Immortal

by Dean Crawford

  Oppenheimer blinked. He was instantly disappointed – the man’s will had broken before Oppenheimer had given any indication that he was even interested, let alone willing to barter. Just like all those who had come and gone before him he was spineless, a runt begging for scraps from the feast of Oppenheimer’s table, willing to crawl on his knees through the detritus below to nibble on what meager crumbs he might find.

  ‘Twenty percent?’ Oppenheimer murmured, to an eager nod from William Hancock.

  Hancock’s plan was to harness the remarkable datastorage power of Flash-Ram Memory and the abundance of trashed outdated home computers in order to build small, cheap, portable, solar-powered laptop computers for distribution to Third World countries. Built-in advertising for major firms would cover manufacturing and distribution costs, leaving the rest for profit. No batteries, no demand on electrical grids, the computers themselves built from the recycled plastics of their forlorn predecessors now languishing on garbage heaps countrywide. Minimal outlay, Hancock reckoned, something in the order of twenty-five million dollars. Hundreds of thousands, if not millions, of disadvantaged children would benefit across Africa, India, the Malay Archipelago and a thousand other territories both obscure and irrelevant to Oppenheimer.

  ‘And who is paying for these laptops,’ Oppenheimer asked wearily, ‘upon delivery?’

  ‘The governments of the countries concerned.’ Hancock smiled.

  Oppenheimer nodded as though he understood.

  ‘I see. Mister Hancock, much as I admire the principal behind your business plan, it behooves me to remark upon the astonishing imbecility that seems to have infected your puny brain.’

  William Hancock’s smile collapsed. He opened his mouth to protest, but was silenced by Oppenheimer’s wrinkly hand.

  ‘Charity is a remarkable thing,’ Oppenheimer said slowly, choosing his words. ‘It makes ordinary men commit acts of near suicidal economic stupidity as though, having made successes of themselves, they should then hurl themselves off cliffs. Tell me, Mister Hancock, why you wouldn’t instead have built more advanced, more expensive computers and sold them here in America for ten times the profit?’

  Hancock, his jaw agape, struggled for words.

  ‘But we’re both successful people, and we can afford to invest in technologies that can help disadvantaged families from poor countries who need access to—’

  ‘They need clean fucking water!’ Oppenheimer exploded, smashing his cane down across the glass table between them with a deafening crack. ‘They need food, clothes, medicines and homes! You know what they’ll do with your pissy little computers when they get their dirty little hands on them? They’ll sell them on the black market to stall traders or slave dealers or witchdoctors or whoever the hell they can, in exchange for a bottle of water and a goddamned chicken nugget!’

  Oppenheimer reined himself in, taking a deep breath as he felt his heart fluttering dangerously within the narrow cage of his emaciated chest. His voice rattled when he spoke, dislodged strings of mucus clinging damply to the walls of his throat.

  ‘The only reason for the starving and suffering of the masses in the Third World is the incompetence of their leaders. We are asked day in and day out to give a dollar for little children dying of starvation in Africa, give a dime for the digging of wells in India, give a few bucks to sponsor some fucking baby panda in China. Doesn’t it ever cross your tiny little mind that if their own governments spent a little less on blowing the crap out of each other and a little more on charity at home, then we may not have to keep shoring up their pathetic legions?’

  William Hancock stood bolt upright from the table, his face flushed with impotent fury.

  ‘Bad things happen,’ he said, ‘when good people do nothing.’

  Oppenheimer, with some strain, pushed on the top of his cane and got to his feet, leveling Hancock with an uncompromising glare.

  ‘Bad things happen when good people act like idiots,’ he snapped back, pacing round the desk toward him. ‘When governments overtax their citizens while reducing social services and medical care; when bureaucrats waste millions of taxpayers’ money on useless initiatives which are then abandoned; when bankers screw up the economy time and time again and then expect ordinary people to foot the bill while they award themselves billions in bonuses and retire on million-dollar pensions; when criminals are pampered in jail by spineless human rights activists while elderly war veterans freeze in their apartment blocks because they can’t afford the heating bills. But do you know who the idiots are? Not the governments, not the bureaucrats, the bankers or the criminals. It’s people like you, because you’re so busy pissing about trying to solve the problems of people in distant lands who’ll never actually receive the help you’re offering that you’ve forgotten about your own damned countrymen!’

  William Hancock stared at Oppenheimer, no longer able to speak. Oppenheimer jabbed him sharply in the chest with his cane.

  ‘Get out of my office before I take this and shove it up your ass.’

  The horrified Hancock turned in stunned silence and walked stiffly out of the office, passing an attractive young blonde woman who had obviously been waiting outside. Oppenheimer watched her with interest as she glided in, closing the door behind her and briefly displaying the backs of her long slender legs that disappeared up into a short white skirt so tight it made her ass look like two peaches wrapped in silk.

  ‘What have you got for me this morning, Claire?’ he asked, trying to ease his strained nerves and forcing himself to breathe calmly.

  Claire Montgomery, Oppenheimer’s personal assistant of the past two months, strode across to the glass desk and leaned forward. Oppenheimer gazed down her blouse as she passed him a file, catching a glimpse of the pendulous breasts dangling within.

  ‘From Donald Wolfe, sir,’ Claire said with a smile that suggested she either hadn’t noticed the direction of his stare or was too professional to mention it. ‘He requested that you look at it immediately, it’s extremely important.’

  Oppenheimer dragged his gaze down to the file.

  ‘Sit down, stay a while.’ He gestured to the chair opposite without looking at her. Claire sat down obediently.

  Within moments of opening the file, Oppenheimer had forgotten Claire’s charms and was completely engrossed.

  Donald Wolfe had used his position at USAMRIID to obtain information on the events surrounding the Glorietta Pass shooting of three days previously. Bizarrely, the government had not dispatched a single official person to investigate either the disappearance of the body of Hiram Conley from the county morgue, nor had they officially supported the county sheriff’s investigation into the disappearance of Lillian Cruz. However, what was intriguing was the two out-of-towners who had been given the lead in the investigation, apparently with the blessing of both the state police and the sheriff’s office.

  ‘Who the hell are these two?’ Oppenheimer wondered out loud as he read.

  Ethan Warner, a former United States Marine turned bail bondsman and private investigator. Nicola Lopez, formerly a detective with Washington DC’s finest, now partnered with Warner. Oppenheimer frowned. Donald Wolfe’s contacts had been unable to figure out who Warner and Lopez were working for, but so far had managed to rule out DEA, FBI and even the CIA as interested parties.

  Whoever Warner and Lopez were working for, they could be of little consequence if they were hiring two low-life bondsmen to investigate. Warner & Lopez Inc. operated out of Chicago, which meant they were a long way from home. The will to travel meant that they needed the work, which meant they were most likely poor themselves, and Oppenheimer knew the power of hard cash to change allegiances. They could of course refuse, in which case he knew exactly the kind of men who made their own living disposing of people on Oppenheimer’s behalf.

  An accident would be arranged, quickly and quietly.

  He pressed a button on his speakerphone, and the voice of his events coordinator replied efficiently.


  ‘Yes, Mister Oppenheimer?’

  ‘Have my car and driver ready. I wish to leave in the next thirty minutes or so.’

  He needed to clear his mind and rid himself of the latent irritation infecting him in William Hancock’s wake. His gaze drifted up to Claire sitting expectantly opposite him. She smiled softly, one leg crossed over the other to reveal a perfectly shaped thigh and flawless skin. Nerve endings he hadn’t thought about in months tingled evocatively.

  Oppenheimer stood up from behind his desk and beckoned to her with one gnarled finger.

  ‘Come here, Claire.’

  His assistant got to her feet and walked slowly round the table to him, a flicker of apprehension passing like a shadow across her immaculate features.

  ‘What can I do for you, Mister Oppenheimer?’

  He smiled, putting his cane to one side and pressing a button on his table top. Instantly, the windows in the office turned opaque.

  ‘Just like last time, Claire, understood?’

  Claire’s beautiful face was now furtive and she refused to meet his eye. Oppenheimer took her thick blonde hair in one fist, turning it firmly in his bony digits so that she was forced to look at him. A pair of wide blue eyes stared into his, the same eyes that had glittered excitedly a month ago when he had discreetly offered to double her salary after working for the company for less than five weeks.

  ‘Your pay rise was performance-related, Claire, remember?’ he rattled. ‘Everyone has to fulfill their commitments if they wish to remain part of SkinGen. Targets, my dear, are everything.’

  Oppenheimer released her hair and gripped her shoulders, turning her to face away from him before pushing her forward and bending her over his desk. He reached down and yanked her skirt up, reveling in the sight of her sublime ass while with his free hand he began hurriedly unhitching his pants before it was too late.

  He knew that Claire wouldn’t last much more than a month or two before she finally quit, but then none of his assistants ever had and the change did him good. This time, she didn’t even whimper as he penetrated her.

  As he gripped Claire’s narrow waist in his gnarled hands, grimacing as he shunted his bony hips vigorously against her prostrate body, he reflected that everybody had their price. Even Warner and Lopez.

  17

  NEW MEXICO DPS FORENSICS LABORATORIES

  SANTA FE

  ‘Seriously, the place was wiped clean, not a trace.’

  Lopez nodded wearily, mentally scratching another avenue of investigation off her list. She was standing in the foyer of a laboratory that handled all forensic investigations for Santa Fe’s law enforcement agencies, and had been responsible for the investigation of the morgue from which Hiram Conley’s apparently mummified remains had vanished.

  ‘Any ideas of who might have had a motive for abducting Lillian Cruz?’

  The lab technician, an elderly guy by the name of Rodriguez, shook his head.

  ‘I worked with her a few times out Albuquerque way when she ran the morgue there. She was the best, no doubt about it, been working in the department for as long as I can remember. What she couldn’t tell you about rates of decay and infestation wasn’t worth knowing. Point is, everyone liked her, never heard a bad word said.’

  ‘And she never had any contact with Tyler Willis?’

  ‘The Tyler Willis?’ Rodriguez repeated. ‘No way, that guy is stellar, something to do with genetics out Los Alamos way. I’ve read a few of his papers. The high priests don’t have much time for us guys down in the morgues.’

  ‘Okay,’ Lopez conceded finally, ‘thanks for your time.’

  Lopez walked out of the foyer, pausing on the sidewalk and breathing deeply in the warm air. The mountains in the distance, faded as they were in the haze beneath the flawless blue sky, reminded her again of home, as did the occasional road sign in Spanish and the little stores selling Aztec-style trinkets.

  She sighed as she cut across a street to where she’d parked. Almost a third of her meager salary went on supporting her increasingly frail parents. She knew that the rest of her family were doing their best, but there was no substitute for American dollars in Guanajuato. Sometimes she’d even thought about . . .

  She froze. A man walking down Camino Entrada toward a nearby steakhouse caught her attention. He was sauntering along the sidewalk with his face shielded from both the sun and from observation by a baseball cap pulled low over his eyes. Lewis Delaware III. Twenty-nine. Possession with intent to supply. Released on an eight-thousand-dollar bond signed by his own legal representative, the creep had vanished right after he’d walked from Cook County Jail.

  Lopez turned, letting her long black hair fall half across her face in the breeze as she walked across the street, deliberately not walking toward Delaware but veering to one side to avoid attracting attention – forgetting that she was wearing leather boots and a black vest that hugged her breasts above a pair of tight jeans. It was like trying to hide candy from a kid: any guy within a hundred yards couldn’t miss her.

  Sure enough, Delaware turned his head and glanced across at her, lifting his chin to check her out. A flare of alarm panicked his features as he stopped mid-stride twenty yards away. Lopez covered her dismay at having been spotted with a cheerful smile.

  ‘Morning, Lewis,’ she called brightly. ‘Don’t run or I’ll kick your ass.’

  Delaware flashed her a nervous grin, whirled and took off down the sidewalk.

  Lopez launched herself in pursuit, wishing once again for the comforting feeling of a pistol by her side. Cans of pepper spray and nightsticks were handy, but they weren’t so hot against bullets. Lopez watched as Delaware, scrawny and out of shape, ran with a gangly gait past an automobile trader, barreling past a BMW pulling out in front of him. Lopez dodged past the vehicle with a single bound, lithe as an antelope as she bore down on the frantic Delaware, who glanced over his shoulder at her, his eyes wide with panic.

  Delaware aimed for an old Lincoln parked at the end of Camino Ortiz, clearly hoping to make a break for it before she caught him. Lopez gave her all and accelerated as she yanked her collapsible baton from her jeans and flicked it open before hurling it at Delaware’s legs. The baton span through the air and sliced neatly between his calves, interrupting their passage enough to send the kid sprawling face down onto the hot asphalt in a tangle of limbs, his cap flying from his head. Lopez reached him as he scrambled back to his feet and yanked his fists up defensively in front of his face, glowering at her as he panted for breath.

  ‘I told you not to run, Lewis,’ she said.

  ‘I ain’t goin’ to jail,’ he gasped. ‘You ain’t takin’ me.’

  ‘No?’

  Lopez reached out with her left hand to grab his left wrist. As Delaware pulled it back and exposed his face, Lopez jabbed a fast right straight into his eye. He yelped, staggered backwards and collapsed to his knees with his face in his hands.

  ‘Jesus Christ!’ he cried as Lopez yanked him to his feet, flashing her bondsman badge as curious citizens watched them from the parking lot of a Saab dealership, and cuffed Delaware.

  She dragged him, still whimpering, across the street to a narrow alley. Delaware turned, unsteady on his feet, real fear starting to spread like an infection across his face.

  ‘What the hell is this?’ he uttered. ‘I want to speak to my—’

  Lopez strode forward and drove one knee into his groin. A strangled gasp later and the kid was on his knees. She moved around behind him, squatted down and whispered in his ear.

  ‘Listen good, Lewis. I’m going to empty your pockets and anything I find that I don’t like, I’m going to borrow, okay?’

  Delaware opened his mouth to reply, but only a faint whistling squeaked from his throat.

  Lopez emptied his pockets, finding two hundred bucks in cash, a small wrap of what looked like marijuana and two crumpled packs of cigarettes.

  ‘You’ve got weed,’ she hissed. ‘Both know what possession means
, right, Lewis?’

  ‘Don’t tell ’em,’ Lewis whined pathetically. ‘Please don’t tell ’em.’

  ‘Get up,’ she ordered, gripping his cuffed wrists and yanking them into his shoulder blades, eliciting another squeal of pain. ‘What they don’t find you won’t miss, understood?’

  With more force than was necessary Lopez pushed Delaware back to where she’d parked her car outside a nearby mall. She was in the process of wedging him into the rear seat when she saw Ethan walking toward her. He glanced at Delaware as she booted him aboard the car.

  ‘Busy afternoon?’ he asked.

  ‘Productive.’ Lopez nodded, shutting the door and handing him Lewis’s packets of cigarettes. ‘Saw him jaywalking back there, easiest pull we’ve had in months. How about you?’

  Ethan took the cigarettes from her. ‘This all he had? Thought he’d be dealing, all the way out here.’

  ‘Nothing on him,’ Lopez said calmly with a shrug. ‘Doesn’t mean that wherever he’s been staying is clean.’

  ‘We don’t have time to get search warrants,’ Ethan said, and handed her the printed copy of the photograph from the town hall. ‘Recognize anybody?’

  Lopez scanned the image and gasped.

  ‘I’ll be damned. Willis was right.’

  ‘You found him yet?’

  ‘No,’ Lopez admitted, swiping a strand of hair from out of her eyes and noticing Ethan watching her as she did so. ‘Nobody has any leads on either Tyler Willis or Lillian Cruz. Which means we’re left with trying to find either Saffron Oppenheimer or Colin Manx, both of whom probably have nothing to do with the disappearances.’

  Ethan filled her in on Saffron Oppenheimer’s family history, both illustrious and tragic at the same time.

  ‘There’s a motive for her hitting laboratories all right,’ Ethan said, the hot wind moaning down the street tousling his light brown hair. ‘And it may explain her taking such care to hit the computer servers before she left.’

  ‘Industrial espionage?’ Lopez murmured. ‘You think that she’s actually working for Grandpa?’