Transhuman (15 page)

As Tamara straightened up, Merriwether whispered, “How is she?”

With a shake of her head, Tamara replied, “Not good.”

Merriwether gazed down at Angela. “Poor little kid.”

“We need to get a complete diagnostic workup on her. We're working half in the dark here.”

“I know.” Merriwether nodded. “Luke told me yesterday. I'm working on it. We can take her out to Mercy Hospital tonight. But we'll have to bring her back here before the morning shift comes in.”

“That's great!” Tamara said. “That's wonderful. Thank you, Lonzo.”

As they walked away from the bed, Merriwether said, “You know, you could use a little break from all this. You've been under quite a strain, haven't you?”

Tamara admitted, “It hasn't been easy, that's true enough.”

“Maybe you and I could have a quiet dinner together one of these evenings. Do you good to get away from all this, at least for a little bit.”

Warning signals flashed across Tamara's mind. He's coming on to you! Be careful: You don't want to turn him off, but you don't want to turn him on, either.

“That'd be very nice,” she said.

Merriwether flashed a bright smile at her. “Tomorrow night, then.”

Tamara nodded mutely, thinking, We've got to get away before tomorrow night.

*   *   *

M
ERRIWETHER LEFT, AND
Tamara checked the monitoring equipment. Satisfied that if anything changed in Angela's condition, the beeper she carried in her skirt pocket would alert her, she went to the door that connected to Luke's room and rapped on it.

“It's unlocked,” came Luke's muffled voice.

He was on the sofa, she saw, bent over the laptop that Merriwether had loaned him, writing another daily report to Fisk. Can the FBI tap e-mails? she wondered. Luke's not using his own computer, but might they be watching Fisk?

Looking up from his screen, Luke asked, “How's Angie?”

“Sinking. It's slow, but she's getting worse.”

“We need to get a high-resolution scan of her brain. See if the tumors are really gone. If they are, we can stop pumping the inhibitors into her.”

Sitting on the sofa beside him, Tamara revealed, “Lonzo said we can go to Mercy Hospital tonight.”

“Tonight?” Luke brightened.

“He's greased the wheels,” Tamara said. “They'll be ready for us tonight.”

“Good. Wonderful. If we can stop the inhibitors her progeria symptoms will begin to clear up.”

“You hope.”

“If they don't we can give her telomerase inducers, bring her back to normal.”

“And activate the tumors again.”

He shook his head. “No, once they're dead, they're dead.” Before Tamara could object, he added, “I've been thinking, once we're in Oregon, we could even do some genetic engineering, give Angie a full complement of the p53 gene, protect her against tumor formation.”

“If you can get us out to Oregon.”

Luke's enthusiasm collapsed like a pricked balloon. “Yeah. Big if.”

Tamara pointed to the French window that led out onto the veranda. “Let's get some fresh air.”

Luke understood. “Let me shut down the computer first.”

She watched him save the report he'd been writing, then close the laptop. As they got to their feet, Tamara motioned for Luke to bring the laptop with him.

Once they were out on the veranda, where a cool breeze was wafting in from the river, she said, “I've been thinking about how we can get away from here.”

“Me, too. We've got to make the break tonight, from the hospital.”

Nodding, Tamara said, “And rent a private jet to fly us out to Oregon.”

“Rent a … How the hell can we do that?”

“How much money do you have in that wad of yours?”

“About fifty thousand, a little more.”

“In cash?”

“Yeah.”

“Look up aircraft rentals. On Google.”

“Okay,” Luke said uncertainly. “How do you do that?”

With a disapproving “Tsk,” she sat on one of the wicker chairs and reached for the laptop in his hand. “May I?”

Within minutes Tamara connected with Bayou Air Services and rented a private jet for a flight to Portland, Oregon, using a credit card to hold the reservation.

“You have that kind of money in your account?” Luke asked.

“The bank is happy to loan me the money,” she replied, with a bitter smile. “At twenty-some percent interest.”

“Oh,” said Luke.

“I figure you can pay the actual bill out of your cash supply when we get to the airport. That way there won't be any record of my credit card actually being used.”

“Smart. But what about clothes and stuff?”

“I'll pack a suitcase. You do the same. Then you can put them in the van when we drive to the airport.”

“Yeah,” he said. “Now all we have to figure out is how to get from the hospital to the airport without Merriwether's people stopping us.”

 

Mercy Hospital

“
T
HEY'RE GONE!” TAMARA
said, her face bright with excitement. “Not a trace of a tumor.”

“You're sure?” Luke asked.

“See for yourself.”

It was nearly four
A.M
. They were sitting together in a small office off the MRI lab at Mercy Hospital, in a suburb of Baton Rouge. Merriwether had insisted on personally driving Luke, Tamara, and Angela in his own sleek snow white Lamborghini convertible. He kept the car's metal roof up while Angela slept in the rear seat, with Tamara beside her, and Luke rode in front with Merriwether, who promised them that the hospital staff had been well paid to allow them to use the equipment without filing any paperwork.

But Luke knew that their suitcases were still in his SUV, parked in the Nottaway garage. They were going to arrive in Oregon with nothing but the clothes on their backs and the two laptops Tamara had brought with her. Assuming we make it to Oregon, he told himself.

At least I've got my money with me, he reminded himself as he patted the bulging wallet he'd slipped into his jacket pocket. Merriwether didn't notice the gesture; he was fully focused on driving his pride and joy.

Now Luke and Tamara hunched together as they stared at the display screen showing the results of Angela's brain scan.

“No trace of the tumors,” Tamara murmured, almost as if she were afraid to say the words too loudly.

“They're gone,” said Luke. His voice was shaky, too.

Running a lacquered fingernail along the screen, Tamara observed, “But these arteries have thickened.”

“Atherosclerosis,” Luke muttered.

“One of the symptoms of HGPS.”

“Like we need a scan to tell us she's got progeria.”

Tamara straightened up, rubbed her eyes. “We can stop the inhibitor treatment.”

Luke shook his head. “Not yet. Give it another week.”

“Another week?”

“I want to make sure the damned tumors are dead.”

“But the progeria!”

“Another week,” Luke said, with a firmness he didn't really feel.

Tamara sat silently for several moments, her fingers working the laptop's keyboard to record the test results. Luke thought he could see the wheels turning inside her head as she typed.

At last she looked up and said, “Stop the treatment now, Luke. Don't let the progeria advance any further.”

Before he could object she went on. “If the tumors reappear we can put her back on the inhibitors.”

It was Luke's turn to fall silent. He sat there, turning over the possibilities in his mind. At last, “You're right. We'll stop the inhibitors and give her a chance to recover.”

Tamara breathed out a relieved sigh. “Good,” she said. “Now, how do we get out of here?”

“Merriwether's downstairs, in the waiting room,” said Luke. “So we go out the back way. I'll carry Angie; you phone for a cab.”

They went to the recovery room where Angela lay sleeping and wrapped her in several blankets. The two nurses on duty helped; then one of them pushed a wheelchair to the child's bed. Tamara stuffed her laptop and Luke's, together with a case full of medications, into her tote bag while Luke tenderly lifted Angela into the wheelchair. She stirred and muttered something incomprehensible.

“Thanks,” Luke told the nurses as he wheeled Angela toward the elevator. “We can handle her from here.”

The nurses looked uncertain but didn't try to stop them. As the elevator doors closed, Luke grinned at Tamara. “Next stop, the airport.”

Angela stirred and murmured sleepily, “Mommy?”

“I'm right here, Angel,” Luke said.

“I feel tired,” the child said weakly. “Can we go home now?”

“Soon, honey,” Luke said, hating himself for lying to his granddaughter. “We'll have you back home real soon now.”

But when the elevator doors slid open, Merriwether was standing there, waiting for them with a sly grin on his face.

“Goin' somewhere?” he asked.

Luke nodded. “To the airport. You've been very good to us, Lonzo, but we've got to get Angie to a first-rate medical facility.”

Spreading his long arms, Merriwether said, “You're in one right here.”

Luke said, “We're leaving.”

“No you're not. You thought you were pretty fucking clever, doing your talking out on the verandas, where we couldn't hear you. But you weren't clever enough. I know what you're up to.”

“Let us go, Lonzo,” Tamara pleaded.

He shook his head. “Fisk wants to you to stay at Nottaway.” His smile widening as he focused on Tamara, he added, “And that's what I want, too.”

Luke let his shoulders slump and began pushing the wheelchair with Angela half asleep in it.

“Down this way.” Merriwether pointed in the opposite direction. “My car's parked at the main entrance.”

Luke saw that the corridor was empty of other people at this time of night. Probably security cops at the entrance, he thought. If I'm going to make a move it's got to be now.

Lorenzo Merriwether was more than a head taller than Luke, maybe thirty years younger. He's in good physical shape, Luke thought. Former athlete, he's still trim and fit, works out in his gym.

Luke's brief career in the Army had been as a very junior lieutenant in an intelligence unit in Tokyo. ROTC had paid his way through college, and in return he'd pulled a tour of duty in Japan during the Korean War. He'd taken a routine course in hand-to-hand fighting, nothing more. And that was a lot of years ago.

Surprise counts for a lot, he remembered from his training. He heard the grating growl of his drill instructor's voice. “Catch 'em by surprise, get the first shots in, and make 'em count.”

Luke sucked in a deep breath, then swerved Angela's wheelchair into Merriwether's legs. He stumbled, grabbed the back of the wheelchair for support.

Luke smashed a karate chop at Merriwether's neck, but the man was quick enough to partially block it with an upraised arm. He slid to the floor, but before Luke could get around the wheelchair to kick him he bounced to his feet.

Grinning, Merriwether crouched as he faced Luke.

“I was wondering why an old fart like you was working out in the gym,” he said. “Give it up. There's no way a guy your age is gonna get past me.”

Knees, Luke remembered. Knees are vulnerable, and exposed. He edged closer to Merriwether, who stood his ground, waiting for him. Luke feinted a punch at Merriwether's head, and when the man's hands came up reflexively to block it, Luke kicked at his left kneecap as hard as he could.

Merriwether yelped in pain and collapsed to the floor, but he grabbed at Luke's leg, pulling him down to the tiles beside him.

“Motherfucker,” Merriwether growled as he rolled over on top of Luke, his fist raised like a hammer.

Tamara swung her oversized handbag at him. It hit Merriwether's head with a loud
clunk
! His eyes rolled up; then Luke hit him under the chin with a cupped hand and his head snapped back. Tamara clouted him again and he slumped to the floor, unconscious.

“What the hell do you have in that bag?” Luke asked as he scrambled to his feet.

“The kitchen sink,” she replied tightly.

Luke realized she had both their laptops in the bag, along with God knows what else.

“Come on,” he said, “the taxi ought to be waiting for us at the rear entrance.”

 

Airborne

“
Y
OU'RE DAMNED LUCKY
I was available,” said the twin-jet's pilot. Luke was surprised when the pilot stuck his head through the open hatch and invited him to come up and sit with him in the cockpit's right-hand seat.

“Yeah,” the pilot said as he leaned back in his chair with a pleased, relaxed smile on his face, “most guys would've wanted a copilot to make the flight with them. With me, you only need to pay for one man.”

Luke, Tamara, and Angela had made it to the airport just as the sky began to turn milky white. Don't have to worry about being late for the flight, Luke told himself. We're chartering our own business jet, and it'll wait for us to show up.

He was surprised that the general aviation terminal was busy so early in the morning. A smiling executive of Bayou Air Services greeted them curbside and took Tamara's weighty tote bag from her shoulder.

“No other luggage?” he asked.

Luke was carrying the sleeping Angela in his arms. Shaking his head, he replied, “Nope. Just us.”

The executive looked nonplussed, but he led them into the company's office, off the terminal's main room. He was wearing an open-necked sports shirt and a white blazer that bore the company's logo.

His eyes went wide when Luke pulled a bulging billfold from his own jacket and peeled off three hundred one-hundred-dollar bills.