The Apothecary's Curse (17 page)

“Would you mind, Dr. Samuelson . . . the morphine—”

“Do you want it turned up? I know you said you wanted it off, but it will help you sleep.”

“No. I still want it off, if you don't mind. Clouds my thinking.” Something didn't add up to Gaelan. They already had plenty of his blood—he was sure of it. “Dr. Samuelson, wait a moment. I do have a question for you. I assume you've taken samples of my blood; why haven't you already run those tests?”

“Have you changed your mind? You've only to sign a simple consent form—”

“No. Sorry.”

“We can't run your blood through a gene sequencer without your permission. . . . Something called informed consent.”

Gaelan nodded. All he wanted to know. At least there was that, and as long as he refused, nothing could be done about it. “Thank you. And I do promise to consider your request,” Gaelan managed with all sincerity.

CHAPTER 20

Simon Bell sat in the hospital café stirring his tea, absently contemplating the swirls of sugar and milk as they merged into the whirlpool of Earl Grey. He sighed, the years of running and evasion—the corrosion of Sophie's endless haranguing—weighing heavily upon him. How had he ended up in this place, years out of his time? A single event—a desperate attempt to help his wife—had careered out of control, its reverberations still echoing nearly two centuries later.

“Excuse me . . . ?”

A young man stood alongside Simon's table, a small wire-bound notebook in his hand. Simon stared down into the tea, pretending not to see him, but the lad seemed not to get the hint.

“Excuse me, but aren't you Anthony Danforth?”

Simon breathed out, relieved. A fan, of course, and not another blogger or reporter aiming to badger him about the Miracle Man. The young man likely recognized him from the book signing. He assumed his best auteur pose. “Yes. I am. And what can I do for you? And, by the way,” he said, nodding toward the notebook, “I never do on-the-fly interviews.”

“Mind if I sit?”

“I do, actually. Just finishing a cup of tea and then . . .” Simon looked up, and the kid was already gone.
Very well, then!

Simon kept one eye on the lad as he took a seat at a crowded table nearby.
Oh, bloody hell.
They were animatedly gesturing toward him as they talked. Simon cringed as he caught bits of the conversation.

“He's that Holmes writer. . . . Saw him at Barnes and Noble the other day. . . . Danforth? . . . Friend of our Miracle Man. . . . A real X-File. . . . We need to get him!”

Taking his cue, Simon left his teacup half-full and escaped back to Gaelan's room.

When he arrived, a flock of nurses hovered over Gaelan. The monitors were issuing frenzied alarms, numbers flashing red as they fussed with tubes and dials. Not a good sign. What had happened in the short fifteen minutes he'd been gone? Finally, they were alone.

“Simon, we need to leave. Now. Where've they put my clothes?”

Simon sat on the bed. He knew that look; Gaelan was at the very thinnest edge of his composure. “They're a ruin. Why? What's going on? What did the doctor say to you?”

“They aim to
study
me, Simon, and I cannot abide that! I fear not only the endless poking and prodding, but what they'd do with the information from it. I'm trying to remain clearheaded about this. I truly am. But I'm near the end of my tether.”

Simon nodded and placed a hand on Gaelan's arm. He understood that fear, which had deep roots for Gaelan beyond his own personal safety. How often had Gaelan wondered aloud—vehemently—about what the powerful and ambitious would undertake with the key to immortality? Simon could not disagree. “Are you fit even to stand on your own feet? I know your internal injuries are much worse than they might appear—”

“I've no bloody idea how fit I am, and it doesn't much matter, does it? I can't stay here. What if—”

“Steady yourself, man. Those monitor numbers start flashing again, and they'll send that army of nurses back in here posthaste.”

Gaelan closed his eyes and exhaled shakily. “Might you lower the head of the bed? My head is swimming—” He handed the bed control to Simon.

One glance at Gaelan, and it was obvious there was no way he'd be leaving the hospital on his own feet. Yes, his injuries appeared to be healed, but Simon knew all too well that the process took its own physical toll. It might be days until Gaelan could walk well enough even to make it to the bathroom without assistance.

Simon tried to reason with him. “Look, as far as I can put together, most everyone is chalking it up to faulty equipment, misdiagnosis, whatever else they can manage to conjure without sounding either too incompetent or bloody off their nut. And with medical confidentiality, etc., the media have little to go on other than anecdotal reports by bystanders. The doctors and nurses won't say a word for fear of a lawsuit. Still, you're a bit of a sensation. Seven million views—impressive.” He smirked.

“Fuck you.” The trace of a grin cracked through the anxiety on Gaelan's face.

“Sorry. But at least I made you smile a little. Can you talk about what happened, or should I let you rest?”

Gaelan shook his head. “No. Stay. And why are you looking so bloody smug, anyway?”

A nurse interrupted, wheeling a computer cart. “Mr. Erceldoune, how are you feeling? Your recovery is so amazing! Everyone's talking about it, like you're some sort of . . . I don't know . . . Superman or something—”

“Indeed. Thank you.”
Now go away.

She glanced at the monitors and typed notes into a computer. “There are a couple of police officers from the Highland Park Police who want to have a word with you. Are you feeling up to it?”

Now what?
“Not really,” Gaelan responded, trying to sound as weak as he could muster. “I'm quite tired—”

“He just has a few questions about your accident. Reports and all.”

Simon stepped in. “Really, could this not wait? My friend—”

“Don't, Simon. Look, I told the doctor already. I recall only fragments, brief flashes, and . . . mightn't we do it tomorrow?”

“Mr. Erceldoune?”

Two young uniformed officers, a male and female, stepped into the room. Gaelan sighed, rubbing his temples. “Look, I'd prefer if we might do this another time and—”

The female officer spoke, her tone sympathetic. “The doc said it was all right to ask you a few questions.” She looked at the nurse and Simon. “Can you two give us a few minutes? Promise it won't be long.”

Police could be a problem. Did Gaelan even have a driving license? Registration for his bike? Papers of any sort?
Damnation!
Of course he did, didn't he?
“I . . . was just leaving,” Simon said. “Anything you want from your flat?”

“Only a set of clothing, if you don't mind.”

Simon left, listening for a moment at the door, hearing nothing but hushed voices.

The two officers sat. “Can you tell us what happened?” asked the male officer.

How many times had he been asked that in the last two hours? He had to be cautious with them. His papers would not stand intense scrutiny. He'd had this identity for the twenty years he'd been in Evanston, but that was before September 11, 2001, when the world became much more treacherous to navigate.

Could they deport him? He waved off visions of immigration officers taking him into custody, like in the movies. Where would they send him? On paper, he had no real identity, only the manufactured life of some poor sod who'd died somewhere in the UK years ago and fit his description well enough. Gaelan Erceldoune no longer existed except as a
nom de guerre
, suitable for a dealer in rare books. “I confess I don't recall much. The road down to the beach was icier than I thought—”

“Thing is, we can't find you in the DMV records—”

“DMV?”
What the fuck was DMV?
Was that where he got his driving license?

The female officer took over the questioning. Good. She seemed less intimidating at least. But maybe that was the plan. “People have all sorts of reasons for giving a false name to a hospital, but we have to get your real name—”

“Yes, well . . . you see Erceldoune . . . it's an old family name from long before I was born. I own Erceldoune's Rare Books and Antiquities on Foster in Evanston. The name seems to fit the shop right enough. My business papers and identification . . . my driving license . . . are all under my
actual
name . . . Cameron Balfour, born Dumfries, Scotland, in the UK.” Gaelan shrugged, hoping it would suffice. No one had been injured but him in the accident, and no damage was caused—he didn't think so, at least. With any luck . . .

Her partner interrupted, much less patient. “Mr. Erceldoune . . . Mr. Balfour—”

Gaelan managed a weak laugh; it sounded genuine enough to his ears. “I generally go by Gaelan Erceldoune . . . easier . . . the business, you know, less confusing—”

“The tox screen indicates residual THC in your blood. Were you driving impaired?”

Gaelan tried to sound indignant. “Not at all, Officers. I would never—” He winced; the pain was real, if fortuitous, as it flared from his abdomen to his lower back. “Forgive me, I had the morphine stopped. . . . I
hate
the thought of drugs in my system. Make me so very foggy,” he managed between gasps. “I—”

“Would you like me to call the nurse for you?”

“Yes, thank you. Look, would you mind terribly if we did this tomorrow? The doctors tell me I've been unconscious for several days—”

The female officer glanced at her partner, and they stood. “We'll be back later this afternoon to get our report. You get some rest, okay?”

“Yes. Thank you, Officers.” A sudden slicing pain left Gaelan nearly breathless. Perhaps disengaging the morphine was not quite so excellent an idea, after all.

First Samuelson and now the police; what was next? Gaelan shuddered at the thought. Was the game finally up after nearly four centuries? What
would
be so terrible about it all coming undone? Here in the twenty-first century with all its amazing technology and advanced science. Perhaps it was time. So what if he was “immortal”?

Research was drawing ever closer to the heart of it, anyway. Nobel prizes, multibillion-dollar corporations cloaked in veneers of scientific pursuit . . . when in truth all they sought was same holy grail pursued by kings and alchemists for millennia. He and Simon were the key to it all; why not finally resign themselves to the inevitable?

Because it is a terrible idea.

LONDON, PRESENT DAY

CHAPTER 21

Anne Shawe, MD, PhD, swore at the walls of the empty borrowed London flat. Tomorrow, she would be on the 7:00 a.m. flight to Southern California and a completely new life: a posting at the Jonas Salk Institute, and just far enough away from Paul Gilles. Ex-fiancé Paul Gilles . . . and his grisly new pet project. And his little blonde tart. The romance—the entire sham of it—was dead long before she'd caught the two of them in flagrante delicto in his flat—in
their
flat. She'd seen too much—knew too much about Paul's work with Transdiff Genomics not to end it anyway.

Anne shivered at the image of Paul scouring the cavernous bowels of the Imperial Museum, cataloging the preserved remains of Bedlam inmates two centuries gone and matching them with the ravings of a lunatic doctor. In the hopes of what? Finding some elusive key to immortality?
Hah!
Who did he think he was? Transdiff was supposedly a topflight genetic research firm, and he wasn't bloody Indiana Jones.

“Let the poor wretches rest in peace,” she told Director Lloyd Hammersmith. “It's akin to grave robbing, and I want no part of it.” She'd been emphatic. But Paul wanted in from the start.
Well, let him have it.

She recalled Shakespeare's epitaph: “Blessed be the man that spares these stones, and cursed be he that moves my bones.” Gilles and Hammersmith were disturbing both stones and bones while salivating over accounts of some long-dead, tortured soul who had the misfortune to be locked away in Bedlam for four and a half years.
Why can't they let him be?

She brushed her teeth, trying to avert her gaze from the red-blotched eyes that stared out from the mirror.
What is black and white and red all over?
How much concealer would it take to eradicate the black smudges, which would undoubtedly deepen from hours of travel and jet lag by the time she got to California? Heathrow to Chicago, a ten-hour layover, and then finally on to San Diego and the institute. Maybe she'd just stay there, basking in the Southern California sun and never return to Transdiff—or Paul Gilles.

Just what she needed and right in her wheelhouse.
Turritopsis nutricula.
Anne had never been more enthusiastic to snuggle up with jellyfish . . . a fascinatingly
immortal
jellyfish. And as far from Dr. Paul Gilles and Transdiff Genomics, Ltd. as possible. Screw that, screw him, and screw the bloody, fucking United Kingdom for spawning wankers like Paul Gilles.