The Immortalist (18 page)

“And would I have to let you to call me Cricket, then?”

He could have punched her in the face. He glared at her, speechless, his hands clenched at his sides.
Don't let her get to you.
She's playing a game of her own
. “You're not taking this seriously, Dr. Rensselaer-Wright. I'm quite in earnest. The profits from the Methuselah Vector will be incalculable.”

“I don't want any profits from the Methuselah Vector. It's my opinion—as it was my father's opinion, also—that the Methuselah Vector, once it is proven safe, should be given freely to the world.”

Niedermann forced a laugh. “Dr. Gifford said the same thing at one time. You'd be surprised how quickly you can change your mind once you see the size of the check.”

She pressed close to him, so close that for a second he thought he might actually have won her over. But her voice was ice-cold. “Frankly, Mr. Niedermann, any check from you wouldn't be worth the paper it's written on. You're trying to bribe me by offering to betray Charles Gifford, cutting into his patent rights, in order to get me to persuade him to help you betray your employer, Phillip Eden. No thank you. Even if I did have any influence over Charles—which I don't—I wouldn't help you.”

Cricket's smooth, bronzed throat—so close to him, so delicate—almost begged to be strangled. “You're making a very costly mistake,” Niedermann warned, straining not to give in to her provocation.

“Actually, I think I'm avoiding one. Now, if you'll excuse me, I still have a virus to track down.”

She slipped her face mask back in place and hastened into the lab, female smugness in every step. Niedermann stood fuming in disbelief.
The stupid little bitch!
What had he asked from her but a few words of persuasion? Words that would have cost her nothing. Of course, ten percent of Eden Pharm would have been extravagant—impractical, even. That was just bait. But once he came to power he would have made sure she got something. It would have been well worth her while.

She would regret this decision. She had underestimated him. There was more than one way to play this game. If you didn't want to be the bat, you could be the ball.

He still had a hold on Charles Gifford—a hold that was stronger than sex. Stronger than money. Stronger than power or fame. In fact, right about now, it was the most powerful, most important thing in the world.

A tiny little thing. A invisibly small string of a couple hundred thousand base pairs of DNA. And it tied him and Charles together more firmly than a ring of iron.

The Methuselah Vector.

Four

MRS. WALLS, THAT
OLD SOURPUSS WITH
bobbed, gray hair and gray suit, who looked like a refugee from some ancient, black-and-white world before color was even invented, jumped out of her seat and raced to the door with all the speed of a panicky, gray turtle.

“You can't go in there. He's just finished a TV interview and he—”

“He'll see me, Mrs. Walls. It's important,” said Emmy, the locomotive of a train that included Chucky Carlson and his sister, Bonnie, all joined hand in hand the way Yolanda had taught them. In this contest between the momentum of youth and the rigidity of old age, old age didn't stand a chance. Emmy flung open the door and charged into the book-lined sanctum of Dr. Charles Gifford, MD, PhD.

“Uncle Charles, you've got to help me.”

Gifford, holding a phone to one ear, motioned for Emmy to come in. As Mrs. Walls beat a slow-motion retreat, Emmy plopped down into the big, high-backed chair to wait out the call. Chucky and Bonnie gravitated to Hannibal, who lay in a patch of sun on the carpet. Hannibal didn't so much as flick an ear as they began pawing over him.

Emmy loved this room—not because of the musty, old books, but because of the fine portrait of Doreen Gifford that hung over the fireplace. It was as though Doreen were alive. Emmy hadn't always appreciated her. Doreen had died when Emmy was twelve and just learning to take notice of womanly beauty, and for a couple of years before that the old woman had gotten a kind a funny look because of that disease she had. But this painting showed her in her prime. Emmy was certain Doreen must have been one of the most beautiful women in the world, like that actress in the movie
Casablanca
.

Uncle Charles's phone call went on forever. “I understand, Dr. Niles, that you have to meet with the JCAHO committee, but this is an emergency. I'm afraid that tomorrow afternoon may be too late. Can't you find a way to reschedule? . . . All right, I understand. . . . Perhaps you could at least review the clinical findings? The contact person here would be Sandra Rensselaer-Wright. . . . Yes,
that
Sandra Rensselaer-Wright. . . .Yes, yes, I know she's one of the best, but . . . Please, could you just look into it, and let me know what you think? . . . Okay, thanks.” Finally, with an exasperated sigh, Uncle Charles slammed down the receiver.

“My mom's causing problems, right?”

“It's just a doctor from Massachusetts General Hospital, in Boston. I want him to give us a second opinion about Yolanda. We're all worried about her.”

“What has she got?”

“Your mother thinks it could be something like ebola.”

“Ebola?” Emmy laughed incredulously. “If it is, Mom probably gave it to her. I mean, isn't that some kind of African disease?”

Uncle Charles looked impatient. “What can I do for you, Emmy?”

“Can I move into Weiszacker House for a few days?”

“For heaven's sake, why?”

“Because my mom's trying to take me away to Atlanta and I'm absolutely not going there.”

“Strong words, Emmy.”

“I'm serious, Uncle Charles. I'm not some kind of psycho loner who can just pack up and move to the other end of the country. I have friends.” Emmy raised her hands in exasperation. “I'm about to start senior year. She couldn't screw me up worse than to make me start all over for senior year.”

Emmy heard an annoying grating sound and glanced to see Bonnie dragging a stainless-steel bowl of dog food across the floor to a spot in front of Hannibal's face. Hannibal opened his eyes halfway, but seemed otherwise as bored as a dog could be.

Uncle Charles folded his hands with his index fingers touching his lips. “What did you have in mind?”

“Hide me.”

“Here?” He chuckled. “You're not just a box of jewelry. You'd be awfully tough to hide.”

“Just until she gives up and goes away. Please?”

“Why don't you just tell the divorce-court judge that you want to stay with your father?”

“ 'Cause Mom's got Dad over a barrel. That car accident. Plus . . . plus . . . it's like he's still in love with her. He couldn't say no to her if his life depended on it.”

“What's between you and your mother, anyway?”

“It's not that I hate her. There are even things I admire about her. But she turned her back on me and Dad. She has no right to come in and take over my life.”

“You know, Emmy, we all make mistakes. But love is pretty hardy. If the roots are intact, it can often grow back.” Gifford paused and leaned back in his chair and folded his hands again. Only this time, instead of putting his fingers to his lips, he tapped them against each other, thinking hard. “Hmmm. There may be an option you haven't thought about, Emmy.”

“What's that?”

“Suppose your mother didn't go back to Atlanta. Suppose she made a decision to stay here.”

Emmy's blue-lidded eyes widened. “Get out of here! Are you serious?”

Gifford nodded. “Yes, I offered her a job. It's not definite that she'll take it. In fact, I think she's a little angry with me right now. But that would solve your problem, wouldn't it?”

Emmy bolted from her chair and threw her arms around Gifford's neck. “Oh, Uncle Charles! Thank you, thank you, thank you!”

“Now, now. I said it wasn't a done deal.” He chuckled. “But you've given me an idea. Maybe if I talked your father into joining our side—”

“Do it now, please. Please, Uncle Charles. Dad's in the cove right now, working on the
Bay Dreamer
.”

“Okay, okay.” Gifford twisted his neck to catch a breath of air.

At last Emmy let her arms slip from him. Her face was radiant. “I guess we'd better go.” Bonnie and Chuck were on the floor, petting Hannibal. “Come on, guys. I have some cookies and milk back at my place.”

Bonnie put on a whiny face. “I want to go home. Where's my mommy?”

“She's not feeling well, Bumblebee. She has, like, a bad cold and doesn't want you to catch it.”

“I won't catch it. I promise.”

Emmy smelled the nasty organ-meat smell of dog food and looked down at the bowl in front of Hannibal's nose. It was completely full. “Now, what's this doing here?”

“The doggy feels bad, too. If he eats, he'll feel better.”

“Well, someone's gonna trip on it,” Emmy said, reaching for the bowl.

Suddenly, the jaws of an enormous bear trap seemed to spring shut on her wrist—and just as quickly let go. Drawing back her hand, she saw Hannibal's black eyes squinting at her malevolently, as he retracted his lips to display row upon row of white, saw-blade teeth. A low growl simmered in his throat.

“He bit me!” Emmy screamed. Blood was dripping from her hand, as copious as the tears that streamed over her cheeks. She cried over the blood, the pain, and the betrayal all at once.

Uncle Charles flew out of his chair. “Mrs. Walls! Mrs. Walls!” he shouted. The old woman had already been drawn to the scene by Emmy's scream. “Get these children out of here.” He interposed himself between Emmy and Hannibal, who sat growling, his ears tipped back and his neck arched as if he were about to spring forward. As soon as Bonnie and Chuck were out of the room, Gifford angrily kicked the bowl against the wall and pointed to the far corner. “Hannibal! Go!”

Hannibal stood up and edged crabwise toward the corner—head down, muzzle pointed at the floor, but slanting his eyes to keep Emmy and Uncle Charles in view. When he reached the corner, he lay down, breathed heavily a few times, and then rolled over onto his side.

“Why did he do that?” wailed Emmy.

“I don't know. He's never . . . He was fine this morning.”

Emmy held up her hand, causing the blood to trickle to her elbow, but keeping it off her blue-and-white polka-dot sundress.

“Let me see that,” said Gifford. Emmy herself couldn't bear to look. “Here, let's rinse it.” He led her to his small lavatory and ran a stream of cold water over her hand. “Can you wiggle your fingers?”

Emmy tried. “It hurts.”

“I don't think anything's broken. But the skin's lacerated. You might need a stitch or two.”

“More stitches!” said Emmy. “I'm going to look like Frankenstein.”

“A very lovely Miss Frankenstein. The way you wear your stitches, young lady, they might start to become fashionable.”

Gifford's calm manner took her mind off the blood and pain, and she ventured a wan smile.

Gifford shut off the faucet and blotted Emmy's hand dry with a towel. From the medicine cabinet, he took a roll of clean gauze and started to wrap it around Emmy's fingers. “I'll just cover it lightly for now. You need to go down to the infirmary and have them dress this properly.”

Emmy held up her throbbing hand and anxiously inspected the gauze wrapping. She was relieved to see no blood soaking through. “You won't forget to talk to Dad, will you?”

Uncle Charles extended his hand toward the door. “I'll go and see him this very minute.”

Five

AS GIFFORD STEPPED
ONTO THE PLANK
pier at Wabanaki Cove, the glare of the afternoon sun seemed to pierce all the way to the back of his head. He was still in shock about Yolanda. She should have been doing better by now. He couldn't get over the feeling that Cricket had missed something.