The Methuselah Gene Read Online Free Page B

moved to the door.   “Wait a minute—how much time?”
    â€œAs long at it takes,” Darryl replied, without blinking, “to think this over.”

3
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    Darryl took a lot longer than I expected.   It had taken a while for things to get back to normal, too.   Clueless, the police filed away a report indicating suicide, and Jim Baxter’s body—after a full autopsy—was laid to rest at Woodlawn Cemetery, next to his brother Clovis, who’d been a Gulf War hero.   Returning to my own routine proved impossible, however, considering the boring nature of my new work.   Suffering from recurring nightmares featuring broken glass, I endured a quiet despair characterized by listlessness and an almost constant reassessment of my professional and personal life.   Not knowing whether to take a vacation or just resign, I went through my outward motions in a state of limbo, but inside I was as conflicted as a rat in a maze, and just as lost.   Then came the day I ran into Darryl during lunch break, and everything changed because he gave me a target for my frustration.
    Except for the oversized Matisse reproduction and the high skylight, the Tactar plant cafeteria looked like a hospital cafeteria.   White walls, linoleum floor, and a long stainless steel serving counter.   The fare that day behind the hot glass display window consisted of meat loaf, liver and onions, mashed potatoes and gravy, and various veggies straight from cans into the warming trays, with a little salt and butter added for taste.   I asked for filet mignon, medium well, and a nice bottle of 1938 Mouton Rothschild.   That drew a laugh from big Dave Huckley , the chef and server—a usually morose man who once confided in me that he was taking Lipitor for his cholesterol, on prescription from his doctor, and not Tactar’s own Selecor .
    I was carrying my tray of ketchup-drenched meat loaf and green beans, complete with dinner roll and iced tea, toward one of the two dozen square tables that had been angled forty-five degrees in an obvious attempt to appear stylish.   I was about to sit near Jeffers’ pretty secretary, Allison Chambers, when a dark hand slipped under my elbow and guided me toward the door that led out to the courtyard.
    â€œThere’s a table out there,” Darryl informed me, with imperious solicitude.   “Haven’t seen you in weeks, and you look like you could use some fresh air, too.”
    He chose one of the three empty wrought iron tables on the red flagstone courtyard outside.   It was warmer outside than in the air-conditioned cafeteria, but the ambiance was nicer.   Darryl sat opposite me with a bagged lunch, and loosened his cherry red tie.   The tie’s embroidered cherries looked more like cherry bombs than real cherries.
    I began.   “That tie, you—”
    â€œNever mind,” he interrupted, then glanced back at the window, beyond the potted Ficus , to see Allison Chambers and Bill Davis and several others looking in our direction, as if about to brave the early August heat and try for the two remaining tables.   “Tell me who knew the most about your Satan bug besides you.”
    â€œWhat?   I told you to stop calling it that.”
    Darryl pulled a huge ham and cheese sandwich from his brown bag like a magic trick, then a smaller baggie of bite-sized carrots.   “Okay, Methuselah.   Who besides you knew the access codes to the documentation?”
    I shrugged.   “Hell, I don’t know.   Half a dozen people, at least.   They weren’t sure the computer was even protected by access code that night.   It wasn’t always done, and the thing was just on screen saver most of the time.   Touch any key and you’re in.   It wasn’t like we expected espionage.   I know the office was locked, though.   And the internal computer wasn’t connected to any