The Methuselah Gene Read online

  Jean’s car was an old Chevy Malibu, with scrapes on the paint and a dented rear bumper. Jean produced a key, but then started toward the boarding house, which was unnaturally dark except for a single light in an upper room.

  “Come on,” I told her, “forget your things. We need to get out of here.”

  She looked back at the house as we pulled away, like Lot’s wife looking back at a doomed city. She pulled her son close to her as Julie drove. “Mabel,” she said, with a backward nod. “It’s Mabel.”

  I used the side mirror to look back. A woman stood at the upper window, something in her hand. Not a gun. It was a knife. She was a stocky woman, staring fixedly from the window as though it was a porthole and she watched the last lifeboat pull away from her sinking ship.

  “She has short hair,” Jean said in amazement, then added, “now.”

  We said nothing for long time. As we passed Wally’s Shell station, heading out of town at last, I thought I saw the fake legs move under a car in the bay. But it was hard to tell, as most of the lights were off there too. When we came to the blockade, I saw that it was still up but unmanned, next to the sign that I knew read ZION, IOWA, POP. 166. We pushed past it, upending the row of sawhorses that Jeffers had no doubt replaced, crunching them beneath the undercarriage. And then Julie floorboarded it toward Macksburg.

  The air felt good on my face. I felt the end coming soon. I wanted it to be over. And when it was over, I vowed, I would take a vacation. We would all take one. Anywhere but Zion National Park.

  Julie checked the gas gauge more than once as we drove, and each time with a look of relief. The road beyond our headlights curved and straightened again, but it remained empty under a bright patina of stars, and with no animal scents or smell of death in the air anymore. For what seemed an eternity the stars appeared immobile above us, as though time had slowed and a limbo was being crossed to the next world. Then the uneven gravel sound beneath the tires was replaced by a steady rumble, as the road became a paved one. And there were lights on the horizon, too. Lights that we fast approached.

  “Finally,” Julie said, giving me a hopeful look this time.

  The first building we came to was the closed Macksburg Country Store, which sat next to a feed lot and barn. But it had a pay phone outside, under a sputtering fluorescent.

  “Stop,” I said, then, “stop!”

  Julie pulled in, fishtailing as she braked onto the gravel lot. Jean gave me a quarter, which I wouldn’t need for dialing 911, but it also gave me an idea. As I got out and approached the phone, I wanted to cross my fingers, but the pain would have been too much. Using my good hand, I scanned for the highway patrol in the Des Moines phonebook first, then picked up the receiver, and deposited the quarter. There was a click, and then finally a dial tone.

  Thank God.

  I punched the digits.

  “Hello,” a weary deep voice answered.

  “This the highway patrol?” I asked, wondering if I’d dialed wrong.

  “That’s right. State your business, please.”

  “Listen,” I said, “there’s a guy just took a potshot at me out the window of his Caddy with a pistol.”

  “Where was this?” the officer asked, only mildly interested.

  “On a dirt road heading northeast toward I-35 and Des Moines. A dark blue El Dorado with Virginia plates. Didn’t think to write down the license plate number, I was too busy dodging bullets.”

  “Bullets, as in plural?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Hold on.” I could now hear muffled talking, as the officer had momentarily placed one hand over the phone. When he returned his voice telegraphed a skeptical tone. “What road is this, exactly?”

  “I don’t know. He’s into Madison County by now. Can’t you stop him on I-35?”

  “Why didn’t you call 911, sir? Who are you?”

  “What?”

  “Your name?”

  I paused, thinking about that. Did I really want the FBI or the CIA or Jeffers himself knowing I was alive? “Look,” I said at last. “This guy, he’s probably killed people. He had blood on his hand. We’re wasting time.”

  “I need a name, sir,” the officer persisted. “For the report.”

  “Okay, it’s Walter Mills.”

  There was a pause, and in that moment my heart skipped a beat. I sucked in a breath as I imagined one of Walter’s men at the other end of the line, tapped in somehow and monitoring all calls. Then:

  “Address?”

  I breathed in again, more deeply this time, holding it. “Excuse me?”

  “Something wrong?”

  “No. Sorry.” I exhaled.

  “Address?”

  “Box sixteen, Zion.”

  “Phone?”

  “The phones are down right now. I’m in Macksburg.”

  “What’s your home phone number when it’s up?”

  “I . . . don’t have a phone.”

  “Then I can’t help you, buddy. And I should warn you that giving a false report to police is a crime, and you’re being recorded. We’ve had several crank calls already this evening, and this is getting old.”

  “What? What did they say?”

  “They mentioned shootings, mass killings.”

  “Those aren’t crank calls,” I told him.

  “Really. And next you’ll ask me if I have Prince Albert in a—”

  I hung up in disbelief, and then motioned Jean Thurman from the car. “You’ll have to do it,” I told her. “Sorry.”

  No problem. She dialed 911, and told the dispatcher what I asked her to say. That a gunman had entered Zion and shot up the town, killing lots of people, and that he was heading back to Des Moines in a blue El Dorado with Virginia plates. She sounded far more convincing than I ever could, and when they asked for her name, she told them the truth, then began to cry.

  29

  The ER at Des Moines General seemed prepared for an eventful Sunday night, but it was oddly quiet—the calm before a storm only we knew was coming. After an x-ray was taken of my hand, it was determined that I needed minor surgery, which could be done in the morning. In the meantime I was disinfected and re-bandaged. I claimed a gun cleaning accident, but was told by Nurse Reece that a police report would have to be filed nonetheless. Given a morphine derivative, I was then asked to check in and await a Dr. Shapiro at seven a.m.. I didn’t wait, though. I snatched a vial of Dilaudid from a tray atop a med cart in the adjacent examination room, and slipped out. I didn’t warn the nurses what chaos they would be facing the next day. They would find that out soon enough . . . while I found out just how well Jeffers had set me up, and whether he’d escaped. As I returned to the parking lot, I observed though the front glass doors that my procedure-conscious Nurse Reece was now calling the police, probably because she suspected my gun-cleaning story didn’t quite explain my obviously earlier leg wound, also from a gunshot.

  In my absence, Julie and Jean had cleaned up too, after obtaining money from an automatic teller machine and purchasing clothes for all of us. I was grateful. It wouldn’t look good for me to be wandering around the airport in an open backed hospital gown. Then, as we drove toward the airport, Julie suddenly said, “I think we should talk about this. What if your boss drove out of here just like he arrived? What if they’re already waiting for you at your apartment, in case you show up?”

  “They?” I answered, having imagined a similar scenario involving the paranoid them.

  “An accomplice, an agent, whoever. Police might even be waiting for you at the Washington airport by the time you get there. Then it’ll just be your word against theirs.”

  “What about your word?” I asked.

  She looked back at the road. “I can’t go to Washington.”

  “You mean right now,” I corrected her. “You can stay with my sister Rachel in Wisconsin until this blows over.”

  “No,” she said. “I mean I can’t go to Washington ever, even if you need me. Because . . .
because that’s where it happened.”

  “It,” I repeated, reminded of another little complication. “Oh.”

  “I can’t talk about it.”

  “I thought it happened in New York, whatever it was,” I thought aloud.

  Julie frowned. “I never said New York. And what about Jean? If she goes to the police now, they’re going to force her to say where you went.”

  “But they don’t even know I’m alive.”

  “They will. You just checked into a hospital.”

  “And out,” I reminded her, this time in frustration.

  “Do you think they’re stupid, Alan?” Julie wanted to know. “Is that what you think?”

  I considered it, then shook my head. So far I’d been the only stupid one. “How long have I got, then, do you think? Before they execute me, I mean, or throw me bodily into solitary confinement for the rest of my life.”

  Julie didn’t reply. She took the airport exit as though on automatic pilot. Then we began to circle the mostly empty parking lots surrounding the complex, looking for a blue El Dorado.

  “Jean doesn’t even know my last name,” I said, in an attempt at conversation. But it was useless, so I turned to Jean in the back seat. Her son was asleep now, or pretending to be, his small head resting on her lap. “Do you, Jean?” I whispered.

  “No, I don’t know you,” Jean Thurman replied, also at a whisper. She continued scanning the cars we passed in the lot.

  “Neither do I, then,” Julie declared, her expression never changing.

  We circled through the short term parking lot without success. Then Julie drove to the passenger dropoff point. She wouldn’t look at me. A row of yellow floodlights on high poles above the car now lit the interior with an unearthly radiance as we rolled to a stop.

  “I don’t know what else to do,” I said, feeling my frustration building to a climax. “You want me to just go to the police right now? Take my chances, not knowing what kind of hand has been dealt me? If I had to guess, I’ve got a pair of bloody deuces, and Jeffers has a straight flush. I might walk eventually, but he’s walking now.”

  “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?”

  30

  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.