things?'
'Can't find them yet. Just the abstract. There's a whole other proposal on what to do with people who get it. A psychological section to see if it drives them crazy, and then a whole legal section, like for the others. Only this is about whether it's fair for these people to compete in business. For example, do they just keep amassing wealth or do they have to start over? Are they forced into retirement for three hundred years, or can they build fortunes? How about restraints on political power and influence? Would they be seen as icons that would unduly influence the democracy? Would they become the ruling elite?'
'Just how long are they assuming these people will live?' Frick asked, feeling progressively more interested.
'If they start the intervention prior to thirty-five or so, these people will live, they assume, on average, four hundred years.'
'So that's confirmed. Not a joke this time.'
'It is,' said McStott. 'I must caution you that it seems incredible, but that is what they're suggesting. You can see that this topic will keep the politicians busy for years.'
'Chaos,' Frick said. 'But as long as I'm rich and can live a long time, I don't give a crap. All of you will come to feel the same way, so keep digging.'
McStott remained uncharacteristically quiet for a moment.
'What is it?' Frick asked.
'Something just hit me. I wonder how old that octopus Glaucus is. I'll try to figure that out.'
'Think Anderson's been fooling with him?'
'It's possible. Maybe he did it a long time ago. Maybe he's still doing it. It's worth looking into.'
'How long will it take?' Frick asked.
'Depends. If we find he did do something genetic and left markers, it could take months to find them. So we need a record.'
'Months? I need something fast. And you don't know for a fact that if he is treating the octopus, the secret's in its genes, right?'
'That's true,' McStott allowed.
'That octopus isn't going anywhere,' Frick said. 'If we can't find something better, we know where to find it.'
CHAPTER 25
Haley had pressed her way into a large, leafy hedge near the garage, and once beyond it, she had sensed no one behind her. Heading up through the brush and the neighbor's yard, she went as fast as she could, even if not as quietly. Between Harrison Street, Lattimer's, and a main thoroughfare on the east side of the airport runway, there were forested areas and small neighborhoods. The first twenty feet into the brush had been miserable going as she picked her way through the dense undergrowth. Her eyes were unaccustomed to the dark. Any second she had expected the officer to start shouting for her to stop, but, in fact, she had probably been invisible in the darkness.
The siren from the other patrol car had been sounding closer, though. Then it had been joined by a second, probably a half-mile away.
After only a short distance Haley had broken out into an area with widely spaced trees and a couple buildings. She cut across it and came to a four-way intersection and ran down the street toward a forest. For a block she was completely exposed, but she covered the ground quickly.
Then she was in thick woods with more heavy underbrush. Running, walking, and crawling, she felt like it would go on forever. To her right she knew was a large open field, and to her left a long row of residences that went on for a quarter-mile or more.
Putting her hands in front of her, she tried to feel her way around the tree trunks. In a particularly dark and foreboding thicket, she took several steps and, with one of them, went into a hole that put her in brush up to her waist and skinned her shinbone. She pushed on, vines ripping at her clothing, her skin feeling stings as if from attacking bees; her raw flesh protested the mistreatment. She traveled as fast as she could, holding the bag of clothes, sometimes on three of all fours, desperate to claw her way through.
She crested the top of a gentle hill and moved closer to the houses but remained in the trees and in the backyards that bordered them, stumbling over barbecues and children's toys and all manner of junk.
The two sets of sirens came closer.
She crossed a large street that she knew to be Grover. There were new construction homes on the far side and down a large residential drive. Just as she arrived at a home in the new subdivision, a patrol car came around the corner off Grover, seemingly following her. Fortunately, she was off the street out of the path of the headlights. She hit the ground and the car whizzed past and continued. Quickly she hurried into the shadows alongside the home. It was full of loud-talking teenagers and rock music. There was a light on a back patio and it cast a glimmer into the deep shadows and she tried to avoid the fingers of light that felt their way into the darkness. Careful not to run into anything, she went as fast as she dared. For a good distance she clawed through more brush and trees until she spotted what she knew to be the county fairgrounds, where she encountered a fence.
She reached out. It was chain link. She struggled over it and ran in the open, fearful that at any moment she would be yelled into halting or, worse yet, a target for a gun.
The silent bleachers of the fairgrounds created a ghostly backdrop and underscored her aloneness in a place designed for happy people living safe, normal lives.
Coming down Argyle, a new patrol car was shining its spotlight to the fairgrounds side of the road. It indicated to her that for some reason they believed she hadn't crossed over Argyle, traveling toward the airport. Instantly she hit the dirt and crawled quickly back away from the street. When she had put the major county buildings between herself and the road, she turned back and began traveling parallel with the main road and the airport runway. There were more trees to the south. She crossed a small street and eventually came to a sizable home.
Hoping she wouldn't be seen in the open, she climbed through a board fence, and went down the driveway toward the house, thinking she should get in the bushes but not wanting to slow down. Eerily, the squad car was coming back up the main street. She remained hunched over, low to the ground. Then the car turned up the side street, where she hid, moving its spotlight. It couldn't be a coincidence, she told herself. Perhaps someone in the house had seen her moving.
Another cruiser was coming up the main street, also using its spotlight. Through the trees she could see yet more flashing lights, indicating that she was slowly being corralled.
When she arrived at the next house, still at least a half-mile from the airport, she saw two police cars out on Argyle. They seemed to have stopped to confer. With all the attention, she had no idea how she'd get to the hangar that housed Ben's plane. It was on the opposite side of the airport complex.
As she came to the back of the house, she slithered through the fence and scratched her back in the process. Looking at the newly constructed home, with its hints of a Victorian lineage, hopeless fear penetrated to her bowels-add a few cobwebs and some faded paint and it could be something out of a Stephen King novel. Go in the house or face Flick's goons-her choice.
One of the officers was exiting the car when a third dark sedan rolled up. A man got out and spoke with the officer and then they both proceeded toward the front of the house.
She looked at the time. When her cell phone rang, it frightened her out of her mind. It was about as subtle as a foghorn in the living room. Sam sounded weary and beat-up.
She listened, casting about for a place to hide.
Sam had mentioned he had papers but no time to talk.
Curiosity burned in her, but she had to find a way to stay alive first.
She switched her cell phone to silent, then quickly looked around for a place to hide before the men started searching behind the house. There was a back door and a flagstone patio. On the patio were two tricycles, a bike, a ball, a bat, some large trucks.
