Transhuman (10 page)

“Come on,” said Luke, puffing slightly. “We've got to get out of here before all hell breaks loose.”

They wheeled Angela down the ramp and lifted her into the makeshift bedding in the rear of the SUV.

“Wow, Grandpa, you really whacked that guy,” she said.

Luke made a tight grin for her. “Army training. I wasn't always an old grandpa.”

Two more security guards popped out of the door, waving and yelling, as Luke gunned the van's engine and roared out toward the road.

 

On the Road

“
S
O WHERE ARE
we going?” Tamara asked.

Luke glanced at her. She looked tense, almost angry. Can't blame her, he thought. I'm dragging her into a frigging FBI manhunt.

Then he realized. “I don't know.”

They were headed for the Beltway. But after that, where?

“I was planning to get to San Antonio,” Luke said, “but if the FBI's looking for us, they'll probably check out all the people I know.”

Without an instant's hesitation, Tamara said, “Get the child back to her parents, Luke. You can't go running around the country like a maniac. Think of your granddaughter's well-being!”

“Take her back and let her die? Hell no.”

“Then what?”

“Let me think.”

Tamara puffed out a disgusted sigh, then unbuckled her seat belt and clambered back toward Angela.

Luke was thinking furiously as he drove through the heavy Beltway traffic. Don't go over the speed limit, he told himself. Don't give them an excuse for stopping you. That's all they'll need.

He wondered if the two rent-a-cops at the clinic got his license plate number. Probably not. I was starting to turn the corner when they came out of the building. Maybe they could make out what state the plate's from, but I doubt it.

Then he realized, Security cameras! Could they read the license plate?

Got to find help! But who? If the FBI got to Yolanda, they'll be contacting everybody else I know. I need to get Angie into a safe facility. But where? How?

By the time Tamara scrambled back into the seat beside him, Luke had hit on the one person he could think of that could help him: Quenton Fisk.

Without being asked, Tamara reported, “Angie's okay. Sleeping again.”

“Is she warm enough back there?”

Nodding, she said, “I tucked the blankets around her. She'll be all right.” Then she added, “For now.”

“I need to call Quenton Fisk,” Luke said.

“Who's he?”

“Big-shot industrialist. Financier. He's funding my work on telomerase.”

“You think he can help you?”

Luke nodded. “He's got money, connections. Owns factories, research labs. And I don't think the FBI would connect him with me. Not right away, at least.”

“But will he help you?”

With a shrug, Luke replied, “We'll find out.”

He knew that he couldn't use his own cell phone: The FBI would track any calls he made. Probably Tamara's, too, Luke reasoned. At a rest stop along the highway he pulled in to the minimart and bought another throwaway cell phone and a hundred minutes of calling time. He didn't have enough cash in his trouser pocket and had to sprint back to the SUV, unzip his suitcase, and pull a handful of bills from the wad he had stuffed inside the suitcase's lid.

Tamara's eyes widened. “You shouldn't be carrying all that cash. It's dangerous.”

He shook his head. “I can't use credit cards or traveler's checks. Too easy to trace.”

“But still … if anybody knew how much cash you've got in there…”

Tightly, he said, “That's a chance I have to take.”

He left Tamara and Angela in the van, the motor still running to keep the heater going, and bought the cell phone.

Opening Tamara's door, Luke said, “You drive. I've got to call Fisk.”

“Do you know his phone number?”

Luke replied, “It's in my laptop.” Almost grinning, he added, “Right beside my money stash.”

She got out of the van, went around, and climbed into the driver's seat. Luke pulled out his laptop and, after a quick glance at his sleeping granddaughter, climbed in beside Tamara.

Off they drove.

 

Fisk Tower, Manhattan

Q
UENTON FISK WAS
dictating a letter to his computer's voice-recognition program when his desk phone blinked. Gritting his teeth in irritation at the interruption, he killed the dictation program, then tapped the intercom button.

“What?” he demanded.

“Professor Abramson calling, Mr. Fisk,” said his assistant.

“Abramson? I'll take the call.”

“On line one, sir.” Before Fisk could react, his assistant added, “Should I notify that FBI man?”

“No,” he said sharply. “Not yet.”

Then he lifted the phone from its cradle and leaned back in his comfortably yielding chair. “Professor Abramson. How are you?”

Abramson's voice sounded strained, gritty. “I need your help, Mr. Fisk.”

“What can I do for you?”

For several minutes Abramson poured out his troubles. Dying granddaughter. He could cure the child. Parents don't understand. The FBI is after him.

“I need a medical facility where I can treat Angie without the FBI grabbing me.”

Fisk wished he could see the man. It was always so much easier dealing with someone face-to-face, rather than a disembodied voice. Reading a man's facial expressions often told more than listening to his words.

“Where are you now?” he asked.

Abramson replied, “On the road. South of Washington, D.C.”

“Heading where?”

“I don't know!” Abramson's voice rose a notch. “I don't know where we can be safe. We need a facility for Angie. I can't keep her in this van forever!”

“Calm down, Professor. I'll be glad to help you.”

“You'll be saving my granddaughter's life.”

“Of course. Now, exactly where are you? I need to know which highway you're on, and which mile marker you are passing.”

Abramson replied, “Interstate 95, heading south. Twenty miles before Richmond.”

Smiling to himself, Fisk thought, It all goes so much more easily when you have money and connections. He told Abramson, “I'll set you up with a hotel for the night. I'll call you back in ten minutes or less.”

The professor was reluctant to hang up on nothing more than that promise, but the poor chump had no choice.

Clicking his intercom again, Fisk told his assistant to make the necessary hotel reservation.

“Then call Professor Abramson with the information,” he ordered.

“Yes, sir. Should I call Agent Hightower now, sir?”

“No. No need to bring him into this. Not yet.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And when you talk to Abramson, tell him to call me back once he's in the hotel. On Skype. I want to see his face.”

“Yes, sir.”

*   *   *

L
UKE FIDGETED NERVOUSLY
in the van while he waited for Fisk to call back.

“You think he's calling the feds?” Tamara asked, her eyes focused on the road.

“He wouldn't do that.”

“Neither would your friend Petrone.”

Before Luke could reply, the cell phone buzzed. He snatched it.

“This is Mr. Fisk's personal assistant,” said a smooth female voice. “I have made the following hotel reservation for you and your party.”

*   *   *

T
HE HOTEL WAS
an upscale Marriott, with its own restaurant and room service. Fisk had reserved them a two-bedroom suite on the top floor.

Angela woke up as Luke lifted her out of the van. “Hi, Grandpa,” she said, blinking sleep out of her eyes. Looking around as Luke carried her through the lobby, she said, “Wow, this is super.”

Tamara, holding the IV bag as she walked beside them, agreed smilingly. “Top-flight place. I hope you can afford it.”

“Fisk's paying for it,” Luke replied. “At least, that's what his assistant said.”

Sure enough, the room clerk at the desk told Luke everything had been taken care of. A young bellman offered to find a wheelchair for Angela, but Luke kept his granddaughter in his own arms.

“I can handle it,” he told the bellman.

The suite was spacious and quiet, with heavy drapes on the windows and thick carpeting. Two bedrooms connected by a tastefully furnished sitting room.

As Luke deposited Angela on one of the double beds, the child said, “I can sit up, Grandpa.”

“Fine,” he answered, with a smile.

“Can I have something to eat?” she asked. “I'm hungry.”

Luke glanced at Tamara, who said, “Some broth. A cup of Jell-O.”

“A cheese sandwich,” Angela said. “Please? I won't throw up again. I promise.”

“Maybe later,” Tamara said. “Let's see how you do with the soup and gelatin.”

Angela nodded glumly, then turned to Luke. “Where are we going, Grandpa? Can we phone Mommy and Daddy?”

“Not right now, honey,” he said, feeling rotten when he saw the disappointment on her face.

Tamara asked Luke, “Do you want an ibuprofen?”

“No, I'm okay.”

She gave him a doubting look. “After carrying Angela all the way up here, your back isn't hurting?”

“No,” said Luke, feeling slightly amazed that it was true. “No pain.”

Tamara shrugged and went to the phone to call room service. Luke clicked on the TV set and fished for a program that would entertain his granddaughter.

Once they finished their late lunch, Angela sat up in bed happily enough, watching a kids' cartoon channel.

Luke motioned Tamara into the sitting room that connected the suite's bedrooms. Sitting on the sofa, his laptop on the coffee table, he told her, “Fisk wants me to call him back.”

“It should be safe enough to use the hotel phone.”

“On Skype.”

“That's even better. You can use your laptop. I don't think they can trace Skype calls, or if they can, it takes longer. Something like that.”

Feeling embarrassed, Luke admitted, “I don't know how to do Skype.”

Tamara almost laughed, but checked herself just in time. With a smile, she said, “That's okay. I can show you.”

Within ten minutes, Luke was talking face-to-face with Quenton Fisk.

*   *   *

F
ISK WAS STILL
at his desk when Luke's call came through. He peered at Professor Abramson's image on his wall screen. He had expected the old man to look haggard, weary. Instead Abramson seemed lively, almost energetic.

“I've given your problem considerable thought, Professor,” Fisk said, after the usual preliminaries. “I believe I've worked out a solution for you.”

Abramson said nothing, but the expression on his face radiated hope.

“I have a friend in Louisiana, near Baton Rouge,” Fisk explained. “He has a fine old house down there, a former cotton plantation. You can stay there.”

“But we need a medical facility,” Abramson objected.

“Not to worry, Professor. If Mohammed can't come to the mountain, we'll arrange to have the mountain come to Mohammed.”

Abramson looked doubtful.

“My friend can arrange to have medical people and equipment brought to his mansion. All very quietly, very discreetly.”

“He can?” The professor's face brightened.

“And you can stay as long as you like, no problem.”

“That's great! But Baton Rouge is at least a two-day drive from here.”

“My assistant will set you up with route directions and make hotel reservations along the way. Right through to Baton Rouge.”

“Fine,” said Abramson. “Wonderful. I don't know how to thank you, Mr. Fisk.”

Fisk lowered his eyes in a brief gesture of humility. Then, “We can't let them stop your work, Professor. Your granddaughter's life is at stake.”

“That's right. But still, you're being very generous.”

“Think nothing of it.”

Fisk allowed a few more moments of gratitude, then cut off the professor's thanks with, “I think you ought to know the name of the man you'll be visiting.”

“Oh! Yes, of course.”

“His name is Lorenzo P. Merriwether. He's quite wealthy.”

“Lorenzo P. Merriwether.”

“My assistant will give you all the details before the end of the day.”

“Thanks again, Mr. Fisk.”

Fisk waved the admiration away and clicked Abramson's image off his wall. Then he ordered his assistant to contact Lorenzo P. Merriwether.

I ought to let Lonzo know what I've put him up for, he said to himself.

 

Nottaway Plantation

A
NGELA WAS SITTING
in the van's backseat as Luke drove the SUV down the long driveway leading to the plantation's manor house.

Sitting beside him, Tamara said, “This is like something out of
Gone with the Wind
.”

“It's beautiful,” said Angela. Luke thought her voice sounded weak, frail.

The driveway ended at a large, three-story house fronted with tall graceful white columns and decorated for Christmas with holly and wreaths and candles at every window.

Two young black men were standing at the entrance to the mansion, lean and smiling. Luke had half-expected the servants to be in livery, but these two youngsters wore dark pullover shirts and jeans.

“Welcome to Nottaway Plantation,” said one of them, as Luke and Tamara climbed out of the SUV. Luke opened the rear door and helped Angela out of the van. Her IV was disconnected, but she still bore the port in her arm. It made Luke remember that he had one of those plastic leeches attached to his bloodstream, too.

The air felt chilly but soft, even gentle, nothing like the cold farther north. The two young men cheerfully took all the luggage and packages of medications and equipment, then led them to the front door. Angela, in Luke's arms, was goggle-eyed as she took in the big house with a huge holly wreath bedecking the heavy oak door.