The Methuselah Gene (39 page)

“Hello?
 
Alan?”

“Yeah, it's me.
 
Listen, Rachel, I'm sorry for—”

“I couldn't find that Seagraves guy,” she interrupted.

“Forget that, Sis, I
alrea
—”

“But I talked to that other guy.
 
The one in Cedar Rapids.”

“Jim Thurman?”

“That's right.
 
It was an unlisted number, but I claimed an emergency like you said to do.
 
The operator wouldn't give me the number, she just connected me instead.”

“And?”

“And Jim said he never heard of Seagraves, or you.
 
He wanted to know what I wanted, and I didn't know what to say.
 
It was a very weird twenty seconds there.”

“I'll bet.
 
Did you get his number?”

“I did.
 
It wasn't easy.
 
I had to give him mine first.
 
Was that okay?
 
What's going on, Alan?”

“Later.
 
Listen, if anyone calls you asking about me, you haven't talked to me in weeks.
 
Got it?”

“Anyone?”

“That's right, anyone.
 
Not even the FBI.”

Her voice took a sudden upward arc.
 
“The FBI?”

“Yeah.
 
But if I call you back from Langley, Virginia, you can tell them what you know.”

“But I don't know anything, Alan!” Rachel complained, as if arguing with Mom.

“Good,” I said.
 
“Now give me Jim's number.”

I memorized the number by repeating it five times to myself.
 
Then I thanked my way through another awkward goodbye, and hung up.
 
Finally, I called the number I'd memorized.
 
A sleepy yet audibly disturbed voice growled, “Yeah?”

“Mr. Thurman?”

“Who is it now?”

“It's Alan Dyson.
 
You don't know me, sir, but I know your sister Jean.
 
Have you heard from her yet tonight?”

“Why?
 
What, is there something wrong?”
 
His voice lost its hostility.

“Yes, but your sister is fine.
 
She, her boy, and my friend may be coming to stay with you soon.
 
I was hoping they were already there.”

“Why?”

“I can't tell you right now, there isn't time.
 
But please tell Julie I'll call back soon, and I'm sorry I had to strand them at the airport.”

“Julie?”

“And . . . Jim?
 
No matter what you hear on the news shortly, when I last saw your sister and her son, they were out of danger.”

“What danger?”
 
His hostility returned, from frustration.
 
“What the hell do you—”

“Later,” I told him, and hung up.

Checking my watch, I wondered with anxious guilt what had happened to Julie.
 
She should have been in Cedar Rapids by now.
 
Unless they got a hotel room, which was likely.
 
I bought a hot pretzel and lemonade, more out of nervous agitation than hunger, then returned to the bank of aluminum phone cubicles to place another call.
 
The phone rang only once before it was picked up at the other end this time.

“Hello,” said the same computer generated voice I'd heard earlier, attenuated by a slight buzzing sound as though a recording device had been activated.

“It's me,” I announced.
 
“You there, Seagraves?”

“But of course,” Seagraves replied, replacing the computer voice.
 
“And call me Cliff.”

“I'm walking on the edge of a cliff, Cliff.
 
What have you got for me?”

“Not over the phone,” Seagraves insisted.
 
“It may be compromised.”

“That bad, huh?”
 
I looked through the dark glass opposite the phone bank at the adjacent concourse, where a jet was being directed to its gate.
 
My shuttle to Washington.
 
“What do I do?” I asked, flustered.
 
“Come to you, or . . .”

“There is a ticket waiting for you at American Airlines under your middle name,” Seagraves said.

“But I have a ticket.”

“And a new destination, now.
 
Call me when you get there.”

“Where?”

There was a click, and then a dial tone.
 
I hung up slowly, stunned.
 
What was going on? I wondered.
 
Had I been framed so expertly that even computer hackers couldn't extricate me?
 
No way was I going to leave the country and cool my heels in Barbados waiting to find out.
 
Jeffers was getting away with murder.
 
Julie wasn't safe yet, either.
 
No.
 
I would go to the
Tactar
plant as planned, search my office, and find out what Roger had discovered in my apartment.
 
I would go to the FBI if I had to, as well, and demand they put out an APB across state lines on a blue El Dorado with Virginia plates.
 
Even if I didn't think Jeffers was stupid enough to drive to California or Mexico—or wherever he was going—in the same car.
 
That is, unless he thought he was home free, and was headed home . . . which might explain why he drove in the first place, so as not to have a flight record into Des Moines.

I was almost to the gate, where the shuttle to Washington prepared for takeoff, when curiosity got the better of me.
 
I ran with considerable effort and pain toward the American Airlines ticket counter, having to dodge only a few fellow passengers in the predawn hours.
 
A statuesque blond stared at me panting in front of her.

“You're quite early, I assure you,” she said, noting the Arrival/Departure monitor.
 
“Ticket?”

“That's what I'm here for,” I gasped.
 
“You have it.
 
Name's Edward Dyson.”

“Destination?”

I said nothing, pretending I hadn't heard.

“Could you spell your last name, sir?”

I did.
 
She searched computer records, found the name, and began to print out my ticket.
 
“Please hurry,” I said.

“What's the rush?
 
Your flight doesn't leave for an hour and forty-five minutes yet.”

“I . . . have to use the restroom,” I told her, bleakly.

She smiled, despite herself.
 
“Here you go, sir.
 
May I see your ID, please?”

“You . . . don't need my passport?”

“No, sir.
 
A driver's license will do.”

I showed her the ID, and then looked down at the ticket in my hand.
 
It was for American Flight 189, a Boeing 727 from Washington DC to Miami, FL, with a stop in Atlanta.
 
Departure was at 6:29 a.m..
 
Breakfast would be served.

The story broke en-route to Atlanta.
 
I picked it up on the in-flight news channel.
 
Until I heard the word “Zion” mentioned, I wasn't paying attention.
 
I was busy wondering what the hell I was doing, and whether Seagraves had another ticket waiting for me at the Air Chile ticket counter at Miami International.
 
From the tone of the reporter's voice on the headphones, one might guess a thermonuclear device had just gone off in Hollywood, taking out the movie industry.
 
Not that there's anything wrong with that.

Looking around at the other passengers, I tried to remain calm, but felt my Adam's apple bobbing like an arsonist at his first parole hearing.
 
Breakfast croissants and juice were served as I listened to the casualty reports on my headset.
 
A running tally of the rising body count was being vectored to a central statistician, as though from pollsters to Census Headquarters.
 
When the number reached thirty dead, mass madness was cited as a possible cause of all the homicides and suicides.
 
But why a sleepy, tiny Midwest town had suddenly gone
apeshit
they didn't yet know.
 
FEMA and the FBI were on the way, with assistance for the survivors.
 
That was the important thing, after tallying the body count for all the networks seeking coverage ratings.

When the reporter I listened to finally took a break for a news report of rescue helicopters being sent to typhoon victims in Kenya, I doffed my headset and found that my hands were shaking.
 
I had no appetite, so I ordered a Screwdriver instead, then downed it and ordered another.
 
The stewardess started to ask me if I was feeling okay, but then she decided against it.
 
Perhaps she'd correctly interpreted the torture in my eyes as fear, not physical pain.
 
Although, considering my bandaged hand, the alcohol was a better clue.
 
I'd read somewhere that many women were sensitive even to minute variations in facial expressions or body language, so I had to be careful not to appear too suspicious.
 
Especially in this newly dangerous hijack-crazed era.

When the stewardess moved away I eyed the
airphone
in the seat back in front of me, and thought about Julie.
 
I considered calling Jim Thurman in Cedar Rapids again to find out if she'd arrived yet.
 
But how would I explain being on a flight to Miami?
 
And what might be going on in Washington with Seagraves and
Tactar
?
 
A chill spread along my upper arms to flash across my face as I suddenly considered a new possibility—that Seagraves had been involved with Jeffers or the CIA from the beginning, unknown to Darryl.
 
Which would mean Seagraves was only burying me deeper, and had sent me to Miami to buy time while he re-obtained the evidence that had been planted in my apartment.
 
Then he'd replant it.
 
Hadn't I given him Roger's name?
 
Like a desperate fool, in blind trust, I had.
 
Now he could tip off the police to pick me up at the Miami airport, where a ticket awaited to take me out of the country!

In a panic I punched the Eject button on the
airphone
, and I nabbed it as it came off into my good hand.
 
Activating it with my credit card, I imagined Rachel just getting the news on TV, stunned by the images from Zion.
 
Although I couldn't imagine what Julie might be doing.
 
I couldn't remember Jim Thurman's number, either, and realized that I should have written it down instead of trying to memorize it.
 
Because if I did possess a photographic memory, it was not a Polaroid but a daguerreotype, which took hours to fix an image.
 
But no matter.
 
I could always get the number from Rachel again, and I wasn't calling either of them until I had an explanation or excuse for myself.

My neighbor Roger answered the phone wearily.
 
“Yeah?”

“It's Alan.”

“Oh yeah?
 
Where's my money, honey?”

“Why?” I asked, with suspicion.

“Why?
 
Whatdaya
mean, why?
 
I risk my—”

“Has someone been to see you?”
 
There was a pause as I felt my throat tighten.
 
I almost croaked, “Roger?”

“
Ya
better not be tryin'
ta
get
outta
payin
' me,” he warned.
 
“Your friend Cliff was here, yeah.”

“Cliff,” I repeated, in disbelief.

“That's right.
 
Cliff.
 
Said you weren't
comin
' for a while, an' you wanted him to pick up your stuff.”

“And you let him, didn't you, Roger?”

“Hey, he said he had yer permission.
 
How'd he know I had the stuff if you didn't
tell'em
?”

“Right,” I said.
 
“Except I told you not to answer the door unless it was me.”

“He called me ‘fore he came over.”

“Or answer the phone.”