Avery continues. “After an alternate deal was precipitated by the appearance of a competitor, Mr. Graves revealed that one vital component was missing—the blood of this young lady, who we needed in person since a workable alternative has not yet been found.” He pauses and frowns at me before continuing.
“I am willing to meet his price, as long as I know for sure that this elixir works. Sure, I’ve got the proof that this man is what he claims to be. He looks the same as when I met him in the sixties, and a thorough medical examination gives pretty clear evidence that he has not aged in the last thirty years. And Dr. Canfield, you yourself have analyzed blood samples from members of Mr. Graves’s community, and have found them to be immune to every disease you tested.”
The doctor nods his agreement.
“However, being that I’m fond of that old dictum, ‘I’ll believe it when I see it,’ I prefer to test the drug myself. Therefore we will proceed as follows: Mr. Graves and Miss Newhaven will carry out the procedure under the surveillance of Dr. Canfield.”
My face becomes numb as I understand what is about to happen. I glance over to Whit, and his blasé expression informs me he already knows about these arrangements.
“As I agreed with you, Dr. Canfield, if it succeeds, or even if it fails, and you are able to revive me, you will receive one million dollars. If not, all you stand to lose is one day out of your busy schedule. Are those terms amenable to you, good doctor?”
“Yes, they are,” says the man, adjusting his glasses.
“Good, good,” says Avery. He turns to Whit. “Let me confirm in the presence of Dr. Canfield that the immediate effects of the drug are violent and resemble a poisoning. I will then be without breath or heartbeat for eight hours . . .”
“On average. The maximum we have seen is nine hours,” corrects Whit.
“All right then, if at the end of nine hours my breathing resumes, it is understood that I will be aware, but paralyzed for a maximum of four days. At that point, I will regain my mobility and test negative for all known diseases. In this case Mr. Graves will receive the sum he has requested. The boy will be returned to his mother, and the entire community will be free to leave. They will have my assistance getting wherever it is they want to go.”
Avery stares at the dregs of his whiskey as he twirls his glass, then tosses it back in one gulp. “However, if I do not regain consciousness after nine hours and Dr. Canfield is unsuccessful at reviving me, my guards have instructions for how to take care of you”—he focuses on me, and the cold in his eyes freezes my soul—“you,” he says looking at Whit, “and the boy. I don’t think we need to go into specifics. Let’s just say that your community will be free to leave my ranch . . . if they are able.”
“Wait a minute,” Whit says, looking as shocked as I feel. “You never mentioned any of that last part before!”
“I didn’t need to,” says Avery, “because you’re going to make damned sure that this thing works. Then all those nasty consequences just disappear.”
“And what about our other agreements?” Whit asks.
“Such as?”
“The promise that for each dose of serum sold by you on the market, you will provide one free dose to the underprivileged in developing countries.”
“We can speak about that issue later. I might not want to sell any of the drug at all. As I have always maintained, the main concern here is my own longevity. If the drug works on me, then I will consider its possible distribution later.”
“But . . . ,” Whit starts.
Avery strides past him and opens the door. “Please join us,” he says, and two guards step into the room. “Since I’m counting on Dr. Canfield to monitor my vital signs while I am ‘dead’”—and he uses his fingers for quotation marks—“I have asked a couple of my men to personally accompany you wherever you wish to go. Within my house, that is. You can grab a meal in the kitchen. And you each have a room assigned to you if you need to rest. Mi casa su casa: You are my honored guests. How’s that sound to you?”
Not waiting for a response, he claps his hands and rubs them together expectantly. “Good, good. Men, please take a seat. Everyone, please excuse me while I change.” He goes to the back of the room and steps behind a screen, while the two guards pull out chairs and, laying their guns across their laps, sit down. Whit walks past me and, pulling a mortar and pestle out of a cabinet, begins grinding the herbs and minerals together. I want to jump on him, beat him with my fists, shake him until he turns into the old Whit I knew . . . not this cold, emotionless monster.
I glance at the guards and see that one is staring holes through me. Something looks familiar about him. His gaze locked on mine, he pulls aside his jacket to show me a bandaged upper arm. My heart drops. It’s the man I shot in Salt Lake City.