Immortals, page 21
He listened, his face growing more serious.
“Hmm,” he said. “A rather inquisitive woman. Maybe we chose the wrong member of that family to become immortal. No, I don’t want you to do anything else. They are scheduled to be here soon. We’ll take care of things then, just as we always do, just as we have,” he said confidently. “But keep me informed if anything else occurs.”
He handed the phone to Gerald without saying goodbye. Gerald waited, expressionless. Mr. Leon smirked and nodded.
“All right, Gerald. I’ll fetch the ingredient now. Meet me at the usual place,” he said, and he rose reluctantly from his lounge chair. Bubbles had a sun reflector under her chin, and her eyes were closed.
“Stop that!” he shouted. She opened her eyes and dropped the reflector to her bosom. “I told you what sun that intense can do to your skin. Are you a complete idiot?”
“But I thought . . . Youth Hold.”
“You’re just wearing out its benefit that much faster. Get rid of that thing. Besides, you’re dark enough. I like some light skin around me, too,” he declared. She folded the sun visor quickly and shoved it under her lounge. “Do another two laps,” he commanded.
“Oh, I just did—”
He glared at her, and she sat up quickly. Then, with great reluctance, she stepped back into the pool. He waited until she began her first lap, and then he headed for the patio door that led to his bedroom, Thor following close at his heels.
He found his silk robe and put on his slippers. Then he went to a wall safe in his walk-in closet and, after checking to be sure no one was watching—especially Gerald—he worked the combination and opened it. All that was inside was a key. He clutched it tightly in his right fist and stood back smiling, as though holding that key brought him some deep, ecstatic feeling, an overwhelmingly pleasant sensation that traveled up his arm and quickly washed throughout his body. He always had that reaction when he went to fetch the key to the iron door that opened on the basement vault containing his fountain. Just knowing he had the precious liquid in his control enhanced his sense of security and made him feel immortal.
He closed the safe and started out of his bedroom, Thor still at his heels. His slippers clicked over the mauve Spanish tiles. They ran the length of the hallway to the rear of the hacienda. When he reached the stairway that led down to the basement he hesitated.
Gerald had come out of his quarters and started after him, maintaining the twenty-yard distance Mr. Leon had insisted upon whenever he descended the stairway to the vault. Hundreds of years ago Mr. Leon had built the hacienda over the fountain. What better way to protect and to hide it than to put a Spanish-style mansion over it, he had thought.
A little over fifty years ago he had installed refrigeration so his precious cache of bottles would remain cool and there would be little or no evaporation. The stock of water was the most valuable possession he had. In actuality, it was the most valuable resource on the face of the earth. And he had it! And all to himself, except for what he distributed to his disciples, and the amount he needed to keep Youth Hold effective. It was the Youth Hold that had built his financial empire, so he had to keep that going.
Thor, as though he could read his master’s mind, began a low growl when Gerald drew too close. The dog took a step forward and remained poised. Gerald saw him take the position and stopped in his tracks.
“Yes,” Mr. Leon said. “That’s far enough, Gerald. I shall be up shortly.” He looked down at his dog. “Stay, Thor,” he commanded, and the animal sat back on its haunches but kept its attention fixed on Gerald Dorian.
Mr. Leon descended the stone steps, sinking into the cool darkness below the floor of his mansion. The walls gave way to stone, the original foundation. Finally he was on hard-packed dirt. He inserted his key in the door, looking back up the stairway and listening first, and then he turned the lock and heard the tooth snap back, permitting him to open the vault.
He flicked on the light switch and entered, turning quickly to his right to feast his eyes on the clear liquid that flowed out of an opening in the enormous rock.
His heart nearly stopped. He felt a surge of fear travel through his body with the speed of an electric current seizing his very soul and turning him into a mass of jelly.
There was nothing coming out of the rock, not even a tiny trickle. Nothing.
He closed his eyes and opened them as though that would wipe away the nightmare. Surely his eyes were playing some sort of trick on him. The abrupt movement from light to darkness . . . the poor light in there . . . anything but the reality of this. Please, he pleaded . . . this can’t be.
He rushed forward to the basin that collected the precious liquid and saw that it was barely wet. He ran his fingers over the bottom and brought the dampness to his lips. Then he touched the opening in the rock. It was damp, but nothing flowed from it.
It was over; the nightmare he had dreamt a thousand times had taken form. He fell to his knees before the rock and pressed his forehead against his hands, the backs of which were against the granite surface. He did not pray; he had long since given up God or any hope of redemption and salvation. He simply knelt there, his mind reeling.
Deep in his heart he had always known this would happen. Whatever mysterious force had produced the fountain and kept it running all these years had run out of energy. But he had come to believe himself truly immortal, able to last as long as the earth itself. No man really faced his own mortality, lived with the realization that his life was terminal from the very day it had begun. It was simply natural, self-protecting to disbelieve in one’s own death, even though there were continuous reminders on the obituary pages, reminders that his own death was impending.
We live; we get sick; we get older; we die, but not him, not Ponce de León.
He turned slowly and with great care disarmed the alarm that would result in a tremendous explosion should anyone ever get this far without him. He was determined that if he couldn’t enjoy the waters of immortality, no one would. The disarming done, he opened the refrigerated cabinet. Hundreds of bottles of the precious liquid glittered like diamonds in the refrigerator’s light. There was enough there to keep him young and healthy and alive for centuries.
But sharing it—even putting some into Youth Hold—that would have to end. He would use only enough to keep himself idolized and protected, to keep his little empire. But now there would have to be some changes. He would begin by cutting back on the disciples.
Reluctantly he reached in and took one of his precious bottles out of the refrigerated cabinet. He looked back at the dry opening of what had been the fountain of youth and then closed the cabinet door, taking extra care to be sure the door was locked and the explosive device was reset. He left the vault, slipped the key back into his robe pocket, and started up the stairway.
Thor was sitting just where he had left him, staring suspiciously at Gerald Dorian, who became alert as soon as Mr. Leon appeared. When he saw that Mr. Leon had only one bottle in his possession Gerald squinted, his forehead creasing with a frown.
“Weren’t we to provide two bottles, Mr. Leon? The additional orders—”
“I don’t care about additional orders. We’re cutting back. Youth Hold is becoming too available. We’ll lose our value and won’t command the price.”
Gerald almost laughed. He stopped at a wide smile.
“But no one else has the formula, sir.”
“I don’t care. Just do as I say. Tell them to make only what they can with this.” He handed him the bottle with a reluctance and hesitation that drew Gerald Dorian’s curiosity. “Careful,” Mr. Leon snapped. “Don’t drop it, or I’ll have your head.”
“I won’t.”
After he took it in his hands Gerald frowned again.
“Now what is it?”
“This bottle, sir. It’s unusually cold. Is this one from the stash?”
“Yes.” Mr. Leon tried to hide his emotion. “I didn’t have the patience to fill a fresh one. Just take it over and tell them to use it as sparingly as always.”
Gerald nodded and started away. Mr. Leon watched him until he disappeared out of the hacienda. Then he patted Thor on the head while he continued to gaze after Gerald Dorian. The dog had no reaction to the gesture; he was not accustomed to any show of affection.
“He knows, Thor,” Mr. Leon said. “He’s been with me too long not to know. But I don’t like that. I don’t like it at all,” he muttered, and he turned to go back to the dumb, big-breasted platinum blonde. More than ever, he needed the diversion.
Thor trotted after him, his tongue extended, his sharp teeth gleaming.
14
Richie eased his foot off the accelerator and came to a full stop when he reached Paul Stoddard’s address. His fingers trembled a bit on the steering wheel, so he gripped it tighter. He couldn’t believe he was doing this, but he had promised Cynthia that he would give it a shot if he had any spare time. He had made the time. Her voice had left him cold. He had phoned her from his bucket while he was up testing a line, but the light, humorous conversation he had intended had instantly turned heavy.
“Hi,” he had begun, “I’m checking this line out and thought I would use you as the guinea pig. Am I coming through okay?”
She didn’t respond.
“Cynthia?”
“Richie,” she had whispered.
“What are you doing? Why didn’t you answer me?” He leaned back in his bucket. There was a pleasant but strong morning breeze in Westchester. Some of the cloud formations were moving so quickly across the light blue sky, they looked motorized. The effect was to slide the long shadows over the street rapidly, washing him alternately in darkness and sunshine. Right now a chilling, deeper and darker shadow hovered. He raised his shirt collar and turned his back to the breeze, pressing the receiver tighter to his ear.
“I was just listening,” she replied, still in a whisper, “to see if Drake had picked up. I thought I heard a click. He’s upstairs dressing.”
“So? What if he picked up? What’s wrong?”
“Richie . . .” Her voice drifted off; he thought he had lost his connection and quickly checked his wires. “Drake might be involved in something bad,” she finally said, speaking at a normal volume. She sounded strange, though, void of feeling, like someone who was drugged. The dead, matter-of-fact tone had a far more traumatic effect on him than any hysterical one would have had. His sister was in trouble, he thought, bad trouble.
“Why do you say that, Cynthia?”
“I’ve been thinking about his new company, Leon Enterprises, all night. In fact, I hardly slept,” she said, which he thought explained the fatigue in her voice. “I feel certain it’s a front for something, maybe drugs.”
“What? Why? I mean, why do you think this?”
She described her trip to Weston, Connecticut, summarizing it in short, staccato, factual statements as if she were giving a police report. She left the grisly details out of her description of Selina Levy’s dangling corpse.
“What made you drive to Connecticut to begin with?” Richie asked, amazed that she would have done such a thing.
Richie listened to her dry yet icy relating of events, enlarging the tingle of fear in his chest until it had become a tight, pounding sensation. Below him on the street traffic moved slower than usual because of his road signs. Most of the drivers looked up at him; all of the passengers did. He felt self-conscious about his long personal conversation, but he couldn’t cut her off.
“Maybe they do something to the people who work for them, too, give them some sort of drug that changes them, that makes them obedient,” she concluded. “You saw how strange Drake has become.”
“Yeah, but drugs turning them into zombies? You’re letting your mind run wild, Cynthia. Take it easy.”
“I can’t,” she said. She told him about Drake’s strange late-night assignation in the driveway and his lying about it later when she questioned him. “And I was almost sure that black Eldorado was damaged in front, just the way it might be if it had hit someone.”
“Jesus, Cynthia. You think they killed Larry Thompson? Why would they do that?”
“They found out he was checking up on them. Maybe he found out something, or maybe they were afraid eventually he would. I don’t believe this Paul Stoddard is who he claims to be, Richie. Richie,” she said quickly, her voice finally gaining some energy, “you’re down there. You could”—she lowered her voice to a loud whisper—“could you tap his line and listen to one or two of his phone conversations . . . just to see? Could you?”
“Are you crazy? I mean—”
“How would anyone know, Richie? You’re working on the lines down there anyway. Please, Richie,” she begged. “Maybe you will hear something that will help us, help me . . . please. If what I think is true, I must get Drake out of that company before it’s too late for him, too late for us. It might be too late already,” she added mournfully.
Richie took a deep breath and shook his head.
“Do you know this guy’s address?”
She told him.
“I’ll see if I get any free time,” he said, “and if it’s possible—but I can’t promise anything, Cynthia.”
“Oh, thank you, Richie. Thank you. Call me the moment you hear anything that might mean something.”
“Even if I get to do it, it’s just going to be a hit-and-miss thing, Cynthia. Chances are I won’t hear anything.”
“You might. Please try.”
“I said I would try, but you’d better take it easy, Cynthia. You’re going to get yourself sick.”
“I’ll take it easy. I promise. I will. Call me,” she added, and she hung up. He held the receiver a moment. Was there a second click? He was getting as paranoid as she was, he thought. Damn, what a mess. But he couldn’t ignore her and her stories.
And so he had driven to Paul Stoddard’s street and pulled his truck off to the side just before the street turned and descended a small hill to a busier thoroughfare. He was impressed with Stoddard’s house and grounds. The kind of money these people were making with some cosmetic cream was like the money drug pushers were commanding, he thought. Maybe Cynthia wasn’t just letting her imagination run wild.
He stepped out of his truck, trying to look as casual and businesslike as usual, but he was like anyone about to do something illegal. He thought he somehow appeared suspicious and overdid his routine behavior to compensate. He set out the MEN WORKING signs and then stood there studying a clipboard. He took his time gathering his tools and looked around every few moments to see if he had drawn any inordinate attention.
There was almost no traffic on the residential street, and the one or two cars that did go by went by as slowly as usual, the drivers not showing any interest in him or his work.
He gazed at Stoddard’s house. It was quiet. It looked safe, he thought. No one would know the difference. There was probably no one home, and his tapping into the line would prove fruitless. Still, he had to give it a shot, at least spend an hour or so there for Cynthia’s sake, he thought, and he began to prepare his bucket.
He stepped in and closed it securely, still keeping one eye on the house to see if he had attracted any attention. Satisfied that he hadn’t, he manipulated the controls and had himself raised. It was obvious which line ran to the Stoddard home. In a matter of minutes he was listening in.
As luck would have it, he tapped into the middle of an ongoing conversation.
“Yeah,” he heard a man say, “everything’s set. It’s all occurring just as we anticipated. I’ll tell you what,” the man said, “if you will just give me a minute, I’ll get what I need.”
“No problem,” the other speaker said. It wasn’t Drake’s voice, Richie thought. He waited and listened. Stoddard, if that was who was speaking inside the house, had put the receiver down to get something.
Richie took out a screwdriver and pretended to be checking a transformer. He didn’t see the car slow down beside his telephone bucket truck, but he did hear Stoddard’s garage door go up, and he saw the black Eldorado. Suddenly it came shooting out of the garage, its wheels squealing as the driver whipped it sharply to come out on the street behind his truck.
Just then he heard his truck door opened and turned to see the driver of the other car reach in.
“Hey!” he screamed down.
Whoever it was had released the emergency brake and taken the truck out of gear. Because it was already near the crest of the hill, it began to inch forward.
Meanwhile the black Eldorado pulled up behind the truck and tapped the bumper. The impact shook the bucket, and Richie grabbed onto the sides.
“Hey! What the hell are you doin’?” he screamed. The man who had been in the truck stepped back after he had made sure the steering wheel was turned so the front wheels were straight, and the black Eldorado increased its speed and pressure on the rear of the truck. In moments it was sailing forward.
Richie held onto the sides of the bucket for dear life as the truck picked up momentum down the hill. It hit nearly forty miles an hour before it reached the major thoroughfare. An oncoming sedan had no chance to avoid it and hit it broadside.
The impact spun the truck abruptly, and Richie lost his grip on the sides of the bucket and went sailing out. He landed on the roof of a second car, a coupe that had managed to come to a squealing stop just before hitting the rear of the telephone truck. Richie bounced off the roof and rolled over, slapping the macadam, falling on his right side and continuing his roll along the highway. A third vehicle squealed and spun to avoid him, but the left front tire caught his right leg just above the ankle. It had the effect of ending his slide across the road.
He lay there motionless on his back, his arms out in crucifix fashion as the vehicular bedlam whirled around him. At the top of the hill the black Eldorado backed up and turned into the driveway. It entered the garage, and the door came rolling down. Almost instantly the street in front of Stoddard’s house returned to its imperturbable and serene air, the beeping horns and shouting voices at the bottom of the hill caught up in the hefty afternoon breeze, which carried them away as if it knew it shouldn’t disturb the residents above. Even the screaming police sirens were drowned out by the chorus of mowers grazing over the lawns.
