The Methuselah Gene (36 page)

“You could stay with my brother Jim in Cedar Rapids,” Jean suggested.

We both turned toward her.
 
Julie looked between us, considering it.
 
Then she shook her head.
 
“We should all go to the police together.
 
I could get reassigned by the Witness Protection Program, after it's over.”

“After it's over,” I repeated.
 
I chuckled despite myself.
 
“You said your death was faked, didn't you?
 
If you get interviewed, it'll never be over.
 
They'll put you on TV, and everyone will see.
 
You want those people to come after you for real?”

Julie looked at me oddly, then past me toward the concourse, as if she could already see all the reporters who would be arriving soon to this very airport from Washington, New York, Chicago, Boston, and Los Angeles.
 
Men and women with cameras, microphones, and news investigation assignments from all the major media conglomerates that had covered terrorist actions in the major cities.
 
“How can I stop it?” she asked, hopelessly.
 
“It will all come out, anyway.”

“What's happened has happened,” I told her.
 
“And we don't know what will come out of it, yet.
 
The news media gets it wrong sometimes.
 
In any event, you don't have to be there, Julie.
 
Your face doesn't have to be seen by everyone who's ever met you before in your life.
 
We're buying a little time, that's all.
 
With a little luck, we'll get through this somehow, and nail Jeffers too.”

I put my hand on her shoulder.
 
This time she didn't pull away.

“He's right,” Jean added, from the back seat.
 
“We'll go to Cedar Rapids.
 
Or you take my car and go to Wisconsin for now.”

Julie leaned forward, resting her chin on the tips of her fingers.
 
Thinking, thinking, and coming up empty.
 
“Are you sure this is right?” she asked at last.

“No, we're not sure of anything,” I admitted.
 
“It's not right, either.
 
Any of it.
 
I just know if my boss is responsible for Zion, letting him get away by setting us up is particularly not right.”
 
I looked at my watch.
 
It was almost eleven p.m..
 
Opening the car door, I said, “I need to check the flight schedules to see if there's a chance of me getting into Washington before the story breaks.
 
If not, I'll have to go with you to . . . wherever.
 
Plan B, then.
 
Think of what to do next.”

“Fugitives on the run,” Julie tested the phrase, glancing up.
 
“I should be used to the feeling by now.”
 
She looked over the wheel at a white Cavalier parked ahead of the Malibu, with the stenciled words Airport Security.
 
“I've never been on America's Most Wanted before, though,” she added.
 
“That will be new.”

“Let's hope it doesn't come to that,” I said, and meant it.
 
Then I kissed her and got out.
 
“If it does, we'll have to turn ourselves in to the FBI.
 
Not that they can help, if the CIA has targeted me too.”

“Be careful,” Jean said.

“I'll be right back.”

In the terminal I went to the ticket counter, and asked if there was anything going to Washington, for arrival before nine a.m..
 
That's about when I imagined Brian Williams delivering a special report on NBC.
 
I could already hear the ominous drum roll that would interrupt high tea with Regis.

“You're in luck,” the male ticket agent told me with a look resembling astonishment, as though a miracle had just occurred.
 
“Flight eight eleven, originating in Salt Lake City, was delayed two hours, but it's about to leave for New York, sure enough.
 
Plenty of seats on that one.”
 
He looked down at his computer screen to confirm it.
 
“And there's even a connecting shuttle into Washington.”

He looked back up at me, his jaw askew, as I jerked out my wallet and fished for my Visa.
 
“How long have I got?” I asked while fumbling frantically.

“Don't tempt the fates, sir.
 
You have no time.”
 
He embossed a document, checked my ID, and had me sign, all within ten seconds.
 
“No carry-on luggage?”

“No, no luggage.
 
What do you mean exactly, no time?”

“I mean none, sir.
 
I mean zip.
 
Since you need time to get through security. ”
 
He handed me back my plastic, briskly.
 
“Better run.”

I glanced behind me, toward the temporary parking area.
 
“But . . .”

“Gate Four,” the ticket agent said, pointing the opposite direction.
 
“Can you run, sir?
 
Can you?
 
Or would you prefer I rip this slip, and we try for Los Angeles?”

It was a half empty red-eye.
 
A modified MD-80 with three prim and proper stewardesses—a blond, brunette, and a redhead—although the redhead may have once been blond, and none of them could quite hide the fact that they were tired.
 
Once airborne, I moved to a vacant row and used the air phone from the seat back in front of me to call Rachel.
 
The phone rang at the other end for a full minute before my sister's sleepy voice answered.

“Hell—” it suggested “—oh?”

“Rachel?
 
It's me.
 
It's Alan.”

“Alan?”
 
She sounded skeptical, then surprised.
 
“Where are you?
 
You sound . . . different.”

“I am different,” I said, and knew it to be true.
 
“I'm on a flight back to Washington, and I need help for real this time.”

There was a silence amid which I thought the phone had gone dead.
 
Then: “What time is it?”

“It's late,” I admitted, “but I'm hoping not too late.
 
In a few hours it may be too late for me to take a trip to the market, much less the Midwest.
 
I'm in trouble, Rachel.
 
Big trouble.”

I let her access that, wondering just how suspicious she would get.
 
It took her about three seconds to ease into the upswing of it.
 
“What kind of trouble?”

“The biggest,” I confessed.
 
“I'm being framed for murder.”

“Murder?”
 
She repeated the word as though seeking confirmation of the phrase screaming orgasm amid the company of nuns.
 
Her alarm also made the word somewhat more audible across the airwaves than I dared speak amid the company of passengers and stewardesses.

“That's right,” I said.
 
“Can you help me?”

“What . . . I mean, how?”

She didn't mean her question to be answered the way I did.
 
I dredged up a name from Darryl's dying lips.
 
“Clifford Seagraves.
 
He's president of a group of computer aficionados called Hackers Anonymous.
 
He's in Washington.
 
Can you find him for me, and quickly?
 
Like right now?”

“Who is he?
 
A hacker?”

“That's right.”
 
We're wasting time, Sis.

“You mean like some guy who breaks into a Yahoo or eBay website and shuts it down for a while, just for kicks?
 
What's he got to do with—”

“No,” I interrupted.
 
“This group is not comprised of juveniles.
 
I'm not sure who they are or if they can help, but I don't have many friends, as you know.
 
Please don't ask me the details because I don't have time to explain.
 
Okay?”

“But if he's not listed how would I find—”

“Do you have a computer?”

“You mean so I can find some nerd or psycho in a chat room to date?
 
No, I'm afraid not.”

“Then I don't know, at this hour,” I confessed, feeling a flash of frustration cross my forehead.
 
“You may need to call Darryl's wife Hannah, and have her check his things for the number.”

“Your friend Darryl, you mean?”

“Darryl is dead,” I said, and then realized what I was asking her to do.
 
“Listen, forget I said that.
 
Forget Darryl's wife.
 
I'm sorry.
 
I'll call her myself.
 
Just see if you can coax Seagraves' number from directory assistance, and also a Jim Thurman in Cedar Rapids.
 
Claim an emergency if you have to.”
 
I spelled both names for her.

“What's going on, Alan?” Rachel asked me, a new timbre to her voice.

“I can't say right now.
 
Just please don't talk to anyone about me, Sis.
 
I'll call you back when I get to Washington, I promise.
 
Okay?”

I thought she said okay before hanging up.
 
I hoped so.
 
I clicked off the phone, and then debated with myself about who to call next.
 
David Thorne, my old research assistant?
 
Frank Fisher, the independent head of
Tactar
security?
 
Maybe just by talking to them I might discover if it was safe to search my office for incriminating evidence.
 
Or was I already on the black list, and would my call only alert them that I was coming?
 
No, the risk was too great, although my chances were slim to none as it was.
 
I thought about Hannah, next.
 
A phone call from me, waking her early, would necessitate a full explanation.
 
If I told her the truth, which she deserved to hear, would she even believe it?
 
And if she did believe it, how would she react?
 
I had an idea, and I needed to be there for that, although I dreaded seeing it.

I tallied who was left, and decided on Roger
Sandford
, my neighbor.
 
I didn't care about waking Roger.
 
Maybe he knew nothing, but maybe he'd seen someone suspicious at my apartment door, or had a clue about someone watching.
 
Roger was a paranoid SOB, alert to anyone who might pull the rug out from under his injury compensation scam on the city sanitation department.
 
I had the operator dial through for me.

“Yeah?” Roger answered, and sounded groggy.

“Roger, hi.
 
It's me, your neighbor Alan.”

“Huh?” Roger muttered.

“Alan Dyson,” I said.

“What the hell . . .”

“Listen.
 
Roger.
 
Have you seen anyone snooping around my apartment recently?”

“
Whaaat
?” Roger said.

“Think about it, try to remember.
 
Roger, it's important.”

“Where you at?” Roger asked.
 
“Ain't seen
ya
.”

“I had to leave the city,” I lied.
 
“There are people after me.”

“People?
 
What people?”

“Syndicate types.”

“Mob,
ya
mean?”

“That's right, Roger.
 
They're after a formula I been working on.
 
It's worth lots of money.
 
I think my notes on the formula are still in my apartment.”

“How much money?”

“What?”

“How much money we
talkin
' about?”

“Potential, Roger?” I asked.
 
“Millions.”

There was a pause, then: “What time is it?”

I knew that was coming.
 
I could hear him routing around for the light switch now.
 
“I'm desperate here,” I said, before he could see a clock or watch.

There was an audible gasp.
 
“Holy shit.”