The Gemini Experiment Read online

  Before Tom left for the day, they took him to a smaller, adjacent room dominated by a long white container that looked like a tanning booth – or a slick, rounded coffin. A web of cords and wires connected the booth to computers and monitors that smothered the length of one wall.

  “That’s the scanner. It will give us an extremely detailed mapping of your dimensions – your body mass, skin tone, skeletal and muscular structure, everything down to the size and shape of your fingernails. We’d like to set up a time for scanning as soon as we can, to preserve your current appearance.”

  “Before I start to deteriorate,” said Tom.

  “Yes,” Steven said. “We’re on a time clock, and the clock is ticking. I don’t need to tell you that. Your mind – we have more time. Your body – not so much.”

  “So,” Alan said, clasping a hand on Tom’s shoulder. “Have we scared you away yet?”

  Tom shook his head. “No. I’m not scared. I’m…grateful.” He thought about the possibility – however small – that this process and technology could suspend death long enough for him to see his daughter grow up. He felt something he hadn’t felt since his doctor’s shattering diagnosis – hope.

  Six weeks later, Tom stood in the same lab feeling more than hope – the possibility was moving toward reality. The rest of the lab had stepped away to allow Tom and Steven a private moment with Tom’s full-sized duplicate. The artificial ‘shell’, as Steven called it, appeared to be a total success in recreating his shape and form.

  Tom wanted to ditch his diseased body and live in this new one as soon as possible.

  “We call it the Gemini Experiment, after the Dioscuri,” Steven said. “Do you remember your Greek mythology? The Gemini twins are Castor and Pollux. One is mortal, one is immortal.”

  “So this is my immortal twin,” said Tom. “Amazing. I’m speechless. Thank you.”

  “Don’t thank me yet,” Steven said. “We still have a long way to go. But I hope you can go home tonight…feeling good. We’re all dedicated to making this work.”

  “This is a miracle,” Tom said, his spirit lifted.

  * * *

  That night, as Tom lay in bed with his wife, Emily, his mind continued to wander restlessly long after she fell asleep. Her arm rested across his bare chest, comforting and affectionate. He wondered how she would react if one day that same arm was draped across a synthetic simulation of his chest, fake versus real flesh, and would she feel any different toward him?

  Tom struggled with the religious implications. What would his church think? God created man. But what happens when man gets sick? Tom thought: We’ve accepted centuries of medicines and vaccines and moved on to artificial limbs, pacemakers and lung machines. Was this truly sacrilege or simply taking the art of healing to a new level?

  For Tom, the arguments in his head persisted but he kept reaching the same conclusion. I don’t want to die.

  Chapter Two

  Groucho waited behind the wheel, watching the scene around him, feeling a chilly tingle of perspiration stick to his clothes. The silver Mustang idled at the curb in front of Elgin First Bank, car windows tinted at twenty percent, doors unlocked and ready to welcome three passengers – Stan, Ollie and Charlie – to complete the classic comedy foursome.

  The police scanner crackled with tight, tense voices describing a bank robbery on the other side of town – a madcap scramble of Keystone Kops reporting to the foursome’s first crime, the perfect diversion to clear the way for this second heist.

  A meticulous, minute-by-minute plan was being executed with precision to hold up two banks in rapid succession in Illinois’ eighth-largest city. The town was big enough for a big haul, yet scaled to the right size for a fast getaway without the heavier congestion and bulkier police presence of nearby Chicago. Elgin was surrounded by rural areas and main arteries, allowing many miles of distance to be covered in minutes. Every consideration – time of day, traffic patterns, bank activity, police proximity – factored into the final agenda, largely developed by the foursome’s organizer and ringleader, Charlie.

  It was Charlie – Chaplin – who came up with the idea to disguise themselves in throwback Halloween masks bought anonymously on eBay, gleefully choosing the old-time comics theme over other options such as classic monsters or US presidents. Charlie looked forward to the press coverage of his novelty choice and the funny look of the security camera footage, playing out like a grainy, pantomime movie of the slapstick era. Charlie brought together his holdup team with the insistence they only know one another by these stage names, so that after they split with their shares of the haul, they couldn’t reveal each other’s identities, even if under tremendous pressure. The entire operation, rapidly assembled less than twenty-four hours before, was to be conducted under a strict shroud of anonymity. Only Charlie, their recruiter, knew everyone’s true names.

  Charlie was also very deliberate about the numbers – three on the inside, one waiting outside. “We’ll be ready for any asshole who wants to be a hero. They’ll think twice before doing something stupid. If anyone tries to be a hero, they’ll be a dead hero.”

  Groucho checked his watch: two minutes to go. One hundred and twenty seconds. He itched for a quick cigarette. He wanted to peel off the idiotic mask and light up, but the pleasure would have to wait. He had been hired for his fierce concentration and driving skills to transport people and cash at lightning speed. He possessed an uncanny talent to tune out all distractions. If he didn’t perform at the top of his game, he endangered them all and his stellar reputation.

  A little girl in a sundress entered Groucho’s view. She crossed the street directly in front of the getaway car, carrying an ice cream cone. She moved excruciatingly slowly, careful not to upset the balance of her two scoops. Groucho tensed up. This pint-sized obstacle was not expected or acceptable. She needed to move faster.

  From the other side of the tinted glass, the little girl could not see his funny face – big eyebrows, big glasses, big mustache. He was just a shadow.

  Groucho applied pressure to the gas pedal while parked, creating a small roar of impatience to accelerate her pace.

  Instead of stepping more quickly, she stopped cold. She turned to look into the windshield, curious. A melting streak of ice cream dribbled onto her fist.

  “Move!” screamed Groucho.

  At that moment, Stan, Ollie and Charlie rushed out of the bank, each carrying a bulky canvas bag.

  The little girl’s head turned from the Mustang to the comedy trio running toward the car. She stared at them in awe.

  The car filled up with clowns, doors opening and slamming. Groucho adjusted the gear shift. He weighed his options at lightning speed:

  1. Wait for the girl to move – not really an option.

  2. Blast the horn to chase her away and draw attention.

  3. Back up and circle around her, trimming precious seconds off the getaway time.

  4. Run the damned kid over.

  “Run her down!” Charlie shouted in the front passenger seat. Stan and Ollie nodded vigorously in the back seat.

  Groucho slammed the accelerator.

  The little girl jumped out of the path of the advancing car and fell to the curb, bursting into tears as her ice cream cone exploded on the pavement.

  Groucho would not allow himself a glance in the rearview mirror – he had an upcoming intersection to contend with – but Charlie twisted around for a look and reported, with no real emotion one way or the other, “She’s fine.”

  Inside twenty minutes at breakneck speed, the Mustang arrived in small, sleepy Sycamore, Illinois. The vehicle returned to the previous night’s makeshift headquarters, a vacant house on a country road with a toppled ‘For Sale’ sign. Ongoing monitoring of the police scanner provided reassurance that no one had picked up their trail.

  Groucho pulled the Mustang into a large, di
lapidated garage, essentially a shack of brittle wood. He parked alongside Charlie’s Chevy, which would take them back into the city after the loot was divided. The stolen Mustang was officially retired. They climbed out and entered the old, empty country house and its layers of dust.

  Charlie took control of the money, unloading the bundles of cash on a table in the center of the living room. True to his plan, exploding packs of dye had been purposefully excluded, following his cold-blooded promise to the tellers: “If you include the dye, you will die. My brother has instructions to kill your family if there’s even one drop of blue ink. He has your home addresses and the names of your children. Make the wise choice.”

  Ollie collected the rubber masks and burned them in the fireplace with a generous squeeze of lighter fluid. Stan popped a celebratory bottle of champagne he had reserved for their return.

  Groucho, still all nerves from the getaway run, craved his cigarette now more than ever. “I’m going out back for a smoke,” he said.

  Charlie looked up from where he had been counting the money.

  “I’d rather you didn’t,” he said.

  “Why?”

  “I think it’s best we stay together in this room.”

  Groucho frowned. “The money’s here with you. What’s your problem?”

  “I don’t have a problem. I’m just making a request.”

  Groucho’s voice lowered a notch and growled. “You’re no longer the boss. The job is done. I’m going out for a smoke. It’s a hundred degrees in here.”

  Groucho turned away, not interested in continuing the debate. Little Charlie had dictated every step of the bank robberies, told everyone what to do without soliciting their input, and that was fine. But denying him a smoke after it was all over – that was just unnecessary. The overreach of a control freak.

  Groucho stepped out of the house, letting the screen door slap shut behind him. He descended a small set of wooden steps into a secluded backyard. It was a grassy, overgrown plot of land that quickly gave way to a sprawling forest preserve. The yard was welcomingly cool and breezy, offering tranquility and isolation. The pleasant chirp of birds accompanied a gentle tussle of sweeping wind.

  As Groucho walked toward the forest, sucking on his cigarette, he began to run numbers through his head. Charlie had anticipated a haul of six hundred thousand dollars across the two banks. Divided equally among the clowns, the take-home pay would be approximately one hundred and fifty thousand big ones. Based on his average annual earnings over the past few years, working in such glorious jobs as dishwasher, bartender and janitor, that would mean he had earned more in one day than he would ordinarily take home…in about six years.

  Wait a minute. The money was tax free. Make that eight years.

  Groucho smiled. The cigarette tasted fantastic. Very soon, Charlie would drive them back into Chicago and they would scatter with their individual bounties, never to see one another again. He would hop a train to leave the state, head into northern Minnesota, maybe buy a small cabin and.…

  “Whoa,” he said. Entering the forest, he nearly stumbled into a big hole.

  He froze in his tracks. He examined the opening. It was a large, manmade excavation, rectangular and deep, about the size of a—

  Crack.

  Crack. Crack.

  Loud staccato pops disrupted the calm, sending birds fluttering from the trees.

  Studying the scene in front of him, Groucho realized he had found not just one hole, but three of equal size. If there was even a moment of mystery around their intent, it had been quickly erased by the sound of gunshots.

  Groucho turned and ran away from the woods.

  Charlie emerged from the back door, descending the steps with banging footsteps, pistol in hand.

  Groucho immediately circled toward the side of the house. A bullet kicked up dirt at his feet. His own gun was tucked deep into a holster under his shirt. He couldn’t slow down yet to dig it out. He needed to create more distance.

  At the side of the house, he reached the garage. He discovered an external door that led to the cars. He had a split second to make a decision.

  The key to the Mustang remained in his pocket. He had instinctively pocketed it after they parked. Should he stay for a shootout or attempt an escape?

  He knew his driving skills were better than his shooting skills. Decision made.

  Groucho rushed inside the garage. He jumped in the Mustang and started the engine. As the motor roared, Charlie burst into the garage. He fired his gun, shattering one of the Mustang’s windows.

  Groucho floored the car in reverse, smashing through rotten wood, spilling into the driveway. He backed up in a fast, straight line, eighty feet to the main road, and then threw the car into drive, kicking up dirt and gravel.

  A new getaway had started. He was in his element.

  Groucho pushed the Mustang as fast as it would go, roaring down the main road, grateful to have no other vehicles in his way.

  “Son of a bitch,” he said over and over. This had been Charlie’s plan all along – enlist their help, then kill them off and escape with all the money.

  In his rearview mirror, he glimpsed the inevitable – a car coming after him, the Chevy belonging to Charlie. Charlie was not going to allow this loose end to spoil his master plan.

  Okay, thought Groucho. So it’s me against you, winner takes all.

  He maneuvered in his seat, reached under his shirt and brought out his gun.

  One hand on the wheel, one hand on the gun, Groucho began to slow down.

  Come and get me.

  Years later, the citizens of Sycamore, Illinois, would recount the events of that day with mostly accurate grandeur. It was easily the most memorable drama to ever unfold on their quaint and cozy Main Street.

  Two speeding cars containing bank robbers engaged in a shootout, each looking to wipe out the other for more than half a million dollars in prize money and, ultimately, both losing. The one nicknamed Groucho did not survive, riddled with bullets and pulverized to a pancake as he crashed into parked cars at eighty miles per hour. The other, ridiculed in the press as ‘The Little Tramp’, absorbed multiple bullets and crashed, too, wiping out the front of Argento Pizza, and suffered a collection of broken bones but didn’t die. He wound up in Stateville Prison, serving a life sentence for the murder of Laurel and Hardy.

  * * *

  “Call me Charlie, everybody else does.”

  The prisoner spoke plainly, seated on the other side of the glass partition in the inmate visiting area. He cradled the phone receiver in his shoulder, staring at the stoic, neatly groomed man who had just addressed him by his proper name, Louis, and introduced himself as Cooper.

  “Charlie…?”

  “You know why I’m in here?”

  “Yes,” responded Cooper. He sat on a stool, speaking into his end of the timeworn phone and staring through the smudged glass. He wore a formal suit and tie, noticeably out of place in this house of orange jumpsuits. He appeared nervous but purposeful. Louis had agreed to meet him without asking his agenda. He didn’t get visitors every day.

  In fact, Louis never received visitors. Not since those meetings years ago with the oily lawyer who represented him and failed to reduce his sentence from forever. Louis had no family, no friends. The no friends distinction carried over into the Big House; he didn’t seek companionship and companionship didn’t seek him. He was small and private. The other inmates made fun of his bungled bank robbery and silly character choice, which were widely covered in snarky media coverage.

  If he became Charlie Chaplin for the rest of his life, so be it. He never cared for ‘Louis’ much anyway, a name bestowed on him by parents he detested.

  The man sitting across from him remained serious, probably not a comedy fan. “To be honest, your circumstances for being here are of no interest to me,
” Cooper said. “It’s your medical condition. It’s the cancer.”

  Louis stared hard at the man. It was a topic he didn’t really care to discuss. Yes, he was dying. So what.

  “Illinois doesn’t have the death penalty, so the man upstairs gave it to me instead,” said Louis in a wry tone.

  “I’m sorry,” Cooper said flatly. If there was sympathy, it didn’t reveal itself.

  “Why does my sickness interest you?”

  “You’re a candidate for a special medical procedure. It’s an experiment. There are no guarantees, of course, but we might be able to treat you and extend your life.”

  “Lucky me.”

  “Perhaps,” Cooper said.

  “Well, I’m afraid you don’t have much time to do your experiment. The doctor gave me six months to live. The cancer’s spreading. It’s weaving its wicked web as we speak. It won’t stay put.”

  “We can work with that.”

  “Who’s paying for this?”

  “We have a sponsor.”

  “What’s the catch?”

  “The treatment is new and aggressive. If it doesn’t work, you will die…sooner than your six months.”

  “And if it does work?”

  “You will be freed of your cancer.”

  Louis, as much as he tried, did not feel hope. He just felt puzzled.

  “Why me?” he asked. “There must be a ton of other cancer patients out there – ones without a murder rap.”

  “I will be upfront,” said Cooper. “Our methods are very new. They’re not recognized by the general science community. We need someone who guarantees us a high amount of privacy. Meaning no attachments.”

  “No family.”

  “Yes.”

  “So if I participate in your experiment.… I could die faster or live longer?”