The Methuselah Project (35 page)

T
UESDAY
, M
ARCH
10, 2015

T
HE
S
OLDIERS AND
S
AILORS
M
ONUMENT
, I
NDIANAPOLIS

K
atherine froze in horror. A splotch of crimson blossomed on Roger’s shirt. The grinning gunman pointed his weapon straight at Roger’s head.

Katherine’s karate instincts took over. Despite the confined space, she snapped a kick using the
Isshin-Ryu
she’d learned in the dojo of Sensei Frank Lawson. The pistol sailed from the man’s hand. Before she could move in for a jab, the assassin counterattacked by snapping a kick of his own.

Katherine had absorbed blows from sparring partners before, but this was no mere strike for points. The Griffin’s black leather street shoe exploded into her stomach with the force of a battering ram. Air gushed from her lungs. She staggered backward. Nearly fell. Somehow she stayed on her feet, but she gasped for breath and couldn’t straighten up.

“Fool, I have orders not to hurt you, but I will if you get in the way.”

Doubled over from the intense ache radiating from her midsection, Katherine couldn’t speak. She wanted to say something. Distract him from Roger. All she could manage was to shake her head at this man she suddenly hated.

“As you wish, then.”

This time Katherine read his body language quick enough to dodge the kick. Instantly she drove forward with a punch to the man’s Adam’s apple. To her surprise, he didn’t fall. Not hard enough! Performed properly, the blow could incapacitate a human. Instead of stopping her opponent, she succeeded only in kindling wrath in his eyes. Katherine shifted her feet. Could she deliver a kick to his groin? She tensed her leg, kicked … Too late!

The older and obviously more experienced adversary evaded her foot, then sprang. Iron-hard knuckles slammed into her already-throbbing midsection.

Reeling with agony unlike any she’d ever imagined, Katherine gasped and dropped to her knees. She couldn’t fight anymore. Couldn’t lift her head. The torturous pain in her stomach …

Another muffled report from a pistol! The shock jerked her head up. A second gun?

The smugness had disappeared from the gunman’s face. He clutched his right side, where crimson rivulets trickled between his fingers.

Still lying on his back and grimacing, Roger gripped the gunman’s pistol. “Didn’t you ever learn your manners? Never hit a lady, fat-head.”

With a roar, the killer leaped onto Roger, wrestling for the weapon. Katherine wanted to help, to deliver a kick or a punch. But the two men thrashed and rolled together in the tight space. She could do nothing without risking hurting Roger.

Another gunshot. Their thrashing stopped.

Unsure of what had happened, Katherine stared in trepidation. Roger shoved away the limp body of the gunman.

“Don’t move, Roger. I’ll call for an ambulance.” She struggled upright, gasping for breath.

“No. No ambulance.” He eased into a sitting position and clamped a hand over the crimson stain on his shirt. “Just let me rest a minute.”

“Rest? You’re wounded!”

“I think it’ll be okay.”

“Don’t be insane! You’ve got a bullet in you. You need a doctor.”

“You’re forgetting about Methuselah. Not only does it keep my body young, but it regenerates damaged tissue extra fast. If he’d shot me in the head or the heart, I’d be a goner. But if the bullet lodged in a nonvital area, my body will heal around it. At least, I think it will.”

“What if you’re wrong?”

He forced a grin. “Then you can say, ‘I told him so,’ for the rest of your life.”

“You’re the only man I know who would sit around joking with a bullet in him.”

He pulled his hand away from the wound and unbuttoned his shirt for closer inspection. Meanwhile, Katherine retrieved the pistol and examined it: a Ruger .22. Not a powerful weapon, but in tight quarters a bullet to the head or the heart wouldn’t need to be powerful. A .22 would also reduce the likelihood of telltale blood splattering the assassin. She stuffed the Ruger into her purse. Today was the second time they had been caught weaponless. There wouldn’t be a third time.

“The bleeding has just about stopped. Help me to the elevator.”

Despite her aching stomach, Katherine slipped an arm around Roger and assisted him to his feet. Her hands broke into a sweat, and her breathing hitched as his hand slipped to her waist. She’d dreamed of having him in her arms, but not like this.

He turned to look her in the eye. “Say, where did you become such a fancy fighter? Those moves you pulled were better than Jiu-Jitsu.”

“It’s
Isshin-Ryu.
A style of karate from Okinawa.”

He stared at her. “Okinawa? In Japan? Sheesh, Katherine. German and Japanese too? You’re a regular Axis bombshell!”

Through his grimace, she detected a glimmer of his signature grin. “If you weren’t wounded …” She let her statement trail off as they stepped into the elevator. “So the bullet doesn’t hurt anymore?”

“I didn’t say that. At first, it felt like King Kong whacked me with a pickaxe. Now it just hurts like the dickens. Here, let me zip up my jacket to hide the blood.” That done, he looked at Katherine with concern. “Are you okay? That guy was trying to take you down for keeps.”

She couldn’t hide the ache radiating from her torso. “I feel like a ramblin’ wreck from Georgia Tech.”

“Like a what?”

She managed a wink. “It’s a Georgia thing. Yankee pilots wouldn’t understand.”

When the elevator halted at the bottom, Roger shocked Katherine by straightening and rushing out the door as if he were fine. “Call the police—and an ambulance!” he shouted to the man at the desk. “Some crazy idiot shot himself up there. I tried to stop him, but I was too late. He’s lying there bleeding.”

The attendant’s eyes shot wide. “I’m on it!” He snatched the telephone from its cradle and began punching numbers.

“We’ll watch for the cops outside. They’ll want witnesses.”

The attendant nodded, then began speaking into the phone.

Outside, Roger winced and placed his good arm around Katherine again. “Let’s scram. We’re not sticking around for any cops.”

Within moments, they were safely inside her Passat and driving away from Monument Circle, this time with Katherine at the wheel. “Which way?”

“Any direction. For now, just put distance between us and the monument.”

A wailing police car careened down the street toward them. Like every other driver, Katherine eased her vehicle to the right and let it pass.

“’Atta girl. No panic. Nice and normal.”

“Do you think there might be another gunman nearby?”

“I doubt it. Not yet, anyway. If that guy had a partner anywhere in Indy, they probably would’ve teamed up to come after me together. This little incident may have bought us some time to think and plan before the organization moves another thug into position.”

“Good. We need a motel or someplace where we can clean your wound and let you rest in peace.” Out of the corner of her eye she saw him give her a double take.

“Rest in peace? I wish you’d worded that a little differently.”

“Sorry.”

“But no motel. I need to cut that transmitter thing out of my arm right now. Too bad we don’t have a gun for you to stand guard while I’m performing the operation.”

“Who says we don’t?” Katherine pulled open the top of her handbag to reveal the Ruger .22 nestled inside. “Mr. Griffin didn’t need it anymore.”

He whistled. “I was right, Katherine. For a girl, you make a terrific wingman. Only—”

“Only what?”

“Only now it will be obvious to the cops that that Griffin guy didn’t commit suicide. The organization might not be the only ones hunting us.”

Katherine hopped into the car gripping a white plastic bag, which she passed to Roger. “Drug stores don’t carry scalpels or kitchen knives, but I found a Swiss Army knife. Feels pretty sharp. Plus rubbing alcohol to sanitize the spot, antibiotic ointment for afterward, and cotton bandages with surgical tape.”

“Aunty
who
ointment? Never mind. I assume it’s like sulfa powder. First”—he opened his own door, then climbed into the back seat—“drive. Anyplace. We’ve been sitting still too long.”

She started the motor and pulled back onto the street. In the rearview mirror, she could see Roger already had his shirt off. “I still wish you would let me get you a motel room. At least a gas station restroom. First you get shot, now you’re about to slice your arm open.”

“Nothing doing. This thing is coming out.”

His eyes met hers in the mirror. Unexpectedly his took on that smiley face look with crinkles at the edges. He held the pocketknife up where she could see it. “If you’re interested in medicine, I guess you could park long enough to assist with the procedure.”

The mental picture of the knife piercing his arm and blood running out sent a shiver down her spine. “No thank you. I’ll just watch the road and keep an eye on our six, as you put it. But please don’t make a mess of my back seat.”

The sound of his chuckling reached her about the same time as the odor of rubbing alcohol.

“Katherine, do me a favor?”

“One more on top of the other hundred? What is it?”

“I’ve never done anything like this. Please don’t think I’m a weakling if I say ouch or something.”

“I promise I won t—”

“Ow!”

A series of grunts and groans painful even to hear encouraged her to concentrate on traffic. Would she have the courage to gouge into her own body without anesthetic? She hoped never to find out.

After an eternity, Roger said. “It was deeper than I expected.”

The sound of rushing air announced he’d opened the rear window. After the sound stopped, he said, “Done. I tossed it out. With all this traffic, that thing will be crushed to bits in no time.”

“Good. What’s our next stop, Doctor?”

“I have some people I’d like to look for. Let me explain, then tell me if there’s some fancy twenty-first-century way of doing this …”

W
EDNESDAY
, M
ARCH
11, 2015

C
ENTRAL
L
IBRARY
, E
AST
S
AINT
C
LAIR
S
TREET
, I
NDIANAPOLIS

S
eated in front of a computer terminal, Katherine sighed. She continued clicking the object she called a mouse. “No trace of a Walter Quentin Crippen. I checked the entire United States.”

Her words dragged Roger’s mood downward like lead anchors. Pencil in hand, he crossed off the last name on his list of his Fourth Fighter Group buddies. “I was saving Walt for last. He was the best wingman a pilot could want, and my closest American pal in England. I guess he’s dead if you can’t find him.”

“Not necessarily. He could be alive and using an unlisted number. Or he might use a cell phone instead of a landline.”

“Cell phone? You mean those pocket-sized telephones are called cell phones?”

“Sure. Or iPhone. Or Android. Or even just ‘cell.’ Is that important?”

He couldn’t help grinning. “Not important, but it clears up a little misunderstanding of mine. I’ll explain later.”

“Back to your friend Walt. He might also be alive and live with family. I see plenty of Crippens all across the country, just not Walter Quentin Crippen.”

“In which case, searching for the right family might take forever. Even if he’s alive—which he probably isn’t—he could pass away before we stumble across a relative.” For the hundredth time, he scanned the library with his eyes. “Watching for Luftwaffe fighters was a piece of cake compared to constantly checking people to see if anybody looks like a killer. I could spot Messerschmitts a long way off, but an assassin on foot could walk right up to us before he pulls a gun or a knife.”

“I know. I’m trying to hurry.”

While Katherine continued scanning the computer screen, Roger gingerly touched his chest. It no longer throbbed. The sensation had downgraded to a cross between a dull ache and itchiness, but at least he could use his right arm without wincing now. As a bonus, the quickly healing wound had finally convinced Katherine that at least part of his story was on the level.