The Methuselah Gene Read Online Free PDF Page A

server.”
    Darryl unwrapped his sandwich, and bit a half moon.   His words were slurred, as he talked with his mouth full.   “Is that why none of the files were on the mainframe, either?”
    I speared a chunk of dripping meatloaf with my fork.   “Huh?   I thought some of them were.   What’s this all about?”
    Darryl shushed me.   “Whoever did this wiped everything, including their fingerprints.   I found that out right away.   Meanwhile, Tactar needed another star performer.   Their stock is still going down, while Genetech just got approval for a competing product to our Disomene .”
    â€œYou’re kidding.   I never heard that.”
    â€œYou’ve been up to your ass in aspirin substitutes, go figure.   By the way, you haven’t told me how you like your new office.”
    â€œThere’s no view,” I confessed.   “And Hepker is a pain that won’t go away.”
    â€œSo you can’t see yourself working for him another twenty years?”
    I munched, waiting for the dry meatloaf in my mouth to mingle with the moisture of the ketchup.   “Don’t even joke about that,” I managed.
    Darryl nodded, then polished his fingernails on his lapel, and admired them.   “My theory still holds, then.   True to form, Tactar buries the incident along with burying your colleague.   Then, sooner or later, you quit and move on.   End of story.”
    â€œHow do you know it’s the end, Sherlock?” I asked.   “You know, for someone else, it could really just be the—”
    â€œBeginning?” Darryl interrupted, and then he grinned unexpectedly.   “If I’m feeling a kinda smug condescension to you it’s because I’m working on an even better theory.”   He did another magic trick and with a flourish produced a folded note, which he handed over.   “Presto, change-o, buddy.   After some deep soul searching, I’ve decided you owe me four hundred bucks, as well.”
    I opened the piece of paper and read: Walter Mills, 621 Broadway Blvd., Cincinnati OHIO.
    â€œWho’s Walter Mills?”
    Darryl’s smile thinned a bit.   “That’s the question, isn’t it?   The bad news is, your Cindyboo has moved.   The good news is, I have his new address.”
    He now produced a postcard.
    â€œWhat’s that?”
    â€œI sent this to his old address four days ago, and wrote ‘return service requested’ on it.   The post office doesn’t forward it then, just returns it to you with the new address.”
    I stared at the little yellow sticker on the postcard in Darryl’s palm, which read: PO Box 16, Zion, IOWA.   “Zion, Iowa?”
    Darryl shrugged.   “Maybe he sold your research materials and retired there.”
    â€œHe who?   And sold it to who?”
    â€œAnd for how much?”   Darryl held out one hand, wriggling together his thumb and index finger.   “More than the four hundred bucks you owe me, I’m sure.”
    I pushed aside my lunch tray and studied Darryl’s face like I’d once studied the face of a carnival fortune teller, when asked for money.   “That’s all you’ve got—a post office box in some piss ant Midwestern town?”
    â€œHey, it wasn’t easy to come by.   I had to get help.”
    â€œWho?”
    â€œNever mind who.   Just fork over the green, Mister Clean.”
    â€œBut who’s Walter Mills?   Is this guy on Tactar’s payroll?”
    â€œNope.”
    â€œHas he got a record?”
    â€œYou mean with the police?   Again, you’re outta luck, if you ever had any to begin with.   He’s not in the phone book either.   Not here, and not in the Creston area phonebook there.”
    â€œThen who the hell is he?   And what’s your other theory?”
    â€œYou