Which they had. And now the McCaffrey woman had just been hauled off to jail.
A whole ’nother story, as Covey had said.
The nurse’s arrest had troubled Farley. He’d speculated out loud about telling the police that she was innocent. But Sheldon reminded him coolly what would happen if Farley did that and he relented.
Sheldon had said, “Look, we’ll do one more — this Covey — and then take a break. A year. Two years.”
“No. Let’s wait.”
“I checked him out,” Sheldon said. “He’s worth over fifty million.”
“I think it’s too risky.”
“I’ve thought about that.” With the police still looking into the Benson and Whitley suicides, Sheldon explained, it’d be better to have the old man die in a mugging or hit-and-run, rather than killing himself.
“But,” Farley had whispered, “you mean murder?”
“A suicide’ll be way too suspicious.”
“We can’t.”
But Sheldon had snapped, “Too late for morality, Doctor. You made your deal with the devil. You can’t renegotiate now.” And hung up.
Farley stewed for a while but finally realized the man was right; there was no going back. And, my, what he could do in the lab with another $25 million…
His secretary buzzed him on the intercom.
“Mr. Covey’s back, sir.”
A hesitation. Then: “Show him in.”
Covey walked into the office. They shook hands again and Covey sat. As cheerful and blinky as most patients on 75 mg of Luminux. He happily took another cup of special brew then reached into his jacket pocket and displayed a copy of the codicil to the will. “Here you go.”
Though Farley wasn’t a lawyer he knew what to look for; the document was in proper form.
They shook hands formally.
Covey finished his coffee and Farley escorted him to the lab, where he would undergo the MRI and give a blood sample, making the nervous small talk that the clients always made at this point in the process.
The geneticist shook his hand and told him he’d made the right decision. Covey thanked Farley sincerely and with a hopeful smile on his face that was, Farley knew, only partly from the drug. He returned to his office and the doctor picked up the phone, called Anthony Sheldon. “Covey’s changed the will. He’ll be leaving here in about fifteen minutes.”
“I’ll take care of him now,” Sheldon said and hung up.
Farley sighed and dropped the receiver into the cradle. He stripped off his suit jacket then pulled on a white lab coat. He left his office and fled up the hall to the research lab, where he knew he would find solace in the honest world of science, where he would be safe from all his guilt and sins, as if they were locked out by the double-sealed doors of the air lock.
Robert Covey was walking down the street, feeling pretty giddy, odd thoughts going through his head.
Thinking of his life — the way he’d lived it. And the people who’d touched him and whom he’d touched. A foreman in the Bedford plant, who’d worked for the company for forty years…The other men in his golfing foursome…Veronica…His brother…
His son, of course.
Still no call from Randy. And for the first time it occurred to him that maybe there was a reason the boy — well, young man — had been ignoring him. He’d always assumed he’d been such a good father. But maybe not. He’d have to rethink that.
Nothing makes you question your life more closely than when somebody’s trying to sell you immortality.
Walking toward the main parking garage, Covey noted that the area was largely deserted. He saw only a few grungy kids on skateboards, a pretty redhead across the street, two men getting out of a white van parked near an alley.
He paid attention only to the men, because they were large, dressed in what looked like cheap suits and, with a glance up and down, started in his direction.
Covey soon forgot them, though, and concentrated again on his son. Thinking about his decision not to tell the boy about his illness. Maybe withholding things like this had been a pattern in Covey’s life. Maybe the boy had felt excluded. He’d have to consider this.
He laughed to himself. Maybe he should leave a message about what he and Farley had just been talking about. Lord have mercy, what he wouldn’t give to see Randy’s reaction when he listened to that! He could—
Covey slowed, frowning.
What was this?
The two men from the van were now jogging — directly toward him. He hesitated and shied back. Suddenly the men split up. One stopped and turned his back to Covey, scanning the sidewalk, while the other sped up, springing directly toward the old man. Then simultaneously they both pulled guns from under their coats.
No!
He turned to run, thinking that sprinting would probably kill him faster than the bullets. Not that it mattered. The man approaching him was fast and before Covey had a chance to take more than a few steps he was being pulled roughly into the alleyway behind him.
“No, what are you doing? Who are—”
“Quiet!”
The man pressed Covey against the wall.
The other joined them but continued to gaze out over the street as he spoke into a walkie-talkie. “We’ve got him. No sign of hostiles. Move in, all units, move in!”
From out on the street came the rushing sound of car engines and the bleats of sirens.
“Sorry, Mr. Covey. We had a little change of plans.” The man speaking was the one who’d pulled him into the alley. They both produced badges and ID cards of the Westbrook County Sheriff’s Department. “We work with Greg LaTour.”
Oh, LaTour…He was the burly officer who, along with that skinny young officer named Talbot Simms, had come to his house early this morning with a truly bizarre story. This outfit called the Lotus Foundation might be running some kind of scam, targeting sick people, but the police weren’t quite sure how it worked. Had he been contacted by anyone there? When Covey had told them yes and that he was in fact meeting with Farley that afternoon they wondered if he’d be willing to wear a wire to find out what it was all about — the recorder taped low on his abdomen so the MRI wouldn’t pick it up.
Well, what it was all about was immortality…and it had been one hell of a scam.
The plan was that after he stopped at Farley’s office and dropped off the codicil to his will (he executed a second one at the same time, voiding the one he’d given Farley), he was going to meet LaTour and Simms at a Starbucks not far away.
But plans had apparently changed.
“Who’re you?” Covey now asked. “Where’re Laurel and Hardy?”
The officer who’d shoved him into the alley had blinked, not understanding. He said, “Well, sir, what happened was we had a tap on the phone in Farley’s office. He called Sheldon to tell him about you and we got the impression like they weren’t going to wait to try to talk you into killing yourself. Sheldon was going to kill you right away — make it look like a mugging or hit-and-run, we think.”
Covey muttered, “You might’ve thought about that possibility right up front.” He remembered a saying from his army days: Never volunteer.
There was a crackle in the mike/speaker of one of the officers. Covey couldn’t hear too well but the gist of it was that they’d arrested Dr. Anthony Sheldon just outside his office. They now stepped out of the alley and Covey observed a half-dozen police officers escorting William Farley and three men in lab coats out of the Lotus Foundation offices in handcuffs.
Covey observed the processional coolly, feeling contempt for the depravity of the scam, though also a grudging admiration. A businessman to his soul, Robert Covey couldn’t help being impressed by someone who’d identified an inexhaustible market demand. Even if the product he sold was completely bogus.