Page 102 of Mastermind

“No. Heywood. He made sure I saw the list of diseases they wanted to test for once the system was up and running. He wanted me to know my father’s form of cancer was one of them.”

“I only see that as a good thing. Assuming it works.”

“Assuming it works,” she repeats. “I’ve been looking into the miracle-cure cases. There are a hundred and twenty of them now. Something’s still bothering me about them.”

I raise my eyebrows and wait for her to tell me.

“I was thinking that maybe he looked for spontaneous remissions and then tried to take credit for them, but that’s not the case, as far as I can tell.”

“How exactly did he administer his treatments?” I ask.

“Well, that’s one more reason that it’s frustrating that you’re in here instead of him. He hacked the medical diagnostic software hospitals were using and added in the recommendations for off-label treatments. A number of doctors just blindly followed what the software told them. Most of the senior oncologists didn’t, but the younger ones were willing to try it in dire situations.”

“And it worked? Have you looked to see if there were cases where it didn’t?”

“Some people didn’t react as strongly, but that’s the extent of it. We’ve been calling around to hospitals trying to find out if any doctors tried recommendations that didn’t work out. So far none.”

“You wanted to see if he was randomly trying different treatments.”

“Not randomly, but off-label therapies the FDA hasn’t approved,” she replies. “The scary part is how many people are okay with this. Heywood broke just about every ethical and legal law you can imagine, yet people in all these agencies are rushing to evaluate the results. I don’t understand.”

“Well,” I say, “you have to accept the idea that this could be real. Bad people sometimes do brilliant things. The Soviets starved millions of people but put a man in space. Columbus discovered a new world at the expense of the people who already lived there. This could be the real thing. I hope it’s real.”

“Yeah, I understand. I just have trouble separating my feelings. I want him to be wrong because he’s so vile. But I understand that also means that millions of people would die.”

I point to the ceiling, reminding her that we’re being listened to. “I understand the philosophical quandary.”

“The part that really gets to me is his obsession with you,” she replies. “You threaten him. I’m not sure why. He already got what he wanted. We didn’t stop him.”

“Some people are vindictive.” And strangely obsessed with me.

“I guess so. I’m embarrassed they went along with this. I had to pull every string I could to come see you. Have you been able to talk to anyone else?”

“They let me send basically a form letter to Jillian.”

“I talked to her. I explained the situation as well as I could. She already knew about Heywood. That’s another thing. The asshole hired some elite publicity firm to promote him and his cure system. It’s insane. Thankfully some people are calling it bullshit. But a lot aren’t. Anyway, she sends her love.”

Of course she does. But I know it’s a different kind of love now. When Jillian responded to my letter, she said that there would always be a room for me when I get back.

She used to tell me her bed would always be waiting. Offering me a room is her way of telling me that she’ll be there for me as a friend, but not as a lover. In a way, it’s the most loving thing she could say. She’s releasing me from the guilt of holding her back emotionally. Jillian deserved so much better than me. They all did.

“You okay, Theo?”

“I’m fine. Everything is fine. I should go now.”

“Go? Where? Oh crap, Theo, are you okay?”

I wish the hood were back on so she couldn’t see me like this. “Everything is fine,” I say again, trying to convince myself.

CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

PALACE

Sometimes I lie in bed at night and try to see the entire world. Instead of creating a memory palace, in which I could store and organize memories and experiences, I try to remember the world in its entirety, every place I’ve visited, every person I’ve ever known.

I visit my mother and stepfather, who are so used to my infrequent visits that often our only communication is a Christmas card listing the places we’ve been.

I watch Jillian in her bakery as kids in dusty baseball uniforms crowd the glass cabinets, pointing at cupcakes.