It had started almost two decades ago. He was told only that information about his birth parents existed which he could either see or ignore as he chose. Of course he chose to see it, though for a good hour or so he actually debated ignoring it. The only reason he caved in the end was because they would have no way of knowing, those two people who gave him up, that he had made such a defiant, spiteful gesture.
He took the envelope back to his dorm — no way was he going to open it in that horrible little office in front of that smirking civil servant who thought she was being saintly by choosing this line of work but really, he knew, she did it to feel superior. All those poor, unwanted children. He waited until his roommate went out that night to yet another frat party before taking out the envelope and opening it. He sat for a moment in complete silence — he was probably the only person in the entire building — before picking up the letter from his father and beginning to read.
Like a lot of abandoned children, he sometimes indulged in grand, exalted visions of who his birth parents were, though he would hate to think that he was no different from every other abandoned child in the world pitifully wishing to be descended from royalty, or criminal masterminds, or spies. And now here was proof: his father was, in fact, the most important being on Earth right now, a brilliant scientist who had likely changed the course of human life forever. It was like he’d always imagined: his father was a great man.
The first thing he felt was rage.
Initially his anger focused on petty concerns: he couldn’t even brag about this. He remembered a boy in high school, also given up for adoption as a baby, who claimed his birth mother had gotten pregnant with him when she was just 14 and was now a famous actress. His story might well have been true — the boy was not a known liar — but no one believed him. “Your mother’s a ho-bag,” they jeered. He himself had not joined in the taunting, but he felt an even greater disdain for this boy than everyone else. He would never let that kind of debasement happen to him. Yet other than the letter, he had no evidence. His father was in hiding and made it clear there would be no further communication beyond this letter. And there was no way he would show anyone the letter — that damning document which proved beyond any doubt that he had been unwanted. Not only had his mother given him up, she had given him a death sentence. She could have given him near immortality but instead chose to grant that gift to a bunch of stupid peasant babies in China. And his father was no better. Yes, he had been kept in the dark by the woman who gave away their child, but once he found out the truth, did he come charging to the rescue? No. He wrote a letter to assuage his guilt and then vanished. Yes, the man needed to be in hiding. But he was also powerful and influential and connected. He could have come for his son if he really wanted to.
The two people who should have put him first had turned their backs on him. But they had given him something after all: a purpose. They had chosen to devote themselves to making life better for everyone else but him. He would devote himself to destroying their work. He would make his identity, right down to his name, all about the life he would never live.
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She kept the pregnancy a secret from Gerald as long as she could. There was no way she was going to let him get his hands on their child. By the time he found out it was too late to do the sequencing, and what’s more the lab had been discovered and everyone was panicking.
When she gave away the Lao Babies, she gave her own baby away too.
She never looked for him. Gerald Lindstrom did, even though had no interest in being a father. He only found Baxter because he was afraid Ruth might decide to contact the boy herself, and tell him everything — including everything about who really ran the lab. His letter explained what he felt needed to be explained, exonerating himself, vilifying Ruth. Ruth could have given Baxter the longevity gene. Instead she gave him away.
And that’s why he’s after us.
I turned from Ruth and stumbled away blindly. I needed to be away from her, away from everyone. I heard Jimmy call my name but right then I wanted to be alone, alone and safe again. Again? Safe is always a lie. I was never safe; nobody is.
Baxter Lindstrom was the serial killer. Baxter Lindstrom was my half brother. Gerald Lindstrom was his father and Ruth Baxter our mother.
And I’d thought my life with Sylvia had been dysfunctional. At least Sylvia and I had never actually tried to kill each other, at least not with grenades.
One of which was coming at us right now, courtesy of my half brother.