The Methuselah Gene (4 page)

I shook my head.
 
“It's criminal, is what it is.”

Darryl started working the computer, using a CD from a file next to the external drive.

“What are you doing now?” I asked, still a bit surprised by the depth of his cynicism.

“You're on AOL, right?
 
I'll reinstall it.”

“Why?
 
You wanna e-mail
Winsdon
, save your own ass while you can?”

Darryl stopped for a second, then dismissed the idea.
 
“I think we're safe for the time being.
 
I'm curious about who did this, if it's not
Tactar
.”

I watched from behind his shoulder as both the system software and then the AOL program were reinstalled.
 
“You thinking your two and two might equal five, Einstein?”

“Shut up and give me your password.”

“Going Bald.”

“That's you, not me, buddy.”

“No, that's the
passcode
.”

“Why not ‘Dumb Ass?'”

“Cute.”

Darryl entered the
passcode
, and got online at last.
 
“Now what's this girl's screen name?”

“
Cindyboo
.”

“
Cindyboo
?
 
As in Boo, I got you?”
 
Darryl clucked his tongue, grunted, and then entered the name to prompt a profile.
 
There was none.
 
Next, he tried sending an e-mail to
Cindyboo
, and a pop-up now read:
 
This is not an AOL member.
 
He turned to me and shrugged.
 
“Too late, she's gone.
 
You're screwed, buddy.”

“Great.”
 
Stretching, I laced my hands behind my head, and stared up at the low ceiling, which seemed even lower now.
 
I thought about the fame and fortune I might have come close to achieving, including possibly a red Porsche 911
Targa
, the ultimate babe magnet.
 
Then I gave a long sigh, back so soon to blaming of my luckless fate, the same old game.
 
“So that's it, huh.
 
Now I'll always wonder?”

“Yup.
 
Unless we hack into AOL records.
 
Pentagon would be easier, though.”

“That right?
 
Figures.”

“I may know someone who can help, though.”

“Who?
 
You mean a hacker?”

Darryl reached forward to touch the screen with his index finger.
 
He nodded to himself.
 
Then he turned and winked at me.
 
“I need a reason, though, bud.
 
If you know what I mean.”

“How about I'm a friend down on his luck.”

“A lonely, luckless loser, yeah, but are you willing to pay?”

“A hundred bucks.”

“Make it two, plus two.
 
That's four, in case you're wondering.
 
And give me some time.”

He got up to leave.
 
I stared at him through a mind fog as he moved to the door.
 
“Wait a minute—how much time?”

“As long
at
it takes,” Darryl replied, without blinking, “to think this over.”

Darryl took a lot longer than I expected.
 
It had taken a while for things to get back to normal, too.
 
Clueless, the police filed away a report indicating suicide, and Jim Baxter's body—after a full autopsy—was laid to rest at Woodlawn Cemetery, next to his brother Clovis, who'd been a Gulf War hero.
 
Returning to my own routine proved impossible, however, considering the boring nature of my new work.
 
Suffering from recurring nightmares featuring broken glass, I endured a quiet despair characterized by listlessness and an almost constant reassessment of my professional and personal life.
 
Not knowing whether to take a vacation or just resign, I went through my outward motions in a state of limbo, but inside I was as conflicted as a rat in a maze, and just as lost.
 
Then came the day I ran into Darryl during lunch break, and everything changed because he gave me a target for my frustration.

Except for the oversized Matisse reproduction and the high skylight, the
Tactar
plant cafeteria looked like a hospital cafeteria.
 
White walls, linoleum floor, and a long stainless steel serving counter.
 
The fare that day behind the hot glass display window consisted of meat loaf, liver and onions, mashed potatoes and gravy, and various veggies straight from cans into the warming trays, with a little salt and butter added for taste.
 
I asked for filet mignon, medium well, and a nice bottle of 1938 Mouton Rothschild.
 
That drew a laugh from big Dave
Huckley
, the chef and server—a usually morose man who once confided in me that he was taking Lipitor for his cholesterol, on prescription from his doctor, and not
Tactar's
own
Selecor
.

I was carrying my tray of ketchup-drenched meat loaf and green beans, complete with dinner roll and iced tea, toward one of the two dozen square tables that had been angled forty-five degrees in an obvious attempt to appear stylish.
 
I was about to sit near Jeffers' pretty secretary, Allison Chambers, when a dark hand slipped under my elbow and guided me toward the door that led out to the courtyard.

“There's a table out there,” Darryl informed me, with imperious solicitude.
 
“Haven't seen you in weeks, and you look like you could use some fresh air, too.”

He chose one of the three empty wrought iron tables on the red flagstone courtyard outside.
 
It was warmer outside than in the air-conditioned cafeteria, but the ambiance was nicer.
 
Darryl sat opposite me with a bagged lunch, and loosened his cherry red tie.
 
The tie's embroidered cherries looked more like cherry bombs than real cherries.

I began.
 
“That tie, you—”

“Never mind,” he interrupted, then glanced back at the window, beyond the potted
Ficus
, to see Allison Chambers and Bill Davis and several others looking in our direction, as if about to brave the early August heat and try for the two remaining tables.
 
“Tell me who knew the most about your Satan bug besides you.”

“What?
 
I told you to stop calling it that.”

Darryl pulled a huge ham and cheese sandwich from his brown bag like a magic trick, then a smaller baggie of bite-sized carrots.
 
“Okay, Methuselah.
 
Who besides you knew the access codes to the documentation?”

I shrugged.
 
“Hell, I don't know.
 
Half a dozen people, at least.
 
They weren't sure the computer was even protected by access code that night.
 
It wasn't always done, and the thing was just on screen saver most of the time.
 
Touch any key and you're in.
 
It wasn't like we expected espionage.
 
I know the office was locked, though.
 
And the internal computer wasn't connected to any server.”

Darryl unwrapped his sandwich, and bit a half moon.
 
His words were slurred, as he talked with his mouth full.
 
“Is that why none of the files were on the mainframe, either?”

I speared a chunk of dripping meatloaf with my fork.
 
“Huh?
 
I thought some of them were.
 
What's this all about?”

Darryl shushed me.
 
“Whoever did this wiped everything, including their fingerprints.
 
I found that out right away.
 
Meanwhile,
Tactar
needed another star performer.
 
Their stock is still going down, while
Genetech
just got approval for a competing product to our
Disomene
.”

“You're kidding.
 
I never heard that.”

“You've been up to your ass in aspirin substitutes, go figure.
 
By the way, you haven't told me how you like your new office.”

“There's no view,” I confessed.
 
“And
Hepker
is a pain that won't go away.”

“So you can't see yourself working for him another twenty years?”

I munched, waiting for the dry meatloaf in my mouth to mingle with the moisture of the ketchup.
 
“Don't even joke about that,” I managed.

Darryl nodded, then polished his fingernails on his lapel, and admired them.
 
“My theory still holds, then.
 
True to form,
Tactar
buries the incident along with burying your colleague.
 
Then, sooner or later, you quit and move on.
 
End of story.”

“How do you know it's the end, Sherlock?” I asked.
 
“You know, for someone else, it could really just be the—”

“Beginning?” Darryl interrupted, and then he grinned unexpectedly.
 
“If I'm feeling a kinda smug condescension to you it's because I'm working on an even better theory.”
 
He did another magic trick and with a flourish produced a folded note, which he handed over.
 
“Presto, change-o, buddy.
 
After some deep soul searching, I've decided you owe me four hundred bucks, as well.”

I opened the piece of paper and read: Walter Mills, 621 Broadway Blvd., Cincinnati OHIO.

“Who's Walter Mills?”

Darryl's smile thinned a bit.
 
“That's the question, isn't it?
 
The bad news is, your
Cindyboo
has moved.
 
The good news is, I have his new address.”

He now produced a postcard.

“What's that?”

“I sent this to his old address four days ago, and wrote ‘return service requested' on it.
 
The post office doesn't forward it then, just returns it to you with the new address.”

I stared at the little yellow sticker on the postcard in Darryl's palm, which read: PO Box 16, Zion, IOWA.
 
“Zion, Iowa?”

Darryl shrugged.
 
“Maybe he sold your research materials and retired there.”

“He
who?
 
And sold it to who?”

“And for how much?”
 
Darryl held out one hand, wriggling together his thumb and index finger.
 
“More than the four hundred bucks you owe me, I'm sure.”

I pushed aside my lunch tray and studied Darryl's face like I'd once studied the face of a carnival fortune teller, when asked for money.
 
“That's all you've got—a post office box in some piss ant Midwestern town?”

“Hey, it wasn't easy to come by.
 
I had to get help.”

“Who?”

“Never mind who.
 
Just fork over the green, Mister Clean.”

“But who's Walter Mills?
 
Is this guy on
Tactar's
payroll?”

“Nope.”

“Has he got a record?”

“You mean with the police?
 
Again, you're
outta
luck, if you ever had any to begin with.
 
He's not in the phone book either.
 
Not here, and not in the Creston area phonebook there.”

“Then who the hell is he?
 
And what's your other theory?”

“You haven't paid me yet.”

This was getting old faster than I was.
 
“Come on, Darryl,” I pleaded, “I know we haven't gone the barbecue and bowling alley route together, but we've shared opinions on everything from politics to women to . . .”
 
I paused, floundering and exasperated that I couldn't resurrect memories of us doing much of anything other than arguing in the car.
 
“Anyway, I haven't got that much on me.
 
You want me to give you fifty bucks in plain view of Jeffers' secretary, over there?
 
They been watching me close enough, as it is.”

Darryl glanced back at the cafeteria window, meeting Allison Chambers' askance but inquisitive gaze.
 
“Okay, I see your point.”
 
He laughed, as if at a joke.
 
“You can get me all the money tomorrow.
 
And by the way, did you know you have some vacation time you haven't used?
 
Better use it before the next quarter, or you're gonna lose it.
 
I suggest you skip Disney World and the Bahamas in favor of a nice drive out from the Des Moines airport to see what an ocean of wheat and corn looks like.
 
That is, unless you think you'd enjoy
Hepker
sticking a pitchfork in your ass for the next two decades.”