by John Darnton
"What're you working on?" he demanded, in his grating Australian accent.
"The New Paltz murder. There're a lot of loose ends to it, and I think it could turn into something big."
"New Paltz—Shit! I thought you were told to drop that."
"No, not at all."
"I don't get it. Why are you still following that piece of shit?"
"Nobody told me otherwise."
"But I thought you were off that. Orders from—"
"Who? Orders from who?"
"Never mind. As of right now, you don't go near that story—you hear me? Jesus. New Paltz. Fuck me."
Like many of his countrymen, when Bolevil said "Fuck me," he meant "Fuck you." If the direction of his aggression was uncertain, the depth of it was not, and a small crowd had gathered at the nearby rewrite bank, enjoying Jude's discomfort. He couldn't blame them. Watching Bolevil chew people out was a favorite newsroom pastime. But it wasn't really a blood sport, because the city editor carried little authority—only what he could muster by invoking Tibbett's name, which he did increasingly during times of stress.
"We'll find something for you to do." The city editor shouted over to a clerk. "You got anything?"
A young man held up a piece of wire copy. "Construction workers acting up again, some kind of demonstration."
"Too good for him," bellowed Bolevil. His face turned red as a tomato. "I want something in East New York. Bed-Sty. Brownsville."
The red phone rang—the hot line from Tibbett—and the editor lunged for it. His voice transformed itself into something dulcet, and he promptly forgot Jude, who beat a hasty retreat back to his cubicle.
Jude called a friend, Chuck Roberts, the Sunday editor. Some years back, Jude had helped Roberts through a messy divorce, thereby incurring a debt of gratitude that was being paid off on the installment plan.
"Jim. Jude here. I need shelter. You got anything for me?"
"Who did you piss off this time?"
"The weevil."
"Aw, I was hoping it was something serious."
"Serious enough. He can mess me up."
"What's the problem?"
"I need the rest of the day free."
"Come on down to the Sunday department. I'll call the clerk on Metro. You've just become absolutely indispensable to us."
The Sunday department viewed itself as an ivory tower above the hurly-burly of the daily paper, turning out articles on timeless matters such as recipes for gazpacho and How to Train Your Dog to Love You. In its quiet corridors, which twisted and turned like an old English hedge maze, Jude found a small cubicle in the back. It had half of a window looking onto Fifth Avenue.
He turned on the desk computer, signed on with the password he had chosen years ago—"Luddite"—and went on-line. The machine was cranky and took a while, but eventually he got through. He clicked on Search and typed in "Institute for Research into Human Longevity." The machine took even longer than before. He went for a coffee refill, and when he returned, he found 984 hits.
Discouraged, he began scrolling through them. There were endless listings: research, remedies, anecdotes, case studies, stories, myths, superstitions, male, female, child, genetic antioxidants, caloric restriction, organ replacement, hormone therapy, life expectancy, gerontology. Almost at random, he hit one under the heading drosophila.
It began:
Michael R Rose, a specialist in genetics who is obsessed with aging, thinks big but acts small. Since 1976, when he was a graduate student at the University of Sussex, he has worked on the radical idea known as the evolutionary theory of aging, and he has done it with the lowly fruit fly. He started with two hundred female flies in milk bottles, and every time they reproduced, he selected only the eggs from the longest-living ones. As he moved from university to university, Rose took his flies with him. Today, at the University of California at Irvine, Rose now presides over a population of flies almost one million strong. But it's not their number that's grabbed the attention of the scientific world—it's their age. They live as long as one hundred and forty days. That may not sound like much to you, but for a fruit fly, it represents a doubling of the life span. How would you like to live one hundred and fifty years instead of your predicted seventy-five?
Jude found similar sites for worms, birds, goldfish and monkeys. He modified his search, adding Jerome and then he added W. He was linked to a web page. It appeared on the screen piece by piece, and as it took shape before him, he saw that it was a lizard standing upon a rock, looking enigmatic with a sleepy-looking hooded eye that seemed to follow the viewer. The site appeared to be an old one with only odd bits and pieces, but there was at least one reference to the IRHL, which Jude assumed was an acronym for Institute for Research into Human Longevity.
Down in the lower left-hand corner, he saw a box marked DISCUSSION GROUP and he clicked on it. There were four other people in the chat room, and he came upon a conversation already underway.
"every night i pray to God to let me live through the night and one more day. the next thing i do the same thing. and it always works. that's my secret."
"what's the name of that woman, the french woman who lived to some incredible age? she met some famous guy."
"her name was jeanne calment. she died last year at age 122. As a child she met vincent van gogh, she sold him a box of pastel crayons."
"that's it. so it shows whats possible, no?"
"it does. but others have lived as long. they're going to have to change the record books because people are living longer and longer."
"somebody's joined us. hello luddite."
"hello," Jude replied.
"we're talking about—what else?—getting older. and 'methuselah' here has been telling us not to worry—we're going to live forever ha ha ha"
"no, not forever. but it's a matter of scientific fact that the human life span is getting longer and longer. at the turn of the century life expectancy in the u.s. was 46 or 47. Now it's about 76, though of course many people go way beyond that. it's going to keep going up."
"but there's a limit, no?"
"there's no way around the basic facts. you get older and you die. the older you get the greater your chances of dying"
"actually, that's not true. the opposite is true."
"what do you mean?"
"I mean that human mortality rates do not accelerate through the life span."
"explain pls."
"that doesn't make any sense at all to me. why do you think I keep asking God for another day?"
"your chance of dying starts to decelerate around the age of 80."
"you mean accelerate."
"no, just the opposite. if you make it to 80, the odds improve ever so slightly that you'll make it to 81. the human mortality rate levels off sharply at 110. So if you make it that far you might just be like madame calment—you'll coast along until 122."
"but that doesn't make any sense."
"it contradicts human reason, but science often does. Your surprise just shows how poorly we really understand the aging process."
Jude decided to enter into the debate.
"Don't you think there are finite limits on how long we can live?"
"yes, luddite. Of course there are. but I'm saying we have not come anywhere near them. we've doubled the span within this century, and that's only by external remedy—diet, exercise, vitamins and so forth. we haven't even begun to manipulate the span internally by playing around with the genes."
"can that be done?"
"it's being done. And when that happens, there's no reason to think we can't live 150, 170, even 200 years. Imagine what you could do with your life if you had 200 years."
"no wonder your name's methuselah."
"there are no accidents. tell me something, luddite, you interested?"
"certainly."
"how old are you?"
"thirty."
"still young. tell me, what do you do?"
Jude hesitated half a second.
"I'm a journalist."
"aha. An honorable profession."
"so what's the offer?"
"offer?"
"I thought you were going to recommend something."
"yes. a good health club, eat a lot of fruits and vegetables containing carotenoids—that'll soak up the free radicals. run five miles a day."
"that's it."
"yeah."
"let me ask you something else," wrote Jude, "what's the significance of Jerome?"
"beats me."
Someone else interjected, "could you explain that bit again about not dying after 80?"
"sorry. time's up. must rush now and feed the cat."
Jude typed quickly.
"one last thing—what's "W" mean?"
"funny you should ask."
"how so?"
"I asked that same thing once on this same site. long time ago."
"and the answer?"
"i don't know what it means."
"but what was it????"
"double you."
"double you?"
"that's it. bibi"
"bi."
Jude hit a button and the lizard came back on the screen. He hit another and signed off.
Chapter 16
Skyler told himself to stop running, that he would attract less attention that way, and he slowed to a fast walk. But he was sweating profusely, he was still panting heavily, and he could not refrain from looking over his shoulder to see if he was being pursued. He felt conspicuous—he was sure that the terror welling up inside made him stand out. And, in truth, people did seem to be staring at him oddly, all those others on the sidewalk who seemed to have a reason to be there and a place to go. He had neither—and he was not even thinking clearly enough to consider his next move. He was just running on instinct, choosing streets that somehow looked less dangerous, the way a hunted fox will head for the hedgerows.
He came to a park that had asphalt in the center and pathways on either side. A fountain spewed a jet of water into a basin that formed a knee-deep brownish lake brimming with floating apple cores and banana peels and plastic bottles and soggy pieces of cardboard. Young people in shorts were wading in it, and others with mostly long hair or shaved heads were seated on the edge, close to a young woman who was playing a guitar and singing plaintively. Men stripped to the waist and women with halter tops and frayed blue jean shorts were zipping by on some kind of wheeled shoes. The central square of the park, facing a large monumental arch, was mobbed. Walkways led off in all directions, and under scraggly trees, elderly men and women sat expressionless on park benches.
He read a sign: WASHINGTON SQUARE.
The crowd made Skyler feel more exposed, not less. And he noticed that people were whispering things to him; men standing around who looked away as he approached, but spoke almost without moving their lips—"smoke, smoke" and "half kilo" and "black ice" and "Mexican spike." He could not catch all the words, and at first the men looked so conspiratorially secretive he thought they were trying to warn him of something. He spun around, and they quickly moved away, but the more he looked around to see what they were talking about, the more desperate their whispers became.
"Shit, man. Chill," said one man wearing black pants and a black shirt and a cream felt cowboy hat.
Skyler left the park and walked two blocks until he came to a coffee shop. He sat down at a table in a dark corner inside, and when a young woman with a seethrough black lace top asked him what he wanted, he said, "Coffee."
"Black or milk?" she asked, and he just nodded, so she shrugged and went away. A few minutes later, she came back with a mug. He sipped it, thinking about his situation and wondering where to go. He did not want to sleep again in Central Park. He pulled out the money Jude had given him and counted it; he doubted that it would go far.
Behind him, lights suddenly blazed and converged in a riot upon a small stage, where a young, thickly set black man with baggy pants and a small beard fiddled with some knobs on a black box. He set off a snarling squeal of music centering on a pounding beat. He grabbed a microphone, held it close to his lips and began swaying and jerking spasmodically, yelling out words that were difficult to catch. Skyler stood to leave and, passing a cashier's booth, he asked how much he owed.
"Fifteen bucks."
He was stymied.
"Fifteen dollars. Five for the coffee and ten for the entertainment."
He pulled out a ten and a five in despair. That was almost a third of his money. As he made for the door, the cashier upbraided him.
"It's a custom on this planet to leave a tip, you know."
He looked at her blankly.
"Christ," she said in a stage whisper. "What an asshole."
He ducked out onto the street, his cheeks burning, feeling doubly conspicuous. How was it possible in such a vast place with so many people rushing in all directions to feel that they all had their eyes on him?
He walked three blocks and came to a wide street. On the corner, a wire-mesh fence ten feet high enclosed a playground where men played basketball—he had seen it on TV. They were moving so swiftly it was hard to follow the ball. Sweat poured from their brows and down the muscles of their backs, and they looked grim, backing into a huddle under the basket, leaping straight into the air and poking one another with their hips and elbows.
It was while he was watching them that he turned and thought he saw a familiar figure across the avenue, a large, muscular frame and a head rocking ever so slightly, as if it were ducking something. But he could not be sure. The sun was reflecting off of the window of a parked car, and it made it appear as if the man had a slash of white to the hair. An Orderly. Skyler could not tell for sure, but his gut tightened with fear. He turned away and then slowly turned back and looked again. The figure was looking in an opposite direction; it did not see him. Could it possibly be?
Skyler did not even try to contain himself this time. He ran back down the street, turned a corner and ducked into the first open doorway, finding himself in a darkened room. His eyes gradually adjusted to the light and he looked around: half a dozen men were there standing around, some of them leafing through bins of magazines. He moved to the back and entered another small room that led to a darkened corridor lined with doors. He opened one and stepped inside. It was dark except for one wall of thick, lighted glass, behind which he saw flashes of white flesh—a woman, half naked, dancing ponderously. She was wearing only a red string below her waist and had huge breasts that hung almost to her stomach, like waterfilled balloons. They swayed heavily as she moved. Skyler saw her odd smile fade into alarm as she spotted him standing immobile in the tiny booth, and then he saw her look down, and finally he noticed the back of a head rising up right before him. A man stood up and faced him, at first surprised, then his lips curling in anger.
"Hey, what the fuck!"
And at that moment Skyler saw the woman reach for something, and with a crashing sound, a metal shutter fell down and she disappeared, plunging the booth into almost total blackness. He felt a hand grabbing his left arm, and backed away. Reaching behind him, he found the doorknob and turned it, twisting so that the hand left his arm and was grasping his shirt. He pulled away, heard a tear, and left quickly, finding a back door that led onto an alley. He ran to the end, spun around a corner, and was back out on the crowded sidewalk.
The words rose within him and came into his brain before he had time to think: Jesus Christ!
He walked away, moving fast and turning from time to time to look over his shoulder, and as he did so, he thought of Jude in the subway, doing the exact same thing. Jude had appeared sincere in the bar, concerned for Skyler's welfare. Should he try to find him? Could he trust him after his experience in the rooming house? Had Jude set him up?
Three blocks later, Skyler came to stairs leading from the sidewalk down into the subway, and without even thinking, he took them, the fox now going to ground. He heard the grinding sound of an approaching train, st
opped at the booth and thrust a dollar through the tiny window, then another, and got a token, which he inserted into the turnstile.
"Hey, buddy," yelled the token booth clerk. But Skyler pretended he did not hear and moved quickly down the platform.
"Your change!"
The train was crowded. He looked around from face to face and did not spot anyone suspicious-looking. There was no flash of white hair, no Orderly. Skyler paced the length of the car and looked into the adjoining car and did the same at the other end. Not there, either. The screeching sound was unnerving to him, as was the roll and pitch of the car, and a wave of nausea swept over him. He felt a sudden compulsion to leave the train at the next stop, but when it pulled in, he forced himself to stay on board. He had to cover more ground, put more distance between himself and the Orderly—if that was who he had seen. Two more stops came, and then three and four, and each time his desire to flee was stronger, and as the car filled with more and more people, it seemed more stifling and more sinister.
He couldn't stand it anymore; he had to get out. At the next station, he positioned himself in front of the doors, and the second they opened, he bolted, jostling his way through a throng of boarding passengers. He burst through the turnstile and raced up the stairs, two at a time, and saw a patch of blue sky up ahead. But when he arrived at the top of the staircase and was finally outside on the street, he was immediately surrounded by another crowd, a mob of men.
They pushed and shoved, screaming and yelling, and he was carried along helplessly. He saw fists flying and faces panicked and angry, and suddenly he felt a blow to his ribs. A man's elbow had smacked into him; the man looked at him and said he was sorry and swore.
"Goddamn cops!"
Skyler looked up and saw horses on the street pushing the crowd back onto the sidewalk, and on top of the horses were policemen bearing plastic shields across their faces. When the horses danced forward, lifting their legs high with their eyes bulging in fright, the mob fell back upon itself, trampling two or three men, and when the horses gave ground, the crowd surged forward as if to threaten the police.
