“We don’t know how this works,” said Lyle, “but we’re selling it to every John Q. Public with a credit card. In two months this will be in our clinics all over the country—all over the world—and yet here we are, the people who made it, and we’re almost too scared to breathe.” He picked up the tray with his clean hand, still stirring with his other, and stepped toward Susan. “Ready?”
Sunny and Cynthia nodded.
Lyle scooped the lotion onto two gloved fingers, reached out, and slowly rubbed the lotion onto Susan’s chest, just above the sternum. One of the areas most visibly affected by her “disease.” He massaged the spot for a few seconds until the lotion was completely absorbed, and then stepped back.
“Done.”
“Good,” said Cynthia, and gestured toward the red hazmat container on the wall. “Now for the love of all that’s holy, put that stuff away—do you want to kill us?”
Lyle gestured toward the plastic bag the tray had come in, keeping his hands away from everything. “Open it for me.”
Cynthia looked at Lyle, then handed the bag to Sunny. “Open it for him.”
“Are you kidding? What if he gets some on me?”
“Just open it!” Lyle snapped. Sunny opened the bag wide, keeping his fingers far away from the mouth of it, and winced as Lyle slid the sample tray into it. Lyle used his clean glove to peel off his contaminated glove, being careful not to let the lotion touch any skin, and dropped it in the bag. He carefully removed the other glove, sealed the bag closed, and placed the entire thing in the hazmat container.
“Well done,” said Cynthia. “Time for the next phase. Have you talked to Marcus?”
“He’s on the move,” said Sunny. “We have a few of them already.”
“A few of who?” asked Lyle.
“Loose ends,” said Cynthia, scrolling through her messages. “Your friend Pedro and all of our other security leaks are taking a vacation overseas.”
“Voluntarily?”
“For now.”
“So we’re kidnapping people?” asked Lyle. “How low are we going to go?”
“We can’t just turn them back the way we turned Susan back,” said Sunny, “because they, unlike her, know it was the lotion that did it. Several of them have already stated an intent to sue the company. NewYew could break in half. Then instead of us controlling ReBirth you’d have no one at all, or worse yet someone like Pedro.”
“I’m starting to think that would be better,” said Lyle.
“Just step lightly,” said Cynthia, narrowing her eyes. “Now that we have the blank lotion, and the means to make more, you’re a lot less important than you think you are. Don’t make us send you on vacation with them.”
They opened the door and walked into the hall. Lyle followed them slowly, his feet heavy, his breaths deep and hungry.
I have to stop this, he thought. He patted the bottle in his pocket. I have the lotion, and I have my plan, and all I have to do is follow it. Just take the lotion to a doctor and tell them how it works. Get the lotion out there where someone can use it for good, and chop the legs out from under all these sinister master plans.
Not here, though. No corporation can have it, not even a hospital. I’ll take it to a charity, where money will never enter into it, and tell them everything. Someone who’ll use it to help the world instead of himself.
All I have to find is a good man.
16
Tuesday, May 8
1:04 A.M.
Hell’s Kitchen, Manhattan
220 DAYS TO THE END OF THE WORLD
Lyle hurried through the darkness, clutching the bottle of ReBirth tightly in his hands. The lid was taped shut, and the bottle was sealed in a plastic bag, and then the whole thing was sealed inside another bag, but he was still worried. This was not a part of the city he liked visiting during the day, let alone at night. One bad mistake, he thought, one stupid accident—anything from a mugger to a slip on the sidewalk—and I’m ruined.
He slowed without stopping, checking the address he’d scribbled on a piece of paper. He was close; just one more block. He heard footsteps in an alley and voices on the other side of the street; he was practically running now.
Where is it?
And then there it was—a simple storefront, humble but well maintained, with the words YEMAYA FOUNDATION painted across the glass in large letters. There was a light on in the back. Lyle jogged to the door, tried it, then knocked loudly when it didn’t open. He glanced around nervously, seeing thieves and killers in every shadow. A figure moved inside the building, coming toward the door, and Lyle swallowed, holding his breath in a panic.
A tall man opened the door, long haired but clean shaven, wearing a brightly colored dashiki shirt. The stranger spoke in a warm, deep voice. “Are you the man I talked to on the phone?”
“Yes,” said Lyle, pushing the stranger back as he rushed through the door. “I’m sorry I couldn’t give you my name, but … well, it’s a very long story.”
“Don’t be afraid,” said the tall man. “We are all brothers.” He made some kind of gesture with his hands, then closed and locked the door. “Please join me in the back. I’ve prepared some rooibos tea; it will help calm your nerves.”
“Um, thank you,” said Lyle, following the man.
It had been unsurprisingly difficult to find a charity willing to accept an unidentified medicinal substance, especially since Lyle had refused to give his name to any of them, or to explain where the substance had come from or what it did. Secrecy was too important, and he didn’t want to share too much information until he was 100 percent sure he’d found the right place.
He desperately hoped the Yemaya Foundation was the right place, because at this point it was pretty much the only place left.
“Are you Dr. Halley?” Lyle asked.
