Blood Brothers (43 page)

Gunnar looked at her grimly. “He’s your husband.”

“Not for long!” she shot back. “After what he’s done to me, nobody can expect me to turn my life upside down for him.”

“You’re right, Gwen,” Anne said coolly. “Nobody would expect that from you.”

Gwen opened her mouth, then shut it and pressed her lips into a hard red line. She turned and walked out without saying another word.

A moment later, the door opened and the neurologist poked his head in. “Should we reschedule?” he asked tentatively.

“Give us a couple more minutes,” said Gunnar.

When they were alone again, Anne asked, “What do you want to do?”

“Maybe she can leave him in one of those places and sleep at night, but I can’t.” Lines of anger and frustration furrowed his granite face. “Maybe he deserves it, but I’m not going to do it. No matter what he’s done, he’s still my brother and . . .” His voice trailed off and he looked up at his wife. “Have you seen him?”

She shook her head.

“I did. The day before I was discharged, I was taking a walk around the hospital and I went past his room. The door was open. I didn’t go in, but I could see him. He was sitting in his bed and a nurse was feeding him something—applesauce, I think.”

He paused and looked out the window with unseeing eyes. “We can’t afford to hire a full-time nurse for him and keep him in that Gold Coast apartment, not after he burned up ninety percent of our net worth. That doesn’t leave us a lot of options.” He paused and looked up at her again. “What do you think about putting him in the downstairs guest bedroom, at least until we can find a decent place for him?”

“He can stay as long as he needs to,” replied Anne. She bent down and kissed him. “And I want you to know how proud of you I am right now.”

He shrugged. “He’s my brother.”

She kissed him again. “I’ll tell the doctors we’re ready for them.”

E
PILOGUE

Fall passed into winter and winter into spring. At UCLA, these distinctions marked changes in the academic and athletic calendars, but not the weather. After the disruptions and stress following David’s death, Kim’s life fell into the rhythms of student life she knew so well. It was her senior year, and she was a seasoned veteran at picking classes and professors to ensure the grades expected by the top medical schools. A new wave of freshmen in her sorority needed mentors, and she and a friend adopted a few who showed interest in a premed track. She sent in her med-school applications and, in due course, was accepted into two of her top three choices, including UCLA.

She occasionally searched Google News for reports on developments at Bjornsen Pharmaceuticals, but she didn’t talk to anyone from the company, until one day in April, when she received a call from Dr. Tina Corrigan. “Hi, Kim. I thought I’d call and touch base with you. You probably heard that there were some pretty dramatic developments after you left at the end of the summer.”

“I did. I read about the fire and Mr. Bjornsen and everything. I was really shocked.”

“We all were,” replied Dr. Corrigan. “I’d known him for over ten years, and I never would have guessed he would do something like that. I left work one day and came back the next morning to find the company gone. It looked like a bomb had gone off.”

“I saw a picture on the Internet,” said Kim. “I couldn’t believe it was the same place. So, what happened to everybody?”

“Well, Dr. Reddy disappeared on a one-way flight back to India as soon as the police asked to interview him. I heard a rumor that he’s working at a plastic-surgery clinic in Bollywood.”

Kim rolled her eyes. “Why am I not surprised?”

“By the way, I’m very sorry about what happened with David Lee,” continued Dr. Corrigan in a more serious voice. “If I’d had any idea that someone on my staff was distributing unauthorized doses of Neurostim—or any drug—I would have stopped it immediately.”

“I know,” replied Kim. “Don’t worry about it.” She fidgeted uncomfortably with her hair as she spoke and moved the conversation away from the topic of David and Neurostim. “How about the rest of the lab? Where did people land? Where did you land?”

“A lot of people scattered, but the core R&D group moved to Abbott. They bought Bjornsen Pharmaceuticals’ assets out of bankruptcy, and they signed a consulting agreement with Gunnar Bjornsen. He convinced them to hire us as a team.”

“That’s great! How are you liking it there?”

“It’s wonderful. They have more resources than we could ever afford at Bjornsen, and the people are first-rate. In fact, I have an opening for a lab tech, and I think you’d be a perfect fit. You’d be doing a lot of the same work you did so well last summer, but you’d have more responsibilities. I know you’re planning on med school next year, but most schools will let you defer for a year or two, and this would look good on your résumé. I think it would be a good move for you.”

Kim remembered the sticky-hot weather, bugs, and homesickness of last summer. “Thanks, I’ll think about it,” she said. But she knew she would say no.

A moment later, she realized that this would be the first time in her life she had ever rejected the advice of someone she respected. It made her feel grown-up in an undefined but significant way.

Noelle had spent the day using her event-planning skills to help Elena and Sergei with last-minute wedding decisions, like how to configure the seating at the reception, where the table with the wedding cake should go, and so on. Elena was an admirably low-stress bride, and Sergei wisely avoided expressing any opinions on wedding-planning matters, but there had been a lot to do, and Noelle was tired by the time she pulled into the garage.

She walked in to find Ben and Eric on the family-room floor, watching
SportsCenter
on ESPN with exactly the same vacant expression on their faces. “What are you doing?” she asked.

Neither of them looked at her. “We’re practicing sitting,” Ben replied. “It’s on the skill chart.”

“
His
skill chart,” pointed out Noelle. “You’ve got the sitting skill nailed.”

“Thanks. That’s why I’m modeling the behavior for him.”

“Why don’t you turn off the TV and play with his phonics toys while you practice sitting? I think you’re both advanced enough to multitask.”

“Okay,” Ben said, raising his eyebrows skeptically as he reached for the toy box. “But if I get overstimulated and start to fuss, you’d better be ready with a bottle.”

She laughed. “I’ll go get one now.” She went into the kitchen and came back a few minutes later with a freshly opened bottle of Chardonnay and two glasses.
SportsCenter
was still on, but Ben was playing with Eric, so she didn’t complain.

“Thank you,” Ben said as she filled a glass and handed it to him. “By the way, Emily Marshall called while you were out. She said they were starting a new campaign and she thought you could really help them out if you had the time. I told her that I didn’t think you did, but that I’d pass along the message.”

Noelle had been expecting this. Emily had worked to rebuild their relationship over the past couple of months. She had sent Eric a cute outfit and had called several times to chat and fill Noelle in on the latest happenings at the Field. It made perfect sense: Gwen was no longer rich and had left town to take a job with a fashion magazine in New York, so why not bring Noelle back into the fold? She was a hard worker and a good organizer. Besides, Noelle sensed that Emily really did like her in a way. Noelle had forgiven Emily, but she had no interest in working with her again. She had different priorities now.

“Yeah, between Eric, the office, and volunteering at the women’s shelter, I don’t have much extra time for one of Emily’s projects.”

“You sure?” replied Ben with a wink. “She said to let you know that Jacqui Gossard would be involved.”

“Well, if Jacqui’s involved, I’m sure Emily can get by without me, but I’ll try to let her down easy.”

The morning sun rested on the rim of the world, casting infinitely long shadows across the blue-gray waters of Lake Michigan. A light, cold wind raised small waves that thrummed rhythmically against the side of Gunnar’s Boston Whaler as he and Karl trolled for coho and chinook salmon.

Gunnar sat in the back of the boat with one hand on the outboard motor and the other holding an insulated mug of steaming coffee. He watched a sonar display as he took the boat back and forth in long, slow sweeps a mile from shore. Karl sat in the middle of the boat, gripping his seat tightly with both hands to keep his balance as the boat gently rocked. Several fishing rods stuck out from the boat at different angles near each brother. Each rod was baited with a different type of lure and set to run at a different depth.

The tip of a rod near Karl twitched and then bent sharply. “Karl, you’ve got one!” Gunnar called. He resisted the urge to grab the rod and set the hook as Karl reached for it with agonizing slowness.

Karl gripped the rod by its long cork handle and, after several tries, managed to get it out of the short metal tube that held it in place. He braced himself with his feet and began to reel with awkward, jerky movements. His face was a mask of concentration and strain, and the muscles of his whole body bunched and tensed. He began to sweat despite the cool dawn breeze. But he kept reeling.

Gunnar watched silently with a mixture of pity and admiration. Five months ago, Karl’s doctors had been convinced that he would never walk without a wheeled walker, but now he could get by with only a cane on all but the roughest surfaces. They had thought that he would be unable to speak again, but he had learned to force the complex muscles of his mouth and throat to obey his commands and now was able to carry on a conversation, though he was occasionally hard to understand. More recently, his neurologist and physical therapist had expressed doubt that he would ever regain the degree of fine-motor control necessary to fish, yet he was well on the way to achieving that goal. Gunnar was glad that his brother hadn’t decided that now would be a good time to start driving again.

The most amazing recovery of all had been the slow but steady return of the spirited relationship between the two brothers. In light of his medical condition and the small chance that he would reoffend, Karl had avoided both jail time and extradition to Russia, which was belatedly investigating Cleverlad’s activities and the death of Pyotr Korovin. But Karl had not been able to avoid massive fines and liabilities to Bjornsen Pharmaceuticals’ bankruptcy estate. He had lost everything and was still deeply in debt. He had no place to go—but Gunnar was somewhat surprised to realize that he didn’t want his brother to go anywhere. He enjoyed retelling old stories over coffee, playing chess in front of the fire, and now being out on the water in the early-morning chill. Gunnar smiled. It was good to be fishing with his brother again.

After fifteen long minutes, Karl managed to bring the fish alongside the boat. Gunnar deftly scooped it up with a net, and Karl sat back, exhausted and panting. Gunnar detached the lure from the fish’s mouth and dropped the salmon into an ice-filled cooler, where it would stay until it was filleted and grilled for a family dinner that evening. He tossed the lure into the lake, and Karl let out line until it was at the appropriate depth and distance from the boat. “Thanksh,” he said.

“Don’t mention it,” replied Gunnar. “That’s a good fish.”

“Haf . . . hafta mention it,” Karl said. “Thanksh . . . for everythin’.”

Gunnar nodded gravely. “You’re welcome.”

Karl set the drag on the reel and carefully set the rod back in its holder. “Shtill one thin’ . . . You never ob . . . obey the judgmen’.”

Gunnar cocked his head to the side in confusion. “What do you mean?”

“Never tol’ me how to grow the plansh.”

“Oh, that’s right. Well, there’s no harm in telling you now. The secret is that the seeds have to travel through the digestive tract of an elephant before they will sprout,” Gunnar said. “Asian elephants work best,” he added matter-of-factly.

Karl blinked. “How didja . . . ?”

“How did I know that?”

“Yeah.”

“I remembered a Discovery Channel program about a tree species on a remote island where dodos used to live. The trees were slowly dying off, and scientists on the island had no idea why. Then one of them realized that there were no trees younger than the year dodos became extinct, so he guessed that dodos had eaten the seedpods and that the seeds needed to go through a dodo’s stomach to sprout. He fed some seeds to a turkey and, lo and behold, the seeds that came out the other end of the turkey sprouted. Something about the chemicals in a turkey’s gut flipped a switch in the seeds and made them grow.”

“But elephansh in Norway? Don’ remember ’em from hishtry clash. An’ don’ remember
nors’
dodos either.”

Gunnar smiled slyly and held up a finger. “But you remember Norwegian mammoths, don’t you?”

Karl’s eyebrows went up. “Mammosh,” he repeated. “You shaid the plansh’d live long, long time . . . Always won’ered ’bout that.”

Gunnar nodded. “There are pines still living in the desert mountains of California that go back to the time of the last mammoths. I did some research and found out that plants in extreme climates often have long life spans. The mammoth theory also explained why the plants slowly went extinct even though Norway’s mountain ecosystems had been basically undisturbed since the end of the last ice age. In the right conditions, our berserker plants could live for thousands of years, but not forever. So I decided to give it a go. Nothing else we tried had worked, and I was starting to get desperate. We had donated a lot to Brookfield Zoo, so I was able to persuade them to put two of the seedpods in an elephant’s food. One of the seeds sprouted, and we were on our way.”

Karl began to shake, and for a moment Gunnar worried that he might be choking. “Sho . . . sho,” he forced out, “when you tol’ me you were doin’ ‘off-shite reshearsh,’ you were at the zoo lookin’ for sheedsh wi’ plashic glovesh an’ . . . an’ . . .”

“And an old pair of hip waders,” finished Gunnar.