The Forever Man: A Near-Future Thriller (23 page)

Something beeped and Warhead rotated back to his gear and smiled. “Well, what do you know about that? Autumn Denise West. Born in Elkton, Nebraska, population seven hundred and fifty-three. Died in the same place one hundred and one years later. Too bad about her twin.”

“Her twin?”

“April Clarisse West. Died two years after they were born. Some kind of staph infection.”

“That’s all?”

“That’s all, and given the time span, I think that’s a lot.”

Warhead softens a little. “Next time, I’ll tell you about the rehab place where they dumped me after I got home. But right now, I’ll just give you a little hint: Horny nurses come in pairs.”

***

“I need to fly to Nebraska. With you or without you. As soon as possible,” Lane tells Rachel on his handheld as he strides through the parking lot.

“You’re serious?” she asks.

“I’m serious.”

“You’re assuming that I can get us there.”

“I have no doubt you can get us there. That’s why you do what you do.”

“We’ll see about that.”

***

Autumn West sits at Zed’s side in Bay 1, where he lies in a maze of tubes, wires, and sensors. He reaches out for her hand, and she takes it. His skin feels cool and parched.

“We can’t really know if this is the beginning or the end,” he whispers as the sedation starts to set in. “But we’ll soon find out. Wait for me. Please wait for me.”

“I’ll wait,” she assures him.

From across the room, Zed can hear the sound of an antique clock, whose presence he requested during the procedure. It holds an elegant assemblage of springs, gears, cams, levers, and artful inscriptions. As he retreats into that twilight on the border of somnolence, the ticks of the clock fade away and only the tocks remain, little subtractive pulses that reverse the cruel vector of time. The pulses become integers, and the integers become years, and the years become burning posts impaled in a featureless desert full of yellow sky.

And there his father kneels, beside the heaped stones marking the little grave.
He turns toward Zed’s febrile gaze
.
Diphtheria, son. It took your brother down. Your only brother, your twin, your perfect twin. It got your mother, too. I left before she died, you know
. Tears fill his eyes.
I had to. It would’ve killed you and me, too, and we were all that was left
.

The yellow overhead turns mustard. The posts lose their flame. They glow and smolder, sending blue smoke into a dying sky.

Autumn finds it odd to see Zed in such a vulnerable and helpless state. His eyelids twitch and his head oscillates from side to side. She still wonders how he can be so tender with her yet so callous to others. At first, she took all his attention at face value. After all, she was confused and vulnerable, and he fabricated a credible foundation to ground her. In the process, he provided only a highly simplified description of how they had peeled seventy-five years off her. Instead he focused on the need for a careful and controlled recovery. “We must handle you as we would a beautiful yet fragile work of art,” he told her. “You need to be gradually reintroduced to the outside world.”

They often dined together and he regaled her with stories of his adventures abroad. He cautioned her about the potential pitfalls ahead. If the media discovered her secret, they would hound her incessantly. She would become a freak, naked and exposed to the predation of lenses and microphones without end. She heeded his warnings and was content to remain within the confines of Mount Tabor, at least for now. Her strange revival had left her in a state of emotional shock, and hardly ready to face the world at large.

It didn’t take long for her sexuality to return. She felt it most strongly when she strolled through the lavish gardens that surrounded the residence. It felt like her erotic core had never really died, but only lingered in a deep slumber. And with this reignited lust came a surge of passion for Thomas Zed and all the power, charisma, and mystery that attended him. It was accompanied by a persistent regret over the difference in their physical age, which would prevent her from consummating a union with him. He’d already explained that she was a rare and special case not applicable to humanity at large. For this reason, she assumed that what had worked for her would never be available to him.

She was wrong, of course.

“I need to feel good about what we’re doing,” Rachel says as they start across the tarmac outside the flight services building at Portland International Airport. “And I’m not quite there yet. So let’s go through it one more time.”

“Can’t say as I blame you,” Lane sympathizes. “I’m sure this is a lot of trouble.”

Up ahead, an exotic yet beautiful plane awaits them, a Piaggio 180. Twin canards project from the sides of its sleek nose, and its two turboprop engines face backward off each wing.

“It’s more trouble than you can possibly imagine,” Rachel says. “So let’s have it.”

“After I found out that Autumn West had an identical twin, I went back to Wynn Pearson. I wondered if you could somehow leverage the infant twin’s genes to capture that perfect moment when you physically peaked as a young adult. She said no, because the baby hasn’t developed into an adult yet and a lot will change along the way. I think Johnny figured a way around the problem, a way to wind an infant’s genetic clock forward to that golden moment. Are you with me so far?”

“So far.”

“Autumn West’s dead little sister was a perfect genetic copy of her. With Johnny’s help, they could predict exactly how she would turn out as a young adult. Then, up at Mount Tabor, they had some way to correct the mistakes in her old body, and truly rejuvenate her.”

“So you’re sure about this?” Rachel asks with a trace of skepticism.

“If I’m right, we’re going to find a grave at the local cemetery in Elkton, Nebraska, for an April Clarisse West. And when we dig it up, we’re going to find it either empty or tampered with. Why? Because they took the genes and ran.”

They’ve reached the foldout stairs leading up to the cabin right behind the cockpit. For the first time, Lane notices that the plane appears unattended. He stops at the foot of the stairs.

“Where’s the crew?”

“You’re looking at it,” she said.

Twenty minutes later, Lane watches Mount Hood slide by off the starboard side of the cockpit. Next to him, Rachel arms the autopilot and settles back. “So how do we pull this thing off when get there?” she asks.

“We need to have a talk with the doctor who signed her death certificate. Somehow, I
don’t think her papers are exactly in order. Think about it. She’s over a hundred years old. She’s outlived her entire family and all her friends. She’s alone in the world. No one’s going to make much of a fuss about the disposition of her body. So the doctor pronounces her dead slightly in advance of the real thing. And the undertaker plays along. In the meantime, they swoop down, grab her, and transport her to Mount Tabor before she actually expires. And then they start to work their magic.”

“But who’s
they
? Who’s directing all this?”

“I don’t know yet, but it’s a pretty good bet that they’re both very old and very wealthy. It’s also a pretty good bet that Autumn is some kind of prototype. I can’t believe that they would spend that much time and money on someone of such modest origins.”

“Maybe she’s not alone,” Rachel suggests. “Maybe they’ve done it with others. There have to be numerous cases where a person lived to a ripe old age and also had an identical twin that died in childhood.”

“You might be right. And if all this is being done on Mount Tabor, your boss hit the political jackpot. Poor people tolerate a lot of things, but they won’t sit by and die quietly while the rich live on forever.”

Rachel lapses in a reflective silence. The harsh whisper of the displaced stratosphere spills through the cabin. “He may have hit the jackpot, all right,” she finally says. “But I don’t think he plans on sharing the winnings. Johnny must have told Harlan exactly what was going on up on Mount Tabor, and he decided to keep it to himself.” She slams her fist into her palm. “Damn! I should’ve seen it coming. He’s going to make a deal with the devil, and why not? He came to me the other day and said he was going to be taking a little time off. Bullshit. He’s never taken time off. He’s setting the stage for something.”

“Like coming back as a college boy?”

Rachel shakes her head. “Never happen.”

“Why not?”

“He never went to college.”

Lane shrugs. “Too bad.” He slumps in his seat, closes his eyes, and promptly nods off.

Rachel does her periodic scan of the avionics, then looks over at Lane’s slumbering profile and smiles. He has this remarkable composure about him. Is it sadness and resignation that lets him surrender to the moment like this? She hopes not. She resists an impulse to reach out and gently touch the back of his hand.

Lane awakens to the prairie landscape coming up from below. Thin lines crease the fields, defining roads that run straight north or south. They form a land of countless rectangles and squares. Numerous earthen circles crowd within these shapes, their patterns etched by the sweep
of giant irrigation arms.

They dip to the right and Elkton appears. The main street runs about a quarter mile and terminates in a couple of grain elevators and railroad tracks. Houses spill off for a few blocks on either side, and then the fields take over.

The airport’s single runway comes and goes from view as they line up to land. “So how do you propose we go about this?” Rachel asks. “I mean, this is your area of expertise, right?”

“Right. First thing we do is buy ourselves a ride into town. Then we see if we can pick up the paper trail. Elkton is the county seat, so that helps. We go there first and check out death certificates. Next we track down the doctor who signed them. Then we have a chat with the local funeral home. Finally, we make a little trip out to the cemetery, which can’t be far from town.”

Their plane touches down and goes to full brakes and reverse to avoid shooting off the far end of the short runway. They turn left onto a short taxiway and stop in front of an old hangar with a small office in one corner. An elderly man in jeans and a plaid wool jacket opens the door.

“And that would be our ride,” Lane announces.

“So you guys are attorneys, right?” Mr. Larson, the airport custodian, asks. He drives down the main street of Elkton at glacial speed in the old pickup.

“I suppose you could say that,” Lane answers.

“I figured as much when you said you wanted to go to the courthouse. Especially after you came in a plane like that. A Piaggio 180. Never seen one for real. You’re lucky. It used up every damn foot of the runway.”

“You’re right,” Rachel agreed. “We’re very lucky.”

“If you’re hungry,” Mr. Larson informs them, “there’s only one place left to eat, and it’s not always open.”

Looking out the window, Lane can see why. Aging single-story buildings line both sides of the wide street, some brick, some concrete. Faded and fallen signage prevails, along with many boarded-up windows. Weeds grow through the sidewalks like tiny tree lines of ragged green and yellow. Only three vehicles are visible, all gas powered, all hobbled by the sky-high price of even the lowest-grade petrol. The solitary pedestrian is an elderly woman pulling a child’s wagon full of used bottles.

“Folks don’t come to town much anymore unless they really have to,” Larson explains. “Costs too much. You don’t have to drive, but you do have to eat.”

They pass the theater, the one Lane saw in Rachel’s photo. Its deserted box office stands a timeless watch on the sidewalk beyond. The marquee still juts out, and a single letter, a red P, remains in the lower left corner. Lane tries to visualize giggling young girls and fidgeting boys streaming out into summer evenings long gone. He fails.

“Is that the courthouse?” Rachel points to a stolid three-story structure of cut stone surrounded by elms. Grecian columns stand in bas relief on the upper two floors. Its small parking lot is deserted.

“This is it,” Larson declares as he pulls up in front. “Want me to wait?”

“Only if you’re not going to block traffic,” Lane quips.

Larson takes it straight, or at least he seems to. “Don’t think that’ll be a problem.” As well it shouldn’t, given his compensation.

No scanning portal awaits them inside the Perrin County Courthouse. None is necessary. There is very little at risk.

“I’m off to the ladies’ room,” Rachel announces as they reach the main hallway. “It’s kind of a nice day here in the heartland. I’ll meet you back outside on the steps.”

“See you, then.” Lane heads down the hall and turns in to the first door he comes to.

A woman in her fifties sits behind a counter, a person of librarian cast, with a print dress, cardigan sweater, and glasses suspended from a cord around her plump neck. “Yes?”

“Hi, could you direct me to the records department?”

“You’re there,” the woman responds, as if it should be obvious. Behind her, a couple of women of similar demeanor and appearance sit at aging computers.

“I’d like a copy of a death certificate,” Lane continues. “It’s for an Autumn West. She was a long-time resident here.”

The woman shoves a little notepad across the counter. “I’ll need her full name and the date of death.”

“I know the year, but not the day or month,” Lane says as he gets out a pen.

“Well then, I guess that’ll have to do,” the woman says with mild irritation. She puts on her glasses and reads the note when Lane is finished. She looks up at him. “There’s a ten-dollar records-acquisition fee and a five-dollar duplication fee.”

“No problem,” Lane says and produces the money.

The woman takes it. “Do you need a receipt?”

Lane declines and the woman puts the money in a metal cash box, which she has to unlock with a little key in a drawer under the counter. “Wait here,” she commands, and shuffles off into an adjoining room filled with file cabinets.

Lane goes to the door and looks up and down the deserted hallway. He wonders how often they try court cases here, or do anything at all. He’d bet big money that the county’s population had been in steady decline for the last forty years. Someday soon, the irrigation arms will cease to rotate, and the prairie will reclaim what was taken from it, one weed and grass clump at a time.