The Vintage Club by Darin Gibby - An Excerpt

The Vintage Club

by Darin Gibby © Copyright 2013 by Darin Gibby ISBN 9781938467653 All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means – electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, or any other – except for brief quotations in printed reviews, without the prior written permission of the author.

This is a work of fiction. All the characters in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

The names, incidents, dialogue, and opinions expressed are products of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real.

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In an effort to support local communities, raise awareness and funds, Morgan In an effort to support local communities, raise awareness and James Publishing donates a percentage of all book sales for the life of each book funds, Morgan James Publishing donates a percentage of all to Habitat for Humanity Peninsula book salesand for theGreater life of eachWilliamsburg. book to Habitat for Humanity

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Also by Darin Gibby Why Has America Stopped Inventing?

Visit the author’s website at www.daringibby.com

To my wife, Robin.

THE

I NTAG E C LUB

Darin Gibby

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an imprint of Morgan James Publishing

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PROLOGUE 35 AD

As ThEY rEAChED Andalusia between the Guadalquivir and Guadalete rivers, the soil turned chalk-white, the humidity soared and the mostly treeless landscape undulated gently.

The romans were near the ocean, in wine country, where the Phoenicians had first brought the fruit of the vine nearly a thousand years before. With its gentle dews, hot summers and alkaline clay capable of holding vast volumes of water, this region was the perfect place to grow grapes. Not just any grapes, but white Palomino grapes, which Tartessians turned into the first wine. These cherished grapes hung plump and heavy on the vine. They were currency for the romans, as valuable as sheep’s wool and olives. roman slaves, mostly natives of this conquered land, toiled between the rows, carefully clipping clusters of the fruit and gently setting them in baskets, then hauling the baskets to winepresses where more slaves, five or six at a time, barefoot and grasping hanging ropes to keep their balance, stomped on the grapes. The juice collected in vats, then drained into casks

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where it would ferment, its sugars transformed into alcohol that would preserve the wine for decades.

The september sun was scorching, enough to dehydrate a man in a few hours.

“It’s jobs like this that make me wish I’d studied law,” Didius said as he rode alongside his friend Catus, a junior captain. “I should be making laws, not enforcing them for the emperor.”

“Lawyers,” Catus snorted. “The empire’s got too many of them already.”

“At least I could be in rome spending my nights with Justina.”

Catus and Didius, the latter mounted on a black Andalusian horse, led a contingent of ten foot soldiers in tunics, mail breastplates and helmets, each equipped with swords and daggers.

“Ha! You know you love a good fight as much as the next roman, Didius. March for glory—isn’t that your personal creed?”

“This won’t even be a skirmish, and it’s a tale likely to ruin my career—yours too. Can you imagine our report to the senate?

They’ll laugh us out of the room.”

“I know, I know,” Catus sighed. “Don’t we have better things to look out for? It’ll die just like Christianity, perhaps with a little help from the lions. What I would give for a day at the Coliseum!” “rome never gives up when there’s a deserter. Especially when the story is so sensational.”

Catus patted the Andalusian’s neck, admiring the sheen in his black coat. “Agreed, but this guy disappeared more than a hundred years ago. No roman has ever lived that long. Nobody’s ever lived that long. his bones are already bleached, if they haven’t disappeared altogether.”

“Unconfirmed reports by our chroniclers say otherwise.

Fools! They’re just trying to spark sensation, and in the process they’re binding me to my fate.”

“True, Captain. rome loves a good story. That’s all the senate needed to follow this legend. And you and I get shoveled

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the dirty work of proving it false.”

“We can’t win this one. The fellow’s dead and gone. And even if we were to find someone who fits the description, as soon as we haul him back to rome, our reputations will be as good as your horse’s stinking manure. We’ll be mocked all the way to Mongolia.”

Catus hesitated. “But what if the rumor is true? What if there is someone who has lived more than one hundred and fifty years?’’

“Come on, Catus, a glass of wine isn’t going to make you live a century and a half!” Didius’s horse was plodding; he swatted the animal’s rear to get him to pick up his pace. “You know how many glasses my father had before he left for the gods?”

“That’s not what the Christians believe,” Catus said. “Two days before their Jewish Messiah was crucified, he gave his twelve followers wine—a very magical wine, they say. And if you believe the tale, that wine made it possible for them to live forever.”

“Obviously it didn’t work,” Didius said. “We know for sure that at least nine are already dead—and the others are most likely dead. One of them even killed himself.”

“Yeah … what was his name?”

“Judas. hung himself from a tree for a measly thirty pieces of silver! No wine will stop death from a good hanging, no matter what the vintage.”

“Or from being crucified upside down.”

Didius swatted a fly from his horse’s mane. “But if nobody intentionally kills them and they don’t kill themselves, then what? Will the wine save them—make them live forever?”

“If so I’d like to get my hands on it. Anything for a few more years of revelry back in rome!”

“I believe our roman deserter had the same idea. You know, they say Jason bought the fermentation secret from Judas himself.”

“I thought Judas was paid to betray Jesus with a kiss.” “he was and he did,” Didius said. “But Judas also sold the

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magical grape seeds, along with the secret winemaking process— both necessary to make this alleged elixir.” “how do you know that?”

“Common knowledge. Even the soldiers who were at the crucifixion knew about it. To mock him, they doused a sponge with vinegar—wine gone bad—and gave it to Jesus on the cross. ‘see if this’ll make you live forever!’ they said. ‘Is this the new wine you’re going to drink with your apostles?’ ” “But then the rumors of a resurrection—” “Uh-huh, spread like wildfire,” Didius said. “And Jason was foolish enough to believe it. Jason knew Jesus personally and was a follower. After the crucifixion, it was rumored, he fled as far as a stowaway could sail—here to Iberia. Unfortunately for him, in Iberia he was still under roman rule.”

Didius jerked up on the reins, breathing deeply. “I can smell it from here—a good vintage. There, up on that hill. see the house and the vines with no grapes left? Looks like a winepress off to the right. I’ll bet twenty denarii that it’s full of half-crushed grapes.” he spun his horse around to face his men. “soldiers, your orders: Take your prisoners alive, at all costs.

First, tie them up, then chain them together. Do not destroy any property or parchments. If they try to escape, do all you can to protect them. rome is watching us carefully on this one. Don’t disappoint our emperor.”

Catus pulled a script from his saddlebag, unrolled it and passed it to the first footman. “His name is Jason. Here’s what we think he looks like. Note the scar across his left cheek—and he’s missing the third finger on his left hand. If he’s here, it’ll be impossible to miss him.” The parchment was passed among the men, each studying it in turn. “We want him alive.”

They nodded in unison.

“Forward!” Didius prodded his horse.

The soldiers turned up the hillside toward a single-room stone-walled structure with a roof of rough-hewn logs. There was a window covered by a brown cloth that flapped in the breeze, and a heavily sun-bleached wooden door. Wisps of smoke

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purled up from the stone chimney. Moving single file between two rows of recently stripped grape vines, their sandals sinking into the alkaline soil, the men strode forward, first double time, then triple, just short of a run.

As the company reached the end of the row, Didius motioned them forward. Instantly the ten fanned out, five flanking each side of the abode. Except for a few brown leaves from a lone oak tree scooting across the dirt, the yard was barren. Didius and Catus dismounted and approached the only door.

A few steps away when he heard a creaking sound, Didius halted and grabbed his dagger. A gust of wind moved the door on its rusty hinges. The captain looked to his left and then right, making sure his men had the area secured. Then with a nod to the others, he delivered a swift kick to the door. It flew from its hinges, crashing to the floor and kicking up a cloud of dust.

The first thing he saw inside was a woman with long black hair streaked with gray, a large baby at her breast. she cowered behind a small wooden table strewn with bowls. “Where is he, woman?” Catus demanded. Not waiting for an answer, he lunged forward, flung the table on its side and pointed his sword at the crying child’s head. “You want your baby alive?” she whimpered, clutching the child. her bony frame was shaking and sweat glistened on her wrinkled skin.

Catus leaned forward, the tip of his blade only a few inches from the baby’s throat. “Now!” “Please, I don’t know who you’re talking about,” she said with a lisp, through her missing front tooth.

Didius spat on the floor. He strode over to the fire and tipped a black kettle with his dagger, sending a stream of liquid onto the embers. “I swear I don’t know what you’re talking about!

Please, I beg you, don’t hurt my baby.”

Didius gritted his teeth. “That’s it. Baby stew.” Then he took two steps and reached out for the child. she held the child tighter, but that didn’t stop Didius from wrestling the baby from her. With the squawking child dangling from one arm, Didius walked over to the cauldron.

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With a hysterical scream, the woman dropped to her knees and began scampering toward the fire on all fours, her progress hampered by her long dress. “Please, I beg you, don’t kill my baby!”

Catus, coming up behind her, stepped on her hem and halted her advance. Didius suspended the baby over the boiling water and started lowering it head first until he was just a few inches above the rising steam.

“He’s under the floor,” she sobbed with outstretched arms.

“That’s more like it,” Didius said, handing the screaming child back to its mother, who clutched him against her chest and bent over him, sobbing.

Catus shoved his sword back in its sheath, grinning.

“Works every time,” Didius said dryly, studying the wooden planks with a focused gaze. It was his roman discipline—he would not allow himself to be distracted.

Catus joined him, kicking away the ragged blankets and testing the floor with his sandal, running it over the wooden planks until his toe caught a raised edge. he crouched down, dusted the boards with his hand, stuck his finger into a knothole and, looking up at Didius, winked.

“Not so clever.” With a single jerk he popped loose a trapdoor, barely wide enough for an adult to slip through.

Catus reached down and helped him slide it aside. “Out!” he shouted into the darkness.

The man who emerged looked not a day older than twenty, half the age of his wife. he had curly dark hair and a bushy beard that only half-covered a scar jetting out of the facial hair and up the left temple. “hands in the air!” Didius snapped. “We have orders to arrest one Jason, follower of Jesus. Are you that man?”

A loud thud came from behind them and Catus turned to find the woman collapsed like a rag doll onto the floor, the screaming child now furiously wiggling to free himself from her clinging arms.

The man refused to speak.

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“They say you are one hundred and forty-seven years old,” Catus said. “hmm, that would make her … wife number four?

That must be hard when they get old—and you still so young.

Maybe it’s a good thing to die.” Catus turned to his fellow roman. “Can you imagine getting nagged for a hundred years by four different women, Didius?”

For the first time, Didius flashed a thin smile. “You know death is the penalty for desertion,” he said to the captive.

Though he kept his hands in the air, the man refused to acknowledge this threat. “so that’s how it’s going to be?” Catus stepped toward him, grabbed the back of his coarse woolen shirt and yanked so hard that the man lost his balance and stumbled. still clutching his garment, the roman pulled him out the front door and across the dirt to the oak tree.

Five soldiers appeared from behind the hovel, soon followed by the others. A man with broad shoulders and a bulky chest approached Didius.

“No prisoners, Captain. The wine vat is full of must. And we found a cellar,” the soldier said, pointing toward the back of the abode. “here, we brought you a bottle.”

Catus flung the prisoner to the ground and plucked the bottle from the soldier’s outstretched arm. “how many?” Catus asked.

“Two full racks. Four hundred bottles?”

“One for every day of the year—with a few to spare,” Catus said, nodding to Didius. “Eternal life from wine. Now we shall see.” he popped the cork and raised the bottle to his nose, inhaling the rich bouquet. “Not like last night’s. This one is magical!” he said in a sarcastic tone.

“No!” the man on the ground cried, breaking his silence and gazing up at the romans with imploring eyes. “I command you not to partake of that wine. It’s sacred.”

“Command, Jason? I didn’t know you had a commission,” Catus chortled. “Get me a cup.”

A soldier strode forward, earthen cup in one hand and a

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bottle in the other. Catus grabbed the cup and let the soldier fill it with a blood-red wine. “To Jupiter!” he cried, raising the vessel high to cheers from his men.

“And Bacchus!” another cried.

“Drink, and condemn yourself!” the winemaker exclaimed.

“As God is my witness—” A soldier stepped forward and spat in the man’s face. “That is what we think of your god.”

The prisoner stood silent as the spittle slid down his cheek, slipping over his scar and nesting in his beard. Grunting, Catus brought the cup to his lips and took a long draft. he smacked his lips and cocked his head, judging the taste. “Almost as good as the wine in rome, maybe even better.” he turned to his men.

“Tonight we celebrate! Tomorrow, we bring it all with us. To rome with the prisoner!”

The men erupted in dance and song, calling out for the bottles and kicking up clouds of white alkaline dust with their sandals. But before Catus had time to join the celebration, his breath turned short and beads of sweat broke out on his forehead. he went down to one knee in an attempt to maintain his balance, to stop the world from spinning. “Ahhhhhh!” he screamed, clutching his throat. “The bastard poisoned me!”

The Roman captain toppled over, face-first into the white dust, writhing in pain, tearing at his throat while the boisterous crowd fell silent and gathered ’round. As trained roman soldiers, they stood at attention until Didius, the next in command, gave them their orders.

“I warned you,” the prisoner said, staggering to his feet. “Did you think this was the wine of our Lord? The wine from the Tree of Life that makes one immortal? Oh fools. It is the forbidden fruit, the blood of the grape of which our first father, Adam, was commanded not to partake.”

“You dog—you lie!” Didius punched the man in the nose, drawing blood that flowed down into his mouth and stained his front teeth red. “Tell me what he drank, before it’s too late.”

The prisoner spat a mouthful of blood onto the parched soil.

DARIN GIBBY

9

An arm’s length away, Catus had gone into spasms, jumping and twitching, his fingers, contorted like an arthritic’s, clawing at his neck, a gurgling sound emanating from his throat. revolted by the sight, a few men turned their heads; one stepped aside, vomiting. In the final throes of death, arms and legs quivered, then the breathing stopped. Though his eyes were still wide open, Catus was dead.

Didius knelt to pay his last respects, lifting his captain’s head and sweeping the curly locks from his forehead.

“Christ is the true vine,” the winemaker murmured, looking down at Catus.

Didius rose to his knees and grabbed the fallen cup. “What is this shit—hemlock?” he cried, shaking it at the zealot. “sweet to the taste, but a bitter wine indeed. The same our Lord had to drink when he partook of the cup.”

Didius stood up and flung the cup at the man’s feet. “Speak plainly, not in these riddles, or else you die too!”

“You can do nothing worse to me than you did to my Lord.’’

“Bring me the rope—yes, we can do worse. We’ll treat you like the German barbarians do to their captured. Unless you confess your secret, we’ll hang you until you rot, then let the buzzards eat your flesh.”

“I’m not afraid. I have accepted Christ and drunk his wine.

My journey has come to an end.”

“Yes it has. Let the torture begin,” Didius said, motioning to his soldiers.

Two of his men took the rope they had hoped to use in leading their prisoner back to rome and began fastening a makeshift noose. When finished, they held it up for inspection—a large loop secured with a granny knot. “Who cares if the knot comes apart?” one of them commented to the other. “he’ll fall and we’ll get to do it again.” his companion grabbed the winemaker’s hands and jerked them behind his back, then bound them with another length of rope. “We’ll keep your legs free. You can kick all you want. We like to watch the struggle.”

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With that, the noose was thrown over a large limb on the oak tree and the free end tied to Catus’s saddle. The soldier inspected each of the four saddle horns—those used to hold the rider in place while keeping his hands free to hold his oval shield and sword or javelin—then selected one of the front horns to secure the rope. he wrapped it around several times before tying it off.

“Proceed,” he instructed his companion.

Promptly the other soldier tossed the noose over the winemaker’s head, pulled until it squeezed his neck and tugged to test the knot. Then he hoisted himself up into the saddle, eyes focused on Didius, who was waiting for a confession. When it didn’t come, he raised his hand and brought it down in a slashing motion. The mounted soldier kicked the stallion gently and it took a few steps, lifting the winemaker nearly a foot off the ground. he kicked once as he left the ground and his body went into a slow spin. The soldiers watched in silence. Didius waited nearly a minute, then raised his hand again. This time the rider maneuvered the horse to his starting position and the winemaker’s feet touched back down on the ground.

As the rope loosened, the prisoner gasped then began to cough uncontrollably. Didius approached him and spat in his face. “Are you ready to speak? Where is the wine we seek? The seeds, the formula that you purchased from Judas Iscariot.”

The coughing subsided, but still he refused to speak. swiftly, Didius punched him in the stomach. The winemaker bent at the waist until the rope arrested further movement. The coughing started again, and this time blood oozed from his mouth.

“The wine I drank was not purchased with blood money,” the winemaker whispered, his voice raspy, his words labored. he straightened up.

“Tell me the secret!” Didius demanded. “Which of these vines?!”

The winemaker swallowed and blinked. Beads of sweat covered his forehead. “I cannot cast my Lord’s pearls before swine,” he said slowly.

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Didius took two steps back, swung his leg back and brought it forward like a pendulum, kicking a cloud of dust into the winemaker’s face. “Again!” he ordered the rider, repeating the slashing motion.

Again the horse stepped forward, slowly lifting the winemaker into the air, where he remained for another minute, twisting, gagging, his mouth dripping with blood and his eyeballs bulging from their sockets.

“Enough,” Didius called.

The horse backed up, lowering the prisoner. As the rope loosened and he struggled for breath, the coughing resumed.

“This true wine, the one the Christians claim will transform your blood so that you can live forever—how is it made?’’ the captain demanded.

“We know the seeds and the secret process were purchased from Judas—with Caesar’s silver—and you have it.”

The winemaker looked down at the body of Catus, his eyes still open, baking in the sun. “To drink and live, you must first pay a price, and not with roman silver.”

“We will give you your life in return for the secret.”

“That I cannot do. I have taken an oath in blood that I would never reveal it.”

“Who administered this oath? The brotherhood of the twelve are dead.”

“There is still one—John. he has not yet tasted death. he made me swear.” The soldiers hung on the winemaker’s every word. “Why are you so stubborn in your hearts? Listen to me.

Accept your Lord, follow his ways, worship the one true and living God. Keep his commandments, love your enemies, do good to those who hate you, give alms to the poor, repent of your iniquities and be baptized—then, and only then, can you someday drink of this wine without dying.”

“Enough of this rambling!” Didius said. “You are like the fools we feed to the lions. We’ll let roman justice decide your fate. To rome.”

A massive shuffle ensued as the soldiers fell into their ranks.

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In the melee nobody noticed the child, now freed from his mother’s grip, his screams silenced with newfound curiosity. he had crawled out of the abode and was making his way toward his father when Catus’s horse caught his attention and he altered his course. A fur-lined leg—to a baby, nothing more than a pole to climb. The mother emerged from the house, where she had been cowering, and flew after her baby, but it was too late. As he attempted to pull himself up on the animal’s hind leg, the horse spooked, and with a loud whinny flung the child back with a powerful kick.

“No!” the mother cried, charging toward her child. The horse reared back, and as soon as his front feet hit the ground again he went galloping forward, snapping the rope taut and whisking the winemaker into the air. his head whipped back and his spine snapped.

Didius, accustomed to such violence, watched as the lifeless body swung, its feet still twitching. he was glad the winemaker was dead, though questioning from the senate would be brutal.

“People said Jesus died on the cross,” he said, unsheathing his sword. “True, but some say that what really killed him wasn’t the nails, but the sword that the roman soldier thrust into his side to spill his blood to the earth.” shrieking, the woman rushed to the side of her child, thrown several feet by the horse’s hoof. Two soldiers stood to block her way. One grabbed her gray hair and flung her onto the dirt.

Another kicked her crumpled figure.

Didius waited as the limp carcass swung away. On the return he raised his sword and thrust it forward, plunging the blade through the winemaker’s middle. “Drink that wine if you can!”

Chapter 1

rEGGIE BOUNDED UP the stairway at the King street subway station. There were no crowds of morning commuters to contend with this time of the day. Who else was crazy enough to go to work at five-thirty? The commute wouldn’t be so horrible if reggie lived closer to work, but on a patent examiner’s meager salary he didn’t have much of a choice. No way could he ever live in Alexandria, the swanky Washington D.C. suburb stuffed with million-dollar condos. so he settled for the worn-out suburbs of rockville, Maryland, half a mile from the Metro.

In truth, the location wasn’t determined solely by money.

It was also where his in-laws lived. Tina, his wife, was their only daughter—their very spoiled only daughter—and they had helped with the down payment on the condition that the house be outside of the D.C. Beltway and not too distant from their own. reggie popped out of the station to a graying sky and a heavy blanket of humidity. he scurried across Duke street, the George Washington Masonic Memorial to his right, then down Dulany,

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a cul-de-sac lined with an assortment of office buildings, among them the United States Patent and Trademark Office. The patent office consisted of five buildings. The first four, unimpressive red- and tan-brick structures, flanked both sides of Dulany and housed the patent examiners. The fifth—the main search facility as well as administrative offices—stood at the end of the cul-desac. It was topped by a large glass pyramid resembling the one at the Louvre. reggie passed the randolph building and entered Knox.

After he tapped his security badge lightly against the sensor, two waist-high steel doors popped open. The federal government knew each time one of its employees entered or exited. Visitors were more vigorously screened. For them, the check-in protocol required a driver’s license, a body search, and passage through a body scanner. It was easier getting through airline security.

Reggie shot up the elevator to the fifth floor, hung a right, then hurried down the hall to room A34. seniority had awarded Reggie with an outer office that offered a bird’s-eye view of the federal courthouse, the one specializing in nailing terrorists.

During trials it wasn’t unusual to look out his window and see members of a sWAT team perched on top of the courthouse, lugging automatic weapons and hand grenades.

“That you, Mr. Alexander?” reggie stopped in his tracks, leaned back and poked his head into A32.

“What’s up, Chuck?”

Chuck Turely, a three-hundred-pound, six-foot-six monster, occupied the office just down from Reggie’s. His head, practically the size of a soccer ball, was magnified by bushy sideburns and a curly mop. Chuck plucked out his earbuds and swiveled around on his black-mesh ergonomic chair.

“You don’t have a right to be this spry, not at quarter to six in the morning and especially not doing this job,” Chuck said. reggie sidestepped into the room, his radiant grin revealing a perfect set of whitened teeth. “Getting ready for the new season,” he said. “Got the registration sheet right in here, man.”

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he reached over his shoulder and tapped his pack. “Time for some high slamma-jamma.”

“Might need to take a bye this year.” reggie jumped back. “say what? We gotta have you movin’ bodies out of the middle. how else is there gonna be room down the lane to slam it home?”

Chuck shrugged and reached for his usual forty-eight ounces of Diet Dr. Pepper. “Made another commitment.”

“A commitment? What kinda noise is that?”

“Janette. I promised at the end of last season that we’d get season tickets to the Kennedy Center and—” “And what?” “she bought them. Look, reggie, I’ve got to go. I like my marriage. It’s one of those things. Each side has to give sixty percent.”

“But all those violins! Fat ladies singing stuff ears were never meant to hear.”

“You’re preaching to the choir, reggie, but I can’t say no. It’ll just be one season. I’ll be back.” reggie stepped forward, hovering over his victim. “Exercise.

Tell her you gotta have it or else the ‘heart attack’ god’ll come get you. Tell her you gotta deal with the stress of the job. You gotta take out your frustrations on someone other than her.”

Chuck pushed himself up out of the chair, his voluminous chest forcing reggie two steps back. At six-six, Chuck had three inches on reggie and a ton more bulk. he lifted his shirt, revealing a tub of white flesh covered with coarse black hair and four equally spaced rectangular Band-Aids. reggie shielded his eyes. “Are you trying to kill me?”

Chuck poked his stomach, just below one of the patches, the flesh indenting nearly an inch. “I don’t have heart trouble, Reg. I got a temporary struggle with obesity, remember? And Walter’s magical sensors are going to detect that little gene responsible for all this lard. right?”

“You’re changing the subject. I’m going to sign you up.”

“Look, reg, I don’t have a Tina. Janette can’t sit through

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sports stuff six nights a week.”

“Once a week.”

Chuck gulped down some Diet Dr. Pepper and let out a hurricane-sized burp. “Not that I’m any kinda expert, reg, but all women are alike. Take a piece of advice and don’t coach your son’s little league team this spring. spend some one-on-one with Tina. Your marriage needs it. Every marriage needs it.”

“I’ll take it under advisement, counselor.” reggie turned and started for the door. “so I can sign you up?”

A missile of wadded-up paper flew across the room and struck reggie in the back of the head. he raised both hands in a sign of surrender. “Got the point, man.”

In his office, reggie threw his rEI pack onto the visitor’s chair, reached over and flipped on his computer, which immediately hummed to life. Colorful posters covered the walls—a signed picture of Michael Jordan in a flaming red uniform with a black number 23 emblazoned in white, dunking from the top of the key in the NBA All-star slam Dunk championship, and another of Mr. October, reggie Jackson, and the 2001 George Mason men’s college lacrosse team, reggie beaming in the back row, teeth glistening.

The blinking light on his phone told him messages were waiting. reggie sat and hit a switch next to the receiver—650 and 714 shone on the display. California area codes. West Coast attorneys, three hours behind, always called after he went home.

Odd they would be calling so early, he thought.

Reggie leaned over, flipped open the door of his mini-fridge with his knee and withdrew a san Pellegrino. Good for washing down the medicine. From his jean pocket he fetched a sandwich bag. Inside it, two white and one pink. Tina would be calling to make sure he’d taken them. With head tilted back, he tossed them in his mouth.

Pfisssss! the bottle hissed when he twisted the cap. One gulp and the deed was done. No more of those nasty things until tomorrow morning.

When the hard drive finished churning, a log-in prompt

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popped up on the flat screen. Reggie typed in ALEXANDER as his username and then entered his password. A short time ago the patent office had decided to go paperless and now Reggie had to work online, which took some adjusting, though it brought the benefit of freeing his office from reams of paper. Now all that remained were a few shadow files carefully organized on the shelves of a six-foot-high metal cabinet.

As soon as he was logged on, the stress of the workday descended. To stay in the commissioner’s good graces, reggie needed to examine one patent application every eight hours. he sighed and studied his docket, a computer-generated list of cases.

Patent examiners were assigned to specific technology groups, narrowly defined sectors of expertise from bed mattresses to urine-analysis machines, hIV drugs to windshield wipers. reggie had the good fortune of being assigned to sporting goods: golf clubs, fishing lures, balls of every kind. Yesterday he’d finished an application for a lighted Frisbee. And today it was golf bags.

“Golf Bag with Locking Feature,” he read.

Lucky for him he loved golfing—had ever since the age of fifteen when he’d been introduced to the sport by the business elite of Northern Virginia. swinging away on manicured lawns, caddies zooming by in snack-laden carts, delivering cans of sprite, stocking their bags with M&M’s and snickers bars. What a life! reggie Alexander had been quite conscious of the fact that he was an experiment, a quest by well-meaning rich white folks to incorporate a select group of underprivileged kids into mainstream America. he never let it bother him much that he was a “project.’’ Being in the program had given him a high school education and taught him how to play lacrosse, and eventually landed him a starting position as attackman on George Mason’s lacrosse team. Being a “project’’ had earned him a civil engineering degree, though it was a demanding curriculum. And now he was a patent examiner. All because of the Church of the Living Waters. For over a century and a

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half, Living Waters had been the home of worship for the social elite of Northern Virginia. With its montage of social programs, Bunco games, brunch clubs, tennis groups, even vacation clubs, it offered everything for those with lots of money. Living Waters built schools in Guatemala, orphanages in romania and funded fresh water wells in Africa. If there was a high-profile project that could be tied to Christian service, the Living Waters took it on. The congregation certainly had the money to do it.

The experiment to take a bunch of kids from broken homes, buoy them up and provide them an extraordinary education, wasn’t unique. Over the decades, it had been attempted numerous times, beginning with the early settlers’ attempts to turn the “savages” into God-fearing Protestants. None of this stopped the Living Waters, bound to prove that their loving, nurturing community could turn even the most neglected of children into successful, educated and productive citizens.

Perhaps it was to satisfy some longing need of these well-to-do worshipers, or more cynically, perhaps to position them for a spot on a national news program. They secured the use of an old school, hired a principal, several teachers, and outfitted the place with the best technology America had to offer, from laptops on every desk to the latest educational software.

The save Our sons and Daughters Project was the brainchild of Dr. Stephen Scofield, the church’s most wealthy congregant and enthusiastic donor who scoured the country for worthy students upon whom he could bestow his scholarships: free room and board, tuition, books and a stipend for clothing and entertainment. The Scofield Academy would be their new home.

For their part, the members of the Living Waters were required to assist with donations, but more importantly, to mentor the new students, taking them to sunday backyard barbecues and family dance recitals. The idea was for these kids to get inside the walls of a “safe” home where they could experience for themselves the comforts provided by a stable family.

And to some extent their efforts paid off, at least in reggie’s case. They had taken him from a rat-infested apartment in

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northeast D.C., where he had little hope of escaping gnawing hunger and watching doped-up bums taking potshots at each other, and helped him become a college graduate and patent examiner. With a good job, a wife and two kids, it was the American dream come true.

“Golf bag with locking feature—time to bang this one out,” reggie murmured, hands poised over the keyboard. Quickly he tapped out a search query and clicked his mouse. A yellow Post-It at the edge of his screen with a hen-scratched reminder caught his eye. “Oh yeah, Walter’s application,” he muttered to himself. “Don’t get too busy and forget—you promised to check up on it.”

Walter Trudell and his wife, sherri, had taken reggie under their wing shortly after reggie’s arrival at the Living Waters, quickly changing roles from mere mentor to reggie’s godparents. It was just as Stephen Scofield had envisioned, when the members of the Living Waters would latch onto the chance to make these kids part of their own families. It was something stephen never managed himself, being gone too much, tending to this or that business venture—his attempt to discover a drug to cure AIDs, or cancer, or whatever it took to win a Nobel Prize, an honor that so far had eluded him. reggie had barely pulled up the drawing, a top view of a golf bag with an intricate locking system to keep clubs from being stolen, when the yellow Post-It again caught his eye—the reminder to call Walter about his patent application. he glanced at the time on his computer. Not too early to call, he thought.

Like clockwork, Walter would be buttering his whole wheat toast. The strawberry jam would come next.

“This is the invention that will change the world!” he’d announced to reggie over the phone the day before. “I’m going to file it tonight, right after Bible study. I know you can’t examine it, but take a look and let me know what you think. This is the one that will put me on the cover of Time magazine.” how this sensor among all the other inventions Walter was working on was going to change the world, reggie had no idea,

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but he’d take a look anyway. he owed it to Walter—to Dad. he owed him everything, even if he was off his rocker half the time.

“Old people,” reggie said, shaking his head. “Lord, let me die the day I start losing my marbles.”

The mouse skipped along the table, and with a few clicks reggie found the link to Walter’s patent application.

“George Washington!” Chuck’s thunderous announcement nearly knocked reggie out of his chair. “really?”

“Man, how many times have I told you, don’t do that!” reggie said, swiveling his chair around. Normally when Chuck took him by surprise, reggie kept working because he couldn’t afford to get behind schedule. But this was big news.

“I start next summer,” reggie said.

Chuck burst out laughing. “Gonna have to give up basketball.

Can’t go to class at night and play ball at the same time. A lawyer.

A real big-shot patent lawyer. I can’t believe you got accepted.

Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Who on earth told you?”

“Tina gave you away. sent me an e-mail. Good for you, pal.

At least one of us will bust out of this prison. We’re going to lunch today. All of us—the whole fifth floor. Just wait till they find out. I can’t believe you didn’t tell me, Mr. Humble. You’re going to be bringing down two hundred K a year. That’s real money.” reggie laughed. “Enough to buy season passes to the Kennedy Center.”

Chuck’s face sank. “Yeah … and a brand new Cadillac for Tina.”

“I want the Cadillac. she wants a BMW 5-series. seventy grand. I ain’t ever gonna have that much money.”

“Just remember us little folks.” Chuck turned to walk out. “A real hotshot lawyer in our midst …”

Okay, time to refocus, reggie thought. With the newly installed database management system, he had Walter’s application on his screen within seconds. he scanned Walter’s wordy title: “sensor for remotely Detecting Certain Chemicals

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Produced in Blood, and Chemical structures Detected by same.” scrolling past the abstract, reggie thumbed through the drawings, then studied the summary of the Invention. One line jumped out: The chemical structures may serve to extend life.

Reggie flipped through two pages and studied the Detailed Description: In one embodiment, the invention is a sensor for detecting chemical changes in the blood in vivo and for remotely transmitting those changes to a computer. More particularly, this sensor detects particular chemicals produced in the blood when a patient engages in certain activities. In some studies, this chemical may be responsible for reprogramming a person’s DNA to create stem cells capable of repopulating cells throughout the body, thus prolonging life.

That was rather cryptic, reggie thought, especially considering the reference to cell regeneration, the holy Grail that humans had been seeking throughout history. A particular chemical? Certain activities? he mused.

Two more clicks of the mouse and the printer was humming, spitting out twenty-five pages of patent material on Walter’s self-proclaimed Nobel Prize-worthy invention.

Time to call Walter and get this over with. Otherwise Walter will only interrupt me later. he punched in the number.

“Yeah?” a gruff voice answered, one that clearly did not belong to Dad. “I’m not sure if I dialed the right number. Is Walter there?”

“Walter?”

“Yes, Walter Trudell.”

“Who’s asking?”

“Who’s this?” reggie shot back.

“In a minute,” the voice said, and reggie got the distinct impression that whoever it was was talking to someone else.

Then the person addressed him again. “Can you tell me who’s calling?”

“Examiner Alexander from the Patent Office,” was the only thing reggie could think to say. “Is Walter Trudell there?”

The man cleared his throat. “I’m afraid there was some type

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of disturbance last night. It appears that Mr. Trudell is deceased.

I’m Captain Damhoff from the Alexandria Police Department.

Do you mind if I ask you a few questions?”

“What?! Walter’s dead?” reggie was stunned, his throat dry and heart pounding. “Is this some sort of joke?”

“No joke. And we’re treating it as a homicide. I didn’t catch your name. Examiner …?”