Life Sentence

by Andrew Neiderman

  Palmer had described how the local police had been the first to arrive at Classic Industries, the officers shocked by the carnage. Federal officers appeared after that, descending, he said, like great buzzards to pick away at the dead. He was taken off in one of their vehicles for questioning. The two agents who asked him the questions almost seemed disinterested in his answers and descriptions. They were so indifferent, he thought, that he wondered if they were even real agents despite their identification.

  He had to take control of his paranoia. It was stampeding at this point, he told her, so he just shut his mouth and waited for them to decide what to do next. He was practically flown back to New York in one of their cars. Someone else followed in his even though he assured them he could do his own driving and felt fine. No one listened. When they reached Manhattan, he was told to report to his commanding officer in the morning. They said his car would be at the precinct. Why they kept it overnight, he didn’t know. He suspected it was being searched for something. But again, he put it out of mind to stop the paranoia. That’s what he told her.

  He had called her after he had settled in and gave her a brief summary. Even though he said he was going right to sleep, she arrived at his door twenty minutes after he hung up. He acted upset, but later, beside her in bed, he admitted he had been hoping she would come. He needed her near him. He had looked into the mouth of the great darkness and been able to pull back, but the impact of that experience would keep his skeleton trembling for a long time.

  It was Saturday so she didn’t have to be at the office, even though she wasn’t above doing that from time to time. Palmer didn’t want her to go with him to the precinct station. She had rarely been there. He called it the toilet bowl view of the city, ascribing that description to all the police stations.

  ‘You don’t need to be exposed to it,’ he told her and for the most part, she listened and accepted it, but not today.

  Today, whether he would admit it or not, he needed and wanted her support.

  ‘I was right to do what I did,’ he told her that morning. ‘Who knows what I stopped, how many people I saved.’

  She let him rant until he settled into a quietness that she recognized more as his strength than his weakness. He wasn’t sulking now or steeping in fear. He was steeling himself, girding his loins, clapping on his armor. Let them come at him. He would be ready.

  It was a beautiful enough day. She pointed to the bench. ‘I’ll wait for you there,’ she told him. He nodded and she kissed him. ‘I’m proud of you, you maniac,’ she said which finally brought a smile to his lips.

  ‘Tucker’s not going to kiss me,’ he said.

  ‘Let’s wait and see.’

  He laughed and left her. He had no hesitation in his stride when he went into the station, but her heart was pounding in anticipation and worry for him.

  She saw one of the little boys take a tumble off a swing. He didn’t fall hard, but the surprise was enough to frighten him and start him crying. The other children watched him for a moment and when he saw they were, he sucked in his tears and nodded at whatever his mother told him, which was probably something like, ‘You have to be more careful.’

  For all of our lives, we hear our mothers telling us that, even in our dreams, Tracy thought.

  Finally, Palmer stepped out of the station. She stood. It wasn’t possible to tell anything from his damn stoic face, she thought. He crossed the street and came to her.

  ‘So,’ he said, ‘apparently, whatever this is, it reaches into high enough places to make it difficult for anyone to really discipline me. They put on a good act, however. I had to look grateful and afraid. And promise I wouldn’t do anything else concerning the matter. I was assured it was in the hands of the right people and the people responsible for doing bad things would be … what was the word … handled, I believe. Handled. What do you make of that?’

  ‘An end to it,’ she said firmly.

  He laughed. ‘You should have been in there with them.’

  ‘I don’t care. You’ve done more than anyone else. You have nothing to be ashamed about now by doing just what you’re told.’

  He had his hands on his hips and tilted his head just the way one of the little boys on the playground had and she laughed.

  ‘What?’

  ‘You never grow up, you guys. The games get more complicated maybe, but you’re on this playground your whole lives.’

  ‘And you’ll always be telling me to be careful?’

  She smiled. ‘Yes, exactly.’

  ‘Let’s have a great lunch somewhere today,’ he said. ‘I’m paying.’

  ‘OK by me.’

  ‘And let’s stop at this shop on the way. It’s a nice day for a walk on Fifth.’

  ‘What shop?’

  ‘Something called Tiffany’s,’ he said.

  She paused, a wide smile on her face. ‘What?’

  ‘Well you said the word engaged.’

  She tightened her hold on his arm, laid her head against his shoulder for a moment and then looked back at the children in the playground.

  Soon, she thought, soon.

  Simon Oakland sat comfortably in the private jet and gazed out the window as they took off and headed for the Caymans. He didn’t like how he had been unceremoniously rushed off as if he were some undesirable being deported. Someone, he wasn’t exactly sure who, someone over Henry Dover, had given the orders. He was permitted to take his most valued personal possessions and everything necessary for his comfort and security was to be done. Dover didn’t deliver that message. He wasn’t positive about which agency the messenger belonged to, but he suspected the CIA or some clandestine division of it.

  It didn’t really matter what cards they carried or to whom they swore their immediate allegiance as long as they were doing what he wanted them to do.

  ‘Another research facility is being set up for you,’ he was told. ‘You made enough progress to keep everyone interested and willing to assist you in your work longer.’

  He didn’t know exactly whom to thank for that, so he just said, ‘Please convey my appreciation and my gratitude.’

  This whole mess wasn’t really his fault, he thought, now that he was comfortable and safe and away from Henry Dover. It was Dover’s failing. He should have had more security and been on top of things faster. I did my work and was doing it well. Someone more intelligent than Dover must have realized it.

  He smiled to himself now. Dover was probably in the doghouse. Simon never really liked the man. He made the short hairs on the back of his neck bristle every time they confronted one another.

  If I never see him again, it will be too soon, he thought.

  He didn’t ask after him. It was as if he never had existed.

  Simon still prided himself on his cool ability to dispose of people whom he saw as unnecessary to his work, his goals. Sentimentality in the world of science was truly a weakness. He had lived this long without any affectionate relationships. He could live a little longer without them as well.

  He looked back toward the rear of the plane. There was no one else with him but the two security guards assigned. One had his nose in some magazine and the other looked like he was already asleep. That was all right too. He never needed chatter to pass the time. He could do very well submerged in his own thoughts. He still had some important new calculations to make with his formula.

  A little more than a half hour later, he heard one of the security guards get up and go to the restroom. When he emerged, he stood there looking at Simon. Simon’s impression of the man was he was something of an oaf, one of their robots who followed through on his assignments mechanically, one of those hear no evil, see no evil types.

  I suppose they have their purpose, their use, he thought.

  He turned back to his notepad. He was so involved in his thoughts and work, he didn’t hear the security guard come down the aisle. He realized after a moment that he was looking over his shoulder. He hated that. It was so da
mn annoying.

  ‘Can I help you?’ he asked him.

  The man smiled. He had unusually big teeth, Simon thought and wondered what they could indicate about someone.

  The plane seemed to bounce and then pretty clearly began a descent. Since it wasn’t rapid, it was curious, especially since they were now over the ocean.

  ‘Is everything all right?’ Simon asked the security guard.

  ‘I’ll check,’ he said and made his way forward to the cockpit. He opened the door and leaned in. Then he closed the door and made his way back.

  ‘Cabin is now depressurized,’ he said.

  ‘What?’

  The second security guard came up to join them. ‘We’ve descended enough,’ the first security guard told the second. He nodded.

  ‘Hey, remember that scene in Singing in the Rain at the end when Debbie Reynolds is singing behind the curtain and they want the audience to know she is the real voice in the movie?’ the second guard asked the first.

  ‘Yeah, and they go arm and arm, singing the song and pull the rope that opens the curtain, right?’

  ‘Yeah, that’s the scene. I love that film. Whenever it rains, I start singing.’

  The first guard laughed.

  Then the second guard reached down and took Simon’s arm.

  ‘What are you doing?’

  He started to sing, ‘Singing in the Rain.’

  The first guard reached over and grabbed his left arm. They both pulled Simon out of his seat. He didn’t weigh all that much so it wasn’t any great achievement. Then they lifted him literally off his feet.

  Now both of them were singing, ‘Singing in the Rain.’ They carried him to the emergency exit.

  The second guard reached over and pulled it open.

  Simon’s eyes nearly bulged out. ‘Hey …’ he began.

  His scream rose back toward them from his free falling body like a parachute, only there was none and the sound died quickly.

  They closed the door and the first guard returned to the cockpit to tell them they could ascend. He joined the second security guard in the rear and began to read his magazine where he had left off while his partner returned to his nap.

  Somewhere below, seconds before he hit the water, Simon Oakland felt more disappointment than fear. He wasn’t going to be remembered after all.

  Henry Dover ended his conversation with Senator Hastings and turned his chair around to look out of his office window. This is what the captain must have felt like on the Titanic, he thought. That was all right. He had done his best. It wasn’t as if he would starve or in any way change his lifestyle. You win some; you lose some. If you want to be in the big games, you have to take big risks, he told himself.

  There would be other opportunities and the ones who were deserting him now would regret it someday. One thing Henry believed about himself was he never forgot a favor and he never forgot a betrayal, no matter how small.

  For now, he was safe and he had other things to do. No more doting on a failure.

  He took a deep breath and then rose and stretched. He couldn’t sit so long without moving around. It bothered his lower back. It always had a little, but today, more than ever. He scrubbed his face with his palms and ran his fingers through his hair.

  The strands caught between his fingers surprised him. Sure, you always had one or two or even a few, but this was more like a clump of hair.

  He hurried into the bathroom to look at himself.

  The wrinkles in his face were deeper, as were the dark circles around his eyes and the web feet he had seen starting. More of his hair fell when he wiped it and he could see the graying moving up the strands.

  A tooth began to ache in his mouth. Was it his imagination, or did his shoulders look smaller.

  I’m shriveling up, he thought and then felt the small panic beginning in his chest. That syringe … that poke, as he called it … it wasn’t empty, he realized.

  He looked closer at himself in the mirror and for a moment as the evidence of advanced aging became even clearer and more prominent, he was positive he saw Simon Oakland smiling back at him.

  About the Author

  Andrew Neiderman was born in Brooklyn and grew up in New York’s scenic Catskill Mountains region. A graduate of the University at Albany, State University of New York, from which he also received his master’s in English, Neiderman taught at Fallsburg Junior-Senior High School for twenty-three years before pursuing a career as a novelist and screenwriter. He has written more than forty thriller novels under his own name, including The Devil’s Advocate, which was made into a major motion picture for Warner Bros., starring Al Pacino, Keanu Reeves, and Charlize Theron, and is in development as a stage musical in London. Neiderman has also written seventy New York Times–bestselling novels for the V. C. Andrews franchise. He lives with his family in Palm Springs, California. Visit him on Facebook and at www.neiderman.com.

  All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2007 by Andrew Neiderman

  Cover design by Neil Alexander Heacox

  ISBN: 978-1-4976-9000-4

  This edition published in 2014 by Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.

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  New York, NY 10014

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