With the money came time to think, to devote himself to issues of global importance. Disease, it seemed to Tillman, was often associated with dysfunctional lifestyles. Poverty and the idle hand from which it stemmed created a host of maladies. Gluttony was tributary to a different set of diseases. Careless sexual habits spawned numerous others. It seemed that the flaws of mankind nurtured disease. The scourge of disease was nature's discipline.
Society needed a more advanced approach to disease than merely curing it, for to cure all disease was to take away nature's ability to chastise, which in turn slowed the process of evolution by promoting the dysfunctional. Disease was a thing to be used. Mankind could advance only by curing selected people and certain plagues.
Controlling disease, then, was essential to enhancing its function. The ability to cure was just a single component in such control (and not unhappily, a source of great wealth). The creation of convenient disease and its selective use, the natural corollary to cure, while profitable, would be appreciated only by a much more advanced culture.
Tillman saw himself as a man ahead of his time. His theories could not be broadly disseminated in his lifetime, for he would always be mortal, unable to escape the bonds of aging. No cure for aging was close enough to save him. He could only prolong his life. The ticking clock required that he conduct progressive research, the key to which had always been keeping each chief scientist at the various Tillrnan laboratories isolated from the work of the others. It was usually desirable to convince each team leader that he was the only one bending the rules, the only one in on the real secret, and the only one sharing in the big money. Only two pseudo-scientists on the business side knew nearly everything. These men Tillman trusted implicitly.
Then came Marty Rawlins-a genius whose abilities crossed many disciplines and who made brilliant technical decisions in every research program that he touched. A man like Marty could do far more if he knew the whole, and so the seduction of progress had led Tillman to deviate from his usual operating plan.
Ultimately, he let Marty and his team synthesize and direct DNA research on a wide-ranging basis, coordinating the work of three separate laboratories and many subgroups within those laboratories. By the time Tillman realized how much Marty had figured out and how pettily squeamish he was, it was too late.
Viewed in isolation from the circumstances, Marty Rawlins's death shamed Tillman, and Tillman regretted it deeply. He took no joy in killing good men, but this was discipline and necessity. This was order. And, in a sad way, progress.
Tillman took his own introspection as clear evidence that he was not a sociopath. Rather, he had an uncommonly large vision and a sense of the future that other men lacked. He was becoming something unique and possessed a grand tool for the good of mankind. He knew he was not perfect and that some of his decisions might ultimately be found wanting by wiser men who would come after him. But these men would realize that cutting through modern man's emotional prejudices could only be accomplished by violating sensibilities pinnacled on society's metaphysical vanities-those spiritual grand illusions that impeded advancement.
At the giant log, Tillman asked to see the document taken from Crawford's boot. Doyle handed it to him. It was as he feared. Rawlins had made mention of a Volume Six, titled "Adult Cloning, Gene Mobilization and DNA Chips," with various damning subheadings that included "DNA Chip Gene Expression by Disease Category." Worse, the section subheadings bore the designation: "Adult DNA Cloning," and under that were I.D. numbers. Rawlins had gone insane.
"Look on the other side of the log, gentlemen," Tillman said to Diggs and Doyle.
Diggs, a small wiry man with chin whiskers, swallowed audibly. "I swear those tracks weren't there before."
"I just got here a couple minutes ago." Doyle pointed into the woods. "I was up that way, trying to sort things out."
As Tillman pondered the wisdom of shooting both men in the head, he studied the neat red sideburns that Doyle kept perfectly shaped. He felt the butt of his revolver, even as he realized that he was telegraphing his thoughts. The quiet concern in Doyle's eyes confirmed it. He dropped his hand from the pistol.
"He tricked you." Tillman spoke in deadly, quiet tones. "He waited until you relaxed before he came out. He carried Crawford's body, knowing that you would focus your small minds on the fact that there was only one set of tracks."
Rage came to Tillman as naturally as tides to the sea. Now these men knew something of the cloning and DNA work. And that something was too much.
"I recall reading of an Indian tracker with a summer home in this valley. It was in the materials we were given to review. Whoever we're chasing didn't want to kill," Doyle said.
Tillman could not help but be impressed, but he said nothing. He needed to create the hard edge of hatred in his troops. He needed to define the enemy. Talking wouldn't do it. Old tracks in the snow wouldn't do it. What he was thinking would be a hard thing, but it was rational.
"Gentlemen," he told Diggs and Doyle, "I want to show you something. I need you to put these on."
As nonchalantly as a drunk fondles a whiskey glass, he tossed them each a pair of handcuffs. He studied Doyle's clean-shaven face. There was professionalism even in the way he stood.
"Just on the right wrist please."
Diggs looked at Doyle nervously. Doyle betrayed no emotion. Neither moved, each holding his silver-gray manacle like spoiled food.
"Gentlemen?"
Diggs shuffled his feet, casting his eyes downward. Neither man dropped his M-16. Tillman hated what he was about to do with Doyle.
"Indulge me, gentlemen." Tillman spoke in good-natured tones, but with condescension, as if to schoolchildren.
Diggs put on his cuff.
"Now we're going to test your athletic prowess," Tillman said, nodding to Diggs. "I guess Captain Doyle no longer works in our little army."
"Wait a minute," Doyle said, moving to snap on his handcuff. The loyalty caused Tillman a stab of pain.
"Step over here."
Doyle did as he was told and placed his back against a fir maybe eight inches in diameter. Tillman cuffed his hands over his head so that they were locked behind the tree.
''Well, do you want your job, or not?'' Tillman said to Diggs, who, pursuant to Tillman's nod, stood against the same tree with his back to Doyle. Both were soon secured, with their guns on the ground and their hands over their heads.
Tillman popped open a stiletto with a slender blade.
Doyle cocked his head, eying the knife, but said nothing.
"We did the best we could." Diggs looked as though he might cry. "Please don't."
Doyle remained silent.
"Don't what?" Tillman asked. "Don't what?"
"Don't hurt me." Diggs struggled against the cuffs.
"Oh, this won't hurt." Tillman allowed the contempt he felt for Diggs to rise inside him like a screaming demon.
"Open your mouth. I want to see your tonsils."
"What?"
"Just do it."
Like a careful dentist Tillman positioned Diggs's open mouth, then took the knife from behind his back and, quick as a mantis tongue, punctured the side of the man's throat. Blood welled up in the mouth. He had hit the carotid artery. Tillman pushed up on the chin firmly with his left hand while Diggs choked on his own blood.