“Only the rich can afford to be honest. And the only way they got rich was by being crooked. Like you. You might have changed your name, Mike—”
“Mark.”
“—but nothing else has changed.”
That wasn’t true. At one time, Ash could have carried a corpse for miles. Alone. Dug a deep hole and buried it. Then gone back and partied all night. Now, even sharing such a weight for a few minutes was too much. It wasn’t the sort of thing he should be doing, risking a heart attack for this. He ought to have someone he could trust, someone younger, someone who was family.
Carlo Menfi never had anyone. Because he had no family, no son, he’d had to trust Ash. Ash hadn’t betrayed him, but Menfi was still dead.
None of this need have happened. If Sciacca hadn’t interfered, if his muscle hadn’t pulled a gun, Ash would have inherited everything when Menfi died.
Except that Menfi had no intention of dying. Or not permanently.
“What’s this?” asked Sciacca, as he finally noticed the huge insulated cabinet next to them.
“A cryogenic freezer,” said Ash.
“A freezer? You mean like a meat store?”
“Almost, but for living meat. Carlo wanted to live forever, and it was my job to make sure he did. Before he died, I was to bring him down here and put him into suspended animation.”
“Huh?”
“He’d be more than dead, less than alive. He hoped his body would be revived in the future, and anything wrong with it would be fixed. He figured that by then they’ll be able to cure anything. If there isn’t the right medicine, people can have replacement parts fitted.”
“Like getting a car repaired, you mean?”
“Sure. You’ve heard of that guy in South Africa, the one who does heart transplants?”
“Yeah, but I’ve never heard of one of these.” Sciacca studied the huge box. “Must be a scam. Who sold it to Carlo?”
“Some scientist guy.”
“Ha! A mad scientist.”
Ash shrugged. He also had his doubts about the entire scheme, even though he’d seen the equipment working. He knew it could keep someone in suspended animation for at least a week. That was as long as the scientist had frozen himself. He might have been mad, but he wasn’t stupid.
Carlo Menfi had read about the man in some magazine, arranged a meeting, then offered to bankroll his project. The scientist had built two cryogenic units: one for Menfi, here in Las Vegas, and one for himself, wherever he lived—and wherever he planned on not dying.
“But not as mad as Carlo,” added Sciacca. “You know something? He should have asked for a lifetime guarantee! What a waste of money.”
“You can’t take it with you, Luigi. And what did he have to lose? He might only have had a very small chance of being revived, but without it he had no chance.”
And he had no chance now, not with a bullet in the brain.
“Death is permanent,” added Ash.
“I hope so. I wouldn’t want to meet up with any of the guys I rubbed out.” Sciacca ground out his cigarette with the sole of his shoe. “Why freeze the cop?”
They both glanced down at Wayne, who lay on the floor between them.
“I don’t want him around until things have settled down. In a couple of days, I’ll thaw him out.”
By then, Ash would know exactly what to do. About Menfi. About Sciacca. About Wayne.
He owed Wayne something for saving his life. Something? Everything. He also needed someone he could trust. Someone who was family. If the price of an heir was marriage to Susie, well, maybe that was the way it had to be.
He’d just have to offer Wayne a deal he couldn’t decline.
Sciacca helped lift the unconscious police officer into the cryogenic cabinet, then lit another cigarette as Ash started to connect the life-support systems. He’d smoked two more by the time Ash swung the heavy door shut.
“That’s him out of the way,” said Sciacca. “Now what do we do?”
“We?” said Ash.
Two days later, Mario Catania, alias Mark Ash, was arrested and charged with numerous state and federal offences, including the murders of Carlo Menfi and Luigi Sciacca. At his subsequent trial, he was found guilty on various counts and sentenced to a minimum of two hundred and eighty-nine years’ imprisonment. He didn’t live that long.
But Wayne Norton did.
CHAPTER ONE
Then he woke up.
His head throbbed painfully, and he lay without moving. He kept his eyes shut, hoping he’d fall asleep again and the pain would go away.
Wayne Norton felt totally exhausted, and he wondered what day it was. What shift was he on? He’d find out when either the alarm clock or his mother woke him. He hoped it would be Mom because she’d have a huge breakfast ready for him.
He felt hungry, as well as thirsty.
And cold. Very cold.
He pulled at the bedclothes, trying to snuggle down into the warmth. There was no sheet, no blanket, just one thin cover over him. No wonder he was cold. As he moved, his head throbbed even more. He realised he was naked. Another reason for being cold. Where were his pajamas?
The room was bright, which meant it had to be daytime. With the curtains open. Or no curtains. He felt the mattress beneath him, which didn’t feel like a mattress. This wasn’t his bed, he realised, wasn’t his room.
Where was he?
He opened his eyes so he could find out. Or tried to. His eyes wouldn’t open. They seemed to be stuck together.
He reached toward his face so he could prise his gummed lids apart. His arms ached when he moved them, and his fingers were very stiff. He must have been lying in an awkward position for most of the night.
There was a sudden pain above both eyes, as if he’d been stabbed, and he cried out.
In silence.
He’d lost his voice.
Or maybe he’d become deaf.
Perhaps both.
As well as blind.
What was going on?
He lay on the bed, which wasn’t his bed, and which didn’t really feel like any bed, and tried to remember what had happened yesterday.
But there was nothing out of the ordinary. As far as he could recall, it had just been another day.
Maybe he’d got drunk last night, that was the only explanation. It had only happened a few times before, but too much alcohol always wrecked his brain and body. No wonder he felt so terrible that his head was pounding, that there was an awful taste in his mouth, that he had such a thirst.
Was this the result of Susie’s birthday? It had to be, although he could remember nothing about the party. Not even being there.
The pain over his eyes had gone, but his head was still aching, and slowly he lifted his right hand up to his forehead. His arm felt so heavy, and it was such an effort, but eventually his palm touched his brow.
It was covered in hair. Hair which must have fallen down from his scalp. He moved his fingers higher, feeling it, pulling it.
His hair had grown. Long. Very long.
Not believing the evidence of one hand, Norton raised the other. His left hand felt even heavier, and it fell onto his chin and cheek as he reached for his head.
He had a beard.
Long hair. Beard.
He’d turned into a hippie!
He shouted in surprise. This time, he found his voice. It wasn’t very loud, but he heard himself. He also opened his eyes. They hurt. Everything was hurting, but this was as though the lids had been glued together. Because of the light, he closed them again quickly, bringing his hands up to cover his face.
His breath came in short bursts, as if he’d been running. He was trembling all over. Or shivering. Or both.
He opened his eyes again, slowly, fractionally. The first thing he saw was his fingers. His fingernails. They were over an inch long. Like a woman’s. No wonder he’d stabbed himself.