“Thank you.”
Ethan continued to examine the folder’s contents. “Dr. Numen, this is a pharmaceutical research company, as you know. Your work is impressive; however, I really don’t see how much of it applies to anything we are doing.
“I know of your father’s legacy at this company. I’m in charge of the research activities that are done in this lab. Dr. Jones informed me that you talked of therapeutic cloning and that there could be an application. Looking at your work, I see mostly reproductive cloning. That’s a bit out in left field for me.”
“There really isn’t much difference—”
“Yes, there is.” Ethan looked over the top of the folder. “The creation of human life can only be done by God.”
“Of course, Dr. Shinwell.” John knew when there could only be one ego in a room, and if he wanted a discreet place to get his research done, he would have to give Dr. Shinwell’s ego plenty of space.
“The federal government passed laws banning the cloning of humans just last fall.” Ethan placed the folder on the desk. “Are you planning to change the direction of this company?”
“I think initially my work here will be outside the company’s current business model. So, I should make no impact on your lab’s activities,” John said.
“That is nice to know. As long as it doesn’t affect my budget or bring legal troubles, we should have no problems.”
“I’ll be paying for half the cost of equipping the new lab. Dr. Jones has agreed that the company will pay the other half. We didn’t talk in detail about the budget structure. Just an educated guess, but I’d expect an impact to your budget for this year.”
“How much will that be?”
“I’ll write up a budget proposal for the next board meeting. I believe that is the standard protocol for budget issues. There’s one other thing—” John leaned forward in his chair. “I know you’re the director of the lab, but the one I’ll be establishing will share the same building, yet will be physically separate. I’ll have the final say on who has access to it, including you.”
“We’ll just see what Dr. Jones has to say about that. I don’t think—”
“I have. He’s given it his approval.”
“I guess your 40 percent ownership in the company does bring privileges.” Ethan picked up the folder on his desk and tossed it in the wastebasket behind him.
John stood from his chair. “Thank you for your time.” What a prick. Fuck you. He headed for the door.
“Same here,” Ethan replied.
JUNE 15, 2021
I decided to write this journal as sort of an insurance policy. Living such a reclusive life on an island all by myself, should some unforeseen accident or sudden heart attack end my life, it could be months or perhaps over a year before I am found. At least this will be my one chance to tell my story. I have kept this leather-bound, loose-leaf binder hidden in my dresser drawer with my shorts. Not very imaginative, I know, but it serves its purpose. Out of sight, but a place that will be eventually discovered, most likely by the police. However, I hope it will find its way to the scientific community, along with all my other writings. This is my story, written as accurately as my memory allows and as eloquently as I’m able.
I didn’t have the understanding that I have today, but even then, I knew my family was wealthy. I remember my father, Sean Numen, as tall and muscular, as most boys see their dad. We spent at least one week in the summer on a deep-sea fishing trip in the Bahamas or Costa Rica and every Sunday afternoon we watched the Patriots play football on TV. My mother was a passing apparition, always off to a social event of one kind or the other. Most of my day-to-day caretaking was provided by the servants in the house. There was a definite upside: I learned how to cook from one of the best chefs on the East Coast.
My father had come far: medical school residency at John Hopkins in neurology and a move to Boston after residency, where he continued working on a new drug to treat depression. He formed his own company, found financial backing, and in five years had his new drug from “The Numen Company” on the market. That was the same year I was born.
In the first year, the company earned $300 million, more than anybody at that time expected. Sales continued to climb every year thereafter, as new drugs were developed and brought to the market—all of them the brainchild of my dad. The year of my tenth birthday party, sales exceeded $15.7 billon.
All stories, just as all lives, have a beginning. My life has two beginnings. There is the obvious one, the day I was born. The second was on my tenth birthday. There is a before and an after, with this day in between. I was very advanced academically for my age by this time. I had begun taking high school-level courses the year before. Everyone else in my classes was five to seven years older than me. Without friends at school, my birthday parties became more sparsely attended. My parents tried to fill the gap with children of couples they knew from work or social events. They meant well, but you can’t fake friendship. So, this celebration was like the one the year before—more routine tradition than a real party.
On a cloudless, warm September afternoon, under the shade of a large elm tree beside the pool, the table stretched out ten yards in front of me, half of its length covered with brightly wrapped presents. Everyone sang “Happy Birthday” and the gifts were opened. It was nice. But what I was waiting for was the annual football game.
“All right, let’s see how many players we have,” my father said as he stood by the table in his running shoes, blue jeans and t-shirt, holding a football in one hand. He counted out the children at the table. “Looks like ten. But I believe I can get Robert to join us, then I can play on the other team, giving us a decent six-man game.” He winked at me. My dad loved the chance to play a game of backyard football.
“What do you say, Robert? Want to join the game?” My father looked over his shoulder at my Uncle Robert, who stood by the bar in the cabana. He was my mother’s brother. Whatever maternal instincts she lacked he was gifted with.
Of course, I always played on my dad’s team. The game went on for an hour. Uncle Robert’s team was leading by a touchdown when the moment arrived. One of the boys on my team picked up the “kick-off” and started left. Heavily pursued, he could see his mistake, so he quickly tossed the ball backwards to me. I ran right, but two opposing players quickly converged on me, so in an instant I turned and threw the ball half the width of the field to my father, who was standing in the clear. He was as surprised as anybody to see the ball coming his way. Instinctively, he caught the ball and began running upfield. Uncle Robert stood behind all the other players. He was the only one who would be able to catch my dad and so he began his pursuit.
My dad ran hard to his right, trying to get around the angle of pursuit. Uncle Robert gave chase, adjusting his original bad angle to reach for the flag dangling from my father’s hip as he ran by, but he wasn’t able to grab it. Now it was a foot race to the far goal line. I ran behind them as fast as I could. Uncle Robert slowly gained ground and reached for the flag on my dad’s belt a second time, just as he crossed the goal line for the tying touchdown.
I cheered. All the kids on my team cheered. I was still running to him. Uncle Robert stopped and put his hands on his knees to catch his breath. I was almost to him. My dad walked slowly away from me, dropping the football from his hand. I stopped at his side. His hands came up to his chest and his shoulders hunched forward. He stumbled and pushed me out of the way as he fell. I watched his last breath go out of his body as I knelt in the grass beside him. My father was only forty-three.
The next six months were a blur. Much to my mother’s surprise, I was to inherit 40 percent ownership of the company and a place on the board of directors upon my twenty-fifth birthday. She got 5 percent ownership. She