Elixir (19 page)

Hooking around a corner, Sean races out of the lot toward the front of the property. He staggers down a hill, jacket bouncing. “Hold it,” another voice behind says in German, angrier than the first. Sean twists his head to a chasing security guard, vein bulging on his muscular neck, nightstick bobbing on his belt. Sean cuts across the grass onto the road, the thump of the watchman’s footsteps nearing, then zips through a muddy alley, spotting a strip of woods a little ways off, deciding to hide out in the brush.

He latches onto a chain-link fence with both hands, kicks the toes of his boots through two metal diamonds, and climbs. He flops one leg over the top, then the other, and plummets onto the dirt, losing his footing. He springs up, then ascends a hill into the woods. Hearing the heavy thud of rubber soles on asphalt, he makes out the guard in the alley with the nightstick in his clutch.

Wanting to elude his view, Sean plunges to the ground, then slides over the freezing, snowy earth, rocks scraping his chest. In a few minutes he’s deep in the brush, out of sight. Assuming he’s safe, he stands and catches his breath. He rolls up his damp shirt and inspects his sliced torso, a bit of blood, pain starting to settle in as the numbness from the frost wears off.

He removes his phone from his pants, looks up a US number online, then dials. It rings for a few moments. “Hi,” he says, roaming among the icy trees, angling for better reception. “I need to be connected to a professor at the school. Merzberg. Computer Science.”

He listens to the rustles of small animals while he waits. “Dr. Merzberg,” he says into the phone with urgency, pressing it tight to his cheek. “It’s...well. I suppose there’s a lot I have to explain, but I’ll do that later. I need your help. I’m coming to Los Angeles.” He shuts his eyes, recognizing how non-believable what he’s about to say will sound. “It’s...Sean. Sean Malone.” He rubs his forehead with his thumb and index finger, anticipating the reaction. Sure enough, the voice on the other end responds as he assumed. “It’s not a prank dammit. Don’t hang up. It’s not a—” He glimpses the screen, call ended. “Shit.” He kicks a rock jutting from the ground, then paces for a while, his boots leaving a hodgepodge of imprints in the virgin snow.

He dials again. “Hi, I was just on before with Dr. Merzberg,” he says into the phone, his breath visible in the chill. “Would you mind connecting me again? Thank you.” About a minute goes by. He hears a grumble on the other line and says in a rushed, desperate tone, “You have a picture on your desk of your wife and you on a boat in blue ponchos at Niagara Falls. When we were at the NSA together we ate pizza for lunch with hot peppers on my half and just cheese on yours.” He nods as his old teacher says something back, a slight smile on him. “Yes,” he says with relief. He pushes his fingers through his hair. “Yes.”

A silver Ford Explorer zooms out of an LAX Airport parking lot fifteen hours later, Sean behind the wheel in a fresh T-shirt, morning sun shining over Los Angeles. A receipt from the car rental company rests on the passenger’s seat, “Merzberg” on it, the teenager too young to rent his own vehicle, the professor putting it in his name. He rides the freeway toward Pasadena, traffic not terrible the week between Christmas and New Year’s with so many people on vacation, SUV doing a steady sixty-something miles per hour.

Being on American soil for the first time in four years is strange. He thinks about how modern the scenery is compared to Europe’s, Renaissance-era buildings nowhere in sight, nothing but the glossy faces of malls and billboards for films he’s never heard of. Even the way he’s moving feels odd, a motorcycle familiar to him, a car something he’s driven two, maybe three, times.

Being considered dead after the identity-change program, he was supposed to give the FBI a month’s warning before he set foot in the US again, not done of course. But he doesn’t care. He’s part of something much bigger now, something much more important than any rule.

He cruises for forty minutes or so into the serene suburban pocket of Pasadena. He coasts through the center of town observing things he remembers when he lived here, street signs, bends in the road, patches of trees. He recognizes a deli he used to get lunch between classes at SoCal Tech, a shoe store Mary took him once, a curb he used to skateboard on with his childhood buddy Kyle. It all seems so long ago, much longer than four years.

He peeks at his phone in the cup holder, GPS instructing him to turn right on his old block, Penny Glenn Court. Leaning over the wheel, he peers at the places of his previous neighbors. A peach house with a swing in front a dentist and his wife lived in. A ranch with white shutters a single mother occupied with her two teenage daughters. A Victorian with a big front lawn a widowed man lived in.

He drinks in the sight of his former home at the end of the strip. It looks different, front door painted a new shade, basketball hoop now in the driveway, refurbished gutters. But it also looks the same, his bedroom window with its old blinds, Mary’s too, unchanged square pattern on the garage door, old stoop, original-color wood everywhere. All the traces of the past are still there, even if among some modern changes.

About ten minutes later he pulls in front of a red house around a mile from the college, parks the rented Explorer just outside a fire-hydrant zone, and shuts off the engine. Taking a deep breath, he steps on the asphalt, air brisk but not close to as cold as Zurich’s.

He passes a mailbox shaped like a bass fish with the address number eighty-six on the side, then strides down a stone path on the front yard toward the boxy home. He climbs a couple stairs to the porch and knocks on the door, a rattle to it. The professor’s wife, a thin woman in her sixties with shoulder-length red hair, opens up. Gawking at him, she puts her right hand over her heart, left her mouth. “Hi Sean,” she says in a faint voice, never having met him but having heard all about him. “Aliza.”

“Hey,” he says feeling awkward, the lady marveling at him as if he’s risen from the dead.

He hears the rush of footsteps and notices the professor scampering across the foyer. Clutching the doorway rim with an anxious hand, he inspects his former student in amazement, then clamps his shoulders, brings him in for a hug, and says, “Oh Lord, oh Lord.” Sean gives him a few pats on the back. The professor is still shocked he’s alive, lingering in disbelief.

He’s aged a bit around the neck and eyes but appears as Sean recalls for the most part, that bald head, that tire around his waist that never seems to go away no matter how many miles he claims to bike.

Hands in his front pockets, Sean rocks back and forth with a nervous demeanor, Natasha the only thing on his mind. The professor can sense his distress. Sean only gave him an overview of his dilemma on the phone, but he got the gist it’s serious. He says to his wife, “Set up Josh’s old room dear.” Then he turns to the boy with a reassuring grin. “Sean will be staying with us as long as he needs.”

That afternoon the three of them are sitting in the kitchen, pot on the stove with a ladle inside, aroma of chicken soup in the air, amber lamp above them from the 1970s casting a soft glow on their faces. Sean sips from a straw in his can of Coke, taste not the one he’s used to, his world remaining flavorless with his girlfriend still sick.

Holding hands, the professor and Aliza are hunched over the table, processing the four-year life recap he just gave them. “I know every single ingredient I need,” Sean says. “And I know exactly how to mix them.” He inches forward. “I just need someone to get them for me.” He glimpses the professor. “These are really powerful chemicals. Not over-the-counter stuff I could’ve gotten at a pharmacy in Switzerland. Most hospitals wouldn’t even have them. A lot are unproven.” He knocks the floral placemat with his knuckles. “But I’m positive it’ll work. And I figured SoCal Tech should have them on hand as the number one research university in the country.”

“It sounds like you really love this girl,” Aliza says, head tilted to the left, her gold-heart earring dangling.

He nods. “Yeah. I do. I really do.”

She spins to her husband, her red hair swaying for a second, then settling. “Honey there must be someone you have a relationship with in the Chemistry department that can get Sean what he needs.”

“There is. I’ll go over to his house today and run it by him. I don’t see it being an issue.”

“That’s wonderful,” she says with a smile. She keeps her stare on him, waiting for him to smile too, but his expression is serious and pensive.

He doesn’t acknowledge her, instead, has all his focus stuck on Sean. He rubs his temples and says in a slow voice, “Sean.” He inches the kid closer with two fingers.

He moves in. “Yeah. What?”

The professor clears his throat. “Sean.” He chuckles, cheeks dimpling. “I’ve listened to every word of your story. And I am here to help you in any capacity I can. However, it was a lot of information you just unloaded on me. Between the FBI, then Italy, and your girlfriend. Natasha. And Switzerland. And Colzyne. The whole extent of it.” He pushes his bowl of soup out of the way and situates his elbows on the table. “I may have misunderstood something. And please correct me if I’m wrong.” He pauses. “Sometime between getting to Zurich and walking through my front door a couple hours ago, did you or did you not find a universal cure for all human viruses?”

Sean looks around the room for a while, magnets on the refrigerator with phone numbers of food-delivery places, purple sponge on the edge of the sink still moist and bubbly, pile of bills on the counter. “Well,” he says in an even-keeled way, tilting back so just the rear legs of his chair remain on the floor. “I guess I did.”

Early the next morning Sean is crossing a SoCal Tech quad with the grown Merzberg son’s old Little League baseball cap pulled low, shielding his identity. His eyes dart around under the brim, suspicious of anyone passing. Though he doesn’t care if he gets in trouble for returning to the country without notice, he doesn’t want any delays. If someone spotted him and word got around he’s still alive, the FBI might overhear, come after him, and detain him.

The professor, a few steps ahead in a windbreaker and beanie, points at a dome-shaped building surrounded by palm trees. He marches to the entrance and opens it.

Sean peeks around, no people in the hallway, just a few bulletin boards and portraits of retired chemistry faculty. “It’s holiday break,” the professor says. “Just about everyone’s gone. I doubt you’ll run into anyone who knows you.” Trying to be funny, he stands straight and stiff in an exaggerated pose, then lets out a big exhale. “Ease up.” Sean doesn’t find it amusing.

The professor veers right, his old pupil following, their footsteps echoing in the wide, hollow space. As they advance, Sean thinks about the challenge in front of him. Even if he gets access to the correct chemicals he still needs to mix them and bring them halfway across the globe without being detected by US officials, all before Natasha’s unpredictable disease overcomes her. He starts getting anxious. “What does this guy know?” he asks.

“I kept everything a secret as you suggested. I told him last night you’re a visiting student from Canada who needs some chemicals for an independent study you’re doing with me.”

“How the hell did you convince him I need exotic chemicals to work on a computer project?”

“I said you were writing an algorithm to predict the movement of particles when volatile substances combine.”

“Okay, that works I guess,” he says, stare on the floor. The kind of tile, glossy beige highlighted with small gray squares, is familiar to him, the design used throughout many university facilities.

He recalls the last time he saw it, in an administrative office the day he dropped out. He remembers how he felt then, overwhelmed by the world. He reflects on Italy and how much he’d grown after meeting Natasha, life having a natural ease to it, things starting to make sense. But that comfort is gone. All is chaotic now just like on the day he quit school.

They come to a stainless steel door at the end of the corridor, the professor pulling from his wallet an orange-and-white keycard with his photograph and the term “Staff” on it. He swipes it through a scanner, green light turning on, slab freeing from its thick frame. They enter a laboratory, fifteen-foot ceilings, brushed-nickel ventilation units, high-tech gizmos all over.

A man with a horseshoe hairline, about forty, is slouched on a folding chair in the corner, crumpled McDonald’s bag at his side, Egg McMuffin in one hand, cup of Hi-C in the other. He’s thin in places he should be thicker, like his shoulders, and thick in places he should be thinner, like his stomach. The lab fills with a slurping sound as he sucks the last of his fruit drink through his straw. “Ah, there you are,” the professor says.

Cramming what’s left of his breakfast in his mouth, the guy stands, then shakes his hand. “Howdy.”

“I appreciate you meeting us.”

Still chewing, he says, “The next time I need a really annoying favor I know who I’m calling. Hint. It’s you.” He swallows, then laughs at his own joke, the professor forcing a smile. Wiping the corner of his mouth, the man eyeballs Sean. “And this must be the bright student you were telling me about.”

“Nice to meet you sir,” Sean says, locking grips with him.

“Hank.”

“I can’t even begin to tell you how important this is to me. Thank you.”

“So I understand you’re looking for some chemicals.” He smacks his left palm on his khakis, knocking the muffin crumbs off. “You came to the right guy.”

The professor says to Sean, “Hank here is the top chemist at the university. He gets flown to conferences around the world. Consults for all sorts of biomedical firms. Guest lectures at prestigious societies—”

“If my wife talked about me like that I might get laid more than once every six months,” he says, again chuckling at his own line. He lifts his paper cup in front of his face and shoots it at a metal garbage can five feet away. It clangs against the rim, ice cubes flying all over. “Don’t let me forget to grab a janitor for that later.” He strolls toward a set of cabinets on the wall as the other two glance at the mess. He unlocks the doors with a key, revealing hundreds of test tubes racked in symmetrical rows with colorful liquids at the bottoms. “Welcome to a drug addict’s paradise.”