The Methuselah Project (9 page)

S
ATURDAY
, J
ANUARY
10, 2015

L
AWSON
‘
S
B
LACK
B
ELT
K
ARATE
D
OJO
, A
TLANTA

I
gnoring the sweat beading her brow, Katherine tightened the belt of her white cotton
gi.
Without warning, she whirled and squinted contempt at the dummy before her—or rather, half a dummy. Instead of legs, the lower portion of the mannequin was just a thick support pole rising from its round, heavy base. From the upper thighs to the head, the figure represented the fairly realistic torso and head of a man molded from soft, skin-toned rubber.

What did you say you’re gonna to do to me, jerk-face?

With a shout of “Hai!” she circled her left foot forward and snapped the first two knuckles of her right fist into the lower end of her opponent’s rubber sternum. Her blow landed precisely, even though she maintained eye contact with the dummy to avoid telegraphing her punch. If this had been an actual attacker, her offensive would’ve broken off the small bone and driven it inward, puncturing the diaphragm.

Katherine started to turn away, but next imagined her foe making a last-ditch attack. She cocked her right leg, and then drove her bare heel into the dummy’s crotch with the force of a battering ram. The mannequin rocked from her blow. “You never should’ve eaten lead paint chips as a kid, dimwit.”

The staccato of clapping erupted behind her. “Very good, Mueller. Looks like you’ve really mastered that kick.”

Despite the mirrors lining the dojo’s walls, Katherine hadn’t noticed her instructor’s return. He’d already exchanged his black
gi
for Wrangler jeans and a purple muscle shirt that emphasized his beefy physique. Frank Lawson’s build resembled that of the dummy she’d just defeated.

Katherine wiped the back of her hand across her sweaty brow. “Thanks, Sensei. But aren’t y’all supposed to say something like, ‘Very good, Grasshopper. You have learned well’?”

He chortled. “I used to watch those reruns when I was a kid. But practice your Chinese accent before you try out for a martial arts movie.”

She tugged at the hair band that confined her ponytail and shook her hair free. “I’ll keep that in mind—if I ever decide to try out for Hollywood. For now, I have other plans for my life.”

He crossed his arms, possibly as a natural gesture, but maybe to show off the girth of his biceps. “You’re really committed to driving a taxi for a living?”

She laughed. He must have seen her drive up in Charlie Taggart’s taxicab, which was even now parked out front. “Heavens, no. I didn’t work my tail off at the University of Georgia just to drive a cab. I’ve started a freelance-editing business I’m trying to get off the ground. I could apply to a newspaper, do the typical journalism thing, but going freelance allows me more control of my hours and my assignments. At least it will as soon as I build up a stable clientele. Right now, jobs are like karate: hit and miss.”

Lawson pressed his lips together and nodded. He sniffed and jerked a thumb toward the front window. “So what’s with the cab then? If you don’t mind my asking. Kind of unusual for a pretty gal to be driving one.”

There he went again, trying to be nonchalant while slipping in a compliment. “It belongs to a really close friend. Whenever I’m running low on cash, he lets me borrow it to do a little moonlighting.” What she didn’t mention was that Charlie Taggart, the “close friend,” was in his sixties, sported an enormous beer belly, and was married. Let Sensei draw his own conclusions.

“I see.” Lawson picked up a rag and a plastic squirt bottle of Lysol to wipe down the practice dummy. “I had the impression your family was pretty well off. I mean, sometimes I see that rich-looking guy in the BMW drop you off and pick you up. Figured it must be your dad.”

Uh-oh. Gone from chatting to fishing.

She wouldn’t have minded the curiosity if Frank Lawson were the least bit attractive to her, but she needed a man with more depth. She wanted somebody who could hold an intelligent conversation on a variety of topics rather than ramble eternally about the advantages of free weights over machines and cables. “I don’t accept money from my uncle. We believe in people earning their own keep. If that means driving a cab until I get my business going, then that’s what I’ll do.”

She strolled to the corner of the karate studio, where she slipped on her new running shoes without wasting time on socks. She scooped up her handbag and slid the strap over her shoulder. “Time for me to hit the road. See you, Sensei.”

Lawson unfolded his arms. “You’re not going like that? In your
gi,
in January? It’s only twenty-eight degrees out there.” He paused. “I wouldn’t mind sticking around if you want to shower and change before I lock up.” Katherine forced a polite smile but shook her head. Lawson licked his lips, and Katherine had the sudden impression of a big, hungry cat.

Uneasiness prickled the back of her neck. No way was she going to strip and shower if Lawson was the only other person in the dojo. “Uh, thanks, but it’s not far to my house. I don’t mind driving like this.”

“Yeah, but”—he searched for words—“I just thought you and me … you know. Might stop at Mitch’s or someplace and grab a beer together?”

This was the kind of invitation Katherine hated—from a guy who might be fine for some other woman but definitely not for her. On top of the fact that he and she were a mismatch, up close Frank Lawson’s breath suggested the odor of stale gym socks. She absolutely didn’t want to sit and chitchat at one of those microscopic tables inside Mitch’s. “Gee, Sensei, thanks, but I don’t think so. It’s getting late. I still need to catch up with paperwork. You know, the business.” She padded across the mat toward the door.

“Yeah, I understand. Maybe some other time. By the way, you don’t have to call me Sensei outside of class. You can call me Frank.”

Pushing open the door, Katherine gave a halfhearted smile, followed by a goodbye nod.
And you can keep on calling me Mueller.

Dusk was already deepening as she walked to the taxi, unlocked it, and then relocked the door the moment she was inside. Karate or no, she didn’t like being on the street alone after dark. Uncle Kurt was right: if she was going to drive the cab, she did need to master self-defense. Besides, the organization required martial arts training. It was all part of their grand design that each member be well rounded in education, physical fitness, problem solving, and other qualities.

Maybe she should switch to another karate studio. She would hate doing that, especially now that she’d bonded with Robyn, Amy, and some of the other female students.
If he keeps hittin’ on me, I won’t have a choice.

She started the engine, popped on the headlights, and pulled away from the curb. Once on the road, Katherine sighed.
Why does this always happen to me? I can attract all kinds of men I don’t care about. Isn’t there just one man in the world who’s my type? Surely just one?

Slowing at an intersection, she flipped on her signal and turned onto Autry Lane. Yes, in her heart she was confident that somewhere on the planet Mr. Perfect was out there waiting, maybe even searching for her at that precise moment. But, where was he hiding?

I hope I don’t have to wait a lifetime.

S
UNDAY
, J
ANUARY
2, 1944

T
HE
M
ETHUSELAH FACILITY
, G
ERMANY

G
ripping the handle of his aluminum spoon, Roger scratched his sixteenth tally onto the brick wall of “Blomberg’s House of Horrors.”
January 2. What a joyous New Year.
Listening to the banter of the men behind him, he was startled to hear Burgess seeking a silver lining on the dark cloud of captivity.

“You know,” Burgess said, “except for that pink gas and whatever they did while we were unconscious, this place has to be a lot more tolerable than a regular POW camp. At least here we get three squares a day. Plus, it’s a comfortable shelter for the winter.”

“I’ve been thinking the same thing,” Lambright said. “If we have to be caged up, at least the cage is halfway gilded.”

Roger stopped scratching the brick wall and wheeled around. “You’ve got to be kidding. Good grub or no, I’d rather be in a regular POW camp. Then we would be with our own guys and away from Dr. Jekyll.”

“Don’t get me wrong,” Burgess said. “If I had my choice, I’d rather be with a bunch of our guys too. I just meant that, as long as we’re stuck here, we might as well eat their home cooking and enjoy the ride while it lasts, since it could be worse.”

Roger shook his head. “Don’t forget, nobody on the Allied side even knows we’re here. This place is Blomberg’s secret, and it’s a safe bet he’s not going to let the Red Cross or anyone else without Nazi credentials find out the stunts he’s been up to. When his ridiculous experiment doesn’t produce the results he expects, it’ll only be a matter of time before Hitler cuts the funding and shuts this place down.”

“So we’ll end up in a regular POW camp after all,” Burgess concluded with a shrug.

Roger stepped the few paces across his bit of concrete floor and grasped the bars separating him from Burgess. “You actually believe we’ll end up in a regular camp? Where we can tell hundreds of our guys that they’ve been treating Americans and Brits like throwaway rats in lab experiments? Don’t buy that garbage.”

“Right you are, Roger boy,” Sedgewick called from the far end of the chamber. “More than likely, someday seven unidentified corpses will end up in unmarked graves. That’s how they’ll shut our mouths.”

Burgess and the others grew thoughtful. It was the last time any of them referred to their cage as gilded.

Meanwhile, one word constantly pushed forward in Roger’s mind:
escape.
Even while he lay aching on his cot that first week, his eyes had studied the walls, the ceiling, the floor, the bars, the hinges of the doors. Although the House of Horrors was a basic, no-nonsense structure, its very simplicity provided challenges to would-be escapees.

Except for the single toilet built into each cell, the concrete floor was a solid slab, without so much as a crack to mar its surface. Even if Roger had a better tool than a tablespoon for tunneling, how could he penetrate that concrete to begin one? If he did get past the concrete floor, how could he camouflage the entry to a tunnel? His cot was the only movable object in the room, and it did nothing to conceal the floor beneath it. An additional problem: where could he dispose of excavated dirt? Down the toilet? Just a single bucketful of dirt would require countless flushes to get rid of the soil without clogging the drain and inviting closer inspection.

I’ve got more questions than answers.

He looked at the two-inch-square peephole in the metal door that separated this chamber from the corridor. Guards on the other side could observe the prisoners any time, day or night. At least one incandescent bulb illuminated the chamber at all times.

On top of these challenges, even if he managed the miraculous and escaped this building undetected, he had no way to scale the sheer wall and the barbed wire that enclosed the entire complex.

During a quiet conversation, Burgess nodded. “I’ve been wondering the same things. I always come up blank. Even if one of us could manage an escape hole, only that one man could use it. The goons weren’t stupid when they built separate cells.”

“Looks like we’ll have to bide our time and keep our eyes peeled for opportunities,” Hazlitt said from cell 5.

This was a glum conclusion but, under the circumstances, waiting and watching seemed realistic.

Unbidden by Roger, Old Miss Hawkins’s words from Sunshine repeated themselves in his brain: “Children, always remember to pray!” Roger had been amused when the admonition resurfaced in his mind the day he was captured. But the words weren’t funny anymore. They seemed to invade his thoughts at least once every twenty-four hours.

Are Blomberg’s chemicals messing up my brain? I hadn’t thought about Miss Hawkins and her Bible pictures for years. Now she’s haunting me.

Even that concept gave the pilot pause. By now Miss Hawkins must be dead and moldering in some churchyard back in Indiana. Could her ghost be floating around earth and visiting all those who’d once listened to her at Sunshine?

“Knock it off,” he berated himself.
Keep thinking like that, Greene, and you’ll end up nuttier than Blomberg.

“Knock what off?” Burgess said from the next cell.

Roger wasn’t about to tell his neighbor about elderly Miss Hawkins. “Nothing. Forget it.”

But Burgess didn’t forget it. Occasionally Roger caught his neighbor casting sideways glances at him.

He’s wondering if I’m coming unhinged. Who’s to say I’m not?

Maybe if he yielded to Miss Hawkins’s directive, she would go away and leave him alone.
Okay, God, don’t let me go off my rocker. In memory of Old Lady Hawkins, I’m asking You to keep me in my right mind, no matter what Blomberg does. And if there’s a way out of here—any way at all
—
I’d like You to point it out, because I’m coming up empty. I guess that’s everything. This is Roger Greene, out.