Description
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Excerpt
21:24
“I believe he’s asleep, Mr. Randall.”
Beck nodded. “I’m sorry, but I couldn’t get away from the office any sooner.”
The nurse frowned at him. “I know Morris wanted to see you. He left a message for you this afternoon.”
He ignored the veiled criticism that suggested he didn’t make enough time for his disabled father. He wouldn’t deny the accusation if she stated it boldly, because it was true. Beck didn’t make his father a priority, having never been a priority for Morris in his childhood. “I came as soon as I could. I’ll be five minutes.” He walked past Sheridan, the dragon-faced old hag who was both Morris’s nurse and companion. She might want to protest, but wouldn’t, knowing Morris had summoned him.
As he walked up the staircase, Beck kept his eyes focused forward, determined not to meet the gazes of any of his ancestors forever frozen in portraits. From past experience, he knew looking at them would give the experience of peering into a long hall of mirrors, with the same face reflected back, only subtly distorted in each mirror. All of the Randall men had the same elegant bone structure, patrician noses, and thin lips. The only variances were in hair and eye color. Even those varied little. Beck himself had inherited the same blond hair as his father, along with the drab blue eyes that never blazed with emotion, no matter how passionate, angry, or fired up he felt.
His father, stubborn as he was, refused to move from the master suite on the second floor of the rambling Boston manor. Morris seemed determined to pretend as if life was as it had always been, and that he hadn’t been paralyzed for fifteen years from an accident that had ended his career. A network of automated walkways and lifts accommodated his wheelchair on the few occasions he left his room, and Beck stepped onto the second-floor walkway.
In seconds, he was at the double doors of his father’s room. He rapped once before opening the door. Beck entered quietly but needn’t have bothered. Sheridan had been mistaken in thinking Morris slept. He was sitting up in bed, tensely watching the door with sharp blue eyes, undimmed by age or the myriad infirmaries plaguing him.
“I thought you weren’t coming.” The words levied a stark judgment against Beck’s sense of family obligation.
He shrugged it off, used to the condemnation. For fifteen years, since Morris lost his sole purpose in life—his career—and remembered he had a son, he had expected Beck to be at his disposal. He had soon learned he was destined for disappointment but hadn’t given up trying to foster what he expected from his only child. “I had a lot to do at GeneTech. I’m leaving in the morning for Primos. You might have received my vidmail about the assignment.” He walked toward the bed, stepping into the circle of illumination provided by the antique table lamp his father preferred to the ambient light provided by solar energy panels. The same hard-backed chair that was always there awaited him, and he sat in it reluctantly. It was lower than the bed, giving his father the appearance of a king lording over his subject. Beck didn’t like to concede anything in their unspoken power struggle.
“Why do you think I wanted to see you?” As he spoke, Morris’s haughty expression crumbled, showing barely contained fear behind the façade. “You can’t go, boy.”
Beck started at the use of “boy” as much as the command not to go. “Excuse me?”
“Don’t go to that planet.”
“I have to. I’m the company liaison to the ECA crew investigating our operation. The CEO of GeneTech assigned me personally. You remember Jerry Hawthorn, don’t you?” Beck frowned at the way his father’s hands trembled. “He said you were once involved with the TF project on Primos.”
“Resign if you have to, but don’t go.” Morris’s face was pallid, and the shakes had spread from his hands to his entire body. “Listen to me, Beck. Don’t go.”
With a sigh of irritation, Beck smoothed his slacks. “I don’t have time for this. I still have paperwork to review before I leave in the morning.” He stood up, coming to the bed with the intent of leaning down to kiss his father on the cheek. He paused when Morris’s hand fastened around his wrist with surprising strength.
“I didn’t think you’d listen to me without proof. Get that box off my writing table and read through it.”
He could feel the minutes flying past. His plans for a relaxing evening at home with his fiancée were fading away. Beck went to the writing table to pick up the plastic box holding an assortment of files. Theresa always encouraged him to spend more time with his father, so he hoped she would understand why he was going to be delayed.
He took the box back to the bed, sat in the chair, and looked at his father. “What am I looking for?”
“Read it.” Morris reached into the box with an age-spotted hand, lifting out the top folder. When he opened it, several photos spilled out. “Read it all, and then tell me you still want to go.”
As he stared at the pictures, confused, Beck began to read. And read. By the time he had digested the last scrap of information more than an hour later, his hands were trembling almost as badly as his father’s had been. What was he going to do?
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