Pulling The Dragon's Tail (16 page)

Thatcher felt the grip tighten.

“No medics, okay?” repeated Grayson.

Thatcher shivered in the cool morning breeze as
he probed the older man’s eyes
. Never have they looked so old
before,
he thought.

Vanished were the benefits of genetic implants
that had enabled Grayson to work full-time into his 90s as an
award-winning journalist. Chelsea’s death two years ago had been
the beginning of the end of a meaningful life for the veteran
reporter.

Thatcher reflected for a moment. In 2052, he had
arrived in New York City fresh out of journalism school. The
enigmatic Detts had sensed great potential in the brash young
Grady. In 2055, the first award rolled in for Thatcher as Detts
stood by like a proud papa.

Whatever Grayson had demanded, Thatcher Grady
had always delivered. And he couldn’t say no this time either.
“Okay, I …no medics.” With an incredulousness look, Thatcher
continued. “You took pills?”

Grayson’s eyes twinkled slightly. “Yeah. We
old-timers know how to do it the traditional way. It’s just as
painless as putting a death chip into that neural port contraption
that all you young people have glued into your brain.”

With a lump in his throat, Thatcher scanned him
up and down, and then asked, “How much longer?”

“I figure less than an hour,” answered Grayson.
“How’d you find me?” he asked, suddenly curious. “I mean, I thought
I… ah …had all matters arranged.” A glassy haze filled his
eyes.

“Shit, Gray! You
did!
I sure as hell
didn’t come down to the Jersey shore expecting to find you
like—like this. You weren’t answering any of my pages, you were
nowhere on the Net, so I decided to look for you myself. Scoured
the city all night. Then I remembered you’d vacation here with
…Chelsea …Sorry.”

This time it was Grayson’s turn to blurt out a
thoughtless question. “Why the hell did you spend all night looking
for me?” Such dogged determination could only mean one thing.
“Another clue?”

“Gray… I…um.” Thatcher bit his lower lip but
couldn’t restrain a weak smile. “Can I share good news with a dying
man?”

“Damn it, boy! Get on with it. I obviously don’t
have all day!”

Thatcher’s smile now completely erupted. “Gray,
it’s
more
than a clue this time!”

Grayson’s face lit up and his heart quickened.
With gallows humor, he thought that his death would be hastened by
this heart-pounding excitement as the poison would spread even more
quickly. “But are you sure?”

Thatcher had heard that cautious tone before.
Numerous reporters had encountered many disappointments over the
years as they searched for evidence of a now sixty-year-old,
possibly fabled, longevity experiment of the infamous scientist
Mitchell Hilliard. The Alpha Group, if it existed at all—and
Thatcher was now convinced it did—had seemed impenetrable to two
generations of investigative journalists. Somewhere in the world,
believed Thatcher, a dozen or so humans lived, each with a
semi-immortal existence.

“I’m sure about it this time, Gray. I’ve got
him!”

“Holy shit!” exclaimed Grayson. “Got him? You’ve
found one of ‘em? How much more do you know?” He was nearly giddy
with questions and intrigue. For a brief moment, he regretted the
overdose, but once more he heard his beloved bride calling him
home.

Thatcher paused, and carefully considered what
to say. “What I mean is I’ve got
it,
not him. I’ve got
the
lead! She’s a woman named Theresa Zealand. Interview is
this Thursday. Incredibly, I’d interviewed her several years ago
for a retrospective on the End-Date predictions. You may recall
she’s one of the original seven members of the Global Diversity and
Sustainability Project. Quite eccentric, but quite lucid.”

“Member of the GDSP, the End-Date team?” Grayson
was dumbfounded.

“Yup. She worked side by side with crazy Maurice
Emmerick when they originally predicted the global ice age was
coming.”

“So,” Grayson asked, “how credible is she?

“Gray. I can’t…I mean, we don’t have time to
discuss all the details, but she’s the real deal. She’s in her late
90s, health is failing. I guess she wants to talk before it’s too
late. All of her other sources and information panned out in my
other interview. I am…I mean, I have a good deal of confidence that
she has personal knowledge of an actual Alpha Group member.” Then
Thatcher swallowed hard, suddenly realizing he was going to ask
Grayson Detts for a piece of advice for the final time. “What do
ya’ think?”

Grayson’s stern visage was quickly hijacked by
his broad, toothy grin. “Go for it! Just don’t let it take over
your life.”

That well-worn joke still resonated with wry
humor. Smiling, Thatcher replied, “Nah, course not. I’ll only
pursue it in my spare time and in my sleep.” Then he let out a
sigh, pulled out a chair, and prepared to spend a suddenly precious
commodity—time—with his dear friend.

As the sun rose higher, their faces were bathed
in May’s gentle warmth. The elder man smiled again, but it was a
wan, weaker one. “I just wanted to see one more sunrise. They’re so
beautiful. It’s the rhythm of life, hope, possibility. Always loved
‘em. I hope you and the world get to see a lot more of ‘em.”

“Sure you don’t want to stick around to see if
the End-Date ice age really happens?” teased Thatcher.

“No thanks,” intoned Grayson. “But I do want to
set the record straight though. I’m not ending my life like all
those fools who kill themselves because they’re afraid of a
post-End-Date world.”

“Well,” replied Thatcher, “over eight thousand
have by last count. I don’t think there’s any shame in—”

“Thatcher! No! I’ve had a full life. But it’s
all behind me. I have no kids, no reason to stick around anymore,
‘specially since the damn terrorists took my Chels. If there’s a
God…”

“Thought you were a devout Lutheran?”

“Was,” replied Grayson. “Like millions of other
mainstream Christians, I struggled with the new scientific findings
on the historical Jesus and the inadequacy of the church to be
relevant in today’s world. The Fundies don’t care about science,
but everyone to the left of them does. Like it or not, we moderates
and liberals keep getting pushed around, it’s so hard to stay in
the center. And when they unearthed those damn documents… Oh sure,
I tried the Church of Abraham, read their literature, but I
couldn’t stomach their radical non-violent approach to all things
violent. They wouldn’t let me protect my own family in favor of
dying for a higher cause.”

“So,” said Thatcher light-heartedly, “those
super tech beings from Andromeda?”

“Who knows?” shrugged Grayson. “Maybe they’ll
beam me up anyway. But I know if there’s a heaven, wherever heaven
is, that Chels is right there, next to the Almighty.” Grayson’s
stoicism gave way as a spasm of grief washed over him. His chest
heaved, large tears welled up, and dripped down his stubbled
face.

Thatcher found some tissues, gave some to
Grayson, and then used some himself. Once more, Thatcher marveled
at the strong bond between Grayson and Chelsea. In contrast,
Thatcher had only found heartaches with women. Dabbing his own
tears, Thatcher said, “Well, I’m sure Chelsea’s up there directing
the choir.”

“God, I can’t wait to hear her soprano again,”
Grayson managed to say, but in an audibly weaker voice.

“I’m going to miss you, Gray.”

“I’m going to sound like an idiot,” responded
the dying man, “but all I can think of is a god-damn cliché. Oh,
what the hell! Here goes: I’ve taught you everything I know.”

The young reporter swallowed hard. “From one
damn cliché to another. You’re like the father I never had. And
I’ll make you proud.” Thatcher bit his lip hard, looked away,
hoping to not show the pain in his face.

“You already have, Thatcher. You know, maybe the
Almighty wanted you to find me before I died. You’ve given me a
great parting gift. If anyone was going to uncover the Alpha
Group’s secrets, it would be—it should be— you. You’ve always had a
unique approach to it, almost like it’s your personal mission. My
gut says you’ve nailed it this time. Pulitzer, fame, fortune. You
deserve it all and more.”

“It’ll be the scoop of the century,” replied
Thatcher. “And I have you to thank, Gray.”

Once again, he gripped Thatcher’s hand. However,
they were now trembling, their grip weaker. Humanity’s oldest
nemesis awaited, ready to write the final paragraph of his
life.

Thatcher silently cursed the universe that was
robbing his friend—that eventually robbed everybody— of vitality
and youthfulness. Crueler yet, he pondered, was that death not only
took it all away, but also mercilessly stalked its victims,
besetting them with withering physical ailments, burdening them
with psyche-numbing losses, and taunting them with knowledge of the
inevitable.

“I do have one regret though,” Grayson continued
in a voice now stiffer and hoarse.

“I just wish the longevity experiment was out in
the open. Hell, I wish governments would lift their moratoriums on
aging research. But that’s not likely to happen with over ten
billion of us runnin’ around. Imagine, though, what it would be
like to push back the inky blackness of death for hundreds or
thousands of years? Maybe it’s for your generation to accomplish,
Thatcher. Maybe immortality awaits you.” For an instant, Grayson’s
face lit up in a final smile.

But then his eyes quickly grew heavier. With a
deep, wistful sigh, he exhaled. He took in one more glance across
the glorious, mighty Atlantic. Then his eyelids drooped shut. He
sighed deeply. “When you find the Alpha Group, Thatcher,” he
intoned hoarsely, “tell them…tell…them…that…I’m …I’m…”

As Grayson Detts breathed his last, his hand
fell awkwardly away from Thatcher and limply onto his now silent
chest.

The horror of death overwhelmed the younger man.
But with a gritty determination, he choked back a sob.
I won’t
let you down, Gray
, he vowed silently. He blinked back the
brightening sunlight, which played a maddening kaleidoscope of
colors with his vision.
Damn these tears!

* * * * * *

Thatcher Grady shifted positions again as he
gazed out over the kitchen table window. The nearby Green Mountains
of New Hampshire shimmered in the late afternoon glow.

The woman he was interviewing, Theresa Zealand,
was in the running for the toughest interview he’d ever done. The
little mite of a woman, wizened in her ninety-eight year-old body,
continued non-stop in her review of the past. His attention once
again fell away from her rambling story.
Her ramblings are
incredible. One little innocent query and she goes off on all these
tangents.

Two days ago the mysterious phone call had come.
From the moment he heard her voice, tinged with a slight eastern
European accent, he recalled their previous interview. And just
like the first time, she had immediately hijacked the interview
process. He had to go to her home. It had to be Thursday. Pencil
and paper only.

Now it’s 4:30 and what have I accomplished?
She’s persistently described her aches and pains, her deep
generational ties to the wealthy and elite of the Northeast States.
She can’t focus on the subject that brought me here: the creator of
the Global Diversity and Sustainability Project, Maurice
Emmerick
.

“I once dated a cousin to the Rothschild’s,” she
added with a wistful smile. “He was such a handsome man, filled
with the charms of that family. My uncle Carl, as I told you, was
the owner of the minor league team in Syracuse. I have been so
blessed to have him as an uncle. He was such a good businessman. He
ran that team like he was a loving father to those athletes. I’ve
never been much of a sports fan. But I must say I remember one
Negro player who made a spectacular play!”

He cringed at the use of the old discarded
racial term. But he was enamored with how she used the term to
describe an African-American. It was used so gently, not out of
ignorance.
Only she could say Negro and make it sound
egalitarian
.

“My uncle,” she continued, “gave my date and me
a pass to the luxury suite. Then we danced at the city’s most
prestigious nightclub. Oh, the atmosphere in that place was
exquisite! The margaritas were divine. And he remained such a
gentleman. I am sorry to say that was our only date. He was called
away to a CIA assignment. Oh, what might have been! But life moves
on.”

Thatcher saw an opening. “Speaking of moving on;
it’s been wonderful to listen to your stories. However the time’s
getting late. I have other stories to file on the Net. Is there
more you can tell me than about your relationship with Maurice
Emmerick?”

Her face turned dark and a slight frown emerged.
“My dear boy, there are powers out there of which one has to be
wary. There’s very little privacy anymore. You know the police are
corrupt. Their thought-reading machines know all.”

She’s as crazy as Crazy Maurice himself!
Maybe she succumbed just like he did. Did all those years of abuse
from the media, after the GDSP reports fell into disrepute, create
this reclusive, semi-paranoid old woman? Half of what she says
makes sense, the other half, I don’t know. What good is my rapport
building doing me now?

He mentally reviewed his efforts to uncover the
secrets of the group who had purportedly defeated aging, which he’d
first learned about in journalism school at age eighteen. His
professors had informed him of the dead-end leads, as they too, in
their days of journalistic grandiosity, thought they could discover
the story of the century. In the back alleys of super-encrypted
chat rooms, the story was bandied about. Initially dismissing them
as apocryphal, Thatcher’s cynicism and doubt gradually evaporated.
Now he had made it his main life purpose to uncover the facts.
Besides, he had one more fact on his side which nobody else
had.