The Killing Jar Read Online Free PDF Page B

bedding.
    “What’s the matter?” she asked before he could get a foot into her room.
    The sight of her always warmed his heart, as if nothing was wrong in the world. She sat on her faded green chair, her gnarled hands busy at work on some puzzle.
    “I got the paperwork.”
    Her thin grey curls bounced as she reached to place the device on the tea table.
    “You should sign them.” Her voice was crisp despite her age. Ramona wasn’t one to mince words.
    “What if something happens? There’s considerable risk.” Silas was grateful she couldn’t see his features, that time had stolen enough of her vision that she couldn’t see his pain. “I’d be held responsible—”
    “That’s not what you’re afraid of.”
    “No.” He wondered how she knew, how she always knew.
    “Sign them.”
    “Would you be upset if I didn’t? Would you hate me for it?”
    “No, child. You would hate yourself.” Quieter, softer, she said, “Sign them. It’s the only chance either of you have.”
    Silas felt the truth of it sink into his bones. The cloud of uneasiness dissipated. A fire fueled inside him.
    “I will. Thank you, Ramona.”
    He stepped across the Iranian rug and leaned in to kiss her forehead.
    “You’re cold,” he said when he felt the cool of her skin. Without waiting for her response, he grabbed the hand-crocheted afghan from the corner of her bed and draped it across her lap.
    “See, that’s better, isn’t it?” He didn’t know if she meant the papers or the blanket.
    “You’re feeling all right? No pain today?”
    Ramona smiled. Her vacant eyes searched him out in her permanent dark. “No, child. Not a bit.”
    He knew she lied, but wouldn’t press her. If she didn’t want to tell him, he wouldn’t ask. She wasn’t one to be pressed.
    Silas returned to his office and poured a drink from the bottle that had appeared on his desk. He unlocked the drawer, retrieved the folder, and signed the documents.
    With the warmth of scotch in his belly and some small measure of peace in his heart, Silas walked to the galley to sit with his recruits and eat shrimp ceviche.
     

 

     

MICHAEL
    LRF-AQ
    AUGUST 7, 2232
     
    And Dr. Parr makes seven.
    Seven deaths in two years. Of the 1,292 Scholars in the LRF, in addition to the 349 Craftsmen as support staff, seven deaths should have been a victory. But Michael Filmore knew better.
    A Scholar himself, Michael well understood the resilience of his class. Individuals genetically engineered for health, intelligence, and longevity should have no reason to succumb to death. All had died young, before forty-five, with no results from the digital autopsy to explain it.
    In fact, the files were sent back to Earth for complete analysis.
    But as far as he knew, there was no cause. No reason.
    There were no common factors. No trends. The seven had all worked in different departments, followed different schedules.
    There was no connection between them.
    He had the sinking feeling something else was going on in the LRF.
    Michael’s expert hand pulled the tie-knot loose, slid it through his collar and tossed it haphazardly on the large bed at the center of his room, the largest personal quarters in the LRF. On this side, the most luxurious bed in the facility, two nightstands, a wide closet to hold his extensive suit collection, and a bathroom bigger than some of the apartments.
    On the office side, his faux-wood desk occupied the central space, complete with a pair of cushioned chairs. His assistant’s desk sat in the corner.
    He unfastened the top few buttons of his crisp white shirt that so well contrasted the deep chocolate color of his skin, one of the finest traits on the market. His parents had been both fortunate in their genetic combinations and wealthy enough to afford the best geneticist.
    He knew every time someone met him, they regarded him with great esteem. Because of his skin, they assumed he had numerous rare traits—and he did. He had blonde, kinky curly