by Ben Bova
“And they’ll believe that, won’t they?”
“They can’t force you to tell them anything.”
“Luke, they can arrest me for helping you. What do they call it? ‘Aiding and abetting’ a kidnapper, isn’t it?”
It was Luke’s turn to fall silent. Finally he muttered, “I’ve really messed up your life, haven’t I?”
“No,” she replied. “I’ve messed it up for myself.”
For the first time, Luke realized how totally fouled up everything was. But then he looked over at Angela, a helpless little child.
We’ve done this for her, he told himself. We’ve saved Angie’s life. And thrown away our own.
* * *
THE DIRECTOR OF the Boston FBI office felt uncomfortable talking with Rossov. He didn’t like the idea that someone from the White House was looking over his shoulder. And now the young snot was giving him orders.
Rossov’s face looked pleasant, almost cheerful, in the screen of the director’s desktop phone. But his words were far from congenial.
“And just where is Abramson?”
Trying to keep from squirming like a little kid, the director said, “We’re not certain yet, but it appears he might be at a private research facility in Oregon.”
“When will you be certain?”
“One of my top men is on his way out there right now.”
Rossov considered this for a moment. “I want to know the instant you find him. If he’s not there, I want you to report that to me, just as well.”
The director nodded. “We’ll keep you informed.”
“If he is there,” Rossov said, his face hardening, “he’s to be kept there until I can fly out and meet him face-to-face.”
“That’s not our normal procedure,” the director said.
“This is not a normal case. I want to meet Abramson as soon as you get your hands on him.”
The director nodded. He had already spoken to his Justice Department superiors in Washington about Rossov’s interest in the Abramson case—and been told to cooperate fully with the White House man. Fully.
“Keep me informed,” said Rossov.
The director suppressed an urge to say, “Yes, sir.” Instead, he merely replied, “Right.”
The phone screen went blank. With a sigh, the director told his secretary to get the head of the Salem, Oregon, office on the phone. Standard operating procedure. The Salem office covered the entire state. You don’t send a man into someone else’s territory without informing them first. He doubted that Hightower would need backup in dealing with Abramson, but just in case …
O’Hare International Airport
NOVACK LOOKED AROUND at the bustling crowds in the O’Hare terminal.
“Two-hour layover,” he said to Hightower. “We might as well grab something to eat. My treat.”
Hightower grunted an assent. As they made their way to the food court, he thought that it was easy for Novack to pick up the tab: He was on a Fisk Foundation expense account. Generous with his boss’s money.
But something was prickling the hairs on the back of Hightower’s neck, something bothering his peripheral senses. Del Villanueva. The kidnapped girl’s father had wanted to come along on this search for Professor Abramson. Hightower’s experience in judging men and their intentions told him that Villanueva would not give up on that quest just because he risked being arrested for hampering an investigation. That was a paper-thin threat, and both men knew it.
Novack led him to a hamburger joint, but Hightower felt edgy, uneasy, like an old-time brave being tracked through the arroyos by an enemy or an invisible skinwalker.
He’s here, Hightower realized, just as surely as if the man were standing before him. The sonofabitch hopped a later flight out of Boston and he’s here in the airport, searching for me. He didn’t have to settle for the lowest-fare flight to Chicago; he’s not working for the government.
“Don’t you like the burger?” Novack asked, half his sandwich already devoured.
“It’s all right.” Hightower munched it down. Novack paid the check with an American Express card, and the two men went down the busy terminal corridor to the gate from which their flight to Oregon would leave.
“Still got damned near an hour to wait,” Novack complained as he plopped into one of the plastic chairs.
Hightower remained standing, scanning the crowd hustling along the corridor.
And there he was, Delgado D. Villanueva, tall, lanky, pulling a roll-along bag, his face set in a determined scowl, his eyes scanning back and forth like twin radar dishes.
Their eyes met. Villanueva’s lips twitched, as if he wanted to smile. He headed straight for Hightower.
“I told you to stay home,” Hightower said by way of greeting, almost growling the words.
“It’s a free country,” said Villanueva. “You can’t keep me off this flight.”
Novack, looking puzzled, got to his feet. He was much shorter than either of the other men.
Grimly, Hightower introduced, “This is Del Villanueva, Angela’s father.”
Novack frowned puzzledly for a moment, then recognition dawned.
“And who are you?” Del asked, almost truculently.
“He’s with me,” said Hightower. “Ed Novack.”
Novack looked back and forth between the two men. “You’re heading to Portland, too?”
“I’m going to find my daughter.”
“This is FBI business,” Hightower said. “You’ll be in our way.”
“Don’t hand me that crap,” Del snapped. “She’s my daughter, for chrissakes. I have every right to be with her.”
Novack said, “I’m going to get myself a Coke. You guys want anything?”
Surprised, Hightower said, “Nothing for me.”
“Me, either,” said Del.
“I’ll be right back,” Novack told them. And he practically sprinted away from them.
Some partner, Hightower thought, mildly disgusted. First sign of trouble, he disappears.
Del eased himself into the seat Novack had vacated. “I didn’t know if I’d be able to catch up with you. I could only get a standby seat on this flight to Portland.”
Sitting ponderously beside him, Hightower said, “You’d be better off going back to Boston. This is an official FBI investigation, and you are not part of it.”
“You can’t keep me out of it,” Del insisted.
“I can have you arrested for hampering an official investigation.”
“You do that and I’ll bring you up on charges of illegal arrest.”
Hightower stared at Villanueva. What I ought to do, he thought, is break your goddamned neck. Take you into the men’s room and pulverize you.
Yeah, he told himself. Beat up a private citizen. Father of the kidnapped girl. Great career move.
Novack came back, sipping a drink through a straw. He looked around for an empty seat near the other two, but there weren’t any.
“Guess I’ll have to stand,” he said, almost cheerfully.
“There’s seats over there,” said Hightower, pointing.
“Naw. I’ll stand here with you guys.”
Del glared up at him. Hightower glowered.
Two uniformed airport security guards shouldered their way through the crowd streaming through the corridor and came right up to the three of them. The younger of them was black, thin almost to the point of being skinny. The other was chunkier, a Hispanic with a thick dark mustache and a somber expression.
Pointing, the Hispanic asked, “Del Villanueva?”
Warily, Del answered, “Yes.”
“Would you come with us, please?”
“Why? What for?”
“We need to ask you a few questions.” Wiggling a finger, the guard indicated that Del should get up.
“What’s this all about?” Del demanded. But he rose to his feet. Hightower got up beside him. Novack stood beside the two guards, sipping and trying to look concerned.
“Airport security,” said the Hispanic. “Strictly routine, but you’ll have to come with us. Bring your bag, sir, we’ll have to inspect it.” He rested a hand on the butt of the gun holstered at his hip.
“I don’t understand this,” Del said. But with one guard on either side of him, he gripped his roll-on and left the gate area. The crowd in the corridor parted to make way for them.
Del looked back over his shoulder at Hightower, his expression halfway between confusion and anger.
Hightower turned toward Novack, who broke into a satisfied grin.
“They’ll hold on to him until our flight has left,” Novack said.
“That’s illegal!” Hightower exclaimed. “You can’t detain a man for no reason.”
Pursing his lips, Novack said, “Apparently somebody tipped off the guards that a guy answering Villanueva’s description was trying to smuggle drugs to Portland.”
“Somebody? You!”
“It’s a reasonable story,” Novack said. “They’ll ask him some questions, search his bag. When they don’t find anything they’ll apologize and let him go.”
“After he’s missed his flight.”
Shrugging, Novack said, “He was only on standby anyway.”
“And those guards believed your cockamamie story?”
“Maybe. But they believed the fifty bucks I handed each one of them a lot more.”
Hightower glared at him, fists on his hips.
“Come on, man,” Novack coaxed. “You couldn’t do it, so I did. There are some advantages to having a freelancer working with you.”
Shaking his head, Hightower muttered, “If this ever gets back to my director…”
Ten minutes later the ticket clerk announced that their flight was ready for boarding. As he stepped into line Hightower thought, Villanueva can take a later flight. But what’s he going to do once he’s landed in Portland? Search the whole city for us?
He followed Novack into the access tunnel that led to the plane.
Love, Maybe
DINNER WITH SHANNON was pleasant enough. Luke talked about his plans to take samples of his prostate tissue and identify their telomeres, then develop a specific inhibitor to stop the tumors.
“But you don’t know if there are any tumors,” Shannon objected, over her bowl of French onion soup. Tamara thought the soup came from a can, but she said nothing about it.
Luke waggled a hand in the air. “Even if there aren’t any, the inhibitors ought to shrink the prostate gland itself.”
Shocked, Shannon objected. “You can’t run experiments on yourself! You’d be operating in the dark, Luke.”
“Besides,” Tamara pointed out, “the accelerators you’ve been taking seem to have reduced the prostate to what it must have been when you were fifty or so.”
Luke frowned at both of them. “You want me to wait until the tumors are full-blown?”
“At least wait a week for another PSA test.”
He glanced at Tamara, who nodded and said, “That makes sense.”
Luke replied, “Maybe. But in the meantime we can take some tissue samples, so I can identify the telomeres.”
“You’ll be urinating blood for several days,” Tamara said. “Are you ready for that?”
Luke shrugged as nonchalantly as he could manage and shifted the conversation to Angela’s condition. By the time the waiter had cleared the soup bowls and set out the grilled trout entrée, the three of them had agreed that the child’s brain was free of tumors.
“But the damned progeria is still dogging her,” Luke complained.
“She’s improving,” Tamara said.
“Maybe I should start her on accelerators,” he mused.
Shannon said, “And run the risk of starting fresh tumor growth?”
Luke huffed. “The p53 implant should help there.”
“Be patient, Luke,” Tamara said, placing a hand on his arm. “Don’t rush things.”
“I thought I could cure her in a couple of weeks,” he muttered.
“You did, but now we’ve got to deal with the side effects.”
Shannon said, “You’re welcome to stay here as long as it takes, Luke. You know that, don’t you?”
“Yes, I do. And I appreciate it,” Luke said. “But I wonder how long we really have.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“The FBI.”
“Oh, they won’t find you here,” Shannon said. But then she added, “You don’t think they could, do you?”
“It’s the mother-loving FBI, Shannon. They’re good at finding people who don’t want to be found. That’s what they do for a living.”
Her chin rising a notch, Shannon said, “Even if they come here, I won’t allow them into the facility. They have no right to search my laboratories.”
“They could get a court order,” Tamara said.
“Not from any judge in this county,” Shannon boasted. “I know them all.”
Luke glanced at Tamara, who shook her head just the slightest bit. Neither of them said anything to contradict their hostess.
* * *
AFTER DINNER, THE three of them looked in on Angela, who was sleeping peacefully.
“She looks noticeably better,” Shannon whispered. “Her skin looks much healthier.”
Luke said noncommittally, “Maybe.”
The three of them stepped back into the hallway, and Luke softly closed Angela’s door.
“How about an after-dinner drink?” Shannon suggested.
“Not for me,” Luke said. “I’m going to hit the hay.”
“Oh. All right. Well…” She finished reluctantly, “Good night, then.”
“Good night, Shannon.”
Luke and Tamara watched her go down to the end of the hall and through the door to the outside, glancing back at them just before she shut the door.
“She doesn’t like leaving the two of us alone with each other,” Tamara said.
Luke shrugged. “Then she shouldn’t have given us rooms in the same building.”
“The same building with Angie.”
“Yeah. Right.”
She started down the hallway. Luke kept stride beside her.
As they started up the stairs, Tamara asked, “Luke, what happens after Angie’s cured?”
“We fly back to Massachusetts and return her to Norrie and Del.”
“And the FBI?”
Their footsteps echoing slightly on the concrete stairs, Luke replied, “How can they prosecute a kidnapper who’s returned the kid to her parents?”
“You think it’ll be that easy?”
“Should be.”
“I hope you’re right.”
They reached the top floor and went down the corridor to Tamara’s room.
She stopped at the door, then turned back to Luke. “Well, good night.”
He tried to smile. “We should have taken Shannon up on that offer of a drink. I could use one.”
Tamara shook her head. “She offered you a drink. She never even looked at me.”
“She meant both of us.”
“Did she? She thinks of me as competition.”
Feeling uncomfortable, Luke groused, “Don’t start that again.”
“Why not?” Tamara asked, her expression almost impish. “You’re getting younger every day. You’re a handsome, intelligent, accomplished man. She’s willing to stiff the FBI over you.”
“You’re crazy.”
“And she’s a wealthy, good-looking woman. Just about your age, somatically. A little plump, maybe, but I think she’s started working out in the gym.”
“Look,” said Luke, “if I were going to get involved with anybody, it wouldn’t be with Shannon.”
Tamara said nothing.
“It’d be with you.”
Her eyes went suddenly wide, and Luke felt just as surprised as she looked.
He slipped a hand around her waist, pulled her to him, and kissed her soundly on the lips. Tamara didn’t resist. She clung to Luk
e for a long, breathless moment.
“Uh … good night,” Luke stammered.
“Good night,” Tamara whispered.
And he stomped down the hallway and the concrete stairs to his own floor, thinking that the freaking fountain of youth brings all kinds of complications along with it.
Portland
THE THREE-HOUR TIME difference between Boston and Oregon made Hightower’s day twenty-seven hours long. Even though the clocks in the airport terminal read 9:22 P.M., he felt as though it were time to call it a day and get some sleep.
Novack seemed chipper, though, as they threaded their way to the rental car counter, his cell phone clapped to his ear.
“Okay, okay,” he was saying. “Airport Marriott, good. Adjoining rooms. Fine. And the car’ll have a GPS? Fine. Good work. I’ll call Mr. Fisk tomorrow morning.”
Smiling as he snapped the phone shut, he told Hightower, “Car and hotel reservations. My office’s travel agency has set it all up for us.”
“Good,” was all that Hightower responded. But he thought that his own office could have done the same thing. Probably. But the accommodations would be cheaper, using Uncle Sam’s dime.
The car waiting for them at the Avis counter was a shiny maroon Chevrolet Malibu. Novack drove it to the hotel; they checked in and went to their adjoining rooms.
“See you in the morning,” Hightower said.
“Right. And then we go to the Bartram Labs.”
Hightower nodded and entered his room. Flicking his carryall onto the king-sized bed, he pulled out his phone and called his chief’s home number.
The director answered on the first ring. “Been sitting up all night waiting for you to check in.”
“Just got to the hotel,” Hightower reported.
“Any problems?”
Hightower told him about Villanueva and Novack’s little ploy.
The director chuckled. “He’s a slick sonofabitch, isn’t he?”
Hightower said, “I think Villanueva will come out here anyway. He’ll be pretty damned sore, you know.”
“What’s he going to do, search the whole city by himself?”
“If it was me,” Hightower replied, “I’d grab a phone book as soon as I got off the plane and look for scientific research establishments.”
The director was quiet for a moment. Then, “You give him too much credit, Jerry. Besides, phone books don’t have listings like that.”
