The Curiosity: A Novel

by Stephen Kiernan

  “Well, well. I may be slow, but hit me with a hammer enough times and it might sink in. Here I am prattling on about graphs, while you . . .” He cleared his throat. “Right. You and I have made a proper muck of things, haven’t we, Kate?”

  “Do you think so?”

  “I’m straight out of a job. And you’re in a far worse predicament, aren’t you?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe. Probably.”

  “I’m terribly sorry.” He sighed. “I suppose it is entirely too late for me to suggest maintaining scientific perspective or upholding professional distance.”

  “Entirely.” I fiddled with one of the boots. “Who else knows about this? Has anyone told Jeremiah?”

  “Not a chance. Carthage didn’t even tell me, until I’d confirmed it myself. I thought I’d discovered a solution, but it turned out to be bollocks. Carthage thinks he has a better answer, but in the lab I’ve already found how his way fails.”

  “So how will I know, Billings?”

  “Indeed.” He coughed into his fist. “Very well. Palsy. If he begins to shake like an old woman with Parkinson’s, or some Bowery drunk fighting DTs, then you’ll know he has taken his place somewhere on that miserable curve.”

  I nodded. My throat felt clogged, but I had to ask. “What if he’s already shaking?”

  “It’s begun already? Well then. I’d say . . . well, monitor other metabolic signs. You know the lot. Increased appetite, diminished need for sleep.”

  I began, the littlest bit, quietly, to weep. “Then what?”

  “I hate to see you this way, lovely. After all we’ve been through. Can’t bear it.”

  “Tell me. Please.”

  “Ah, Kate. There’s no predicting the rate, only the bloody outcome.”

  I cried for a minute or so, letting the tears spot my dress a darker green. Jeremiah. Watching your fingers jiggle on the bench at Lynn. Reading in my house and sitting on your hands. Hugging at the cemetery and your hand flapping.

  Gradually I collected myself. One of the boots had fallen upright. I hugged it into my lap, looking into the opening like it was a leather mouth. “Is there anything I can do?”

  He didn’t answer. When I raised my eyes, I saw that Graham Billings was gone.

  CHAPTER 35

  Winning Lottery Ticket

  (Daniel Dixon)

  That was the day everything turned in my favor. After that morning, life lined up very nicely on behalf of yours truly. If I had anyone to thank, it would have to be the bishop. I mean, at daybreak I’d been without a plan of any kind. Just a raging frustration like I was strapped in a straitjacket.

  Fact is, that bastard Carthage had stumped me in about ten seconds. He knew right where to hit. No security badge, no going inside, no proof to show the world. That green binder might as well be on the moon. I’d spoken to my editor that night. He said he’d be damned if he would take on the likes of Sir Erastus of Asshole without hard evidence. Photos, data, the works. My editor was a damn coward. He also happened to be right. The word of Daniel Dixon against that of Dr. Nobel Contender? I’d be a laughingstock. The fact that I was telling the truth wouldn’t matter a tinker’s tit.

  But the bishop changed the game. Or maybe he just made the game visible to me. I mean, I’d been watching it take shape for months now, always thinking it was about Carthage, or Jeremiah Rice, or window-shopping Dr. Kate’s personal merchandise. Not until the bishop spoke about the author of life and the crowd cheered him like crazy did I realize that this saga was actually all about me.

  Look, when fourteen-year-old Daniel Dixon pulled his parents from that fire, dead of smoke inhalation before a single flame had touched them, his relationship with mortality was permanently forged. That terrible night showed me right up close how the body endures after death, as if all it needs is one good clean breath to sit back up again and tell me to finish my homework. Not to mention schooling me that no matter how desperately we want to believe otherwise, death is the most solid, final, unarguable thing that exists.

  While I coughed so hard I thought my lungs would come out my nose, with each gasp I was becoming the perfect dupe for Carthage. Who better than a sucker who’d spent his whole life wishing there was a way to cheat death?

  All those years as a reporter, though, also taught me to see things as they are. A situation may be foggy at the start, but reality burns it off to amazing clarity. That’s why I was also perfect for discovering that the project was bogus from top to bottom, stem to stern, start to finish.

  The one thing I hadn’t figured out was why. What motivated Carthage to concoct the whole business? He was never short on cash, and already had professional prestige out the wazoo, so why? I plain didn’t know, is what it was. I flopped onto a bench outside the project entry that morning, to chew on that question awhile.

  Of course I sat alone. Daniel Dixon always sat alone. Not self-pity, just a fact. When you’re not supposed to get close to the people you’re writing about because it will wreck your objectivity, and when you’re prickly by nature because you see the world’s flaws too clearly, and hell, when you’re forty-five and fat since childhood, you get to be a goddamn expert at sitting alone.

  At least the entertainment was first rate. I watched old T. J. Wade work the noisy red shirts into a good lather, waving that stupid invitation of Carthage’s like a cape before a bull, and bringing the gang to peak decibels just as the bishop’s limo wheeled up.

  But the control was not complete. When His Excellency wanted to speak, it took Wade quite a few minutes to settle them down. Even then, they kept interrupting with shouts, chants, a manic energy that made me nervous. It felt edgy, like the pot was close to boiling over. I moved to another bench, to watch from across the street.

  After the bishop left, they’d done one more bit of yelling for the cameras. Shut it down, shut it down, neither brilliant nor catchy, but it made the point. As the news teams packed up, I thought of that old tree-in-the-forest question: if there’s no media to publicize a protest, is it really taking place? Captain Handsome went somewhere on a break, but the shouters did not dissolve like usual. They were too het up, bustling around in their red shirts like a bunch of salmon trying to find the way upstream.

  Who should flop beside me on the bench just then but Gerber, looking as rough as if someone stopped his own reanimation halfway through. “What the hell happened to you?”

  “What do you mean?”

  I laughed. “You look like you climbed inside a vat of whiskey three days ago and crawled out ten minutes ago.”

  “What day is it today?”

  “Friday. Must have been quite a bender.”

  Gerber dropped his face into his hands and gave it a long groaning rub. A few of the shouters noticed us, and turned to make some noise in our direction. They kept to their side of the street, though. The bit about blocking traffic had come and gone. Besides, Boston’s finest had arrested more than a hundred of their pals, who sat rusting in cells because the judge refused to set bail till they provided their actual identities. On a sunny summer morning, the sidewalk looked much more inviting.

  “No.” Gerber spoke through his fingers. “Not a bender. Just four straight days trying to figure something out.”

  “Hey,” I said, “you don’t have to worry about my opinion. I figure you’re probably not even in on it.”

  He cocked his head, taking me in with one eye. “What are you talking about?”

  “That beautiful fraud known as the Lazarus Project.”

  “You’re crazy,” he said. He arched against the bench’s back, letting his neck tilt till his face was pointed at the sky. “What are the idiots yelling about today?”

  “The usual. The project, Jeremiah, God.”

  Gerber brought his head back to level. “Their signs are getting better.”

  He was right. Wade had brought them from Magic Markered cardboard to painted boards with good square lettering, held high on wooden dowels. The slogans were sharper,
too: SMART ≠ MORAL, JESUS LOVED THE REAL LAZARUS, and GOD IS NOT IGNORANT. My favorite was I’M WITH STUPID, only the T in stupid was a crucifix.

  Gerber let out a long sigh. “Am I wrong or are they louder than usual?”

  “It might be your hangover.”

  “You’re not listening, Dixon. It’s not partying. I have been working around the clock since Tuesday morning.”

  “I thought you saved that kind of effort for NASA. What’s cooking?”

  “Only the toughest thing since we restarted the good judge’s heart.”

  “Come on. The guy’s out gallivanting all over town with Dr. Kate.”

  “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 se
curity 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 judge’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.