The Furies (24 page)

“How did Sullivan respond?”

“He said it was a good start. He refused to return to Haven, but he agreed to stop attacking our Rangers while we worked on the catalyst. But I didn't trust him. My half brother is as devious as a crow. I knew he'd use his spies to watch our labs. So I contacted Mariela, the chief of our Caño Dorado outpost, and told her to do the catalyst work there.”

John had heard the name of the outpost before. Sullivan had mentioned it, and so had Ariel's Aunt Margaret. “Caño Dorado? Where the hell is that?”

“It's not in one location. It's a floating outpost, literally. The researchers travel from place to place in the Amazon River basin, searching for undiscovered plants and analyzing their properties. They go up and down the Amazon and its tributaries, carrying their lab equipment in skiffs and canoes. Sometimes they're in Brazil, sometimes Peru or Colombia or Bolivia. And no one in Haven knows where they are, except me.”

“Why you?”

“They're loyal to me. Mariela and all five of her assistants worked in my lab at one time or another. And they're all women. That's why I could trust them with the task of finding the formula for the catalyst. Sullivan couldn't spy on them.”

“But he figured out a plan for getting the formula, didn't he? By attacking you in New York?”

Ariel finally raised her head and looked him in the eye. “Mariela took great pains to keep the formula secret. When she was ready to deliver it to me, she hired a courier, a professional who usually transports diamonds for international gem brokers. She traveled to Panama to meet him and wrote the formula in runes so the man wouldn't understand it. But Sullivan discovered that Hal and Richard and I were going to meet the courier in New York, at Grand Central Station. So he ordered his men to follow us to the rendezvous, but they didn't attack us there.”

“Because Grand Central was too public?”

“Exactly. The Riflemen followed us and waited until we reached the hotel in Brooklyn. They knew I'd be more vulnerable there.” She moved closer to John, leaning forward in her chair. “But they didn't count on you, John. You did much more than save my life. If Sullivan had taken the formula, he would've used the catalyst on every fetus he could get his hands on. And he would've stayed on this risky course until he destroyed all of us.” She moved still closer. “So I'm grateful. You saved my family. Maybe the Council of Elders doesn't appreciate it, but I do.”

Her face was just inches away. She was so close he could feel the warmth of her breath on his cheeks. He wanted to kiss her, and he had a strong feeling that Ariel wanted it, too. But John held himself back. Ariel had explained a lot of things, but she'd left out something important. “And now you want me to help you again? To prove my worth to the Elders?”

She nodded, keeping her eyes locked on his. “I'm trying to come up with my own plan. Trying to figure out a way to neutralize Sullivan without killing all his followers. But first I need some information from you.” She lowered her gaze, staring at his chest. “Well, to be more precise, I need some information from your body.”

“My body?”

“I'd like to see how you react to the Fountain protein. I've tested it on Fury men, but never on an outsider.”

John was surprised. His passionate feelings for Ariel swiftly dissipated. “What are you trying to find out?”

“I want to know how much protein is required to trigger the antiaging effects in your cells. You have the Upstart gene on your Y chromosome, but you don't have the Fountain gene on your X. So I'm guessing you'd need more protein than the average Fury male would, because you don't have any natural sources in your body. But it's hard to say exactly how much more you'd need.”

Her tone of voice had changed. She was speaking so clinically now. John hated the sound of it. “And how will this information help you?”

“I'm not sure yet. But it could be useful.”

This answer was unsatisfying. He looked at her carefully. “No, you're up to something. You're wondering what would happen if people in the outside world learned about your Fountain of Youth. Because if they hear it exists, they're all going to want it. Am I right?”

She gave a noncommittal shrug. “Maybe so. But you're jumping ahead. Right now I just want to collect some data. So will you help me?”

John backed away from her and rose to his feet. It wasn't that he didn't trust Ariel. He just didn't like being used this way. He started pacing back and forth, moving between the lab table and the shelves full of flasks. “This protein you want to inject into me, does it come from fetuses?”

“No, it comes from us, the Fury women. At my request, the Council of Elders ordered every woman in Haven to donate a pint of blood.” She pointed at the refrigerator at the other end of the lab table. “Some of the donated blood is already in there. I'm going to extract the Fountain protein from that supply. It'll be enough to stop a male Fury from aging for about ten days. But I don't know how it'll affect you.”

“How will you know if it works? Can you tell if I've stopped aging?”

“I'll take cell samples from various parts of your body. I'll look at them under the microscope and analyze their chemical composition. Fountain halts aging by accelerating the rate of cellular repair, and there's a distinctive chemical marker that'll show the rate. I should be able to tell if it's working in a day or two.”

“Will there be any side effects? Anything dangerous? If Fountain counteracts the Upstart protein, won't it make me infertile?”

“Just temporarily. It'll probably lower your sperm count for a few days, but then you'll return to normal. There shouldn't be any side effects other than that.”

John stopped pacing. He stood in front of the shelves, looking at the laboratory flasks instead of Ariel. He noticed she hadn't reminded him that his cooperation might help sway the Elders. Maybe she knew he didn't need a reminder. Or maybe she sensed that he didn't care how the council ruled on his case. Whether he lived or died wasn't important. His decision would be based on something else altogether.

He turned around and walked back to Ariel. A few long strands of red hair had escaped from her ponytail and hung in front of her pale forehead. Even though she was three hundred and seventy-three years old, she was still the most beautiful woman he'd ever seen. He'd sacrificed everything to help this woman, throwing away his whole past life in the process. How could he say no to her now?

He stopped in front of her chair. “When do you want to start this experiment? Today?”

“No, tomorrow morning. I need some time to purify enough protein.”

“Okay, I'll do it. Just don't poison me, all right?”

In response, she jumped out of her seat and wrapped her arms around him. She clung to his shoulders, keeping her weight off her healing legs, and pressed her lips against his. After a moment of stunned paralysis, he gripped her waist and closed his eyes. Her lips tasted of salt and oranges. Just like before, when John had kissed her in that hotel room in Brooklyn, he felt like he was falling. The laboratory and everything in it disappeared, all the hundreds of flasks whirling out of sight.

The kiss went on and on. Then Ariel pulled back and smiled at him. “Thank you, John,” she said. “Once again I'm in your debt.”

The look on her face was so intoxicating that John leaned forward to kiss her again. But she let go of him and fell back to her chair.

“Sorry, not now. I have to get to work.” She slid her chair to the other end of the lab table and opened the door to the refrigerator. Inside was a stack of pint-size plastic bags, each filled with dark red blood. “Conroy will be your escort for the afternoon. He should be waiting for you now by the elevator.”

John frowned, unable to hide his disappointment. “I'd rather stay here.”

She shook her head. “You have more to learn about Haven. Conroy will show you our recycling system and the geothermal plant.”

Ariel reached into the refrigerator and pulled out one of the plastic bags. John waited a few seconds, then headed for the door. Before he got there, though, she called out to him. “Don't get the wrong idea.”

He looked over his shoulder at her. “About what?”

“About why I kissed you. I wasn't rewarding you for saying yes. I did it because I wanted to.”

She smiled at him again before turning away.

SIXTEEN

Agent Larson had met plenty of asshole bureaucrats during his sixteen years at the bureau, but for sheer plodding pomposity it was hard to beat Kent Halstead, deputy secretary of the Homeland Security Department. The silver-haired, impeccably dressed Washington official had been assigned to lead the search for John Rogers, but so far he hadn't brought much urgency to the task. After flying by chartered jet from D.C. to the Upper Peninsula, Halstead had spent most of his first day setting up his command post in the federal office building in Sault Sainte Marie, the largest town close to Mackinac Island. Finally, at 6:00
P.M.
he summoned Larson to his new office and requested an update on the investigation.

Larson sat in an uncomfortable chair while Halstead studied three photographs spread across his desk. The first photo, which had appeared on the front page of the
Detroit Free Press
that morning, showed the
Ojibway
beached in a marsh just north of the Les Cheneaux islands. The second was the surveillance-camera shot of John Rogers on the White Star Ferry pier, and the third was the image retrieved from Van's camera chip. Halstead spent the most time staring at this last photograph. He scrutinized it from every angle, first squinting at Rogers's caramel-colored face and then examining the bearded Amish men beside him.

“Where was this photo taken?” he asked.

Larson knew how to handle bureaucrats like Halstead. The most important thing was to speak with utmost confidence. “According to my informant, it was taken just south of the Amish farm near Pickford.”

“Is there any corroborating evidence for this? Does the photo have a GPS tag?”

“No, sir, unfortunately it doesn't.”

Halstead tapped the photo with his index finger. “What about the people next to Rogers in this picture? Have you identified any of them?”

“Not yet, sir. When we visited the farm this afternoon, the men we spoke to claimed they didn't recognize any of the suspects. But I believe they were lying. There's a strong family resemblance between the men we saw on the farm and the men in this photo. Notice their reddish hair and beards. It's likely that the whole clan is involved in the drug operation.”

The deputy secretary tilted his head and narrowed his eyes. It was an ugly, irritating, skeptical expression. “And what about the woman in the photo? Is she part of the clan too? She has red hair but she doesn't look Amish. No bonnet on her head, at least.”

“My informant says she's Rogers's girlfriend. I'm guessing Rogers met her while doing business with her family. He must've persuaded her to give up some of the Amish traditions.”

Halstead narrowed his eyes further. “You believe the Amish men let one of their daughters hook up with a meth dealer?”

Larson was starting to really hate this guy. He was the kind of bureaucrat who moved up in the ranks by shooting down everyone else. “Rogers is a violent character. He has a long association with one of the Disciples gangs in Philadelphia. His Amish partners are probably afraid of him.”

“But according to the reports from the Philadelphia police, Rogers gave up the gang life.” Halstead reached into the pocket of his expensive suit and pulled out a piece of paper covered with scribbled notes. “Yes, here it is. He left the Disciples back in 2004 and started working for an antigang project run by one of the local churches. And in 2011 his five-year-old daughter was killed in a drive-by shooting. A very sad story.”

“Yes, sir, I saw those reports, too. But that church project shut down three years ago and Rogers has been unemployed ever since. We know he's back in the drug business because the Philadelphia police found a stash of methamphetamine in his apartment. And we have reason to believe he recently murdered one of his customers. The police also found Rogers's fingerprints on a knife that was used to kill a junkie in that city.”

The deputy secretary still looked skeptical. His eyes were shit-brown slits. “But how do we know that the Amish are in business with Rogers? Besides the statements from your informant, do you have any evidence that there's actually a meth lab on that farm? What did you see when you visited the place?”

“Their security measures are suspiciously excessive. They have a twelve-foot-high fence surrounding the entire property, and a deep trench just outside the fence that would stop any vehicle from crashing through it. And the men refused to let us inspect their barns or farmhouses. They said it would be a violation of their privacy.”

“Well, the Amish
are
very private, aren't they?” Halstead's voice had a sarcastic tone. “And the Mackinac County Sheriff told me that this is one of the oldest Amish communities in the Midwest. I find it hard to believe that they've suddenly started making methamphetamine, no matter how bad the farm economy is.”

Larson shifted in his chair. He wanted to beat the crap out of this blue-blood bastard. But instead he clenched his jaw and leaned across Halstead's desk. “I've done some checking around, sir. Even for the Amish, these people are reclusive. They have no contact whatsoever with the other Amish communities in the state. And they've made some unusual purchases over the years. I talked with some of the local companies that have done business with the farm. They say the community often buys big loads of building materials—pipes and cement and wire and steel beams. And yet there's no sign of new construction on the farm.” He paused a moment to let these facts sink in. “The only logical conclusion is that they've built something underground. My informant says the meth lab beneath the farm is huge. And they're constantly expanding it.”