Russell Andrews - Aphrodite

"I'm sorry for being so ignorant, but where does the Nobel Prize come in exactly, if he owns a company that churns out antihistamines?"

"They do a little bit more than that. Among other things, KranMar holds the patent on several of the drugs that best combat anthrax. It's one of the reasons their stock has gone up so much while everything else is tanking. But more relevant, Kransten spent a fortune over the years- his own fortune in addition to KranMar resources-to map the human genome. He's been one the leading backers of research in that area. Also stem-cell and almost all cell regeneration research. I've made a lot of money, thanks to Doug Kransten."

Justin glanced down, tapped the glossy cover of the report his father had tossed to him. "This is for Kransten's company?"

"Actually, it's for his wife's company. It's an old one, but it's interesting. I dug it out of my files upstairs."

"Can I go back to something? Did you just call him Doug Kransten a little while ago?"

"Yes, I know him, Justin. You've met him too, although you won't remember. About fifteen years ago, when Louise Marshall, his wife, was taking her company public. They both came up here for the dog and pony show, to raise money. They came to the house for lunch afterward. You must have been home from Princeton."

Justin indicated the report. "What's so interesting about it?"

"You pay no attention to your financial holdings, do you?"

"No."

"Just because we haven't spoken, your stock portfolio hasn't disappeared."

"I haven't touched it since I left here."

"It's disgraceful," Jonathan said. "The waste. The money that should have been made…"

"Can we please not discuss my lifestyle choices," Justin said, "and stick to the matter at hand."

Jonathan nodded, took another moment to calm himself down. "If you had been paying attention, you'd know that you own a decent amount of Louise Marshall's company. Well, you used to. Since Douglas took it over five or six years ago and they merged, it was converted and you now own KranMar."

"I own stock in Kransten's company?"

"Quite a bit. I was fairly prescient when I bought it for you."

"What's his wife's end? What does her company do?"

"Beauty products. She isn't exactly the Lauders, but she isn't so far behind."

"And what's the connection you think you've found, Father, between this report and everything I described earlier?"

"An obsession."

"I'm listening."

"What is the point of using the kinds of products that Louise Marshall developed?"

"You tell me, please."

"To beautify. To eradicate wrinkles and stop hair from turning gray. To create the illusion of youth."

"Or, rather," Lizbeth Westwood added quietly, "to extend that illusion as long as possible."

Justin watched his mother lightly trace her finger over the lines in her own cheek. "The men in the old-age homes," he said. "Bill Miller wasn't an illusion. Neither was Lewis Granger." He stood up, letting the financial report drop to the carpet. He spoke faster now. His voice got louder. "I know what you're saying. I've been thinking the same thing. I couldn't bring myself to say it out loud earlier because it defies all logic-it's like science fiction-but if they've come up with a way to actually extend life, get people to live to a hundred or more, what's the point of keeping it secret? It doesn't make sense. My God, what would it be worth to the company? How many billions?"

"My guess is that Roger will have a precise financial answer for you once he's made all these connections. But the answer will be staggering."

"Then why not make it public? The stock price alone-"

"I don't know," Jonathan Westwood told his son. "But if there is a reason-if there is some secret that has to be kept-it sounds like a secret that's worth killing for, don't you think?"

Justin didn't answer. The look on his face settled into something grim and determined. "Will you do me one more favor, Dad?" he said.

"What would you like?" Jonathan Westwood asked.

"Sell the goddamn stock," Justin told him. "Just sell that goddamn stock." Leonard Rollins tried calling Wanda Chinkle at home. When he got her answering machine, he tried her at the office. Wanda did not have much of a personal life; her existence revolved around the Bureau. She was capable of working at her desk until midnight, he knew. He made a mental note to himself that, in the future, he should always call her at work first.

Wanda's phone was answered by one of the bright young agents she'd recruited. Rollins didn't know which one he was talking to, but it didn't matter. All of Wanda's recruits were good. Dedicated, clever, loyal. So when he asked to speak to Agent in Charge Chinkle and was told that she wasn't in, Rollins didn't hesitate to tell the young man why he was calling.

"You've heard about the manhunt that's on for Justin Westwood?" Rollins asked. The agent told him he had. "He's from Providence and his family's still there. It's a long shot, but there's a chance Westwood will return home. If other avenues are cut off from him, it just might happen. It's a bit of a cliche, but people do it all the time. Tell Agent Chin-kle I'd like her to assign someone to watch Westwood's father's house. Just in case."

"I think she's already on the case, sir," the young agent said.

"How so?"

"She was up in Providence today. At the Westwoods'. She told me she used to work with the son. The one we're looking for."

"Yes. They were quite friendly."

"That's what she told me, sir. She was pretty upset by all this."

"I bet she was." Rollins stayed silent. "Is there a particular message you want me to give her, sir?"

"No," Rollins said, after another pause. "Just tell her I'd like an agent in place as soon as possible."

AD Rollins hung up the phone. Drummed his fingers on his desk for several seconds, then picked the phone back up and dialed. It only took a couple more minutes for someone at the Bureau's twenty-four-hour in-house travel agency to book his flight to Providence for first thing in the morning. Justin's eyes were closed, although he was nowhere near falling asleep, when he heard the faint creak of the bedroom door opening, heard the quiet padding of footsteps, and felt the mattress dip slightly. He didn't open his eyes until he felt her arms slip around him and her body curl against his under the sheet.

"I feel like I'm back in high school," Deena said.

"You must have gone to some high school." He raised his right arm, and used it to pull her closer to him. "I talked to my parents. They'll take Kenny and watch out for her."

"Jay, are you sure it's the right thing to do?"

"I know you don't like leaving her. But you're a danger to her right now. I can't quite make the connections-I haven't put everything together yet-but I'm getting close. And I know that whoever's after you isn't going to let Kenny walk away if she's nearby."

Deena nodded, accepting what he was saying. "When do we leave here?"

"Tomorrow morning."

"And where are we going?"

"It depends on the answers we get."

"You look exhausted," she whispered. He shrugged, not disagreeing, and she said, "Do you want me to let you sleep?"

"Yes," he told her. And he let her lift the sheet away, start to move out of the bed. Then he grabbed her wrist, pulled her back beside him. "I meant eventually," he said. "But not quite yet."

Roger Mallone was the first one to finish his initial assignment. He showed up at the Westwoods' front door at 7:15 a.m. Everyone in the household was awake when Mallone burst in, carrying two large briefcases.

He opened them, let several enormous stacks of papers, pamphlets, and files spill out onto the long side table in the entryway. "It's everything you ever want to know about Douglas Kransten," he said. "Can I have a cup of coffee? I've been up all night and I am tired."