Elixir (21 page)

“We’d at least be able to take legal action on him for stealing—”

“Even if we could prove it, which would be next to impossible since he didn’t leave a digital footprint, what good does that do me? Him getting punished just puts him behind bars, it doesn’t give me the formula inside his head. It doesn’t put any money in my pocket. If he sold it on the black market, could you imagine the price he could get?”

“It would be obscene,” Stone says sweeping a nervous hand through his chestnut hair.

“But it’s not his money to make dammit. The formula is ours to have. Not his. Not this quiz-show freak.” He glares at Sean’s photo. “He wouldn’t even know what to do with it. We’re Colzyne Systems. We’re an American institution. A pillar in health care for a hundred years. It belongs with us.” Hearing this, the troops around the table nod and grunt in approval.

“If we’re not going with a legal angle, how are we going to handle it?”

“That’s the point of this meeting,” Phlace says on the verge of patronizing. “To figure that out.”

“Where is he? This Mulaney.”

“Malone. Pasadena supposedly.”

“If we know where he is, let’s send someone...” Stone leans closer and says with a murmur, “To, you know. Get him.”

“I run a multinational biotech firm here, not a street gang. We need to be subtle about this. We can’t just sic some random ape from the security staff on him.”

“I have a name,” he says with confidence. Intrigued, two of the other men wheel their chairs over, then two more, then the last.

“Name of who?” Phlace asks.

“Someone who does these sorts of things.”

The boss leans back. “Is that so?”

“It must have been eight, maybe nine years ago. I was doing business affairs for a medical device firm in the Valley. We found out one of the lower-level engineers was planning to sell a blueprint to a competitor in Tokyo. They were going to make him an executive in exchange, give him a bunch of cash too. Felt the spec was his property because he came up with the idea, even though it was in his contract that any industry concepts he had while employed by us were owned by the company. It would’ve sunk us if the other group went to market before us. The engineer found out we knew what he was up to, so he went off in hiding. Our president hired someone...to find him.”

A few moments pass. “Did he kill him?” Phlace asks, surprised Stone has a story like this in his past.

“No. No he didn’t kill him.” He drifts into a ponderous state. “That’s not to say he wouldn’t have if we asked. The fellow that did the job, though I only spoke to him for fifteen minutes or so, was the type who would do just about anything if the price were right. No emotions involved. He couldn’t have been politer...but there was a mechanical coldness to him. Robotic almost. I’ve never quite seen it in anyone else. Gave us a number and did what he promised. We didn’t need this engineer dead. We just wanted him not to move forward with the sale. And he didn’t, after this man Dante...engaged him.”

“Dante? Is that his first name or last?”

“To tell you the truth, I’m not quite sure. I’ve only ever heard him called that.”

“Dante?”

“Yes sir.”

Phlace looks out at the shadowy seaport for a few seconds. “Well, get me Dante.”

Just awake, Sean climbs off an air mattress Aliza had set up for him in her son’s old bedroom. He’s in the same wrinkled outfit he’s had on since being in the States. Peeking at the morning sun in the window, he realizes another day has come and gone, New Year’s Eve already, Natasha that much closer to dying.

His skin is pale, his eyes glazed over with shock. He pictures her alone in that horrible little room six thousand miles away, hidden from the world, worried, withering.

Two days ago Hank asked for more time to collect the chemicals. After he didn’t get in touch yesterday, Sean and the professor did everything they could to reach him, phone, email, even visit. Nowhere to be found.

Sean’s body is exhausted and restless at the same time, no more than a couple hours of sleep, nerves keeping him up through the night. Stepping into his boots, he notices a small hole in the wall left by a ripped-out picture hook. He imagines what was mounted there years ago. A baby portrait of the son? A shot of him camping with his dad? A photo from middle school graduation? He wonders if whatever was there is still intact somewhere today, maybe the mantel in the grown man’s current home. Or if it’s gone forever, lost in translation between one move or another, crushed into the earth at the bottom of some landfill God knows where.

His thoughts have been dark the last couple days. Random things he’s been coming across, such as holes in the wall, have been provoking questions with ominous undertones. He doesn’t like it but can’t seem to help it.

He exits and walks along the second-floor hallway, then down the stairs, Aliza in the living room with a cup of chamomile tea. Blowing on the hot beverage, she spots him. She’s been subjected to the tense atmosphere in the house the last forty-eight hours just as much as Sean and her husband. She’s aware how hard this is for the boy. She nods and grins, trying to appear as comforting as she can. “Where did he go?” he asks.

“He still won’t give up with Hank. He went over there about twenty minutes ago to see if he can finally...cross paths with him.” She has a slow sip of her steamy tea, trying not to burn her lips.

“All right,” he says in an unenthusiastic way, veering into the kitchen. He grabs a red Solo cup from a cabinet and begins filling it with faucet water. As the stream splashes inside, he spots his cell phone on the table, a blinking light on it indicating a voicemail. Hopeful it’s from Hank, he puts the plastic cup on the counter and lunges to the phone. With excited fingers, he clicks a few buttons and holds it to his face.

To his surprise the voice on the other line doesn’t belong to Hank, rather, a Swiss-accented woman speaking English. The recording says, “James, this is Mrs. Vonlanden at the hospital. I don’t know where you went...or when you plan to come back. Or if you plan to come back. For what it’s worth, I’m calling to tell you the latest...news. She’s...she’s taken a rough turn that...” The flash of optimism that’s been in his expression fades. “She has good spells, but more bad. She’s in and out of consciousness. It’s...her lungs and kidneys...down...as of this morning. The original two-week timeline isn’t accurate anymore according to the doctor. She has another forty-eight hours. Maybe. When she’s up she...asks for you. She really...you should come see her. Before...” She doesn’t say anything for a few seconds, just the sound of crying audible. “For what it’s worth.” The message ends. He keeps the phone pressed to his cheek even though no noise comes out, flowing sink the only thing he can hear.

About an hour later he’s in the den, flicking the straw in an un-sipped glass of orange juice, watching the liquid bubble for a few moments, then flatten. A plate of waffles Aliza had made him remains untouched on the coffee table. The professor is on the couch next to him, a blotch of nervous sweat under each armpit. They’ve been talking the last five minutes, since the professor got back. “You promised me Hank would come through,” Sean says with hostility. “You promised dammit.” He twists in his seat, too anxious to stay still, then points at the window. “I would’ve been on the ground in Zurich right now with it in my hand if everything went like you said it would.”

“I couldn’t have predicted he would’ve dropped off the planet like this. It’s...bizarre.”

“Why did he?”

He sighs. “Nobody can be certain.” He scratches an itch on his right thigh with his elbow. “When I went there this morning, to his house, and had a chance to speak to his wife, all she said is that he went on a fishing trip.”

“A fishing trip?”

“It appears fabricated, I realize. I never heard him mention fishing once in the two years I’ve been a colleague of his. As if she was under...instructions from him to lie. Odd. The whole thing.” He dips and shakes his bald head. “I just don’t understand it.”

Sean takes a deep breath, right leg pumping from stress. “Who else then at the school if not Hank?”

“He runs the department. Anyone would have to go through him. SoCal Tech won’t be our best route.” He offers him a reassuring nod. “I have contacts at other universities. I’ll call every one of them.”

Sean glances at the clock on the TV cable box. “Another place? That’ll waste time. We’re a couple blocks from SoCal Tech now. We’re more or less positive he has the chemicals. How couldn’t you convince him to just give them to me?” He bangs his fist on the coffee table, plate and glass shaking.

“Calm down.” His hand on Sean’s forearm, the professor gestures at the waffles, top one on its side from the vibration. “Have your breakfast. You haven’t had a bite.”

“I’m not hungry.” He pulls his arm free. “I said it a million times.” Silence for a while.

“This...the thing with Hank...it...it wasn’t the news I was hoping to come back with—”

“That makes two of us,” Sean says, right leg pumping again.

“You’re not making it easy for me. Let’s...let’s think about how we’re going to change course here and try—”

“I don’t have time to change course dammit.” He stands, jeans drooping a bit, his waist thinner from not eating much all week. “I need the stuff now,” he says, jabbing his finger in the air at the professor.

“Sean. Calm down. This isn’t helping anything. You’re flustered after getting that voicemail. Please.”

The kid stomps into the kitchen, clenches a gas-bill envelope from the counter and a pen. He returns to the living room, presses the envelope against the wall and starts scribbling on the back. “Here’s the name of the hospital in Zurich,” he says, still writing. “And her room number. Call her up. Ask her how she’s doing. Listen to her voice. Listen to how scared she is.” He smacks the paper on the table. “I heard it the other day. I know what it sounds like. Listen to it for just a word.” He holds up his index finger. “And then look me in the eye and tell me I should calm down.”

“Sean—”

“One word,” he says, swinging his arm, knocking his juice glass and syrupy plate on the floor, staining the rug with a blend of orange and brown liquid. He storms toward the front door and rips it open.

Blowing in his hands, he crosses the lawn onto the blacktop, a fog hanging over Pasadena. He roams the streets for a while, going nowhere in particular, wrestling with his brain. The last two days his thoughts have taken on the sensation of physical weight, feeling to him almost like small metal coins clunking around his skull, trying to fit into slots.

A bit later he’s on line in a coffee shop, craving some sort of stimulant, hoping it can help get his mind straight. “What would you like sir?” the girl at the counter asks.

“Large coffee. Black.”

“Room for milk?”

“No. Black.” He glares at her. “I just said that.”

“I’m sorry, I missed it. One ninety-five.” He hands her two singles and she sets a nickel down, but he doesn’t even notice it. “We have a fresh pot brewing. It’ll be just a few minutes.”

He moves to the side and gazes out the window at the misty parking lot, a young mother yelling at her child on the way to their car, a van trying to squeeze into a compact spot, two elderly ladies getting out of a long Cadillac. “Sean?” a loud voice asks. He spins around, his old friend Kyle standing at the back of the line, eighteen now, UCLA sweatshirt on, shocked expression. “Sean Malone?” Splitting from the row of customers, Kyle approaches. “Is that you?”

Sean glances at him, then the floor, then him. Rubbing the back of his neck, he nods. “Yeah,” he says, wishing they could’ve reunited at a better time, not wanting to chitchat now. “What’s up man?”

“No. No way.” Kyle wraps his arms around him. “Holy shit. I thought you were dead.” People peek at them, word “dead” drawing some attention.

“No,” Sean says in a spiritless tone. “Not dead.”

“What the hell happened to you? I thought you got killed in a car crash?”

“It’s a...long story.” Sean surveys him. He looks different, face longer than it used to be, hair still black and pin-straight but much shorter. He soaks in this new appearance for a while, then darts his eyes around the coffeehouse with suspicion, calculating the probability anyone else inside recognizes him, then the probability of one of them talking about it, then the probability of the FBI coming across the information. He starts to regret leaving the house.

“I want to hear the whole story,” Kyle says with eagerness. “Holy shit.” He slaps his palm on his forehead. “I can’t believe this is happening.”

“Sir, your coffee,” the attendant says to Sean, placing a paper cup on the counter, viewing him now with some intrigue after overhearing he was presumed dead.

He grabs it, has some, and wanting to avoid the public, says to his old buddy, “Let’s go outside man. Come on.” The coffee was too hot to drink. He needed a break from Kyle’s intense stare, the beverage his only available distraction, a sip making sense just a moment ago. The roof of his mouth is burnt.

Running his tongue over the sore spot, he walks across the place and out the door. He sinks to a curb, Kyle joining a foot to his right. The fog has gotten thicker, clouding their view of each other even twelve inches apart. Kyle peers through it at the ghost, still amazed by all this, and says, “Dude you’re blowing my mind.”

Sean forces a chuckle, attempting to come off as empathetic to Kyle’s astounded state, but his emotions are too numb for much of a conversation. He ponders Kyle’s physical changes. He’d visualized him a bunch of times in Italy, wondered what he was up to back in the States. In all thoughts he’d appeared different than he does now, taller than he was at fourteen but with the same face shape and hair. Sean finds it strange to think he’d been envisioning something not real all those times, even if just small details.

He has some coffee, trying to shield his mouth burn with his tongue as he swallows, then says, “It’s good to see you.”

“It’s great to see you too. You should’ve heard the rumors around town, dude. A few people thought the car-accident thing sounded fake. They said you were really abducted by aliens. You know, to harness your brainpower. A few kids even said they saw it happening. Light coming from the ship and beaming you up. I didn’t buy it.” He shrugs. “I didn’t know what to think.”