It takes but a moment, adding three sentences about Walker jumping to conclusions, how he will change his view once the facts become clear, and how the public would do well to follow that example. Thomas hurries off to update the document.
You stroll to the window, gazing down on the street. Your “fans” are gone now, alas. Boston’s police, who, given the marathon bombing, deserve a medal for patience with these protesters, finally tired of them. Particularly after what they did to Gerber. A nuisance to have your top scientist hospitalized. It’s a little thrill to imagine the protesters following the paparazzi, chasing the chasers. What a donnybrook could result should anyone locate those two absconders. Yet you liked having the crowd below, the motley opposition, a reminder of the world’s cavernous ignorance.
Today is an opportunity to shine the light of reason into one corner of that grotto. This is going to be the lecture of a lifetime.
Your strategy is flawless. Instead of wasting precious time dismantling Dixon’s flimsy fabrications, you are going to address the real issues, the scientific substance: discovering hard-ice, methods of reanimation, and above all, how Subject One was a predictable link in a long chain whose end remains nowhere in sight, beyond the horizon. Forget the allegations of a troll, let reality do the persuading. If these reporters have five brain cells among them, they will understand where rightness, factual rightness, lies.
You check the television again, and there is that house of cards once more. You capitulate, and turn up the volume.
“ . . . Chinese laboratories saying they have duplicated reanimation of shrimp found in hard-ice. The officials added, however, that their findings proved conclusively that this process could not work on human beings.”
The program cuts to a man in a white lab coat; his face is familiar. He has an Australian accent and speaks with a frown, as if solemnity confirmed credibility. Yes, he worked here; you fired him for something or other. “The wide range of tissue densities in a human body,” he declares, “makes uniform melting a physical impossibility.”
“But we did it,” you tell the idiot box. “We did it right here.”
“It is true for all primates,” the man continues. “A person is not a petri dish. A chimp is not a shrimp.”
You mute the television. A lie delivered in rhyme, science reduced to an advertising jingle.
Not for Erastus Carthage. No, now is your moment to manifest the opposite. Today the media will receive a tutorial on cell biology, on glycogen stores and oxygen retention. A dash of physics, a brief explanation of magnetic fields, and they will be submissive playthings. It will take some time, granted. Two hours, perhaps, but they will learn something every minute. This is your moment to show the world the power of reason, the rarefied realm you have inhabited virtually all of your life. How could they resist the muscularity of logic, the firmness of facts, the elegant strength of a proof?
“Thomas.”
“Sir?”
Good lad, ready as ever. “The time, Thomas?”
“10:55, sir.”
You wave him in. “Again please. Events compel us to add a few more sentences.”
Twelve times you have addressed the media in a formal conference like this, twelve times since your discovery of Jeremiah Rice in the Arctic Ocean. Well, not yours literally, but indirectly so. On each occasion there was this moment, just beforehand, in which you stood slightly offstage and listened to the murmur and din. Their energy was like oxygen to you, their curiosity like food.
Yet this time the assemblage is silent. It’s a puzzle. You stand at the edge of the atrium, one hundred chairs arranged in rows before the podium where you will put the allegations to rest, and ponder: Why are there no conversations? No greetings from one scribbler to another? No calling from reporter to cameraman about the light or angle?
“What do you make of it, sir?” Thomas stands at your side.
“I’m assessing it myself.”
“Your speech is ready.” He offers you a manila folder. “The printer was still a problem, so try not to touch the part of the pages where there is text. It could smear.”
You raise an eyebrow. “Thomas.”
“I know, sir, and I apologize.”
He remains, leaning forward, and you wonder if he is in one of his moods, hoping for a compliment. He will have to wait. Ink that might smear does not warrant praise. Instead, as you take the folder, he clears his throat. “Do you think, sir, if you consider the present predicament . . . is it possible that we’ve made any mistakes along the way here?”
“Thomas, I’m surprised at you.”
“Not in the science, of course. No one else on earth could achieve what you have. I only mean, here we are, defending our work. I thought we were miles beyond all that.”
“Are you finding fault with me, Thomas?”
“Sir, you know that is not the case.”
You flip open the folder, run pages under your thumb as a dealer strums through a deck of cards. “Absolutely not. You are about to witness our moment of triumph. And as for those times when you erred, Thomas . . . well, I want you to know that I forgive you.”
“What?” He recoils. “You forgive me?”
“I do. After all, just look at them out there.” You point the folder at the reporters and photographers. “See how courteously they are behaving?”
“Yes.” His throat is tight. “Like guards politely escorting a man to his execution.”
“Bosh.” You chuckle. “Thomas the worrier. Just watch. This is the moment when the power of our desire for knowledge enlightens multitudes. It will be splendid.”
Thomas takes two steps back. “Good luck, Carthage.”
What an odd tone. It must be the pressure. No matter. He’ll be fine. You march into the briefing room, as confident in your power as you were on the day you first introduced Subject One to the world. This time, though, the source of your certainty lies deeper. It resides in your long reverence for the scientific method, and in the unending capacity of reason to improve the world. At the podium you open the folder, fill the water glass, arrange the papers. The room remains silent, which you presume to be deference. Then someone coughs and it sounds like a bark. You peer in that direction, but cannot tell who made the noise.
Only then do you realize. The atmosphere in this room is unlike anything you have encountered before. A whiff of coldness, a hint of hostility. Some of the reporters are scowling. Others trouble you more by their inattention, checking cell phones or gazing out the atrium windows. You wonder if you should trim your lecture. If you should refute Dixon directly—though it would mean stooping, and you do not stoop.
You wish them all good morning. No one replies. Quickly you reorganize the morning’s plan in your head. Half the science, then Dixon. But which do you omit, hard-ice or reanimation? Which of his charges should you ignore, and which address directly?
Buying seconds to make these decisions, you take a sip of water. As you set down the glass, however, you notice that the pages have indeed marked your hand. Letters, in reverse as though in a mirror, appear in dark black ink on your thumb and wrist.
Immediately you pull a tube of sanitizer from your jacket pocket. These newspeople will have to wait a moment. You could no more address a crowd with dirty hands than without trousers on. Thus you take the time to rub thoroughly, fingers and palms.
Half a minute passes, an eternity before a crowd. You glance toward the doorway. Thomas is gone. Likely the pressure was too much for him. Still, Borden is there. A heart desires to beat. The reporters fidget, but you will make it worth their while. Putting the lotion away, you collect the papers, tap them on edge into order, and clear your throat. You have your faults. Everyone does. But for reasons the world will never know, which are your deepest and oldest truths, you have never exaggerated, nor taken short cuts, nor misrepresented the least thing. It is humiliating at this hour to profess publicly beliefs which all your life you have vigorously lived. But there it is. And here they
are.
Manners extend only so far, and they begin asking questions.
“Dr. Carthage, did you alter in any way the underwater video of your team finding Jeremiah Rice?”
“Why did the lights go out during the reanimation?”
“How would you describe the relationship between Dr. Philo and Judge Rice?”
“Doctor, how do you respond to the accusations that your work is a hoax?”
“Are you a fraud?”
“NO,” you shout with all your strength. “No, no, no. Everything we have done is fully documented. The video cameras have never paused, the computers have monitored constantly and released the data simultaneously. Our staff is impeccably credentialed, and for every minute of this project’s existence we have set the highest standards, the absolute highest, for precision and integrity.”
That stops them for a moment. It gives them pause, while you collect yourself.
One reporter cannot hold his tongue. “Where do you get your money?”
That triggers another round of shouting. “What is the source of your financing?”
“Why hasn’t the Lazarus Project filed a Form 990 like normal nonprofits?”
“Are you in this for the money?”
“NO,” you cry again. “Who are you people? How dare you make such accusations? Spend ten seconds online, you cretins. Acquaint yourself with my history, my achievements and publications, and be humbled. Meanwhile, please show the courtesy of allowing me to read my prepared remarks, which should allay your concerns. Then we’ll see which, if any, interrogatories remain to be answered.”
They are silent. You have won the moment. Now is your time.
Ah, time. Friend and scoundrel. The clock on the atrium’s far wall, bright red and hanging over the security desk, counts on relentlessly. It reaffirms your enduring triumph: the minutes are winding down in Jeremiah Rice’s ninetieth day.
“Good morning,” you declare once again, your voice regaining its swagger. “Thank you for coming today. Last August, a Lazarus Project research vessel was plying the Arctic seas . . .”
You lift the first page of your speech and the words stick in your throat. The text is illegible, the letters smeared into one another. Worse, ink has remained on your hand despite the washing, there for all to see. You open your mouth, but the usual flow of words escapes you. In fact you struggle to speak at all. “The Lazarus Project . . .”
Your hand is filthy. You cannot utter a word. A massive weight of expectancy burdens the air. The universe sits at your feet, awaiting instruction. Yet here you are, in your ultimate moment, marked by an indelible stain.
CHAPTER 42
Eye of a Whale
My name is Jeremiah Rice, and I begin to be hunted.
I was sitting on the bed whilst Kate packed our last things, when the innkeeper knocked on the door.
“They’re here,” Carolyn said. “On my street. Two TV vans. And by the looks of it, a pack of those protesters on their heels.”
“Dammit.” Kate slid the computer into her shoulder bag. “Damn sharks.”
“It’s okay, you have time. They’re going door-to-door, and they’re still more than a block away.”
“Fine.” Kate went calm. It gave me confidence, to see her self-mastery intact as ever. “Let me think.”
“We have a back stairs,” Carolyn said, turning to me. Her forehead wore a crease of concern. She and I had enjoyed lively conversations each morning whilst she brought plate after plate of food until I felt shame. Now she looked me in the eye. “I’d bet they don’t really know which of you they want. If they get too close, you should split up.”
“I don’t know,” I said. I felt like a passenger, unequipped to participate in the decision.
“No,” Kate said. “Not a chance.”
“I’m just suggesting—”
“Do you have a storeroom? Somewhere we can leave our things?”
“A cellar, sure.”
“Perfect.” Kate’s face was as serene as if we were discussing what to have for dinner. “Please tell them we checked out. Say we’ve left for, oh, Portland, Maine, to catch a ferry to Nova Scotia. We’ll be back later today, and I’ll settle our bill then.”
Carolyn waved it away. “My bill should be the least of your worries.”
In minutes we had secreted our things in the basement, cut through the kitchen to a small sewing room at the back of the house, and wrestled open an old warped door. A flight of whitewashed steps led to the alley. As we hurried down, I considered that this was the second set of back stairs Kate and I had used for an escape in five days. I was tiring of being anyone’s prey. Fleeing was not the right use of my remaining time.
“Hey, people?” Carolyn said. We turned back. She stood on the top step with hands on her hips, a solidity to her stance like a general surveying his troops. “Jeremiah, be sure to eat enough. Kate, if it becomes necessary, do not be afraid to let go. And remember, both of you: this inn will always be a safe place.”
We hurried for the first few minutes only. The streets were labyrinthine, our pursuers easily shed. After an hour we were well across the town, miles from the inn. Kate took my arm and held it close. “Let’s be tourists,” she said. “We’ll blend in better.”
After our experiences on Cape Cod and in Boston, the performance came easily. We strolled. We peered into shops. Marblehead was a quaint town, full of eighteenth-century houses and narrow lanes. With my legs moving, the tremors eased.
There was something else, too, a keenness. It was as if all my senses were exaggerated; they felt everything however small. A building’s shadow darkened the adjacent alley. The smell of bacon cooking somewhere tugged my appetite. On a sun-drenched window seat, a tabby examined the underside of her paw, gave it a slow cleansing lick, and I felt I might weep.
At that, I realized. I was taking stock, making an inventory of last experiences. Gerber had never said precisely how much time remained. I surmised from the severity of my spasms that the sand in the upper bowl of the hourglass was nearly gone. How astonishing this world was, though, as rich as it was fleeting. My heart could burst with gratitude. There was not just a glimpse of beauty in this world, like stars here and there in the firmament; there was an orgy of it, an excess like vines smothering a building, an ocean of it in every direction. Yet also I felt a stabbing of loss, that even as I experienced the world in its wildest abundance, it was all falling away from me, mercilessly, forever. Thus did my mind capture each thing, seizing on it to savor it. Kate pointed at a flower, saying its name, snapdragon, and I felt a flood of appreciation: for the flower and its rosy optimistic hue, for how humanity feels compelled to name everything as if there can never be enough names, for her slender finger, for the simple human gesture of pointing, and yes, for what it is that happens to a man when he hears a certain woman speak even as common a word as snapdragon.
The morning passed in such miniscules, yet I was staggered by them. In a bakery Kate bought herself a coffee around which to wrap her hands, and me a muffin, still warm, with raisins in its middle like secrets. We climbed a hill to an old churchyard where a bell rang the hour as if no centuries had passed. We sat on a bench in the shade, and for a goodly interval neither of us spoke. A breeze stirred the tree overhead, sounding like applause. She reached down and took my hand. The moment needed nothing.
Oh, but inevitably my left foot began twitching, slightly at first, then wagging side to side. I fiddled my right in a similar manner, feigning that it was extra energy, but Kate stiffened and sat upright. “We’re probably safe now,” she said, glancing at her watch. “How about we start back to the inn?”
“Fine idea.” I stood too abruptly, though, lacking any other means of concealing my tremors. “We should . . . we definitely should, what is the word I want?”
Kate stared at her coffee cup. Her lips made a thin line. “Yes, let’s walk again.”
We trod on the cobblestones, we angled through the town’s web of streets. She
held my arm as ever. We had little need for words. The thing I most needed to say would not form itself into language. Eventually we reached an intersection that I recognized. Two blocks southward lay the inn, the car, commencement of the next chapter. But my time was dwindling and I did not want to run anymore.
“Kate, I need to tell you something.”
“Actually you don’t,” she said. “You don’t have to tell me anything.”
“I do, though. It’s about my shaking—”
“There they are.” A young man with a notebook straightened from peering in the windows of Kate’s car. “Wait. Stop.”
We were running without a word exchanged. Kate ducked up a side street and I followed close behind. My boots skidded on the cobbles, but we dodged through the lanes and the reporter’s calls diminished in the distance.
Kate pulled me into a dress shop and we waited at the front window as a television van sped past, the station letters written large on its side. Two more cars followed close behind; I presumed them to be the protesters’. A motorcycle buzzed after them, the red-helmeted rider leaning as he hugged the corner. Then we turned, and saw the shop clerk with a hand raised to her mouth. “It’s you, isn’t it?”
“Please,” Kate said. “We’ll be on our way in one minute.”
“Hey, Courtney,” the girl called over her shoulder toward the back room. “Guess who just came in?” She raised a cell phone. “I’ve got to text this to Ethan. Can I take your picture?”
Again we ran. Streets that had confused me suddenly became allies. All the odd angles and switchbacks gave us a maze of paths to follow. We tended downward, away from the inn and the main area of commerce, until a road spilled us out onto a long pier. We sprinted down it till we reached a padlocked gate with a weathered sign: PRIVATE.
The place seemed oddly quiet after our panic, rows of sailboats floating in silence.
“They’ll never look for us here,” Kate panted.
“It says ‘Private.’ ”
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