The Crystal Child (34 page)

Forrester had no idea how to begin making a reply.  How many of these points did he want to dispute?  None at all.  Nothing was happening here as he had intended. “Perhaps we’re finished then,” he said almost blushing over the awkwardness of his own words.  He rose to leave.

“Yes,” Aaron said, a distinct note of resignation in his voice.  “I’m a bit tired. It’s a strain to stay in touch.”  But as Forrester stepped toward the door, Aaron called to him.  “Kevin.”  Forrester turned back.  Aaron’s tone had been playful, almost dismissive, but now turned urgent.  “We fall from the light.  Our task is to return.  Remember and return.”  Then his head tilted wearily toward his chest and he was silent.

***

Julia walked Forrester back to his room. On the way, neither spoke, but she could feel how shaken Forrester was.  His anger and resentment were palpable.  She knew he did not wish her to see him so agitated, but she kept him company to make sure he did not lose his way.  Outside his door, she said, “I’m sorry, Kevin,  I could have warned you not to come here.  Now what will you do?”

“Lie down on my bed and cry my eyes out.  Is that what you’d like?”

“Please.”

“That stunt with the letter opener … it was a stunt, wasn’t it?”

Her face turned cold.  “I wish he hadn’t done that.”

“I asked if it was a trick of some kind.”

She shook her head.  “He says he can restore whole parts.  He’s offered to show me, but I’ve asked him not to.  I’ve had my fill of wonders and amazements, more than I can deal with.”

Forrester offered her a hard, skeptical look.  “Once — a few years back — I would have taken you seriously.  You were a damned fine doctor.  Now you’re so besotted with this kid, I don’t know what to make of you.  I say it was a trick, and I’m not falling for it.  The whole thing is a carnival act.  I’m going to pack up and get out.  I’d appreciate it if you’d tell what’s his name, the silent one — Eduardo? — to order a car for me pronto.  Tell him I’ll be waiting in the conservatory if I can find my way there.  And tell him to have some drinks set up, anything strong.”

“There’s no rush.  You’re free to spend the night.”

“Oh, am I?  Thanks so much.  Do I get another chance to have dinner with Sophia Loren’s grandmother?  I want out of this squirrel cage as soon as possible.  Look, I took a risk, I made a mistake, I got my teeth kicked in. Time to cut my losses and beat it.”

She watched while he hastily stuffed some clothing into his duffle bag and collected his shaving gear from the bathroom.  As he went through his pockets he came upon the envelope he had taken away from his meeting with Aaron.  “What’s this going to tell me?” he asked.  “Is it another trick?”

She shook her head.  “I think you should throw it away.  It won’t make any sense to you.  Besides it’s not a clean specimen.”

“But it’s all he was willing to give me.”  He flexed the envelope open and peered inside.  “If this really is his blood, there’s not much of it. Did he actually stop an artery?   I’m honestly curious,” he said, slipping  the envelope into an inside pocket.  “With my luck, they’ll confiscate this at the border.”  When he turned, Julia’s expression had shifted from hostile to worried.

“Do you intend to go to the authorities?” she asked.

His face went rigid as he struggled to hold back the angry outburst that wanted to come.  “I have no idea what authorities to go to.  And if I did, I seriously doubt Aaron’s parents would thank me for sending him back home.  I suspect they’re glad to have him off their hands.  Who wants a brat like that around the house?  In any case, I’m not a snitch.  I don’t give a flying fuck about the law.  I’m reverting to plan B.”

“Which is?”

“I go home, get back to work, and wait for Julia Stein to come to her senses.  You will, I’m sure.  How long are you going to be able to put up with living in Cloud Cuckooland?  At some point you’re going to need help with Aaron.  He’s undergoing changes nobody understands.  His skin tone for one thing.  I noticed that right away.  Do you have any idea what’s going on?”

“No.  Aaron says it’s nothing to worry about.”

“Oh, Aaron does?  And of course he would know best.  Well, it looks like a serious condition to me.  More important, there’s his sanity.  He’s obviously delusional.  And paranoid.  And schizoid.  I predict you’ll be at the end of your rope sooner than you realize; another six months maximum.  When that happens, call me.”  She returned a blank look, as if she could not imagine doing what he suggested.  “I mean it,” he added, his tone taking on more force.  “Call me if you need anything.  I will come.  I … care.”

She offered him a politely incredulous smile.  “That’s good to know,” she said and turned to leave.

“Julia, wait,” he called after her, his voice taking on a softer tone.  No sooner had she turned than Forrester’s arms were around her, gently but insistently drawing her close.  Her first response was amused curiosity.  Was he actually embracing her?  “Kevin … ” she started to say, but the words were muffled.  His lips were on hers.  One kiss, then another, the second an urgent pressure lasting so long she had to push him away to catch her breath.  When he stepped back, he found her staring at him in amazement.

“Please don’t ask me to apologize,” he said, reaching to hold her close as if he feared she might run off.  “I meant that in a way I don’t want to feel sorry for.  I realize I’ve been acting like an idiot, showing you so much anger.  I wanted you to know I have other feelings for you, because … well, I do.  I always have, all the way back.  That was a clumsy way to show it, but I care what happens to you.  I don’t like seeing you here.  I wish I could talk you into coming back with me — and not for professional reasons.  In fact, I feel like a rat leaving without you.  Aaron isn’t good for you.  He’s … ”

“I appreciate your concern,” she murmured, struggling to keep her composure.  His gesture had been so inept, she wondered if it deserved laughter rather than anger.  As soon as he took his arms away, she decided not to be severe.  It was many years since they had exchanged more than a polite kiss on the cheek when they met, but they were hardly strangers.  There had been a sincerity in his embrace that she wanted to acknowledge.  For as long as she had known him, Forrester had never been able to show warmth gracefully; but she had once loved him in spite of the emotional armor he wore.  On this, the last time she expected to see him, she could not bring herself to show him rejection.  “Please believe me, Kevin. I have nothing to go back to.  I’m where I want to be.”  She drew away, slipping out of his grip, but not before she had given his hand a small, friendly pat that was more condescending than forgiving.

After Julia left, Forrester, torn between despair and outrage, took a quick shower and began packing the clothes he had brought.  He found himself wandering the room, picking up things, putting them down, misplacing items he meant to pack.  He could not remember when he had been so severely disoriented.  But then what did he expect?  His unplanned mission to Aaron had been a mad improvisation from start to finish.  He should not be surprised that he had accomplished nothing except to make a fool of himself.  Bad enough that he was taking back memories of the boy’s face and voice that infuriated him.  It was worse still to recall the kiss he had forced upon Julia.  That left him as embarrassed as a schoolboy.  Yet he did not wholly regret what he had done.  He had been awkward but not insincere.  He meant it when he said she should feel free to turn to him; he fully expected she would have the need.

As he stuffed his belongings into his duffle bag, he came upon the envelope containing Aaron’s blood-stained handkerchief.  How was he to interpret the trick the boy had played with the letter opener?  As convincing as it looked, it must have been a trick.  But was the insult he felt personal or professional?  He could not tell.  There were certainly hard feelings between himself and Aaron.  His ego had been badly bruised by the boy, whom he still could not accept as more than an impudent quiz kid.  His head jangling as he made his way to the conservatory, he realized that he must have lost his way.  The paintings he saw along the corridor were completely unfamiliar.  He turned back and retraced his steps, becoming lost again.  In front of him now were paintings of four streamlined nudes with oval faces and lots of exposed sex.  Forrester was familiar with the artist, but what was his name?  That Italian guy.  He remembered Sylvana telling him at dinner last night that her grandmother or her grand aunt or somebody had been one of the man’s many mistress-models.  So which one was she?  And why should he care?   This was doing nothing to improve the state of his nerves.

Finally, quite by accident, he blundered around a corner and saw the conservatory just ahead of him.  But upon entering, he discovered there were other people in the room, two men conversing quietly.  One was DeLeon, the other a well-dressed man with a neat little moustache.  DeLeon, absorbed in conversation, was filling the room with cigar smoke. Forrester stopped, hoping to ease out of the door before the men looked up.  Having no taste for company, he decided to head for the front entrance where he could wait outside on his own. As he turned, DeLeon spoke from behind him.  “Ah! Dr. Forrester.  I was hoping to see you before you left.  Please, won’t you have a drink?  I trust you had a good meeting with … ”  He pointed upward, mouthing the word “Aaron” as if to keep it secret. “He’s a fascinating fellow, isn’t he?  So enigmatic.”

Forrester studied DeLeon carefully.  He was in no mood to play games. “I’m on my way out of here, DeLeon, and the sooner the better.”

“There’s no need to hurry.  I took the liberty of canceling your car.”

Forrester felt his heart sink.  “Oh?  And why did you do that?”

“So we might have time to talk.”  DeLeon rose and walked toward a wet bar that unfolded out of the rear wall.  Spread across its mirrored top was an impressive array of expensive liquor.  “May I offer you a drink?”

“What right do you have to cancel my car?”

“First of all, it isn’t
your
car, is it?  Secondly, what right do you have to be here at all?  You weren’t invited.” There was now a mean, aggressive undertone to DeLeon’s words.  He was in the process of shedding his mock obsequiousness.

“Am I going to have to walk back to San Lazaro?” Forrester asked.

“Oh, no.  You’d never make it.  I’ll provide a car in good time.  First, I do want to have a decent chat with you.”

“And why should I want to have a chat with you, decent or not?” Forrester half-growled.

“My, we are in a funk, aren’t we?” DeLeon answered, his annoyingly supercilious grin growing still wider.  “Knocked about by Aaron, I gather.  Well, that’s happened to the best of us.”

“I repeat: why should I want to talk to you?”

“Oh, come now, Doctor.  Don’t look so ill-used.  After all the money you’ve cost me, the least you can do is give me an hour of your time.”

“After all the money I’ve cost you?  What in hell does that mean?”

“Do you want this drink or not?” DeLeon asked, nodding toward the bar.

“Yes, I do.  Scotch. Straight, with ice.”  Forrester shrugged and dropped heavily into a chair across from DeLeon.  If his car was not coming, there was no need to hurry.  But he also saw no need to stay especially sober or polite.  He was thinking,
If this guy knew how pissed off I am, he’d tread with care.
   He took the drink DeLeon held out to him and swallowed it down at a gulp.

“Another?” DeLeon asked.

Forrester made a quick evaluation.  Was there any reason he should care about getting at least semi-sloshed?  If DeLeon was providing him with a driver, he had no need to stay sober.  And he certainly felt like tying one on.  “All right,” he said.  DeLeon brought him another drink, a double this time, then watched with a critically arched eyebrow as Forrester drank.  “Say what you’ve got to say,” Forrester snapped as he took another swig.  “And if you expect me to keep you company, you’re going to have to extinguish the stink weed.”  He gestured to the cigar.

“Ah, forgive me,” DeLeon apologized with a sardonic smile. “My home, but of course we’re operating under the protocols of the American Medical Association, aren’t we?  With, I gather, a minor indulgence for alcohol.”  DeLeon stubbed out his cigar and waved the smoke out of the air with an ostentatious flourish. “It has always been my opinion that when and if biotechnology gives us the life span of Lao Tzu — a thousand years I believe — we’ll be able to stop being so puritanical about nicotine, alcohol, and saturated fats — the trinity of physical pleasures.  The damage done by all these delicious vices will simply be engineered out of our genome.  At least that’s what I’m banking on.  Wine, women, song, cigars, well-marbled beef — and eternal youth.”

“That shows how much you know about biotechnology,” Forrester said.  The annoying smile on DeLeon’s face tightened.  “What’s this about costing you money?”  Forrester went on.  “Do you mean my overnight here in this mausoleum?”

“Oh no.  That’s simply ordinary hospitality.  It’s the millions I have in mind.”

“Millions?  What the hell are …”

“That’s why I’ve invited Hugh to sit in with us,” DeLeon said, gesturing toward the other man in the room, who had not said a word to this point.  “Let me introduce you, if I may.  Hugh Spencer, my partner and chief accountant.  I sent for him just after we met at the Institute.  He was able to fly in from Los Angeles last night.”

“Dr. Forrester.  So pleased,” Spencer said, his accent distinctly British, his tone distinctly insincere.  He slid forward in his chair, assumed a half-crouch, and reached across to hold out a hand.  Reluctantly, Forrester took it and offered a limp shake.  Then, without asking, he stepped across to the wet bar and poured another Scotch.  From behind him Spencer said, “Looks as if it’s true.”

“What’s true?” Forrester asked, his back turned.

“Word is you’ve been hitting the bottle rather hard lately.  That can’t be of any help when it comes to clear, logical thinking.”

“Well, fuck you!” Forrester said, turning but hardly raising his voice as he took down the drink at a single swallow.  “What exactly do you think you know about me and why should I care?”

Spencer settled back into his chair and drew a sheaf of papers from a briefcase.  It was a stack of computer printouts.  “Well, let’s see what I do know,” he said as he flipped through the papers he held.  “I had to assemble these on short notice, but I think I have all the salient documents.  GT International.  Assets: $44 million.  Profit growth nearly flat over the past four years.  Negative cash flow since last March.  Revenues last year?  Oh, my.  Less than $250,000 even with the benefit of creative bookkeeping.  Also carrying far too much short-term debt: $65 million.  Not hard to see why we have such a poor P/E ratio.  Well, what can one expect?  Genetic technology has been a consistent bummer for over fifteen years.  A good thing we pumped up the price of your stock at the end of the third quarter.  Not that we can keep doing that.”

Forrester’s eyes went to DeLeon, asking the obvious question.  The man was wearing an irritatingly amused expression.  He raised his hands in a pleading gesture.  “Don’t look to me for clarification,” he said. “I’m a shameful amateur when it comes to the mysteries of finance.  I leave all that to Hugh, who, I’m sad to say, believes biotech is a hopeless white elephant.  Myself, I regard it as an infant industry in need of pampering.  When it pays off, it will make up for all the losses.  Or so I believe.  But then I’m a notorious gambler, known to draw to an inside straight.  Still, GT does cost a pretty penny.  Especially your salary, Dr. Forrester.  Three and a quarter million, plus stock options.”

“And that for a biologist who hasn’t taken out a patent in sixteen years,” Spencer added, his face buried in the papers he held.  Then, looking up:  “The word we’ve picked up is that you’re over the hill, man.  You ought to start thinking about early retirement.  Instead here you are, taking time off the job to go on a wild goose chase looking for the elixir of eternal youth at our expense.  Is that what we’re paying you for?”

Forrester’s listened in amazement.  “Who exactly are you again?” he asked.  He was trying now to hold down the alcoholic fumes that were rising rapidly to his head.

“The man who keeps the books,” Spencer said.  “And who might be on the green at Pebble Beach today if I didn’t have to be here.”

“How do you know all this?” Forrester asked, his curiosity tinged with trepidation.

“Let’s get back to ABC,” Spencer said, his voice taking on a hard, scolding edge.  “GT is owned by BioMed World, am I right?”

“We’re a division of BioMed, that’s right,” Forrester agreed.

“No, you’re not a division of.  You’re a minor subsidiary of.  GT is wholly owned by BioMed.”

“Okay, but my partners and I own the controlling stock in BioMed. Fifty-six percent between us.”

“Wrong. Sorry.  Your partners, Mssrs. Weems and Stanley, have rather exaggerated their holdings.  The three of you own less than twenty percent, considerably less.  The remainder is owned by Rauch, the Swiss pharmaceutical house.  Which in turn is owned by Southern Star Securities of Panama.  Does that come as a surprise?”

“Well, I didn’t know …”

“Here’s another surprise.  We,” he nodded toward DeLeon and then tapped himself on the chest, “are Southern Star Securities.  CEO, CFO.  How do you do — pleased to meet you. In that capacity, we own fourteen companies which, in turn, own about a twenty more.  In turn, nobody owns us.”

Spencer was overwhelming him.  “I never heard of Southern Star Securities.  Why should Doug and Bob deceive me about our holdings?”

“Because they’re petty opportunists and knaves,” Spencer said, curling his lip.  “They want you to believe they’re financial geniuses and that you can trust their expertise.  Which you do, because you know as much about finance as I know about general relativity.  In point of fact, the two of them combined have less business talent than any first-year broker on the street.  But they want you to believe the decisions that get made are made by them.  Like selling off Medical Professionals Inc. last year.”

Forrester strained to recall what he knew about Medical Professionals.  It was not much, one of those transactions he trusted his partners to handle.  “There were good reasons for that move,” he answered feebly.

“Yes, there were,” Spencer shot back. “But neither you nor your partners know what those reasons were, though I daresay Weems and Stanley have come up with something to bamboozle you, knowing that you would believe anything they told you.  In fact, what you got for Medical Professionals served to buy Life Stream Labs.”

“I never heard of that.”

“Your partners spare you these trivial details.”  Spencer rattled off a quick explanation of business transactions — takeovers, public offerings, profits and losses — that left Forrester totally at sea.  Before he had finished the summary, Spencer paused. “You have no head for this, do you, Doctor?  Even totally sober, you’d be out of your depth.  And yet, face it: the pursuit of physiological immortality — that’s the science you’re in, isn’t it? — may once have been the province of the gods.  But it’s become entrepreneurial through and through.  Reborn as biotechnology, it would be going nowhere fast without backers like us.  Man, we all but own you.”

DeLeon seconded the words with a brief nod.  He retrieved his cold cigar from the ashtray, fired it up, and ostentatiously blew a stream of smoke across the room.

Forrester winced, but felt in no position to protest.  Wearily he asked, “So what’s it all about?”

DeLeon eased back in his chair as if he might be about to tell a long story.  “You recall that on our way here I mentioned forming a partnership.  You and me conquering the bastion of immortality.  Perhaps I should have made clear that the partnership already exists.  Once upon a time, I limited myself to the placebo effect.  Life extension was a fad, little more.  I made a fortune exploiting the wishful thinking of gullible clients.  Herbs, potions, elixirs, they were willing to pay anything I asked.  But things have changed.  Longevity has reported in as the real thing — a genetic reality, or so I believe.  We intend to build a lab, the finest in the field.  That’s what Life Stream has: plans for a state-of-the-art research facility.  It has the capital set aside and the blueprints drawn.  The intended location was originally outside of Omaha — which will not do.”

“Oh?  And where would you build the lab?”

“Not sure.  Someplace where the regulatory environment is slack or non-existent.  No nonsense about stem cells or embryos and so forth.  Taiwan might do. Possibly right here in Mexico.  I have people working the problem.  Wherever I build it, it will be the finest laboratory in the world for studying the genetics of eternal youth. I have the personnel picked out.  You, incidentally, have been on the list for some time — as a key administrator.”