Mephistopheles now called in his marker?
He wanted to ask but the vibration and the noise made his brain feel like it was in a blender.
'Do you understand what I'm saying?' Bartlett went on. 'Do you want to be part of the most exciting development in the history of medicine? Well, this is your chance. There is a majestic experiment under way. But now we know it's not for the fainthearted. The question is, do you want to live life or just write about it?'
'I think it's time I heard the whole story,' Stone said finally, forcing out the words. 'What's your part in this 'experiment'?'
'I've put everything at risk, but now I'm
Stone suspected the question was rhetorical. He was already up to his neck in whatever was going on. He just didn’t yet know how
He knew that some of the buzz about stem cells involved the fantasy that someday they might be used to forestall the aging process. Responsible researchers all said that they weren't trying to extend life; they were only hoping to make a normal lifetime more livable. Rejuvenative medicine. Winston Bartlett, however, had just taken stem cell potential to its obvious conclusion; he was talking about doing what others did not dare. Regenerative medicine.
'What would we give to be able to look forward to thousands of mornings like this, ending it all only when we chose?' he declared his hands sweeping over the dense green beneath them. 'Time would become something that merely flows endlessly through us, ever renewing. So-called old age would cease to exist, at least for those with the courage to take the necessary risks.'
Now they were moving above the pine forests that comprised the outer ring of the Greater New York suburbs, as below them the green wilds of New Jersey, north of the GW Bridge, were sweeping by.
A few minutes later, he looked down and saw a wide clearing in the trees and a red-tile roof. They had arrived but from the air, the Dorian Institute gave no clue to the momentous research going on inside.
Bartlett said nothing as they began their descent, and in moments they were settling onto the rooftop landing pad. The downdraft from the rotor cleared away a few soggy leaves, which had somehow blown there, and then the Japanese pilot cut the power and the sound died away. When Bartlett opened the side door, the first thing Stone noticed was the fresh, forest-scented morning air against his face.
He found himself wondering whether the roar of the engine had disturbed the patients, but that was almost beside the point. The Dorian Institute was not, he now realized, merely about using stem cell technology to heal the sick. Bartlett had been letting him know that it was also about an experiment that was much, much more profound.
In the silence that followed, Bartlett stepped onto the pad and lit a thin, filtered cigar. (For somebody who’d just been talking about how long it was possible to live, the act confounded credulity.) He took a deep drag, then tossed it onto the paving and peered back through the opening.
'Are you able to walk yet?'
'I think I can manage,' Stone said. He actually wasn't sure at all. The vibrations of the chopper had done serious damage to his sense of equilibrium.
But he did find he could take small steps. As they moved to the stairwell leading down to the third-floor elevator, Bartlett said, 'I know you've been here once before. You tried to sneak in. Grant saw you and sent you packing. Well, this time you're here for real. The full experience. We're going to start by taking you down to the lab and checking you in.'
The man, Stone suspected, was trying to hide everything that was going on in his mind. He wanted to talk about grandiose themes, but his mind was really somewhere else. Beneath all the braggadocio, there was the smell of deep, abiding fear. Winston Bartlett was in some kind of major denial.
'You know, life has been good to me,' Bartlett declared as though thinking out loud. 'I've done and seen things most mortals can only dream of. I'm sixty-seven, but I feel as though I've only just begun to live. And that's what I intend to happen.' He turned back to Stone. 'Whether I have a son to share this with remains to be seen.'
A son? Stone glanced back at the man Bartlett had called Ken, who was now shutting down the McDonnell Douglas. Maybe he was a surrogate son for Bartlett. He was clearly a lot more than a bodyguard. He’d been the one who nabbed Kristen and returned her to the reservation. So what did
Winston Bartlett already had a surfeit of sons.
When they walked through the door and into the hallway of the third floor, it was milling with the breakfast crowd, nurses and patients, but no one took any special notice of Winston Bartlett, the man who had made it all possible. Did they even know who he was? Stone wondered.
'We're going downstairs.' Bartlett directed him toward the elevator. 'I'm still offering you a choice. You can be part of the biggest medical advance in human history, or you can be just another impediment.'
Stone glanced at his watch. The hour was just shy of nine.
As they headed down, he felt like it was a descent into some pit of no return. Winston Bartlett had not elaborated on what awaited down there. It was as though he couldn't bring himself to face whatever it really was.
What was the worst-case scenario at this point?
What he had to do was figure that out and then plan a countermove.
Chapter 32
There are sounds of doors opening and closing, with whispered words that are like alien hisses. She senses she is in motion, on a bed that is gliding past powerful overhead lights.
She doesn't know where she is, but that doesn't matter, because wherever it was, she knows it surely is a dream.
All she remembers is that Karl Van de Vliet had told her he wants her to undergo a second procedure with the telomerase enzyme, which possibly might create sufficient antibodies to reverse. . It's all a jumble now in her mind.
Or had she just dreamed all that? Now her life seems a flowing river that has no beginning and no end. Her mind is drifting, a cork bobbing helplessly in the current.
Then her brother, Grant, drifts alongside her. At least she thinks it's Grant. She recognizes his voice.
'Ally, can you hear me?' he seems to be asking. 'Is there anything you want to tell me? Do you still want to go through with this?'
It's the kind of dream where she can hear things around her, but when she tries to speak, no sounds will come. Instead, she's talking inside her head.
'I can still try to get you out, but you have to help. I waited for you last night but you never came.'
She wants to say,
Now the lighting changes and she feels like she is falling. No, she realizes, she's just on an elevator.
'Talk to me, Ally,' whispers the voice one last time. 'I can try to stop them, but I have to know what you
