissions. Some of them should have FDA logos on them.’
‘Of course. Pancakes were delicious.’
‘Thank you. And Dalton …’
‘Yes, Mother.’
‘When this is over, we should chat about your future. I know you’re not happy in your present role. I know you have dreams.’
‘And …?’
‘I’m willing to negotiate. Maybe it’s time we both get what we want.’
TWENTY-FIVE
Sean tried to focus on work, but Monday morning or not, all he could think about was Frank, those kids he’d met over the weekend, and … you’re falling in love. Although Frank might write off his zippy tingly feelings to hormones, neurotransmitters, too little sleep and too much sex. If that were it, nice. Feels great. But more. He remembered Frank with the children and their parents, his ease and loose-limbed grace. Sean had long ago written off the possibility of a family of his own. Between his crazy hours at work, not having met a suitable guy … and the logistics of same-sex adoption or surrogacy, but … They’d spent Saturday afternoon with the kids at the Crestview Farm and Petting Zoo, although touching the animals had been forbidden. The children and their parents had warmed to Sean, as if he’d always been a part of the strange extended family that orbited Frank and the study. The Douglas and Daryl duo interrogated him about his feelings for Frank. He smiled at the memory, and how devoted the two men were to each other and their little girl, who had the shit-bad luck o
f getting cancer. ‘He’s a good man,’ Daryl had said, as Tara and little Ben Bradley took dozens of pictures of a pen of miniature black-and-white goats. ‘Don’t think he dates much.’
Douglas had interrupted, ‘What my husband is trying to say is if you hurt him, we’ll kill you.’
‘You know I’m a cop,’ Sean replied.
‘Yeah, and he’s the man who’s saving our daughter’s life.’
Threats aside, that afternoon, and making pizza in Frank’s kitchen, followed by sex unlike anything Sean had ever experienced … not just sex. I am falling … have fallen in love. His gaze drifted out the single window in his office.
The kids, except for Jen with her oxygen tank and wheelchair, didn’t look sick to him. If it weren’t for the bald heads and the wigs that none of the kids still wore by the end of the day, he wouldn’t have known. Their parents told him that Frank’s drug, or whatever it is, had made a huge and rapid difference. Their excitement and hope were contagious. Right there … it’s too fast. Too perfect. Something is not right.
His thoughts flashed on perfect Dalton Lang. He’d done an online search and stumbled upon his music videos on YouTube, Instagram and a dozen other sites. What the fuck? Like he was two people. A UNICO top honcho and a wannabe, what? Musician? The music was OK, though the lyrics seemed contrived, somewhere between emo, goth, and whiny twelve-year-old. There was a stripped-down ballad with a guitar and lots of longing blue-eyed gazes into the camera. Not half bad. He searched for physical flaws and came up empty. It rankled.
Dalton had called Frank twice over the weekend, both times Sean had been present and overheard. Obviously, he was checking up on the experiment and the kids. But there was something in his tone, possessive … seductive … annoying fuck.
His fuzzy tingles soured. He raked his hands through his hair and reread the-still-unsent final report on the Jackson Atlas murder. Shit or get off the pot. Raised in a family of cops, mostly detectives, Sean often warred between the evidence at hand and his gut. Something stank. The revelation that Leona Lang had an affair with Jackson added discordance with the whole murder for cash for drugs for another dead junkie. And it appeared they kept in touch. Why? Jackson still had something for her … but what was in it for her? He dug.
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