Transhuman (24 page)

“But the damned progeria is still dogging her,” Luke complained.

“She's improving,” Tamara said.

“Maybe I should start her on accelerators,” he mused.

Shannon said, “And run the risk of starting fresh tumor growth?”

Luke huffed. “The p53 implant should help there.”

“Be patient, Luke,” Tamara said, placing a hand on his arm. “Don't rush things.”

“I thought I could cure her in a couple of weeks,” he muttered.

“You did, but now we've got to deal with the side effects.”

Shannon said, “You're welcome to stay here as long as it takes, Luke. You know that, don't you?”

“Yes, I do. And I appreciate it,” Luke said. “But I wonder how long we really have.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“The FBI.”

“Oh, they won't find you here,” Shannon said. But then she added, “You don't think they could, do you?”

“It's the mother-loving FBI, Shannon. They're good at finding people who don't want to be found. That's what they do for a living.”

Her chin rising a notch, Shannon said, “Even if they come here, I won't allow them into the facility. They have no right to search my laboratories.”

“They could get a court order,” Tamara said.

“Not from any judge in this county,” Shannon boasted. “I know them all.”

Luke glanced at Tamara, who shook her head just the slightest bit. Neither of them said anything to contradict their hostess.

*   *   *

A
FTER DINNER, THE
three of them looked in on Angela, who was sleeping peacefully.

“She looks noticeably better,” Shannon whispered. “Her skin looks much healthier.”

Luke said noncommittally, “Maybe.”

The three of them stepped back into the hallway, and Luke softly closed Angela's door.

“How about an after-dinner drink?” Shannon suggested.

“Not for me,” Luke said. “I'm going to hit the hay.”

“Oh. All right. Well…” She finished reluctantly, “Good night, then.”

“Good night, Shannon.”

Luke and Tamara watched her go down to the end of the hall and through the door to the outside, glancing back at them just before she shut the door.

“She doesn't like leaving the two of us alone with each other,” Tamara said.

Luke shrugged. “Then she shouldn't have given us rooms in the same building.”

“The same building with Angie.”

“Yeah. Right.”

She started down the hallway. Luke kept stride beside her.

As they started up the stairs, Tamara asked, “Luke, what happens after Angie's cured?”

“We fly back to Massachusetts and return her to Norrie and Del.”

“And the FBI?”

Their footsteps echoing slightly on the concrete stairs, Luke replied, “How can they prosecute a kidnapper who's returned the kid to her parents?”

“You think it'll be that easy?”

“Should be.”

“I hope you're right.”

They reached the top floor and went down the corridor to Tamara's room.

She stopped at the door, then turned back to Luke. “Well, good night.”

He tried to smile. “We should have taken Shannon up on that offer of a drink. I could use one.”

Tamara shook her head. “She offered
you
a drink. She never even looked at me.”

“She meant both of us.”

“Did she? She thinks of me as competition.”

Feeling uncomfortable, Luke groused, “Don't start that again.”

“Why not?” Tamara asked, her expression almost impish. “You're getting younger every day. You're a handsome, intelligent, accomplished man. She's willing to stiff the FBI over you.”

“You're crazy.”

“And she's a wealthy, good-looking woman. Just about your age, somatically. A little plump, maybe, but I think she's started working out in the gym.”

“Look,” said Luke, “if I were going to get involved with anybody, it wouldn't be with Shannon.”

Tamara said nothing.

“It'd be with you.”

Her eyes went suddenly wide, and Luke felt just as surprised as she looked.

He slipped a hand around her waist, pulled her to him, and kissed her soundly on the lips. Tamara didn't resist. She clung to Luke for a long, breathless moment.

“Uh … good night,” Luke stammered.

“Good night,” Tamara whispered.

And he stomped down the hallway and the concrete stairs to his own floor, thinking that the freaking fountain of youth brings all kinds of complications along with it.

 

Portland

T
HE THREE-HOUR TIME
difference between Boston and Oregon made Hightower's day twenty-seven hours long. Even though the clocks in the airport terminal read 9:22
P.M
., he felt as though it were time to call it a day and get some sleep.

Novack seemed chipper, though, as they threaded their way to the rental car counter, his cell phone clapped to his ear.

“Okay, okay,” he was saying. “Airport Marriott, good. Adjoining rooms. Fine. And the car'll have a GPS? Fine. Good work. I'll call Mr. Fisk tomorrow morning.”

Smiling as he snapped the phone shut, he told Hightower, “Car and hotel reservations. My office's travel agency has set it all up for us.”

“Good,” was all that Hightower responded. But he thought that his own office could have done the same thing. Probably. But the accommodations would be cheaper, using Uncle Sam's dime.

The car waiting for them at the Avis counter was a shiny maroon Chevrolet Malibu. Novack drove it to the hotel; they checked in and went to their adjoining rooms.

“See you in the morning,” Hightower said.

“Right. And then we go to the Bartram Labs.”

Hightower nodded and entered his room. Flicking his carryall onto the king-sized bed, he pulled out his phone and called his chief's home number.

The director answered on the first ring. “Been sitting up all night waiting for you to check in.”

“Just got to the hotel,” Hightower reported.

“Any problems?”

Hightower told him about Villanueva and Novack's little ploy.

The director chuckled. “He's a slick sonofabitch, isn't he?”

Hightower said, “I think Villanueva will come out here anyway. He'll be pretty damned sore, you know.”

“What's he going to do, search the whole city by himself?”

“If it was me,” Hightower replied, “I'd grab a phone book as soon as I got off the plane and look for scientific research establishments.”

The director was quiet for a moment. Then, “You give him too much credit, Jerry. Besides, phone books don't have listings like that.”

“Yahoo does. Google. A dozen search engines.”

“Yeah, maybe, but how'd he know which place to go to?”

Hightower shrugged. “He's stubborn. And he's pissed off. He won't give up easily.”

“Well, if he gets in your way, arrest him for hampering your investigation. You'll have my complete support. And the White House's backing, too. I've notified the Salem office; they'll be able to give you a hand if you need it.”

“I ought to be able to handle this by myself,” Hightower said. Then he added, “With my little sidekick.”

The director let the sarcasm pass. Instead, he said, “Now listen, Jerry. This White House guy wants you to hold Abramson wherever you find him. Just keep him on ice and notify me immediately. I'll tell the White House and he'll fly out to you. He wants to confront Abramson himself.”

“That's not our regular routine.”

“I know. But this comes from the White House, Jerry. I've checked with the Bureau in Washington. Do it their way.”

Hightower felt uneasy. But he said merely, “If that's the way you want it, chief.”

“That's the way it's got to be.”

*   *   *

L
UKE SLEPT FITFULLY
that night, his dreams filled with visions of his wife, Adele, alive and vibrant and happy. But he couldn't reach her; every time he fought his way through crowds of strangers to be near her, she slipped away, out of reach, out of touch.

Yet she spoke to him. “You're getting younger every day. You're a handsome, intelligent, accomplished man.” And he realized she spoke with Tamara's voice.

His eyes snapped open. It was starting to get light outside. He sat up, swung his legs off the bed, and stepped to the window. Pushing the curtains back, he saw another gray, cloudy dawn rising. How do these people stand it? he asked himself. This bleak climate. Their suicide rate must be way higher than Massachusetts's.

Padding his way to the bathroom, Luke realized that he had slept the night through without needing to urinate. He shook his head. If my prostate is still enlarged, and maybe even growing a tumor, how come I don't have to piss every couple of hours?

I'll have to ask Tamara about that; she's a physician, she ought to know.

Tamara. He looked down and saw that he had the beginnings of an erection. “Fountain of freaking youth,” he muttered. “Next thing, you'll start breaking out with acne.”

Shaking his head, he did his business at the toilet while mentally reviewing his plans for the day: Shannon had set him up with a surgeon to take tissue samples from his prostate. Tamara was going to run Angie through another physical, then take the kid outside for a walk—if the weather wasn't too cold or wet.

Angie's starting to complain about being cooped up in her room all the time. That's good. That means she's feeling stronger, antsier.

And so are you, he told himself. Coming on to Tamara like that. You must be going nuts.

But as he looked into the mirror over the bathroom sink, Luke had to smile at his image: skin smoother, hair darker, jawline firmer, eyes clearer.

And your brain's getting just as stupid as it was when you were a kid, he admonished himself. Freaking fountain of youth is making an idiot of you.

Then he remembered what it had felt like to kiss Tamara. And have her kiss him back.

Forget it! he commanded himself. But he couldn't.

*   *   *

D
EL VILLANUEVA AWOKE
slowly, groggily. For a few moments he didn't know where the hell he was. Blinking at the unfamiliar surroundings, he slowly remembered: Portland, Oregon. Airport Marriott Hotel.

He sat up and, on a sudden hunch, reached for the bedside telephone. Ignoring the automated instructions, he dialed for the operator.

After a half-dozen rings, a human voice answered, “Front desk.”

“Connect me with Mr. Hightower's room, please.”

“You can dial that for yourself if—”

“I don't know his room number.”

“Oh. Let me look it up for you.” A pause. Del fidgeted impatiently. Then the voice came back, “I'm afraid Mr. Hightower checked out about half an hour ago.”

Damn! Del thought as he put the phone down. He was right here in the same fucking hotel all night!

He threw the bedcover back and went to his carryall to dig out his laptop. Still naked, he sat on the sofa and booted up the computer.

Luke would go to some medical facility, he reasoned. A hospital or a laboratory somewhere in the area.

Doggedly, he started searching for the hospitals and research institutions in and around Portland. There were tons of them.

 

Bartram Laboratories

S
HANNON BARTRAM MARCHED
herself down to the reception lobby. A pair of FBI agents had arrived, asking about Luke Abramson.

The reception area was small, since the labs didn't receive that many visitors: just the receptionist's desk and a pair of curved couches for waiting salesmen and such. Shannon saw through the floor-to-ceiling windows that the gray overcast outside was thinning. We might see some sunshine before the day's over, she thought.

The two men got up from the couch by the windows as she approached them. One of them was big, massive; his black ponytail made him look like a Native American. He wore a tight-fitting suede sports jacket and chinos. The other was shorter, not much above Shannon's own height. Wiry build, but his face looked as if it had been carved out of granite. Grayish hair cropped down to a military buzz cut.

Extending her hand to the big man, she said, “I'm Shannon Bartram. What can I do for you gentlemen?”

Hightower reached into his back pants pocket, pulled out a leather wallet, and flipped it open. “I'm Special Agent Jerome Hightower, ma'am.” Turning his chin a bare inch, he added, “And this is Edward Novack.”

“What can I do for you?” Shannon repeated.

“We're searching for a Professor Lucas Abramson. He's wanted for kidnapping.”

“He's not here,” Shannon lied.

Hightower looked pained. “Ma'am, would you mind if we looked through the building?”

“I certainly would mind. This is a research establishment, and I can't have my staff disturbed. Besides, there are five buildings altogether and—”

“We know that,” Novack said. “And we know that Abramson came here a few days ago.”

“Nonsense. In any case, I can't have my staff upset by your poking into our facilities.”

Hightower said, “Ma'am, we could get a court order.”

“Go ahead and do that, then. Good day.”

Novack started to say something, but Hightower silenced him with a heavy hand on his chest. “Ma'am, it's like this. Abramson kidnapped a little girl. We're trying to find the child and return her to her parents.”

Shannon almost blurted that the “kidnapped” child was Luke's granddaughter, but she caught herself just in time.

“If we have to get a court order,” Hightower went on, looking pained, “we'll come back with a squad of police officers who'll be authorized to turn your place upside down. You don't want that, do you?”