The Methuselah Project (29 page)

“You’re a handsome devil, aren’t you?” she said to the photo. “I suppose they could give me worse jobs than tracking down a gorgeous guy with great eyes.” Of course, the chase would be more fun if it were the other way around.

The unexpected twist of events brought a smile to her lips. “Okay, girl, you’ve been wanting a handsome, intelligent guy that Uncle Kurt’s never mentioned. Since this man’s in the HO, I can spread my wings a little, and even Uncle won’t have an excuse to object.”

Katherine reread the final lines of the message: “The quarry’s true name is irrelevant. In previous field exercises, this HO member has occasionally assumed false identities, sometimes American, sometimes German or other nationalities. Part of your assignment in locating and trailing him will be to learn his current alias and to penetrate any disguises he may use for lodging, transportation, etc. Create a written log detailing all persons with whom the individual has significant contact. All organization-issued equipment in your uncle’s keeping is at your disposal for this assignment. Good luck.”

Katherine ran her fingers through her hair as she often did when pondering unforeseen developments. The assignment struck her as peculiar, but not particularly challenging unless the guy could sprout wings and fly. The HO expected her to employ creativity and resourcefulness. She must keep close tabs on this man’s movements and report all significant activities and contacts.

I’m no state trooper. Without a badge, I’ll need a cover story before I poke around asking people if they’ve seen the man in the photo.
Katherine ran various scenarios through her mind while her fingers tapped out a text message, telling Robyn she’d be late.
I know. If I say he got my sister pregnant and then ran out without paying child support, that would provide a plausible backstory. And a sympathetic one. Who wouldn’t want to help out in that situation? It’s perfect!

Slipping into her scrutinizing-editor mode, she reviewed the instructions, noting both the overt mandates as well as the liberties left to her discretion. The seed of a plan took root. “Okay, Mystery Man, the hunt is on. Ready or not, here I come.”

S
UNDAY
, M
ARCH
8, 2015

T
HE
S
HAMROCK
P
ARADISE
I
NN
, 301 B
ETTLER
S
TREET
, A
TLANTA

T
he next morning when Roger stepped out of the Shamrock Paradise’s cramped lobby, the dreary sky reflected his mood. Not only had the foreign woman at the check-in desk been unsympathetic about his stolen money, she’d even acted as if his own carelessness was to blame.

Forget her. You’ll never see her again. Just like you’ll never see that dough again.

His sense of justice still wished he could submit a police report. That option was out. Complaints to the police would involve questions and answers he didn’t want to give. Not yet, anyway. Whoever had sneaked through his window last night had found the perfect victim: a man who didn’t dare call the cops. He zipped up his flight jacket to block out the morning chill. March or not, winter definitely hadn’t removed its fingers from Atlanta.

Well, Greene, where to now? You’re kind of stuck, aren’t you, old boy?
In the back of his mind, he clung to a vague desire to return to Indiana, to see again the west Indianapolis area and the nearby town of Plainfield, where he’d spent his teenage years. That yearning made little sense. Most people he’d known would likely be either dead or so elderly he wouldn’t recognize them. Still, his roots lay there. Was it possible some elderly geezer back in Hendricks County might remember him—and help him?

How could he get to Indianapolis from Georgia? He didn’t want to sacrifice a big chunk of his money on a train ticket, but neither did he want to wear out his shoe leather hiking all the way. He needed to earn some cash until he could figure out where to go, what to do. Underlying everything else lingered the number one question: how could he regain his identity and lead a normal life again?

I can’t just strut into the War Department in Washington and shout, “Hey, everybody, it’s me, Captain Roger Greene. I just flew home from World War II!”

He lifted his eyes to the sunny sky.
Sorry, God. I didn’t read any of the Bible today. You know why—it got stolen too. So if You’re paying any attention to this grounded airman, please help me to take the right next step. I’m just playing this by ear.

The quandary about transportation drew his attention to a taxi parked up the street. Instead of the male driver Roger expected, the figure reading a newspaper behind the steering wheel looked like a woman. Female cabbies? That was a new sight. But it was just one more in a string of countless new sights and sounds. On a whim, he stepped off the curb and strode straight toward the cab.

Noticing his approach, the driver cracked her window. “Need a ride, sir?”

A double surprise: Not only was the cabbie a girl, she was an attractive one. Something about her honey-colored hair and the sprinkling of freckles across her nose struck him as refreshing. Here was the kind of American gal he’d pictured whenever he dreamed of coming back to America. She seemed pure, more wholesome, than the women he’d encountered at Slick’s.

“No, can’t afford it. I’m kind of new around here. I figured, who would know the area better than a taxi driver? Okay if I ask for some advice?”

She set aside the newspaper. “Okay, shoot. Tell you what, I won’t even start the meter.”

He flashed a grin. “Great. My motel room was robbed last night. I’m short on cash right now.”

The cute smile that had blossomed on her face wilted. “Are you serious?”

“Unfortunately, yes. So my first question is, do you have any suggestions on where an out-of-town guy could get some money?”

She jerked her thumb backward. “There’s a bank a few blocks up the street. Too early to be open, but it should have an ATM.”

The initials ATM meant nothing to Roger, but thank goodness people still used banks. “I don’t mean withdrawing money from an account. I mean, would you happen to know of anyplace that needs temporary help? Maybe a warehouse? I’ll dig ditches if I have to. I just need to earn enough money to get back home.”

The woman in the taxi looked him straight in the eyes, as if deeply interested. She shook her head slowly. “I don’t know of anyplace hiring. To tell the truth, I’m not even a full-time driver. I’m just moonlighting to make both ends meet.”

“Oh. I see. Well, sorry to bother you.” He turned to leave.

“Say, wait a second. I just had a thought. Have you eaten breakfast?”

“No.”

She practically pinned him in place with her penetrating gaze. “Okay, here’s an offer for you. Even if I do need the income, taxi driving isn’t the safest career, especially for a woman. You strike me as a decent guy. How about I buy you a couple breakfast biscuits and a coffee if you’ll ride shotgun for a while and make sure my male passengers behave? It won’t help you much, but it’ll give you a warm meal while you decide where you want to go.”

“You’re on. I’m not likely to get a better offer in the next few minutes.”

“All right, then. Hop in.”

A few blocks later, the female cabbie, who introduced herself as Katherine, surprised Roger when she wheeled behind a building, then began talking out her window.

“Still want the breakfast biscuits? Or maybe some other meal?”

“Uh, biscuits and coffee will be fine.”

“Breakfast combo #2,” Katherine said to the air.

A disembodied female voice told her to pull around to a window. Roger watched with interest as the female cabbie drove around the building and handed several dollars to a young girl in a window. Seconds later, Katherine passed Roger his biscuits and coffee.

“Cream or sugar for your coffee?”

“Uh, no thanks. I’ll drink it black.”

Katherine handed him a cup and a paper sack, then pulled away and maneuvered back onto the street. “Bon appétit!”

“Thank you.” Roger unwrapped a biscuit stuffed with sausage, still amazed at how quickly a hot meal had appeared in a window. Maintaining a personal tradition he’d begun years earlier, he interlaced his fingers, bowed his head, and shot a mental prayer of thanks heavenward. He opened his eyes in time to see Katherine glance away.

She braked for a traffic light. “That’s nice. Sort of quaint.”

“What, the food?”

“No. Your praying before eating. Except on TV, I don’t think I’ve ever seen anybody do that.”

He swallowed the bite he’d been chewing. “Maybe the world would be a better place if everyone took time to thank God for things they have, instead of coveting everything they don’t.”

She studied him with a look Roger couldn’t interpret. “Maybe so.”

For the next several hours, Katherine and the man she’d accepted as a fellow member of the Heritage Organization wove in and out of Atlanta’s traffic. She halted the cab whenever a pedestrian waved a hand to flag her down, then delivered the passenger to the requested address. Whenever customers occupied the rear seat, the man who had introduced himself as Roger Greene studied Katherine’s
Atlanta Journal-Constitution.
By all appearances he seemed more engrossed in the day’s headlines than in her—which seemed odd, since she knew she was the main reason he was in town. Whenever the rear seat was empty, she exchanged small talk with the clandestine HO man.

Katherine had hoped her subterfuge of borrowing a cab to trail the quarry in this field exercise would score points for creativity with the HO. But when she’d seen the unexpected opportunity to invite the man to “help” by riding shotgun, she’d given the idea a try. For this morning, at least, she would have no trouble at all trailing her target—he was seated only two feet away.

But what now? Her instructions were to note anyone with whom the HO man interacted. But Roger—or whatever his real name was—appeared in no hurry to contact anyone whatsoever. In fact, if not for the organization photos, she might have doubted he was the right man. So from time to time between customers, Katherine subtly tried to pry information from him, or at least about the person he pretended to be. “Have you been in town very long?” or “Do you have family in Atlanta?” She posed questions broad enough to sound genuine, but which might provide clues concerning how to continue this peculiar game.

As expected, Roger answered her queries vaguely, not revealing specific details, but also speaking in a casual way that wouldn’t arouse suspicion to the average listener. Occasionally he fired a question back. Under normal circumstances, his responses might pass as polite conversation. But she recognized his questions as providing a subterfuge. The man tactfully diverted attention away from himself by posing questions in return. The game of cat and mouse all over again, but this time with words.

By lunchtime, Katherine had tired of this apparently purposeless sport. Was she missing an unspoken point to the exercise? Instead of probing about Roger, she switched gears and talked about recent movies she and Robyn had seen. How strange that each time Roger responded that, no, he hadn’t yet seen the film she mentioned. She chuckled. “You must not watch many movies.”

A grin began to form before he turned his head toward his window. “Let’s just say I’ve been concentrating more on reading lately.”

Books. Bingo. A subject close to her editor’s heart. “Really? Tell me what you’ve been reading.”

“Mostly the classics. For instance …”

Katherine was pleasantly astonished when her passenger began dissecting the plots of classic novels, many of which she’d read. Books like
Jane Eyre, Crime and Punishment, The Count of Monte Cristo, Don Quixote, Silas Marner, Tess of the d’Urbervilles,
and
The Invisible Man
all fell within his repertoire. As he discussed them, his demeanor lost its guarded tone. His eyes actually lit up. Like no literature professor she’d ever heard, Roger launched into fascinating recollections of the characters, subplots, and techniques each author had used to lure readers deeper into the stories. There was no trace of Frank Lawson in this HO man. Quite the opposite, she found him highly articulate—and intriguing. The fact that he was even more handsome in person than in his photos didn’t hurt, either.