The Methuselah Project (41 page)

The television sprang to life. The familiar faces of two local news anchors appeared.

“Would you like something to drink, Mr. C.? Maybe some milk? Tomato juice?”

“Tomato juice?” He crinkled his nose. “You trying to poison me? How about orange juice? And an oatmeal cookie. That fool doctor keeps harping to add more fiber to my diet.”

“OJ and a cookie. Got it. Be right back.” Adelle strolled away, the familiar
squeech, squeech
receding in volume as she retreated.

He had just begun to follow the first news story, which concerned the latest violence in western Iraq, when an aged female voice sang out sweetly, “Oh, Mr. Crippen, would you like to join us for a game of euchre? Gladys Mae had to go powder her nose. You know how long it always takes her.”

He kept his eyes on the television. “Not now. I’m watching the news. Besides, my daughter and her husband are supposed to show up any time.”

He shook his head at the images on the screen.
Suicide bombers. Fanatics chopping off people’s heads. Is the whole world going mad?

Alice appeared beside him. “Hi, Dad.” She bent to kiss his cheek. In her hands she carried a plastic cup of orange juice and a paper plate with two cookies. “These are for you. Adelle met me in the hallway and said you asked for them.”

He accepted the juice and took a sip, alternating polite glances from the television to Alice.

On the screen, the male newsman addressed his co-anchor: “Right after the break, we have a curious story about a young man who got arrested for disrupting an awards ceremony in Indianapolis. Although he appears to be in his early twenties, he shouted claims that he is—get this—nearly one hundred years old.”

The female newscaster picked up her cue: “All I can say is I hope I look like I’m still in my twenties when I hit the century mark.” With a wink at the camera, she added, “We’ll be back in a moment.”

When the image cut to a commercial for triple-pane vinyl windows, he shifted his full attention to his daughter. “So how is everybody? Henry? The boys? All the grandkids?”

“Everybody is great. Henry would’ve come, but the office was throwing a retirement party for the vice president of marketing. He felt obligated to go. How are you? Still giving all the nurses a hard time, I bet.”

His cracked lips parted in a good-natured grin. “It’s a rough job, but somebody has to do it.”

After showing him some cell phone photos of her grandkids—his great-grandchildren—in goofy poses, Alice rested a hand on her father’s, which held half an oatmeal cookie. “Dad, you feel cold. Where’s your lap blanket?”

“Must’ve forgot it. Probably on the chair in my room.”

“I’ll dash down and get it. Don’t go ’way, now.”

He lifted the glass of juice to his lips as the news broadcast resumed.

“And now, a story of stolen valor from Indianapolis, Indiana, where a wannabe World War II hero disrupted a ceremony in honor of veterans by claiming that he himself had been a P-47 pilot in the Fourth Fighter Group in England.”

Crippen’s left hand—which had been reaching for his second oatmeal cookie—froze in midair.

The Fourth Fighter Group?

The image flashed to a stage in an auditorium. Just as a uniformed army officer was delivering a speech, a young man wearing the old-style flight jacket dashed into view and snatched the microphone from his hand. “Ladies and gentlemen, I know this will sound crazy, but I’m a veteran too, a veteran of the Fourth Fighter Group of the Eighth Army Air Force in England. In 1943 I was flying a P-47 over the Third Reich when I was shot down. I’ve just escaped from Germany. Nazi goons with guns are chasing me. They’re trying to kill me. I need your help!”

“Crazy upstart. But that voice … it sounds so …”

“Did you say something, Walter?” It was one of the ladies at the euchre table.

On the television screen, the intruder at the ceremony began talking faster, louder, as men in various military uniforms grappled with him. They struggled to separate the microphone from his hand. “German scientists performed experiments on me! They held me prisoner in an underground bunker for decades. They subjected me to a process that prevents my body from aging. I know I look young, but I’m closer to a hundred years old.”

As the young man in the flight jacket continued to resist, the camera zoomed in for a close-up.

Now even Walt’s failing vision could clearly make out the face—a face he never expected to see again. His heart lurched in his chest. He felt the plastic juice cup slip from his fingers. He tried to speak, but only a strangled gasp escaped his throat.

“Walter? Are you all right?”

Walt felt frozen, powerless to look away. There—even the name tag on the jacket said … “Greene.”

He heard his own breathing switch to loud, staccato rasps. The hand that had held the orange juice now clutched his tightening chest.

The figure on TV continued to struggle. “Every word is true. My name is Captain Roger Greene, of the United States Army Air Corps. I grew up in Plainfield, Indiana. I’ve just escaped from Germany, and now assassins from a secret organization are trying to kill me. I need protection!”

Was this a ghost from the grave? Unable to take anymore, Walt uttered an unintelligible cross between a gurgle and a shout. His panicky breaths rasped faster, louder, but he couldn’t control them.

“Mr. Crippen?” called one of the card players. “Nurse, help!”

In a final bid to escape the spectral image, Walter Crippen tilted his head back and strained to raise his voice. Between ragged breaths, he managed a broken shout. “In here … somebody … in here!”

F
RIDAY
, M
ARCH
13, 2015

M
ARION
C
OUNTY
J
AIL
, I
NDIANAPOLIS

O
nce more, Roger kicked his bunk in the jail cell. “Stupid, stupid, stupid! How could you let them do this to you? You should’ve bolted while you had the chance!” He swung around and resumed pacing his miniature square of floor space. With every step, he saw the orange pant legs of his prison outfit. He was a jailbird. Caged again—in his own country.

Amidst the cacophony of noises echoing around the concrete and steel of the cell block sounded a mocking reply. “Don’t sweat it, man. Yer gonna get used to it by yer third or fourth time in lockup.”

Roger ignored the fool.
I escaped before. I can escape again. Nobody’s going to keep Roger Greene locked up. Especially not inside the United States!

He clenched his fist and drew it back, ready to punch the white wall in frustration. At the last second, he realized it was pointless. He was more likely to shatter the bones in his hand and wrist than to damage the wall. Instead he wheeled around and kicked the bunk once more, this time with the other foot.

“Hey, knock it off! Quit damaging taxpayer property.”

Roger glared at the brown-uniformed deputy standing outside the bars.

“You’ve been raising a ruckus ever since they dragged you in here. I was sent over to escort you to a meeting with visitors, but if you keep up that stinking attitude, I’ll tell ’em you got your visitation suspended. Can your thick skull understand that?”

The word
visitors
snared Roger’s attention. How big and powerful was the organization? Could they sneak an armed assassin into the county jail and knock him off? Or maybe Katherine had returned with a lawyer. She’d shouted that she would try.

“What kind of visitors?”

The jailer crossed his arms. “We’re not playing
Jeopardy,
so knock off the questions. All I know is it’s more than one. The jail commander gave them permission to see you in a special room.”

Suspicion flared. A meeting in a special room? Could this request mask an attempt to murder him? On the other hand, every chance to step out of the cell would give him the opportunity to size up the building, to look for escape routes.

He nodded. “Okay. Put the handcuffs on. Let’s find out who wants to see me. But when we get there, stick around, okay? If I decide I don’t like the company, I might skip the show and come back.”

Once Roger’s wrists were secured and his ankles in leg chains, he and his armed escort descended to the walkway that connected the cell block to the rest of the Marion County Jail. When they reached the room where his visit was to take place, Roger narrowed his eyes at the figure standing outside the door: a man with wavy black hair wearing a dark-blue blazer, gray pants, white shirt, and burgundy necktie. He held a cup, which Roger judged by the aroma to contain coffee. Question was, did he owe any allegiance to the so-called HO?

From an inside pocket, the man pulled out a leather wallet, which he flipped open to show the deputy. “I’ll take over from here.” He returned the wallet to his pocket and opened the door for Roger.

As Roger stepped closer, eyes alert, he spotted a bulge under the man’s blazer that might indicate a concealed weapon. He stopped, uncertain whether to enter. “What’s this all about? I don’t know who you are.”

“Then we’re equal. I don’t know who you are, either. But I intend to find out. I’m Special Agent McBride, with the FBI.”

McBride’s announcement took Roger by surprise, but he welcomed the chance to state his claims to a higher level of authority than the local police. The leg chains still restricting the length of his steps, Roger shuffled through the doorway. Inside, a number of men who were obviously waiting for him stood up. On a chair by itself sat a paper sack with his name printed on the side. The top item peeking from the sack was his flight jacket.

Another plainclothesman in a gray suit flashed his identification and introduced himself as Jaworski. He claimed association with some outfit called the CIA.

Roger shook his head. “CIA? Never heard of it.”

To the right of Jaworski stood a man wearing a green uniform. “This is Colonel Davenport,” Jaworski said. “You might recall wrestling a microphone out of his hand the other day. And beyond the colonel is General Overton.”

Roger sized up Overton, a middle-aged man with gray flecks dotting his dark hair. Overton’s blue uniform rendered the man an enigma. Could that be a new style of navy uniform? That wouldn’t make sense. The navy has admirals, not generals. Could he be Royal Air Force? The RAF wore blue …

Before Roger could ask about Overton’s branch of service, the door swung open again. The deputy who had escorted Roger ushered in Katherine and a stately looking gentleman in round-rimmed spectacles and a black suit.

“Roger!” Katherine threw her arms around him. “I found a lawyer to represent you.”

She could say no more before Special Agent McBride stepped in. “No physical contact with the prisoner, please.”

Roger looked over the group. “Quite a gathering you’ve got here. Is this how they conduct trials nowadays?”

Jaworski, who seemed to be officiating, shook his head and planted one foot on his chair. “No trial here. We’re just going to talk. Have a seat, Mr. Greene.”

Roger bristled even as he sat. “That’s
Captain
Greene. I’m an officer in the United States Army Air Corps. I might be out of uniform, but I deserve to be addressed by my proper rank until officially discharged by Uncle Sam.”

Jaworski motioned for the others to sit, although he remained standing. “Maybe you are, and maybe you aren’t. But simply for the sake of a harmonious meeting …” He regarded the rest of the group. “For the moment, we will refer to the prisoner as Captain Greene.”

General Overton, the man in the blue uniform, flipped a hand into the air to catch Jaworski’s eye. “Just for the record, the supposed ‘Captain Greene’ has already contradicted the obvious. There
isn’t
any U.S. Army Air Corps, and there hasn’t been one for a very long time. The Air Force and the Army separated into distinct branches shortly after World War II.”

At last Roger understood the blue uniform. “Then you’re with one of the Air Forces?” Feeling a grin forcing its way onto his face despite Overton’s skepticism, Roger stood. “Sorry, General. I didn’t realize. Reporting for duty.”

“Take your seat, Captain Greene,” Jaworski said. “We won’t be observing military protocol. Now I’m going to lay this on the line as bluntly as possible: every year the CIA and the FBI are called upon to deal with terrorists, murderers, serial killers, crackpot armed survivalists, doubly crackpot cult leaders, narcotics traffickers, sex traffickers, computer hackers, demented lunatics, and assorted other troublemakers on the national and international stages. Today we have a dilemma. This group needs to figure out which of those categories—if any—you fit into. Now it’s possible you’re a harmless eccentric who likes to run around in an antique flying jacket, making outlandish claims—”

“They’re not outlandish,” Katherine blurted. “They’re true!”

Special Agent McBride crossed his legs with an air of impatience. “With all due respect, Miss Mueller, I find ‘Captain’ Greene’s story approximately one notch below ‘Jack and the Beanstalk’ on the believability scale. In addition, there’s been a spree of shootings connected with an individual matching his description. We have videotapes. If it weren’t for some peculiar extenuating circumstances, we wouldn’t be conducting this interview at all. The sooner we get on with this farce, the sooner we can sort out the facts and go our separate ways.”