The Cicada Prophecy: A Medical Thriller - Science Fiction Technothriller Page 13

  “Mmm—I like that look on you,” he said, holding her head softly while kissing her moist lips.

  “Fits me remarkably well, too,” she kidded. “Unlike this home of yours—it’s gigantic! I could barely find the kitchen.”

  “Sorry about that—should I have placed signs pointing upstairs?”

  “I just followed the aroma. What have you got brewing?”

  “I made some fresh coffee, and your omelette will be ready in a minute. Why don’t you relax on the terrace? It’s a glorious morning.”

  Jennifer walked through the double French doors onto the balcony and gasped as she took in the spectacular view. From the fifth floor of Rick’s townhouse, the park across the street unfolded in all its majesty, revealing the bright yellows, reds, and golds of autumn in the blanket of foliage below. The rich palette of color extended into the distance in three directions, bordered by the tall limestone skyscrapers lining the perimeter of the park, creating the illusion of a giant impressionist painting in an elaborately carved antique frame. To the west, she could see the soaring twin towers of the San Remo and El Dorado buildings, to the south the familiar Plaza Hotel rose regally above the canopy of trees, and kitty-corner across the street sat the majestic Metropolitan Museum, stretching four full blocks to the north of Rick’s townhouse.

  “Boy, this must get old quick, huh?” she remarked, as Rick walked out onto the terrace with their breakfast.

  “It’s pretty rough, I have to admit. But you know, you get used to it.”

  “Ha! You can’t fool me for a second, Rick. It’s obvious you like the finer things in life, and besides, based on your comments last night, I know you’ve got a special affinity for nature. This must feel like your own personal laboratory at your very feet.”

  “In a way, it is. Central Park has an incredible diversity of flora and fauna, thanks in large measure to its brilliant designers. There are literally thousands of species of plants and animals in that little green patch within this great big concrete jungle. I almost tripped over a wild turkey crossing the road the other day, and there’s a large red-tailed hawk nesting on top of that building just a few doors down.”

  “Well I hope he doesn’t get any thoughts about swooping down on us and stealing my breakfast!”

  “Not to worry,” Rick laughed, “I suspect we juveniles are a little too big a challenge, even for a bird that size.”

  “Speaking of size, I was examining those interesting miniature trees you’ve planted over there.” Jennifer pointed to a row of neatly arranged potted plants on the stone abutment overlooking the ledge. “They look very mature, and yet they’re only a foot tall?”

  “Yes, those are bonsai trees—one of my hobbies that lets me indulge my passion for biology. These are really my laboratory, as you say, where I can safely experiment with nature, and simultaneously create beautiful works of art.”

  Jennifer looked at the little trees inquisitively.

  “What does Bonsai mean?”

  “Bonsai is a Japanese expression simply meaning ‘tree in a pot’. It’s an art form that has been practiced for centuries—since the time of Egyptian pharaohs. Fundamentally, it’s a way of cultivating and shaping trees by restricting their growth.”

  Jennifer was intrigued how this related to Rick’s other area of expertise.

  “A bit like juveniles?”

  “Actually, there are some interesting parallels. For one thing, the tree’s growth is arrested by carefully clipping off parts of their roots and branches, not unlike the hypophysectomy procedure with juveniles.”

  “How does that keep the trees so small?”

  “The roots dictate the size of the tree in the same way the pituitary does in humans. The smaller and shorter the roots, the less nutrients it absorbs from the soil and the less food is delivered to the branches. Similarly, by trimming back the ends of the branches, the less foliage the tree has to photosynthesize other essential chemicals from the sun and air.”

  “A bit like restricting growth hormones in humans?”

  “Exactly.”

  “Hmm—I can see your attraction to this art. But there’s something else I noticed about those trees. Besides being exceptionally small, judging by the coarseness and thickness of their bark, they also appear quite mature?”

  “Yes, that’s very observant. Actually, they are indeed quite old. Some of those tiny trees are actually much older than similar species just across the street that stand over a hundred feet tall.”

  “How does that happen?”

  Rick was glad to see Jennifer taking such a keen interest in his hobby, and he was enjoying the opportunity to explain how Bonsai represented a metaphor for present-day juvenile development.

  “It involves the same process as with human juveniles. By artificially restricting growth and delaying the development of the tree, it has the effect of extending their lifespan significantly. In fact, there are many similar examples of this occurring in the natural environment.”

  “How so?” Jennifer asked, happy to indulge Rick’s passion for his hobby.

  “Well it’s a given that with most living things, the slower they develop, the longer they live. Where the environment creates special conditions that restrict that growth, organisms universally live longer. Certain species of fish for instance that live in very cold or very deep water live many times longer than their counterparts in shallower and more plentiful parts of the ocean; and certain trees living in limited growing conditions live hundreds of centuries, whereas others may naturally live only a few years.”

  “What makes them grow so much slower? I assume there’s no mad doctor out there cutting back their roots!”

  Rick smiled. Jennifer never seemed to miss an opportunity to tease him about his doctor complex.

  “True enough, nature does it a different way. Either they restrict the supply of food, sun, or oxygen, and thus cause the organism to grow and mature more slowly, or by lessening the presence of predators, nature allows the organism to take its time growing up. Either way, the delayed maturity of each life form results in much extended lifespans, just as with humans.”

  “Fascinating.” Jennifer was truly intrigued by this unfamiliar aspect of biology.

  “How far might nature extend this process?” she asked. “I mean not only for trees and fish, but also for people.”

  “That’s the essential question, and conundrum, isn’t it?” Rick replied. “There are some fish that live to be well over a hundred years old, and some trees that are almost five thousand years old. It remains to be seen just how long we humans might artificially prolong life using this new technique of hypophysectomy and hormone restriction.”

  “Well, there are a few of us who might say five thousand years is quite enough! That seems like a pretty long time, compared to what we achieved as recently as just a few decades ago.”

  “Yes, I suppose so. That’s part of the reason I like to experiment with these little trees—I’d like to see just how far we can stretch their longevity before we leap to any conclusions regarding the future of higher life forms.”

  Rick considered for a minute whether he might invite Jennifer to share in the next phase of his research.

  “I was actually planning on taking an expedition soon to a place where the oldest known living thing resides—a lonely bristlecone pine tree named Methuselah. Would you like to come with me?”

  “Well if it’s that old, based on your earlier explanation it must be an exceptionally unforgiving place, or one devoid of predators. I can handle the latter, but the former doesn’t sound terribly inviting.”

  “You’re actually right on both counts. It’s a barren mountain in the shadow of the Sierra Nevadas—a rather bleak place in terms of climate and topography, but the hike up the mountain should be beautiful. When we get to the top, I assure you, it will be worth the trip. You’ll see something magnificent and untouched that has survived natural and human intervention for five millennia, and has stood longer th
an the pyramids of Giza. Plus, it’ll be great exercise, and it’ll get our endorphins pumping again.”

  “How can I resist that kind of invitation? When do we go?”

  19

  The past week had been a relatively peaceful one for Calvin James, as he worked on his plan to save Elias from an unwanted hypophysectomy. He’d conceived a scheme that would not only foil the authorities in their attempts to mutilate his son but would also restore God’s original design for humanity. The precision of his plan had given him a sense of serenity that he hadn’t felt in a long time. Even his last sermon to his Garden of Eden congregation had been toned down, with exhortations to be calm and wait for God’s word; Calvin was so sure he would soon lead them out of the wilderness.

  As he worked silently in his rectory, a loud series of raps on the entrance door to the church startled him from his thoughts.

  Probably another homeless person looking for a handout or respite from the encroaching weather, he thought.

  There weren’t many beggars still wandering the environs of lower Manhattan since crime had become virtually non-existent in the last few decades and city resources had been re-directed to caring for the old and infirm. But there were still a few mentally unbalanced people who refused public assistance and wished to maintain their independence by living on the streets. Some were in pretty rough shape and would call periodically on the few remaining active churches around the city for handouts and to provide temporary shelter from the elements.

  Calvin trudged down the long steps from his office to the front door to send the panhandler away. He had no time to deal with miscreants at this moment, for there were far more important matters to address. But as he swung open the heavy wooden doors, he was shocked by the sight that greeted him. A well-dressed female carrying an attaché case was flanked by two serious looking police officers.

  “Good day, Dr. James,” she announced. “My name is Graciella Rubino, and I’m with the Manhattan Child Services Agency. We’ve been trying to contact you for some time now to arrange an interview with your son to discuss the hypophysectomy procedure mandated by the United Nations Global Longevity Initiative. We’d like to meet with him now, please.”

  Damn, Calvin cursed under his breath. He couldn’t believe his luck; he was just days from spiriting Elias away where he’d be secure from unwanted intrusion as he passed over the safe threshold of puberty.

  Contain yourself, Calvin said to himself. All you have to do is stall these people for a few more days. Be calm and reasonable—don’t give them any reason to take drastic action.

  “Yes of course,” Calvin replied in a measured tone, “I’d been planning to bring him in to meet with you soon. We’ve been busy with his home schooling and preparing for the upcoming holiday season. I could make an appointment with you for some time next week if that’s convenient?”

  “I’m sorry, sir,” the Child Services officer replied. “We cannot accept any further delays. You’ve had ample opportunity to bring your son in, and regulations require an in-depth interview before every child turns eleven—which our records show is tomorrow. I have a court order to meet with him immediately.”

  Calvin could feel his blood beginning to boil and the hair on the back of his neck standing on end.

  The nerve of these people, thinking they have providence over me and my son. Who the hell do they think they are?

  But Calvin also knew that Child Services would ultimately have the final say in this matter and could back it up with force if necessary. The presence of the police reduced his range of options and although the two juveniles were far smaller and weaker than him, he knew from previous experience that they would be carrying weapons and that reinforcements were only a short radio call away. He would have to try and remain calm so as not to set off any alarm bells.

  “Fine,” Calvin said, “I can collect my son and meet you at your office in twenty minutes. I’ll need to tell him what you want, so as not to frighten him.”

  Calvin simply wanted to shut the door and have a few minutes to think. He might still be able to steal Elias away through a secret passage out the back. At the very least, he wanted to prep his son for the interview in order to resist the procedure. As he began to close the door, the two police officers quickly moved forward withdrawing their billy clubs. Calvin wasn’t sure if they meant to use them on him, or simply to wedge them in the door to prevent it from closing.

  “We’d like to meet with your son here, please,” the Child Services agent firmly stated as one of the officers placed his hand on the door. It was obvious the CSA wasn’t going to take any chances losing control over this situation.

  “We want him to feel as comfortable as possible,” Ms. Rubino continued, “and we’d appreciate your full co-operation. You’ll be permitted to observe the process. Please allow us to enter peaceably.”

  Calvin knew he could overpower the juveniles if he acted quickly enough but that this would likely just bring more police, who could be waiting around the corner. He couldn’t afford to antagonize them any further and risk disrupting his plans. He would have to play along, as much as it pained him to do so—just long enough for Elias and him to make their getaway.

  “All right—but do we really need the police to come in also? It will just make my son more uncomfortable. I give you my word that I’ll cooperate.”

  “It’s simply protocol sir,” replied Ms. Rubino. “The officers will remain at the back of the room while I speak with your son. I’ll need thirty to forty minutes alone with him where we can speak freely, so that I may assess his proper state of mind and true wishes. Then you’ll be allowed to meet with us together, where we’ll make a joint determination regarding next steps.”

  The more Calvin heard from the Child Services worker, the more he didn’t like where this was going. Nonetheless, he felt that if he continued to give the impression of full cooperation that he might be able to delay the CSA from taking immediate action, even if his son were to reveal his true feelings and fears about the hypophysectomy procedure. All he had to do was maintain control and custody of his child for another couple of days; he would give them no other reason to do otherwise.

  Calvin gritted his teeth but managed to force a smile.

  “Yes madam. I’m happy to cooperate.” He decided to deflect the subject in order to try and reduce the tension. “Your name,” he said, “Graciella—did you know that it means by the Grace of God?”

  “Yes, thank you, Dr. James,” she replied. The CSA officer had plenty of training for these highly charged situations and knew it was always best to reach out when an olive branch was offered.

  “Yours, I know, is also full of great symbolism. The James surname is the name of kings—some scholars believe that Christ himself descended from the James clan. And of course, the great protestant reformer John Calvin laid the foundation for the rise of capitalism and democracy in our society…”

  Calvin was growing tired of this calculated and disingenuous game with the Child Services agent. Although it was obvious that Ms. Rubino was well read and had some basic knowledge of religious history, it was just as obvious that she was not a true believer and was purely trying to assuage Calvin’s feelings—just as he was with her.

  “Well I don’t claim to be a king,” Calvin replied hypocritically, “or someone with the profound divinity of Jesus or the influence of John Calvin. I’m just trying to carry the Lord’s word and help as many people as I can in this little church within my personal community.”

  “We all need a little guidance and spiritual community at times, Dr. James. Speaking of which—shall we get started? Would you mind bringing Elias to see us? Where might we find a quiet and private place to confer?”

  “I think you’ll find the rectory a bit cramped,” Calvin replied. “It might just be easiest to pull up a couple of chairs on the choir platform over there, near the altar. I could wait in the rear pews or in my upstairs chambers, whichever you prefer.”

  Miss Ru
bino appraised the section behind the pulpit where Calvin pointed. It was well lit from large stained glass windows rising on three sides, and offered some privacy in the form of a thin linen screen used to veil the choir during assembly.

  “The choir area will be fine, thank you. If you could bring Elias down and wait by the officers in the rear pews, that would be convenient.”

  The CSA agent apparently wished to take no chances with Calvin getting into trouble under the watchful eye of the attending police.

  “Fine—I’ll be back in just a moment.” Calvin had been feeling increasingly cornered by the situation and could barely breathe. He just needed a few moments alone to clear his head and decide what to do. As he turned to go upstairs, Ms. Rubino interjected.

  “Sir, if you wouldn’t mind, I’d like the officers to accompany you. It’s protocol, once again.”

  Calvin finally reached his breaking point.

  “If you don’t mind Madam,” he said, trying to keep his escalating rage in check, “I’d like to gather my own son without the interference of your officers. This is going to be upsetting enough without him having to be frightened by the appearance of the police. I assure you, I will bring him to you shortly. This is a very small church—it’s not as if there’s anywhere we can run.”

  “Fine,” Ms. Rubino allowed, after some hesitation. “But please bring him down immediately. We’ll give you five minutes.”

  “I’ll return shortly.”

  As Calvin made his way up the stairs through the narrow hallways leading to his rectory and to Elias’s small bedroom, he pondered his next move. His impulse was to flee, but he knew that even if he managed to get out of the church with Elias, there was a good chance the property was being monitored by the police and that if they were caught this would only result in them being separated—perhaps for too long. His best bet was to play along and cooperate, while trying to convince his son to be non-committal, at least for a few more days.