When they passed signs for the Interstate to Pennsylvania, Brett asked, "Where're we going?"
"Upstate New York," Roger said.
"Who's there?"
"Nobody, I hope. But there's a safehouse we used to live in," and he told Brett about the cottage on Black Eagle Lake. "Think you could handle living in the woods for a few weeks?"
"Sure. It'd be like going to camp."
Brett was putting things in a good light, as if this were some backwoods adventure. And Roger drew some encouragement from that. Brett was at an age when he was expected to assume some responsibility for their fate. Likewise, his opinion and strength of purpose mattered.
Unconsciously Roger fingered the tube around his neck.
The religious loonies had called him the Antichrist. At first he had been humored by the absurd accusation, but as he drove on it struck him how those claims made some kind of sense. Rather than new life, every human and animal he had touched with Elixir had suffered afflictions that were almost biblical.
They passed through Ohio and the northwest corner of Pennsylvania and into the western end of New York state.
While Brett slept through the night, Laura dozed fitfully or just gazed numbly out the window. She said very little.
Roger had thought about stopping at a motel for the night, but that was too risky. Besides, he wouldn't have slept, given the news.
According to the radio, anti-government protests were growing everywhere. People were demanding the White House come clean with the coverup. Others wanted Elixir released to the public. Meanwhile, a siege had taken place at the U.S. embassy in Cairo by fundamentalists. Some people were dead and hostages were being held by a group of men who had declared a holy war against the U.S. for "genetic imperialism." And Roger was its evil leader.
But his demonization did not stop there. Jewish cabalists to Christian millennialists saw Elixir as a sign that the Messiah would descend and wind things up. To some, Roger was simply a neutral harbinger. To others he was the devil incarnate.
There were other stories. One was a followup report about the murder/suicide tragedy in Prairie. Roger tried to turn it off, but Laura heard it and stopped him. She had been hoping against hope that it was somebody else's tragedy.
"We now have confirmed reports that the victims were a middle-age divorced couple, Theodore Kaminsky, age sixty-three, and his wife, Jennifer, age fifty. Jennifer Kaminsky is the sister of Wendy Bacon, alias Laura Glover, wife of biologist Christopher Bacon who…" The announcer went on to explain the bizarre twist that linked the crime scene to them.
But what summoned a gasp from Laura was the end of the report.
"…As reported, there was a third victim who had died later at County Memorial Hospital, but authorities have still not been able to determine the age or identity because of unusual condition of the victim's body. According to Prairie police, it appeared to be a very elderly woman dressed in children's clothing."
"Oh, God!"
"What happened?" Brett asked, waking up. Laura looked toward Roger, her face bloodless. She tried to talk but couldn't.
"A news report about Jenny," Roger explained. Then he took a deep breath. "What Mom didn't tell you was that Jenny had given the stuff to her daughter to keep her a child."
"What? How come?"
"I'm not sure, but I guess she felt like a failure with Kelly. Whatever, when Abigail died she must have aged."
"You mean she turned really old?"
"Yes."
"Is that right, Mom?"
But she didn't answer him. "Pull over," she said to Roger. "I want you to pull over."
They were on a country road of farms. It was mid-morning and traffic was sparse, and a cold rain fell. "Why?"
"I want you to take what you need, and dump the rest. Please."
She had that wild, desperate look in her eye that for a moment made Roger think he was looking at Jenny.
"Mom, calm down."
"Stop here."
"Laura, I think we better talk this over first."
"Roger, I beg you. Take what you need and destroy the rest."
"And what will that do?"
"It will spare others." Her voice was oddly flat, her manner controlled. But he knew she was at the edge, that if he refused her she would crack. "There's a clearing there," she pointed.
Roger pulled onto a soft shoulder by a field of corn.
"Let's talk this over," he said.
"There's nothing to talk over."
He knew what she was thinking: The substance had killed everything in her life. The world was threatening to explode. She wanted it eliminated. She didn't care how he did it-dump it off the next bridge, smash the vials with a rock. She just wanted the stuff to be gone from existence.
At the moment, Roger cared nothing about the world or even going on indefinitely any more. What was certain was that he could not ask her to hole up for a few weeks in the cabin. Either she would go mad or take Brett to the police herself.
He stared through windshield, the only sound filling the car was that of the rain pattering dismally on the roof. He thought for a moment.
"Okay, but give me twenty-four hours. Then I'll get rid of it. I promise, no matter what. You can do it yourself."
She turned her head toward him. "Twenty-four hours? Who knows where we'll be in twenty-four hours, or who might get hold of it?" She took his arm. "Roger, please do this for me." Her eyes were pooled with tears again. "Please."
"Give me a moment," he said and from his jacket he pulled out the cell phone and a portable tape recorder from the glove compartment. When he was properly connected, he called Information in Washington, D.C. When he got that, he said, "The White House, please."
"What are you doing?" Laura asked.
"Cutting a deal."
"What kind of a deal? What are you talking about?"
"Trust me."
Laura looked at him blankly.
"Dad, don't do anything dumb."
"I've already done that."
Several transfers later and minutes of waiting for a live operator, he announced who he was and asked to speak to the president.
"I'm sorry, the president is busy. If you would like to leave a message, one of his aides will get back to you." She said that as if common citizens called all the time to be put through to the Oval Office.
"Listen to me," he growled. "This is Roger Glover, formerly Christopher Bacon, aka Jesus or Satan depending upon your spiritual persuasion. If you don't recognize the name, turn on your goddamn television."
There was a long pause. Then, "One moment, please."
Two more transfers and he was switched to man who claimed to be the Deputy Chief of White House Security and who asked, "Why exactly do you want to speak to the president, Mr. Glover?"
Exasperated, Roger said: "Because he's the biggest man in the world, and I have the biggest drug in the world. Now do you want to continue haggling, or should I call AARP?"
Two more clicks, and another long wait, then Roger heard the familiar voice. And his heart jogged in his chest.
"This is John Markarian."
Roger nodded to say he got through.
While Laura just stared at him in numbed disbelief, Brett's eyes saucered. "Friggin' cool, Dad," he whispered.
"Mr. President, this is Roger Glover."
"How do I know you're Roger Glover?"
"Because anybody else would have given up trying to get through." To convince him, he outlined some details about Elixir that only the president had been made privy to, including Ross Darby's friendship with Ronald Reagan.