The Methuselah Gene (14 page)

With an overwhelming sense of defeat and apprehension, I reluctantly pushed my way inside, and immediately saw that my camera and binoculars lay atop a stack of boxes near the rear door.
 
I looked beyond them to see an empty jail cell in the back room.
 
The door of it was open too, as if it waited to trap me.

“Sheriff?”

The Sheriff held up one finger, pausing, then finally whispered into the phone, hung up, and smiled.
 
He compared what he saw on the printout to my face again.
 
“This is nice,” he announced.
 
“This is how my job is meant to be.
 
Morning to you, sir.
 
You are smart and handsome too.
 
‘Course that's relative, ain't it?”

“Sheriff, I can—”

“Did you have a good night's sleep in George's back room?
 
I hope you like our town, and I'm glad you decided to clear up this little misunderstanding.
 
Honesty is always the best policy, and lies only beget lies,
ya
know.”

“What?
 
Listen, I'm sorry, really, I—”

“Can I get you some coffee?
 
A donut, maybe?”

My nervous demeanor must have seemed peculiar to him, but he gave no sign of it.
 
I stared past him at the coffee machine that was hidden behind the filing cabinets on a small table.
 
Making the connection, I looked down into the cup on the Sheriff's desk.
 
It was clear, and full.
 
Not coffee, but water.
 
An ice cube floated in there.
 
He noticed me noticing.

“Makin' it's a habit,” he confessed.
 
“I'm
cuttin
' back, myself.
 
Be too hot for coffee today, anyway, right?”

With the back of his hand he wiped at the thin sheen of sweat that made his wide forehead shiny.
 
I thought I sensed something peculiar in his speech, his vacant eyes.
 
But was that a side effect, or just his usual self?
 
“Sheriff, there's something I need to tell you,” I began.

“About your stolen drugs?”

“Yes, that's right.
 
But not plural, and not a drug, exactly.
 
Something stolen from the company I work for,
Tactar
Pharmaceuticals.”

He riffled among the things on his desk, as if looking for note paper, then rechecked his printout instead.
 
“And that's in . . .”

“Alexandria, Virginia.”

“So you're not a hit man, then.”

“No, I'm . . .”
 
I paused, stymied.
 
“What's that about, anyway?
 
Who the hell would I be killing?
 
No, don't tell me.
 
Sorry.
 
I'm a scientist, a drug researcher, Sheriff.
 
We were nowhere near the point of screening for any possible drug in terms of marketing it, you see, when the entire sampling and formula was stolen.
 
Our project was canceled then, and . . . ”
 
I paused again as Deputy Sheriff Cody frowned, his eyes becoming almost dreamy.

He picked up his cup of cold water.
 
“What kind of a drug did you say, son?”

“No, don't drink that!”
 
I grabbed at his cup, but he leaned away just in time.
 
I managed only to swipe it with my fingers.
 
It slipped and smashed on the floor, splashing onto the Sheriff's pant leg.
 
As I kneeled, scrambling to clean up the mess, I glanced up to apologize, and saw the Sheriff's look intensify into pity and sadness.

“What's wrong with you?” he said, like a man witnessing an indecency.
 
“Are you high on this drug yourself, son?”

I took several deep breaths, trying to calm down.
 
“No, Sheriff.
 
You might be, though.
 
Whoever stole it could be testing it here on Zion now.
 
I mean in your water supply.
 
If so, they probably want to know what the side effects are, and so they'd be watching everything, and they—”

“They,” he repeated, and then as if he'd overhead my conversation with my sister, “Oh my,
they?”

I faced the odd new look, now, that was frozen in his eyes, beneath raised brows.
 
“Walter Mills, for one,” I insisted.
 
“Ever heard of him?”
 
The raised brows lowered as a smile curled his lips.
 
“Okay, I should have come to you with this right away, and I'm sorry, all right?
 
It's just that I wasn't sure of anything until now.
 
I'm still not, but your reaction to this isn't helping.”

“My reaction?
 
What about yours, son?”

“I've done nothing wrong, I promise you, Sheriff.
 
I'm here on my own free will, and
Tactar
doesn't know about this either.”

“
Tactar
.
 
That's not a code name?
 
They didn't hire you to kill someone?”

“What?
 
No, Sheriff.
 
I just told you, that's the company I work for.”

“What would your boss say about your skulking around our town with a gun, then, holding up our gas station attendant?”

“It was his gun, Sheriff.
 
Wally's gun.”

“. . . lying to people . . . stealing.”

“I said I'm sorry about that.
 
It's just that—”

“Sorry?
 
We'll see how sorry you are.
 
How . . . sorry . . . or if your boss even exists.
 
Is he still alive, your boss?
 
Or did you murder all your partners?”

“Did I . . .”
 
I almost laughed at him, then stopped myself.
 
“What?”

Unbelievably, I watched as the Sheriff now reached for the revolver at his waist, as sadness seemed to overwhelm him.

“What are you doing?” I asked in amazement.

“When they canceled your little ‘project' . . . did they try to kill you, too?”

“No, they didn't try to—”

He lifted the gun out of his holster in one swift movement, then aimed it deliberately toward me, a tear forming in his eye.
 
“You stole those drugs yourself, didn't you, son?”

“No!
 
Absolutely not.”

“And now you're going to test them on us?”

“Not me.”

“And pretend it's someone else?”

I spread my arms wide, fingers extended, palms visible.
 
“No, Sheriff,” I said.
 
“Listen to me.
 
Walter Mills, he's got a post office box here, you can find his address if you—”

The Sheriff cocked the gun, aiming it at my head.
 
Then he began to cry, as though doing his duty despite the overwhelming anguish it caused him.
 
“When's the lying end?” he almost sobbed.

“Sheriff, listen,” I said slowly, calmly.
 
“I'm not . . . lying.”

“It doesn't until I end it,” he responded, as if he hadn't heard me.
 
“And this is where it ends.
 
Right . . . n—”

“Okay!” I shouted.
 
“Okay, okay, okay.
 
What do you want me to say?
 
What, what?
 
Tell me!”

My words jolted him.
 
His eyes widened, and seemed dilated.
 
Finally focusing on what he was doing at last, he froze again, as if the film frame was about to burn and warp away, crisping at the edges.
 
I imagined Hannibal watching from behind some glass store front across the street.

“I should have known,” I muttered, ironically, as the crisis ebbed.
 
“No one ever believes the truth.”

Cody covered his mouth with one hand.
 
The revolver in his other hand trembled.

I held out both hands toward his gun hand as I slowly rose.
 
“Easy now.
 
Okay?
 
This isn't you, it's . . . whatever.”

We began to circle his desk, Cody backing away from me.
 
Then I stopped and made a downward motion with my hand.
 
Willing him to put the weapon down on his desk.
 
Staring into his dilated eyes, but not wanting to see the truth there myself, either.

Cody only looked beyond me.

I glanced over my shoulder toward the door as he continued to sob.
 
I saw George standing outside the etched glass door, and he was crying too.

From Zion's dusty holding cell I could see the Sheriff drinking iced water at his desk out in the office.
 
He was too busy trying to reach someone at
Tactar
to pay much attention to my repeated requests.
 
It being Saturday, I understood his own frustration all too well, although anger never showed in his voice.
 
Not sounding like a police officer anymore, he was forced to call several numbers in convincing
Tactar
security to believe he was with law enforcement, and not some tabloid reporter.

As I waited, I looked down at the jelly donut and coffee on the tray beside my cot, and then dipped my index finger in the coffee, testing the temperature.

Almost hot.
 
But hot enough?

I sipped and munched, feeling an odd sense of relief now that the truth would come out.
 
This was nuts, since both the Sheriff and the town were plunging deeper under the influence of a situation I'd created, and I didn't even know what was happening.
 
But there it was.
 
At least I'd come in on my own accord, so I couldn't be prosecuted, could I?

Just fired.

At the barred cell window I looked out at what I could see of Zion, but there wasn't much to see.
 
The scrub field leading up to the
treeline
and water tower was there.
 
To the right, partly hidden beyond a rolling field of corn, I could see the roof of what I imagined was a two story boarding house run by some kindly but far-sighted soul named Mabel, and nicknamed the ‘Black Flag.'
 
To my left I could see the back half of the Shell station, where Wally's tow truck was now parked.
 
And more corn.
 
I imagined I heard laughter drifting on the heating air, too, and I smelled the faint aroma of fried meat, probably coming from the Slow Poke.
 
For one Hallmark moment I thought about asking Sheriff Cody if I could just bunk out in his cell for a year or two.
 
Maybe put in an air conditioner, and a stereo to pick up country music.
 
And a dartboard set.
 
To earn my keep I could sweep the sidewalks of Main Street, Windex the windows, and make sure everyone's toilets were spotless.
 
On the plus side of that idea, I wouldn't have to work for
Hepker
, or—more likely—Acme Exterminating.
 
Also, there was Edie and Paul's homemade applesauce meatloaf, scratch cloverleaf dinner rolls, cornbread with fresh butter, yam-marshmallow casserole, and mince meat pie . . . to name a few of the other items I'd seen on the menu.

My moment of
wishfulness
vaporized with the loud fart I heard in the other room.
 
Sheriff Cody did not bother to apologize, either.

“Can I use the phone now?” I called in to him for the fifth time.

He came back to me at last, and appraised me.
 
His look suggested his thoughts—that, should I escape, I'd probably attack the President, or worse, the Grand
Poopaw
of the Creston Lodge.
 
“Only one call, long distance,” he informed me.
 
Then he took a key ring down from the other side of the wall, and withdrew the revolver from his belt.

“Any luck with
Tactar
?” I asked.

“Not yet.
 
So not for you either, son.”

Son.
 
I was by now somewhat tiring of that designation.
 
Everyone thought I was their son here, it seemed, except my real father, who'd dismissed everything and everybody.
 
Cody was annoying, but otherwise he seemed normal again, an indication that the effects of whatever was influencing him came in waves, depending somehow on how much water he drank.
 
A fact that puzzled me.