He’d been whole for five minutes, not completely whole, but he’d been aware of her and Lister, and he’d spoken. She wouldn’t think about what he’d said to her. He hadn’t meant it, not really, he simply hadn’t understood. If only he’d stayed with them, Hannah could have made him see that people who love each other grow older gently and gradually, with time for them to adjust. He’d been struck with everything at once. He didn’t understand why she looked older, that was all.
She didn’t know what would happen to him now. The FBI had sent a doctor to visit him yesterday, a Dr. Wordsworth from Washington Memorial in Washington. The doctor had been amazed at how young he looked, of course. At Hannah’s questions, she said that no one could know exactly what would happen now that he wouldn’t be receiving any more of Lister’s drugs, but she was inclined to agree with Lister that B.B. would probably start aging normally once again. If that was true, Hannah might be dead or infirm before he was a seventy-eight-year-old man again. She wanted to cry. Her beautiful Beau, blank-brained, uncaring, and unaware of anything or anyone, was housed in a beautiful fifty-year-old body. She still remembered his holding her, stroking her hair, making love to her. Better if the drug hadn’t brought him back, had given him fifteen more years, only to steal his mind again after such a short time.
She was feeling sorry for herself, for him, for them and what they’d once been together and would never be again. She carried his tray to the hallway and set it on a table and walked to the balcony that overlooked the entrance hall. No sign remained of the havoc of two days before, of what had been the end of all of it. Sylvie had been arrested by the FBI agents. What would happen to her daughter? No one would tell her anything yet. At least they hadn’t arrested her, thank heaven, not that she knew that much about what Lister had done or what Sylvie had done. Had Lister paid her money? She prayed with all her might they’d leave her alone, they had to, or who would take care of Beau?
There were no more secrets in this house. Ella, the woman who’d been in charge of the infant Alex Moody, had been taken away with Sylvie. Now it would be only she and the housekeeper and two maids inside, the three gardeners outside, and Berry, who’d so faithfully taken care of Beau’s precious yacht for so many years.
She didn’t want to think about what Lister had planned to do with the infant he’d had kidnapped, it both scared and sickened her. All she knew was Lister needed the infant to test his drugs. For his father. She realized how reprehensible that was, wondered at herself that she hadn’t stopped it earlier. It was all a mistake, meant to slay Lister’s dragons, not Beau’s. Beau hadn’t asked for any of it. Would he have if he’d been able? She didn’t know, didn’t want to know, ever.
Hannah sighed and walked back into the King’s Bedchamber. She paused in the doorway, looked at Beau sitting motionless in his wheelchair, his head down, as if he was studying his slippers. There was no use lying to herself, it was time to face the truth. Lister was not coming back with any more drugs, any more promises. Beau was gone forever now. She was all he had, and she’d never leave him, as long as she lived.
She looked around his precious King’s Bedchamber. She realized she hated this room. An exact copy of a centuries-old room, faded, pathetic, really. She wanted a soft carpet beneath her feet, not the wide oak planks. She wanted that absurd harpsichord out of here, and those bed hangings, she would burn them. Yes, she would change everything.
Hannah looked toward the Hercule Poirot she’d been going to read to him. No, let him sleep. She walked to the closet and began collecting Beau’s clothes. She would donate the lot to charity.
B. B. Maddox opened his eyes, raised his head. He watched Hannah as she took his clothes out of the closet. He thought she seemed tired, noticed how thick she looked around the middle. Why was that? She’d been so slender. He opened his mouth to ask her what she was doing with his clothes, but his head fell against his chest once again, and he slept.
EPILOGUE
THE CLIFFS OF MOHER
WEST COAST OF IRELAND
FRIDAY, SUNSET
“There’s no more beautiful spot on this blessed earth,” Liam said against Elena’s hair. “And glory be, it’s stopped raining. Now, girl, get ready for the show.”
“You’ve become a romantic.” Elena leaned up, bit his earlobe, and snuggled into him as they watched the huge orange sun slowly sink into the ocean. Tourists and locals alike fell silent, watching the spectacle, and let out a collective gasp when the sun at last disappeared, falling into the ocean. Liam helped Elena to her feet, brushed the dirt off her jeans. He cupped her face in his hands, kissed her cheek, her mouth. “You ready for a pint at the pub and a lively fiddle? This romantic is going to dance a jig with you.”
Elena, marveling at the vagaries of fate, put her hand in his. He would have to teach her how to dance an Irish jig.
AUTHOR’S NOTE
Enigma is a work of fiction. Yet in today’s laboratories the search for the fountain of youth is no longer shrouded in mysticism and legend as it has been for millennia. As our tools improve and our research continues, we may find ourselves perilously close to James Hilton’s Shangri-La, where no one ages, or to Dr. Lister Maddox’s nightmare landscape.
Will we eventually take a pill to keep our youth, our health, and live longer? Say, two hundred years? We must always be careful what we wish for.