She walked back into the bedroom and clicked on the computer. She sipped at her wine, deep but still fruity and delicious, as it booted up. "What's going on?" he asked as he wandered in. He was carrying a shot glass of tequila and a white plate with the cheese omelette. The aroma was seductive. "I want to check out something. I have to be honest and confess I've been holding out on you a little. When I saw Winston Bartlett that night on the pier, something he said--" "Ally, I need to do some confessing too. The time never seemed quite right. I need to tell you something about him." "Well, don't tell me now. I don't think I can handle anything else to worry about tonight. Please save it." She was logging on to AOL. Then she went to the search engine Google, which she had found to be the best. "I want to check out that name you came up with. It rang a bell." She typed in Methuselah, supposedly the guy who lived for nearly a thousand years. There were pages and pages of references relating to that word. It started with a five-thousand-year-old pine tree, then an article from Modern Maturity on how to extend life, then Caltech research on a longevity gene, then a rock band in Texas (undoubtedly very retro), a short story by Isaac Bashevis Singer, and so it went. "What, exactly, are you looking for?" he asked, holding out a folk. "Here. Want a bite?" She reached and tore off a fluffy corner. He did eggs perfectly. "Thanks," she said, chewing. Now she was moving to the third page. "I think I'm looking for an organization. And Methuselah was in the name. At least . . . that's what I seem to remember. I'm definitely repressing a lot." "Well, what about that one?" he asked, pointing. The line read, the Methuselah Society. "That's it," she declared. "Now I remember. That's the name he used. I swear. So it's real. I'm not crazy." "What are you talking about?" "It's him. That's what he said he was going to do." She clicked on the name. The Web page came up and it was strictly in black and white, with small print. And there it was again, THE METHUSELAH SOCIETY. There was no information beyond a request for a secure e-mail address. "Looks like they want to check you out," Stone said. "To make sure you're not connected to politics or law enforcement." "Then why not give it a shot," Stone said. "You're on AOL. You'd have to be a civilian." She typed in her address and entered it. Immediately a little yellow padlock appeared in the lower right-hand corner, indicating their communication was secure. Then a notice materialized, a small square flickering to life. It contained her phone number and then her name. Next a complete financial record began to scroll down. It had been elicited from banks, mortgage companies, credit services. There was Value of Real Estate owned, Mortgages Outstanding, Bank Accounts, Outstanding Obligations, Estimated Net Worth. It had all appeared in a time span of seconds.