Justice for Hire Read Online Free PDF Page B

his wildest dreams.
    He brushed a hand through his slicked-back graying hair and wondered what the old man wanted this time. Probably the same thing as usual. His father’s mind appeared to be rapidly deteriorating, his memory certainly not what it once was.
    He didn’t want to be disturbed right now. Something had gone wrong with their first operation, and he was trying to figure out why. Perhaps things weren’t as prepared as they had thought. He couldn’t afford another slip-up like this one. Something had to be done about it.
    He sighed, tossed his pen onto the desk and rose to his feet. Better see what his father wants.
    He left the office, made his way down a long hallway, and stopped in front of an open door. He never liked going in there. The room smelled of death, the taste of the sterile atmosphere in his mouth, the sounds of the equipment as it hummed and pumped, prolonging the old man’s life.
    He took a breath and stepped inside the room. The nurse was perched in a chair by the bed, a book in her hands, reading by the fading evening sun that lit the otherwise darkened chamber, as she kept vigil over the dying man.
    “You can leave us for now,” Craig said.
    The nurse closed her book and slid it on a stand beside her. She left the room and closed the door quietly.
    Craig dropped into a chair beside the bed and leaned forward. He studied his father, pale and thin, wasting away, a skeleton covered in paper-white skin. His hair was sparse, not much more than a few strands of white protruding in patches from his otherwise bald head.
    The old man turned his head toward his son. “Hello, Oliver,” he said, his breathing shallow, his voice raspy.
    “Hello, Father. How are you feeling this evening?”
    The aged mouth forced a weak smile, a strange softness in his voice, as he said, “Very weak. But it’s good to see you.”
    That was something Oliver hadn’t heard often. The gentleness apparent even through the hoarseness of his voice, and the warm eyes his father now had, were unknown to him. His father always had hard eyes, demanding eyes, piercing eyes. And a sharp voice, never satisfied, always requiring more. Unlike his mother, who’d been weak, submissive and withdrawn.
    The faint voice rasped again, “Oliver, I need you to do something for me.”
    “Yes?”
    The feeble man took a slow breath and his voice labored as he spoke. “My notes. I want you to burn them.”
    Oliver frowned. “Burn them? But they are your life’s work. They contain all of your research and may be important some day.”
    The old man closed his eyes and shook his head slowly. “No. You must destroy them. Promise me you will. They are dangerous.”
    Oliver nodded. “I’ll destroy them.”
    The frail man lifted his arm. “Give me your hand, Oliver.”
    Oliver was repulsed as he reached out and held the dying hand. It felt like the hand of a child. Small, flimsy, helpless and repugnant. He swallowed the distaste he felt as he looked into his father’s pleading eyes. He saw in them a clarity, and a determined sense of purpose he’d never seen before.
    “I should’ve burned them long ago,” the frail man continued. “I should never have given them to you. You will destroy them, won’t you Oliver?”
    Oliver nodded and repeated, “I’ll destroy them.”
    “We did some terrible things.” The old man coughed weakly. “Unspeakable things. The world must never know the full truth of what was done.”
    “It will never know,” Oliver promised.
    His father’s searching eyes studied his, and then seemingly satisfied he’d heard the truth, closed his eyes. Oliver dropped the weakened hand and watched as his father rested, his breathing shallow.
    Oliver leaned back and contemplated a moment. His father had taught him well in his better days, and he’d learned much. He learned a promise made was as easily broken if the situation demanded it. His father wasn’t in his right mind. Oliver knew if he was, he would never have