Transhuman (7 page)

He tapped his intercom key.

“Yes, sir?”

“Nancy, get this Agent Hightower on the phone for me, please.”

“Yes, sir.”

Fisk dived into his morning's routine until, some fifteen minutes later, his assistant buzzed him. “Agent Hightower, Mr. Fisk.”

With a tap of his phone console's keyboard, Hightower's heavy, somber face appeared on the central wall screen.

“What can I do for you, Agent Hightower?” Fisk asked crisply.

After listening to the FBI agent for five minutes, Fisk said, “You mean you don't know whether Abramson has done anything illegal?”

“That's right,” said Hightower. “He's only under suspicion.”

“Why are you calling me about this?”

“I understand that you're funding some of Abramson's work.”

“I'm funding
all
of his work. His research on aging.”

“I thought perhaps he might have contacted you.”

Fisk made a little grunt. “I haven't seen or heard from the man since he cashed my check, nearly a year ago.”

Hightower nodded somberly. “I see. Well, if he does contact you, I'd like you to let me know about it.”

“Of course. My assistant has your number.”

Another heavy nod.

Fisk cut the connection, then buzzed his assistant.

“Get Odom Wexler for me.”

“Yes, sir.”

 

University Hospital

W
EXLER WAS IN
the midst of a wearying budget meeting with the hospital's treasurer and three accountants when his secretary called him on the intercom.

She knows I don't want to be interrupted, he thought irritably to himself. Still, he was almost glad of it. Budget meetings always made his stomach act up.

“What is it?” he snapped into the intercom.

“Mr. Fisk is on the line.”

“Quenton Fisk?”

“Yes. On line one.”

To his treasurer, Wexler said, “I've got to take this call. Please wait in the outer office for a few minutes.”

As they got up and headed for the door, Wexler punched the button for line one. “Mr. Fisk! What a pleasant surprise.”

Fisk's voice was cold, no-nonsense. “The FBI is looking for Luke Abramson.”

“Yes, I know.”

“What's this all about?”

Wexler explained as much of the situation as he knew.

“You mean he thinks he can cure the child?”

“That's right. He's probably taking her to some medical facility where he can work on her.”

“Can he cure her?”

“I don't know. He thinks he can.”

“But can he do it?”

Wexler hesitated, then admitted, “If anyone on God's green earth can do it, Luke Abramson can.”

It was Fisk's turn to go silent. Wexler wondered if he should say something, but then Fisk asked, “And you don't know where he is?”

“We know he's with his granddaughter, and probably Dr. Minteer, too.”

“But where the hell is he?”

“That's what the FBI is trying to find out.”

He could hear Fisk grumbling to himself. Then, “I think you'd better cut your hospital's connection to the man.”

“Cut our connection…?”

“Fire him! Get him off your payroll. He's a fugitive from justice, for God's sake. A kidnapper. You don't want him smearing your hospital's reputation.”

“I see,” said Wexler. “But even if we did, he'd still be connected to the university. He's got tenure, and—”

“I'll talk to the university people. He can always be fired for cause.”

“But—”

“Keep your skirts clean. Just because Abramson's turned rogue is no reason for the hospital or the university to be tarred with his brush.”

Thinking of the donations Fisk had given to both institutions, Wexler agreed lamely, “I suppose you're right.”

“Damned right I am,” said Fisk.

*   *   *

A
S HE HUNG
up on Wexler, Quenton Fisk smiled to himself. The perfect opportunity, he thought. With the hospital and the university disowning him, my grant money will be all the support Abramson has. If his research really pays off, I'll own the rights. If it doesn't, he'll go to jail.

*   *   *

M
EANWHILE, LUKE ABRAMSON
was toting a heavy black attaché case across the lobby of the Cherry Hill Inn and Suites motel. The middle-aged black man behind the registration desk frowned suspiciously, but Luke ignored him and went to the elevator.

Angela was sitting up in bed, with Tamara beside her, watching television. Luke saw that her IV bag was nearly empty. Tamara popped to her feet as Luke came through the front door.

“Hi, Grandpa,” said Angela, with a smile.

“Hello, Angel,” he said. “How do you feel?”

“Okay, I guess.”

Luke put the case down on the desk by the room's only window. Puffing from the exertion, he said, “That's some shopping list you gave me. McAllister had half his staff running around the campus picking up what you ordered.”

Keeping her voice low, Tamara said, “She'd be much better off in a hospital, Luke. Even a clinic—”

“When we get to Texas,” he said, his eyes on Angela. The child was watching the TV, ignoring them.

“Texas?”

“San Antonio. There's a facility there that can take care of Angie for a few days.”

Tamara shook her head. “This is foolishness. She ought to be under medical care.”

Unclasping the attaché case, Luke said, “You're a doctor. Here's all the stuff you asked for. That ought to be good enough for now.”

“It isn't.”

“I'm not letting her go back to Boston, not until I've had a chance to cure her.”

Tamara looked as if she wanted to argue. Instead she pressed her lips into a thin line and started rummaging through the vials and bottles in the bag.

Pulling one vial out and holding it up to the light from the window, she squinted at the label. “What's this?” she asked.

“That's for me,” said Luke.

“For you?”

“It ought to help me, make me stronger, give me better endurance.”

“Steroids?”

“Not the kind athletes use. It's a telomerase inducer.”

“You're going to dope yourself?”

He shook his head. “No. You're going to inject the stuff into me. I hate needles. I don't think I'd be able to stick myself without making a mess of it.”

Tamara stared at him. “You expect me to help you experiment on yourself while you experiment on your granddaughter?”

Luke nodded.

“I ought to walk out of here right now,” Tamara said. “I ought to
run
out of here!”

Looking toward Angela, Luke asked quietly, “And let her die?”

Tamara stared at him for a long, silent moment. At last she said, “What I really ought to do is have my head examined.”

He chuckled softly. “It's a beautiful head. I think it's perfectly fine.”

“Now you're sweet-talking me.” But she returned to pulling the medications out of the attaché case.

“Tomorrow,” Luke said, “we drive down to Washington. It'll be an easy drive, only a couple of hours.”

“If it doesn't snow again,” Tamara growled.

 

Washington, D.C.

R
AMÓN JIMENEZ HAD
never met an FBI agent before. As head of the National Cancer Institute's legal department, his working associates were lawyers and accountants, his “customers” were the institute's biologists and other scientists. His friends were mostly fellow Hispanics.

Jimenez was known to them all as a tight-ass: a stickler for details who aimed for perfection in everything he did. His face was lean, although there were significant pouches beneath his deeply brown eyes. His dark hair was luxuriant, but his mustache was nothing more than a pencil trace over his upper lip. His body frame was small and slight, yet his stomach stretched the fabric of his shirt.

He was self-consciously buttoning his gray suit jacket across that ample stomach as Agent Hightower explained why he was asking about Luke Abramson. Jimenez was somewhat in awe of the man. A special agent of the FBI, he thought. And such a large man. He could be a professional wrestler, with that build. He looks like a Native American.

Hightower was saying, “… so since your institute has been Abramson's main source of funding for many years, I thought you could tell me who his associates are, who he might go to for help.”

Jimenez said, “You should talk to the scientists about that.”

Hightower nodded. “I suppose so. I'll need some guidance about who to contact. Maybe an introduction.”

“I can do that.” Jimenez tapped on his computer keyboard. “Ah. Dr. Petrone. She was overseeing Abramson's work.”

“He reports to her.”

“Not exactly,” said Jimenez. “The institute provides funding for outside scientists. They send us grant requests, we review them. Those that are approved and given funding are monitored by one of our scientific staff. Dr. Petrone was monitoring Abramson's work.”

“Was?”

Jimenez peered at his computer screen, double-checking to make certain he was right. Then he said, “Apparently Abramson's grant was not approved this year. We haven't funded his work since…” He glanced again at the screen. “Since April first.”

“Why not?”

Jimenez made an elaborate shrug. “You'll have to ask Dr. Petrone about that.”

*   *   *

L
UKE WAS SITTING
in the office of Dr. Yolanda Petrone. She was a comely woman in her early sixties, with light gray eyes and hay yellow hair. When Luke had first met her, some twenty years earlier, he'd been surprised to learn her ancestry was Italian.

“My people come from north of Venice, near the Austrian border,” she explained. “Plenty of Germanic blood in my family.”

Now, as he sat beside her on the sofa in her office, he realized that there was plenty of gray in the blond hair, and her skin was spiderwebbed. Telomerase injections could help her, he thought. But he kept the idea to himself.

“So what brings you to Washington, Luke? It's not like you to just pop in, unannounced.”

He tried to grin and failed. Instead, he confessed, “I'm in trouble, Yolanda. I need your help.”

“What's wrong? Is the Fisk Foundation cutting off your funding?”

“No, that's not it.”

“You know,” Petrone said, “I thought it was a mistake when we refused your grant request last spring. Orders from on high, you know. Something about budget cuts. I couldn't do anything about it.”

“It's not that, Yolanda,” Luke repeated. “It's my granddaughter. She's dying.”

Petrone sat in shocked silence as Luke explained the situation to her.

“So where is the child?”

“At the moment she's in a motel out by the Beltway. I was hoping you could find her a bed. I need to run some diagnostics on her.”

“Of course! I'll do anything I can, you know that, Luke.”

Petrone had flown to Boston when Luke's wife died. She had been an aid and comfort during those devastating first days after Adele's funeral. Once she saw that Luke was able to stand on his own feet again, she returned to Washington, but only after getting him to promise he'd stay in touch with her. He did, in his own way: They saw each other at meetings and conferences, always with other people around, never just the two of them alone. And now he had come to her for help.

“I appreciate it, Yolanda,” he said, with some emotion.

She got up from the sofa and went to her desk. “I'll make the arrangements…”

The phone rang before she got there.

She picked it up. “Mr. Jimenez? Oh, from legal. Yes, hello. How are—”

Yolanda Petrone's eyes narrowed as she listened to Jimenez's voice. She turned and stared at Luke.

At last she said, “Yes. I'll see him. This afternoon, after lunch.”

She put down the phone. “I'm going to be visited by an FBI agent. He's looking for you.”

 

Kennedy Clinic

T
HE KENNEDY CLINIC
was a small, unobtrusive building set in a residential neighborhood across the highway from the NIH campus.

“We've used the facility for years,” Yolanda Petrone explained as she steered her Lexus up the driveway. “Top-flight facility, and very private.”

Luke nodded absently.

“Plenty of politicians and media stars have been treated here for various problems,” she continued while she parked the sedan in a
RESERVED FOR STAFF
slot. “Your granddaughter will be in good hands.”

“I really appreciate this, Yolanda.”

“It's the least I could do for you, Luke.”

She led him into the clinic's hushed entryway and down an empty corridor to the administrative office. In half an hour Angela was registered as a “Jane Doe” patient.

“I don't how to thank you,” Luke said.

Petrone smiled. “You can let me take you to dinner, once the child is safely tucked in here.”

Luke said, “Fine. I'll bring her here, then give you a buzz.”

“Wonderful,” said Petrone.

*   *   *

A
GENT HIGHTOWER WAS
waiting in her office when Petrone returned from lunch. As she entered the room he got to his feet, rising like a mountain before her.

His hand engulfed hers as he introduced himself. Petrone went to her desk, and Hightower sat down again. Even seated he looked immense to her.

“You're interested in Professor Abramson?” she asked.

“That's right. We want to talk to him about a possible kidnapping.”

“Kidnapping?”

Hightower went through the story, ending with, “So I'll need to know who his associates are, who he might go to for help.”