Rooke decided that Mark should lay low for a while and stay away from his apartment. As for Gene, Rooke knew that bugging Gene’s apartment was the best option of keeping tabs on him. Any course to permanently remove him was far too risky, and even for an out-of-work bum, Gene’s disappearance, Rooke knew, would be noticed by someone. A family member, friend, some unimportant person, but someone. Mark suspected that Finster was sent over shortly after Mark’s first day of training to threaten Gene. Afterward, Gene gave no further problems, but they kept the apartment bugged regardless. Gene was kept under constant surveillance at all times, tailed by a guard if he left the apartment.
As much as Mark hated him, he didn’t want to see Gene “permanently removed” anyway. Or at least that was what he thought. If he was honest, he was apathetic on the issue. But his mother would be distraught—although he could never figure out why she cared for him. So Mark had sided with Rooke on the point that it would be too risky to kill or forcibly make Gene disappear.
Heather continued to train Mark, making sure to gas Gene anytime they went to his apartment, so she could check their monitoring equipment unhindered. Mark steadily improved in his ability to fight, finally learning how to counterattack and to stand toe-to-toe with Finster most of the time. Mark would always lose but not as quickly.
When Mark wasn’t training, he accompanied Rooke to his father’s home. Leonard had been assigned a new nurse after the former had been let go for insisting that hospice care would be better for Leonard. So Rooke wanted Mark as another set of eyes to watch the new nurse.
Rooke hardly slept, but when he did, it was in a chair in Leonard’s room. For all the money Rooke had thrown at the problem, Leonard looked worse than before— which to Mark seemed impossible, given his prior decrepit condition. Leonard was hanging on for dear life, a mere pile of flesh and bones, approaching his end. There was no possible way Leonard could survive much longer.
Not that Rooke shared that belief. He worked day and night, perfecting possible remedies, when he wasn’t working on the strength-invulnerability combination or on his experiments with diseases. Every remedy yielded no results, and Rooke became increasingly agitated with each successive failure.
Mark had tried to have the least possible contact with Rooke after their return from the bank. Ever since he’d been shot, Mark’s relationship with him had deteriorated greatly. Rooke may as well have been Whyte’s puppet on strings, lifeless, and at his mercy. That frightened Mark.
He had all the more reason to stay clear of Rooke after he had seen the remedies fail. On the days he was brought along to Leonard’s house, he spent most of his time talking to the old man. He seemed to respond by listening to Mark when he was awake. But the conversations were pretty one-sided.
Leonard’s request, before any further pleas were permanently silenced by the respiratory tube, leapt to Mark’s mind one day. He couldn’t shake his guilt that he had failed to convince Rooke of his dad’s request to cease the treatment. The old man just wanted to die in peace. Had his failure somehow caused Leonard’s further degradation? A foolish idea, of course, but Mark continued to dwell on it until he was compelled to talk with Rooke. Perhaps it was the old man’s failing, raspy tone that finally won Mark over. He thought honoring the simple request was the least he could do to atone for his recent sins and failures. He left the room, wandering down the hall toward Rooke’s work area.
This space was a mess of data entry papers, computer screens, and delicate instruments, which Mark dare not touch. Rooke had run out of desks, and his testing devices were placed in precarious positions on the floor, ripe for someone’s careless step. Mark inched around beakers full of bubbling liquid.
In the corner, Rooke was hunched over a notebook, murmuring to himself. “Tried that. Maybe if I add a gram of—but that would destroy half of it before taking effect, wouldn’t it?” He scribbled some notes. Without glancing up he asked, “What do you want?”
“Your father wanted me to talk to you about your cures,” Mark said. “Before he had the respiratory tube put in.”
“So? Come to clear your conscience?” Rooke asked. “Well, you’ve talked to me. Now you’re at peace. Leave. I’m busy.”
“With what?”
“A new version of the SN91,” Rooke snapped, turning to look up at him. He frowned. “Don’t look at me like that.”
“Like what?” Mark asked.
“That,” Rooke said, shaking his finger. “Like you’re somehow better than me. Like you’re morally right. You’re a criminal!”
Mark huffed. “Shut up! You’re a murderer!”
“No, I’m not!” Rooke said, burying his head back in his notes. “I’m not.”
“You’re making a disease to kill people,” he said. “That makes you a murderer! So you can’t accuse me!”
“I don’t use it,” Rooke said. “I give it to Whyte to use. He dispenses it, not me. You think I want to do this? You think I want to work for Whyte?”
“Then quit,” Mark said.
“You don’t understand. I can’t just quit working for Whyte. Where would I go to fund my father’s cure?”
Mark tilted his head. “You own a company.”
“—that’s failing,” Rooke said. “I sank all its profits into researching a cure for ALS!” He swatted his notebook, knocking over a few vials. They shattered as they hit the floor. He groaned. “Everything is falling apart.”
“Wait, wait.” Mark held up a hand and stepped around the spilled concoctions. “You used up all your money?”
Rooke ran his hands through his hair. “Every penny. The company’s board members threatened to replace me. I had nowhere to go. But Whyte came along and offered me all the funding I would ever need. Bought out the company, shut down the board, and gave me total control. All I had to do was to create diseases and their remedies. I let him use my factories to mass-produce them and my company and warehouses to store his disease shipments. To help him corner the market. Simple enough. Sell my soul to the devil in exchange for my father’s.
“But that didn’t go as planned. I’m no closer to finding a cure now as I was then,” Rooke said. He stomped his foot. “I can’t get out of this. I have to keep going. I swore I would cure my father. It’s what he would do. He would help others before helping himself.”
“You’re only helping yourself and doing what you want.”
Rooke shook his head furiously. “No. I’m helping him. I can save him and others. He and I, we’re healers. We’re doctors. We save people. That’s what I’m doing. I’m trying to save someone.”
Mark was fed up. The conversation was going around in circles. “Are you blind or just stupid? He doesn’t want to be saved! He wants to die!”
“So I should let him die?” Rooke glared at Mark. “He’s my father, you moron! What should I do? Oh,” he grinned wryly, “I forgot who I’m talking to. You hate your own father. You’d gladly sell him out, wouldn’t you? Let him die. Like father, like son.” He waved his hand in dismissal. “Just go away.” Mark didn’t leave, but stood there shaking his fists, Rooke yelled at him. “Are you going to hit me? Remember, I found you. I brought you in. I made you what you are. You’re going to bite the hand that created you? If so, do it! Otherwise, get out of here!”
He’s technically your employer, Mark told himself. He signs your paychecks. This thought didn’t help Mark feel better though. He’s worried about his dad. His hands continued to rattle.
Rooke yanked his hair, gritting his teeth. “Look,” he said, sighing and stretching his arms out. “I didn’t mean that. I’m stressed and—”
Rooke’s face slammed onto the desk. Mark retracted his outstretched fist and marched out of the room. He purposely made sure to tip over several of the beakers on his way out.