“I thought we had a huge mess, but I may have found an answer. I always had a feeling the salt method was off.”
“What are you talking about?”
He kept on like I wasn’t there. “Then Billings left these findings on my desk, before he bugged out, about oxygen saturation. Which was pure genius, except that he didn’t have a delivery mechanism because of the hemoglobin ceiling.”
I chuckled. “You are now officially speaking Greek.”
Gerber laughed, too, but I had a feeling we were not amused by the same thing. “This morning one of the techs was joking about being so tired he wanted an IV bag of coffee, and it hit me: transfusion.” He turned to me, goggle-eyed. “Transfusion.”
“Yeah?” I said.
“Yeah, yeah. Just give the guy a bit more blood volume, not a ton, a pint or so would do it. There’s the extra hemoglobin you need, which means more oxygen, which means less ammonia, which means no kaput. Done.”
I burst out laughing. I didn’t care if it was lack of sleep or too much weed, the guy made no sense. “Gerber, how you reached the top of your field, I will never know.”
“Haven’t you been paying attention? Haven’t you seen what’s happening?”
“I like to I think I have.”
“Well, let me clue you—” Gerber caught himself then, and sat up. “Sometimes I forget you’re a reporter, you know? You’ve been around the lab for so long.”
“Don’t worry. Whatever you say is peanuts compared to what I’m writing next.”
Somehow that took the wind out of his sails. He went back to his slouch. “Let’s talk about that, then. Who knows if my idea will work anyway?”
“Well, I suppose I can tell you. It’s not like you’re tight with Carthage.”
“Who?”
I chuckled again. “Right. Well, I’ve decided the time has come to blow the whole thing open.”
“What whole thing?”
“The hoax, the complete charade.”
Gerber rubbed his facial scruff. “And you say I’m the one speaking Greek.”
“This project, Gerber. I’ve been watching all along, and I finally figured out that it is a complete fake.”
“What are you saying to me?”
“There was no guy found in ice, no person brought back from the dead. It’s all BS. Don’t worry, I figure only a few people were in on it—Carthage, Thomas, Dr. Kate. The rest of you aren’t acting, you really believe it. Otherwise why would a guy with your pedigree hook up with a bunch of phonies like them?”
“I’m beginning to think you’re the one who’s been boozing.”
“I have a whole collection of proofs, rock solid. Just wait, you’ll see it in print.”
Gerber rubbed his face again, then squinted at me. “Are you trying to tell me that Carthage gave you all this unrestricted access, for all these months, and the result is that you’re going to reveal yourself as the stupidest man alive?”
“Or the savviest, I think.”
He stood. “You know, Dixon, there are genuine problems with Jeremiah, things going wrong that no one knows how to stop. That’s the real world. Your conspiracy fantasy, it’s crazy. You’re as twisted as those goddamn zealot protesters.”
The last three words he shouted across the street. The red shirts definitely heard. They knotted tighter, they aimed their chant at him.
“What is it anyway?” Gerber continued. “Why are they so pissed off today?”
“Probably this,” I said, and handed him one of Carthage’s invitations. Thomas had passed them out the night before. They were all over the street like litter.
WANTED: VOLUNTEERS. The Lazarus Project is enlarging its efforts to revive and strengthen human life, and is therefore seeking volunteers. We seek people to offer themselves for cryogenic stabilization for six months, after which the project will reanimate volunteers free of charge. Here is your opportunity to advance scientific knowledge and participate in the greatest achievement of our time.
Gerber read with eyes wide. “What the fuck? What is this?”
“You see it for yourself, man. Let us kill you, then we’ll bring you back. Who wants to sign up?”
“ ‘Cryogenic stabilization’? Is this complete bullshit?”
“Is your reawakened Jeremiah complete bullshit?”
He frowned at me. “But it’s ridiculous. Why would Carthage taunt them like that? He barely knows how to find hard-ice, much less how to make it. And why would we freeze people if we—” Gerber shook his head. “Why even start down that thought path? What the hell is Carthage trying to do?”
“Who knows? Maybe fire up some of that.” I pointed at the protesters, now all facing our way, hollering the old shut-it-down again. “The man does love a headline.”
Gerber crumpled the paper into a ball. “Am I living in a world of idiots?”
“If you allowed Carthage to fool you into giving your credibility to this bogus escapade, maybe you are the idiot.”
“Shut up,” he said, and threw the paper in my lap. Then he started across the street, yelling the same thing at the protesters. “Shut up. Shut up.”
As soon as Gerber left the sidewalk, they took it as permission to do the same, and it was like watching a dog charge at a cattle stampede. Only this dog was an exhausted, crazy-haired, skinny old geek, and the stampede was a pack of furious and frustrated people who’d spent months fighting for a cause only to see their prayers and passions not change a thing. They spilled into the street like a tide.
“Shut the fuck up,” Gerber said, gathering momentum.
“Shut it down, shut it down,” the crowd chanted. They fell into that swarm formation we’d seen them practicing, a circle of bodies in red shirts all trapping Gerber and closing in.
Wade came around the corner just then, his cocky smiling vanishing as he took in the scene. He broke into a run, yelling at everyone to hold back, clear away. But it was too late. Gerber bumped one protester, who shoved him harder in reply. Then Gerber grabbed another man’s sign, and the guy yanked back so violently it came free and hit him hard, diagonally across his forehead, drawing a stripe of blood. Gerber saw it and backed away. There was a pause, then a roar. And they descended on him.
I started toward the fight, but stopped with one foot on the street and one foot on the curb. I was not part of the project. Also, if I tried to save Gerber I would get the same treatment. Wade pulled people off the rear of the pack, but the ones at the front of the swarm clubbed Gerber to the ground, then hoisted him upright again so they could batter him with their signs some more.
Something came flying end over end out of the melee. It lay in the street less than a second before I recognized what it was. The winning lottery ticket for Daniel Dixon, and anyone who wants to know the truth: Gerber’s security badge.
“It’s pandemonium out there,” I told the front desk guard, pointing. “They’re pounding hell out of Dr. Gerber. You’d better get him some help.”
The guard took one look out the big front window and jumped from his chair. “Henry, we’ve got a fight out front,” he called into his walkie-talkie. “Get me an ambulance and two black-and-whites, then hurry your ass down here.”
The guard rushed past me, pulling a nightstick from a holster on his hip. I waited till he’d pushed through the revolving door into the mayhem, then hustled past the security desk to the elevators and swiped Gerber’s badge through the electronic reader. I kept looking back till I heard the arrival bell and the swish of elevators doors opening.
The bullpen of desks in the control room was practically empty, just two technicians murmuring over some problem in the corner. To stall for a minute, I ambled over to the latest Perv du Jour. The site of the day was killfrozenman.com. People had definitely grown more inventive. There were the usual altered photos, this time with a drawing of a knife in the ju
dge’s throat and a stick of dynamite crayoned into his mouth. But there also was a soccer ball wearing a Red Sox cap, with pruning shears jammed in one side. The top of Gerber’s display, cream of the day, was a guy with a lippy grin toting an assault rifle. He stood outside someplace beside a watermelon with its top half blown off, red sprayed everywhere. The lower half wore a bright yellow tie.
One technician left the room, the other sat with his back to me. I reached into the Perv in-box, slid out the green binder as cool as a gambler collecting his winnings, then went straight to Gerber’s desk.
It was just as I’d hoped. His computer was still on, files open. His headphones lay beside the keyboard, whining away. I pushed them aside and began slapping keys.
Everything was in impeccable order. I would never have guessed Gerber for the fastidious type, but there it all was: names, dates, file types. I created a new folder and loaded it with copies: photos going back a year, spreadsheets of daily vital signs, videos from the ship and control room and press conferences and even old Frank’s chamber.
I glanced in its direction and saw the deserted room. No sign of the occupant, not even a shirt hung over a chair. Just an empty cardboard box, lying on its side. Wasn’t that a perfect metaphor for this colossal con? A box full of nothing. And then a perfectly wonderful nasty idea occurred to me, and I picked up the phone. Toby Shea at the Globe had done good work on the project, writing sidebars that added color to my stories. It was decent stuff, given that he lacked my inside access. He deserved the first call.
“This is Shea.”
“Toby, this is Daniel Dixon, the guy covering the Lazarus Project.”
“Really? What brings Daniel Dixon to be calling me?”
“Well, there’s a lot breaking around the project today.”
“Yeah, I saw the bishop on the noon news.”
“There’s more, and I’ll be writing a bunch of it. But there are some things I won’t have time to get to. You’ve done good work, I thought I’d throw you a bone.”
“Thanks, I think.”
I looked around the room. “Oh, you’ll definitely thank me, Toby. For starters, Jeremiah Rice is gone. Vamoose.”
“No shit?”
“There’s more. If you give me your e-mail address, first thing tomorrow I’ll send you the location where he’s hiding.”
He told me the address letter by letter. “What’s your angle on this?”
“Can’t say, Toby. But it’s real. Just call the project, ask to speak to Jeremiah, and listen to the stalling and stammering.”
“All right, I’m on it. Thanks.”
“No charge.” I put the phone down gently. It felt damn good, to spin this place back in the direction of truth at last. To start the world dancing to my tune for once.
I decided to make two more calls, one to the Herald and one to the TV station that got us into the Red Sox game. Then the reporters’ e-mail addresses went into my pocket for use the next morning, and out came my trusty old thumb drive. I plugged it into the side of Gerber’s machine, and with three clicks started the process of downloading that new folder into my permanent possession.
The computer told me the process would take approximately two minutes. What the hell, I figured. I reached over for the headphones and clamped them snug on my noggin. A song was just ending, in an ever-quieter fade. I just sat back, put my feet up, and waited with the silence to hear what was coming next.
CHAPTER 36
The Last Egg
(Kate Philo)
When I emerged from the bedroom that morning, he was sitting on the couch right where I’d left him the night before. Only the book in his hands had changed, A Tale of Two Cities now, with Jane Eyre on the coffee table.
“Good morning, Jeremiah,” I said in a sunny voice. “How did you sleep?”
“Just fine, thank you,” he said, standing, a finger holding his place in the book.
We were such liars. I could see the blanket folded exactly as I’d left it. The pillow at the end of the couch bore no imprint from his head. But then, his free hand looked steady, calmer than the night before. A good sign? No way of knowing.
“Don’t let me interrupt you,” I said. “I’m just going to make a pot of coffee.”
“Can I be of any help?”
I pressed my palm to his chest. “Just read, friend. I’ll be right back.”
“Your hair . . .”
“What about it?” I said, pulling it back.
“No, no, leave it down.” He waved a hand.
“Really?”
“Please. It is a delight of femininity.”
A what? I stood there mute, an awkwardness until he sat again. Finally I started for the kitchen in the back of the apartment. From that day forward, I never put my hair up again. Say what you may about his influence on me in those waning days, I make no apology. The scientist, the credible adult . . . as a result of his compliment I abandoned those appearances forever.
After a moment I snooped from the hall. Both of his feet were jiggling like he’d had twenty cups of coffee. So much for steady hands.
So far, I believe I’d done fairly well with concealing what Billings told me. Jeremiah was pleased enough with his boots not to notice my mood when I returned to the apartment. I’d cried good and hard when I went to bed, but don’t think he heard me. I resolved, while brushing my teeth, to hide my emotions behind calm to the utmost of my ability. So I went about filling the coffeemaker with water, grinding beans, humming to myself as if it was only my friend Meg from Baltimore in the other room, and we were planning to spend a leisurely day at the museums.
What were we going to do with this day? How should we use the time we had left? Should I tell Jeremiah what was happening? Oh, he would know soon enough. What matters most when time is running out?
The physical sensation, there in the kitchen, was that I had no feet. Gravity might be tethering me to the ground, but somehow no actual contact was occurring. Then the coffee was ready; I poured myself a hot mug; I opened the fridge for milk. What I saw brought my full weight right back to earth.
One egg. The yogurt was gone, lettuce, all the fruit, cheese, leftover Chinese. Everything else was gone, except one egg in a bowl. I took it out, weighed it in my hand.
“I apologize, Kate.”
I started at Jeremiah’s voice. He stood in the doorway with a melancholy face.
“I was famished last night. All night. It’s hard to explain. Embarrassing, too, that I ate nearly everything. I’m sorry.”
“It’s fine,” I said, wrapping my fingers around that egg. “I told you already, you’re welcome to anything in here.”
“But I finished all sorts of things, Kate. Your cereals, bread, crackers.”
“We’ll just go to the supermarket. It’ll be fun.”
“I’m hungry all the time now.”
“You don’t have to explain anything to me.” I could have told him then, perhaps I should have. But I turned away, splashed the last of the milk into my coffee, took a hot gulp. I do not want to lose you. “I’ll tell you what, Jeremiah. Why don’t I fry this last egg for you right now?”
“No, Kate. I appreciate your offer, but you see I deliberately held back on that. In view of my eating so much already. I saved that egg for you.”
“That’s just silly,” I said.
“It’s not. I want you to have it.”
“Jeremiah, we can go buy three dozen eggs as soon as I finish this coffee.”
“That’s fine, and very generous of you, provided you eat that one first.”
I stared down into my coffee mug. He was trying to be generous, with no idea what his appetite signified. It was all as Billings had said. My heart felt like a black scribble. “Why don’t we compromise?” I said. “I’ll cook the egg, and we’ll share it.”
“Kate, when
have I been in a position to give you something? I honestly would prefer if you had it, the whole thing. Please.”
I laughed in spite of myself. “Now you listen here, Jeremiah Rice—”
There was a loud banging on my front door.
“Hold on,” I called, setting the egg on the counter. I hurried to the entry. I’d rented that place for almost a year, while spending nearly every waking hour at the project. This was the first time anyone had knocked on my door. “Who is it, please?”
“Toby Shea, Boston Globe. I’d like to speak with Jeremiah Rice.”
Panic seized me. I had imagined our accelerating misery as a private matter, something the two of us would experience quietly together. At once I felt all sense of security turn into vapor. “I need a minute,” I said. “I’m not dressed.”
I hurried into the bedroom, peered through the curtains. I couldn’t see the front door from there, but a TV truck was pulling into a space across the street. Meanwhile a woman with a notepad was marching down the sidewalk from the other direction. A photographer juggled his equipment while trying to catch up with her.
Back in the kitchen. Jeremiah stood where I’d left him. “You look frightened. What is the matter?”
“We have to get out of here. Grab what you need right now. We’ll come back later for the rest.” I threw a few things into a backpack, jammed my feet into sneakers, jogged back to the hall.
“Dr. Philo?” There was more knocking. “I’d like to come in now, please.”
“Just one more second,” I called.
Jeremiah had pulled on his high, brown boots. I took his arm, pulling him to the low window of the kitchen. “Be right there,” I yelled.
He gave me a puzzled look. “Why are you not answering the door?”
“You remember those paparazzi I described to you?”
“Is it them?” Jeremiah stood so openly, listening, trusting. It was all I could do not to throw my arms around him.
“Not quite. But there are other people who could intrude in our lives, too.”
“I don’t understand. I’ll do another interview. We’ve not done anything wrong.”
The Curiosity Page 35
