Free The Immortalist by Scott Britz Page A

grow up to be truly his father’s son, strong and patient. Brave, too—only not too brave. Not brave enough to run into a booby-trapped house to save a couple of wounded comrades.
    Yolanda picked up the two empty milk glasses and the saucer with cookie crumbs and headed for the door, stopping once in the middle of the room to look back at her two precious jewels as they lay in the big poster bed. The maids said that Cricket Rensselaer-Wright had grown up in this house and that this had been her bed. How strange and wonderful it must have been having had a bed like this, with wooden pillars beautifully carved in the shape of corkscrews. No one had anything like it in the slums of La Perla in San Juan where she had grown up.
    Yolanda hooked her elbow around the doorknob to pull the door shut, then hurried down the rear servants’ staircase to the huge kitchen, where half a dozen cooks were at work preparing dinner for that evening. They were too busy to notice her as she set down the saucer and glasses and stole off into the long, narrow pantry. At the far end she knocked on a door—the secret entrance to Charles Gifford’s office.
    As soon as she opened the door, she pulled it back again. In the center of the room stood Jack Niedermann, with his back to her as he talked to Gifford.
    She was afraid Niedermann had heard the knock and would turn his head to see her. Since her husband had died, Niedermann had been pestering her—trying to give her foot rubs, or to kiss her neck or the inside of her elbow. He gave her expensive bottles of wine that she poured down the sink. Once she slapped him. After that he quit, but he turned cold toward her. If he saw her with Gifford now, she knew how jealous he would be. She did not want to lose her job. It gave her an independence that she prized—something that she had worked hard for, and that her mother and grandmother and aunts had never known.
    But Niedermann had not heard the sound of the door. Through the crack, Yolanda watched as he went on speaking. He sounded angry.
    â€œWhat’s this page about, Charles? I really haven’t got time right now. Subject Adam has interviews going on with the press and I need to make sure he doesn’t go off track.”
    â€œThis won’t take but a minute. I just got off the phone with Phillip Eden. He watched the whole rollout on TV. ‘A resounding triumph,’ he called it.”
    â€œFor which he’s taking credit, no doubt.”
    Gifford shook his head. “You’ve got him all wrong, Jack. He’s tickled to death with what you’ve done. I think this is a superb opportunity for the three of us to come together.”
    â€œThe three of us?”
    â€œTo talk about your ideas. For the Vector and for the company. I’m sure he’ll be receptive.”
    â€œAre you nuts?”
    â€œI want you to call off that emergency stockholders’ meeting. You haven’t announced it yet, have you?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œThen don’t. Let’s try this other approach first.”
    Niedermann paced and kicked at the carpet. “I can’t believe you’re doing this to me.”
    â€œAs the second-largest shareholder, I’m going to insist.”
    â€œJesus, Charles.” Niedermann threw his hands up into the air. “If you’d have looked at those documents I brought you this morning, you’d know this is absolutely fucked-up.”
    â€œWill you do it? Will you call off the meeting?”
    â€œI don’t have a choice, do I? Without your proxy, there is no meeting.”
    â€œGood! Then you’d better get back to that press conference.”
    Niedermann stalked toward the door—the official door, which led to where Mrs. Walls had her desk. With his hand on the knob, he stopped and looked back. Yolanda shuddered. Could he see her peeking? She was directly in his line of sight. But he looked only at Gifford. “You’ll be