Miracle Man (25 page)

Other than their disdain for Bobby, the demonstrators had little in common. But Bobby’s accomplishments had managed to unite Christian Scientists, Jehovah’s Witnesses, Muslim Fundamentalists, Scientologists and Pentecostalists. But the largest contingent was comprised of an angry looking group, dressed in pseudo-military garb,who were rhythmically shouting, “The Anti-Christ Works Here.” They were members of a radical organization called RASI which was an acronym for Retribution Against Scientific Interference. RASI advocated violent opposition to modern medicine which it believed to be contrary to the ordained natural order of life and God’s divine plan. Over the years, RASI had picketed and defaced research laboratories and pharmaceutical companies.

It was Bobby’s recent double Nobel Prize win that seemed to have changed everything. Prior to that he had been able to maintain a low-key presence at the university and the privacy of his research had not been a problem. There had been some forays from reporters and curiosity seekers but these were sporadic and usually petered out within a few days after the announcement of a discovery or an award. But the weight of the most recent Nobels, on top of the four prior ones, coupled with the worldwide impact of Bobby’s discoveries, had escalated media and public interest to a new level. The limited resources of Tufts’ campus security staff were being overwhelmed. Tufts was now highlighted on all of the Boston tourist maps and was a regular drive-by attraction on the tour-bus schedule, where Tufts was called, “Home of the Miracle Man.”

Dean Walterberg summoned Bobby to his office. As the dean looked outside the windows of his office, he pointed toward the main entrance gates. “Robert, the Trustees and I are very concerned about what’s been going on out there with these demonstrators. Yesterday, ten of those characters scaled
the side-entrance fence, placards and all, and were scouring the campus, questioning students, trying to find you and your lab. They staged a bizarre ceremony in the middle of the commons and blew up a model of the science building with M-80s. The blast shook the windows on half the campus.”

“That’s crazy. I’m really sorry,” said Bobby, his face pale.

Walterberg gazed out his windows onto the campus below. “We’re worried about the safety of the students and the facilities—and quite frankly, we’re worried about you.” Walterberg turned to face Bobby and he looked pained. “These RASI people are potentially very dangerous—they’re on the FBI watch-list. Our security people aren’t equipped to handle this. We’re going to double our guard staff and we’re thinking of barb-wiring the perimeters of the campus. Entirely new security procedures need to be put into effect.”

Bobby shook his head
.
“This campus shouldn’t have to be a fortress.”

“The paparazzi are also out of control,” Walterberg said. “It seems they’re being offered substantial bounties for photographs of you.”

Bobby plopped down into one of the guest chairs and leaned into its sidearm. “ I never wanted to be disruptive or cause a problem. It’s probably going to get worse as time goes on.”

Walterberg pulled over a chair and sat next to him. “Robert, make no mistake. You’re the best thing that has ever happened to this University. We’re so proud to have you here, and quite frankly, your presence has raised our profile and reputation incredibly. We’re now attracting the absolute top rank of students and professors—no school has it over us anymore. And alumni contributions have more than tripled. We’ll do anything and everything to support you.”

“That’s very generous and I appreciate it. But the spotlight isn’t a light that I can work in. And sooner or later, someone’s going to get hurt. I can’t live with knowing that my presence here might do that or get one of your buildings blown up. I hate to say it dean, but the time has come for me to start making arrangements to move to a more private location.”

Bobby and Walterberg crafted the details of the plan going forward. Bobby would continue to be listed as a professor (this was important to Tufts for prestige reasons and would give Bobby a personal income since he took no salary from his research foundation), but he would be newly denominated as a non-resident professor emeritus. It would be publicly announced that Bobby would no longer work on campus. Bobby would have unlimited access to Tufts’ supercomputers via a remote interface from his new location, and he and his staff would continue to utilize the laboratories in the physical sciences departments and the medical school on an ‘as needed’ basis. Tufts would not object to Bobby’s taking with him whatever Tufts’ lab assistants or other staff he wished, but these people would then be on the foundation’s payroll.

While Bobby knew that he had made the right decision, he was concerned about the logistics of setting up his own research facility. As usual, he turned to Susan.

“I have a little job for you that should provide a nice distraction from your everyday routine. I’ve noticed you’re getting bored,” Bobby said, smiling.

“There’s hardly anything to do around here,” Susan replied, rolling her eyes.

Bobby gestured toward the window. “With all the craziness that’s been going on out there, we have to leave Tufts as soon as possible and set-up our own facility. We need to find a place that’s private, remote and secluded—but not far from Boston. And we need to get it up and running pronto.”

Susan’s eyes narrowed as she looked at Bobby. “I’m concerned by the way you’re using the word ‘we.’ Why are you telling me this? It’s just information, right?”

Bobby smiled. “No, my dear— you’re in charge. You’re going to make it happen.”

Susan’s voice rose as her words came tumbling out. “Are you kidding me? I don’t recall ‘lab relocator’ in my job description. What makes you think I can do it? It’s a huge job.”

Bobby walked over to her and put his hand on her shoulder. “And that’s the beautiful thing about your job. It’s constantly evolving because I have unlimited faith in your abilities. Our time frame is ninety days to find the space and get in there. You can do it, Susan. You’re like that stubborn little train in the children’s story that gets to the top of the mountain by saying, ‘I think I can, I think I can.’”

“Thanks for that. I’m like a fat locomotive.”

Bobby laughed, “I didn’t say fat.”

Susan groaned. “Why is your belief in me always so convenient for you?”

As he sat down at his desk and turned his attention to his computer, Bobby smiled and said, “I love you Susan. Thank you.”

Susan combed the Multiple Listing Service on the internet for real estate offerings in communities within a thirty mile radius of Tufts. After much investigation, she came to the conclusion that Bobby’s marching orders—- a secluded, private and remote location—- meant that a residential property was needed, as commercial properties were invariably situated on main roads that are easily accessible and visible to the public. After searching for two weeks, she came across the following listing:

Beverly, Mass—prestigious Prides Crossing area—“fixer upper” with great potential; 8 acres fenced and gated, large single story house. Priced for quick sale by estate.

Susan called the broker and made an appointment to see the property. As Susan drove around with her, she was encouraged by the difficulty the broker had finding the house. Once off the main road, they got lost in a labyrinth of
twisting private roads that were inadequately marked, lanes going nowhere, dead ends and cul de sacs. The vehicle’s GPS was of no help. Finally, after two calls to the broker’s office for directions, they pulled the
black BMW up to a nameless dirt road, wide enough for one vehicle to pass at a time. The only sign was one that said “No Trespassing Violators Will Be Prosecuted.” The broker ignored the sign and turned into the road which rambled in a seemingly aimless fashion. After driving
a quarter mile, the road led them to a set of very tall metal electronic gates that were distinctly non-residential in appearance. There was no address number, mail box or other identification. Two signs were posted. One said, “Private Property” and the other said, “Guard Dogs On Patrol.” Security cameras were mounted on tall posts next to the gates, and there was a “call box” for visitors to request admission.

“The person who built this place was a security freak,” said the broker. “The entire property is fenced in with a twelve foot high commercial grade chain link fence.”

“What was the owner afraid of?” Susan asked.

“The executor of his estate told us he was a Russian gentleman in the import/export business. He wanted to keep out any wildlife that might eat his vegetable and flower gardens.”

“A
naturalist,” said Susan as she rolled her eyes.

The broker pressed a remote control device which opened the gates. “Don’t worry, the patrol dogs are gone now.”

After two minutes of driving, the forest gave way to the cleared land, and it started to become evident why the house was called a ‘fixer-upper.’ The expansive lawns were near dead and the shrubbery around the house was so overgrown that it looked like nature was reclaiming the building.

“As you can see, the lawn’s irrigation system hasn’t been working for some time, and a good garden clean-up and trim is necessary,” the broker said.

“You think?” Susan raised her eyebrows.

The house was a very large single-story stucco structure that was built in a 1980s architectural style that can only be described as “early bomb shelter.” The building looked remarkably like a military bunker. All of the corners of the building, and the entrance façade, were broadly rounded in much the same way as the concrete “pill-box” fortifications overlooking the beaches of Normandy.

As Susan looked at the building’s peeling paint and other signs of neglect, she smiled. “Exactly how large is this monstrosity?”

The broker’s brow furrowed. “Actually, there’s more demand than you might think for this particular architectural style. Some people seek this out.”

“Do they bring their orderlies from the sanitarium or are they allowed to come alone?”

The broker ignored the crack and said, “The house is approximately 7000 square feet, not counting the guest house which is 1500 square feet.” She motioned toward another section of the property, and Susan could see that quite a distance from the main house, there was a much smaller bunker that stood guard over what appeared to be disheveled rose gardens.

Opening the front door, the broker said, “You’ll see that the house has good bones. All it needs is a little TLC.”

“Did you say DDT?”

The interior looked as if it hadn’t been painted in twenty-five years. The hard wood floors were badly damaged and there were large water stains on at least ten different areas of the ceiling.

It was obvious to Susan that the house could easily be converted into a satisfactory research facility. There also was a huge basement that could be utilized and the guest house too held promise. Susan said to the broker, “As God awful ugly as this place is, it just might work for my boss. So what’s the price?”

“It’s listed for $1.8 million,” the broker replied.

“What’s the real price?”

“The land alone is worth that.”

Susan’s belly laugh was convincing. “Not in this neighborhood— with its four acre zoning and wetland habitat restrictions. And if someone just wants this place for the land, they’ll have to pay plenty just to ball and chain this architectural abortion and cart away the debris.”

“If you’re not interested, we can just move on. There are other properties I can show you that may be more to your liking.”

“How long has it been on the market?”

“Nine months. Originally it was listed for $2.1 million.”

“I think I can get authorization for $1.1 million. It would be an all-cash deal.”

“That’s ridiculous. The estate will never accept that.”

“Ask them. You and I both know this place can easily sit on the shelf for another two years, and by then it will look even worse. Sell it before the termites carry it away.”

After another two weeks of haggling, a deal was struck at $1.375 million, with a closing to take place in fifteen days. Conversion and repair work was set to begin within two weeks after the closing. Bobby was elated.

Within four months after Bobby’s foundation purchased the property, he and his staff of eight assistants were ready to move in. The interior of the house had been converted into a computer research lab. Between the equipment there and the remote interface to the Tufts computer lab, Bobby had an extraordinary amount of computing power at his disposal. Installing science or medical labs would have been far too costly, so he’d continue to use those at Tufts. For security reasons, the Prides Crossing property had no exterior identification, signs, address or mail delivery, and none of the construction contractors or crew knew who the occupants would be.

Late in the evening of the first day on which the lab became operational, only Susan and Bobby remained on the premises. Bobby sat in front of a bank of three computer key-boards running equipment tests. Susan interrupted him and asked for help with something in the reception area.

After repeated prodding, she prevailed upon him to go with her. “An adjustment is needed,” she said, as she pulled over a tall ladder that was standing in the room and climbed it. “Now hold the ladder steady and don’t look up my dress.”

“You’re wearing pants,” Bobby said.

“I know, but I always wanted to say that.”

Standing atop the ladder, Susan tugged hard on a tarp that Bobby thought was covering a light fixture in the process of being installed. When the tarp fell to the floor, a sign was revealed — The Joseph Manzini Research Laboratory. Bobby beamed. He lifted Susan down from the ladder and hugged her as he twirled her around.

Laughing she said, “Tarzan, put me down before you rupture yourself. Now be honest. Was I being presumptuous with the name? I wanted it to be a surprise gift for you.”

“It’s fantastic. It makes me feel like Joe will be here with us. And it’s a lot better than the name I was thinking of.”

“And what was that?”

“The Alamo.”