Trent remembered the microchip Manoukian handed to the swarthy guard at the gate, and he remembered when Manoukian accessed the computer inside his office. Trent also recalled Manoukian planned to kill Soriah long before he met Samantha or Susie, or anyone else involved with Eternity Labs. The conniving businessman must have arranged for the security malfunction well in advance. Being a tool in Manoukian’s design didn’t sit well with Trent, but his resolve to avenge Susie and Samantha needed no inquest.
“Samantha’s been killed.” Trent closed his eyes when he said it. “She won’t be able to help you anymore.”
“Then what should I do?”
Trent gestured to E Wing’s entrance. “Get in there and see for yourself. And get that task force over here right away.” Trent was finished talking. He turned about and resumed his hike to the Hub.
“What about Chief Tacau?” Zao asked. “He’s in there.”
Without breaking stride, Trent answered, “You’re The Chinese Dragon Who Fears No Man, remember?”
* * * *
When Trent barged into the Main Lab, two guards stationed there whirled around to face him. One of them asked, “Are you surrendering?”
Trent ignored them. After his experience in E Wing, he had no inclination to waste time. He stayed on course to the B Wing lobby, but the two guards rushed to cut him off. Just as the first one tried to apprehend him, Trent threw a powerful chop to the base of his neck, which sent him unconscious to the floor. The next one took his turn to approach Trent, but Trent delivered a flurry of crossing blows, which slammed him senseless against the wall.
Noticing the two Chinese scientists watching in astonishment,Trent glared at them and shouted, “You two, come here!”
The startled scientists seemed unable to speak. Finally, they exchanged glances, and one of them asked, “You mean us?”
“Yes,” Trent said. “Right now.”
Both of them slinked forward.
Trent pointed at the E Wing doors. “You’ve got three dead patients down there, maybe more, and several others who are in need of your immediate attention. You can start by disconnecting the CSF lines and bringing them out of those comas.”
The scientists again exchanged glances. “We can’t do that,” the same one advised. “Not without orders from Mr. Soriah.”
“Then I’m giving those orders right now,” the voice of Abraham Soriah proclaimed from afar.
Trent spun around. Abraham Soriah was standing near the opened entrance to B Wing, and his facial expression was eerily familiar. It was like that of a Kendo master ready to inflict his coup de grace.
“Get down there right away and take care of them,” Soriah insisted.
The scientists bowed in compliance and scurried away.
“As for you,” Soriah said to Trent. “If you still want to kill me, here I am. No bodyguards, no security force... Just an eighty-eight year-old man standing helpless before you.”
Trent slowly walked toward Soriah. With each step, he considered the punch to Soriah’s pulmonary artery. When he reached striking distance, he looked up into Soriah’s cold gray eyes for many seconds. But Trent realized Soriah was observing him as well, and actually seemed more interested in his gore-splattered clothes than anything else.
“You’re a walking work of art,” Soriah remarked. “I’d even venture to say Jackson Pollock would be proud.”
“I don’t give a shit about Jackson Pollock.”
Soriah scrunched his eyes and nodded. “Of course. You’re the man who’s all about justice. Well then. Do you want to kill me or not? It’s your move.”
Trent examined the lines on the old man’s face. He envisioned them lines of wisdom, as were those on the face of his elderly Japanese mentor, whose words he recalled those many years ago: ‘Respect your elders, for they have earned your respect, even before you breathed your first air. Never disregard what they have achieved and what they have sacrificed.’
Trent said, “Furuki o tazune atarshiki o shiru.”
The wrinkles on Soriah’s face increased. “What’s that you say?”
“It wasn’t you. It was Manoukian.”
Soriah’s expression didn’t change. He folded his arms and asked, “How did you figure that out?”
“He’s in with those guys, like the one at the front gate. They all resemble each other, and I don’t take it as coincidence.”
“You’re right. They resemble each other because they’re related. Cousins, I’m told, from Turkey. They owe their allegiance to Mr. Manoukian, not to me. I suppose I’ll have to let them go.” Soriah smiled at Trent and then added, “The ones who are still alive, that is.”
Trent nodded. “Yeah.”
“It was Charles who discovered their connection.”
“Where is he?”
“Charles or Manoukian?”
“Both of ’em.”
“Mr. Manoukian has departed in my limousine. I would think he is on his way back to San Francisco to consult with his lawyers about our agreement.”
“What agreement?”
“That he is no longer a part of Eternity Labs or Soriah Enterprises. If he considers his options, I’m sure he will sign by tonight.”
“And Charles?”
“He’s assisting my Specials. The ones still on their feet, I mean. We have to get our workers back inside. We need E Wing under control.”
“Under control? Your E Wing resembles a Nazi death camp.”
“And I’m another Hitler, is that it? Isn’t that what Mr. Manoukian would have you believe? After all, I do want to hoard Eternity and create a separate race of immortal supermen.”
“After today your drug is out of production, and you know it,” Trent said. “You won’t be able to recreate the formula. Not if it takes the cerebrospinal fluid of people forced into comas.”
“Forced? Who said these people are forced to do anything?”
Trent thought about it. No one said they were forced to do anything. “Are you telling me they volunteered?”
“That would be closer to the truth. They agreed to donate their bodies to science for a limited time to escape the drudgery in their homelands.”
“You expect me to believe they just lie down in those capsules and let you put them to sleep?”
“Well, we don’t explain every detail. We do promise they won’t lose any body parts in the process, and we keep that promise as you managed to see. When they arrive, we prep them in our stasis tubes and that’s where they stay for a few months. Then, they are resuscitated, and after a short rehabilitation, they’re free to begin a new life in a new country. So you see, we’re not the evil miscreants you were led to believe.”
“Thirty million innocent Chinese civilians were butchered by men who made the same claim!” It was the angry voice of Zao Lin. He stood at the entrance to E Wing’s lobby.
“Mr. Lin,” Soriah called out. “Do join us, won’t you? You may remember our guest. He is, after all, the reason you are here.”
Trent crumpled his brow. “You hired him because of me?”
“After our meeting, I couldn’t take the chance that you would become a thorn in my side. I was told Zao is the only fighter you have never defeated.”
It wasn’t how Trent remembered the match, but that wasn’t important. “So you figured I’d come back and be a pain in your ass, and you found a Chinese enema to flush me out, is that it?”
“Mr. Smith, I didn’t get to where I am today without accounting for and preparing for every possible mishap. You said you worked for no one, but the future is uncertain.” Soriah looked at Zao and then at Trent. “When you refused to cooperate with us, Charles and I were forced to find someone who could match you, just in case. I had to be certain my plan would proceed.”
“No, Mr. Soriah,” Zao Lin said. “An FBI task force will be here soon, and your plan will not proceed. My grandparents died at Nanking, and I will not allow a horror like that to happen again. Not even under controlled conditions such
as this.”
“Well, if you say so, young man.”
Soriah’s grin revealed he still believed his bases were covered. Trent was aware that Soriah’s now deceased state senator passed special laws to solve this problem if it ever came up, and that Soriah owned most, if not all, of the courts in Minnesota. He asked, “You don’t believe any of this will be a problem?”
“My only problem,” Soriah brazenly confided, “is if the missing flash drive containing Eternity’s database is never recovered, it will take another five years to reinvent it.” He focused on Trent. “Would you happen to know where Dr. Benson put it? You were there when he died. Did he give it to you?”
Trent remained silent, mostly because he was unsure of what to say. The Fountain of Youth was in his pocket, but he couldn’t bring himself to simply take it out and hand it over.
Appearing frustrated, Soriah continued. “It’s no good to you. I must have it. Just think, Mr. Smith, you can live forever.”
Trent did think. He thought about Samantha and Susie, and all the innocent people murdered because of Eternity. He thought about Flint and Stiles, Nick Martin, and the two Samoans. The state senator crossed his mind, and the elevator he stacked with five dead bodies.
Next, he thought of the formula’s inventors, Benson and Bernstein. As a result of this damn drug, lives were cut short, guilty and innocent. Even the lives of its creators. Finally, Trent spoke. “For something that keeps you from growing old, a lot of people have died awfully young.”
Soriah responded, “Trent, people die every day, and Eternity can end that. Don’t you understand?”
Trent shook his head. “What I understand is that because of Eternity, a lot of people are dead.” He paused, and then added, “No, Mr. Soriah, if you want to pursue Eternity, I’m afraid you’ll have to start from scratch.”
“If we start from scratch,” a glum Soriah contested, “I’m not sure I can live long enough to realize my dream.”
Trent was unmoved. “Some dreams aren’t meant to be realized. I think yours could very well be one of them.”
The grin returned to Soriah’s face. “But what a dream, eh, Mr. Smith? Eternal youth and life without disease.”
“But war, crime, and poverty... What about that?”
“One thing at a time, Mr. Smith. First we tackled healing, then disease. Next, we solved the aging problem. And we’re only in the beginning stages of the experiment.”
“Your experiment is for the ruling elite,” Trent pointed out. “If they had your drug, people like Stalin, Mao, and Pol Pot would still be around. Dictators living forever would rule forever. No, Mr. Soriah, whether good or evil, all leaders must age and die. Every generation deserves its turn to create something new for themselves...and for generations beyond.”
Soriah didn’t respond. He simply sported his wide grin, reminding Trent of the Cheshire Cat from the fairy tale. Trent hoped that all of this would one day be just that—a tale to tell his grandkids while sitting in a rocking chair in a distant and happier future.
* * * *
Trent observed with satisfaction the feds arrive with court orders and search warrants to complete their investigation, which included E Wing’s shutdown and revival of the sleepers. Soriah vowed to cover all expenses until each of his ‘patients’ fully recovered in state hospitals. He also promised compensation to every employee until the courts settled his case with the FBI.
Soriah’s personal nurses treated Trent’s injuries and provided him with new clothing. In black slacks and a formal shirt, Trent believed he looked like a different man. He found it necessary to roll up the long sleeves and further fold the cuffs on his trousers. Even the shiny black shoes were a loose fit. He never liked wearing expensive clothes, but now his revulsion reached another level. He couldn’t wait to get back into blue jeans and a black tee shirt.
* * * *
In a private conference, Charles Morgan convinced Josh Jones that Abraham Soriah had nothing to do with sending killers after Trent Smith or his sister. He told him how the Turkish investor harbored an unrequited love for Samantha, and believed Smith a rival for her affection.
But Josh was not consoled. “All my life I had to protect Samantha from overzealous jerks,” he recalled.
“He saw her fall for Trent Smith,” Charles said. “With her ardor stirred, Manoukian thought he could move in if he got Smith out of the way.”
“He’s dead!” Josh snarled while pounding the table with his fist clenched so tight it had turned red. “Let me out of here! Manoukian’s gonna die!”
“I don’t think you’ll have to worry about that.”
“Oh, yeah? Why not?”
“Look there.” Charles pointed to the window. Trent Smith was standing outside, waiting for a limo. “He knows what we know.”
* * * *
The limousine pulled up to an introspective Trent. The chauffeur remained inside, and Trent opened his own door. But just as he did, a voice called out, “Wait!”
It was Charles. He approached Trent and held out his hand. Trent agreed to the handshake. He believed Charles Morgan was someone he might have called a friend in a different reality.
“Going back to California?” Charles asked.
“I have an appointment in San Francisco.”
“Revenge for Samantha and Susie?”
“No,” Trent replied. “It’s about justice. It’s always been about justice.”
“Then you’re forgetting one thing.”
“What’s that?”
“The real killer of Susie Quinn.”
Trent glared. “Keep talking.”
Charles pulled a plastic baggie from his coat pocket and handed it to Trent. It contained a still-opened pocketknife. Dried blood soiled the blade, and engraved on the green handle was a name: Connie.
Charles explained, “Our man at NYPD sent it over. He found it yesterday. You’ll notice the blood. It’s Susie’s.”
Trent listened while his own blood boiled. He returned the baggie to Charles. “Why are you telling me this?”
“For justice,” Charles answered. His expression turned sad, and a tear streamed over his cheek. “I loved her, too.” He handed Trent a card with an address, and then he walked away.
Trent watched Charles vanish past the doors of the main lobby. Now, he had two appointments to keep. Looking back at the waiting limousine, it occurred to him that he was developing a hatred for these types of vehicles. Nevertheless, he stepped inside.
* * * *
While crossing the lobby of the master lab, Charles heard a low groan. He stood in place and looked around. The groan sounded again. Charles circled the reception desk and discovered a man struggling to regain his senses. He recognized him and helped him to his feet. “Dennis, what happened?”
“I don’t know,” a woozy Dennis muttered. “I was getting the keys to the limo, here from the desk, and the next thing I knew... Well, just now, I’m waking up on the floor.”
Charles noticed Dennis was out of uniform. “Where’s your coat?” he inquired. “Wait a minute. If you’re here... Who’s driving the limo?”
Charles straightened his back and peered through the glass walls. He saw the limousine pass the gate and blink past the watchtower. It crossed the straightway until the forest swallowed it whole.
* * * *
Trent endured the dips and bumps as the limousine snaked through the woods. He gazed past the window and reflected on his ‘Eternal’ experiences amidst the ageless evergreens. When dust from the dirt road clouded his view, he turned to the man in the driver’s seat and examined the black hair on the back of his head. Trent spoke in perfect Japanese. “It was all as you said it would be. Soriah, Manoukian, Charles Morgan...even Samantha Jones.”
Without turning around, the chauffeur responded, also in Japanese, “I’m sorry about that last one. I knew it would be tough. Especially considering the way it turned out.”
“Yeah, tough,” Trent said.
When
the white limo turned onto the paved street to Bemidji, Trent observed the myriad pines and it made him think. “I bet for every one of those trees there’s a killer loose in this world. And for each tree that’s chopped down, another one grows to replace it.”
The driver stayed silent.
Trent asked, “How’s the heart, anyway?”
“It’s holding up as best as can be expected.”
“You’re a lucky man, you know, to be stabbed through the heart and then live to talk about it.”
To Trent’s comment, the driver didn’t respond. He merely asked, “Where to now? San Francisco?”
“No,” Trent answered. “New York City.”
“Still targeting Abraham Soriah?”
“No, actually, not Soriah. Something unforeseen. Someone unexpected. But it’s just as important. At least, to me, anyway.”
Again, the driver didn’t respond, and Trent preferred the discontinued dialogue. The silence lasted for several minutes, after which the driver said, “The goatee becomes you. I hope you get some new clothes, though. You look different in that outfit.”
“Yeah,” a somber Trent agreed. “Once I get to Minneapolis. But I have to tell you I feel different. I’m not sure I’m the same person anymore.”
The trek proceeded with no further words, and within the hour, the country road delivered the limo into the semblance of an urban environment. Trent spotted a small airport in the distance, and it steadily grew until it filled the limo’s windshield.
The driver pulled to the passenger drop off. He still faced forward, and Trent didn’t mind talking to the back of his head. “Thanks for the ride.”
“No problem, and don’t worry. I’m quite sure you are the same person. Just as your eyes will always be green, so too will you always be Tora.”
Trent again studied the back of the driver’s head. “Goodbye, Jiro,” he said. Then he stepped from the limo and watched it drive away.
Chapter Eighteen
Treading Spanish Harlem
The New York horizon displayed its closing red curtain before Trent’s eyes, and he considered it fitting. Walking through a Latino neighborhood, he viewed packs of children playing in the dusty streets and in the littered alleys between the many buildings. His mind possessed one thought. Connie Perez would take her turn on his carousel of justice tonight.
Killer of Killers Page 28
