Today, though, she had knocked off early, since Nina had taken a cab down to join her for supper.She marveled just thinking about it. Her mom taking a cab. By herself. It truly was a miracle.Their "light" repast had consisted of cold roast beef and room‑temperature stout, two of Nina's favorites. She had never been much for cucumber sandwiches with the crust cut off. Afterward, she elected to have a brandy."The trouble with having your mind back," she said as she settled onto the couch, snifter in hand, "is that sometimes you remember things you'd just as soon forget." Outside thunder boomed from an early evening rainstorm, which had blown in from the northwest."Well, Mom, at least now you can pick and choose what you want to remember and what you want to forget." She didn't really mind the storm. Having her mother back was such a blessing.It still felt odd, though, having her rescued from what had to be an inevitable, ignominious fate. It was as though time had gone in reverse. A miracle was very much in progress. . . .She was experiencing a miracle too, though of a slightly different sort. She felt pretty much normal, if occasionally shaky and uncertain on her feet. But at unexpected times she would have bursts of energy that defied reality. They were, in fact, scary, like that thing with the steel door. Something weird would sometimes take control of her body and she didn't really know what it was. . . .Truthfully, she was feeling some of that tonight. She had joined her mother with a brandy and was thinking about taking Knickers for an early walk, downpour or not. She wanted to see the river through the mists of a storm.That was when the phone rang. She got up and made her way to the kitchen and took the receiver off the wall."Hello." She was hoping it was Stone. He'd usually call early in the evening to see what she was doing and ask if she wanted some company."Alexa, I need to see you," came a voice. The other end of the line was noisy, as though a loud motor was running."Who—""I think you know who this is. If you would come down to the river, right now, I will make it very much worth your while."For some reason, maybe it was telepathy, Knickers had begun bouncing about the kitchen, angling for a walk, even though she normally was mortally fearful of thunder.Now Ally did know who it was.What was he doing calling her here at home, in a rainstorm? After all these weeks.Well, she thought, I have nothing left to fear from him or any of them. Why not?"It's raining," she said. "This had better be fast."And she hung up the phone."Who was that, honey?" Nina asked. "I hope it wasn't anybody I know. You were somewhat abrupt.""Mom, they deserved whatever they got, and it's no big deal. But I think I'm going to take Knickers out. She's making me nuts."Ally couldn't focus on what had just happened. He had a lot of nerve. On the other hand, she loved to be down by the river when it was this way, shrouded in pastel mist."Honey, it's raining cats and dogs," Nina declared. "You're apt to catch your death.""No, Mom, it's letting up now. I'll be all right, really." She was digging out her tan raincoat and rubber galoshes from the closet by the door. Knickers immediately realized what was up and began a dance of joy, barking as she raced to find her leash."Come on, honey," Ally said, taking the braided leather. "I want you close to me."The ride down in the elevator felt ominous, though Knickers failed to share any of her apprehension as she bounced around the glass dome and nuzzled Ally's legs. The thunder she was sometimes fearful of had lessened, and that Ally thought had doubtless improved her courage.The condominium no longer had a doorman. In hopes of trimming costs, the condo board had sent out a secret ballot on the subject. By a narrow margin the owners had voted to dispense with that particular frill. Although she missed Alan and his early morning optimism about his Off‑Broadway hopes, she realized the economy was probably timely. All those weeks when she hadn't been pulling her weight at CitiSpace, the nut on that operation hadn't diminished any.As she stepped onto Barrow Street, the late‑spring air was unseasonably brisk and the rain had blanked visibility down to almost nothing. On other days this would had been that magical moment just after the sun went down, when gorgeous fiery orange clouds hung over the Hudson, but now there was a hint of brooding in the bleak rain. It fit the dark mood she felt growing around her.He wanted to meet her down by the river. Gripping Knickers' leash, she checked the traffic lights, then marched across the West Side Highway. The new esplanade along the river was awash in the rain and was uncharacteristically empty.That was lucky for Knickers. Off‑the‑leash time. Ally drew her close and clicked open the catch that attached it to her collar. With a "woof" of joy, she dashed off toward the vacant pier, then headed out."Baby, slow down," Ally yelled but it was to no avail. A second later, her fluffy sheepdog was lost in the rain.But she couldn't go far. The refurbished pier extended out into the river for maybe the length of a football field and change. Beyond that, there was at least half a mile of river before the shores of New Jersey For all her enthusiasm, Knickers wasn't about to dive into the chilly Hudson and swim for the horizon.So where was he? He'd said "down by the river."What to do now? She decided she might as well walk out after Knickers.Now she was noticing something odd. The air was chilly; actually, raw was a better description. A last blast of unusual arctic air had accompanied the rain. She could feel the temperature on her face. She had stupidly gone out with just a light shirt under the raincoat, yet she didn't feel the slightest bit cold. It was as though her metabolism had sped up, the way it did during a run, though she wasn't breathing heavy or anything. It felt like one of those strange moments she'd been having, when she felt superalive.Now Knickers was returning, but she was slinking back as though fearful of something, the rain running off her face."Come here, baby," Ally said, reaching out. "What is it?"The darkness of the river flowed over her now, and for the first time ever, she wished she'd brought along a flashlight . . .That was when, out of the rain, she finally heard the sound. It was an engine lowering from the sky, which Knickers must have already heard. Then a helicopter, a McDonnell Douglas, materialized, lowering onto the empty sports space on the pier.The downdraft of the rotor threw spray against the FieldTurf and into her eyes. But she gazed through it, unblinking, feeling an unexpected sense of power entering her limbs. The rain should have felt cold, but she didn't really notice.Maybe, she thought, they had to meet. They were bonded.As the pilot cut the power, the engine began to wind down—whoom, whoom, whoom—until it came to a dead stop and there followed an unnatural silence. Finally the door on the side opened and a metal step dropped down.After a moment's pause that seemed to last forever, he appeared, at first a vague figure in the rain, but then he stepped down and came toward her. He was wearing a white hat with a wide brim and a tan raincoat that seemed more like a cloak than a coat."Alexa, I so appreciate your making time for me."It was hard to tell in the rain, but he appeared to be strong, and there was actually a kind of radiance about him, as though he carried his own special luminosity. He seemed completely transformed. The question was, transformed how? He looked years younger than the last time she saw him."I thought we should talk. I've been meaning to call you. I wanted to see how you're doing."That's not it at all, she told herself. What do you really want?"Actually, I've been wanting to thank you," WinstonBartlett went on. "It turns out that you saved me after all. Your telomerase antibodies finally kicked in. The initial ones Karl injected in me. It just took a few weeks.""And what about Kristen?" she asked.His look saddened."You didn't hear?" He shook his head. "She . . . died in the fire."That doesn't sound right, Ally thought. She looked like she was the only one who was going to survive it."Oh yeah? How did that happen?""You might as well know. She was burned beyond recognition. The body still hasn't been officially identified. When the firemen found her, she had a shard of glass through her throat. They thought she must have fallen on something, but I fear it's entirely possible she could have done it to herself."Was that story true, or a bald‑faced lie? Ally wondered. Were they still hiding her someplace?But why was he here? He certainly hadn't come to discuss the kitchen design job for his Gramercy Park mansion. That was now long ago and far away."Alexa," he said moving toward her, "please don't be frightened but there's something I have to find out."He reached out with his left hand and seized her wrist. She only saw the glint of the penknife in his right hand for an instant before he slashed it across her palm."What!" she screamed and yanked her hand away. Knickers gave a loud yelp and then howled mournfully.Only then did she notice that there'd been just a momentary flash of pain."It's okay," Bartlett said reaching to soothe Knickers. "Just a superficial scratch. Now watch it. I want to know if Karl had time to finish the procedure."My God. She didn't have to watch. She could already feel it beginning to heal."What's . . . what's going on? Is this—?""He had hopefully completed the Beta on you just before Kristy's mother showed up. But did it work the way it was supposed to? We didn't know. Until now.""My God. I knew I was feeling—""You received just the right amount of telomerase injections," Bartlett interjected, "to induce the Beta without any side effects. It was the 'Goldilocks dosage' Karl had been trying to calculate, just enough that only aged or damaged cells are replaced, while healthy tissue is not altered."She now realized that was why she'd been having bouts of incredible energy."We're the only ones," he went on. "Just us. You and me. We've been given this gift, Alexa. And now we have the responsibility that goes along with it." He glanced down at her hand. "By the way, how's that cut doing?""What are you getting at?" It was definitely healing.A wave of thunder boomed over the river, sending Knickers scurrying to Ally's side."What I'm getting at is that you and I are now two very special people. We both are living proof of what the Beta can achieve. The question is, what are we going to do about it?"She was still stunned."This is a lot to absorb. I'll have to think—""I've already thought about this and I believe it must be kept secret at all cost. At least for now.""But why? It's a miracle that—""That must be handled prudently. I need your cooperation with that."She was having extreme difficulty getting her mind around what he was talking about."I don't really know what's going on. I think I'd better see some doctors. And Stone is finishing his book about . . . I've got to tell him—""Those things cannot happen, Alexa." He looked out at the river for a moment, then turned back. "A brand‑new world has dawned. Finally all things are possible." He moved closer to her, then reached out and took her wrist again. She looked down and realized the cut on her hand was all but healed. "For now, this has to be our secret, yours and mine. Just us."She thought about all that had happened in the weeks since her wayward brother had accosted her running along this very river. It felt like an eternity."I'm asking you not to talk about this," he continued. "To anyone. You must give me your solemn word."She felt the grip on her wrist get stronger."Now that we know the Beta can work," he went on, his voice piercing through the rain, "I am forming an elite association, the Methuselah Society. Membership buys a guarantee that you can stop aging; in fact, you can pick the age you want to remain. Karl is sure he can do that, assuming the Beta worked with you. And now we see it has. The first memberships will naturally be somewhat expensive, but as time goes by, the cost will be gradually scaled down to respond to market forces. One may only join with a companion, but for obvious reasons all those who undergo the Beta must be sworn to secrecy, on pain of death, since there's bound to be a hue and cry and government intervention if word leaks out that only individuals with significant resources can have this miracle.""I think that's obscene," she said."I suspected you might feel that way. Which is why we're having this talk. As I've explained the Methuselah Society will be contingent on the utmost secrecy, at least initially. So the question is, are you on board with this?""The answer is, I'll do what I please." She was thinking what a bombshell this would be to have in Stone's book. Stem cells—the Fountain of Youth was no longer a dream.Winston Bartlett had won his dice game with God. And now he was planning to sweep the table. But he also was smart enough to realize he had to cash in quickly and discreetly."Don't you realize how irresponsible that is?" he insisted."We stand on the threshold of a new era for humankind. But if we let small‑minded politicians get involved with this, they might decide to forbid . . . Keep in mind that using stem cell technology to regenerate organs is already controversial. Just imagine what the self‑appointed zealots would do with this. The good of humanity is less important to them than their narrow‑minded, bigoted constituencies."That was when it finally dawned on her why he had lured her down here by the river on a rainy night. What better placefor a convenient "accident" if it came to that.She watched as he turned and raised a finger toward the open door of the McDonnell Douglas.The motor started and then another figure emerged and came down the steps. She squinted through the rain and recognized Kenji Noda, Bartlett's ever‑present bodyguard. He was carrying a plastic bottle, along with a small white towel.He's going to chloroform me and then God knows what. I'm about to disappear the same way Kristen did.She stared at them both, wondering what to do."Alexa, I regret to say that you are either with me or you are a problem I cannot afford to have," Bartlett said, and then he nodded to Noda.Shit.She backed to the edge of the pier as Noda advanced on her menacingly, dousing the cloth. He was a foot taller than she was and he weighed over two hundred pounds.Her first instinct was to run, but then she sensed an impulse to stand her ground. Something told her to try to use her strength against him. He wouldn't expect it.Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed that a white car had pulled onto the pier and was cruising down the side, slowly inching their way. It looked like a police vehicle, probably a couple of cops curious about the presence of a helicopter on the Field Turf.They were approximately half a minute too late to make any difference. Kenji Noda was five feet away and they were fifty yards away. And they probably couldn't see what was going on anyway. The rain had chosen that moment to begin to gush, shrouding everything in sheets of water.Knickers was nudging at her leg, as though urging her to flee. And again she thought about running, but an instinct told her to stand her ground. She was feeling a sensation of power growing in her limbs.She found herself oddly calm as Kenji Noda reached her, then wrapped his left arm around her neck and with his right hand clamped the cloth over her nostrils. It was infused with chloroform—she knew the smell—but she held her breath.Then it happened. She casually reached up and took his left arm and pulled it away from her neck.It was so easy. There was the same feeling of strength she'd had when she wrenched open the air lock. Yet it was something that came and went. She had no inkling how long it would last this time."I don't think you should do that," she said continuing to pull his arm around behind him. Then she twisted it to the side and there was a sickening snap as it came out of its shoulder socketHe groaned lightly but did not speak. Instead he reached with his right hand and pulled an automatic out of a holster at the back of his belt dropping the chloroformed cloth in the process. While his left arm dangled uselessly, he brought around the pistol and tried to aim it at her torso. Her senses, though, were coming fully alive now and she seized his wrist and pushed it away just as he fired.The round caught her at the outer edge of her shoulder. She felt it enter and exit, but there was no pain, merely a mild itch. Still holding his wrist, she picked up the white cloth and buried his face in it. She held it against his nostrils until his body twitched and went limp.That was when the spotlight hit them."Drop your weapons and show your hands," came a basso voice over a megaphone.Who had a weapon? she wondered. The one pistol around was lying on the ground next to the crumpled frame of Kenji Noda.The police must have heard the shot and assumed they were being fired on.She turned around to search for Winston Bartlett and saw him retreating to the McDonnell Douglas. Running, actually.He saw what happened, she told herself. He's afraid of me."Stop and identify yourself," came the police megaphone. The spotlight was now squarely on Bartlett, who was bounding up the retractable steps.Without looking back, he pulled up the steps and slammed the door. The rotor had already begun revving higher, and in moments the chopper had begun its ascent out over the dark river."You have been warned to identify yourself," came the futile megaphone. The chopper had all but disappeared into the dark and rain when she heard a shot fired from the direction of the police car.It must have been an accident, she told herself. There's no way—But the smooth hum of the engine dying away in the fog abruptly changed tone, then started to sputter. Ten seconds later, there was silence.She was so engaged she didn't notice the stirring at her feet. A moment thereafter, she saw the towering bulk of Kenji Noda rise up beside her. Then she felt his grip on her wrist and realized he was dragging, and pulling her to the edge of the pier. Then she felt a shove and a swirl of dark air around her, followed by the splash of cold water. Surprisingly, it didn't really feel freezing—it just felt refreshingly brisk. With one hand she grabbed one of the square concrete pillars that was supporting the pier. The mysterious strength she'd had from time to time was coming back once more.That was when she heard a vicious howl, wolf‑like, that transmuted into a growl, and the next thing she saw was a hazy form hurtle past her and splash into the water.Actually, it was two forms, and the darker one was flailing while the lighter one bore down on him, her teeth on his throat."No!" she screamed "Don't."As the pair drifted past her in the current, still linked she reached out and seized Knickers' collar, yanking her back. Then she watched helplessly as Kenji Noda disappeared into the dark. Could he swim with one arm?The cops were futilely searching the wide river with their searchlight, looking for the helicopter, for anything, but there was nothing left to see.She quietly made for shore, even as she and Knickers were being swept downstream by the current When they finally reached the bank, it was somewhere around Morton Street. Oddly enough, she wasn't cold and she wasn't tired when she drew herself up onto the rocks, Knickers at her side. She just lay panting for a moment."Come here, baby," she said drawing Knickers to her. The dog was shivering and she knew she had to get her home soon. "Thank God you can't talk. I think something very evil just passed from the world."EpilogueThursday, June 2510:49p.m."You're really something," Stone declared, falling back onto the rumpled sheets. "What's come over you lately? Don't you ever get tired?""Maybe I'm just happy to be alive," Ally said, smiling as she ran a finger down his chest. "I'm catching up on all the living I've been missing out on."Her heart was definitely on the mend, in several ways. She was beginning to think she was in love. After Steve went missing, she thought that love would never happen again, but maybe it had."Know what," he said, rising up, "I've really worked up an appetite. How about you? Think I'll make an omelet. Got any eggs left in the fridge?""Should be some," she said. "But I'll pass. Anything I eat after ten goes straight to places on my body that don't need further reinforcement."It was so nice just to have someone to be near again. Her nervous system was still recovering from the harrowing experience down on the pier. In fact, she wasn't really surewhatactually had happened. The crashed McDonnell Douglas was retrieved from the water the next day, but there were no bodies aboard. Had Winston Bartlett drowned and his body been swept out to sea by the tide? Also, there must have been a third person, a pilot. And what about Kenji Noda, who also was missing? Did he make it to shore? In any case, they all had disappeared. The case was closed. And since nobody had found a will, New York State was currently the executor of his fortune. Eileen Bartlett was sole heir. Her waiting game had paid off superbly. The price of her Gerex shares was doubling every two weeks. She was about to become a very rich woman indeed.But had Winston Bartlett really gone to a watery grave? Ally somehow doubted it. He had too much invested in life to cash in so easily.As she watched Stone get up and swathe himself in a huge white towel before heading for the kitchen, she found herself replaying that harrowing scene at the pier. She kept trying to remember something Bartlett had said about forming some kind of society. Was she fantasizing or had he said he was going to do that and then offer the Beta procedure to its members? What was he going to call it? Try as she might, she couldn't remember. She had developed a mental block that her mind was using to shield her psyche from the horror of that evening.That night she'd first considered going to St. Vincent's Hospital emergency room for the gunshot wound but then she'd thought it over and decided there were too many things to explain that couldn't be explained Instead she just went home and washed the wound and filled it up with Neosporin. She didn't even tell Nina. The next morning, scar tissue was already forming. Now it was completely healed and even the scar had all but disappeared.Had the Beta really worked? She wanted to tell Stone about that possibility, but she wasn't sure how he would take it. And she absolutely did not want to end up in the book.She pulled on a terry cloth robe and slippers and padded her way into the kitchen. She wasn't hungry, but she felt like a glass of wine. She poked around in the wine rack in the kitchen closet and came up with a bottle of Bordeaux. Stone was cracking large white eggs into a stoneware bowl."Sure I can't make some for you?" he asked, leaning over to buss her hair as she searched in the drawer for a corkscrew. "I'm gonna throw in some cheddar, but I'll leave it out if that doesn't work for you.""I just want a glass of red wine," she said, retrieving the corkscrew. "And I need a memory jogging. What's a word that makes you think of living a long time? I . . . I want to look up something on the Internet and I don't know how to start.""What kind of word is it?" he queried. "I'm a wordsmith. Twenty questions. Is it a noun, a verb, an adjective?""If I could remember that, I might be able to come up with it."He was tossing a quarter stick of butter into the pan. "Hey, I once learned hypnosis. Why don't you let me take you under?""Does that really work?""It's how I come up with interview stuff sometimes, from years ago. We really do have a complicated memory system. I think everything you ever knew is buried somewhere, maybe in a tiny little wrinkle."She suspected he might be right. In this case the repressed info was still there; it just had been deliberately covered over and hidden."So do you want to hypnotize me? You're sure you know how?""I'm not boasting, but I could make Methuselah remember the day he first got out of diapers."She stared at him. "My God, I think that's it. Methuselah. I think that's the word I couldn't remember." She kissed him on the mouth enthusiastically. "I've got to check something."She popped the cork and poured herself a glass."Want some?""I'm not sure what goes with eggs at this time of night. Probably tequila.""Good luck. You know where to find it. There're some limes in the fridge. Right now I'm going to fire up the Dell and do a little search.""Now? " His face dropped. "How about a little romantic . . . whatever?""Come and join me. Bring your plate. We'll go exploring in cyberspace. It'll be a romantic voyage. I've got a hunch about something."She walked back into the bedroom and clicked on the computer. She sipped at her wine, deep but still fruity and delicious, as it booted up."What's going on?" he asked as he wandered in. He was carrying a shot glass of tequila and a white plate with the cheese omelette. The aroma was seductive."I want to check out something. I have to be honest and confess I've been holding out on you a little. When I saw Winston Bartlett that night on the pier, something he said—""Ally, I need to do some confessing too. The time never seemed quite right. I need to tell you something about him.""Well, don't tell me now. I don't think I can handle anything else to worry about tonight. Please save it."She was logging on to AOL. Then she went to the search engine Google, which she had found to be the best."I want to check out that name you came up with. It rang a bell."She typed in Methuselah, supposedly the guy who lived for nearly a thousand years.There were pages and pages of references relating to that word. It started with a five‑thousand‑year‑old pine tree, then an article from Modern Maturity on how to extend life, then Caltech research on a longevity gene, then a rock band in Texas (undoubtedly very retro), a short story by Isaac Bashevis Singer, and so it went."What, exactly, are you looking for?" he asked, holding out a folk. "Here. Want a bite?"She reached and tore off a fluffy corner. He did eggs perfectly."Thanks," she said, chewing. Now she was moving to the third page. "I think I'm looking for an organization. And Methuselah was in the name. At least . . . that's what I seem to remember. I'm definitely repressing a lot.""Well, what about that one?" he asked, pointing.The line read, the Methuselah Society."That's it," she declared. "Now I remember. That's the name he used. I swear. So it's real. I'm not crazy.""What are you talking about?""It's him. That's what he said he was going to do."She clicked on the name.The Web page came up and it was strictly in black and white, with small print. And there it was again,the Methuselah society. There was no information beyond a request for a secure e‑mail address."Looks like they want to check you out," Stone said."To make sure you're not connected to politics or law enforcement.""Then why not give it a shot," Stone said. "You're on AOL. You'd have to be a civilian."She typed in her address and entered it. Immediately a little yellow padlock appeared in the lower right‑hand corner, indicating their communication was secure. Then a notice materialized, a small square flickering to life. It contained her phone number and then her name. Next a complete financial record began to scroll down. It had been elicited from banks, mortgage companies, credit services. There was Value of Real Estate owned, Mortgages Outstanding, Bank Accounts, Outstanding Obligations, Estimated Net Worth. It had all appeared in a time span of seconds."Wow," Stone said. "There are no secrets left from these guys, whoever they are. They are wired."Then a message appeared: The minimum net worth required to be a member is 500 Million Dollars. The fee for membership is 100 Million Dollars. A 10‑Million‑Dollar retainer is required while your application is being processed. Please be prepared to designate the ages you and your companion wish to remain."My God," she said, "that's him. He's done it. Winston Bartlett is alive and well, and selling immortality, real or not."Then another message came up: Welcome, Alexa. Please be advised you are already a member. But you have not yet selected a companion.* * *AfterwordHow much of the foregoing is true or even plausible?In late 2002, medical researchers in Dusseldorf announced they had successfully treated heart‑attack victims using stem cells harvested from the patients' own bone marrow. The stem cells were delivered to damaged heart muscle via angioplasty catheters, a minimally invasive procedure. Subsequent monitoring indicated that the stem cells had reduced the damage to heart‑muscle tissue and had improved their heart function when compared to similar patients in a control group who had declined the procedure.It's already happening.The miraculous stem cell cures in this story are essentially an extrapolation of research well underway that has been the subject of magazine covers and is possibly the most promising and, yes, problematic field of medical research. The clocks at the Dorian Institute ran faster than ordinary timepieces, and research areas and cures that currently are only speculation were made real there. But that's why it's called fiction. As with the example cited above, many stem cell miracles conjured here may be just over the horizon.As for Kristen and the Methuselah Society, they are a fictional embodiment of misgivings given voice by many, including no less an authority than Professor Leonard Hayflick, whose Hayflick limit, defining the process of how cells grow old could be said to be the underpinning of modern stem cell research. He is now a leading bioethicist who is sufficiently convinced of our potential to use stem cells to arrest the actual aging process that he has worried about its ramifications in print. He makes no claim that such a thing is imminent, but he doesn't dismiss its possibility either. He has far‑reaching societal concerns about this, and he also raises biological issues such as, if you've treated your brain malady by using stem cells to grow new neural tissue, have you altered your mind? Are you still you?It's called Regenerative Medicine. Watch for it.
Today, though, she had knocked off early, since Nina had taken a cab down to join her for supper.
She marveled just thinking about it. Her mom taking a cab. By herself. It truly was a miracle.
Their "light" repast had consisted of cold roast beef and room‑temperature stout, two of Nina's favorites. She had never been much for cucumber sandwiches with the crust cut off. Afterward, she elected to have a brandy.
"The trouble with having your mind back," she said as she settled onto the couch, snifter in hand, "is that sometimes you remember things you'd just as soon forget." Outside thunder boomed from an early evening rainstorm, which had blown in from the northwest.
"Well, Mom, at least now you can pick and choose what you want to remember and what you want to forget." She didn't really mind the storm. Having her mother back was such a blessing.
It still felt odd, though, having her rescued from what had to be an inevitable, ignominious fate. It was as though time had gone in reverse. A miracle was very much in progress. . . .
She was experiencing a miracle too, though of a slightly different sort. She felt pretty much normal, if occasionally shaky and uncertain on her feet. But at unexpected times she would have bursts of energy that defied reality. They were, in fact, scary, like that thing with the steel door. Something weird would sometimes take control of her body and she didn't really know what it was. . . .
Truthfully, she was feeling some of that tonight. She had joined her mother with a brandy and was thinking about taking Knickers for an early walk, downpour or not. She wanted to see the river through the mists of a storm.
That was when the phone rang. She got up and made her way to the kitchen and took the receiver off the wall.
"Hello." She was hoping it was Stone. He'd usually call early in the evening to see what she was doing and ask if she wanted some company.
"Alexa, I need to see you," came a voice. The other end of the line was noisy, as though a loud motor was running.
"Who—"
"I think you know who this is. If you would come down to the river, right now, I will make it very much worth your while."
For some reason, maybe it was telepathy, Knickers had begun bouncing about the kitchen, angling for a walk, even though she normally was mortally fearful of thunder.
Now Ally did know who it was.
What was he doing calling her here at home, in a rainstorm? After all these weeks.
Well, she thought, I have nothing left to fear from him or any of them. Why not?
"It's raining," she said. "This had better be fast."
And she hung up the phone.
"Who was that, honey?" Nina asked. "I hope it wasn't anybody I know. You were somewhat abrupt."
"Mom, they deserved whatever they got, and it's no big deal. But I think I'm going to take Knickers out. She's making me nuts."
Ally couldn't focus on what had just happened. He had a lot of nerve. On the other hand, she loved to be down by the river when it was this way, shrouded in pastel mist.
"Honey, it's raining cats and dogs," Nina declared. "You're apt to catch your death."
"No, Mom, it's letting up now. I'll be all right, really." She was digging out her tan raincoat and rubber galoshes from the closet by the door. Knickers immediately realized what was up and began a dance of joy, barking as she raced to find her leash.
"Come on, honey," Ally said, taking the braided leather. "I want you close to me."
The ride down in the elevator felt ominous, though Knickers failed to share any of her apprehension as she bounced around the glass dome and nuzzled Ally's legs. The thunder she was sometimes fearful of had lessened, and that Ally thought had doubtless improved her courage.
The condominium no longer had a doorman. In hopes of trimming costs, the condo board had sent out a secret ballot on the subject. By a narrow margin the owners had voted to dispense with that particular frill. Although she missed Alan and his early morning optimism about his Off‑Broadway hopes, she realized the economy was probably timely. All those weeks when she hadn't been pulling her weight at CitiSpace, the nut on that operation hadn't diminished any.
As she stepped onto Barrow Street, the late‑spring air was unseasonably brisk and the rain had blanked visibility down to almost nothing. On other days this would had been that magical moment just after the sun went down, when gorgeous fiery orange clouds hung over the Hudson, but now there was a hint of brooding in the bleak rain. It fit the dark mood she felt growing around her.
He wanted to meet her down by the river. Gripping Knickers' leash, she checked the traffic lights, then marched across the West Side Highway. The new esplanade along the river was awash in the rain and was uncharacteristically empty.
That was lucky for Knickers. Off‑the‑leash time. Ally drew her close and clicked open the catch that attached it to her collar. With a "woof" of joy, she dashed off toward the vacant pier, then headed out.
"Baby, slow down," Ally yelled but it was to no avail. A second later, her fluffy sheepdog was lost in the rain.
But she couldn't go far. The refurbished pier extended out into the river for maybe the length of a football field and change. Beyond that, there was at least half a mile of river before the shores of New Jersey For all her enthusiasm, Knickers wasn't about to dive into the chilly Hudson and swim for the horizon.
So where was he? He'd said "down by the river."
What to do now? She decided she might as well walk out after Knickers.
Now she was noticing something odd. The air was chilly; actually, raw was a better description. A last blast of unusual arctic air had accompanied the rain. She could feel the temperature on her face. She had stupidly gone out with just a light shirt under the raincoat, yet she didn't feel the slightest bit cold. It was as though her metabolism had sped up, the way it did during a run, though she wasn't breathing heavy or anything. It felt like one of those strange moments she'd been having, when she felt superalive.
Now Knickers was returning, but she was slinking back as though fearful of something, the rain running off her face.
"Come here, baby," Ally said, reaching out. "What is it?"
The darkness of the river flowed over her now, and for the first time ever, she wished she'd brought along a flashlight . . .
That was when, out of the rain, she finally heard the sound. It was an engine lowering from the sky, which Knickers must have already heard. Then a helicopter, a McDonnell Douglas, materialized, lowering onto the empty sports space on the pier.
The downdraft of the rotor threw spray against the FieldTurf and into her eyes. But she gazed through it, unblinking, feeling an unexpected sense of power entering her limbs. The rain should have felt cold, but she didn't really notice.
Maybe, she thought, they had to meet. They were bonded.
As the pilot cut the power, the engine began to wind down—whoom, whoom, whoom—until it came to a dead stop and there followed an unnatural silence. Finally the door on the side opened and a metal step dropped down.
After a moment's pause that seemed to last forever, he appeared, at first a vague figure in the rain, but then he stepped down and came toward her. He was wearing a white hat with a wide brim and a tan raincoat that seemed more like a cloak than a coat.
"Alexa, I so appreciate your making time for me."
It was hard to tell in the rain, but he appeared to be strong, and there was actually a kind of radiance about him, as though he carried his own special luminosity. He seemed completely transformed. The question was, transformed how? He looked years younger than the last time she saw him.
"I thought we should talk. I've been meaning to call you. I wanted to see how you're doing."
That's not it at all, she told herself. What do you really want?
"Actually, I've been wanting to thank you," Winston
Bartlett went on. "It turns out that you saved me after all. Your telomerase antibodies finally kicked in. The initial ones Karl injected in me. It just took a few weeks."
"And what about Kristen?" she asked.
His look saddened.
"You didn't hear?" He shook his head. "She . . . died in the fire."
That doesn't sound right, Ally thought. She looked like she was the only one who was going to survive it.
"Oh yeah? How did that happen?"
"You might as well know. She was burned beyond recognition. The body still hasn't been officially identified. When the firemen found her, she had a shard of glass through her throat. They thought she must have fallen on something, but I fear it's entirely possible she could have done it to herself."
Was that story true, or a bald‑faced lie? Ally wondered. Were they still hiding her someplace?
But why was he here? He certainly hadn't come to discuss the kitchen design job for his Gramercy Park mansion. That was now long ago and far away.
"Alexa," he said moving toward her, "please don't be frightened but there's something I have to find out."
He reached out with his left hand and seized her wrist. She only saw the glint of the penknife in his right hand for an instant before he slashed it across her palm.
"What!" she screamed and yanked her hand away. Knickers gave a loud yelp and then howled mournfully.
Only then did she notice that there'd been just a momentary flash of pain.
"It's okay," Bartlett said reaching to soothe Knickers. "Just a superficial scratch. Now watch it. I want to know if Karl had time to finish the procedure."
My God. She didn't have to watch. She could already feel it beginning to heal.
"What's . . . what's going on? Is this—?"
"He had hopefully completed the Beta on you just before Kristy's mother showed up. But did it work the way it was supposed to? We didn't know. Until now."
"My God. I knew I was feeling—"
"You received just the right amount of telomerase injections," Bartlett interjected, "to induce the Beta without any side effects. It was the 'Goldilocks dosage' Karl had been trying to calculate, just enough that only aged or damaged cells are replaced, while healthy tissue is not altered."
She now realized that was why she'd been having bouts of incredible energy.
"We're the only ones," he went on. "Just us. You and me. We've been given this gift, Alexa. And now we have the responsibility that goes along with it." He glanced down at her hand. "By the way, how's that cut doing?"
"What are you getting at?" It was definitely healing.
A wave of thunder boomed over the river, sending Knickers scurrying to Ally's side.
"What I'm getting at is that you and I are now two very special people. We both are living proof of what the Beta can achieve. The question is, what are we going to do about it?"
She was still stunned.
"This is a lot to absorb. I'll have to think—"
"I've already thought about this and I believe it must be kept secret at all cost. At least for now."
"But why? It's a miracle that—"
"That must be handled prudently. I need your cooperation with that."
She was having extreme difficulty getting her mind around what he was talking about.
"I don't really know what's going on. I think I'd better see some doctors. And Stone is finishing his book about . . . I've got to tell him—"
"Those things cannot happen, Alexa." He looked out at the river for a moment, then turned back. "A brand‑new world has dawned. Finally all things are possible." He moved closer to her, then reached out and took her wrist again. She looked down and realized the cut on her hand was all but healed. "For now, this has to be our secret, yours and mine. Just us."
She thought about all that had happened in the weeks since her wayward brother had accosted her running along this very river. It felt like an eternity.
"I'm asking you not to talk about this," he continued. "To anyone. You must give me your solemn word."
She felt the grip on her wrist get stronger.
"Now that we know the Beta can work," he went on, his voice piercing through the rain, "I am forming an elite association, the Methuselah Society. Membership buys a guarantee that you can stop aging; in fact, you can pick the age you want to remain. Karl is sure he can do that, assuming the Beta worked with you. And now we see it has. The first memberships will naturally be somewhat expensive, but as time goes by, the cost will be gradually scaled down to respond to market forces. One may only join with a companion, but for obvious reasons all those who undergo the Beta must be sworn to secrecy, on pain of death, since there's bound to be a hue and cry and government intervention if word leaks out that only individuals with significant resources can have this miracle."
"I think that's obscene," she said.
"I suspected you might feel that way. Which is why we're having this talk. As I've explained the Methuselah Society will be contingent on the utmost secrecy, at least initially. So the question is, are you on board with this?"
"The answer is, I'll do what I please." She was thinking what a bombshell this would be to have in Stone's book. Stem cells—the Fountain of Youth was no longer a dream.
Winston Bartlett had won his dice game with God. And now he was planning to sweep the table. But he also was smart enough to realize he had to cash in quickly and discreetly.
"Don't you realize how irresponsible that is?" he insisted.
"We stand on the threshold of a new era for humankind. But if we let small‑minded politicians get involved with this, they might decide to forbid . . . Keep in mind that using stem cell technology to regenerate organs is already controversial. Just imagine what the self‑appointed zealots would do with this. The good of humanity is less important to them than their narrow‑minded, bigoted constituencies."
That was when it finally dawned on her why he had lured her down here by the river on a rainy night. What better placefor a convenient "accident" if it came to that.
She watched as he turned and raised a finger toward the open door of the McDonnell Douglas.
The motor started and then another figure emerged and came down the steps. She squinted through the rain and recognized Kenji Noda, Bartlett's ever‑present bodyguard. He was carrying a plastic bottle, along with a small white towel.
He's going to chloroform me and then God knows what. I'm about to disappear the same way Kristen did.
She stared at them both, wondering what to do.
"Alexa, I regret to say that you are either with me or you are a problem I cannot afford to have," Bartlett said, and then he nodded to Noda.
Shit.
She backed to the edge of the pier as Noda advanced on her menacingly, dousing the cloth. He was a foot taller than she was and he weighed over two hundred pounds.
Her first instinct was to run, but then she sensed an impulse to stand her ground. Something told her to try to use her strength against him. He wouldn't expect it.
Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed that a white car had pulled onto the pier and was cruising down the side, slowly inching their way. It looked like a police vehicle, probably a couple of cops curious about the presence of a helicopter on the Field Turf.
They were approximately half a minute too late to make any difference. Kenji Noda was five feet away and they were fifty yards away. And they probably couldn't see what was going on anyway. The rain had chosen that moment to begin to gush, shrouding everything in sheets of water.
Knickers was nudging at her leg, as though urging her to flee. And again she thought about running, but an instinct told her to stand her ground. She was feeling a sensation of power growing in her limbs.
She found herself oddly calm as Kenji Noda reached her, then wrapped his left arm around her neck and with his right hand clamped the cloth over her nostrils. It was infused with chloroform—she knew the smell—but she held her breath.
Then it happened. She casually reached up and took his left arm and pulled it away from her neck.
It was so easy. There was the same feeling of strength she'd had when she wrenched open the air lock. Yet it was something that came and went. She had no inkling how long it would last this time.
"I don't think you should do that," she said continuing to pull his arm around behind him. Then she twisted it to the side and there was a sickening snap as it came out of its shoulder socket
He groaned lightly but did not speak. Instead he reached with his right hand and pulled an automatic out of a holster at the back of his belt dropping the chloroformed cloth in the process. While his left arm dangled uselessly, he brought around the pistol and tried to aim it at her torso. Her senses, though, were coming fully alive now and she seized his wrist and pushed it away just as he fired.
The round caught her at the outer edge of her shoulder. She felt it enter and exit, but there was no pain, merely a mild itch. Still holding his wrist, she picked up the white cloth and buried his face in it. She held it against his nostrils until his body twitched and went limp.
That was when the spotlight hit them.
"Drop your weapons and show your hands," came a basso voice over a megaphone.
Who had a weapon? she wondered. The one pistol around was lying on the ground next to the crumpled frame of Kenji Noda.
The police must have heard the shot and assumed they were being fired on.
She turned around to search for Winston Bartlett and saw him retreating to the McDonnell Douglas. Running, actually.
He saw what happened, she told herself. He's afraid of me.
"Stop and identify yourself," came the police megaphone. The spotlight was now squarely on Bartlett, who was bounding up the retractable steps.
Without looking back, he pulled up the steps and slammed the door. The rotor had already begun revving higher, and in moments the chopper had begun its ascent out over the dark river.
"You have been warned to identify yourself," came the futile megaphone. The chopper had all but disappeared into the dark and rain when she heard a shot fired from the direction of the police car.
It must have been an accident, she told herself. There's no way—
But the smooth hum of the engine dying away in the fog abruptly changed tone, then started to sputter. Ten seconds later, there was silence.
She was so engaged she didn't notice the stirring at her feet. A moment thereafter, she saw the towering bulk of Kenji Noda rise up beside her. Then she felt his grip on her wrist and realized he was dragging, and pulling her to the edge of the pier. Then she felt a shove and a swirl of dark air around her, followed by the splash of cold water. Surprisingly, it didn't really feel freezing—it just felt refreshingly brisk. With one hand she grabbed one of the square concrete pillars that was supporting the pier. The mysterious strength she'd had from time to time was coming back once more.
That was when she heard a vicious howl, wolf‑like, that transmuted into a growl, and the next thing she saw was a hazy form hurtle past her and splash into the water.
Actually, it was two forms, and the darker one was flailing while the lighter one bore down on him, her teeth on his throat.
"No!" she screamed "Don't."
As the pair drifted past her in the current, still linked she reached out and seized Knickers' collar, yanking her back. Then she watched helplessly as Kenji Noda disappeared into the dark. Could he swim with one arm?
The cops were futilely searching the wide river with their searchlight, looking for the helicopter, for anything, but there was nothing left to see.
She quietly made for shore, even as she and Knickers were being swept downstream by the current When they finally reached the bank, it was somewhere around Morton Street. Oddly enough, she wasn't cold and she wasn't tired when she drew herself up onto the rocks, Knickers at her side. She just lay panting for a moment.
"Come here, baby," she said drawing Knickers to her. The dog was shivering and she knew she had to get her home soon. "Thank God you can't talk. I think something very evil just passed from the world."
Epilogue
Thursday, June 25
10:49p.m.
"You're really something," Stone declared, falling back onto the rumpled sheets. "What's come over you lately? Don't you ever get tired?"
"Maybe I'm just happy to be alive," Ally said, smiling as she ran a finger down his chest. "I'm catching up on all the living I've been missing out on."
Her heart was definitely on the mend, in several ways. She was beginning to think she was in love. After Steve went missing, she thought that love would never happen again, but maybe it had.
"Know what," he said, rising up, "I've really worked up an appetite. How about you? Think I'll make an omelet. Got any eggs left in the fridge?"
"Should be some," she said. "But I'll pass. Anything I eat after ten goes straight to places on my body that don't need further reinforcement."
It was so nice just to have someone to be near again. Her nervous system was still recovering from the harrowing experience down on the pier. In fact, she wasn't really sure
whatactually had happened. The crashed McDonnell Douglas was retrieved from the water the next day, but there were no bodies aboard. Had Winston Bartlett drowned and his body been swept out to sea by the tide? Also, there must have been a third person, a pilot. And what about Kenji Noda, who also was missing? Did he make it to shore? In any case, they all had disappeared. The case was closed. And since nobody had found a will, New York State was currently the executor of his fortune. Eileen Bartlett was sole heir. Her waiting game had paid off superbly. The price of her Gerex shares was doubling every two weeks. She was about to become a very rich woman indeed.
But had Winston Bartlett really gone to a watery grave? Ally somehow doubted it. He had too much invested in life to cash in so easily.
As she watched Stone get up and swathe himself in a huge white towel before heading for the kitchen, she found herself replaying that harrowing scene at the pier. She kept trying to remember something Bartlett had said about forming some kind of society. Was she fantasizing or had he said he was going to do that and then offer the Beta procedure to its members? What was he going to call it? Try as she might, she couldn't remember. She had developed a mental block that her mind was using to shield her psyche from the horror of that evening.
That night she'd first considered going to St. Vincent's Hospital emergency room for the gunshot wound but then she'd thought it over and decided there were too many things to explain that couldn't be explained Instead she just went home and washed the wound and filled it up with Neosporin. She didn't even tell Nina. The next morning, scar tissue was already forming. Now it was completely healed and even the scar had all but disappeared.
Had the Beta really worked? She wanted to tell Stone about that possibility, but she wasn't sure how he would take it. And she absolutely did not want to end up in the book.
She pulled on a terry cloth robe and slippers and padded her way into the kitchen. She wasn't hungry, but she felt like a glass of wine. She poked around in the wine rack in the kitchen closet and came up with a bottle of Bordeaux. Stone was cracking large white eggs into a stoneware bowl.
"Sure I can't make some for you?" he asked, leaning over to buss her hair as she searched in the drawer for a corkscrew. "I'm gonna throw in some cheddar, but I'll leave it out if that doesn't work for you."
"I just want a glass of red wine," she said, retrieving the corkscrew. "And I need a memory jogging. What's a word that makes you think of living a long time? I . . . I want to look up something on the Internet and I don't know how to start."
"What kind of word is it?" he queried. "I'm a wordsmith. Twenty questions. Is it a noun, a verb, an adjective?"
"If I could remember that, I might be able to come up with it."
He was tossing a quarter stick of butter into the pan. "Hey, I once learned hypnosis. Why don't you let me take you under?"
"Does that really work?"
"It's how I come up with interview stuff sometimes, from years ago. We really do have a complicated memory system. I think everything you ever knew is buried somewhere, maybe in a tiny little wrinkle."
She suspected he might be right. In this case the repressed info was still there; it just had been deliberately covered over and hidden.
"So do you want to hypnotize me? You're sure you know how?"
"I'm not boasting, but I could make Methuselah remember the day he first got out of diapers."
She stared at him. "My God, I think that's it. Methuselah. I think that's the word I couldn't remember." She kissed him on the mouth enthusiastically. "I've got to check something."
She popped the cork and poured herself a glass.
"Want some?"
"I'm not sure what goes with eggs at this time of night. Probably tequila."
"Good luck. You know where to find it. There're some limes in the fridge. Right now I'm going to fire up the Dell and do a little search."
"Now? " His face dropped. "How about a little romantic . . . whatever?"
"Come and join me. Bring your plate. We'll go exploring in cyberspace. It'll be a romantic voyage. I've got a hunch about something."
She walked back into the bedroom and clicked on the computer. She sipped at her wine, deep but still fruity and delicious, as it booted up.
"What's going on?" he asked as he wandered in. He was carrying a shot glass of tequila and a white plate with the cheese omelette. The aroma was seductive.
"I want to check out something. I have to be honest and confess I've been holding out on you a little. When I saw Winston Bartlett that night on the pier, something he said—"
"Ally, I need to do some confessing too. The time never seemed quite right. I need to tell you something about him."
"Well, don't tell me now. I don't think I can handle anything else to worry about tonight. Please save it."
She was logging on to AOL. Then she went to the search engine Google, which she had found to be the best.
"I want to check out that name you came up with. It rang a bell."
She typed in Methuselah, supposedly the guy who lived for nearly a thousand years.
There were pages and pages of references relating to that word. It started with a five‑thousand‑year‑old pine tree, then an article from Modern Maturity on how to extend life, then Caltech research on a longevity gene, then a rock band in Texas (undoubtedly very retro), a short story by Isaac Bashevis Singer, and so it went.
"What, exactly, are you looking for?" he asked, holding out a folk. "Here. Want a bite?"
She reached and tore off a fluffy corner. He did eggs perfectly.
"Thanks," she said, chewing. Now she was moving to the third page. "I think I'm looking for an organization. And Methuselah was in the name. At least . . . that's what I seem to remember. I'm definitely repressing a lot."
"Well, what about that one?" he asked, pointing.
The line read, the Methuselah Society.
"That's it," she declared. "Now I remember. That's the name he used. I swear. So it's real. I'm not crazy."
"What are you talking about?"
"It's him. That's what he said he was going to do."
She clicked on the name.
The Web page came up and it was strictly in black and white, with small print. And there it was again,the Methuselah society. There was no information beyond a request for a secure e‑mail address.
"Looks like they want to check you out," Stone said.
"To make sure you're not connected to politics or law enforcement."
"Then why not give it a shot," Stone said. "You're on AOL. You'd have to be a civilian."
She typed in her address and entered it. Immediately a little yellow padlock appeared in the lower right‑hand corner, indicating their communication was secure. Then a notice materialized, a small square flickering to life. It contained her phone number and then her name. Next a complete financial record began to scroll down. It had been elicited from banks, mortgage companies, credit services. There was Value of Real Estate owned, Mortgages Outstanding, Bank Accounts, Outstanding Obligations, Estimated Net Worth. It had all appeared in a time span of seconds.
"Wow," Stone said. "There are no secrets left from these guys, whoever they are. They are wired."
Then a message appeared: The minimum net worth required to be a member is 500 Million Dollars. The fee for membership is 100 Million Dollars. A 10‑Million‑Dollar retainer is required while your application is being processed. Please be prepared to designate the ages you and your companion wish to remain.
"My God," she said, "that's him. He's done it. Winston Bartlett is alive and well, and selling immortality, real or not."
Then another message came up: Welcome, Alexa. Please be advised you are already a member. But you have not yet selected a companion.
* * *
How much of the foregoing is true or even plausible?
In late 2002, medical researchers in Dusseldorf announced they had successfully treated heart‑attack victims using stem cells harvested from the patients' own bone marrow. The stem cells were delivered to damaged heart muscle via angioplasty catheters, a minimally invasive procedure. Subsequent monitoring indicated that the stem cells had reduced the damage to heart‑muscle tissue and had improved their heart function when compared to similar patients in a control group who had declined the procedure.
It's already happening.
The miraculous stem cell cures in this story are essentially an extrapolation of research well underway that has been the subject of magazine covers and is possibly the most promising and, yes, problematic field of medical research. The clocks at the Dorian Institute ran faster than ordinary timepieces, and research areas and cures that currently are only speculation were made real there. But that's why it's called fiction. As with the example cited above, many stem cell miracles conjured here may be just over the horizon.
As for Kristen and the Methuselah Society, they are a fictional embodiment of misgivings given voice by many, including no less an authority than Professor Leonard Hayflick, whose Hayflick limit, defining the process of how cells grow old could be said to be the underpinning of modern stem cell research. He is now a leading bioethicist who is sufficiently convinced of our potential to use stem cells to arrest the actual aging process that he has worried about its ramifications in print. He makes no claim that such a thing is imminent, but he doesn't dismiss its possibility either. He has far‑reaching societal concerns about this, and he also raises biological issues such as, if you've treated your brain malady by using stem cells to grow new neural tissue, have you altered your mind? Are you still you?
It's called Regenerative Medicine. Watch for it.