The Curiosity

by Stephen Kiernan

  “Lotta noise, mostly,” he said. “Loozahs didn’t feel they were getting enough attention, so they made a human barricade across the boulevahhd. We’ve pawped like sixty of ’em, blawcking traffic, assembly without license and whatnawt. And now they won’t give their frickin’ names.”

  “What do you mean?”

  He pointed at men clustered behind yellow crime-scene tape, all wearing red shirts. They sat on the curb, looking like sheep. “They all say their name’s Adam, no last name.”

  I chuckled. “Guess it beats John Doe.”

  “Them.” He pointed at a group of women, all in red, behind tape on the other side. “They’re all named frickin’ Eve.”

  “I get it.”

  “Meanwhile we got real crimes to deal with. Plus, ever since the marathon bomb bastids, my buddies don’t exactly love crowds.”

  “What are you going to do with all of them?”

  “Adam and Eve? I dunno. Fetch a snake? Feed ’em apples?” He laughed. “Naw, they got a downtown overnight coming. Once transport gets heah.”

  His boss started over, a lieutenant, and I rolled out of there. I heard him tell the cop to keep the area clear of gawkers, meaning me. I’d planned to use the rear door, but Wade was holding forth to reporters on the sidewalk. I couldn’t resist.

  “I told them not to do it,” he informed the cluster of microphones. “I told them this was not the time for civil disobedience.”

  He was about as convincing as a dog owner ordering his pit bull to let go of a burglar’s leg. I dug out my trusty notebook.

  “We have been patient,” Wade continued. “We argued against this project in court. We begged the Commonwealth of Massachusetts to investigate the diabolical doings of this nefarious group.”

  I chuckled, trying to imagine who inside the lab’s walls fit that description. Gerber, spacing out to the latest Dead bootleg? Thomas, licking Carthage’s shoes?

  “All to no avail,” Wade said. “And so these good people took matters into their own hands. You see them now, being arrested for doing what they believe is right. They are going to jail as a matter of conscience. Perhaps they remember the teachings of Gandhi: ‘First they ignore you, then they laugh at you, then they crack down, then you win.’ So here is the crackdown, my friends.”

  Earlier it was King he quoted, and now Gandhi. This guy was shameless, no qualms about using whoever was handy, and he had a head of steam.

  “We’re not the ones redefining mortality. We’re not the ones using unethical science. But we are the ones willing to suffer, because our consciences cannot stand by.”

  I wrote it all down, but no denying the nasty taste in my mouth. If this outfit was like Gandhi and King, then I was like Princess Diana. The paddy wagon arrived, cops started loading all the Adams and Eves, and just when I thought the show couldn’t get anymore carnival, some of them started singing “We Shall Overcome.”

  That one stung. I mean, quote anyone you like, no hair off me. But I worked five years at a paper in Baltimore, and the last time I heard that song was at the funeral of a twelve-year-old. Stray bullets don’t care where they land. There was nothing civil rights about these protesters, just a calculating dude with a knack for keeping the tape rolling.

  “Our responsibility is to keep the roads clear,” the police spokesman meanwhile told one reporter, off to the side. “These people are endangering drivers through here, and they are endangering themselves. Simple as that.”

  The wagon loading was dull, no one resisting, so I badged myself into the building. I could e-mail alert my editor, and file copy on this in minutes. The lab bullpen reminded me of a newsroom in the morning, before reporters arrive. Few lights on, no phones ringing. Billings was bent over his computer like some underpaid bean counter in an 1800s sweatshop. Gerber, feet on his desk, eyes closed, was blissing to whatever stoner reveries jammed in his headphones.

  I paused by the Perv du Jour basket, thinking now might be a good time to sneak out that green binder. But I checked the board first and sure enough Gerber had a new offering. When it came to weirdness, the guy was as dependable as a metronome.

  That night’s entry was different, because it had a highly identifiable origin: walkerforpresident.com. Here was Gerald T. Walker’s trademark toothy grin, hand outstretched as he was introduced to Jeremiah Rice. A caption ran beneath: Tuned In, In Touch, and Ready to Restore America’s Global Leadership in Science and Technology. At the photo’s edge, you could see Dr. Kate’s slender ankle and foot. That woman, damn.

  Gerber also posted a screen capture of Frank speaking and the veep leaning to catch every word. The caption: Listening to America, Proud of Our Nation.

  Finally there was a picture with Walker’s arm thrown around Frank’s shoulders. The judge wore a pained expression, but Walker was smiling like he just beat two weeks of constipation. I swear, his teeth were pulled so far back he looked like a horse about to sneeze. The caption: Reanimate America. Walker for President.

  “Makes you want to gag, doesn’t it?” Gerber had sidled over.

  “What?” I chuckled, taking my hand off the basket with the binder. “I was feeling choked up and patriotic.”

  He sniffed. “Worst case of the hunger I’ve seen yet.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “You know what I mean.” He waddled back to his desk, pressed a button to blank the screen. “All these people, all the same hunger. Gimme a piece, gimme gimme.”

  “What’s so terrible about folks using old Frank? Nothing new about that.”

  “True. And I’m sure the judge can handle it.” Gerber picked up his headphones. “But look at all the signs. The sites, the bloggers. Media frenzy like he was a movie star. That army of freaks saying they were his offspring. This bit from Walker. Sheesh.”

  “Human nature, Gerber.” I tapped the Perv sheets. “The usual. Hell, a century ago it was a dozen women claiming to be the long-lost daughter of the last Russian czar.”

  “If this is the same old thing, then it’s getting worse. It’s like everybody is pretending to be that Russian chick, the whole country.” Gerber held his arms wide. “When you add in the crazy scene in this place, no wonder everybody is perving all over our judge.” He scratched his scalp with the headphones. “I don’t like it.”

  I thought about pulling out my notebook. Was this a conversation I’d want to quote someday? Or was it just late-night Gerber, caught when his buzz needed refreshing? “In my opinion,” I said, “you ought to stick to science. This is a clear case of same shit, different day. No harm in any of it.”

  “I’m not sure about those protesters. They irritate the crap out of me.”

  “They’ve definitely grown more annoying.” I dug the notebook out after all, flipping to find a clean sheet. Shadowing the lovebirds all day had given me hours to kill. I’d whiled away the hours fooling with letter combinations from the chamber’s security pass code: BOMS, CMNR. Maybe they added up to nothing, but often people choose passwords that signify something to them. BNOQ. Would the letters reveal a secret about Carthage? Then I found AMOS and knew I’d struck gold. Whatever it meant, one day I would find out. “You should have heard them out there tonight.”

  “There’s this want, want, want everyone seems to have,” Gerber continued. “And with the folks outside our doors, you have the added danger of piety. Whenever anybody gets too righteous, it makes me nervous.”

  I wrote down what he said, but on the page it only looked like basic doper paranoia. “Why is that?” I asked.

  Gerber ignored the question. “The worst was that reporter who came through here yesterday. God what a smug son of a bitch.”

  “What are you talking about? I’m the only reporter allowed in here.”

  “I didn’t catch his name, you’d have to check the sign-in at security. I just know he had an okay from Carthage. He came i
n for an interview, but he was full of accusations about what a lousy judge Jeremiah apparently had been. The judge gave the reporter the heave-ho, but not before he’d been rattled. Who does that guy think he is? Challenging somebody about something he did or didn’t do a hundred years ago? What’s he trying to prove?”

  “Carthage promised me exclusive access to Subject One. And no one else.”

  Gerber rolled his eyes. “Don’t tell me you’ve got the hunger, too.”

  “Hell no,” I said. “Just another story to me, another byline. But Carthage and I had a deal. And I can just guess who that fucking reporter was.”

  “You’re completely missing my point.”

  I jammed the notebook in my pocket. “Right this second, with all due respect, I do not give a rat’s ass about your point. I have been bullshitted again.”

  Gerber laughed and turned his back. “Well, aren’t you suddenly Prince Charming?” He pressed a key on his computer, and the screen brightened. A bunch of graphs all pointed uphill. He leaned forward and studied them.

  I paced for half a minute. I deserved an explanation. With Carthage gone home, the only people with any answers were the good judge and Dr. Kate. I knew right where I could find them. I mean, if I were Frank, I know where I’d be aiming to get her, just the two of us, the minute the sun went down. Not to mention this meant I could get back to tailing for the night.

  “I’ve got work to do,” I told Gerber’s back, and hustled for the corridor.

  “Have fun, tiger,” he sang, wiggling his fingers in the air.

  Goddamn elevator took like a month to arrive.

  CHAPTER 32

  On Tiptoes

  (Kate Philo)

  Whatever calm we regained over the course of that evening in Lynn, as soon as we turned onto the street of the Lazarus Project offices the recovery shattered like glass. Jeremiah had pulled himself together, taking a long, melancholy walk around the cemetery while I waited by the entrance. I felt as comforting as a porcupine. My cell phone rang several times—Gerber’s extension at the project offices—but I had no stomach for his weird ways right then. When Jeremiah returned, I took his hand for the meander back to the car. We drove out the causeway to Nahant, along the shore up to Beverly, not speaking the whole time, finally easing back toward Boston.

  We drove directly into a spectacle. Police vehicles blocked the entire street. Bright banks of lights beamed from fire and rescue trucks. I rolled down my window and people were singing as police carried them into what looked like giant armored cars.

  A man in uniform waved his flashlight. “Move it along heah, please.”

  “I need to drop my passenger off at the loading dock in back.”

  “Street’s closed, ma’am.”

  “But he lives in this building. How’s he supposed to get home?”

  “What can I tell you, sweethaht? We got upwards of a hundred people blocking the road and creating a hazzid. Gonna take a good two hours to get ’em all processed.”

  I was at a loss. Jeremiah slumped against his window, shaking his head as though he was saying no to everything, no to the whole world. “What should I do?”

  “Go get a lahge pizza, eat it slow, come back at around eleven-thirty.”

  “It’s him. Oh my God, it’s him.” A photographer behind the cop had spotted us, leaped forward with his camera.

  “Hey, buddy.” The cop pulled on his arm. But there were others right behind, and in seconds we were surrounded by flashing lights.

  I closed my window, put the car in reverse, and backed away fast. At the intersection I cut hard to the left and zoomed off. Within a block I could see a TV truck following us, but I cut through an alley toward the Commons and he fell from the rearview. “Lost him.”

  Jeremiah was somnolent no longer. “What in great glory was that?”

  “Some demonstration against the project, I guess.”

  “I mean that wave of camera people. And that man who chased us.”

  “Well, we call them paparazzi. I don’t what the word means, it’s Italian. They’re people who get paid for photos they take of rich or famous people.”

  “Why would you run from someone who wants to take your picture?”

  “Because their appetite is endless. In fact they can be dangerous, because they don’t believe in limits or privacy. People have died trying to escape them.”

  “But we’re not rich or famous.”

  “Not rich anyway. But you are getting pretty well known, mister.”

  “If that is the result, I would expect everyone to strive to be anonymous.”

  “That makes sense, if you come from another century.”

  Jeremiah fiddled with the glove compartment latch, then quickly sat on his hand. “What happens now? We wait till nearly midnight?”

  “No,” I said, taking Storrow Drive toward Cambridge. “We go to my place.”

  He didn’t answer. I took it for affirmation. I drove faster. In retrospect, I could not have been more foolhardy if I’d been racing toward a car accident.

  Miracle, I found a parking spot just up the block from my apartment. A cat prowled under a streetlight. Otherwise the road was deserted. We climbed out, I took Jeremiah’s offered arm. It felt different in that moment, more muscled, more of a pleasure to grasp. I used both hands.

  “This is where you live,” Jeremiah said, studying the arching trees.

  “The project is where I live. This is where I sleep, and do laundry.”

  “Do you have laundry tonight?”

  He sounded so guileless I looked at him sideways, but his face gave nothing away. Was this really happening? We inched along that sidewalk together. Inevitably, we arrived at my front step.

  “Jeremiah, I feel just terrible about the cemetery—”

  He placed a finger over my lips. There we were, facing each other, silent, streetlight through the trees streaking his face, this incredible man. I put one hand behind his neck, summoned my courage to its tiptoes, kissed him.

  I believe, I want to believe, I hope I remember truthfully, that he kissed me back.

  Then the strangest thing: I thought I saw a flash. I peered into the dark. Could someone be hiding there? Hadn’t I lost him? “Hello?” I called. “Who’s there?”

  There was no answer. “Let’s go inside,” I said. Jeremiah followed close behind.

  Between a man and a woman, everything can be changed by one kiss. Touch, private information, the admission that each person yearns for the other. Some would say intercourse is the alteration, and that’s true, but there is no denying the barriers that fall after one heartfelt kiss.

  Sure as night follows day, the questions came next. What does he want? What are the rules? How do the sexual mores of his time compare with today? What do I want?

  No lights on, for starters. They would be too bright for what had just happened. “Wait here,” I told Jeremiah in the front hall. Then I tossed my bag on a chair, hurried into the kitchen, where I thought there might be a candle.

  Also I needed a minute alone. I hadn’t been intimate with a man since Wyatt, the law professor. Yet I had just kissed Jeremiah Rice on my front stoop. That was real. I willed myself calm, then dug in the chaos drawer: batteries, spare keys, half a red candle. Grabbing an unfinished wine bottle on the counter, I poured the remnants in the sink and wondered if it was some kind of metaphor. Old wine, old history, old loves, good-bye.

  Except that I had no notion of what Jeremiah was thinking. On that fine summer night with him standing in my front hall, I felt a simple truth. My life’s experiences had no more equipped me for the present situation than they had prepared me for parachuting.

  I corked the candle in the bottle, using a burner on the stove to light it. The flame was gentle, silent. I cupped a hand around it with a sweet feeling, like I was protecting something fragile on my way b
ack to Jeremiah.

  He had taken a few steps into the living room. “This place smells like you.”

  “Coffee and stress?”

  “Lavender,” he said.

  “My shampoo?” I laughed, putting the candle on a table. “I’ve used this overly floral stuff ever since college. Now it’s my signature scent?”

  “I like it.”

  “Thank you,” I said. It came out barely a whisper.

  “Kate.”

  It was just my name, but in a tone I’d not heard before. “I’m listening.”

  He brought his arms around me, I laid my head on his chest. Jeremiah caressed my shoulder, but the touch wavered on my arm.

  “You’re trembling,” I said.

  “Not at all.”

  I pulled his hand against me, his wrist between my breasts, held till it went still. So did I, so did I. Any second now, I imagined, he might ask me to make love. How he would say it, I didn’t know. How I would answer, I didn’t know. I rested against him, savoring. He took a deep breath.

  “It is impossible to enumerate the ways in which you have helped me in this inexplicable time.”

  Such vocabulary, at such a moment. I smiled at the formality. “My pleasure.”

  “Nor can I list all the experiences I have relished which were improved by your company. My second life feels as though it has been lit by you.”

  “I feel the same, Jeremiah.”

  “Shhh.” He rested his chin on the top of my head. “Shhh.”

  I nestled in him, patient. The candle flame wavered then held.

  “Please remember that I have said these things to you. Promise me, Kate, months and years from now, that when you think of this time, you will remember how grateful I am to you. Can you promise me that?”

  I nodded.

  He began whispering. “One thing only has maintained my sanity through the maelstrom of here and now. It is so dear to me, I nearly choke to say it.” He paused, swallowing before continuing. “When my mind has struggled to understand, when my memories have proven inaccurate, when I have felt the loneliness of a century’s time standing between me and what I knew and loved, one thing has sustained me. It has been fixed, like north on a compass.”