Gary Braver - Elixir

"We've already been through this, Brett," Laura said. "I'm not going to take it. And you're not going to take it. It's unnatural and dangerous, simple as that. End of discussion."

But Roger could hear the turn of Brett's mind. Laura had protested too much. "Brett, listen to me," he said, summoning his best voice of fatherly reason. "If you took it now, you would never get older. You would never fully grow up. You would never age but stay fourteen for good. Is that something you'd really want?"

There was long silence.

"Well?"

"Maybe."

"I don't believe this."

President John Markarian turned up the sound on the TV console in the Oval Office. Tim Reed and two other aides had come in to inform him of the latest. With them was Kenneth Parrish, director of the FBI.

As feared, Elixir rumors had snowballed and were barreling down on the White House like an avalanche. On the screen were videos of laboratory mice and rhesus monkeys.

"What you're seeing are the same animals, just a few weeks apart," the commentator said. "According to former Darby employees, the animals had been treated with Elixir, a secret compound that allegedly had the capacity to prevent aging." The screen split with a BEFORE and AFTER caption under each.

"Sources who had once worked at the Darby labs claim that treated animals on the right had actually rejuvenated over the period."

The split screen gave way to another pair of still photos, that of Christopher Bacon and Roger Glover.

"Speculation holds that Dr. Bacon may have used the serum on himself…"

On the president's desk sat faxes and e-mails from scientists, religious leaders, and government officials from around the world demanding to know if the rumors were true, and, if so, to share the secret with the rest of the human race. There were also entreaties from the heads of AARP frantic for the government to find this Christopher Bacon and his secret of prolonged life.

Everywhere White House disclaimers were rebuffed. One commentator declared the Oval Office might be either the stupidest place in the world or the most deceitful.

The television scene shifted to anti-American rallies in Cairo.

How the hell do people mobilize so rapidly? Markarian wondered.

People were toting signs proclaiming "Death to America" and "Markarian is Saten." And "Elixir is Devel's Potion." "Elixir-American/Israeli Plot." And "ELIXIR: Genetic Imperialism."

"Middle East spokesmen view Elixir as a threat to international peace," the reporter continued. "One diplomat warned of possible military conflict unless the U.S. admits to hording the compound and makes it available to all people…"

The scene shifted to a fiery preacher addressing a congregation from a church pulpit in Baltimore.

"Meanwhile, here at home, religious leaders are calling for calm while others see Elixir as a Pandora's box. In the words of Reverend Colonel Lamar Fisk, the anti-aging drug is a 'hellish violation of the dominion of God.'"

"'Ye know neither the day nor the hour wherein the Lord doth come!'" Fisk shouted. "'And in that hour when the seventh seal is broken the armies of the lord will lay waste the evil that is Babylon…'"

The camera panned devoted followers as they howled and hit the air with fists and sticks.

"Goddamn field day for the nutcakes," Markarian said.

"Except this one's dangerous," said Parrish. "They're Heaven's Gate with fangs."

"Meaning what?" Markarian asked.

"Meaning they're not going to pop suicide pills and wait for the flying saucers to whip them away. This Fisk guy has warlord mentality. He preaches that they'll take an active part in Armageddon. A lot of wham-bam, and while they get beamed up to heaven, the rest of us fry."

"Nice religion."

"What's scary is that he knows guns and preaches violence. He's also charismatic and uses mind control and physical abuse to keep followers in line. He's like Charles Manson and David Koresh rolled in one, except he hasn't broken the law yet. I'm just worried when he does."

"What's the latest on Glover?" the president asked Parrish.

"Every airport, bus terminal, and train station in a four-hundred-mile radius around Eau Claire is covered. Highway patrols have been beefed up. We don't know what they're driving because he seems to have a fleet of vehicles. Or he's stealing one after another. But the local police are checking all leads."

"You mean you haven't got a clue."

"I'm afraid not."

"We're already frying."

Roger did all the driving, kept alert by adrenaline. They ate in the car and stopped only for fuel and rest rooms. He preferred the self-serve stations to avoid attendants.

But there were no self-serves in Fairfield, Iowa, and they were on empty. Roger pulled into a Mobil station. A guy about twenty came out and put in twenty-four dollars worth of gasoline.

It wasn't until it was time to pay that Roger spotted the hand-written sign in the window: "SORRY. No Fifties or Hundreds."

Big bills were all they had left, which meant having to pay by credit card. Roger was not too worried the attendant would recognize him out here between endless corn fields, especially in his disguise. But he had not counted on an overdue balance.

The kid returned from inside to say that payment was denied.

While Brett slept and Laura tried to doze off, Roger got out of the car and returned the card to his wallet then pulled out another.

But as the guy headed back into the station, Roger suddenly realized that the second card was made out to Peter Cohen, while the first said Harry Stork.

If the attendant was alert, he'd catch the discrepancy and wonder why two names. If he reported it, that could prove disastrous since Harry Stork was the name Roger had used as Wally's attorney-a name that was surely in the police network. In fifteen minutes every road within fifty miles would be blockaded.

Roger had about ten seconds before the guy reached the credit card machine.

If he jumped into the car and took off, the kid would pounce on the phone. If he did nothing and the kid caught on, there'd be a flag on the field. Even if the discrepancy were missed, there would be an American Express record of Harry Stork traveling east into Illinois.

Roger dashed into the office and snatched the card from the kid's hand just as he was about to run it through the machine.

"Hold it, but I'm overdue in payments on that too. You know how it is." He flapped a fifty in the kid's face. "I know it's against company policy, but it's all I've got, and it's real." He held the bill up to the light to point out the water mark and the hidden thread. "See? can't duplicate that."

The kid inspected the fifty, then looked at Roger, wondering if that beaming smile was the front of a fast-talking counterfeiter.

"And, I'll tell you what. For being such a good guy, you can keep the change."

"You serious?"

"You betcha."

The kid inspected the bill in the light again, thinking about the twenty-six dollar tip, weighing that against the manager finding a fifty in the till. The tip won.

"Thanks, mister," he said. And Roger was out the door before he could change his mind.

For the next couple miles his insides felt like gelatin. He was losing his grip, he told himself. That was a double slip-up-pulling the wrong card, and not keeping up with account balances. He should have been more careful.

What made it worse was that Roger Glover had now gone the way of Chris Bacon-right to the top of the wanted lists. So had Harry Stork. He was down to three different cards-under three different aliases, different addresses, different birthdates. Christ! He was beginning to wonder who the hell he really was. Peter Cohen? James Hensel? Frank D'Amato?

He rode into the graying light feeling schizophrenic.