I took a shuttle to Boston for the funeral. The ceremony was held in Cambridge, within sight of Harvard Yard. The church was packed. Family, friends, colleagues, former students; in her too-short years, Liz had been much loved. I took a pew in back, wanting to be invisible. I knew many, recognized others, felt the weight of all. Among the mourners was a man whom, beneath his puffy alcoholic’s face, I knew to be Alcott Spence. Our eyes met briefly as we followed Liz’s casket outside, though I do not think he remembered who I was.
After the burial, the inner circle repaired to the Spee Club for a catered lunch. I had told Jonas that I needed to return early and couldn’t make it, but he insisted so ardently that I had little choice. There were toasts, remembrances, a great deal of drinking. Every second was torture. As people were leaving, Jonas pulled me aside.
“Let’s go out to the garden. There’s something I need to talk to you about.”
So here it was, I thought. The whole mess was about to come out. We exited through the library and sat on the steps that led down to the courtyard. The day was unusually warm, a mocking foretaste of spring—a spring I believed I would not see. Surely I would be living in a cell by then.
He reached into the inside pocket of his jacket and removed a flask. He took a long pull and passed it to me.
“Old times,” he said.
I didn’t know how to respond. The conversation was his to steer.
“You don’t have to say it. I know I fucked up. I should have been there. That may be the worst thing.”
“I’m sure she understood.”
“How could she?” He drank again and wiped his mouth. “The truth is, I think she was leaving me. Probably I deserved it.”
I felt my stomach drop. On the other hand, if he’d known it was me, he would have already said so. “Don’t be ridiculous. She was probably just going to see her mother.”
He gave a fatalistic shrug. “Yeah, well, last time I checked, you don’t need a passport to go to Connecticut.”
I had failed to consider this. There was nothing to say.
“That’s not the reason I asked you out here, though,” he went on. “I’m sure you’ve heard the stories about me.”
“A little.”
“Everybody thinks I’m a big joke. Well, they’re wrong.”
“Maybe this isn’t the day for this, Jonas.”
“Actually, it’s the perfect day. I’m close, Tim. Very, very close. There’s a site in Bolivia. A temple, at least a thousand years old. The legends say there’s a grave there, the body of a man infected with the virus I’ve been searching for. It’s nothing new—there are lots of stories like that. Too many for all this to be nothing, in my opinion, but that’s another argument. The thing is, I’ve got hard evidence now. A friend at the CDC came to me a few months back. He’d heard about my work, and he’d happened across something he thought would interest me. Five years ago, a group of American tourists showed up at a hospital in La Paz. All of them had what looked like hantavirus. They’d been on some kind of ecotour in the jungle. But here’s the thing. They all had terminal cancer. The tour was one of those last-wish things. You know, do the stuff you always wanted to do before you check out.”
I had no idea where he was headed. “And?”
“Here’s where it gets interesting. All of them recovered, and not just from the hanta. From the cancer. Stage four ovarian, inoperable glioblastoma, leukemia with full lymphatic involvement—not a trace of it was left. And they weren’t just cured. They were better than cured. It was as if the aging process had been reversed. The youngest one was fifty-six, the oldest seventy. They looked like twenty-year-olds.”
“That’s quite a story.”
“Are you kidding? It’s the story. If this pans out, it will be the most important medical discovery in history.”
I was still skeptical. “So why haven’t I heard about it? It isn’t in any of the literature.”
“Good question. My friend at the CDC suspects the military got involved. The whole thing went over to USAMRIID.”
“Why would they want it?”
“Who knows? Maybe they just want the credit, though that’s the optimistic view. One day you have Einstein, puzzling over the theory of relativity, the next you’ve got the Manhattan Project and a big hole in the ground. It not like it hasn’t happened before.”
He had a point. “Have you examined them? The four patients.”
Jonas took another pull of the whiskey. “Well, that’s a bit of a wrinkle. They’re all dead.”
“But I thought you said—”
“Oh, it wasn’t the cancer. They all seemed to kind of … well, speed up, like their bodies couldn’t handle it. Somebody took a video. They were practically bouncing off the walls. The longest any of them lasted was eighty-six days.”
“That’s a mighty big wrinkle.”