The Methuselah Gene (3 page)

I stared at the homeless man, asleep on the bench.
 
“God, I don't know which intention is worse for this theft,” I said.
 
“But if either is in my future, maybe I should take your advice and end my ‘jittery, angst-ridden life' right away.”

Darryl chuckled, but stopped when I looked at him.
 
We were quiet for a long time before he said, “How did your partner kill himself, by the way—with a gun?”

“No,” I said, mimicking a gripping gesture with one hand, “he used a broken beer stein.
 
You know, the kind with a handle?
 
He busted it on his head, and sliced one wrist with it before he buried the shards in his neck.”

Darryl stared at me for ten long seconds before speaking.
 
“Holy horse shit.
 
What was he, psychotic?”

“Not before he stuck himself with that needle,” I replied.
 
“Or someone else stuck him.”

My apartment was a mess.
 
Nothing unusual there.
 
Still, it was a familiar mess.
 
One that hadn't been recently tossed into a different jumble.
 
Of that I was certain.
 
Because if it had, I would have noticed more easily than if everything was tidy.

I went through all my paperwork, methodically.
 
Finding nothing important amid the notes I'd taken home, I started up my
MacBook
in frustration.
 
As I prepared to enter my
passcode
, though, the screen showed a sad icon.
 
I used an emergency CD to restart, only to discover that the
MacBook's
hard drive contents had not been inadvertently lost by some electronic glitch, or even via some cataloguing error.
 
It had been wiped.
 
Destroyed.
 
There was little doubt about it.
 
That had to be it.
 
And what else could do it but a—

Virus.

The word ballooned in my mind as I glimpsed the photo of Cindy, my internet ‘girlfriend.'
 
I'd printed out it.
 
It lay next to the mouse.
 
Boo.
 
I stared at
Cindyboo's
face—at the beautiful, symmetrical face with its high cheekbones behind perfect skin.
 
That skin deep beauty hid what was actually only a thinly covered skull.
 
And then I thought about Nikki, too. The unfortunate one night stand who'd stolen a jacket of mine, and. . .

I snatched up the telephone and dialed.

Darryl answered.
 
“Hello?”

I heard kitchen sounds in the background.
 
A meal being prepared.
 
Darryl's wife Hannah singing happily in some far-off state of unattainable marital bliss.

“It's me,” I said.
 
“Listen, Darryl—can you come over here?
 
I think I'm in bigger trouble than I thought.”

I strategically hung up before Darryl could answer, knowing he must have been hungry, having missed lunch due to loss of appetite.
 
Almost unintentionally, then, I found myself getting a beer, turning on the TV, and finally slumping in my usual lounge chair.
 
I drank mechanically while watching a horror movie I'd picked at random from one shelf before shoving it into the DVD player.
 
Ironically, it was
Attack of the 50 Foot Woman.

I was on my third beer when the knock at my door finally came.

“You're not planning to off yourself right away, are you, man?” Darryl asked with acerbic candor, stepping into the room.
 
He looked around at my clutter—the scattered papers, and the week's accumulation of dirty dishes.
 
Then he gave a slight nod as if his suspicions about bachelorhood were confirmed.
 
He followed the nod with a wry smile.
 
“On second thought, maybe you should consider it.”
 
He pointed at my beer.
 
“Got one of them for me?
 
And some chips, maybe?”

I got Darryl a can of Michelob, and took the last one for myself.
 
I poured out the remaining jumbo sized Fritos into the one clean bowl I had left.
 
“There's a girl I been talking to on the Internet,” I said, almost casually.

Darryl snickered as I used remote to cut off the TV.
 
Then he shook his head.
 
“A girl on the net?
 
Wake up and smell the French roast, buddy.
 
I told you, you gotta break
outta
this jail, find a real woman, and get a life.”

I studied him, coming to a decision.
 
“I don't mean that.
 
I meant about the longevity gene.
 
I mean I told her everything.”

Darryl was suddenly aghast.
 
“What have you been taking?
 
PCP?
 
Your ass is grass, man.”

“I don't mean the delivery mechanism, or what happened with Jim,” I insisted.
 
“I didn't tell her that.
 
But now my notes on the computer, they've been wiped.
 
Gone, just like at the office.
 
An electronic virus got me, this time.”

Darryl rubbed one eye with his free hand, then pinched the bridge of his nose.
 
“What am I gonna do with you, Alan?” he asked, his voice sounding weary.
 
“You keep classified information relating to your work on your home computer?
 
Is that what you do here?
 
What does Jeffers say about that?”

“I live alone.
 
And no one needs to know.”

His face went blank for a moment.
 
Then he slurped at his beer, and it reanimated him.
 
“The hell you say.
 
And did you also know that there are ways to read your hard drive when you're online?
 
Ever heard of electronic cookies?
 
Information is stored all the time on your drive by websites, and by your ISP.
 
They retrieve that information whenever you log on again.
 
Hackers can get to you too, if they want to.
 
They can read what you got, and you wouldn't even know it.”

“Most of it is encrypted, though.”

“You mean
was.
 
You haven't got it anymore, and they do . . . may as well have posted it on
WikiLeaks
, because if the hacker's an ace, he's deciphered your encryption already.
 
Especially if you use DES or some commercially available encryption program.”
 
Darryl burped for emphasis.
 
“So who's this girl you mentioned?”

I handed him the photo of Cindy, asserting defensively, “She doesn't look like a hacker to me.”

Darryl laughed.
 
“I guess not.
 
I've seen her on the cover of a dozen magazines, at least.
 
One of those runway fashion models.
 
Phony as a peroxide blond dating a plastic surgeon.”

I took the photo back, and stared at it again.
 
Numbly.
 
The face that stared up at me did seem a bit familiar now.
 
I felt a chill edge up my spine to radiate out to my arms.
 
“Holy . . .”

“Yeah.
 
Holy in-your-lap horse
dooty
.”
 
Darryl snatched the photo back, then balled and pitched it into the trash.
 
Finally, he sat at my Mac.
 
While munching greedily at the chips, he began to check a few things.
 
After a few belches, he concluded, “One nasty bug, for sure.
 
Almost as bad as your Satan bug.
 
Can't recover anything on here, bud.
 
Backup?”

“At work.
 
Gone now.
 
These were mostly notes.
 
May have helped me.
 
Doesn't matter anymore, does it?”

Darryl nodded slowly.
 
“Mattered to your supermodel, whoever she really is.
 
Or he.”

I winced at the thought, then told him about Nikki, my one-
nighter
.
 
Darryl was skeptical about her existence, except in my dreams.
 
But when I mentioned that she'd stolen cash from my wallet, he changed his tune.

“What'd she look like?” he asked.

“Never mind.
 
More importantly, I'm wondering if she did this, somehow.
 
That next morning I noticed that my computer had been moved slightly, like she'd tested its weight or bulk as a possible theft.
 
But to access it here she'd need my code, and I don't have that written down anywhere.
 
Could she have hacked into it?
 
Downloaded encrypted files, somehow, all without my hearing anything?”

“Maybe she carried it somewhere else, like to a van on the street, then returned with it.”

“No, that's . . . that's impossible.”

“You sure?”

“I'm not even sure about the stupidity of politicians, anymore.”

“Well, you're right, it is unlikely.
 
She wouldn't have risked returning with it, after setting it up as a theft.
 
Did you notice any blank media missing?”

“No, but what if she brought her own memory stick, along with this virus?”

Darryl nodded slowly.
 
“Right.”

I slumped into the nearest chair.
 
“Listen to us.
 
Conspiracy theories.
 
God, I feel like Jesse Ventura, already.”

“Yeah, well, maybe you deserve that, Alan.
 
What you got now?
 
Constipation?
 
You should take
Colace
or
Duphalac
for that.
 
Maybe you shoulda taken
Lomotil
, too, for your diarrhea of the mouth.”

“Stop kidding, and help me.”

Darryl sighed.
 
“I think you're beyond help, at this point.
 
Tell me, did this Nikki chick approach you, or you her?”

“The former.
 
Why?”

“Bad news.
 
And you say you were being followed?”

“Yeah, I was.
 
By a dark Toyota Land Cruiser.
 
I think I saw it behind us earlier, near the park, too.”

“Catch a peek at the driver, by chance?”

“No.
 
Windows tinted.”

“Virginia plates?”

“Who knows.”

“Well, I know why someone thought you'd wanna brag about this, like when some nice looking lady actually smiles at you.
 
Anyway, what else is a guy like you gonna talk about . . . marriage?
 
Sports?
 
Star Trek conventions?”

“What's that mean?” I said, glaring at him.

Darryl lifted his hands defensively.
 
“Hey, just
sayin
' you got limited interests lately.”
 
Darryl finished off his beer mechanically, shaking his head.
 
“Better living through chemistry,” he concluded under his breath.
 
Then he stared at a spot on the floor.

“What?”

“Nothing.”
 
After a moment of unfathomably deep thought he looked up.
 
“So they canceled your project early because they suspected you'd be screwed with the FDA, is that what you're telling me?
 
That they knew your results before you laid them out, maybe from your assistant?”

“I didn't say that, but I suppose it's possible.
 
Still, it wasn't Jim's place to—”

“God knows they don't like negative publicity, with our stock so volatile.”
 
Darryl cracked a knuckle, then another.
 
“Putting two and two together, it looks like a
coverup
to me, and the theft a diversion to keep anyone from finding out how the formulation killed your lab assistant.
 
That's why you're under wraps not to talk.”

I coughed instead of what I wanted to do—which was to cry.
 
Or to break something.
 
Finally, I said, “Yeah, well, that's your theory.”

“Not possible?”