by Tim Tigner
“Secrecy was our paramount consideration even back then. We realized early on how disastrous it would be if immortality became widespread. Overpopulation would become so problematic that we’d eventually end up with some kind of culling plan, executions at age 100 or the like. That would turn our Garden of Eden into Hell on earth.”
“I know.”
Lisa was on a roll. It felt so good to release to someone who truly understood. “Can you imagine growing up, knowing you’re going to get a bullet for your hundredth birthday? Granted, we live less as it is, but it’s natural. When the time comes, most people are more or less ready. In that scenario, everyone would feel like they’re twenty-five when they walk into the execution chamber. What a nightmare.”
They sat in silence after that, sipping tea and staring through the bulletproof window at the palm trees waving in the breeze.
When the pot was empty, Lisa turned back to Aria. She had one more dark door to open. “Maybe I should have realized that nothing could end well if it started with killing. Maybe I should have buried Eos instead.”
Aria shook her head. “Look at us. We’re nearly sixty but we look like we’re in our early thirties. We feel like we’re in our early thirties. Suppose we died this afternoon. We would still have gotten thirty years’ worth of thirties, rather than the ten everyone else gets. And we got the extra years with the benefits of forties and fifties wisdom. Plus, you guys got the money. It was a good deal. A great deal, some might say. Stop second-guessing yourself.”
Lisa found herself fighting back tears. What was wrong with her? Was this what mental breakdowns felt like? “I’m not ready to go.”
“You might not have a choice. Don’t get me wrong,” Aria spread her arms and gestured around. “I’m going to fight it with everything I’ve got. But I’m also preparing myself.”
Lisa reached out and put a hand on Aria’s shoulder. “I’m glad it wasn’t you.” She realized her tears were flowing.
“Stay with me,” Aria said, her voice soft and reassuring. “It’s as safe here as it gets.”
“I can’t live on an island, or in a fortress for that matter. It’s just not my style.”
“I understand it’s not your first choice, but it might be the only way to stay alive until we figure this out.”
“Not the only way. There are seven billion people out there. How hard can it be to disappear?”
Aria shook her head, but smiled kindly. “You may get lost in a crowd, but you’ll be alone.”
Lisa took her oldest friend by the hand. “There’s no place more lonely than a coffin.”
56
Questionable Status
SKYLAR CAUGHT MOVEMENT in her peripheral vision as she extinguished the gas burner. Reasserting her grip on the omelet pan, she turned around.
“I wish I’d caught that on video,” Chase said. His tone was light, but his gun arm and gaze were deadly serious. The Sig P320 he usually kept in the small of his back was now pointed directly at Tory’s thigh. “It would be a shoo-in to win the Best Revenge Scene category.”
Despite what she’d just done, Skylar found that the gun made her nervous. “You can drop the gun. If he wasn’t out cold, he’d be squirming and screaming.”
Chase kept the gun level. “With anyone else, I’d agree. But this guy’s got discipline like I’ve never seen.” With his left hand, Chase proffered a bunch of heavy-duty zip ties. “Start with his ankles. Cross one over the other then double-bind them. Stay out of my line of fire while you work.”
Skylar set down her weapon and did as she was told, taking great satisfaction from the zipping sound. “Now his wrists?”
“Yes, same drill. Behind his back.”
Tory had been doubled over with his palms pressed to his face when she delivered the knockout blow with the smoking omelet pan. He’d collapsed face down, saving her the trouble of rolling him over.
She pulled one limp muscular arm around in line with his spine, then the other, while Chase kept the gun trained. “Why are you aiming at his leg, rather than his head or heart?”
“I won’t hesitate the slightest second to put a bullet through his thigh. It will stop him and leave him alive for questioning.”
To Skylar’s relief, Chase holstered his Sig once she’d snugged the second wrist tie into place. He then rolled Tory over and they got the first look at the conniving assassin’s ruined face. It was splotched with wicked red marks and speckled with big angry blisters. His chiseled cheeks, his strawberry-blond brow, and even his eyes had taken a hit. The left one looked particularly painful. Swollen to the size of an egg, it appeared about to pop.
Skylar gasped, but did not look away. Bad as it was, the damage was far short of cremation.
Chase transferred the cell phones, keys, and wallet from Tory’s pockets to his own. Then he disappeared for a few seconds, returning with a blanket. He laid it out flat beside Tory, then rolled their captive like a cigar. Apparently satisfied with his work, Chase hoisted the bundle onto side-by-side bar stools. She recognized the move: he was preparing for a fireman’s carry. “You ready to go?” he asked.
Skylar grabbed her bag and pan.
“Check the dock.”
She walked to the gangplank, looked around, and ducked her head back into the main saloon. “We’re clear.”
Chase crouched, worked his right shoulder under Tory’s waist, then stood. He followed Skylar off the Grey Poupon and down the dock to the 30-foot boat they’d rented.
He dumped Tory below deck, none too gently, still wrapped in the blanket. He unfurled Tory’s feet, picked up a chain he had waiting and fastened it tightly around the freshly exposed ankles with a padlock.
Skylar saw that Chase had already attached the other end of the chain to the central leg of the dining table.
“Call me if he moves. I’m going to get us out of here.”
Skylar took a seat and readied the omelet pan. She’d found it a most satisfying weapon, despite the stereotype. It was very personal, not like a gun or even a knife. She had felt his skull reverberate through the stainless steel, and found it exhilarating. Not for the violence or dominance, but for the justice. Delivered personally by her to the man who had conned her, lured her, and attempted to burn her alive.
Their plan had worked as expected. Prior to implementation, her primary concern had been passing herself off as Sandy. Not just her appearance but also her voice. At Chase’s suggestion, she and Sandy had spent two hours side by side before a mirror, dialing in her diction. Clearly, that had been sufficient.
While they practiced in Sandy’s bathroom, Chase rented a yacht that was already slipped at D Dock. Knowing that Tory would be wary and watching, he bought supplies and immediately boarded the Miami Viceroy. The three of them continued refining their tactics by phone.
The real break came when Tory mentioned the omelet. With that precious tidbit, the whole takedown plan fell into place. Prior to that, they’d been contemplating pepper spray disguised as cooking spray, and a cry to summon Chase.
The yacht’s motor rumbled to life as Skylar pulled a phone from her purse. She called Sandy. “We got him.”
“Hallelujah! I can’t thank you enough.”
“We couldn’t have done it without you.”
Skylar needed to call Amy and Emma as well, but those calls could wait. Technically, they weren’t safe yet—and neither were Sandy and Skylar. None of them would be safe unless and until Tory led them to the people behind this, whatever this was. Skylar had no guess as to who they were, but when the time came, she’d be happy to make them omelets as well.
Skylar didn’t consider herself to be a violent person. She carried spiders outside and avoided movies that revolved around guns. But she wasn’t horrified by what she’d done. Perhaps waking up with burn marks from the crematory had rewired her brain. Or at least added a new circuit. Whether permanently or temporarily remained to be seen.
Frankly, she was fine with it either way. Shrinking violets
had never been her favorite flower. She always cringed when weak women were cast in movies, although she reserved judgment. You never really knew how you’d behave until you wore those same shoes, whether they be sandals, loafers, or heels. Now that she’d been dropped in the jungle, Skylar was pleased to find that she’d grown thorns and was comfortable wearing combat boots.
While that bit of self-realization rolled around her mind, the big burrito before her began writhing. “He’s awake!”
The boat slowed immediately, but didn’t stop moving. Within a few seconds, Chase was by her side. Gun out and ready.
“We’re still cruising.”
“Autopilot. I want to get a bit further from shore before we settle down to business.” Chase handed his Sig to Skylar, grabbed the edge of the blanket in the middle, and lifted. This caused Tory to roll, which he did until unwrapped.
Ignoring her own discomfort, Skylar pointed the gun at him. She’d never fired a weapon, but had seen enough demonstrations during cop shows to know the basics. Hold firmly, but not too tight. Squeeze the trigger without jerking. Anticipate a powerful recoil, but don’t be afraid.
Skylar almost screamed when she saw Tory’s face. The blisters were now even larger and beginning to crust. The swelling made him unrecognizable. She was certain that he couldn’t see anything from his left eye. His right was questionable. She couldn’t believe that he wasn’t moaning or sobbing or begging for a doctor. Perhaps his nerve centers had simply been overwhelmed. Or maybe her frying pan had damaged his brain.
“What’s my status?” he asked, his tone strained but controlled. His volume was loud as if he was having trouble hearing.
It was a clever question. Simple yet multifaceted. It made her doubt that she’d done cognitive damage.
“Hard to tell at the moment, Tory,” Chase said, revealing their knowledge of his true identity. “Depends on how well your mouth works.”
57
Cold Conditioning
AARO LAGO HAD TAUGHT HIS SON Tory to ignore pain by teaching him to disregard cold. It was a valuable skill in Oulu, Finland, where the daily high was below freezing for five months out of the year.
Aaro’s plan was to drive the sensation of cold, and with it the pain, down below Tory’s consciousness to where it no longer registered. Aaro accomplished this by taking his boy out skiing or fishing or chopping wood in the dead of winter, without a hat or coat. Just gloves to keep his fingers limber.
While they were working up a sweat, he’d hit his son with logic problems. Complicated induction or deduction or mathematical puzzles whose solutions required the focused attention of a nimble mind. Tory wasn’t allowed in out of the cold until he had the answer. And bless his heart, Aaro stayed right there with him, also baring his body to the great god of the north.
If the sun was shining, they’d skip the riddles in favor of calisthenics, then hike out to the middle of a frozen lake and play chess.
At first, the physics of it boggled Tory’s mind. How could his father not be cold? Did his bigger body somehow defy the laws of nature? Why didn’t he shiver? Why weren’t his lips turning blue? How could he talk in a normal voice when the wind was whipping and the wolves were howling and the dogs were curled tighter than garage door springs? Was it something he’d learned as captain of the national cross-country skiing team? Or had he been born with an abnormal nervous system? If so, had Tory inherited those genes?
“Just ignore it,” Father said. He didn’t chide or shout. He just repeated the three-word phrase, then threw another logic puzzle on the pyre of his son’s mind, time and again, while Tory’s teeth chattered and knees knocked and fingers failed.
As the problems became more complex, the concentration required deepened. Eventually, there wasn’t bandwidth for anything else. Solving the riddles required the full range of his mental faculties.
Ultimately, it worked.
By forcing him to push everything else aside, those complex problems trained Tory to ignore the pain.
Once he learned the trick, once his body realized what was possible, Tory found himself capable of exercising it at will. Like juggling or whistling, it became an acquired skill. One that worked against all forms of discomfort and distraction, not just climatic extremes.
Lying on the floor of a boat, tied up tight as a sail in a storm with his face smoldering like an old campfire, Tory found his containment skills strained to their max. It wasn’t the physical pain that kept poking its nose under his mental tent. It was the psychological terror. His left eye was blind, probably permanently so. The superheated oil had sent a shock wave of pain directly down his optic nerve and into his brain. He’d never felt such searing white pain. Not from bullets. Not from knives. Not from reindeer antlers or wolverine claws.
His right eye still functioned, but at a greatly reduced level. He could only see through a crack of puffed flesh. That was a torment every boxer knew. Debilitating and frustrating but ultimately transient.
Fortunately, he had the master of all puzzles to occupy his mind, to fill his protective tent. How could he get out of this mess?
“What do you want to know, Mr. Chase?” What Tory could see of the man standing before him was unreliable. But Tory knew this had to be him. Somehow he’d convinced Sandy Wallace what was awaiting her. He must be persuasive, given the conviction it took for her to go through with her frying pan trick.
“I want to know why you’re killing people, and who’s paying you to do it.”
“Anything else?”
“Where we can find your boss?” Sandy added.
That made sense to Tory. Now he needed time to think. To buy time, he turned toward the killer chef. “What did he tell you? How did he convince you to do this to me?”
“No convincing was required. I’m not Sandy, I’m Skylar. You tried to cremate me alive.”
Of course! It hadn’t occurred to him that the former triathlete might join forces with the ex-CIA agent. Most women would still be curled up in a ball on their therapist’s floor. Most men too, for that matter.
“Oh, you get it now,” she said.
Tory knew better than to start down that path. He put the conversation back on course. “What are you offering for the answers to your questions?”
“Two-thirds of the American dream,” Chase replied.
“I don’t understand.”
“Life and the pursuit of happiness.”
Tory scoffed. “But no liberty.”
“That’s up to the courts.”
If Tory wasn’t mistaken, the vision in his right eye was improving. “And if I refuse to answer?”
“Not really an option.” Chase walked into the galley, carrying Skylar’s bag. It was a different galley, smaller than the one on the Lucky Seven. He extracted the omelet pan and placed it on the stove’s central burner. Then he turned the dial.
Tory felt an involuntary shudder run down his spine as the gas igniter clicked out sparks. Chase seemed to sense this, as he left it sparking long after the telltale ignition whoosh. “You going to torture me, Zachary?”
By way of answer, Chase emptied the remainder of the olive oil into the pan.
Tory worked himself into a kneeling position, testing his bonds in the process. Both wrists and ankles were tight. A chain tethered him to the fixed table leg. Not good. He needed to get free. Since his arms and legs were uninjured, he could fight his way out of this if given the chance. Even three-quarters blind.
He found himself fantasizing about having his eyelid sliced open to relieve the swelling, the way Mick had done for Rocky before the final round. The sound of water crackling in hot oil brought him out of the trance.
Chase brought the omelet pan over and held it under Tory’s chin. The heat coming off it would have been agonizing, given his existing burns, had Tory let the feeling register.
“Tell me why you’re killing people, and who’s paying you to do it. Or I’m going to press your face into the pan.”
“No, you’re
not.”
Tory put conviction in his tone, but Chase showed equal certitude. “You cremated my college roommate alive.”
“Yes, I did,” Tory admitted, now speaking in a matter-of-fact tone. “So you’re going to have to choose. Do you want revenge, or do you want answers?”
“I’ll take both. We’ve got two more liters of oil.”
“Doesn’t matter.”
“And why not?”
“What Skylar did back on the Grey Poupon could be construed as self-defense. But now that you’ve got me, anything additional would be considered torture. By torturing me, you will be eliminating an important option. Specifically, the option of turning me over to the police. That means you really only have two alternatives. You can either kill me when you’re done with your questions, or let me go. Given that I don’t see you letting me go, I have no reason to answer any of your questions. So you see, logic reduces your available options to exactly one: negotiation.”
“You can’t negotiate if you can’t walk away. Not while I maintain the unlimited ability to inflict pain.” Chase spat in the oil, which crackled in protest and sent a furious sprinkle of boiling oil onto Tory’s neck and chin.
Tory did not flinch. “That threat may work with most people. But not with me. Look at my face, then try to tell me you need more convincing.”
“Plenty of people start off tough. Time changes things. And there are lots of ways to inflict pain without leaving marks.”
“You don’t have the time for sleep deprivation and cold therapy. You don’t have the pharmaceuticals for chemical inducements. And you don’t have the stomach for endless hours of inflicting pain. Even in my condition, I can see your soul straining behind those big gray eyes.”
Chase said nothing.
Skylar said nothing.
Tory said nothing.
“What’s your offer?” Chase finally asked.
58