COSMOS magazine

Friday, July 4

Tom Gebhardt had not enjoyed the ride to Roberta Treadwell's ranch, nor bothered to be polite to the garrulous driver. "One of my mother's ancestors was a Spanish explorer," the fool had babbled. "My grandmother used to tell stories of how they found a city of gold. They went to get horses and wagons to carry it to the coast so they could ship it back to Spain. But they could never find the place again. It had been swallowed up by the earth. You know, like from an earthquake or something." Finally, to Tom's relief, the idiot had shut up.

Standing to one side of the huge house, feeling completely useless as the search progressed, Tom wondered what the hell Bruce had expected him to accomplish here. He'd come on this wild goose chase for no better reason than that Bruce Blick had felt like ordering him about. It seemed clear, abruptly, that Bruce was slipping into senility or paranoia, a little more each day. Meanwhile, Tom kept on like a faithful dog. Or maybe, he thought bitterly, a whipped one.

Oh, he was well paid. Tom Gebhardt acknowledged to himself that he'd been a friendless geek in high school, little better at Georgetown. During his rise through the ranks of Blick's empire, Tom had learned to dress impeccably, to manipulate human nature without qualm or regret. He called hundreds of people friend, was feared and envied by many. But he was intimate with no one. Seldom had the time for women, and his sexual relationships were at best two-dimensional. I'm worse off now than when I was in high school, he thought in chagrin. At least back then I never would've dreamed of hurting a little kid. What was it Bruce had said? Peel his biochemistry like an onion. Jesus!

Tom shuddered. I have to get away from all this for a little while. Just for a few minutes. He turned and walked away into the darkness.

The amount of starlight reflected by the pale stones crunching under his feet surprised him. Once his eyes adjusted, away from the lights of the house, Tom could easily see well enough to follow the double tracks marking the road that wound through the pasture behind Roberta Treadwell's house. Still, the world seemed filled with threats. The dark shapes on either side of the road were trees and bushes, nothing more; he was able to believe it as long as he could look over his shoulder and see the glimmer of the ranch house. He stopped; the lights were gone, obscured by an intervening hill. Now he was part of the wild landscape, no better than an animal, waiting to be caught and eaten by other animals. It was not impossible, way out here; the dark shapes seemed to move and take on the form of mountain lions or wolves or packs of javelinas. Wild native pigs, they prowled in Texas, didn't they? Oh Christ. They could pull him down and peel his own flesh like an onion.

Somewhere to his right, perhaps not more than a few yards away, one stone fell against another. Some feral thing stalking him? He began to run blindly. One foot slipped. He found himself on the ground, the palms of his hands burning, sharp pain shooting through his right knee. He managed to stand, saw that he had lost the road he'd been following. He strained his eyes, searching for the predatory animal that even now might be ready to spring on him. A mound of white stone stood somewhat higher than his head. Instinctively, he stumbled toward it, seeking shelter among the boulders. He pressed himself into a shallow depression and held his breath, listening. Only the sound of wind blowing across the rocks, the drone of some sort of insect.

Squatting tensely among the rocks, he considered his future. Yes, he could continue his life as Bruce Blick's protégé and never look back at this night; edit it out of his life and his memory. He uttered a sharp bark of self-mockery. The fabled Dr. James Rutherford... he could have done that editing for him. But such psychologists' games with the mind were child's play compared to this new genetic discovery of Gibson's.

It made Tom's head reel. If what he'd been told about the auxosome treatment were true, if it genuinely held the key to unlimited youth and lifespan, it might be on the high-end market within a few years. At an enormous premium, naturally. Working for Blick, he'd have the income to purchase his own supply. But Blick would be relentless now that he knew what sort of research Roberta's lab was doing. The old bastard would block all research that posed any threat to his established power. Already he was unimaginably wealthy and powerful; he'd cauterise Roberta's continued research if he had to kill them all. As Blick's right-hand man, Tom knew he would be expected to participate in destroying the possibility of eternal youth for all but a few. Perhaps himself included.

It was an insane prospect.

Walk away from it now, he told himself. He really could walk away from his poisoned future. Probably, that'd have little effect on Roberta's fate, and certainly it would ruin his own life. Ruin his life? No, he'd be regaining his life. Blick was powerful enough to prevent Tom ever again working in any but the most menial job. The best he might hope for would be a low-paying middle management job, the sort of work he had done years ago as a stepping stone to greater things. He had no money saved; he'd always anticipated plenty of time for that in the future. His new future would be one of low rent apartments, cheap clothes, domestic beer.

Blick might even have him killed. But at least, before he died, he'd be able to see his face in the mirror without feeling revulsion. He'd be able to feel pride. In himself, finally, for making his own decision and acting accordingly.

His cell phone sounded its musical tone. Reflexively he pulled it from his pocket. His scraped hand stung; that was reality, here and now. He glanced at the illuminated caller ID, held the phone to his ear, found it impossible to speak.

"Tom?" It was Blick. "Hello? Shit. Tom, are you there?"

Without a word, without disconnecting, he set the cell phone on the ground next to his foot, found a stone small enough to fit in his hand, heavy enough to do the job. He raised his arm and brought the stone down hard, shattering the phone. From his pocket he took a small penknife. Gritting his teeth, he cut clumsily into the flesh of his right forearm. His arm jerked; he grimaced at the pain. Something small and wet glistened, his GPS tracker chip, and fell among the stones. He smashed that as well, blood trickling down into his hand.

Too late for all that. Too late for anything, really. He had sold himself long ago, and the price was not just his own eventual death, this time, if they tracked him down. Really, that was no more than the price of every man's life, had been since humans first walked the world. He would have to live with the knowledge that he had helped kill the possibility of extended life for himself—youth and joy for a thousand years, or who knew how much longer than that—and for the whole of mankind as well. His penalty was far worse than death: from this day, he was doomed to live out another forty or fifty years knowing, in guilt and self loathing, what had been possible. But at least he would no longer be a part of Blick's apparatus of death.

Shadows closed in around him.

Friday, July 4

Leaning against the pump, Wayne detected a faint odour of motor oil. That smell, in the dark, took him back to his dad's workshop.

 

Standing in the doorway, his little brother eager behind him, Wayne raises his voice so Dad can hear him over the noise from the baseball game on the radio.

"Hey Dad, can Rob and me go swimming?"

"Have you finished mowing the yard?"

"Yes, sir."

"Well, I don't know." Wayne knows Dad is trying to think if there's any other chores he can make Wayne do.

"Please Daddy?" says Rob in babyish little voice.

"Well, okay then." Dad has a soft spot for Rob. Pretty much lets him do anything he wants. Usually Wayne hates it that Dad likes Rob better than he likes Wayne, but this time he's glad, because it means they can get away from here for a while, have some fun.

 

At first it's great just wading in the river, sinking their feet into the sandy bottom, laughing as minnows nibble their legs. But then Billy-Joe Taylor and Kenny Bingham and a tall guy with blond hair show up.

"Hey, Wayne, stuck with baby-sitting, huh?" Billy-Joe taunts him. "Can't find anybody else to be friends with? Have to hang around with babies?" The other guys laugh.

Wayne acts like he hasn't heard. "C'mon Rob, let's go home," he says, taking his brother's hand.

"Aww, you can't leave now. You haven't even had any fun yet." The tall blond boy shoves Wayne so hard he loses his grip on Rob's hand. "Hey, little guy, you look like you need a good bath." He picks Rob up and tosses him out into the river, at a place where it's too deep for the little boy to stand up.

"No! He can't swim!" Wayne makes a mad dash into the water and reaches Rob, who clings to him. "It's okay, Robbie. I won't let them hurt you," he says.

Billy Joe and Kenny begin throwing rocks at Wayne. A small stone thrown hard catches Wayne on the cheek. He touches the pain and finds his fingers smeared with blood. Water enters his nostrils and his mouth. Then he's on the shore, by himself. Billy-Joe and Kenny are gone. Oh no. No! Rob is gone.

 

When the search party found Rob's body almost a quarter of a mile downstream, Dad blamed Wayne for not taking care of his brother. Wayne never knew what really happened. Payback, he thought, and felt again as if he were drowning. Moaning, slipped into fugue.

 

"You dirty fuckin' creeps!" Payback begins screaming his rage the moment he gets control. Billy-Joe wades toward him, shoves him. Payback loses his footing. The current catches them both, pulls him and Rob into deeper water. Payback struggles to get back toward the bank, but he's not a strong swimmer, no stronger than Wayne, and the current is too swift. His brother goes under and he comes up coughing and gasping for air. The current tears him away just as Payback gets a mouthful of water himself. We're drowning! All he can think of now is getting himself back to the bank. He kicks as hard as he can, paddles with his arms. Without quite knowing how he did it, he finds himself lying face down on the sandy river bank. A moment of pure relief. Then he realizes that he is no longer holding Robbie's hand.

 

Wayne pressed his head against his knees, shedding tears held in all those years ago. "You killed your little brother." His father's voice, but also the slow, droning voice of Dr. Rutherford.

I didn't do it, he thought. I didn't kill my brother, I tried to save him. Maybe I didn't kill the woman in the trailer. But he'd killed Rutherford and Pritchett, for sure, and he was almost certain that the young man Payback had left to die in his dad's workshop, Drew Chang, was real. I've got to get back to Delmar. Whatever it costs me, I've got to get back there.

Friday, July 4

At last Paul dared to hope they might get away. It had been quiet again upstairs for almost an hour, according to the cellphone clock. Jill and her son had actually managed to fall asleep, the boy cradled in his mother's arms, her head resting on her son's. Paul felt a tender urge to embrace both of them but held back, not wanting to risk waking them.

He sat slumped against the base of the great pump, staring at the empty black, and jerked his head up at the sound of footsteps coming from the far side of the old machine. He jumped instinctively to his feet, but there was nowhere to retreat except back to Roberta's lightless swimming pool.

"God damned thing's moving," said Wayne softly, near his ear. He felt the man's warm breath. "Maybe if we all push against it we can keep them from getting in."

"Could be someone Roberta's sent."

Or not. Paul threw his weight against the pump. It stopped moving. But it was only a matter of time before the police called in reinforcements. They could bring twenty men if they had to. Hell, they could blast the thing away with explosives if they felt like it.

Softly but distinctly, someone called his name.

"Paul. Hey, Paul. It's Ambrosio. Maisie's son. Roberta sent me to help you. Let me in, man."

"A trap," said Wayne, his voice wild with terror.

"If it's the cops, they'll get us eventually anyway," Paul told him. "Maybe Roberta really has sent help." Still he stood with his shoulder against the body of the pump. Wayne shrugged, stepped back. Paul moved aside as well, and the huge machine slowly swung inward toward them. Pale light entered. Jill, waking, stared dubiously, as though suspecting she were dreaming.

A tall thin youth stood in the opening. "My mother says we have to hurry," he said. "The cops are thick as mosquitoes after a rain and they'll be putting up road blocks. I need to get pictures of everybody." He took a small camera from his shirt pocket. "My mother's going to get passports so you'll have a chance to get away, cross the border into Mexico. Her friend says you don't want to try to swim the river, because they'll probably be flying the whole area looking for you."

"I have this damned scar on my forehead," Jill said. She touched the accident wound. With the bandage gone, Paul saw in the dim light, the sutured cut was pale yellow from the antiseptic swab. We'll have to cover that, he thought, or scrub it off. "They'll know—"

"Digital camera. We can clean you up." Light blossomed, made them all flinch. "Hold still, lady."

It was surreal, Paul thought, this kid taking flash pictures in a cave. Like holiday snap shots. Should he trust this kid? Really there was no alternative.

"What about Alex?" said Jill. Hearing his name, the boy stirred. "You can't put a picture of a half-bald kid on the passport. That's exactly what they'll be looking for."

"The boy? My mother said not to worry. We'll use a picture of a kid with blond hair."

Jill nodded, shrugged.

"I'm bringing a car for you to take. Roberta said you shouldn't use one of hers, because they might be looking for anything registered to her. So she bought a car from a friend of mine, and see, my friend and me go to pick it up after I take your pictures to my mother, and we leave it at this place where there's a road nobody knows about."

"How are we supposed to find this road?" said Paul.

"You go back with me the way I came in. My friend dropped me off and drove around for a while so there wouldn't be no car parked there, just in case. There's still helicopters flying around out there." He ducked away through a low opening, stood waiting on the other side. The cone of illumination from his flashlight seemed pitifully insignificant in the darkness of the cave, but even so, wonderfully welcome after the dark.

"You can wait up at the top for my friend and me to come back. My mother says it'll take about an hour to get the passports ready." Ambrosio was already moving off down through the dark cave. "Hurry," he said over his shoulder.

Trying to keep up, stumbling on the uneven floor, they followed him into the light-flickering blackness.