“So this man who died, he only used it twice?”
Lyle nodded, seeing where Kerry was going. “Technically only once; his flu started before the second test and he never came back.” He did some quick calculations in his head. “We’ve recorded more than a thousand total applications of the product, in its various stages of development—that’s some pretty weighty evidence saying how safe it is.”
“So we’re fine,” said Kerry. “The guy took our test, ate some bad food, and had the most poorly timed stroke in history. This isn’t about product safety, it’s about image control: who knows about the connection, and who stands to profit from it? Is it likely to hit the news at all? Can we do some preemptive whitewashing?”
“This is never going to make the news,” said Carl gruffly.
“This is a very tight industry,” said Sunny. “Everyone in health and beauty is in bed with everyone else, and we’ve all got grudges and feuds and more catfights than a junior high cafeteria. If word can get out, it will, and it will spread like wildfire through everyone that matters.”
“It wouldn’t hurt us to slow things down,” said Lyle. “We need time to gather two things: evidence that this wasn’t remotely connected to us, and quantifiable proof that we did our due diligence to follow up just in case. On the off chance that this ever does get back to us, we’ll know we’ve done our part.”
“And other people will know we’ve done it, too,” said Kerry, “which is the more important thing.”
“Then consider this day one of emergency mode,” said Sunny, looking around at the others. “We’ve already banned all mention of 14G or ReBirth in company e-mail, to avoid the electronic paper trail if we ever get investigated for mislabeling; that ban stays in place. Verbal and paper communications only, and the papers will be shredded. Dust off your alibis and start shoring up your CYA files: you need to account for everything you’ve worked on for the past year, and it better not have anything to do with a plasmid lotion. The only official company project in the realm of gene therapy is Lyle’s burn cream, which has yet to be submitted to the FDA and, to be clear, has nothing to do with anything.”
There was a knock on the door, and a man poked his head in; it was Marcus Eads, the head of internal security. “Excuse me, Mr. Montgomery, but I think you need to see this.”
Jeffrey stood up, but Carl shouted him down. “He’s here for me, idiot.” He glanced at Marcus. “Is this about the stolen ID card?”
“Yes,” said Marcus, hurrying to the conference table. He set a handful of papers in front of Carl; Lyle could see they were photo printouts. “The receptionist’s ID card logged four different uses between 2:54 and 3:17 a.m.” He pointed at the photos. “This man came, walked the halls for a bit, and left.”
“Whoa,” said Lyle. “We had a break-in?”
“Last night,” said Cynthia. “Try to keep up.”
Carl scowled. “If he showed up so clearly on the cameras, why didn’t your men do something about it! Were they asleep?”
Marcus shook his head. “This image is the only frame of security footage he appears in. He knew exactly where our cameras are, and he avoided them like a ghost.”
Sunny whistled lowly. “So he had help on the inside.”
“Fire the receptionist,” said Carl. “And make sure to interrogate her first.”
“Already on it,” said Marcus.
Cynthia stood and walked behind them, staring at the photos. “That’s the door to the lab wing,” she said, pointing at the photo. She looked up at Lyle. “Is anything missing?”
“No,” said Lyle, “everything’s still there. My assistant moved a couple of— Holy crap. The lotion!”
Everyone looked at him.
“There were two bottles of lotion missing when I came in this morning,” said Lyle frantically. “I thought Susan must have moved them, but she’s in Mexico for another week! I didn’t even think about it.” He pointed at the photo. “He stole two bottles of ReBirth!”
“Find a face,” said Carl coldly, turning to the security officer. “Find a fingerprint, find a piece of hair, find anything you can. I want his name on my desk by this afternoon, and his head by tomorrow.” Marcus nodded and left. Carl turned back to the executives. “I don’t have to tell you how much we stand to lose if ReBirth gets out early. I want this man found and I want whoever sent him destroyed.”
“He knew our security system and he knew exactly where to go for the lotion,” said Cynthia. “How did they even know about it?”
“We had a hundred and twenty-eight test subjects,” said Sunny. “One of them must have talked.”
“Wouldn’t the plant be easier to break into?” asked Kerry.
“Yes,” said Lyle, “but it doesn’t have everything—a few samples, and the formula if you know where to look, but my office has the formula, the research, the test results, the whole thing. And now this guy has them, too.” He looked at Sunny. “This kills our little corporate deception—whoever has those files can prove beyond a shadow of a doubt that we put the plasmids in there on purpose.”
“Find him,” Carl growled. “I want his head on my desk by morning.”
7
Thursday, April 26
Pathmark Sav-A-Center, Flushing, Queens
232 DAYS TO THE END OF THE WORLD
Lyle scanned the produce section, looking for brussels sprouts. He found them, filled a bag, and put it in his basket.
The entire company was in a holding pattern, too wary to continue with the lotion but too greedy to stop. Until they knew who’d stolen it, and why, they didn’t dare to move. Only Lyle had kept working on it, careful building an iron-clad case for his own role as the inventor of the technology, ready to submit to the FDA the instant he got Carl’s approval. What else could they do? And it’s not that he was proud—this was about the principle of the thing. The science he’d done to create it. He’d spent too much of his life on products that made you “look younger and feel healthier.” He’d wasted his entire professional career making rich people attractive, and what had that gotten him? What did it matter what they looked like if they were still the same inside? And why bother with false beauty at all if someone like Susan could look better than all of them without even trying? NewYew was doing everything wrong, and if they’d only listen to Lyle—if they’d only let him tell them what to do—
Why do I need them to let me? Lyle asked himself. Why can’t I just do it?
The plasmids were supposed to be his thing—his big break into the world of real science. He could get work in a lab, or maybe a university; he could mold young minds and spark new ideas and really make a difference in the world. He was a smart guy—last year he’d reformulated NewYew’s entire line of eye shadows using a method no one had ever tried before, creating colors that kept their shade and thickness longer than anything else on the market. It was an astounding feat of chemistry—he’d even written a paper on it, which had landed him an interview in a NOVA documentary. He was relatively famous in the industry, but that was the first time people outside of it had cared. The first time he’d gotten any widespread recognition. It was the greatest thing that had ever happened to him.
And NewYew was taking it away. He wanted to do it honestly, scientifically, with papers and prizes and maybe an interview in Newsweek. Burying it in a hand lotion like this, and then keeping it a secret from the world … that didn’t advance science at all. It didn’t help anyone but NewYew.
Lyle picked up a package of steaks and poked at the plastic, watching the meat rebound back into shape. That’s what people really want, he thought. Plumpness. We want to have fat skin and skinny fat. We want six-year-old skin on twenty-year-old bodies, with hair colors that don’t exist in nature. He put the steaks in his basket and then, because they were right there, a package of sausages. He was hungry. He moved on.
I need to sell my shares and retire, Lyle thought, not for the first time. He took a jar of peanuts from the shelf. If we ever get past this theft thing, and ReBirth goes global and we all get rich, I’m going to sell my shares and buy my own lab and get back to basics.
