Transhuman Page 5

  “All I need is the enzymes, and you can get them without any trouble.”

  “They’re steroids.”

  “But they’re not on a restricted list. It’s not like we’re going to be doping athletes.”

  Turning back to face Luke, McAllister said, “I’d be sticking my neck out. Way out.”

  “I know. I appreciate it.”

  McAllister heaved a big sigh. “For you, Prof. I’ll do it for you.”

  Before Luke could thank him the phone rang.

  McAllister went to his desk, at the end of the lab bench. “Hello,” he said into the phone.

  Holding a hand over the mouthpiece, he said to Luke, “Department secretary. Probably giving me a tally of who’s coming in, who’s going to be late.”

  Then his eyes widened with surprise. “The FBI? Yes, okay, put him on.”

  Luke sank back onto the lab stool, his heart suddenly racing.

  “Agent Hightower,” McAllister said. “Yes, this is Professor McAllister. Assistant professor, actually.”

  McAllister listened, his eyes focusing on Luke.

  “You say there’s no criminal charges? Then what’s the FBI—”

  He fell silent again. At last he nodded and said, “Yes, I understand. Yes, certainly. Good-bye.”

  McAllister hung up the phone and leaned on it with both his hands. At last he straightened up and turned to face Luke.

  “That was an FBI agent. They’re looking for you.”

  Luke asked, “He said there weren’t any criminal charges filed?”

  “Not yet. But once they’ve satisfied themselves that you’ve taken the kid outside of Massachusetts, they’ll call it kidnapping. That’s a federal offense.”

  Luke thought, Lenore wouldn’t accuse me of kidnapping. She knows I wouldn’t hurt Angie. But Del would. He’s pissed at me. And they’re both scared that Angie’s in danger.

  As if she’d be any safer back in the hospital.

  Boston FBI Headquarters

  SPECIAL AGENT JEROME Hightower stepped into the office of the director of the FBI’s Boston division. The division’s chief was standing at the window in his shirtsleeves and bright red suspenders, watching a snowplow pushing mounds of dirty gray snow onto a black sedan parked at the curb on Cambridge Street. His hands were clasped behind his back; Hightower saw that one of them held a yellow travel requisition form.

  “Some idiot down there parked right under a no-parking sign last night,” said the director. “He’ll be snowed in until next April, I bet.”

  Hightower peered over the director’s shoulder. “Nah,” he contradicted. “The city will dig him out, then tow him away and impound the car. He’ll owe a fortune by the time he gets it back.”

  The director shrugged. “Must be some politician who thought he could park wherever he pleases.”

  “Maybe somebody from police headquarters,” Hightower said, with a grim smile.

  “Have a seat, Jerry,” the director said. He was a slim, dapper man who’d been with the agency since he’d acquired his degree in accounting, a quarter century ago. Even in his shirtsleeves and suspenders he looked stylish.

  Hightower, wearing a comfortable old suede jacket over his creaseless slacks, settled himself in the only chair in front of the director’s desk. The director sat on his swivel chair, which rolled slightly, and placed the travel request on his desk, smoothing it carefully with both hands. He had never been comfortable with Hightower’s ponytail, it wasn’t the Bureau’s style, but he knew Hightower would put in a formal complaint if he tried to get him to cut it off. Native American rights and all that crap.

  The director put a smile on his face and asked mildly, “What’s going on, Jerry? Are you wasting this office’s precious resources?”

  Despite the smile, Hightower knew the question was serious.

  “Might be a kidnapping,” he said.

  “Might be?”

  Hightower shrugged his massive shoulders. “Child’s been taken from University Hospital.”

  “By her grandfather, I’m told.”

  “Right. But without the parents’ knowledge. Or approval.”

  “The kid’s sick?”

  “Terminal. Brain cancer.”

  “Why’d the grandfather take her?”

  “According to the parents, he’s some kind of biologist. A research scientist. Claims he can cure the kid.”

  “Can he?”

  “Probably not. The parents don’t know where he’s taken her. They want to file a kidnap charge.”

  The director leaned back in his swivel chair and tapped his fingertips together. “Has he taken the kid out of the state?”

  “Don’t know for sure.”

  “How’d you get involved in this?”

  “Got a call from the hospital’s top man. Odom Wexler.”

  The director nodded and murmured, “He’s pretty close to the governor.”

  “A couple of congressmen, too,” Hightower added.

  “And what’ve you done so far?”

  Hightower figured that his boss already knew the answers to the questions he was asking. But he went ahead and recited, “Put a tap on the parents’ phone, in case he calls them. Checking out his known acquaintances. He’s got contacts all over the country. Apparently he’s a big shot in the biology field.”

  Again the director tapped his fingertips together. Then, “So what’s your gut tell you, Jerry? Has he taken the kid out of the state?”

  “Hell yes. None of the people he’s worked with here have seen him since the day before yesterday. He’s on the run with his granddaughter—and mostly likely one of the doctors from the hospital, the kid’s attending physician.”

  “So where’s he gone?”

  “Don’t know yet.” Pointing to the travel requisition, he said, “I’d like to pop down to Washington, talk to some people at the National Institutes of Health who’ve worked with him in the past.”

  The director looked into Hightower’s steady brown eyes. “All right. Charge him with suspicion of kidnapping. Send out a nationwide alert.”

  “You’re okaying my travel request?”

  The director nodded. “Let’s get this guy before the news media get wind of this and start squawking.”

  * * *

  NEW YORK CITY had been spared the brunt of the snowstorm. As he ducked out of his limousine, Quenton Fisk muttered to himself, “Snow doesn’t get a chance to stick on the sidewalks. Too many pedestrians stomping on it.”

  Hunching his shoulders against the cold, he hurried to the glass front door of the Fisk Tower. It opened automatically for him. Once inside he went straight to his personal elevator, where a uniformed security woman smiled a good morning to him. Fisk ignored her as he held his ID card before the elevator’s digital reader; the doors slid open immediately. The otherwise empty car whisked him directly to his private office on the top floor.

  Fisk was a small, intense man, wiry and still trimly athletic in his fifties. He hardly ever lost at squash or tennis; if the other players allowed him to win, he took it as nothing less than what he deserved. He had inherited millions and spent his life working tirelessly to turn them into billions. The Fisk Corporation was heavily involved in the electronics, aerospace, and biomedical industries. He had the good sense to back cutting-edge research in each of those areas—especially biomed.

  His private office was a masterpiece of understated luxury: tasteful oils on two walls, the third a broad window that looked out at Manhattan’s forest of skyscrapers. The fourth wall was a mosaic of display screens, four of them showing financial news channels, muted. The rest were dark.

  Fisk’s executive assistant was waiting for him, of course, a tall fortyish woman with red hair pinned up sensibly, wearing a conservatively dark green skirted suit. As she took his fedora and helped him shrug out of his cashmere overcoat she said, “You received a call from the FBI this morning.”

  “The FBI?” Fisk’s brow furrowed. “Who? Why?”

 
; “He said his name was Jerome Hightower and he was calling about a Dr. Luke Abramson.”

  “Abramson? Who’s he?”

  “I’ve put his file on your main menu.”

  Fisk nodded and went to his desk while his executive assistant tiptoed out of the room. As he slipped into his high-backed black leather chair and reached for the insulated cup of coffee that was waiting for him, he saw his reflection in the dark screen of his desktop computer and noticed that his hair was slightly awry. Smoothing it, he thought that getting the implants had been a good investment: He still looked dark-haired and handsome while other men his age and even younger were balding.

  He took a sip of the hot coffee. Luke Abramson. The name sounded vaguely familiar. Activating his computer, he saw the scientist’s image and realized that he had met the man, more than once. The last time … Fisk thought back and recalled the fund-raising dinner up in Boston, last August. Abramson had been the after-dinner speaker, talking about his research on reversing aging. He’d apparently made some decrepit old mice young again. Fisk had taken the man aside afterward and offered him a research grant, on the spot. Abramson agreed immediately, complaining that NIH had abruptly dropped his funding a few months earlier.

  Frowning at the screen, he saw that the FBI was making inquiries about him. Nothing specific, but the FBI didn’t get interested in a person for trivial reasons.

  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

  WEXLER 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.

  * * *

  AS 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.

  * * *

  MEANWHILE, 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.

  RAMÓN 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.”