Gary Braver - Elixir
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Table of Contents
A special thanks goes out to the following people for providing me with medical and other technical information.
From Northeastern Universitys College of Pharmacy and Allied Health Profession: Robert F. Raffauf, Barbara L. Waszczak, Carol Warner, Robert N. Hanson, Richard C. Deth, Wendy Smith, and Susan Sexton. Also, William J. DeAngelis, Department of Philosophy, and James R. Stellar, Department of Psychology.
Thanks also to Dr. John Neumeyer and Dr. William White of Research Biochemicals International; Mark Froimowitz, Pharm-Eco Laboratories, Inc.; David Lee-Parritz, New England Regional Primate Research Center; Dr. Changiz Geula of Beth Israel Hospital, Laboratory for Neurodegenerative and Aging Research; Ellen Kearns, Special Agent, Federal Bureau of Investigation, Boston; David Sturges, Professor of Economics, Colgate College; and Kenneth Van Cott, Director of the Pharmacy, Brattleboro Memorial Hospital.
I am greatly indebted to How and Why We Age , by Leonard Hayflick, Ph.D. (Ballantine Books, NY, 1994) whose own research with human cell tissues has been incorporated into this story.
A special thanks to William Martin, Charles ONeill, Barbara Shapiro, Christopher Keane, Kathryn Goodfellow, and Alice Janjigian for their good suggestions. Also, to my terrific editor at Tor Books, Natalia Aponte.
A final word of appreciation to Susan Crawford who has always been more than an agent and who stood by me all the way.
MADISON, WISCONSIN
SEVEN YEARS LATER
SEVEN YEARS LATER
B retts body burned as he pumped the last two miles of the bike path that took him around the southern shore of Lake Mendota.
It was a splendid April afternoon. The sun was high and the air sultry, and a gentle breeze swept off the lake, churning the tender new leaves of the trees along the path. It was a wonderful day to be alivethe kind of day that should last forever.
He had been in lab since eight that morning, antsy to feel his muscles hum. He completed the last test around two, changed into his helmet and tights, and took to his wheels. He felt so good that he added an eight-mile detour to the usual thirty-five-mile ride.
At twenty-one years of age, Brett Glover was in peak physical condition. He had kept up with wrestling right through Pierson Prep, making UW varsity in his freshman year. His senior season ended with a 24-and-2 record and a defeat of last years champ from Michigan State at the MWC Conference last month. With the season now over, he kept in shape on the bike and inline skates. He had to because the rest of his days were spent in class or labs.
Occasionally Carolyn would join him on a ride, though he usually did these fast runs by himself. Carolyn, a senior psyche major, was his girlfriend of two years. Next year, they would be staying on for grad schoolshe in clinical, he in biochem like his dad. They talked about getting a place together, but it was just talk, because Brett wasnt sure he was ready for cohabitation. He liked his privacy.
On the southeastern stretch of the path, the slant of the sun on thewater made him think of that other cold-water lake a thousand miles from here.
His fathers death had left avoid in Bretts life that could not be filled. It was something he had over the years learned to live with, falling back on the memories that at times would relieve the pangs of sadness.
He could still see his father lying beside him in his room, hear him reading about Jack getting the best of the giant. He could still recall them playing catch in the yard, jogging around the Pierson track, running Town Day races, practicing wrestling moves, doing school projects togetherimages as warm as yesterdays sunshine.
He could still hear Roger explain to the press that he wasnt immortal. That he didnt have X-ray vision. That he couldnt heal the sick or raise the dead.
He could still hear the explosion that left a gaping hole on the bridge and in his soul.
He could still hear his mother sobbing. She had endured so much in that awful week. They all had.
He steered off the path and over to Lake Street, then cut across the library mall to State.
Students milled about, thinking about finals and papers and summer vacation.
For a long time people had asked him about Roger:
If that hadnt happened on the bridge, would he have gone on forever?
Why didnt he make a run for it? He could have made it. The cameras had caught the whole thing. He seemed to have just waited for the end, as if he knew.
Did his dad ever tell him the formula? And was it true that all you needed to make the stuff was a couple drops?
And, of course: Did he have a supply buried someplace?
What Brett could answer he did so vaguely. After seven years, the spell had brokenas in fairy tales. Eventually people stopped wondering, accepting the conclusion that the worlds only fountain of youth had been destroyed in a monstrous moment that had claimed his father.
Likewise, nothing more was heard of Antoine Ducharme and his associates, who were convicted of complicity in murder and sabotage and sentenced to life without parole.
Bretts mother was back in Eau Claire and writing. Her pen name was Wendy Bacon, but everybody still called her Laura. She had successfullyfinished the second of her mystery series to good reviews. The third was nearly done. Luckily, Roger had taken out a large life insurance policy, leaving them enough money so she could write full time. Besides, at sixty-three, she was not a hot commodity in the job market, as she said.
Six years ago, they had received a letter addressed to Roger from a missionary in a village in Papua New Guinea. Sadly, his old friend Iwati had been killed in the eruption of the ancient Omafeki volcano the year before. Destroyed, too, was the small lake island and the only known locale where grew the tabukari orchid with the odd scent of apples and rotted flesh. No age had been given for Iwati. But Brett had an idea.
He peddled down Johnson Street to his apartment.
Later Carolyn would drop over, and because it was Saturday theyd probably have some wine and pizza and watch a video. Maybe Blade Runner again.
He carried the bike upstairs. He was hot and sweaty and looking forward to a long shower.
But before that, he headed to the kitchen and pulled a quart of grapefruit juice from the fridge and downed half while staring at the photo of Carolyn magneted to the freezer door. She was dressed in a bridesmaid gown at a friends wedding, looking as fresh and beautiful as the gardenias in her hair. She was the first woman he had ever loved. The first woman he felt comfortable confiding in. The first woman he thought about spending the rest of his life with. Carolyn knew everything about him.
Or almost everything.
He pulled open the freezer door. From behind the stack of veggie burgers and pints of frozen yogurt, he removed the little white plastic box, furry with frost.
The ice seal melted in his hand and snapped open.
It still looked the same after all these yearsstill chained and encased in gold. He could almost feel the heat of the fire as his hand shot in to pull it free.
He flicked open the end and removed the glass tube.
Some things didnt change. Like the first time, he held it up to the ceiling lamp and felt a tiny thrill shivered through his loins. The light caught it from behind.
A shaft of frozen eternity, waiting to thaw.
OCTOBER 1986
APRICOT CAY, THE CARIBBEAN
APRICOT CAY, THE CARIBBEAN
Q uentin took a sip of his champagne. My best offer is three million dollars, take it or leave it.
Leave it, said Antoine Ducharme, not missing a beat.
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