Free The Methuselah Gene by Jonathan Lowe

out of his fingers, contemplating whether to return the acknowledgment.   Instead of waving back, he then chose to walk toward me with a indifferent gliding gait, stopping halfway to light up a cigarette with a stick match, the sulfur flare of it lending brief life to his otherwise hidden eyes.   I wasn’t sure what I saw in those eyes, but it didn’t register as caution or fear.   And yet now he had stopped, as if he’d made a mistake.   Or maybe he was waiting to see what I’d do next?
    I knocked twice sharply on the window.
    At that, the man blew smoke at me.   The smoke drifted out like the slow-mo blast of a shotgun.   Then he seemed to come to a decision, and shuffled quickly all the way to the door.   His eyes studied mine with a reptilian-like magnetism.   Another long three seconds without motion as I considered the possibilities of the man—the broad, vacant face, the V-shaped neck, the well developed arms and upper body, which gave way to a slight paunch.   He was a hairy ape, too.   In the U of his drooping tank top grew a clot of bunched black hair.   The stuff was alive on his arms, thick on his legs, and probably grew in his ears too.   It had almost connected his eyebrows.
    Dumb after all, I concluded.   Thank God.   Only the eyes gave me trouble.   They were snake’s eyes, and shone steadily, like a fresh corpse or a mobster going to a hit.   I made a circular motion with one hand, and it seemed to revive the man.   He pulled out some keys, and opened the door, blocking entry with his linebacker body.
    â€œYeah?” he asked me with an almost guttural voice.
    â€œHey, listen,” I said, my own voice sounding weaker than I’d ever heard it.   “There any place to stay in this town?”
    â€œThere’s Mabel’s,” he responded flatly.
    â€œNo, I mean without the roaches.”
    He huffed with a casual smile, as if in memory.   Then he twirled his keys, thinking.   But thinking seemed a chore he preferred to do without.   “That’s about it,” he concluded.   “‘Course there’s a Motel Six in Creston.”
    â€œCar broke down,” I told him.   “Can you drive me there?   I’ll pay you.”
    His face sagged under its own weight, like muscles do under the influence of certain relaxants, or after chugging a pitcher of Long Island iced tea.   Then the face tightened again when he arrived at a figure.   “Thirty bucks?”
    I nodded.   “Sure, fine.”
    â€œOf course,” he suggested, pausing to glance behind him, “for that, you can sleep here.   Got an apartment in the back.   Plus a spare place to sleep, separate from mine.”
    I looked beyond him at the wide, bright door back there, wondering how many miles it was to Creston, exactly.   “Can I . . . see it?” I asked hesitantly, just before considering shower or toilet facilities, and thereby regretting my request.
    â€œWhy not,” he said, and turned.
    â€œWait,” I said, backpedaling.
    â€œWhat is it?”
    I thought about renting another car in Creston.   But how would that look?   Then I thought about just how good a hot shower in a clean roach free motel would feel.   Then again, would this big ape tell the Sheriff where he’d dropped me?   Finally, I thought about just asking where I could find the Sheriff, and getting this over with tonight.   But would I really be able to live with myself, going back to Virginia empty-handed to face Winsdon or Hepker ?
    â€œNothing,” I muttered.   “Just . . . you have to promise not to tell anyone about me.”
    â€œOh yeah?”   He turned back to me, his upper arm muscles flexing.   “And why is that?”
    â€œWell,” I paused, formulating a lie I thought he might believe, “my ex-wife is kinda looking for me.   She’s