| |
Irkutsk, Siberia, Russia
15th of April, 1:30 a.m. (GMT+8)
––––––––
It had been five days since Dr. Forester’s arrival, but he had lost track of time despite the clock on the wall. Every so often, a tray of food and more bottles of water were brought it and his bedpan changed, but all other markers of daily routine disappeared from his notice. His eyes sunk further into his gaunt face, not that he could have known—there were no mirrors in the room, and the distorted reflection in the paper towel dispenser didn’t give a true picture of his decline. He wouldn’t have cared anyway—he had more important things to think about, and he didn’t need a timepiece to know he was running out of time. His research was vital, and he needed to get it all down before the cancer took him.
He rued the fact that the lab hadn’t sought him out sooner. Here, he could have worked unfettered by rules and regulations, no longer hamstrung by the arbitrary rulings of committees and councils. They appreciated his genius. They would make sure his ideas lived on after him. This was nothing less than his legacy.
Forester feverishly scribbled more formulas and drew more benzene molecules to show the progression of his experiments. His theories were multi-disciplined—he had so much he needed to include! He was working from memory, as he had destroyed all his notes before leaving Ukraine, but it was all in there, tucked away in his gray and white matter. He just had to retrieve it. They wanted to take his notes daily, but he wouldn’t hear of it. You wouldn’t present a symphony one bar at a time or serve a dish one ingredient at a time. No, he would need all of it in front of him to write it all down, to make sure the sum was greater than its parts. When he was finished—that’s when they would get it, and it would take their breath away.
There were times that the fatigue and nausea stopped his progress, moments where he had to rest on the cot in the corner or eat a little something with the help of his anti-nausea tablets, but it wasn’t long before the fire behind his eyes burned bright again. Compelled to explain his process, Forester pressed on.
Somewhere in the back of his mind, he heard the click of the door opening. It must be time for more food, he thought to himself while he wrote on. “Just put it on the table like usual,” he spoke without turning his head.
Martinez and Wilson entered the room and closed the door behind them. Think, think, think. Wilson started welling up his magic. “You asked to see us, Dr. Forester?” he spoke ingratiatingly.
“Did I?” Forester answered without stopping writing. “I can’t imagine why. I’ve been batting you away ever since I got here so I can finish my work in peace and quiet.”
“That’s why you wanted to speak to us,” Wilson pressed. “To update us on your progress. How much have you told us about your work?”
Forester harrumphed, finally looking up from his work. “I told you, you’ll see it when it’s finished, and not a second sooner.”
“Surely, you must have notes or files somewhere else?” Wilson asked.
The doctor guffawed. “And let those morons at the Institute steal my work and take my credit? No way! It’s all in here”—he tapped the side of his head—“where it’s safe.”
“It’s too bad that the last batch of salt couldn’t be retrieved.” Wilson tried to keep his magic smooth and steady, but Forester was unstable and Wilson felt like he wasn’t the first one to charm him recently.
Forester shook his head dismissively. “No matter, we can make more once we have the right supplies and equipment.”
“So there isn’t any more anywhere else?” Wilson inquired, still focused on his magic.
“Who would know how to make it?!” Forester exclaimed, and laughed at his own joke.
Wilson slowly approached, bringing to bear the full force of his will. “Congratulations on finishing your work, Dr. Forester. If you’ll hand over the papers, we can start production.”
Forester dropped his pen and shook his head. Something wasn’t right. It wasn’t the nausea or the wave of fatigue; it wasn’t hunger or thirst; he didn’t need to void. But his brain screamed out that something was very wrong, and like a frightened animal, he bolted, jumping off his stool, and yelled, “You’re trying to steal my work, aren’t you?!”
“Calm down, Dr. Forester. You want me to take the papers from you,” Wilson informed him, again pumping a full dose of enchantment in his words, surprised by the resistance he was encountering. By now, the poor man should be offering up every paper in the room to Wilson’s hand.
“That’s ridiculous! This is my work! This is my legacy!” Forester’s voice became louder and more ragged with each assertion. His eyes were bloodshot from the sleepless nights and wild with frenzy.
Martinez reached into her pocket and grabbed her rosary. Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee. “Steve, what about Jane?”
Forester blinked a few times, finding his bearings once again. His eyes were still red, but some of the mania had left them as his posture sank back down. “Janey?”
“You wanted us to bring Janey your papers, so she could understand how important your work is.” Martinez let go of the rosary and eased off after the magical thump she’d just hit over Forester’s head.
Forester suddenly looked very fragile and very tired. “I didn’t want things to turn out like this,” he said in a small voice.
“She knows,” Martinez reassured him, and infused more magic in her words. “You’ve worked very hard and now it’s time to rest. You’ve earned your time to rest. Why don’t you lie down on the cot?”
It seemed the most logical course of action to Forester—he was very tired and he had worked nonstop since he’d arrived. “Maybe just a short nap.”
He moved over to the cot and Martinez met him there. Wilson remained still, not wanting to upset the now-settled Forester. “Let me help you,” Martinez replied. She pulled the pillow off the cot and straightened the blanket over him after he reclined.
“All you have to do is relax and go to sleep,” Martinez lowered her voice to a soft singsong, streaming a thread of magic so delicate, it was no thicker than spider’s silk. “It’s going to be all right now. I’m here. I’ve got you. I won’t leave until you are asleep.”
Forester closed his eyes and a look of serenity came over the troubled face. Martinez gripped the pillow with both hands and slowly but firmly pressed down, still speaking her magically-laced litany of reassurances. He didn’t fight or thrash, and Martinez held fast until there was a final shudder from Forester’s frail frame.
Without a word, Wilson moved into action, gathering all the paperwork scattered across the table. He then checked the floors, cabinets, and drawers for any hidden stashes. After a few minutes, Martinez stopped her enchantment and removed the pillow, placing it under Forester’s head. She pulled off her thicker gloves and donned thin latex ones before checking for a pulse, just to be certain. At some point, Forester had opened his eyes, but there was nothing in them now. Martinez closed his lids; it was as if he was just sleeping.
Although it seemed longer, Martinez knew it couldn’t have been more than a few minutes before Wilson approached them with a pair of short scissors. “We’ll need some of his hair to scrub our magic from the scene, in case the Ivory Tower investigates.”
Martinez let out a short bitter laugh. “How much karma is that going to cost me? I already killed him with magic.”
Wilson caught bits of hair in the baggie before closing it. “You killed him with a pillow. You used magic to make sure he wasn’t alone or afraid.”
Wilson took a final look over the room to make sure there were no physical traces of their presence. “We should leave. I’ve got the papers and the hair. Out the same way we came in.” Martinez put her thicker gloves back on. “If Chloe and Dot haven’t covered it yet, I’ll show you how to scrub your signature back at the hotel.”
Martinez gave him a nod, and they slipped out the door.