Aphrodite w-3 Page 19

  "I think it's both. There's a certain logic to the experimentation and I know enough never to bet against Kransten. The growth-hormone people maintain that the key to aging lies in the pituitary gland. The theory is that once we're over twenty, the gland begins to slow down, providing decreasing levels of HGH. Human growth hormones. By around age sixty-five, most of us are producing little or none. It's this decline that leads to most of the symptoms that we associate with aging- wrinkled skin, expanding waistlines, less energy and vitality…"

  "So you're developing artificial hormones?"

  "They've been developed for years. It's how menopause is treated, for one example. And a lot of companies aren't just producing growth hormones, they're also producing something that helps the body distribute them. It combats the somatostatin."

  "You've lost me again."

  "The pituitary gland doesn't just produce less HGH as we get older. It produces something called somatostatin. It's a substance that inhibits the gland from distributing even the reduced levels of HGH that are produced."

  "Where does the crackpot stuff come in?"

  "Basically, what's out on the market is a lot of cosmetic bullshit. All you have to do is go on the Internet and look at all the anti-aging sites. They're all selling miracle pills that keep you young. Selling growth hormones is probably already a billion-dollar business."

  "But they don't work?"

  "Marginally at best. They all claim that they'll improve your cardiac condition and lower blood pressure and rejuvenate your kidneys and get rid of wrinkles. It's more marketing than medicine."

  "That's supposed to be illegal."

  "It's not drugs. So it's not regulated. The FDA allows them."

  "And why is KranMar so gung ho on growth hormones?"

  "Because most companies have only been turned on to this in the last decade or so. KranMar's been researching it for thirty years." Ed Marion sighed. "And because most companies really do consider it cosmetic, no matter what they're saying. They'll be happy if it gets rid of a few wrinkles. But KranMar's had some extraordinary results with various experiments."

  "Like Bill Miller?"

  "Yes. Like Bill Miller."

  "And how many others?"

  "I don't know exactly. I only know about my group." When Rollins waved for him to continue, Marion said, "I have nine of them, all in the Northeast. Well, eight now that Miller died. They've all lived to be over a hundred. One of them's a hundred and sixteen years old."

  "How many other groups are there?"

  "I don't know. I think they're regional, so I'd guess five or six others. Maybe a few more than that. We're isolated from each other. For all I know, my group's the only one that's worked."

  "Do you know why KranMar is keeping this so secret?"

  "No. That's what I can't understand. I'd think they'd be trumpeting this all over the world. I told him that once-no, I asked about it once-in a meeting with Kransten."

  "And what was his response?"

  "He said that my job was to do as I was told and that if I asked so much as one more question, I would be replaced. I understood the word 'replaced' to mean a lot more than just being fired."

  "And why do you think he's so afraid of making this public?"

  "I don't know."

  "But you've thought about it."

  "Yes," Marion said. "I've thought about it a lot. If there are people who've been treated who have lived to be over a hundred, there must be other people who have… not lived to be over a hundred."

  "They've killed people?"

  "They've experimented."

  "And people have died."

  "I can only go by the odds. And the nature of experimentation of this sort."

  "Where's Kransten, Ed?"

  "I haven't seen him in months. It's strange. He's dropped out of sight. A lot of the more serious research, particularly in stem cells and growth hormones, is done over in Europe. I know he's got a large number of holdings over there and he spends a lot of time there. But, even for him, he's been relatively invisible."

  "How about Helen Roag?"

  "What about her?"

  "Where is she?"

  "In Boston, I assume."

  "She's gone." When Marion looked genuinely confused, Rollins said, "She hasn't shown up for work. Her family says she's missing."

  "Jesus…" Marion trailed off.

  "Tell me about Aphrodite, Ed."

  "I told you, I only know bits and pieces. It has something to do with Bill Miller and the others and the aging process." Miller twisted his neck as if it had suddenly stiffened up. "It's the code name we use for the program."

  "No good. You know more than that, don't you, Ed?"

  Ed Marion sensed the change in Agent Rollins's voice. It had turned hard. And cold. "Yes," he said. "I do. But I have to keep some things in reserve. I'm not saying anything more about that until I know exactly how I'm being protected. Until I know exactly what's going to happen to me."

  "Fair enough," Rollins said.

  "I've told you enough, haven't I? To get to the next step?"

  "You've definitely gotten to the next step. Why don't we go out and get some food now?"

  Marion was still uneasy. It wasn't just Rollins's voice, it was his eyes now. But then, he thought, that's just the nature of the business. He's FBI, he's a tough guy, he was born with those eyes. So he nodded, got up from the bed, turned his back on Rollins to get the sport jacket he'd hung in the closet.

  As Marion turned around, Rollins pulled a.38 out of his jacket pocket, the silencer already attached. When Marion turned back to face his inquisitor, he saw the gun and he stumbled backward.

  "I don't understand," Ed Marion said. "You work for them? You work for Kransten?"

  Rollins shook his head. "I'm FBI. I'm legit."

  "But…I can help you guys. I know a lot."

  "That's the problem, Ed. You know too damn much."

  "I don't understand," Ed Marion said again, and he realized that he'd just wet himself.

  "I don't always understand myself," Rollins said. "It's a bitch." Then he lifted the.38.

  As Ed Marion lurched for the bathroom, Rollins fired. The noise was sharp but quiet, like a teenage boy playing cops and robbers in his backyard, making a sound effect with his mouth. The first bullet caught Marion in the back of the neck and he fell forward onto the floor. Rollins took two steps over to the body, pointed the gun downward, and fired one more shot, straight into Ed Marion's left temple.

  Rollins didn't bother to check if the man was dead. There was no need to check. He holstered the gun, turned around, and left the motel.

  When he got back in his car, he made two phone calls. Both were to Washington, D.C. The first one was to his direct superior, the man who was only one rung under the director. Rollins reported that his assignment had been completed and that he would provide more details as soon as he was able. He was then told to make the second call, which he did. That one was to the White House, where he gave his name, was put through to his contact in Homefront Security, and answered three quick questions.

  "Yes, sir," was his answer to the man's first question. "He filled in several gaps and provided quite a few details. I'll come to D.C. tomorrow and provide a more thorough briefing." In response to the second question, he said, "No, sir. We don't know where Westwood is at the moment. But I believe we have a way to track him down soon." The answer to question number three was a simple "Yes, sir. As soon as I find him."

  When he hung up the phone, Rollins sat in the car for a few moments, relishing the silence. He thought: Sometimes my job really sucks.

  And then he thought: I'm starting to lose my taste for this.

  As Assistant Director Leonard Rollins of the FBI turned on the ignition and broke the silence, his final thought was: I hope somebody kills Justin Westwood soon so I don't have to do it.

  And then he willed himself to stop thinking.

  22

  "Here are the choices," Justin said. The
y'd been on the road for five minutes. Deena was in the front seat, looking at him with a dubious expression, as if she'd lost some confidence in his decision making. Kendall, on the other hand, had nothing but hero worship in her eyes. Good to know, Justin thought, I haven't lost my touch with the grade-school set. "Boston. Or just outside Boston. Marblehead. It's where Helen Roag is."

  "We just show up there?" Deena asked. "What if she's…" She glanced back at her daughter. "What if she's gone?"

  "You mean dead," Kendall said. "Like Grampy-gramps."

  "Stop calling him Grampy-gramps," Deena said back. "You didn't even know the guy."

  "We can call first," Justin said. "See what we can find out."

  "I'll do it," Kendall volunteered. When Justin grinned at her, she said, "I mean, I was so good the last time."

  "What are the other choices?"

  "New York. We try to get into the Ellis Institute and find out what the hell's going on there."

  "Is there a third one?"

  "I'm sure there is. But I don't have it yet."

  "I vote Boston," Kendall said.

  "And why's that?" Justin asked her.

  "The Red Sox," Deena said. "She loves Pedro Martinez." She glanced over to her right as they passed a gas station. Then she looked back at Kendall. "Honey, do you have to-"

  "Mom," the little girl said sternly. "Do not ask me again if I have to go to the bathroom." She looked up at Justin, embarrassed. "I mean, ladies' room."

  Deena sighed. "I vote for Boston too."

  "Why?" Justin asked.

  "Because it's closer. And New York's scary enough without people trying to…you know."

  "Kill us?" Kendall finished.

  "Nobody's trying to kill us, honey," Deena said. "You mustn't even think something like that."

  "They are too. Aren't they, Jay? Aren't they trying to kill us?"

  He looked helplessly at Deena.

  "If they're not, why are we running?" Kendall asked, insistent.

  "We're not running," Justin said gently. "We're trying to solve a problem."

  "What problem?"

  "Some bad people have done some bad things. We're trying to find out why."

  "Who are they?"

  "We don't exactly know that, either."

  "I think you need some more help from me on this one, Jay. You don't sound like you know too much."

  "Will you do me a favor?" Justin said to the girl.

  "What?"

  "When you're thirteen, will you call me up and remind me to stay away from you for the next six or seven years, because you are going to be some killer pain-in-the-ass teenager."

  Kendall frowned and made a kind of "huh" noise. Then she sat back and pouted.

  They'd been on the road for seventeen minutes. When they'd been driving for twenty-two minutes, Justin flicked around the radio dial until he got to the news. They caught the end of the sports report and a quick traffic update. Then the anchor came on and they heard: "The top story of the hour. A man was found murdered in a Weston, Connecticut, motel room just a few minutes ago, shot twice in the head. He's been identified as Edward Marion, a Weston local. Police have not revealed why he had checked into the motel or if there are any potential suspects. The man's wife has been notified and police say she is not a suspect. We will update this story as more information comes in. We repeat: A local resident was found murdered in a Weston, Connecticut, motel room…"

  Justin turned off the radio. Breathing heavily, he pulled the car off to the shoulder of the highway. The choking sensation was back, the almost unbearable weight on his chest. He sat there until his breath came slowly and easily. Then he waited another few moments until he was sure he could speak without throwing up.

  He turned to the girl in the backseat. "Hand me a cell phone, will you? There's one in my jacket pocket." Kendall passed the phone forward. The expression on Justin's face was all she needed to tell her that she should keep quiet. He punched eleven numbers into the phone, waited until Gary answered at the East End police station.

  "It's Justin," he said.

  "Jesus-" the young cop began.

  "Don't say anything. Just listen. And just answer my questions yes or no. Is Rollins there?"

  "No."

  "Did he go out right after I called?"

  "Yeah. Yes."

  "Did he make any calls after I hung up on him?"

  "Yes."

  "Did he try to contact a local Feebie bureau?" There was no answer. "Gary, I think you're either nodding or shaking your head. That doesn't do me any good."

  "No. I don't think so. I don't know for sure."

  "Did he call in since he's been gone?"

  "Yes."

  "Did you speak to him?"

  "No."

  "He talk to Jimmy?"

  "Yeah. Listen, I gotta tell you something."

  "Can you say it so nobody hears you?"

  "Yeah."

  "All right. What is it?"

  "When Rollins called Jimmy," Gary said, his voice a harsh whisper, "he said that you killed the guy in Connecticut. They're putting out a warrant for your arrest. You're wanted for murder."

  "Listen to me, Gary. I want you to call me later, when you can get away and can talk freely. Okay?" No answer on the other end. "You have to trust me one more time, kid. Don't tell anybody I called. Don't tell anybody you're gonna call me back. Use the cell number I gave you earlier. Okay?"

  "Yeah."

  "Gary, I know it's confusing but you can trust me on this one. Call me back later and don't tell a fucking soul."

  He hung up, slipped the phone into his jeans pocket, wiped a line of sweat that had gathered on his neck.

  "You said the f-word," Kendall said.

  "Yeah," he acknowledged. "I sure did."

  He pulled the car back on the highway. They'd been on the road for thirty-one minutes. Deena was twisted in the front seat so her back was to the windshield. She was watching her daughter squirm in the back. Kendall squinted and bit her lip and looked altogether miserable and Deena shook her head.

  "Mommy, don't yell at me."

  "I told you to go when we were back at the Home. And do you know that you only call me Mommy when you think I'm going to get angry at you?"

  "I didn't have to go then. I have to go now."

  "For God's sake, Kenny, we've passed a million gas stations since we left. Why didn't you say anything?"

  "Because I didn't have to go!"

  "Well, you can't go now!"

  "Stop it!" Justin said. Lowering his voice, he said to Kendall, "Can you wait a few minutes until we hit another gas station or a restaurant?"

  "No," she wailed. "I have to go!"

  Justin pulled the car over to the shoulder, put the car in park. "The bushes are all yours," he said.

  "Mommyyy…I can't."

  "Then you're going to have to wait."

  "But I can't! It's getting dark!"

  "It's fun to pee in the bushes," Justin said. "It's my favorite thing. Even when it's dark."

  "I'll go with you," Deena said. When the little girl's eyes welled up with tears, she softened her tone and said, "Don't worry. Jay's right. It's fun." She stepped out of the car, opened the back door. She reached in and unbuckled her daughter, lifting her up and out of the car. Taking her hand, they marched together into the brush and out of sight of the highway.

  Justin picked up his cell phone, unfolded a piece of paper, squinted at his own handwriting, then dialed one of the numbers that Gary had given him for Helen Roag. First he called her office, got her voice mail, and hung up without leaving a message. Then he called back and this time, after listening to the mechanical instructions and a woman's voice say, "Helen Roag," he said, "Ms. Roag, this is…it doesn't matter who this is. I think you're in a lot of danger and you need to disappear. I'm going to say three words to show I know what I'm talking about. Kransten. Newberg. Aphrodite. If you haven't heard, Ed Marion was murdered today. Be careful of the police, be careful of the FBI.
They can't be trusted. I'll try to get in touch with you somehow. But please, in the meantime, take this very seriously and please try to protect yourself."

  He tried her cell phone next, got another recording telling him to leave a message. He left basically the same message he'd just left at her office.

  He hung up, dialed the number he had for Helen Roag's home. A woman answered and he said, "Helen?"

  The woman's voice quivered as she said, "No. Who is this?"

  "A friend of hers," Justin said. "My name's Jay. May I speak to her?"

  There was a pause and Justin sensed that the woman on the other end of the phone was about to burst into tears. "Helen's not here," she said.

  "Do you know where she is?"

  "Nobody knows where she is," the woman said. "She's missing."

  "Who am I talking to?"

  "This is her sister. Kathleen."

  "Have the police been called in, Kathleen?"

  "Yes. But so far-"

  "How about the FBI? Has anyone from the FBI contacted you?"

  "Yes. Do you have any information, Jay? Do you have any idea what's happened to Helen? If you do-"

  Justin clicked off the connection, leaned back in his seat, and closed his eyes. He opened them when he heard the sound of a car slowing down. A black American car, some kind of Ford rental, had pulled up alongside. From the passenger seat, a blond man, around thirty, stuck his head out the window. The guy's hair was perfectly coiffed, dipping slightly over his forehead, and he was handsome in a boyish, asexual kind of way. Justin couldn't see the driver.

  "Need any help?" the blond asked.

  Justin shook his head and said, "Pit stop," and jerked his thumb in the direction of the bushes.

  The blond man smiled knowingly. Then he looked at his watch, turned back to Justin, and said, "Bye-bye." With a jerky motion, the man pointed straight ahead down the highway and the car took off, burning rubber, tires screeching, the accelerator pressed to the floor. It was like watching a drag race. They had to be doing eighty in no time, and within seconds they were out of sight.

  Justin closed his eyes again, leaned his head back. People are fucking crazy, he thought. He couldn't help but give a rueful smile. There I go, using the f-word again.

  The smile faded as he thought of Helen Roag. Missing and, he assumed now, dead. Ed Marion, murdered. Susanna Morgan, broken neck. Lewis Granger, smothered…