Линвуд Баркли - Find You First

His father, a dental surgeon who shared his son’s love of bridges and probably would have felt more fulfilled had he become a structural engineer instead of someone who poked around inside people’s mouths, enjoyed indulging Martin. Whenever possible, when out in the car, they would take a route that included a bridge. One day, his father planned an all-day trip to New York that was built around bridges. They drove over the Queensboro, the Manhattan, the Williamsburg, the George Washington, but when it came to the Brooklyn Bridge, Martin’s dad had a special treat. They parked the car and walked it, starting on the Manhattan side, had lunch in Brooklyn, then walked back, enjoying the view of the Manhattan skyline as it grew closer with every step.

Martin Gold remembered it as the best day of his life.

Throughout the years, wherever he and his wife vacationed, Gold would search out the most interesting bridges. When they went to San Francisco, he walked the Golden Gate. When they went to Australia, not only did he check out the Sydney Harbour Bridge, he did the climb, hooked up safety cables so he could traverse the top span. It was as close as Gold had come to a religious experience.

Gold remembered thinking, at the time , I could die right now .

But he didn’t, of course. He came back to New Rochelle and continued to run his fertility clinic. (His love of bridges had never turned into a career. Bridges were fine as a hobby, his parents said, but his destiny was to become a doctor.) He had managed, at least while in Australia, to forget that there was a metaphorical bridge always hanging over him, a bridge always on the verge of collapse.

It was a terrible thing he’d done, more than twenty years ago. He knew it was wrong. How could he not? But when someone had a hold over you, possessed incredibly damning information, you found yourself capable of unimaginable things. He’d made a god-awful mistake. He’d tried to rationalize his behavior. He’d taken these actions to protect not just himself, but his wife and their young son. If he were to be disgraced, they would be, too. Their lives would be ruined.

So he did what he believed he had to do.

He knew there had to be pictures, maybe even videotapes. If they were sent to his wife, that would be bad enough. Maybe, when she saw him getting it off with a girl who was barely old enough to vote, she’d seek a divorce. And he wouldn’t blame her. A divorce, as horrible as it would be, was something he could ride out. But what if the tapes were made public? Sent anonymously to the state medical board? He’d be ruined professionally. The clinic would be shut down. God, he might even face criminal charges. He’d be lucky to have a job as a Walmart greeter by the time the dust settled.

And as more time passed, it became harder to do the right thing. The noose around his neck tightened.

It had all started from a chance encounter. A grateful couple he’d helped to conceive twin boys had rewarded Gold with dinner at Windows on the World atop the North Tower of the World Trade Center, more than two years before that day that changed the world. They were well connected, these people, and during the meal they spotted one of their idols, whom they knew personally, several tables over.

“Oh,” they’d said to Gold, “you must meet our friend Jeremy.”

And when Jeremy Pritkin learned what Gold did for a living, he took an immediate interest.

Gold had to admit that he’d allowed himself to be dazzled by the man. Jeremy was rich, charismatic, possessed of an overpowering personality. To be taken under his wing, to be considered his friend, to be admitted to the inner sanctum that was that massive brownstone on East Seventieth Street, left Gold spellbound.

When he was behind those doors, it was like being admitted to one’s own private Playboy Club. Dear God, the people Gold met there. Mayors and governors and movie stars. Even the odd royal! About twentieth in line to the throne, but so what?

And of course, there were the girls.

As it turned out, Martin Gold and Jeremy Pritkin had similar tastes. They liked girls on the young side. Oh, they weren’t pedophiles, for God’s sake. Nothing like that. These were not children . These were girls coming into womanhood. Lots of respected, famous men fancied women much younger than themselves. Even a president, for crying out loud. And from everything Gold could tell, these girls — no, let’s be clear about this, these young women — were treated well by his host. From what he’d heard, they were well paid as hostesses, and pretty much guaranteed some sort of future role in the Pritkin organization.

Jeremy had made that very clear to him.

Jeremy was, let’s face it, a big talker. He had a pretty grand impression of himself, and not without reason. He’d already made billions in the business world — this was before he’d sold his company — and as a result of his generous donations to museums and theaters and the like, he was a darling of the arts world. He backed politicians. He was a go-to guest for political talk shows.

Was it little wonder he thought highly of himself? In fact, he confided to Gold one day that he was of superior genetic stock. A kind of superman.

“How do you mean?” asked Gold. He thought, initially, that Jeremy was just kidding around.

“I really need to explain?” Jeremy replied.

At Gold’s encouragement, he listed the reasons. He was, first of all, an above-average physical specimen. He was fit, he had never been sick a day in his life, and he was, by societal standards, exceedingly handsome. But then you added in his astounding intellect, his ability to comprehend complicated issues that left most people perplexed. His IQ was reportedly 179, and as everyone knew, anything over 160 was considered genius. So Jeremy was “genius plus.” He’d put his significant skills to work in the business world.

You put it all together, and he was as close as someone could be to a superman without donning tights and a cape, flying out the window, and letting bullets bounce off his chest.

Jeremy had gone on to say (“Just between us, you understand”) that his voracious sexual appetite and his interest in women — especially younger ones who were, as he described them, “prime breeders” — was nature’s way of urging him to procreate.

“It is, in effect, a force beyond my control,” he had said. “Mother Nature wants me to spread my seed. I am among a select few who have been chosen to better the human race. It’s imperative that I propagate.”

It was, in short, his destiny.

By this point, Gold realized his host was serious. He believed the shit he was saying.

“You’re a good-looking guy, there’s no doubt about it, a regular Marlboro Man,” Gold said, adding a small, nervous laugh.

“I have this idea I’ve been thinking about for a long time, and you’re just the man who could help me with it,” Jeremy said, putting his arm around Gold’s neck and pulling him in close.

Martin Gold was stunned by what Jeremy would propose.

Jeremy wanted Gold, as an expert in fertility medicine and the director of a clinic, to impregnate several women with Pritkin’s sperm. The files, of course, would have to be doctored to show it was someone else’s donation. It would be a long-term experiment. Jeremy’s people would keep tabs on these offspring as they matured to see whether they inherited any of his greatness. Much would depend, of course, on the recipients of his donation. Jeremy stressed that any woman who received his sperm would have to be above average, too. Healthy, attractive, intelligent. While he understood it would be difficult to find female recipients as remarkable as he was, Gold would have to do his best. Pritkin wanted to be clear that there were plenty of women happy to sleep with him, but not necessarily on board with having a child with him. Besides, Pritkin didn’t want the responsibility. What he wanted needed to be done in a scientific, clinical way.