The Apothecary's Curse (22 page)

Evidently, Gaelan wasn't listening to the urgency in Simon's voice. “Haven't you ever wondered?”

Christ, he sounded wistful. Bad sign. Simon tapped his foot, arms crossed in front of him impatiently. “What?”

“I mean, haven't you ever wondered what it is makes us . . . us? What did those two particular elixirs actually
do
? Say I decide to cooperate, let them do their DNA testing—”

Simon pinched the bridge of his nose. “What are you saying? You've suddenly changed your mind? How often have you quoted me from
E.T.
? From the
X-Men
? From every movie in which they pick apart the poor alien?
I've
nothing to fear. No one suspects me of exhibiting superhero traits. But I am certain you'll bloody regret it the moment you agree. So don't! You need to get off, as they say, the grid. Go underground . . . fucking
hide
, for Chrissakes.”

“I've always been curious, more so in the past couple of years . . . genetics . . . I've been studying—”

“Ha! Great. Study all you like; earn a doctorate, for all I care, but
do not do this
. Do not open your life in a way that cannot be reversed. I know you too well, Gaelan, and it would be the most—”

“I'm tired, Simon.”

“You've said that, and I understand. I do. I'm not concerned for myself; no one thinks I'm other than who I say I am. No one recorded my torture nearly two centuries ago; no one has seen my tissue regenerate magically, like a stop-motion film. There would be no going back from it, you know, once you allow them in.”

He had to talk Gaelan out of this folly before he made a decision that could not be undone. “I fetched some clean clothes for you. And what the bloody hell happened to your flat? It looks like a tornado took a direct hit on it. And by the way, whatever happened to your dogged insistence never to allow our little secret into humanity's hands? Lest the ‘powerful acquire the key to immortality and subjugate the world' . . . I believe was your last word on the subject.” Simon remembered it well; VE-Day, 1945, London. And it was a bloody good last word. Hitler might be long gone—and Mengele—Gaelan had underscored, but he'd been far from the last of the megalomaniacal bastards out there.

Gaelan blinked, ignoring the remark. “Can I just walk out?”

Good.
He was coming to his senses. “Well, you're not a prisoner . . . I think you may have to sign some sort of release, but they cannot hold you here. I think I saw something on a television program; it's called ‘against medical advice' or some such thing, but—”

Simon considered his motivations, with Sophie lurking at his neck.
“Is this what's best for him?”
she purred into his ear.
“Or for you?”

He shook it off as if dusting a mosquito from his shoulder. He refrained from replying, knowing that Gaelan would immediately know Sophie was about. He wanted nothing of that.

“Here, put these on.” Simon tossed a wool cap and a pair of Ray Bans onto the bed along with jeans and a Northwestern hoodie.

“Fucking Hollywood, this. You sure I won't attract more attention in this getup? Besides, I really don't think it's necess—”

“It is.”

“You don't want to be seen with him. Guilt by association?”

She was goading him. Gaelan was naïve about so many things, his veil of perpetual skepticism notwithstanding. They would consume him alive: the media, scientists close to uncovering the last mysteries of human physiology . . . They would never let Gaelan go until they'd learned all his secrets—and there was nothing left of him.

“Do you know there are entire blogs dedicated to you? You've become a cult figure.”

“Bloody hell!” Gaelan grabbed the cap and Ray Bans.

“Look, I know you're in a bad way. Between the diaries and now this—and that's on top of everything else you're carrying. But this is right, to leave. If my contact comes through—about the book, I mean—well, we can both put this behind us.”

“Again, the book. Simon! It doesn't bloody exist anymore. I've spent the better part of two centuries seeking it. I have more contacts in the rare-book world than you can imagine. It's what I do, what I have done, and I have had no success. I've built an entire library of antiquarian scientific texts. Nearly half my personal library has been restored, so I do bloody well know what I'm doing, and I'm telling you the ouroboros book does not exist. It's vanished; for all I know it's . . .” He lowered his voice to a whisper, requiring Simon to draw near. “It's gone back to the ones who created the accursed thing in the first place—”

“What are you talking about?” Simon leapt backward, confused. Hadn't it been created by one of Gaelan's ancestors? Or tutors?

Gaelan shook his head. “Nothing. Sorry. My head's still a muddle—”

No. That wasn't it. That wasn't it at all. “What aren't you telling me, even after all these years?”

“Like I said, nothing.” Gaelan looked away, revealing nothing but a desire to change the subject. “Fine. Right. Whatever you say. Let's get out of here.”

Simon decided to let the remark drop for now. An hour later, Simon wheeled Gaelan through the crowded atrium; few took notice of them.

Anne Shawe and Andrew Samuelson emerged from the elevator on the fourth floor. Anne looked at her mobile, judging the time. They'd managed to leave the airport and make the drive in half an hour. “I know you're in a hurry, Dr. Shawe, so we'll go right up to my patient's room.” He led her through the nurses' station and down a long, bright beige corridor. “Here we are.” He knocked on the door and went in.

The room was empty, made up with fresh sheets, and the ribbed coverlet was tucked neatly beneath the mattress. Andrew bolted from the room with Anne right behind him, confused.

He was at the unit desk, speaking frantically to one of the nurses by the time Anne caught up with him, hanging back, waiting. “What do you mean discharged AMA?”

Andrew threw up his hands, returning to Anne. “He's gone. I . . . I wasn't his attending . . .”

“Look, you've got my interest up, I'll give you that, and as long as I'm here, would you mind showing me what you've got? Films, labs, history—”

“No history. But the rest . . . I'm sorry; I didn't expect . . .” He pulled a computer cart into a consult room, closing the door.

“Any chance we'd catch him at home? I'd love to actually meet your miracle man—”

“Thought you had a connecting flight to paradise—”

Anne cocked her head. “San—”

“Diego. I know. Paradise. Ah, here we are.”

Anne scrutinized the files up on the screen as Andrew pointed out specific injury sites on a series of photographs. “And the hospital is saying, publicly anyway, that it's all attributable to errors? All of it? How?”

“They're not making these files public, and with HIPAA, it's not too likely they ever will. I'm not sure I blame them, but I'm sure I'm not the only doc who's interested in the case of Mr. Gaelan R. Erceldoune.”

“Erceldoune? Odd name—”

“I think he's from Scotland . . . or Ireland or something.”

“Well, if these images are genuine, this is one very extraordinary man. Unbelievable. How many hours between these, did you say?”

“I didn't. Less than two.” He scrolled to another set. “These are after ten hours. You'd hardly think he'd had a shaving laceration! The internal scans aren't quite as impressive, but still pretty unbelievable.” Andrew brought up a set of X-rays and CT scans.

“Amazing. Truly amazing.” Anne glanced at her watch and sighed. “Mind if I make a quick call?” Andrew nodded, and she stepped out into the patient care unit.

There was no way she was going to leave. Not when she was this close to a living, breathing human example of rapid wound regeneration. She'd long ago dismissed the idea as science fiction. Simply not part of our physiology. She absolutely needed to meet this man, whatever it took, and convince him to let them sequence his DNA.

She made a quick call to her new boss at Salk. “Right. Perfect. I'll see you next Monday, with something hopefully so extraordinary it might win us all a Nobel by the time we're finished!”

When she was done, she returned to Andrew. “Good news, Andrew. I can stay on for a week.”

“If we can find him—”

“What?”

“Settled his bill in cash; cops think there's something a bit off about his records. But all they'll tell me is that Erceldoune's an assumed name. Possibly an illegal—overstayed his visa and scared to death of being deported. Immigration is on a rampage in this country. Someone thinks he may own a small bookstore near campus, so maybe not an illegal.”

LONDON, 1842

CHAPTER 28

Gaelan had been at Bell's house for five days, arriving barely alive. Torpid awareness percolated slowly through the haze of Gaelan's memory as he canvassed his surroundings, tethering himself to the cool reality of silk bedsheets and down pillows. He blinked, trying to focus through the blur that rendered the room in gauze.

Sleep was yet hard to come by; each time he endeavored it, Gaelan was transported again to Bedlam and Dr. Handley, grotesque and gnomish, gripping his vivisectionist's scalprum. That moment dissolved into another, forcing him to relive the horror as he lost the first finger: the sting of the blade, the dull ache as it sliced through tendon and muscle, the blinding agony as the bone snapped, his impotence to act, to pull away, the morphine barely dulling the edges.

He would awaken from it, sometimes after the first finger, sometimes the third, soaked and shivering, gulping for air that could not come fast enough into his lungs as realization finally dawned that he was safe. He felt well enough to dress—the clothing left for him was a decided improvement over his rags. Leaving the frock coat and cravat on the bed, he tried on the too-large trousers and billowy linen shirt. Probably Bell's.

The long staircase was a greater challenge as he hesitated on each step, unsure of his gait, his grip on the banister the only thing keeping him upright. The eyes of Bell's ancestors—generations of haughty medical men, peers of the realm, military officers, all preserved on canvas for posterity—looked down upon him. In one way or another, they were all to blame.

Bell and a companion were having afternoon tea when he entered the dining room.

“Ah, you are looking decidedly better, Mr. Erceldoune, and you have managed the stairs. Progress, indeed! Come, sit, dine with us. Cook has a way with sandwiches and biscuits like none other. Might I introduce my cousin, Dr. James Bell?”

Gaelan nodded in the cousin's direction before sitting. James grunted a terse “Good afternoon, sir,” before returning his attention to the
Times
.

Beyond the curtains, there was the green of the garden, the soft melody of birds, all so foreign now. Perhaps in time, these pleasant images, sounds, and aromas would obliterate the terror of his dreamscape.

Naught seemed at all real, yet the cool silver-plate spoon balanced in his right hand seemed solid enough, the tea piquant and sweet, the ham sandwich salty and rich. How long it had been since he'd tasted real meat!
But is any of this real?

James Bell snapped Gaelan from his thoughts. “Imagine that undersized popinjay Bean firing at Her Majesty! And with paper! Can you imagine? And why else but to aggrandize himself with notoriety? Shall be a pity if he does not swing for this outrage. I do not care what the prince recommends;
I
venture that hooligan shall not be commuted to transportation for his outrageous act!”

Gaelan had read the accounts in the morning
Times
left at his bedside. A homeless dwarf—an outcast, even from his own family—poor, unfortunate sod
.
“If you will forgive me, Dr. Bell, perhaps you judge him harshly since you do not have an acquaintance with the sort of life Mr. Bean endures—”

James's glare evinced nothing but disdain. “Mr. Erceldoune—”

“Mr. Erceldoune,” interrupted Simon, changing the subject in an obvious attempt to quell an imminent argument. “I've most wonderful news for you. Knowledge of the cruelty you endured, along with letters from myself and others brought before the Crown,
and
James's most excellent intervention, exonerated you.”

“I see. And you expect me to . . . what? Thank you?” Gratitude was the last thing he felt. Exonerated for murder he may well be, but the sentence meted out by Handley and his minions would torment him for lifetimes. “And what of Handley and his disciples, the esteemed foppery of London society?”

A satisfied grin materialized across James's face. “That barbarian? Rest assured
he
has lost his commission as director of
that
institution.”