Transhuman (11 page)

The front door swung open as they approached, and Lorenzo P. Merriwether beamed a warm, cordial smile to them.

“Welcome to my humble abode,” he said grandly, in a deep basso voice, his arms spread wide.

He was well over six feet tall, slim and willowy. Like a basketball player, Luke thought. His skin was a light mocha, his smile brilliant. Merriwether's face was lean, almost gaunt, the skin stretched over prominent cheekbones and a strong jaw that bore a fuzzy dark beard.

As he led Tamara and Luke, who still held Angela in his arms, up the wide, winding staircase to the second floor, Merriwether happily explained, “This was a thriving cotton plantation in the antebellum days. More than a hundred slaves worked here. Now it's a tourist attraction. The old slave huts have been remodeled to accommodate tourists from all over the world.”

As they passed a window, Tamara looked out and asked, “Is that the Mississippi?”

Merriwether beamed at her. “Yes indeed. Old Man River, just keeps rolling along.”

He led them along the upstairs corridor and into a spacious, beautifully decorated bedroom.

Angela's eyes went wide as she took in the canopied bed. “Is that for me?”

“Yes indeed, little lady,” said Merriwether. “All for you.”

Luke deposited Angela gently on the bed, then stretched the stiffness from his back. Tamara went to the curtained window, fascinated with the view of the slowly flowing river.

“You and the lady have the next room, through there.” Merriwether pointed toward a door in the side wall.

Luke felt his cheeks go warm. “Um … we'll need two rooms. Dr. Minteer is Angela's physician.”

“Oh!” Merriwether looked surprised, but he quickly masked it with another brilliant smile. “Forgive me. I thought…”

Tamara turned back from the window and said, “Our relationship is based on Angela.”

“I see.”

All three of them turned to look at the child, who was sleeping blissfully, half buried in the mound of pillows on the canopied bed.

*   *   *

I
N BOSTON, JERRY
Hightower stood stolidly in front of his chief's desk.

“Do you mean to tell me you went back to the Washington office and left him there in the clinic, without anyone guarding him?”

Hightower felt like a schoolboy being reprimanded by the principal. But I deserve it, he thought. I let the guy get away.

“I told the clinic's security head to keep him from leaving the building,” he said.

“That worked fine, didn't it?” The chief sneered.

“He's an old man,” Hightower said. “I didn't expect him to slug one of the guards and drive away with the kid and the doctor.”

The director got up from his squeaking chair and came around the desk. He was barely as tall as Hightower's shoulders, but the agent backed a step away from him.

“Jerry, this is a major screw-up. You let a fugitive get away from you.”

“Technically, he's not a fugitive. At least, he wasn't then. That's why I had to go to the office, to fill out the papers—”

“But you let him get away! That's not like you. What's going on?”

Hightower shrugged. “He's not a criminal. He wants to save his granddaughter's life.”

The director scowled at him. “The man is wanted for kidnapping, for God's sake! You had him and you let him go! By rights, I should ask for your resignation!”

“I'll find him,” Hightower said. “I found him once, I'll find him again. There's only a few places in the country that he can run to, only a few places with the facilities that he needs.”

The director took in a big breath, then let it out again in a wistful sigh.

“All right. You find him. You find him before the news media gets wind of this and I have to discipline you.”

Hightower nodded once, then left the director's office, working hard to suppress an urge to run.

*   *   *

I
N HIS OFFICE
in Boston's financial district, Del Villanueva paced back and forth as he listened to his wife on the cordless phone he held clamped to his ear.

“Yes, Norrie, I've called the FBI office twice this morning. Same story: They were in Bethesda, just outside of Washington, but they took off.”

Lenore's voice was shuddering. “Why didn't they arrest him? How could they let him go?”

Shaking his head, Del replied, “They couldn't arrest him because he wasn't officially charged with a crime yet.”

“But he's kidnapped Angie!”

“The charge has been filed,” Del said, before Norrie could work herself up into another bout of weeping. “He's now officially a wanted man. The FBI's looking for him across the whole country.”

“What if he's gone to Canada? Or Mexico?”

“He'd have to show a passport, and they'd nail him then and there.”

“Where is he?” Lenore sobbed. “Where's he taken my baby?”

“They'll find him,” Del said, with a confidence he didn't really feel. “The FBI will find him.”

 

Lorenzo P. Merriwether

L
UKE WAS STARING
out the window of the bedroom Merriwether had given him, watching a barge gliding slowly along the placid Mississippi River. Angela was sleeping again, after finally getting the cheese sandwich she'd asked for at lunch.

Angie's kept it down, Luke thought. That's a good sign.

A tap on his door. He crossed the ornately decorated room and pulled the door open to find Tamara standing there, with a medical kit in one hand.

“Time for your shot,” she said, stepping past him into the room.

Suppressing a shudder of distaste, Luke said, “They seem to be helping. I don't feel as stiff and creaky as I did a couple of days ago.”

“It could be psychosomatic.”

“Yeah,” he admitted. “Maybe.”

The phone rang. Glad of the interruption, Luke went to the night table and picked it up.

Merriwether's bass voice said cheerfully, “Cocktail time! I'm brewing up a batch of mint juleps in the library. Care to join me?”

Luke glanced at Tamara, then replied, “We'll be there in ten minutes.”

*   *   *

T
HE LIBRARY DIDN'T
have a book in it. Instead, the walls were lined with paintings and photographs; some of the photos looked to Luke as if they dated from the Civil War.

Merriwether waved a long arm at a batch of faded sepia-toned pictures. “Mathew Brady,” he said. “Nottaway survived the war without being burned or looted. Sheridan's lads weren't so kind to Georgia.”

Merriwether led Tamara and Luke through a tall French window out onto the veranda, facing the river. A silver tray sat on a table among the big, high-backed rocking chairs, bearing a huge ceramic pitcher and three tall glasses already adorned with sprigs of mint.

As they sat, Tamara said, “If you don't mind my asking, how did you come to own this place?”

Merriwether chuckled gleefully and hooked a long leg over his rocker's arm, facing her. “You mean, how did a black man acquire this bastion of southern gentility?”

Luke said, “I'd hardly call slavery a sign of gentility.”

Sobering slightly, Merriwether said, “You see, I am a product of the American way of life. A success story. Born poor in N'Orleans. Got a basketball scholarship, played college ball. And studied hard. College was an opportunity and I seized it. Went on to the NBA. Not a tremendous star, but I had a few good years.”

“Good for you,” said Tamara.

He smiled gleamingly at her. “Got myself an MBA at Wharton during the off-seasons. Eventually I became a drug lord.”

Startled, Luke gasped. “Narcotics?”

Merriwether tossed his head back and broke into a delighted laugh at Luke's consternation. “No, no. Nothing illegal. When my basketball days were finished, I got a position at Brady & Brady.”

“The pharmaceutical firm?” Tamara asked.

“Indeed. Biggest pharmaceutical firm in Louisiana. Also the only pharmaceutical firm in Louisiana.” He laughed again.

“And then?” Tamara prompted.

“Eventually the Brady boys gave me a seat on their board of directors. Strictly affirmative action window-dressing. Former basketball star. Black. Up from the slums of N'Orleans.” His voice hardening, Merriwether went on. “After Katrina, they had me tour the Ninth Ward to show that ol' B&B
cared
about poor flooded-out black folks.”

Then the bitterness evaporated and his eyes twinkled again. “I maneuvered the Brady boys out of their own company! Sent them into retirement and took over as CEO. How's that for affirmative action?”

Luke couldn't help smiling. “Pretty damned good.”

“And then I bought Nottaway. Discombobbled some of the old gentry, but there wasn't much they could do about it. Not legally, that is. I survived a few potshots and a fire bomb and here we are, sitting on the veranda and watching Old Man River.” He winked at Tamara and took a sip of his mint julep.

Luke cleared his throat, then said, “Well, I really appreciate your taking us in.”

“Think nothing of it,” Merriwether replied graciously. “Quenton said you needed help, and I'm always glad to help friends of Quenton Fisk's.” Then, with another wink, he added, “Who do you think gave me the wherewithal to oust the Brady boys?”

“So that's the connection,” said Luke.

“Indeed it is,” Merriwether replied. Then he asked, “This treatment you're giving the child, does it have anything to do with the p53 gene?”

Luke shook his head. “Not directly.”

“The p53 gene suppresses tumors, doesn't it?”

“When you've got two copies of the gene in your genome, one from each parent. Angela only has one p53. That makes her vulnerable to tumor formation.”

“Oh. Too bad.”

Tamara said, “Professor Abramson's treatment deactivates the genes that produce telomerase.”

“Really,” said Merriwether.

Slightly annoyed that Tamara had told more than he wanted Merriwether to know, Luke took up, “Suppress telomerase production and you suppress cells' ability to reproduce.”

“And cancer cells reproduce endlessly,” Merriwether said.

“So if you suppress telomerase production, the cancer cells die.”

Merriwether pondered this information for a few moments, took another sip of his mint julep, then asked, “What effect does the treatment have on the other cells of her body?”

“Same effect,” said Luke tightly. “Suppresses their reproduction.”

“Doesn't that cause harm?”

“The cancer cells die off more quickly. Then we can make up for the side effect, bring her telomerase production back to normal.”

“I see,” Merriwether said slowly. “So it's a horse race, then, isn't it?”

Luke glanced at Tamara before answering. “Sort of. But it's a race we intend to win.”

 

Christmas Eve

J
ERRY HIGHTOWER GLANCED
furtively at his wristwatch as he followed the two young men along the main corridor of the University of Texas's cellular biology building. He had an appointment to talk with Professor Hiram Goldstein, and a reservation on the five-thirty flight out of Austin to Phoenix. The timing was going to be tight.

The students brought him to Goldstein's office, but the room was empty.

“Where is he?” Hightower demanded.

One of the kids shrugged his skinny shoulders. “Prob'ly in one of the labs, sir.”

The other student went to the desk and picked up the phone. “I'll have him paged. He's around here someplace.”

Then they left him in the office, alone. Hightower sat heavily on one of the sculpted plastic chairs and glanced at his watch again.

He wanted to spend Christmas with his brothers and uncles and their wives and kids at their family gathering at the Navaho Reservation in northern Arizona. Fly out to Phoenix after talking with Goldstein, pick up a rental car and drive to Chinle. Get there around midnight, if the traffic wasn't too bad. Christmas was for the family, the whole horde of them.

But if the professor's not here soon, he thought, I'm going to miss my flight. Getting another one on Christmas Eve will be impossible. Might as well try to hitch a ride on Santa's sleigh.

Still, Goldstein had worked with Abramson in the past. He knew the man's habits; maybe he knew where Abramson might have gone to ground.

So Special Agent Hightower sat there and waited, while his chances for having Christmas with his family ticked away.

*   *   *

A
RLINGTON, MASSACHUSETTS, WAS
aglow with Christmas decorations. Fat white flakes of wet snow were drifting down from the leaden sky, covering the streets and the cars passing by. Carols rang from every storefront as Del Villanueva trudged from the Mass Av bus stop toward his home, his hands dug into his parka pockets, his shoes getting soaked from the wet, fluffy snow he was slogging through, his mood anything but jovial.

For the first time in his life, Del appreciated Ebenezer Scrooge's attitude toward Christmas. His father-in-law had kidnapped his daughter and taken her God knows where. His wife was on the verge of a nervous breakdown, the FBI wasn't doing a fucking thing, and these goddamned shops were playing “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas.” Bah! Humbug!

He dreaded going home. Dreaded seeing the house all lit up with holiday decorations, dreaded the tree that he and Norrie had dutifully decorated in the vain hope that Angie would be home with them for Christmas. Dreaded Norrie's endless tears that tore at his heart.

If Luke was here right now, Del thought, I'd break his fucking head in.

*   *   *

A
NGELA WAS SPEAKING
delightedly to Luke's open laptop, recording a Christmas message for her parents. Luke stood by her bed, alert to catch any hint Angela might give of where they were. He had put the laptop on the bed and angled it so that its camera showed nothing more than the luxurious bedspread and heaped-up pillows behind the little girl.