have bad genes. Or at least no worse than anyone else. You’ve read the articles on what’s happening to American kids. Simon’s probably just a victim of pesticides or air pollution or heavy metals in the water.”
Thomas nodded.
“You’ve proved you’re my friend over and over.”
“And you mine,” Thomas said. “You’ve done so much for my family over the years.”
The Northrop family had worked for Noah since the seventeenth century. Thomas’s ancestor had arrived in the New World as an indentured servant, worked for a time on a plantation in Virginia, then escaped a cruel master. Noah had been on a trip east to find out how civilization was progressing on the coast. He’d been posing as a trapper when he’d saved Wade Northrop from a slit throat after the master had caught up with him, and he’d had the loyalty of the family ever since.
Thomas had been born right here on the estate. Noah had known him from birth, watched him toddle around the family quarters, tutored him at home until he was ten, then sent him to a top prep school, where he was already ahead of the other pupils. He’d earned a place at Stanford and graduated with honors. And he’d been in charge of Noah’s estate ever since his father, Philip, had turned over the reins to him.
“Maybe Jason can take on the responsibility,” Noah murmured.
Jason was Thomas’s second son. He was still a little young to be trusted with the family secret. They’d have to watch him and see how he shaped up.
Noah reached to adjust the pillows more comfortably behind himself and winced again.
“You should rest,” Thomas said.
“I should get out of bed and go down to the lab to prove that story about the blanks.”
When he heaved himself up and grabbed the bedpost to keep from falling over, he saw Thomas’s lips firm. He knew the man wanted him back in bed. But he had far more experience with his recuperative abilities than his chief of staff. Hundreds of years of experience, and he knew that whether he rested or went back to work, the outcome would be the same. The only difference was in the level of discomfort. Maybe he was after discomfort—as payment for the miracle of his life.
JARRED Bainbridge clenched his fist and waited for the spasm in his rib cage to pass. He had always had a high pain tolerance, which was why he was able to get through most days without a heavy dose of medication. At night, he let himself drift away in a narcotic fog and dream of a cure for the very nasty disease that had its hooks into him.
Multiple myeloma. A cancer of the bone marrow where malignant cells replaced healthy plasma-producing cells and left the patient weak and susceptible to infection.
Thirty years ago, Jarred had inherited the Bainbridge manufacturing fortune and had diversified into a host of other business ventures—from computer software to upscale dog food—to ensure the growth of that wealth.
Unfortunately, money hadn’t kept him healthy. He’d done extensive research and he knew there was no cure for multiple myeloma—only stopgap measures, the most drastic of which was bone marrow transplant. Jarred wasn’t willing to take that risk yet. He’d be letting himself in for more pain, with no guarantee he’d prolong his life.
He wanted a cure. He wanted to be healthy and vital again—like the eight children he’d fathered. None of them was worth a bucket of warm spit, as far as he was concerned. He was leaving each of them a million dollars, which they’d probably squander away in a couple of years. But he certainly wasn’t leaving any of them control of his investments. That was going to various animal organizations, because animals made no claim to intelligence and they were at the mercy of their owners.
But he didn’t plan to let his fortune go to the dogs until absolutely necessary and he figured his best hope was some new medical research—or some life-giving secret that only a few people on earth possessed.
When the pain gripping his ribs let him function again, he reached for the folder on his desk. It held worldwide newspaper articles and wire service reports that his clipping service sent him on a regular basis.
Most of it was routine stuff. A boy had been trapped in a storm sewer in Suzhou, China, and suffered hypothermia before rescuers reached him. He was expected to make a full recovery. A sailing ship had gone down in the Pacific, and the two-man crew had been rescued from a rubber raft after drifting for almost a month at sea.
But two articles were of particular interest. A man in Nairobi, Kenya, had been caught in a factory fire and been overcome by smoke. While being prepared for burial, he’d awakened and started asking for his wife and children. That incident was worth investigating.
And so was a story about an experimental submarine that had gotten fouled up in a rock formation at the edge of the Atlantic trough near Grand Cayman.
The research foundation running the operation had kept it as quiet as possible, but a small article had appeared in the local George Town paper.
The sub had been down long enough for everyone to die from lack of oxygen, but when the craft was brought up, one of the expedition members had miraculously revived. A guy named Noah Fielding.
According to the article in the local paper, Fielding had apparently financed the development of the sub, but he’d left the expensive craft on Grand Cayman and headed back to the States. Address unknown.
Jarred reached for his laptop and sent an e-mail to one of his special assistants, asking the man to find out everything he could about Noah Fielding.
Was the guy hiding some secret? A secret that could cure Jarred of his deadly disease.
Jarred had to know. He’d try charm and persuasion first, but if Fielding didn’t want to talk to him, there were ways of getting the information out of him.
A man might escape death, but he couldn’t escape pain—not at the hands of the right practitioner.
LAS VEGAS REMINDED Noah of the Middle Ages. Of course it smelled a lot better; you didn’t have to worry about someone dumping garbage onto your head as you walked down the street, and penicillin was a reliable cure for the surge of syphilis. But life in this desert playground was reduced to basic human emotions. Desperate people risked a fortune on the roll of the dice or the turn of a card. And other people waited to pounce on their vulnerability.
He had encountered every one of these types before and he had experienced all the emotions they displayed. From love and triumph to desperation and despair. He’d tried to kill himself more than once. It had never worked, of course, and finally a French woman named Ramona had made him see the light. Maybe that was too strong a way to put it, but he knew she had changed him. When he’d met her, he’d lived too long and seen too much to feel anything but contempt for the human beings who thought they were better than slugs and worms.
Ramona had convinced him that humans had a core of goodness, and if he helped them expand that core, his generous spirit would be rewarded.
He wasn’t sure how well he’d done in changing the equation for humanity. The world was simply too big and too complex for one man to make an enormous difference. At least where good was concerned. Evil was another matter.
Still, over the last two centuries, Noah had poured money into various
