Necropolis (13 page)

I shook my head. “So for a person to be immortal, he’d have to have,” I ticked off each item on a finger, “cells that never made mistakes, cells that reproduced infinitely, a body that repaired itself perfectly from free radicals and other assaults, a biological clock that never ran down, and telomeres that didn’t shorten.”

“And a host of other factors we haven’t even discussed.”

“And we haven’t even gotten around to the issue of actually growing
younger
.”

Gavin leaned back in satisfaction. “I think you can see why, even after twenty-five years of research, a cure for the Shift is still a long way off.”

“Okay, so let’s get back to Crandall. His team was working on all this stuff.”

Gavin, who’d been swept away by his own breathtaking command of science, tightened suddenly. “That’s right. Our best and brightest. Morris Crandall, Dr. Smythe, Dr. Hakuri, and Dr. Renquist.”

“What aspect were they working on, specifically?”

Gavin hesitated. “They believed, since the issues involved in youthing are genetic, gene therapy could stop the Shift.”

“Gene therapy? How does that work?”

“In a nutshell, you modify the part of the DNA that is causing the problem. You place the modified genes into a harmless vector—a retrovirus—and introduce it into the patient.”

“Sounds like science fiction.”

“We’ve managed to cure some nasty inherited diseases that way. We believe a retrovirus is what communicates the Shift in the first place—what begins the alterations in ‘dead’ DNA that causes revival.”

“Really?”

“Many cancers are caused that way. HIV, before it was cured, was carried by a retrovirus called a lentivirus. Morris believed we could restore normal functioning of the biological processes in reborns using gene therapy.”

“Get the clock to run forward again.”

“That’s right.”

“What about communicability? I was told that even norms can cause the Shift to start outside the Blister.”

“Because we don’t have a vaccine for the Shift retrovirus yet, our only option is to contain it. Every infected person, norm and reborn alike, must be isolated.”
 

“But these retroviruses are just carriers, right? So what caused the Shift in the first place? Where’d it come from?”
 

“That’s the million dollar question, isn’t it? The most accepted theory is that some bioweapon didn’t perform as advertised, either through a spontaneous mutation, which happens in nature, or because the terrorist genetic designers didn’t know what they were doing.”

“A bioweapon? You mean like weaponized anthrax?”

“Well, yes, but bioterrorism has become much more sophisticated.”

“How many nations or terrorist groups can modify DNA?”

“You’d have to ask the Conch. But zealotry, money and technology is a pretty potent combination, and there’s no shortage of America-haters.”

“No terrorist group or state was ever identified. No one ever claimed responsibility.”

“No one credible, no.”

“The worst attack on American soil in history, and the attacker was never identified. Hard to believe.”

He merely shrugged.

“Crandall spoke to Nicole of a breakthrough in their research.”

Gavin raised an eyebrow. “Team records show nothing.”

“Are you saying she lied?”

His oily smile became slush. “Of course not. I have no idea why Crandall told her that.”

“Could Dr. Smythe’s death be connected to Crandall’s disappearance? To their work? A rival drug company, maybe?”

Gavin dismissed the idea with a wave. “Big pharmaceuticals conduct industrial espionage every day, but murder? Doubtful.”

“Could this killer be some crazy Ender who’s a fan of the Shift?”

“Our work is classified. Besides, I understood that Dr. Smythe’s death was related to his rather unusual personal tastes.”
 

Everyone seemed anxious for me to buy the party line. “It’s possible.
 
Was Crandall acting strangely in any way prior to his disappearance?”

“No, his staff said it was business as usual.”

“Which involved late nights?” Another nod. “Where is his lab?”

“We have labs all over town. Smythe’s was in Hippieville.”

I raised an eyebrow. Gavin suppressed his amusement. “I forgot you haven’t ventured much out of the Bogart yet.”

“The Bo— Oh, you mean midtown! Where everyone looks like they stepped out of
The Maltese Falcon
?”

Gavin nodded. “In the Village, many people have, unsurprisingly, adopted the sixties as their retro style. Incense, meditation and peace signs.”

“Groovy.”

“Dr. Crandall worked at a lab in Chelsea.”

“Who typically would be in this building after closing?”

“Security, housekeeping. Maybe a couple other workaholics like Crandall. He was the only one who kept really late hours.”

“Could I see the security video for that night?”

“It shows him leaving some time before midnight.”

“Could I see it anyway?”

“I’ll have a copy—” Gavin stopped as he saw me shaking my head. “Fine. I’ll have the original sent to you.”

“I’d also like access to the lab.”

“Mr. Donner, your pedestrian little threats may have earned you a primer on genetics, but you’ll need more than that to get into my company’s restricted areas.”

“Maybe I’ll ask Ms. Struldbrug.”

“She’ll tell you the same thing.”

I smiled. “Could Crandall have left Necropolis?”

“Impossible.”

“Can’t have monsters roaming the countryside,” I muttered. It came out thin-edged.

Gavin leaned forward, his manner intense. “Remember retroviruses? They can infect the normal population beyond the Blister. Do you think we created the Blasted Heath because we have a glut of real estate? And have you considered the possibility that this virus could mutate again? Become airborne? Or something that kills DNA instead of reanimates it?”

“Then why hasn’t the rest of the world
remained
infected? Why hasn’t the Shift expanded in all this time?”

Pure contempt radiated at me. “Only because of our Herculean efforts at containment. Every single infected person on the face of the planet is
here
. But one reeb gets out, just one—or a norm carrier, for that matter—and the rest of the world can kiss normalcy goodbye. Maybe forever.”
 

Gavin laid his palms on the table, as if to calm himself. “Until this thing is licked, quarantine is the only choice.”

“Easy for you to say,” I murmured.

“No, it’s not, Mr. Donner. After all, I, too, am here. Perhaps for the rest of my life.” Gavin stood. “It’s been a pleasure.”
 

Yeah, right
. I stood, nodded to the man, and turned to go.

“Oh, and Mr. Donner. ‘Video’ went the way of the dinosaurs four decades ago. You might want to remember that the next time you try to hold an intelligent conversation.”

14

DONNER

I
exited the building into the kaleidoscope night, my head a muddle. Even in reruns the conversation made little sense.

Telomeres. DNA. Aging. Missing scientists.

And a lot of liars.

If Nicole Struldbrug was to be believed about the breakthrough, Crandall had been about to be put into the history books alongside Louis Pasteur and Jonas Salk. Anyone working at that level didn’t willingly give it all up to disappear.

I turned down 23rd Street, tightening the belt on my coat. A couple of cross-dressing Marilyn Monroes passed me, looking for a subway grate. It was past nine. Traffic had thinned to a trickle of cabs and odd-shift workers, mostly waiters.

If another corporation or country had tumbled to the enormity of what Crandall was about to perfect, they’d definitely make a play for him. Maybe legit, maybe not. I was left with too broad a playing field, too many options: Crandall had gone into hiding, for reasons unknown. Crandall was now working for a rival corporation or government, willingly or not. Crandall had been killed to prevent him from finishing his work. And let’s not ignore good, old-fashioned motives like jealousy. It could be as simple as a jilted girlfriend with a trash compactor.
 

Or an employer. Nicole, the lady incapable of an unrehearsed gesture. The lady who thought a well-timed kiss would turn any man into putty.
 

But why sabotage your own company?

That led to the most uncomfortable possibility, the one I hated to face: that I was chosen precisely because this case
would
be out of my league. If Nicole was behind Crandall’s disappearance and was just putting on a good show as the frantic employer, then a reeb detective, freshly alive and disoriented in his new environment, would be the perfect choice.

I could almost feel the tension lightening the lines in my face. “Stress accelerates the youthing process.” One of Maggie’s favorite refrains. I thrust my hands deep into my coat pockets, wondering what would turn up next to make the case even murkier.
 

I didn’t have long to wait.
 

***

The Silver Wraith Rolls that had been tailing me since I exited the building made its move. It jumped the curb, overrunning the safety strips in spark-filled screeches of superheated air. I feinted left, my coattails snapping. The driver didn’t disappoint me. He wrenched the wheel right to keep me in his bull’s eye. I pivoted the other way. He tried to re-correct his trajectory, but a car has a lot more inertia than a person. The Wraith shot past me, smashing through a newspaper kiosk. Had it been the primary assault instead of a decoy, I would’ve made it home in time for tea. But while I was busy congratulating myself for being so clever, a second team boiled out of the shadows of a storefront entrance less than five feet behind me
.
 

I felt the cold tap of a neuralizer against my skull and suddenly my synapses and limbs were jerking firecrackers. Hands grabbed me as I collapsed. The Wraith retraced its maglev scorch marks back to us.

“Get him inside!” The driver, weasel-faced in a sloped hat, scurried around to throw open the rear door. “Hurry!”
 

A car was definitely a place I did not want to go. Once inside, my options would flatline. So I quit fighting and sagged, letting them have my full poundage. My kidnappers were forced rock back for a second in order to thrust my dead weight forward again. In that moment, they lost both their momentum and the initiative. I dug my heels in and threw myself violently in reverse, rotating in a ducking movement. The men stumbled and cried out as their hands twisted. It was let go or have their wrists broken. Fingers flew open in pain.
 

I threw a double-tap to their kidneys and planted the heel of my palm into each face. One man went down immediately. The other staggered jelly-legged on the pavement. I moved to finish him, but saw something out of the corner of my eye that stopped me dead.
 

The driver was resting what looked like a Thompson submachine gun across the roof of the Wraith. “Uh-uh,” he said, grinning. “No more of that.”
 

***

Crammed between the bruisers, I waited. The one I’d dropped to the pavement had a broken nose. It wasn’t the first time. The man ignored the blood on his face, opting instead to bake me with glowering eyes.
 

The car hummed out into the evening traffic. In the front seat, a shadow with big shoulders lit a cigarette.

“I thought smoking was against the law,” I said.

“So’s kidnapping.” The shadow turned and exhaled the smoke into my face. More melodrama.
 

“Trying to stunt my youth?”

“Something like that.”
 

The thugs grinned darkly. At first I’d hoped they were muscle-for-hire types with detective’s licenses—the kind of lowbrows that called themselves fly dicks. But now they were looking more like hoods.
 

The man shifted and I got my first good look. Close-cropped hair going to gray. Still fit in his fifties. I would’ve said a military background, but the wrinkled collar and gravy stain on the tie said no. The face was lined and hard as titanium. Not a face you bargained with.

“What do I call you, kidnapper?”

“Armitage,” was the gravel-voiced reply.

Sounded real. There were two reasons he’d give me his real moniker. It was either going to stay friendly or they were planning to kill me.

My bookends frisked me. They did it rough, enjoying it. When I objected to a hand on my crotch I got an elbow in the face. The neuralizer effects whirled through my brain. Jelly Legs found the
Times
article. Broken Nose found the piece. They were handed to Armitage.
 

“Tsk, tsk. Reebs aren’t allowed to carry weapons.”

I tried Nicole’s tack. “It’s a .25 caliber. Wouldn’t wipe the mustard off your face.”