The Methuselah Project (7 page)

Katherine was passing the sign for 55 Allen Plaza when the obvious answer struck her:
An underground parking garage? That’s it! All those tons of concrete would smother the signal!

Katherine mashed her brake pedal, resulting in a blaring horn from the gold Lexus behind her.
Good grief, y’all. Hold your horses.
Switching tactics, she circled the block as a safer way to approach the parking garage.

Some of these other buildings have garages too. But with the way that signal suddenly disappeared, I have a feeling …

Steering with her left hand, Katherine leaned to the right and picked up the pistol she’d placed on the Volkswagen’s passenger seat. She laid it across the lap of her jeans.
One shot. Just one clean shot either to his windshield or his driver’s side window. I can do this.

Katherine cut her wheels and maneuvered into the parking garage. She’d never been inside this particular one, but that shouldn’t make a difference. Would she be smarter to stash her car in the first available stall and proceed cautiously on foot? If she did, she might stand a better chance of catching him unawares.

Katherine drove up to the metal box and braked. Inside the garage sat row upon row of autos. A full house, even on a Saturday. Plenty of cover for him to hide in.

Katherine powered her window the rest of the way down and pressed the button on the box. With a metallic hum, half an entry ticket emerged from its slot. She plucked it out and deposited it onto the passenger seat.

Without warning, a familiar laugh echoed. Startled, Katherine looked up in time to see the black BMW—in the
exit
lane. The driver’s window was down, and from inside a gleeful Uncle Kurt pointed a black pistol identical to her own straight at her.

“No, wait!” Her hand scrambled for the window button. Too late. Three squirts from Uncle Kurt’s water pistol arced across the gulf and plastered Katherine’s face and hair. She blinked water from her eyes to the sound of Uncle Kurt’s cackling.

“Never underestimate your adversary, Katarina. I win.”

“That water is freezing!”

He winked. “I kept the pistol in a cooler of ice water. Thought it would give you a brisk wakeup call.”

She plucked a tissue from the packet on the dashboard and wiped her face and neck. “Just wait until next Saturday. I’ll get you yet!”

“Perhaps you will. You are getting much better at cat and mouse. You figured out my subterfuge more quickly this time.” He laughed again. “But my stomach says practice time is over. How about dinner? Loser picks the restaurant.”

“All right. Let’s head to The Varsity.”

Uncle Kurt’s face wrinkled.

Emphasizing a Southern drawl for fun, Katherine said, “Well, bless your little heart, how could I forget your fine, upstandin’ European breedin’ won’t let you enjoy prime Georgian cuisine, like hot dogs, deep-fried onion rings, and all that yummy …”

The expression of revulsion on Uncle Kurt’s face deepened.

Katherine laughed. “It was almost worth getting squirted to see that sour face. Okay, I love The Varsity, but since you don’t, I’m willing to compromise. Let’s make it Red Lobster. I’ll circle around and follow you out.”

“You have a deal!” His face disappeared as the BMW’s tinted window slid up.

That man. He might be an analytical, world-travelin’ jeweler most days, but sometimes he acts like an overgrown schoolboy.

Of course, she loved him despite his rules and rigid ways. Uncle Kurt was all she had left. Uncle Kurt and the HO, even though she doubted the secret society was the magnificent savior of society he painted it to be. And thanks to these mock training sessions, she felt confident she would be ready for the next round of organization promotions when the time came. Her powers of deduction were becoming sharper. She was learning to expect the unexpected—even though today’s dousing demonstrated room for improvement.

But like a prowling shark, Katherine’s subdued irritation with Uncle Kurt still lurked, as if waiting for something to happen. She hadn’t said anything further about eligible bachelors after her miserable date with Thaddeus, the puffed-up banker, but neither had he. Was this a mute standoff, or …

She pondered everything he’d taught her about logic, reasoning, the power of observation, patiently biding time until just the right moment to achieve a goal. Was he playing another form of cat and mouse with her? A sneakier, stealthier, social maneuvering to control her life?

She was on his rear bumper now and exiting the shady garage into Atlanta’s sun-drenched traffic. Katherine rolled the idea around her brain. Could his intentions for her love life be more than family tradition? If so, what? Maybe the old man was just afraid of being alone.

She set her jaw. It didn’t matter.
Family or no family, if I decide to fall in love, that’s my business. I don’t want to hurt him, but this is one piece of myself I refuse to surrender. Game on!

M
ONDAY
, D
ECEMBER
20, 1943

T
HE
M
ETHUSELAH FACILITY
, G
ERMANY

L
ightness. Tranquility. Floating. Before true consciousness returned, these impressions materialized within Roger Greene’s being. No images presented themselves. His mind wafted higher and higher, from nether regions of shadowy nothingness to loftier, brighter levels of existence. The change was almost like a bubble rising from murky depths into increasingly lighter layers of water. But slower. Far, far slower. At last, the bubble reached the surface. Roger’s eyes popped open.

A whitewashed ceiling filled his vision. Directly overhead hung a light. The harsh glare of the bulb reflected downward by a round, ceramic cover. A gradual shift of Roger’s eyes revealed identical light fixtures suspended to the right and left of this one.

He was flat on his back in a chilly room. But where? And why did it feel as if he were lying in cold water?

This wasn’t his quarters in Debden. Where was he? The silent question hung, unspoken and unanswered, in muddled thoughts. Perhaps an explanation would come if he were to twist his head, but for some reason his neck muscles refused to obey. All he could do was stare upward—and wonder.

Gradually his nebulous impressions crystallized into words.
Am I in a hospital?
Something about the ceiling or the antiseptic odor reminded him of hospitals and their sterile environments.
Was I in an accident? A car wreck? Maybe in a coma?

He inhaled, then exhaled. The action reminded him of something. Something important about breathing hovered on the edge of memory. He inhaled again, more deeply this time. Fresh, incoming air expanded his chest before he forced it from his lungs. It was as if his body were purging itself of—

Roger’s memory clicked. He recalled pink gas spurting through overhead vents and frantic efforts to avoid the mist with his woolen blanket.

He wanted to sit up but couldn’t. Like his neck, his stomach muscles wouldn’t comply. His sense of touch was working, though. Something tight constricted his chest. He willed his fingers to explore, to find out what was there, but they wouldn’t move either. Some sort of restraints gripped the skin around his wrists and ankles too. Oddest of all was what his fingers detected: a peculiar layer of wet, slick substance beneath him, perhaps an inch or so deep.

“Ah,” said a male voice. The sound of footsteps preceded the appearance of a face peering down at him. Brown hair and a matching mustache adorned the features. Probably Kossler, the assistant to Blomberg the others had mentioned. The fellow wore a white lab coat. Regarding Roger with interest, he spoke something in German.

Roger’s handful of basic German phrases that nearly all airmen knew proved unhelpful. Whatever this fellow had uttered fell outside his limited vocabulary.

“Good morning, Number Seven,” the man said, switching to heavily accented English. He placed the back of his hand against Roger’s forehead and seemed satisfied with the temperature. Then he turned his head and called, “Dr. von Blomberg,” before striding from the room.

Roger continued breathing as deeply as possible. If any residue of that pink gas lingered in his lungs, he wanted to rid himself of every speck. He managed to twist his head slightly. Potency was creeping back into his neck muscles.

The scene that met his eyes caused Roger to blink. Was this a nightmare? Beside him on a wheeled gurney lay Bill Burgess. He, too, reclined flat on his back but with eyes closed. A linen sheet covered Bill’s body from the chest to the knees, but the man’s bare shoulders showed, hinting that some—if not all—of his clothing had been removed. Atop the gurney, Bill lay in a man-sized metal tray filled with glistening gray gelatin, probably the same goop between Roger’s fingers. A sturdy, three-inch-wide leather strap hugged Bill’s chest. Similar straps secured his ankles and wrists.

Roger squinted at Burgess but couldn’t detect the slightest movement. Was his countryman living or dead?

Struggling to lift his head, Roger discerned the remaining five prisoners stretched on identical gurneys, all in numerical order according to their jail cells and all of them unmoving. The grisly sight suggested a mortuary—or worse, Thanksgiving dinner with humans rather than turkeys on the platters.

Footsteps again sounded, and Blomberg swung into view, accompanied by the assistant. “Number Seven. I’m delighted to see you have rejoined us. Indeed, I was astonished when Dr. Kossler informed me you were already awake.”

Roger made an effort to swallow but couldn’t summon enough saliva. The inside of his mouth scraped like dry sandpaper. A disgusting metallic taste coated his tongue. “Water,” he croaked.

Blomberg spoke something to Kossler, who nodded and walked away.

“Too much water might not be suitable just yet, Number Seven. It could induce vomiting. However, we prepared some crushed ice for this moment. You may suck on that to relieve your thirst.”

Kossler reappeared and tilted a spoonful of ice chips between Roger’s lips. When the airman had swirled the melting water around his mouth and swallowed, Kossler administered a second spoonful.

The muscles in his jaws and throat gradually responded enough to produce words. “What have you done to us?”

The professor offered the patronizing smile a learned astronomer might bestow on a preschool child who has just asked, “How high is up?”

“I won’t attempt a complete explanation. To truly understand, you would require years of specialized training in fields related to genetics, molecular biology, synthetic regeneration, and reproduction, not to mention a dozen or so others. Even my younger colleague here hasn’t received an exhaustive briefing on the procedure. There will be time for that later, if the experiment is successful.”

Roger scarcely heard the final portion of Blomberg’s reply. The word
reproduction
had snared his attention. Fear sprang to Roger’s mind. Restricted as he was by leather restraints, he had no way to investigate what they had done to him. No pain radiated from between his legs, but had this crazy scientist performed surgery down there? “Reproduction? Can I still have kids, or what?”

Blomberg looked confused. “Young goats?” Then his eyes lit with comprehension, and he placed both hands on his stomach as if about to laugh, but he restrained himself. “Ah, sorry to have alarmed you, Number Seven. I didn’t mean to imply that I’ve tampered with your reproductive system. I know of another doctor, a man by the name of Mengele—at least, he considers himself a doctor, though he is more of a barbarian in my opinion. With him, the more intimate portions of your anatomy might have been at risk, but I have no such interests.”

Roger noted again that Blomberg was one of those individuals who could dole out a great many words and still communicate very little specific meaning.

“What, then?”

“I will tell you and your flying comrades more details after they have regained consciousness. Oh yes, they’re alive. Just asleep. Probably you would still be asleep, too, if you had not managed to filter some of the gas before passing out. Do you recall starting to revive in the middle of my procedure?”

The question gave birth to a hazy memory. Roger pictured a brief, blurry moment: Blomberg’s face, his nose and mouth obscured by a white mask, shouted commands. Something rubbery descending over his face …

“A little. It’s fuzzy.”

“Interesting. Probably not significant, though. Your friends should not sleep much longer. When they become alert, I shall share an announcement with all of you.”

The two scientists exited the room, Blomberg speaking in German as they departed.

What kind of loony bin have I landed in?
Roger recalled his earlier comment about Blomberg reminding him of Dr. Frankenstein.
Maybe my guess wasn’t far off the mark.