Syndrome - Thomas Hoover (best summer books .TXT) 📗

disappeared into the dark and rain when she heard a shot fired from the direction of the police car.

It must have been an accident, she told herself. There’s no way—

But the smooth hum of the engine dying away in the fog abruptly changed tone, then started to sputter. Ten seconds later, there was silence.

She was so engaged she didn’t notice the stirring at her feet. A moment thereafter, she saw the towering bulk of Kenji Noda rise up beside her. Then she felt his grip on her wrist and realized he was dragging, and pulling her to the edge of the pier. Then she felt a shove and a swirl of dark air around her, followed by the splash of cold water. Surprisingly, it didn’t really feel freezing-it just felt refreshingly brisk. With one hand she grabbed one of the square concrete pillars that was supporting the pier. The mysterious strength she’d had from time to time was coming back once more.

That was when she heard a vicious howl, wolf-like, that transmuted into a growl, and the next thing she saw was a hazy form hurtle past her and splash into the water.

Actually, it was two forms, and the darker one was flailing while the lighter one bore down on him, her teeth on his throat.

“No!” she screamed “Don’t.”

As the pair drifted past her in the current, still linked she reached out and seized Knickers’ collar, yanking her back. Then she watched helplessly as Kenji Noda disappeared into the dark. Could he swim with one arm?

The cops were futilely searching the wide river with their searchlight, looking for the helicopter, for anything, but there was nothing left to see.

She quietly made for shore, even as she and Knickers were being swept downstream by the current When they finally reached the bank, it was somewhere around Morton Street. Oddly enough, she wasn’t cold and she wasn’t tired when she drew herself up onto the rocks, Knickers at her side. She just lay panting for a moment.

“Come here, baby,” she said drawing Knickers to her. The dog was shivering and she knew she had to get her home soon. “Thank God you can’t talk. I think something very evil just passed from the world.”

Epilogue Thursday, June 25

10:49 P.M.

“You’re really something,” Stone declared, falling back onto the rumpled sheets. “What’s come over you lately? Don’t you ever get tired?”

“Maybe I’m just happy to be alive,” Ally said, smiling as she ran a finger down his chest. “I’m catching up on all the living I’ve been missing out on.”

Her heart was definitely on the mend, in several ways. She was beginning to think she was in love. After Steve went missing, she thought that love would never happen again, but maybe it had.

“Know what,” he said, rising up, “I’ve really worked up an appetite. How about you? Think I’ll make an omelet. Got any eggs left in the fridge?”

“Should be some,” she said. “But I’ll pass. Anything I eat after ten goes straight to places on my body that don’t need further reinforcement.”

It was so nice just to have someone to be near again. Her nervous system was still recovering from the harrowing experience down on the pier. In fact, she wasn’t really sure what actually had happened. The crashed McDonnell Douglas was retrieved from the water the next day, but there were no bodies aboard. Had Winston Bartlett drowned and his body been swept out to sea by the tide? Also, there must have been a third person, a pilot. And what about Kenji Noda, who also was missing? Did he make it to shore? In any case, they all had disappeared. The case was closed. And since nobody had found a will, New York State was currently the executor of his fortune. Eileen Bartlett was sole heir. Her waiting game had paid off superbly. The price of her Gerex shares was doubling every two weeks. She was about to become a very rich woman indeed.

But had Winston Bartlett really gone to a watery grave? Ally somehow doubted it. He had too much invested in life to cash in so easily.

As she watched Stone get up and swathe himself in a huge white towel before heading for the kitchen, she found herself replaying that harrowing scene at the pier. She kept trying to remember something Bartlett had said about forming some kind of society. Was she fantasizing or had he said he was going to do that and then offer the Beta procedure to its members? What was he going to call it? Try as she might, she couldn’t remember. She had developed a mental block that her mind was using to shield her psyche from the horror of that evening.

That night she’d first considered going to St. Vincent’s Hospital emergency room for the gunshot wound but then she’d thought it over and decided there were too many things to explain that couldn’t be explained Instead she just went home and washed the wound and filled it up with Neosporin. She didn’t even tell Nina. The next morning, scar tissue was already forming. Now it was completely healed and even the scar had all but disappeared.

Had the Beta really worked? She wanted to tell Stone about that possibility, but she wasn’t sure how he would take it. And she absolutely did not want to end up in the book.

She pulled on a terry cloth robe and slippers and padded her way into the kitchen. She wasn’t hungry, but she felt like a glass of wine. She poked around in the wine rack in the kitchen closet and came up with a bottle of Bordeaux. Stone was cracking large white eggs into a stoneware bowl.

“Sure I can’t make some for you?” he asked, leaning over to buss her hair as she searched in the drawer for a corkscrew. “I’m gonna throw in some cheddar, but I’ll leave it out if that doesn’t work for you.”

“I just want a glass of red wine,” she said, retrieving the corkscrew. “And I need a memory jogging. What’s a word that makes you think of living a long time? I… I want to look up something on the Internet and I don’t know how to start.”

“What kind of word is it?” he queried. “I’m a wordsmith. Twenty questions. Is it a noun, a verb, an adjective?”

“If I could remember that, I might be able to come up with it.”

He was tossing a quarter stick of butter into the pan. “Hey, I once learned hypnosis. Why don’t you let me take you under?”

“Does that really work?”

“It’s how I come up with interview stuff sometimes, from years ago. We really do have a complicated memory system. I think everything you ever knew is buried somewhere, maybe in a tiny little wrinkle.”

She suspected he might be right. In this case the repressed info was still there; it just had been deliberately covered over and hidden.

“So do you want to hypnotize me? You’re sure you know how?”

“I’m not boasting, but I could make Methuselah remember the day he first got out of diapers.”

She stared at him. “My God, I think that’s it. Methuselah. I think that’s the word I couldn’t remember.” She kissed him on the mouth enthusiastically. “I’ve got to check something.”

She popped the cork and poured herself a glass.

“Want some?”

“I’m not sure what goes with eggs at this time of night. Probably tequila.”

“Good luck. You know where to find it. There’re some limes in the fridge. Right now I’m going to fire up the Dell and do a little search.”

“Now? ” His face dropped. “How about a little romantic… whatever?”

“Come and join me. Bring your plate. We’ll go exploring in cyberspace. It’ll be a romantic voyage. I’ve got a hunch about something.”

She walked back into the bedroom and clicked on the computer. She sipped at her wine, deep but still fruity and delicious, as it booted up.

“What’s going on?” he asked as he wandered in. He was carrying a shot glass of tequila and a white plate with the cheese omelette. The aroma was seductive.

“I want to check out something. I have to be honest and confess I’ve been holding out on you a little. When I saw Winston Bartlett that night on the pier, something he said—”

“Ally, I need to do some confessing too. The time never seemed quite right. I need to tell you something about him.”

“Well, don’t tell me now. I don’t think I can handle anything else to worry about tonight. Please save it.”

She was logging on to AOL. Then she went to the search engine Google, which she had found to be the best.

“I want to check out that name you came up with. It rang a bell.”

She typed in Methuselah, supposedly the guy who lived for nearly a thousand years.

There were pages and pages of references relating to that word. It started with a five-thousand-year-old pine tree, then an article from Modern Maturity on how to extend life, then Caltech research on a longevity gene, then a rock band in Texas (undoubtedly very retro), a short story by Isaac Bashevis Singer, and so it went.

“What, exactly, are you looking for?” he asked, holding out a folk. “Here. Want a bite?”

She reached and tore off a fluffy corner. He did eggs perfectly.

“Thanks,” she said, chewing. Now she was moving to the third page. “I think I’m looking for an organization. And Methuselah was in the name. At least… that’s what I seem to remember. I’m definitely repressing a lot.”

“Well, what about that one?” he asked, pointing.

The line read, the Methuselah Society.

“That’s it,” she declared. “Now I remember. That’s the name he used. I swear. So it’s real. I’m not crazy.”

“What are you talking about?”

“It’s him. That’s what he said he was going to do.”

She clicked on the name.

The Web page came up and it was strictly in black and white, with small print. And there it was again, THE METHUSELAH SOCIETY. There was no information beyond a request for a secure e-mail address.

“Looks like they want to check you out,” Stone said.

“To make sure you’re not connected to politics or law enforcement.”

“Then why not give it a shot,” Stone said. “You’re on AOL. You’d have to be a civilian.”

She typed in her address and entered it. Immediately a little yellow padlock appeared in the lower right-hand corner, indicating their communication was secure. Then a notice materialized, a small square flickering to life. It contained her phone number and then her name. Next a complete financial record began to scroll down. It had been elicited from banks, mortgage companies, credit services. There was Value of Real Estate owned, Mortgages Outstanding, Bank Accounts, Outstanding Obligations, Estimated Net Worth. It had all appeared in a time span of seconds.

“Wow,” Stone said. “There are no secrets left from these guys, whoever they are. They are wired.”

Then a message appeared: The minimum net worth required to be a member is 500 Million Dollars. The fee for membership is 100 Million Dollars. A 10-Million-Dollar retainer is required while your application is being processed. Please be prepared to designate the ages you and your companion wish to remain.

“My God,” she said, “that’s him. He’s done it. Winston Bartlett is alive and well, and selling immortality, real or not.”

Then another message came up: Welcome, Alexa. Please be advised you are already a member. But you have not yet selected a companion.

*

Afterword

How much of the foregoing is true or even plausible?

In late 2002, medical researchers in Dusseldorf announced they had successfully treated heart-attack victims using stem cells harvested from the