The Forever Man: A Near-Future Thriller (35 page)

“Good evening, Mr. Anslow,” the driver says as Lane gets in. “You’re quite the sensation. You even made the late news. The mad balloonist, they’re calling you.” The driver chuckles. “What do you think?”

“It’s hilarious,” Lane replies as they pull away and head down Elm. “Now, what’s this all about? Who sprung me?”

“Wish I could tell you, but I really don’t know.” The driver is a plump man in his fifties, wearing a summer sport shirt and slacks. From a unit sitting on the dash, the bark of police dispatches comes from a small speaker. “Truth is,” he continues after a moment, “I don’t want to know. You’re Street People, and that’s good enough for me.”

“This a rental?” Lane asks.

“Sure is.”

The speaker box barks a license number and asks for a confirmation. The man chuckles. “Where did you stash the van?”

“How’d you know about the van?”

The man points to the box. “Everybody knows about the van. You tripped a neural camera going through the gate of that swanky golf club.”

The driver pulls onto a freeway heading northwest.

“What do people around here think of the prison?” Lane asks.

“They don’t,” the driver replies as he gazes out the windshield at the neon geometry lining the freeway. “Why should they? Would it change anything?”

“It might,” Lane responds. Outside, the city lights taper off and a line of hills looms
against the sky glow. “Do I get to know where we’re going?”

“No, but it’s close by.” The hills are soon behind them, and the driver takes an exit and heads east into the darkness. The road bores flat and straight through the desert. Distant lights appear. A pair of red and white specks descends through the sky at a shallow angle toward the source. An airport.

The driver pulls into the parking lot of a building that serves as the small airport’s flight center. He stops at the front entrance and turns to Lane. “Bon voyage.”

“Thanks.” Lane opens the door to the low whine of turboprop engines. “See you around.”

A man in his thirties comes out as the car drives off. He points over his shoulder with his thumb. “This way.”

“Do I get to see my itinerary?” he asks as they walk through the lobby.

“Not yet.” The man hands Lane a cowboy hat and a casual sports coat. “Put these on and face toward the plane when we get outside. You need to stay out of camera range.”

He opens the door to a restricted area, and they come out onto the tarmac. The overhead floodlights shine on the plane, the old Piaggio 180. Lane keeps his head low as they cross to it and hop up the stairs into the cabin.

“Lieutenant Anslow,” Rachel Heinz says through the open cockpit door. “Welcome aboard.”

She is already taxiing toward the runway as he slides into the co-pilot’s seat. “So I understand you did a bit of flying all on your own,” she remarks. “You know, it’s best to take lessons first.”

“You’re right about that.” Lane buckles his seat belt. “You’ve gone to a lot of trouble to extricate me. I hope I’m worth it. What’s up?”

“It would appear that my boss has made a deal with the devil, the same devil that knows what’s happened to your brother. It’s going to take the best of both of us to resolve these issues in a satisfactory manner.”

“So where do we start?”

“With your theory that those atop Mount Tabor used Johnny’s research to perfect some kind of super-rejuvenation process. It looks like you were right on the money.”

“How so?”

“Harlan told me he was taking some time off for plastic surgery. A little touch-up work, he said.”

“Maybe it’s true,” Lane says. “Maybe that’s all there is to it.”

“Don’t think so. Harlan’s never taken time off for anything. Never.”

Lane settles back as the plane accelerates down the runway. “Well, there you go.”

“Did you get ahold of Autumn West before they nabbed you? I mean, it looks like she’s
the gold standard for whatever they’re doing up there.”

“Unfortunately, I was interrupted by a heavily armed contract goon,” Lane says. “He made the feds look like a good deal.”

“So whoever’s up on the hill is onto us,” Rachel says as she pulls back on the yoke. The twin turbines scream their way up into the darkened sprawl of desert sky. The lights of Tuscon and Pima fall away beneath them.

“They’re onto me, but I don’t think they’re onto you,” Lane says. “If they were, we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”

“And where does that leave us?”

“Alive, for one thing. For another, we need to keep you clean. I assume you can cover your tracks about this flight and whatever you know about balloon trips”

“For a while. That’s where the race comes in. I need to be back on the job before Harlan’s done with his treatment, or whatever you want to call it.”

“For now, you’re going to have to stay way clear of me,” Lane says. “I’m highly toxic. If Harlan gets onto you, you may meet up with Mr. Nasal Tracker, courtesy of Mount Tabor. If the feds get onto you, you’ll go down for aiding and abetting a fugitive.”

“And what do you intend to do on your lonesome?”

Lane unbuckles his seat belt. A thick blanket of fatigue is settling over him. “Well, right now, I intend to search the cabin for a cold beer. After that, I’ll need some cash, some clothes, and a really good lobe.”

“Already done.”

“What can I say? You’re amazing.”

They have the perp secured in plastic cuffs with his face up against the storefront of a boutique for stylish women’s shoes. A female shopper inside the store briefly looks up at the offender through the glass front, then goes back to fondling new boots, quality boots. One cop pushes the perp flat against the glass with the tip of his baton. A dozen others stand around the assemblage of patrol cars and just chew the fat. A classic tableau of urban law enforcement at street level.

Lane turns away from the scene, which is playing out several stories below his hotel room. A nice room, the best that his new lobe could buy. The Feed does its endless video dance on a giant screen on the opposite wall. A silver tray from room service holds a crumpled cloth napkin and the remains of a club sandwich. A thick comforter of soft cotton drapes across the king-size bed.

Sooner than later, an electronic census inside Pima will reveal that he’s missing, and his digitized face will be fed to every neural camera in the country. The massive processing complexes at Homeland will grind through a trillion images from anywhere and everywhere. And there he’ll be, checking into this hotel. Right face, wrong lobe. Up go the flags.

And while the new lobe and the money will buy him some time, they won’t get him any closer to Mount Tabor and Johnny. His incisors clamp down on his lower lip. There’s a way out. He’s known it all along, but didn’t want to confront it head on. But now it’s time. He reaches for his handheld.

***

Harlan Green plays it on the cool side.

When Rachel enters his office, he waits a beat to look up from his reading. She sees not even a trace of expectation in his expression. Business as usual.

“So what have you got for me?” he asks.

She reciprocates his nonchalance. “We need to go over the schedule additions.”

“Can it wait? I’ve got a few things that I need to get to.”

“Sure.”

“Tomorrow morning okay?”

“That’s fine.”

“Good.” He goes back to his reading as she leaves.

As if she didn’t notice the ten years sheared off his face. The slack gone from the jaw. The crow’s feet absent around the eyes. The texture of the cheeks turned soft. The creases missing at the corners of his mouth. No scarring, no swelling, no surgery. Just a short visit to Mount Tabor.

She puts her handheld in text mode and sends a prearranged message to Lane.

“At ten, boys will be boys.”

***

The rosebushes form a dense tangle of prickly stems broken by an occasional blossom of dense color. They cover a two-acre plot below the point where Lane sits on a weathered wooden bench in Washington Park. He’s old enough to remember when this place was called the Portland Rose Garden, with its meticulously cultivated flower beds set in a perfectly manicured lawn. Each rosebush was carefully pruned and labeled. But runaway growth has since buried the beds and lawn. Now the blossoms form in unlabeled anonymity. Only the fir trees in the distance bear witness to the process.

Lane hears the flat hiss of the tires and deep purr of engines as the vehicles come down the road past the ruins of the tennis courts and roll to a stop in the parking lot behind him. He doesn’t bother to turn and look. Officially, the entire park is private property, owned by a consortium from Southeast Asia and the Persian Gulf. All the entrances are sealed and guarded by a contract security firm while they decide the property’s ultimate fate. But for certain individuals under certain circumstances, exceptions could be made, access could be arranged. And so it was for Lane, and for the vehicles now shutting down their engines.

Their armored doors open and close in the green silence. A mild breeze flows down from the forest above, carrying the scent of decaying pine needles. The Bird takes a seat on the far end of Lane’s bench, leaving two spaces between them. Without acknowledging Lane, he stares out at the wild knot of vegetation and the hint of downtown beyond.

“Welcome home,” the Bird says with a smile. He turns toward Lane as he says it. He wears a light summer suit, a white shirt, and a tie the color of dried moss. “Good to have you back. So what are we doing here?”

“I think that maybe we can reach an understanding.”

“We tried that once before, and didn’t get very far, as I recall.”

“Things have changed.”

The Bird guffaws. “You think so? For starters, you’re a fugitive from a federal detention facility. And as soon as the feds and their friends figure that out, you’re going to have a short stay here and an equally short lifespan after they throw you back in.”

“So what do you suggest?”

“You seek shelter, the safety of an organization that could guarantee your permanent security. I mean, in the end, that’s what we all want, right? A place to call home.”

“Maybe, but if we were to make a deal, there might be certain terms involved.”

The Bird looks out at the billowing green of the tree line beyond the hopeless tangle of roses. He breaks into a patronizing smile. “And what makes you think you’re in any position to bargain?”

“Mount Tabor.”

The smile fades. “Now why would I have any interest in Mount Tabor?”

“My brother’s up there, isn’t he?”

“Come on now: How would I know that?”

“The same way you know everything. Or should I say, almost everything.”

“And what don’t I know?”

“Certain things about your boss, Harlan Green.”

The Bird darkens considerably. “Boss? Did you say boss?”

A flock of crows flaps overhead and unloads a series of annoying caws. Lane takes a moment to reconsider his last remark. “So let’s call Mr. Green your strategic partner. Mind if I ask you a personal question?”

The Bird relaxes and grins. He shifts his weight to face toward Lane. “You got some balls, Anslow. I’ll give you that. Maybe that’s what I like about you. Okay, shoot.”

“You ever had any rejuve work done?”

The Bird shrugs. “Yeah, so what? So would you if you could afford it, which we both know you can’t. At least not yet.”

“Well, Harlan Green can definitely afford it. And he’s just had some very special work done.”

“What do you mean, special?”

“He just had about ten years shaved off. No surgery, no drugs, no tricks. Ten years. Just like that.”

“Sounds great. Where do I sign up?”

“Mount Tabor.”

The Bird looks away and stares out over the top of all the roses gone rogue. Lane can almost feel him assembling bits of information.

Lane pushes his luck. “Let’s talk about why you weren’t invited to the party up there.
Whoever’s in charge put a low valuation on you, and Harlan went along with it. Think ahead. Every ten years or so, Harlan gets a new reset and you get squat. Pretty soon, you’re dead, and Harlan’s just getting started.”

“Okay, so just what should I do about that?”

“I don’t think you should ask Harlan for an invitation. I think you should crash the party.”

The Bird goes silent again and looks out at the view. Finally, he turns back to Lane. “We’ll see about that. And just what do you want to get out of all this?”

“I want to find out what’s happened to my brother.”

“And what if he’s dead?”

“Then I’ll know.”

“What if he’s not up there?”

“Then they can tell me where to find him.”

“Anything else?”

“Yeah. If we start working together, I’ll be giving counsel now and then. Right now, I’ll give you a freebie. Don’t tell Harlan that you know what’s going on. If you tip your hand, the man on the mountain—whoever he is—might suddenly fade off into the distance.”

The Bird stands. “I’ll take that under consideration. Now tell me: How do I know you got all this right?”

“When was the last time you saw Harlan?”

“I dunno. Maybe a week ago.”

“Take a good look next time you see him.”

***

Harlan Green feels the youthful spring in his step as he strolls down the sidewalk on the way to his house. It’s a beautiful day on the cusp between summer and fall, full of blue sky and green bursts of vegetation all around. He feels a sense of synchronicity with it, a great biological surge. He left headquarters early to walk through this pleasant neighborhood, this gated place with no gate, and inhale the crisp air. With every step, at least a half dozen eyes track him to provide security, all tucked neatly out of sight.

As he walks, he sorts through the details of the next presidential election, still two years off. By then, he will have enough momentum to carry the vote coming from the impoverished, the disaffected, the sick, and the rage-struck. He will be swept into office and will need to assemble a cabinet and make the proper appointments. On the last block to his house, he considers the problem of the Bird. He tentatively promised the Bird leadership of the Office of
Homeland Security, the most sprawling security apparatus the world has ever seen. But of course, that’s out of the question. The Bird has neither the background nor the sophistication to run it. Between now and the election, he needs to prep his rough-hewn associate for this eventuality, but he hasn’t quite figured out the right approach.