The Resurrection Factor

The doorman gave Tim an appraising once-over as the tired traveler approached The Central Park Plaza. The man doubled as door guard as well. He was an enormous man, perhaps six foot four and at least two hundred and fifty pounds. He possessed a hard chiseled profile with strong cheek bones and a mouth that refused to smile. He looked a little ridiculous in his maroon uniform complete with name tag. The tag read “Rex” and he could have been from the T-Rex family. The reptile of a man contorted his lips before speaking. “May I help you?” he asked, peering at Tim’s sweats and thinking he was a transient. “I’m here to see Reuben Reno,” Tim asserted. The mountain of a man almost grinned. “Mr. Reno does not like to be disturbed. You’ll have to call his office and make an appointment,” the man said mechanically, as if it was a phrase he spouted daily. “This is somewhat of an emergency.” “They all are friend. Now, shove off!” “I have a message for him. Tell him Samuel’s son is here.” “You need to leave now or I’m going to have to break part of you.” “I’m not going anywhere. If I don’t see him today, I’ll see him at his office on Monday. When I tell him that you refused to deliver my message, you will be fired. That, I can guarantee,” Tim threatened. The doorman’s anger drained and turned to concern as the situation invaded his own livelihood. The Goliath stared back into Tim’s unblinking eyes. The doorman was somewhat of a good poker player and he could tell that the man before him was not bluffing. “I’ll wait.” The guard moved to the phone that hung on the inside of a weather enclosure and punched some numbers. Tim could see the big man’s lips moving as he turned to take another assessment of the visitor. He covered the phone and leaned out. “Step to your right a couple of feet,” behemoth ordered. Tim took two steps sideways and looked up into a stationary video camera. He waited over a minute. “Number seventy-four,” the man conceded, holding the door open for Tim. The traveler nodded and headed for the elevator. Mrs. Reno hugged a man she had never seen in person. Reuben had used his minute of Tim’s camera time to dig out an old family photo that Samuel had given him. The boy in the picture was only about sixteen, but the face was the same. Lazarus indeed had been raised from the grave. “We never believed that you were dead,” she exclaimed, releasing the fugitive’s neck. She was a petite woman with tired eyes and gray hair laced with white. Her smile was generous and deeply set as if often on display. Her appearance was the type that reminded one of survival. Survival in the battle of life. Tim pivoted and surveyed the man of the house. Reuben Reno was a tall, stick figure of a man, full of energy and a zeal for life. He pumped Tim’s extended hand enthusiastically and began ushering him into the great room of the spacious apartment. “Hannah, he looks so like his father,” Reno remarked is his accented English. The diminutive woman nodded in agreement as the guest was guided into a leather recliner. Tim studied Reno’s comb over, the result of uncooperative hair plugs. Tim knew at once that he had come to the right place. As gingerly as possible Tim Lazarus explained how he had come to be a dead man on the run from the Central Intelligence Agency. The two listened intently, exchanging glances of disbelief during the oratory. When he finished Tim sat back and smiled. “My dear boy, you’ve been through hell. What can we do to help?” Reuben asked. “I’ll need some money and some false identification. I can’t travel like this.” “But where will you go?” Hannah asked, still in a state of astonishment. “Home, Mrs. Reno.” “Call me Hannah.” “All right.” “How do you propose to travel?” Hannah inquired. “I have been thinking about going north to Canada and taking the train west to British Columbia. From there I can get into Washington State and eventually make my way to Vancouver, which is just across the bridge from Portland, Oregon.” “That sounds risky. They’ll have the stations covered. Have you called home?” “Yes. The old number has been disconnected,” Tim replied. Reuben sat silent, taking it all in. Now, the woman of the house asserted her domestic authority. “Reuben, I will speak to you in the kitchen. Excuse us, Timothy.” After five minutes they returned smiling and the plan was more than the traveler could have hoped for. The only phrase from the kitchen, that Tim heard was “we owe it to Samuel.” Reuben Reno would purchase the false identification. He told Tim that he had an acquaintance that “took care of such matters.” After a day of rest, Tim Lazarus would be flown to Portland, Oregon in Reuben’s private Gulfstream Jet, which was stored at Teterboro Airport in New Jersey. By Monday afternoon, Tim would be a stone’s throw from Gwen and Matt. The problem would be the agents waiting to throw stones at him. Being caught was not his greatest fear. Senator Graves had a network and by now the presidential hopeful would know that the most serious threat between him and sixteen hundred Pennsylvania Avenue was headed west.