The Curiosity (33 page)

“Remember man that you are dust.”

“What's that?”

“Scripture.” He moved forward, touched his mother's stone. “Truth.”

“Are you all right?”

He faced me. “I barely remember them, Kate. But I remember what it is like to miss them.”

“Did you see your parents, you know, in the time between? All those years you were frozen? Or experience them in any way?”

“If I did, I had to leave the memory behind when I revived.” He dug with a fingernail at the lichen on his father's marker. “My recall goes directly from falling into the frigid water to opening my eyes with you sitting beside me. I remember your smile.”

We both stood there, staring at the gravestones. “Well, anyway,” I said, “this over here is what I think you wanted to see.”

The tree had crowded the next stone, but I guided him. “There. Who gets the last laugh now?”

JEREMIAH RICE
was carved across the top, above his birth date and a day in early 1907 that I assumed was when the expedition returned without him. There was a gavel etched on the stone, and a ship. Below, the carving read
DEVOTED FAMILY MAN, RESPECTED JUDGE, FRIEND TO ALL.

“I love that,” I said. “Friend to all. You were the same outgoing man then as you are now. The frozen time didn't change you.”

Jeremiah made no reply for half a minute. “Mark this down,” he said finally. “Here is my strangest experience yet in the here and now.”

My mouth went dry, but I managed to speak. “Are you ready for the hardest?”

His answer was to take my hand in his. Even in the anguish of that moment, I felt the privilege of being with this man, of guarding his heart when I could, of providing comfort when I could not. Here was a moment beyond my capacity, I knew that well. I squeezed his hand, and led him forward.

The stone on the tree's other flank matched his in height and lettering.
JOAN RICE, AUG. 15, 1934.
A bouquet of flowers was carved under her name.
DEVOTED WIFE AND MOTHER.

“I am so sorry, Jeremiah.”

“She outlived me by twenty-seven years.”

“I can't imagine how this must—”

“I wish she had remarried. I wish my Joan had not been alone all of that time.”

I searched for the right thing to say. But he moved on to the next one, his body looking like it had gone hollow.
AGNES RICE HALSEY, OCT. 17, 1926. LOVING DAUGHTER. DIED IN CHILDBIRTH.
Her carving was of an angel with rays of light streaming from its head.

“Joan suffered the loss of Agnes, too,” he said. “She had eight years alone.”

“But in childbirth, Jeremiah, she went in childbirth. You may have descendants after all. I tell you what. When we get back, I'll find that list, I'll dig through every person who came forward, better than Dixon did. Her Mr. Halsey wasn't buried here and that's a great clue. We'll find your family, I promise.”

Jeremiah stood rigid, his face as blank as sheet metal. “Hm,” he said.

“I am terribly, totally sorry,” I said. “This is the worst.”

“Hm.”

“Look, Jeremiah,” I said. “It may not be permitted in the time you come from, but in the world of today, it is okay for men to show their feelings. Especially grief. Totally allowed. Especially grief this stupefyingly huge.”

“Hm.”

I worked up my nerve, reaching, laying a hand along his upper arm. Jeremiah gasped, buried his face in my shoulder, exploded against me in sobs. One of his hands fluttered in the air like the wing of an injured bird. I brought it in against my chest. My other arm I wrapped around him as far as I could go, holding tight, while his back heaved like some kind of animal that was flailing against its cage.

CHAPTER 31

The Hunger

(Daniel Dixon)

W
hen my cell phone told me the caller was the Lazarus Project offices, I figured it was Carthage wanting his daily bout of scheming on how to play the press. The last person I expected to find on the line was Gerber.

“You might want to get back here pretty soon,” he said.

“What's cooking?”

“Our fans in the park have outdone themselves.”

He wouldn't give me anything more, which all but guaranteed that yours truly would hustle back to Boston, pronto plus two. It was a shame, though, because I was having one of those days where instead of getting paid, I should have been paying someone. Like when I worked for that paper in Florida, and every spring break they would send a photographer out to the beaches to find the latest bathing-suit style. He would come back saying it had been crowded, hot, drunken kids, and a real annoyance. Then we would see his roll after roll of bikinis, thongs, even one-piece racing suits if you put the right twenty-year-old body inside, and any red-blooded man will be panting like a hound in a heat wave. The newsroom would razz the photographer for the rest of the week.

That's about how much fun tailing people was for me: staying in the shadows, driving half a block behind, opening a newspaper wide when my sidewalk bench needed to become an instant hiding place. One time years back, the mayor of the city where I worked had a reputation as a boozer. I tailed him three nights before catching him at an uptown bar. It was an easy mark while the guy sucked down five martinis, but then he marched out the door as steady as a surgeon. I hustled outside just in time to see him get behind the wheel and drive off. Now there's a fine dilemma, because a reporter is not supposed to become part of the story, but if I sat mum and he plowed into somebody, it would be on my conscience. Before I could decide what to do, a squad car zipped by, lights on. Later it came out that the mayor's wife had hired a private eye to shadow him, hoping to get him caught and scared sober. The whole thing cracked me up: this pathetic drunk just wants to get a load on, and meanwhile he's being tailed by two people.

Well, my marks that day had given me plenty already. I had ideas about where I could catch them later, too, if necessary. I hightailed it back into town, working side streets to dodge the traffic and reach the project quick like a bullet.

I could have kissed Gerber for calling me in. When I pulled up, the place looked like a murder scene. Four or five black-and-whites blocked the street, there were lights and camera crews and people shouting back and forth. I squeezed behind a TV dish truck and approached the first cop I saw. “What kind of circus do we have here?”

“Lotta noise, mostly,” he said. “Loozahs didn't feel they were getting enough attention, so they made a human barricade across the boulevahhd. We've pawped like sixty of 'em, blawcking traffic, assembly without license and whatnawt. And now they won't give their frickin' names.”

“What do you mean?”

He pointed at men clustered behind yellow crime-scene tape, all wearing red shirts. They sat on the curb, looking like sheep. “They all say their name's Adam, no last name.”

I chuckled. “Guess it beats John Doe.”

“Them.” He pointed at a group of women, all in red, behind tape on the other side. “They're all named frickin' Eve.”

“I get it.”

“Meanwhile we got real crimes to deal with. Plus, ever since the marathon bomb bastids, my buddies don't exactly love crowds.”

“What are you going to do with all of them?”

“Adam and Eve? I dunno. Fetch a snake? Feed 'em apples?” He laughed. “Naw, they got a downtown overnight coming. Once transport gets heah.”

His boss started over, a lieutenant, and I rolled out of there. I heard him tell the cop to keep the area clear of gawkers, meaning me. I'd planned to use the rear door, but Wade was holding forth to reporters on the sidewalk. I couldn't resist.

“I told them not to do it,” he informed the cluster of microphones. “I told them this was not the time for civil disobedience.”

He was about as convincing as a dog owner ordering his pit bull to let go of a burglar's leg. I dug out my trusty notebook.

“We have been patient,” Wade continued. “We argued against this project in court. We begged the Commonwealth of Massachusetts to investigate the diabolical doings of this nefarious group.”

I chuckled, trying to imagine who inside the lab's walls fit that description. Gerber, spacing out to the latest Dead bootleg? Thomas, licking Carthage's shoes?

“All to no avail,” Wade said. “And so these good people took matters into their own hands. You see them now, being arrested for doing what they believe is right. They are going to jail as a matter of conscience. Perhaps they remember the teachings of Gandhi: ‘First they ignore you, then they laugh at you, then they crack down, then you win.' So here is the crackdown, my friends.”

Earlier it was King he quoted, and now Gandhi. This guy was shameless, no qualms about using whoever was handy, and he had a head of steam.

“We're not the ones redefining mortality. We're not the ones using unethical science. But we are the ones willing to suffer, because our consciences cannot stand by.”

I wrote it all down, but no denying the nasty taste in my mouth. If this outfit was like Gandhi and King, then I was like Princess Diana. The paddy wagon arrived, cops started loading all the Adams and Eves, and just when I thought the show couldn't get anymore carnival, some of them started singing “We Shall Overcome.”

That one stung. I mean, quote anyone you like, no hair off me. But I worked five years at a paper in Baltimore, and the last time I heard that song was at the funeral of a twelve-year-old. Stray bullets don't care where they land. There was nothing civil rights about these protesters, just a calculating dude with a knack for keeping the tape rolling.

“Our responsibility is to keep the roads clear,” the police spokesman meanwhile told one reporter, off to the side. “These people are endangering drivers through here, and they are endangering themselves. Simple as that.”

The wagon loading was dull, no one resisting, so I badged myself into the building. I could e-mail alert my editor, and file copy on this in minutes. The lab bullpen reminded me of a newsroom in the morning, before reporters arrive. Few lights on, no phones ringing. Billings was bent over his computer like some underpaid bean counter in an 1800s sweatshop. Gerber, feet on his desk, eyes closed, was blissing to whatever stoner reveries jammed in his headphones.

I paused by the
Perv du Jour
basket, thinking now might be a good time to sneak out that green binder. But I checked the board first and sure enough Gerber had a new offering. When it came to weirdness, the guy was as dependable as a metronome.

That night's entry was different, because it had a highly identifiable origin: walkerforpresident.com. Here was Gerald T. Walker's trademark toothy grin, hand outstretched as he was introduced to Jeremiah Rice. A caption ran beneath:
Tuned In, In Touch, and Ready to Restore America's Global Leadership in Science and Technology.
At the photo's edge, you could see Dr. Kate's slender ankle and foot. That woman, damn.

Gerber also posted a screen capture of Frank speaking and the veep leaning to catch every word. The caption:
Listening to America, Proud of Our Nation.

Finally there was a picture with Walker's arm thrown around Frank's shoulders. The judge wore a pained expression, but Walker was smiling like he just beat two weeks of constipation. I swear, his teeth were pulled so far back he looked like a horse about to sneeze. The caption:
Reanimate America. Walker for President.

“Makes you want to gag, doesn't it?” Gerber had sidled over.

“What?” I chuckled, taking my hand off the basket with the binder. “I was feeling choked up and patriotic.”

He sniffed. “Worst case of the hunger I've seen yet.”

“What are you talking about?”

“You know what I mean.” He waddled back to his desk, pressed a button to blank the screen. “All these people, all the same hunger. Gimme a piece, gimme gimme.”

“What's so terrible about folks using old Frank? Nothing new about that.”

“True. And I'm sure the judge can handle it.” Gerber picked up his headphones. “But look at all the signs. The sites, the bloggers. Media frenzy like he was a movie star. That army of freaks saying they were his offspring. This bit from Walker. Sheesh.”

“Human nature, Gerber.” I tapped the
Perv
sheets. “The usual. Hell, a century ago it was a dozen women claiming to be the long-lost daughter of the last Russian czar.”

“If this is the same old thing, then it's getting worse. It's like
everybody
is pretending to be that Russian chick, the whole country.” Gerber held his arms wide. “When you add in the crazy scene in this place, no wonder everybody is perving all over our judge.” He scratched his scalp with the headphones. “I don't like it.”

I thought about pulling out my notebook. Was this a conversation I'd want to quote someday? Or was it just late-night Gerber, caught when his buzz needed refreshing? “In my opinion,” I said, “you ought to stick to science. This is a clear case of same shit, different day. No harm in any of it.”

“I'm not sure about those protesters. They irritate the crap out of me.”

“They've definitely grown more annoying.” I dug the notebook out after all, flipping to find a clean sheet. Shadowing the lovebirds all day had given me hours to kill. I'd whiled away the hours fooling with letter combinations from the chamber's security pass code: BOMS, CMNR. Maybe they added up to nothing, but often people choose passwords that signify something to them. BNOQ. Would the letters reveal a secret about Carthage? Then I found AMOS and knew I'd struck gold. Whatever it meant, one day I would find out. “You should have heard them out there tonight.”

“There's this want, want, want everyone seems to have,” Gerber continued. “And with the folks outside our doors, you have the added danger of piety. Whenever anybody gets too righteous, it makes me nervous.”

I wrote down what he said, but on the page it only looked like basic doper paranoia. “Why is that?” I asked.

Gerber ignored the question. “The worst was that reporter who came through here yesterday. God what a smug son of a bitch.”

“What are you talking about? I'm the only reporter allowed in here.”

“I didn't catch his name, you'd have to check the sign-in at security. I just know he had an okay from Carthage. He came in for an interview, but he was full of accusations about what a lousy judge Jeremiah apparently had been. The judge gave the reporter the heave-ho, but not before he'd been rattled. Who does that guy think he is? Challenging somebody about something he did or didn't do a hundred years ago? What's he trying to prove?”

“Carthage promised me exclusive access to Subject One. And no one else.”

Gerber rolled his eyes. “Don't tell me you've got the hunger, too.”

“Hell no,” I said. “Just another story to me, another byline. But Carthage and I had a deal. And I can just guess who that fucking reporter was.”

“You're completely missing my point.”

I jammed the notebook in my pocket. “Right this second, with all due respect, I do not give a rat's ass about your point. I have been bullshitted again.”

Gerber laughed and turned his back. “Well, aren't you suddenly Prince Charming?” He pressed a key on his computer, and the screen brightened. A bunch of graphs all pointed uphill. He leaned forward and studied them.

I paced for half a minute. I deserved an explanation. With Carthage gone home, the only people with any answers were the good judge and Dr. Kate. I knew right where I could find them. I mean, if I were Frank, I know where I'd be aiming to get her, just the two of us, the minute the sun went down. Not to mention this meant I could get back to tailing for the night.

“I've got work to do,” I told Gerber's back, and hustled for the corridor.

“Have fun, tiger,” he sang, wiggling his fingers in the air.

Goddamn elevator took like a month to arrive.