Transhuman (16 page)

“Cash?” he squeaked.

“You don't take cash?” Luke asked.

Recovering some of his composure, the executive said, “Oh, sure we do. But it's usually from young punks in the drug business.”

Luke grunted. “We're flying my granddaughter to Oregon for medical treatment. And we're in a hurry.”

“Certainly, certainly. We've laid out our best plane for you, it's spanking new. And our best pilot to fly it.”

The pilot's name was Jason Kleiner, a skinny youngster with long, sweeping blond hair and a cocky grin, wearing Levi's and a leather jacket over a white T-shirt. Luke wondered how good a pilot he really was until he asked about the golden wings clipped to the breast of his windbreaker.

“Navy pilot, man,” said Kleiner. “You haven't lived until you've tried to land an F-18 on a carrier at night.”

They settled Angela comfortably on the padded bench that made up the last row of the passenger compartment, with Tamara sitting next to her. Takeoff was smooth, and they were soon at cruising altitude. Then Kleiner had invited Luke up to the cockpit.

“Yep, you're lucky I was available,” Kleiner repeated as the jet flew high above an unbroken layer of silken white clouds.

“I had the day off,” he explained. “Was going down to New Orleens for a night of fun and games. Then the office called and asked me to take this last-minute job.”

“There weren't any other pilots available?” Luke asked.

“None as good as me.”

Luke let the guy talk for a while, then said, “I'm going back and take a snooze. I've been up all night.”

Kleiner laughed. “I was planning to be up all night myself, until your job came through.”

Luke unbuckled his safety belt and got up from his seat.

“I'll call you when we land at Rapid City.”

“Rapid City?”

“Refuel,” Kleiner explained. “We'll only be on the ground for half an hour or so.”

Luke nodded and headed back into the passenger compartment. Tamara had cranked her seat back and was sleeping soundly. As was Angela.

He didn't realize he had fallen asleep until the sudden noise of the plane's wheels being lowered startled him awake. Tamara was sitting tensely in the seat across the aisle.

“This doesn't look like Portland,” she said, with a worried frown.

“It's Rapid City, South Dakota,” Luke told her. “We need more fuel to get to Oregon.”

“Oh.”

The plane landed smoothly and taxied to the terminal, where a fuel truck stood waiting. Kleiner ducked through the cockpit's hatch, smiling happily.

Pointing to the hatch at the rear of the passenger compartment, he said, “There's sandwiches and coffee in a cooler back there. Soft drinks, too. Compliments of the company.”

Then he got a good look at Angela, who was stirring from her sleep.

“Jesus! What's wrong with her? How old is she?”

Tamara answered sternly, “It's a condition called progeria. We're taking her to Oregon for treatment.”

Kleiner stared. “She looks like she's a hundred years old, for chrissakes.”

“She's eight,” said Luke.

Looking at the cast on Angela's wrist, Kleiner asked, “What happened to her arm?”

“She fell. It's nothing serious.”

With a visible effort, Kleiner tore his eyes from Angela and went back to the main hatch, at the front of the passenger compartment. Once the ladder unfolded, he clattered down the steps and into the cold morning air. It was cloudy outside, and piles of dirty gray snow were banked along the edge of the tarmac.

Luke saw Angela stir and wake up, peering with bloodshot eyes out the plane's window.

“How do you feel, Angie?” he asked.

“Tired,” the child replied.

“Are you hungry?”

She shook her head slowly, as if it were too much of an effort to speak.

“I'll get a nutrient preparation for her,” said Tamara, reaching into her capacious tote bag.

Angela went back to sleep before the plastic bag was half emptied. Tamara and Luke munched on the limp sandwiches and drank lukewarm coffee.

She appraised him with narrowed eyes. “Have you done anything to your hair?”

“Anything?” Luke asked, sitting sideways on the plane's chair, his legs in the aisle. “What?”

“It looks darker.”

He shrugged. “Fountain of youth.”

She smiled. “You took on Lonzo like a superhero.”

“Some superhero. He'd have beaten my brains out if you hadn't slugged him.”

“Conked him with our laptops,” Tamara said. “I hope I haven't damaged them.”

“I'll buy you a new one.”

Kleiner ducked through the hatch. “You guys warm enough in here?”

Nodding, Luke said, “It's not bad.”

His face totally serious, Kleiner said, “Could you come up to the cockpit for a minute, sir?”

Luke glanced at Tamara, then got up and headed forward, suddenly worried. What's he want?

Kleiner gestured to the right-hand seat and, as Luke slid into it, closed the hatch. Then he sat in the other chair.

“Something wrong?” Luke asked.

“The flight dispatcher back in Baton Rouge told me you're toting around a big wad of bills.”

Tensing, Luke said, “So?”

“So here in Rapid City one of the clerks watches those TV reality shows about cops tracking down crooks. She tells me the FBI has a bulletin out for a Professor Abramson, who's traveling with a sick child and a Dr. Minteer. They want him on suspicion of kidnapping.”

Luke couldn't think of anything else to say except to repeat, “So?”

“That's you, isn't it?”

His pulse thudding in his ears, Luke said, “It's no business of yours.”

“Yes it is,” said Kleiner.

For a long moment the two men stared at each other wordlessly, practically nose to nose.

Then Kleiner smiled thinly. “Hey, I've flown crooks and runaway husbands. I've taken tax evaders to Mexico. No skin off my nose, as long as they pay the fare.”

“I've paid for this flight,” Luke said tightly.

“Narcotics guys pay best. They carry suitcases full of money, you know that?”

Luke saw where Kleiner was heading. “How much?” he asked.

“How much you got on you?”

“None of your damned business.”

“Hey, don't get hissy with me, man. You ain't getting to Oregon unless you pay the bill.”

Trying to hold on to his temper, Luke repeated, “How much?”

“Twenty thou?”

“Ten.”

Kleiner smiled easily. “Let's meet in the middle. Fifteen thousand and I'll fly you to Portland quick and clean and keep my mouth shut.”

Luke nodded. “I'll have to go back to my seat and get the money.”

“Sure.”

Luke went down the aisle to where Tamara and Angela were waiting. Keeping his back to the open cockpit hatch, he reached into his jacket, pulled out his billfold, and counted out fifteen thousand dollars worth of bills. He didn't want Kleiner to see how much was left. Then he realized that there was less than ten thousand remaining. I'm going broke, he said to himself.

Tamara, watching him, asked, “What's going on?”

“Highway robbery.”

Luke went back to the cockpit and handed the bills to Kleiner. “Don't spend it all in one place,” he growled.

The pilot laughed.

Once they were airborne again, heading for Portland, Luke wondered if Kleiner was an honest extortionist. Would he stay bought?

 

Fisk Tower

“
H
E GOT AWAY
from you?” Quenton Fisk bellowed.

In the wall screen's view, Lorenzo Merriwether seemed to be sitting in bed, with some sort of white medical horse collar around his neck.

“The two of them jumped me. I got a concussion, man. And a herniated disk!”

Fisk demanded, “A seventy-five-year-old man and a woman beat you up?”

Merriwether's expression hardened, but he said nothing.

“Where'd they go?”

“To the airport.”

“Where did they fly to?”

“I'm not sure.”

His anger mounting, Fisk fairly shouted, “You just let them get away from you?”

“No sense hollering, man. You want them, you're gonna have to go find them.”

“Thanks to you.” Furious, Fisk slammed a fist on his desktop phone console, cutting off Merriwether's call.

For several minutes he sat there, feeling his heart pounding beneath his ribs. Abramson got away. He's on the loose. Where is he? Where'd he go?

Then he asked himself the ultimate question: How can I find him?

The FBI's looking for him. Maybe I should call that agent, whatever his name is. But then I'd have to admit that I was hiding Abramson, protecting him.

He's signed the privacy agreement. With that and the funding contract he agreed to, I own his work. He can't publish anywhere unless I permit it, and he can't go to work for anyone else.

But then Fisk realized, The man's a wanted criminal! Do you think a couple of scraps of paper are going to hold him to you? He's on the loose; God knows where he's gone.

I'll have to get my own security people to chase him down, Fisk concluded.

Then he brightened. Maybe I can use the FBI to help, after all.

Almost smiling, he tapped his intercom and told his assistant to get the FBI agent on the phone.

“Agent Hightower, sir?”

“Yes, Hightower.” That's his name, Fisk recalled. The big redskin.

As he waited for his assistant to reach Hightower, Fisk began to compose the story he would tell the FBI agent. Stick to the truth as much as possible, he reminded himself. But don't let him know that you were deliberately hiding Abramson.

*   *   *

J
ERRY HIGHTOWER WAS
in Minneapolis, talking with a former student of Abramson's, when his phone buzzed. He ignored the call, not willing to interrupt his interview with the scientist. Not that he got much out of it. Yes, the man knew Professor Abramson. He was even fairly current on what Abramson had been working on.

“Telomerase,” said the redheaded geneticist. “He's done some truly startling work with lab mice, you know.”

Hightower nodded. “He's a fugitive now. He's been charged with kidnapping.”

“Kidnapping! Professor Abramson?”

Making a reassuring gesture with both his big hands, Hightower explained, “It's a family matter. He's taken his granddaughter away from the kid's parents, without their permission. Now we've got to find them.”

The scientist looked puzzled. “That doesn't sound like Professor Abramson.”

“His granddaughter is dying from cancer. The professor thinks he can save her, but nobody else agrees with him—including the child's parents.”

“I see. Well, he hasn't contacted me recently. I haven't seen him since the Triple-A-Ess national conference, in October. Or was it November?”

“Do you have any idea of where he might have gone, who he might turn to?”

The scientist shook his head. Hightower realized he wasn't going to get anything more from the man, whether he knew Abramson's whereabouts or not.

He rose from the bare wooden chair he'd been sitting on, pulled one of his cards from his wallet, and handed it to the scientist.

“If you hear from him, let me know. The man's a wanted fugitive.”

“Sure,” said the scientist. “Of course.”

Fat chance, Hightower thought.

In the taxi headed for the airport and his next interview, Hightower pulled out his cell phone and checked his messages. Quenton Fisk. He grunted with surprise.

*   *   *

F
ISK WAS WALKING
a quartet of potential investors out of his office when his assistant stepped beside him and said, almost in a whisper, “Agent Hightower is calling, sir.”

Fisk nodded to her, then said to the departing men, “Thanks so much for coming by. I'm sure we're going to make an indecent profit on this deal.”

They laughed and nodded agreement. Fisk went back to his desk and picked up his phone.

“Agent Hightower,” he said pleasantly. “Good of you to return my call.” To himself, he added, Four hours after I called you.

No video, Fisk realized. From the sounds coming through the phone, Hightower must be in a car, he thought.

Hightower's deep voice rumbled. “You said you have some information about Professor Abramson.”

“Yes,” Fisk replied, leaning back in his desk chair and loosening his tie with his free hand. “It's almost embarrassing, actually.”

Hightower said nothing.

“You see, a friend of mine has been hosting Abramson at his home for the past couple of weeks. I just heard about it today.”

He waited for Hightower's response but heard nothing except the traffic noise.

“He's been in Louisiana, at Nottaway Plantation, just outside of Baton Rouge.”

“You say he
has been
there?”

Fisk felt uncomfortable, as if the FBI agent knew he wasn't telling the entire truth. He wished he could see the man's face, but then realized that maybe it was better that Hightower couldn't see his.

“Yes, he's gone.”

“Where?”

“I don't know. Apparently there was some sort of scuffle. Abramson took off with his granddaughter and her doctor. He headed for the airport, I believe.”

Another stretch of silence. Fisk squirmed uncomfortably, waiting for the agent to say something, anything.

Finally, “Nottaway Plantation, you said.”

“Yes. In Louisiana.”

“I'll have to go there and talk to your friend. What's his name?”

“Lorenzo Merriwether. I'll tell him to cooperate with you fully.”

“Uh-huh.”

“My assistant can give you directions. I'll tell Merriwether that you're coming and he's to cooperate with you fully.”