Hazel Wetherby & The Elixir of Love

Hazel Wetherby

&

The Elixir of Love

by

Bill Defelis

Smashwords Edition

Copyright © 2010 Bill Defelis

This is a work of fiction, all rights reserved, etc., etc.

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1. May 29, 6:45 am

She felt guilty for saying that. And stupid. They both knew she couldn’t kill him. Even if he really wasn’t human anymore.

Pushing herself from the bed, Hazel staggered to the bathroom door and leaned her head against it. Just hurry up, she growled. You’ll make me late again.

So? replied her brother. "It’s not like school’s doing you any good."

KG! Do I have to come in there and throw you out?

Is this the only bathroom in the house? And stop calling me that.

"Okay … Kierkegaard, Proctor, whatever your name is this week. But it’s our bathroom, which means we share it."

He groaned. I’ll be so glad to get away from this planet.

You and everyone who’s ever met you.

A sudden hammering from the hallway made Hazel jump.

Get up! shouted Mrs. Haggis through the door. I’m not giving you a ride if you miss your bus.

Hazel put a finger to her temple and fired. "I am up! And I won’t be late, if a certain kid brother’ll quit hogging the bathroom. Are Mum and Pops up yet?"

Your parents don’t pay me to worry about them. They pay me to worry about getting you and that daft brother of yours up and out the door. So hop to it.

Yes, ma’aaam. Hazel shifted her finger to her open mouth. Why, oh why, did her parents keep hiring housekeepers straight from the lowest rungs of Hell? If they were smart enough to be rocket scientists, why weren’t they smart enough to see the ghastly horrors being inflicted daily on their children? Did they just not care?

She banged her head against the bathroom door to hurry her brother.

Hold your horses, he yelled back.

Figuring her horses would die of old age first, Hazel decided to go check the weather. But rather than use her own window, she hurried into the upstairs laundry room, where a window faced the street and gave the clearest view of the sky. It also offered the best view of George’s house, diagonally across from hers.

She raised the blinds to find a gloomy gray morning, but no rain yet. Immediately her eyes jumped to the thing she really cared about – his house. As she pondered over the best time and place to ‘just happen to’ run into George at school and how best to get his attention without being too obvious, her gaze drifted down to the street.

There, just beyond George’s house, she noticed a large black sedan. In it sat two men in dark suits. Salesmen? Mormon missionaries? Hazel wondered. Why would they be sitting out there this early in the morning?

* * *

A dozen kilometers away, Dr. Friedrich Ecks, still in his underwear, slowly put down his phone. His stare lingered on it several seconds before moving hesitantly to the front window.

Unable to make himself go look, he instead picked up the phone again and made a call of his own. Dolly, did Larry just call you? … He just called from the lab … yes, this early. Something bad’s going on … I don’t know, but let’s not talk on the phone. Can you get over, quick?

After hanging up, he tiptoed to the window and peeked out. Larry’s guess had been right. There was a car out front, with two men in it – men in black suits. Except they weren’t watching his house. Because both appeared to be dead.

He heard a faint noise behind him.

Ah, Dr. Ecks, I presume.

Dr. Ecks turned slowly to face a pot-bellied man wearing a bright pink jogging suit and black ski mask. The man was pointing something directly at Dr. Ecks’s head. A something Dr. Ecks guessed was a gun. But not like any he’d ever seen before.

Dr. Ecks now shook his head in supplication: Please … please don’t.

At the same instant his ears registered a sharp ffwwht, a searing blast of pain stabbed Dr. Ecks in the forehead. Rapidly, his world went dark.

But ten minutes later he felt his head yanked back and a pungent odor burning its way up his nostrils. A jackhammer ran wild inside his skull. A voice, close by, shouted, Wake up!

Wake up? I’m still alive?

Listen to me! Where is it?

It? What could …. Of course – the cesiumite. His formula. His precious.

Dr. Ecks went rigid, cursing himself, as something small and red leaped into his thoughts. Please God, please don’t let her have it with her. He managed to crack open an eye and see that he was still at home but now lying in his study. With difficulty, he raised his head. No sign of Dolly.

A hand thrust a small gray object under his nose. That caustic smell attacked again, blasting through his sinuses like a flamethrower. Another hand yanked his head back further and the black mask, enclosing a pair of dull black eyes, loomed into view.

I know ..., Dr. Ecks croaked. He licked his lips and tried again. "I know what you want. But it’s all at the lab … there’s nothing here. But why? Who could want it so badly?"

His interrogator rolled him onto his back. "You wouldn’t want to know. Now, cooperate with me and you can live. But make no mistake – I will get that formulation process. So we can do this the easy way or the unpleasant way. It’s your choice."

There’s nothing here I tell you! It’s all at the lab. There’re no other copies. And I certainly don’t have all the details in my head.

Lies, all of them. Too bad none would help.

Very well, human, if you insist. The intruder pulled from his jogging suit a cigar-shaped device full of tiny buttons and blinking lights.

Human? Beads of sweat sprang to Dr. Ecks’s brow as his horrified gaze fastened on the device. What’s that?

This? A flat smile showed within the mask. Oh, it has several uses. One is … truth finding. The man dabbed at several buttons. For me, a most useful tool. He leaned forward, placing the device against his victim’s head. Though I doubt you’ll have quite the same appreciation of it.

The next thing Dr. Ecks knew, he was hearing a scream, somewhere close by, and wondering whose it was.

2. May 29, 5:45 pm

As she raced through another puddle, Hazel glanced down at her mud-splattered shoes. Perfect. One more thing to get yelled at about. That should please Mrs. Haggis to death.

Surely a day couldn’t get any worse: Laughed at by the entire world when she'd stumbled in the cafeteria. Yelled at by Mr. Kip in P.E. (and it was so not her fault!). Totally ignored by George when they’d passed in the hallway. Caught in this thunderstorm after school and nearly drowned. Then, forced to wait it out playing sardine with a bunch of strangers under a bus shelter. Now, certain to suffer permanent spinal damage from this death run with a thousand tons of bookbag slamming into her. And late getting home, again.

And running late meant no time to avoid George’s house. That’d be the perfect icing on the arsenic cake she’d been eating all day, for him to see her like this. Now, when her hair – normally a gleaming copper and the only thing she ever got compliments on – must look like an old mop soaked in muddy water.

George. George, with that silky black hair always falling across his eyes. Those gorgeous, limpid gray eyes. George, with his shy half-smile and that precious French accent. Zhorzh, as his parents called him. Her Zhorzh.

Well, not quite hers yet. First she had to get him to remember her name. Then get him to pay attention to something other than stupid golf. Luella kept telling her to just wait till she got boobs. Then everything would be easier. But whoever was in charge of the bosom delivery schedule had some serious ‘splainin’ to do over why her shipment was running so late.

Hazel tried to focus on her stride, but her thoughts kept leaping ahead. She could already see the glee in Mrs. Haggis’s face as the old she-devil doled out extra servings of punishment. Grounded for the next five years and full-time diaper duty would just be Hazel’s appetizers.

Two more blocks to her street. She flogged her exhausted body onward.

Approaching her corner, though, she began to slow. And not because of her rubbery legs or aching lungs or the thunderbolts still cracking overhead.

It was the neighbors. Standing out by the street, near trees or out in the open, daring the lightning to a game of Whack-a-Human. What would bring them out in weather like this?

She stopped at the corner and bent over, sucking wind. She saw a couple of neighbors point at her, but most were looking in the direction of her house. Standing erect, she pushed her glasses back up her nose and made herself do the same.

The braces on her teeth tightened by themselves at the sight: two Downers Grove police cars, an Illinois State Police car, a black panel van, and several unmarked sedans all jammed up in front of her house. And policemen planted about like so many oversized lawn ornaments.

But no flashing lights, no crime scene tape, and no ambulance (whew!). So what could it be? Sure, overreacting was as common as belching for Mrs. Haggis. But this? Just because Hazel was late again?

In a reflex reaction, her head jerked away. Across the intersection sat a white, late-model Mustang. Before her eyes could pass it by, the driver stuck his head out, catching her gaze. It was a large head – with chalk-white skin, unshaven face, and dull black eyes – sitting atop a jacket of bright pink.

Ugh-ola. Who let the zombies out? With a shudder, she turned from the car to face her house again. Closing her eyes, she took a deep breath and exhorted herself not to think about what lay ahead. (Didn’t Luella always say worrying was for wannabes?) With her chin lifted and jaw set firmly, she set forth to meet the day’s next disaster. Her wobbly knees, she told herself, were just from all the running.

As Hazel passed George’s house, she saw Mrs. Hu standing out front, her palms pressed together as if she were praying. They exchanged hesitant waves, and Hazel sent a silent ‘thank you’ heavenwards for George being nowhere in sight.

The nearest policeman stood beside the van. Nervously watching the skies from under his rain poncho, he gave her only a sideways glance as she approached.

After a final deep breath, she said politely, What’s all this, officer?

He didn’t even look at her. Police business. You go on home, little girl.

LITTLE girl???!!!

Since the thick lenses of her glasses made her eyes seem the size of a sperm whale’s, it was hard to imagine they could get any bigger. But they did. And fists clenched, as did her jaw. Okay, maybe she was a bit short for her age, and maybe her voice did still squeak sometimes, and yes, there was that lack-of-chestal-development issue. Still, C’mon, world, I’m thirteen now. Stop calling me little!

Under normal circumstances, the cop would have found himself instantly engaged in a session of sensitivity awareness training. Current circumstances hardly being normal, however, Hazel instead forced herself to exhale and unclench.

"Yessir, sir. Whatever you say," she said and continued on toward her house.

Hey! the cop called after her. I told you to ... wait, this your house?

She wheeled around. Slowly. Yesssirrrrr.

The cop waved to a trooper on the porch and pointed at her. Tell ‘em it’s the other one.

The trooper called to someone inside the house. A moment later, a man stepped out. He wore a black suit, black rubber gloves, and a blank expression. In his gloves he carried a gallon freezer bag.

Hazel’s stare locked onto the plastic bag and its unidentifiable black contents. As the man approached, an acrid stench punched her in the face, staggering her backwards.

Her brain finally hoisted the surrender flag, at last ready to accept the obvious. Something serious had happened here – not just Mrs. Haggis overreacting. She stood goggling up at the trooper, paralyzed, as a flood of terrifying possibilities surged through her head.

A balding, older man in a rumpled jacket and loose tie now came out onto the porch. He studied her a moment before wiggling a finger to beckon her forward.

Her feet had sent roots into the sidewalk. Somehow she managed to shake her head and whisper, What’s happened?

The man looked up at the threatening sky, sighed, and descended the porch steps. He reminded her of that fat TV detective, the one she’d watched a few times on that cable channel, the one that showed only programs from back when long sideburns and plaid were in style.

He stopped a meter from her. Hazel Wetherby?

She leaned away. Who are you?

The man held out an ID badge. Kelton. DGPD. Come inside and join your brother. We need to have a little chat.

She peered blankly at his badge, her brain registering nothing. So, you’re a policeman? Why are all these people here?

He pushed the badge closer, slowing his delivery. Lieutenant Detective Kelton. Downers Grove Police. I’ll explain everything when we get inside.

Hazel turned to look at the man in black, who was now putting the plastic bag with its black contents inside the black van.

I’m afraid your housekeeper’s— A boom of thunder drowned out the rest of the detective’s words. He got behind Hazel and nudged her toward the house.

As if hit with a cattle prod, she exploded up the steps and through the door. In the living room she found her brother Kierkegaard, looking to be his normal, irritated self.

You okay? shouted Hazel. Where’s Nut?

Simultaneously, he shouted back, No, it wasn’t me! (A common way for him to begin conversations.)

Hazel gazed around, stupefied. A greasy smoke hung in the air, along with an overpowering stink of burnt … something. To the right of the living room was a smaller room that was their TV room. Where once had sat Mrs. Haggis’s easy-rocker, there was now only the blackened skeleton of a chair. The small rug underneath it was scorched, as was the lampshade next to it, but that was about all the damage Hazel could see. Two men, wearing latex gloves, were preparing to wrap up the remains of the rocker in plastic.

Other men and women, uniformed and plainclothes, swarmed about the house, taking samples, measuring, wrapping things up. But two of the plainclothes just stood at the foot of the stairs, aloof from the others, their hands clasped in front of them. They did nothing but watch from behind their black sunglasses, black suits, and buzz cuts.

"WHERE IS NUT?" Hazel shouted again, advancing on her brother.

She’sfineshe’sstillatdaycare. He pointed a finger across the room. These gorillas are taking my laptop!

Hazel finally exhaled. She turned to Lt. Kelton, who had now caught up to her. So where’s Mrs. Haggis?

As the detective opened his mouth, Hazel whirled back to Kierkegaard. What about Mr. E?

He gave her a look like she’d just asked him to pick her nose for her. Who knows, who cares? Stay focused on my laptop.

Mr. E? Hazel called out. Mr. E?

The dog? asked Lt. Kelton.

Hazel nodded anxiously. Have you seen him?

Lt. Kelton nodded back. In the kitchen I think.

As she turned that way, he caught her arm. Hold on. The dog’s fine. Redirecting her to the sofa beside her brother, he added, You can see him after we talk.

So why do you want his laptop? she asked, sitting as far as she could from her brother.

It’s okay, we won’t keep it long, said Lt. Kelton. We need it and the other computer, just to check what’s on ‘em.

"You’re taking mine too? Why?"

Just a precaution. You’ll get ‘em back soon. So, the baby’s name really is Nut? Thought that must be a typo on my sheet.

Hazel sighed, then droned out the standard recitation: Nut was the Egyptian goddess of the sky and a symbol of rebirth. She was also the barrier separating chaos and order. Having a baby sister with a name like that, Hazel'd had a lot of practice explaining it. What she couldn’t explain, though, was her parents’ thought processes behind picking it.

The detective gave the standard response of raised eyebrows. Ohhkay.

But you still haven’t told me what happened to Mrs. Haggis.

Before Lt. Kelton could answer, Kierkegaard leaned over to his sister and stage-whispered, "She’s toast. Seriously overdone."

Lt. Kelton’s eyebrows jumped even higher.

Hazel’s wide eyes went to the charred rocker and then to the front door. "That was her? In that little bag?"

Lt. Kelton swallowed. Um, not quite the way I’d’ve put it, but … seems your housekeeper suffered a case of spontaneous combustion, and … that’s all we found left of her.

Slack-jawed and squinty-eyed, Hazel turned to him. "Spon— what?"

Did she smoke? Lt. Kelton asked.

You mean before today? chirped Kierkegaard.

Hazel cringed, shaking her head in despair. "Nooo. Drink, yes, all the time. But not smoke."

The detective wrenched his stare away from Kierkegaard. No, we didn’t, um—

Wait, what about our parents? demanded Hazel, waggling a finger between herself and her brother, in case the detective wasn’t clear whose parents she meant. Where are they?

Lt. Kelton looked down at the floor. Yeah, your parents. His gaze shifted to the two watching men in black, then wandered the floor a bit more before returning to Hazel. That’s the other thing we need to talk about.

3. May 29, 6:00 pm

General Lester Bangs, Director of National Intelligence, stepped into the White House Oval Office.

The President, sitting alone at his desk, raised his head from his hands. Any better news?

Not a lot, sir, answered the general. We’ve tried chemical assistance on the two stakeout agents, to jog their memories. No help. And their blood tests haven’t told us yet what knocked them out. He laid a folder in front of the President.

And the doctors are still saying Ecks died from a heart attack?

Yessir, they seem pretty certain. If so, it’d be a good sign for us. Could mean he kicked off before spilling everything. Otherwise, we’d likely have found him dead of a less natural cause.

Hmm. What about whatsername, Ecks’s assistant?

Dr. LeGuse. Dorothy LeGuse. No sir, no trace of her yet.

The President scowled. So do we think they’ve got her?

"Impossible to say. Especially since we have zero idea who they are. Or what they are. Could be that she got tipped