Transhuman

by Ben Bova

  Tamara’s eyes widened. “You shouldn’t be carrying all that cash. It’s dangerous.”

  He shook his head. “I can’t use credit cards or traveler’s checks. Too easy to trace.”

  “But still … if anybody knew how much cash you’ve got in there…”

  Tightly, he said, “That’s a chance I have to take.”

  He left Tamara and Angela in the van, the motor still running to keep the heater going, and bought the cell phone.

  Opening Tamara’s door, Luke said, “You drive. I’ve got to call Fisk.”

  “Do you know his phone number?”

  Luke replied, “It’s in my laptop.” Almost grinning, he added, “Right beside my money stash.”

  She got out of the van, went around, and climbed into the driver’s seat. Luke pulled out his laptop and, after a quick glance at his sleeping granddaughter, climbed in beside Tamara.

  Off they drove.

  Fisk Tower, Manhattan

  QUENTON FISK WAS dictating a letter to his computer’s voice-recognition program when his desk phone blinked. Gritting his teeth in irritation at the interruption, he killed the dictation program, then tapped the intercom button.

  “What?” he demanded.

  “Professor Abramson calling, Mr. Fisk,” said his assistant.

  “Abramson? I’ll take the call.”

  “On line one, sir.” Before Fisk could react, his assistant added, “Should I notify that FBI man?”

  “No,” he said sharply. “Not yet.”

  Then he lifted the phone from its cradle and leaned back in his comfortably yielding chair. “Professor Abramson. How are you?”

  Abramson’s voice sounded strained, gritty. “I need your help, Mr. Fisk.”

  “What can I do for you?”

  For several minutes Abramson poured out his troubles. Dying granddaughter. He could cure the child. Parents don’t understand. The FBI is after him.

  “I need a medical facility where I can treat Angie without the FBI grabbing me.”

  Fisk wished he could see the man. It was always so much easier dealing with someone face-to-face, rather than a disembodied voice. Reading a man’s facial expressions often told more than listening to his words.

  “Where are you now?” he asked.

  Abramson replied, “On the road. South of Washington, D.C.”

  “Heading where?”

  “I don’t know!” Abramson’s voice rose a notch. “I don’t know where we can be safe. We need a facility for Angie. I can’t keep her in this van forever!”

  “Calm down, Professor. I’ll be glad to help you.”

  “You’ll be saving my granddaughter’s life.”

  “Of course. Now, exactly where are you? I need to know which highway you’re on, and which mile marker you are passing.”

  Abramson replied, “Interstate 95, heading south. Twenty miles before Richmond.”

  Smiling to himself, Fisk thought, It all goes so much more easily when you have money and connections. He told Abramson, “I’ll set you up with a hotel for the night. I’ll call you back in ten minutes or less.”

  The professor was reluctant to hang up on nothing more than that promise, but the poor chump had no choice.

  Clicking his intercom again, Fisk told his assistant to make the necessary hotel reservation.

  “Then call Professor Abramson with the information,” he ordered.

  “Yes, sir. Should I call Agent Hightower now, sir?”

  “No. No need to bring him into this. Not yet.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And when you talk to Abramson, tell him to call me back once he’s in the hotel. On Skype. I want to see his face.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  * * *

  LUKE FIDGETED NERVOUSLY in the van while he waited for Fisk to call back.

  “You think he’s calling the feds?” Tamara asked, her eyes focused on the road.

  “He wouldn’t do that.”

  “Neither would your friend Petrone.”

  Before Luke could reply, the cell phone buzzed. He snatched it.

  “This is Mr. Fisk’s personal assistant,” said a smooth female voice. “I have made the following hotel reservation for you and your party.”

  * * *

  THE HOTEL WAS an upscale Marriott, with its own restaurant and room service. Fisk had reserved them a two-bedroom suite on the top floor.

  Angela woke up as Luke lifted her out of the van. “Hi, Grandpa,” she said, blinking sleep out of her eyes. Looking around as Luke carried her through the lobby, she said, “Wow, this is super.”

  Tamara, holding the IV bag as she walked beside them, agreed smilingly. “Top-flight place. I hope you can afford it.”

  “Fisk’s paying for it,” Luke replied. “At least, that’s what his assistant said.”

  Sure enough, the room clerk at the desk told Luke everything had been taken care of. A young bellman offered to find a wheelchair for Angela, but Luke kept his granddaughter in his own arms.

  “I can handle it,” he told the bellman.

  The suite was spacious and quiet, with heavy drapes on the windows and thick carpeting. Two bedrooms connected by a tastefully furnished sitting room.

  As Luke deposited Angela on one of the double beds, the child said, “I can sit up, Grandpa.”

  “Fine,” he answered, with a smile.

  “Can I have something to eat?” she asked. “I’m hungry.”

  Luke glanced at Tamara, who said, “Some broth. A cup of Jell-O.”

  “A cheese sandwich,” Angela said. “Please? I won’t throw up again. I promise.”

  “Maybe later,” Tamara said. “Let’s see how you do with the soup and gelatin.”

  Angela nodded glumly, then turned to Luke. “Where are we going, Grandpa? Can we phone Mommy and Daddy?”

  “Not right now, honey,” he said, feeling rotten when he saw the disappointment on her face.

  Tamara asked Luke, “Do you want an ibuprofen?”

  “No, I’m okay.”

  She gave him a doubting look. “After carrying Angela all the way up here, your back isn’t hurting?”

  “No,” said Luke, feeling slightly amazed that it was true. “No pain.”

  Tamara shrugged and went to the phone to call room service. Luke clicked on the TV set and fished for a program that would entertain his granddaughter.

  Once they finished their late lunch, Angela sat up in bed happily enough, watching a kids’ cartoon channel.

  Luke motioned Tamara into the sitting room that connected the suite’s bedrooms. Sitting on the sofa, his laptop on the coffee table, he told her, “Fisk wants me to call him back.”

  “It should be safe enough to use the hotel phone.”

  “On Skype.”

  “That’s even better. You can use your laptop. I don’t think they can trace Skype calls, or if they can, it takes longer. Something like that.”

  Feeling embarrassed, Luke admitted, “I don’t know how to do Skype.”

  Tamara almost laughed, but checked herself just in time. With a smile, she said, “That’s okay. I can show you.”

  Within ten minutes, Luke was talking face-to-face with Quenton Fisk.

  * * *

  FISK WAS STILL at his desk when Luke’s call came through. He peered at Professor Abramson’s image on his wall screen. He had expected the old man to look haggard, weary. Instead Abramson seemed lively, almost energetic.

  “I’ve given your problem considerable thought, Professor,” Fisk said, after the usual preliminaries. “I believe I’ve worked out a solution for you.”

  Abramson said nothing, but the expression on his face radiated hope.

  “I have a friend in Louisiana, near Baton Rouge,” Fisk explained. “He has a fine old house down there, a former cotton plantation. You can stay there.”

  “But we need a medical facility,” Abramson objected.

  “Not to worry, Professor. If Mohammed can’t come to the mountain, we’ll arrange t
o have the mountain come to Mohammed.”

  Abramson looked doubtful.

  “My friend can arrange to have medical people and equipment brought to his mansion. All very quietly, very discreetly.”

  “He can?” The professor’s face brightened.

  “And you can stay as long as you like, no problem.”

  “That’s great! But Baton Rouge is at least a two-day drive from here.”

  “My assistant will set you up with route directions and make hotel reservations along the way. Right through to Baton Rouge.”

  “Fine,” said Abramson. “Wonderful. I don’t know how to thank you, Mr. Fisk.”

  Fisk lowered his eyes in a brief gesture of humility. Then, “We can’t let them stop your work, Professor. Your granddaughter’s life is at stake.”

  “That’s right. But still, you’re being very generous.”

  “Think nothing of it.”

  Fisk allowed a few more moments of gratitude, then cut off the professor’s thanks with, “I think you ought to know the name of the man you’ll be visiting.”

  “Oh! Yes, of course.”

  “His name is Lorenzo P. Merriwether. He’s quite wealthy.”

  “Lorenzo P. Merriwether.”

  “My assistant will give you all the details before the end of the day.”

  “Thanks again, Mr. Fisk.”

  Fisk waved the admiration away and clicked Abramson’s image off his wall. Then he ordered his assistant to contact Lorenzo P. Merriwether.

  I ought to let Lonzo know what I’ve put him up for, he said to himself.

  Nottaway Plantation

  ANGELA WAS SITTING in the van’s backseat as Luke drove the SUV down the long driveway leading to the plantation’s manor house.

  Sitting beside him, Tamara said, “This is like something out of Gone with the Wind.”

  “It’s beautiful,” said Angela. Luke thought her voice sounded weak, frail.

  The driveway ended at a large, three-story house fronted with tall graceful white columns and decorated for Christmas with holly and wreaths and candles at every window.

  Two young black men were standing at the entrance to the mansion, lean and smiling. Luke had half-expected the servants to be in livery, but these two youngsters wore dark pullover shirts and jeans.

  “Welcome to Nottaway Plantation,” said one of them, as Luke and Tamara climbed out of the SUV. Luke opened the rear door and helped Angela out of the van. Her IV was disconnected, but she still bore the port in her arm. It made Luke remember that he had one of those plastic leeches attached to his bloodstream, too.

  The air felt chilly but soft, even gentle, nothing like the cold farther north. The two young men cheerfully took all the luggage and packages of medications and equipment, then led them to the front door. Angela, in Luke’s arms, was goggle-eyed as she took in the big house with a huge holly wreath bedecking the heavy oak door.

  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.

  * * *

  IN 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.

  * * *

  IN 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

  LUKE 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.”

  * * *

  THE 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.”