Transhuman (20 page)

Hightower nodded once.

“Don't you need a court order for that?”

“Never mind. What is your relationship with Professor Abramson? Where has he gone?”

Fisk looked away for a moment, as though gathering his thoughts. Then, “My
relationship,
as you put it, is strictly financial. The Fisk Foundation is supporting his work. The foundation is a charitable organization and funds cutting-edge research in a number of fields.”

“Where's Abramson gone?”

“I wish I knew,” Fisk answered. “He bolted out of Nottaway quite suddenly. I think he was afraid you'd discovered his whereabouts.”

Blame the hunter for the prey's actions, Hightower thought. Aloud, he asked, “Why did you get Merriwether to take the professor in? You knew he was a fugitive from justice.”

“Now wait a minute,” Fisk countered. “When you first talked to me you said Abramson was suspected of kidnapping. From what the professor himself told me, it sounded like a family squabble.”

“With a little girl's life hanging in the balance.”

“Exactly. Abramson convinced me that his granddaughter would die unless he could treat her. I decided to give him a safe haven for a little while and see what he could do for the child.”

“Yet you knew he was a fugitive.”

“He's not a mass murderer, for God's sake. I knew exactly where he was, if and when the time came to turn him in.”

“But he skipped out on you.”

“Sadly, yes.”

“And you have no idea of where he's gone?”

“None whatsoever.”

Hightower studied the man's face on the high-def screen. The phony smile was gone. Fisk looked concerned, almost worried.

“I'm not the only one who's after him, am I?”

Suddenly puzzled, Fisk asked, “What do you mean by that?”

“Abramson's an important investment of yours. You want him found just as much as I do.”

“I suppose that's right,” Fisk admitted.

“So it's important that you be completely forthcoming with me. Where's he gone?”

With a helpless shrug, Fisk said, “Believe me, if I knew I'd tell you.”

Hightower didn't believe the man for an instant.

Fisk put on an earnest face and said, “Agent Hightower, I'd like to make a suggestion.”

“What is it?”

“I'd like to have the head of my security department work with you. He'll have clear access to all my foundation's files, all the records of Abramson's work, his associates, the meetings he's attended. That would help you, wouldn't it?”

“It might.”

Nodding vigorously, Fisk said, “His name is Edward Novack. Top-flight man. I'll tell him to fly to Washington to meet you in person.”

Hightower thought it over swiftly. He wants to plant a spy in my operation, he realized. But if I say no, he can complain to his politician friends that I turned down his offer of help.

Putting on his own phony smile, Hightower said, “That would be fine, Mr. Fisk. I'm in New Orleans at present, but I'll be back in my office in Boston bright and early tomorrow morning. I'll tell the receptionist to expect Mr. Novack. In Boston.”

“Good.”

“And thank you, Mr. Fisk.”

Hightower cut the connection, thinking about the tribal wisdom of his people, and the old days when white men gave blankets freely to the red men. Blankets that were infected with smallpox, of course.

 

Bartram Laboratories

S
HANNON WENT WITH
Luke every step of the way through his physical exam. While Tamara stayed with Angela, Shannon led Luke to the basement of the clinic and a set of rooms that varied from a mini-gymnasium to the MRI lab where Angela's brain scans had been done.

Luke submitted to stress tests, jogging along on the treadmill, and gritted his teeth when a nurse took a blood sample. Two vials' worth. Then he stripped down to his skivvies and an MD poked and prodded him from his scalp to the soles of his feet.

The doctor was a young man, totally unembarrassed when he asked Luke to drop his drawers and bend over the examining table.

Prostate exam, Luke knew. Painless but humiliating.

He looked across the room at Shannon, who gave him an impish smile. “I'll wait outside,” she said, before Luke could ask her to leave.

But as she opened the door, she said, straight-faced, “Don't take too long.” Then she broke into a giggle as she left the room.

Finally Luke spent nearly an hour in the cavernous MRI machine, as the table he lay upon slowly slid through the tunnel while the machine took images of his innards.

At last, dressed and on his feet once again, he stepped out into the area's little waiting room. Shannon was the only person there. She immediately popped to her feet.

“Have you been sitting out here all this time?” Luke asked her.

“Of course not,” she replied. “They called me when they were finishing up with you.”

“Well, they have enough data on me now to keep them busy for a few hours. I'm going upstairs to see how Angela is doing.”

“It's past one o'clock. Don't you want some lunch?”

“After I look in on Angie.”

“Dr. Minteer's with your granddaughter,” Shannon said, with a slight edge in her voice. “Come on, Luke, let's have a bite of lunch.”

He spied the telephone on the corner table. “Let me call her.”

“Dr. Minteer?”

“Angie.”

Luke steered clear of using his cell phone. Might be traced, he thought. Over the past few days he'd agonized over letting Angie call her mother, back in Massachusetts. How to get a message to Norrie without the freaking FBI tracing it back to where I am? He'd come to the conclusion that he'd have Angie make a CD voice recording, send it by FedEx to Van McAllister in Philadelphia, and have Van forward it to Norrie and Del. Van will do that for me. He can just drop the package in a FedEx depository someplace; that way it won't be traced back to him. Or me.

Tamara picked up the phone in Angie's room.

“How's she doing?” Luke asked.

“Not bad,” came Tamara's tawny voice. “She's doing a crossword puzzle. Wait a minute…”

Angela's higher-pitched voice came through. “Hi, Grandpa.”

“Hello, Angel. How're you feeling?”

“Okay, sort of.”

“Sort of?”

“My back hurts. Just a little.”

“Maybe you need to walk a bit, get some exercise.”

“I guess.”

“Is your wrist bothering you?”

“No. Tamara says the cast can come off in another two days.”

“That's wonderful,” Luke said. “Put Tamara back on, will you, honey.”

Tamara agreed that a little exercise would be helpful. “But not too much. She's pretty frail, still.”

“I know,” said Luke. He had though about sending a DVD to his daughter but immediately realized that one look at Angela's skeletal condition would send Norrie into convulsions. A CD recording of her voice would be enough, he thought.

Angela came back on the line. “Can I go outside, Grandpa?”

“It's pretty chilly out there,” he said.

“I'll dress warm. I'd like to go outside. I'm tired of staying in this room.”

“Okay. You ask Tamara about it. She's your doctor. She knows what's best for you.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Love you, Angel.”

“Love you, too, Grandpa.”

Luke hung up and allowed Shannon to lead him to her private dining room.

*   *   *

B
EFORE LEAVING THE
FBI office to go to the airport, Hightower started calling the private air services in Baton Rouge, looking for a flight Abramson might have chartered. The second company on his alphabetically arranged list was Bayou Air Services.

A young woman answered his call. Once Hightower identified himself as an FBI agent, she bucked his call to the office manager.

“Sir,” the man asked politely, “no offense, but how do I know you're really from the FBI?”

Hightower sighed inwardly. Can't blame the guy for being careful.

“Call the New Orleans FBI office and ask for Agent Hightower,” he said. Then he hung up and waited.

It took nearly ten minutes, but at last his phone rang. The Bayou Air Services manager was on the line.

“Hello again,” said Hightower. “I hope you're convinced now.”

The man was very apologetic. Hightower cut to the chase as quickly as he could and, to his delight, learned that Luke Abramson had indeed booked a flight two days earlier. With a very sick-looking little girl and a very good-looking young woman. And paid in cash.

Bingo! Hightower exulted silently.

“Where'd they fly to?” he asked.

“Let's see … Portland.”

“Portland, Maine?”

“No. Oregon.”

*   *   *

L
UKE WENT THROUGH
lunch as quickly as he decently could, talking with Shannon mostly about inconsequential matters, old reminiscences, the work of Bartram Laboratories.

“The university fired you?” Shannon asked, indignant. “But you have tenure!”

“Being accused of kidnapping is enough cause to break tenure, apparently,” he said, a little ruefully.

“Without a hearing?”

Shrugging, Luke replied, “They didn't know where to find me.”

“Well…,” she said. “You could stay right here. We have all the facilities you need.”

“Shannon, you're harboring a man being hunted by the FBI.”

With a wave of her hand, she replied, “Oh, you'll get that straightened out.” Then she asked, “Won't you?”

“I hope so,” he said. “I really hope so.”

 

Boston FBI Headquarters

H
IGHTOWER WAS LOOKING
forward to a night's sleep in his own bed, but once he retrieved his car from the long-term parking lot at Logan Airport, instead of heading for his apartment he drove through the Ted Williams Tunnel and the growling, honking late-afternoon traffic to his office in downtown Boston.

No sooner had he slid into his desk chair and turned on his computer than the chief appeared in his doorway, looking his usual elegant self in a charcoal gray three-piece suit.

“We have a visitor,” the chief said, before Hightower could even say hello. He looked very serious, almost grave.

“A visitor?”

“In my office,” said the chief.

Hightower got up from his chair and followed him. Can't be Fisk's security man, he thought as they made their way along the corridor. I told Fisk I wouldn't be here in the office until tomorrow morning.

Sitting in one of the cushioned chairs in front of the director's desk was a youngish man with thinning dirty blond hair and probing gray eyes. Thin nose, pointed chin, long slim fingers, like a pianist's. The gray pinstriped suit he wore told Hightower he was a bureaucrat of some sort.

“This is Mr. Rossov,” said the director as he stepped behind his desk and sat down. “He's from the White House.”

Hightower started to extend his hand, but Rossov remained sitting, eying him almost suspiciously.

“Mr. Rossov,” Hightower said as he lowered himself into the chair beside the White House official.

“Agent Hightower.” Rossov's voice had a hard edge to it.

“Mr. Rossov has an interest in the Abramson case,” said the director.

“What's the White House want with Abramson?”

“We want him found and brought in,” Rossov said.

“For kidnapping?”

“That's what he's charged with, isn't it?”

Hightower grunted an affirmative, then went silent. He'd learned over the years that often enough people he was talking with would feel uncomfortable with silence and start talking just to fill in the void. Sometimes they told things they hadn't meant to.

But Rossov merely said, “This case is of interest to the highest levels of government. You can have the full cooperation of the Justice Department and the entire executive branch, anything you need to find Abramson.”

The director said, “I think the Bureau has enough firepower to get the job done.”

Rossov's expression was almost a grimace. “The Department of Justice will back you. Wiretapping, hacking into computer files, Skype, whatever—don't waste time waiting for court orders. This man must be found as quickly as possible.”

“And the department will protect us?” the director asked.

Rossov said, “Completely. And I'm here to tell you that if you need more, I can provide it for you.”

What's he saying? Hightower wondered. Does he expect us to need a SEAL team to bring in one lousy college professor?

“I'd like a briefing on where you stand on this case,” Rossov said.

“Certainly,” said the director, nodding toward Hightower.

Hightower ran through what he'd accomplished so far. He saw Rossov's eyes glint at the mention of Quenton Fisk's name.

“So he left Louisiana and went … where?” Rossov demanded.

Hightower was about to tell him about the Bayou Air Services flight to Oregon. But he hesitated.

“We're working on that,” he said.

Rossov stared at him for a stony moment, then said, “Find him. It's important.”

*   *   *

O
NCE LUNCH WAS
finished, Luke hurried up to Angela's room. Neither the child nor Tamara was there. She's taken Angie outside, Luke realized.

Going to the window, he saw them walking slowly along the stone pathway between buildings. They were both bundled in winter coats, with scarves over their heads. Angie's coat looked a couple of sizes too big for her. She looked so small, so frail, walking slowly, like an old, old woman. Tamara kept pace with her. Luke could see that she was talking to Angie.

Briefly he debated going down to join them. Instead, he went to his own room, opened his laptop, and started working up a report on his work of the past few days.