| Zachariah Adler studied the pale, birdlike man standing in the Horizon Surety outer office. Yes, it was all there in the eyes, a certain tic-like twitchiness that betrayed the potential customer every time. Those eyes had seen the Future in the twisted, bloody metal of wrecked cars on the freeway and deciphered the inherent message in amputated limbs and the loathsome diseases that crept into a defenseless body and ate it out from the inside. Those eyes understood Fate was coming to Get them and were endearingly determined to do something about it before it was Too Late. Opening the door to his office, Adler felt the need for order and dependability sheeting off this one in waves. He glanced at the completed enrollment sheet in his hand and said smoothly, "Mr. Fereman, please come in and tell me what I can do for you." William Leroy Fereman wiped at his gleaming forehead, then sank with only a slight creak into cool depths of the leather chair. "It's my--family." His voice was jerky, like a car that ran too fast, then bogged down on the turns. "I want to--provide for--them, you know, in--case." "Of course." Adler opened the portfolio on his desk, then picked up the slim black fountain pen. "Just exactly what did you have in mind?" He poised the pen over the pristine white sheets of paper, a study in servile readiness. "I'm--not sure." Fereman tugged at the tightly buttoned collar above his blue tie and looked as though he might bolt. "I--I--" Laying the pen down, Adler folded his hands and radiated calm through every pore in his body. "It's a wonderful thing, Mr. Fereman, to see a man so concerned with doing right by his family. I wish I could tell you how many times husbands and fathers have sat in that same seat, determined to stint on their insurance, selfishly thinking only of themselves and the moment, never caring what would happen to the little woman and her bundles of joy when they were gone." Fereman leaned forward. "Bundles of--joy?" "I'm speaking of children, Mr. Fereman." Adler circumnavigated the desk, then pulled up a chair beside the trembling man. "The future, in other words, your sole chance for immortality on this Earth. How many have you been blessed with?" Fereman swallowed hard. "Two--I have--two." Adler felt the exultation of the hunt sweep over him. "Might I see them?" He stretched out his hand as Fereman dug for the obligatory wallet snapshots. Two chicken-necked boys stared out from the worn K-Mart photo, their mouths open, bearing the unmistakable Fereman stamp of reluctant chins and dishwater-colored eyes. Adler handed the picture back as though it were sacred. "A fine pair of young men. You must be proud." Fereman bobbed his head. "And you want to assure their future." Adler leaned closer. "Provide for college and personal computers and cars and graduate school and all the thousand and one things that young men will need in this rapidly advancing age." He shook his head. "Are you aware that right now as we sit here, the average cost of sending a youngster to college is twenty-five thousand dollars?" "I know." Fereman achieved a square knot with his fingers. "That's why--the insurance." The hunched shoulders, the dropped eyes, the skittering hands, Adler savored the signs of insecurity like a fine red wine, then reached across the desk for pen and paper. "I understand. Now . . ." He bent his head and began to scratch black numbers across the white sheet. "You'll want Whole Life, of course, none of that small-minded, self-serving Term Insurance for a true family man like yourself." A faint rosiness crept into Fereman's sunken cheeks. "And, taking your salary and assets into consideration, I would think . . ." He caught Fereman with a solid eye contact. "Five hundred thousand?" Fereman's mouth dropped open and he bolted out of his chair. Adler hastily marked out the figure, then folded his long-fingered hands. "Why don't you just tell me how much you had in mind then?" "I--have to--go." The little man fumbled at his hat. "Thank--thank--" He stumbled over the leg of the chair, then grappled the door with both hands, letting its closing swish cut off anything else Adler might have had to say. Adler sat back in his chair and wrote "five hundred thousand" on the white paper again, then circled it twice with a heavy black line. Although Fereman had been a trifle more giddy in the old starting gate than he had originally assessed, it would signify nothing in the end. The enrollment sheet listed his home address, work number, bank references, credit standing, in short, everything that marked a man's place in society. In coming to dance tonight at the edge of his web, William Leroy Fereman had taken that important first step toward joining the ranks of the Insured, and perhaps, if Adler wasn't mistaking the quality of material coming into his hands, even Beyond. According to Adler's research, part of Fereman's reluctance to commit to a truly substantial policy was the amount of money he expected to inherit from his family. Fereman's parents both lived here in Lawrence, still able-bodied and looking forward to their retirement. As long as Fereman anticipated a sizable sum from them, he was going to have difficulty in seeing the real value of a solid insurance policy. Arriving in the middle-class neighborhood just after midnight, Adler spent some time studying the comfortable frame house from his black car. By all accounts, the Fereman, Srs., were good hardy stock, but like so many Americans these days, they had sunk most of their capital into their home. Adler pulled on his gloves, then reached into the back seat for the gas can and sloshed it once to make sure that he had enough to do the job thoroughly. The parents had some insurance, of course, both on Fereman, Sr.'s life and the house itself, but Adler had already made a deal with his counterparts at Agape Life and Lawrence Home and Car. The last few premium payments had already "disappeared" into computer limbo and would never be accounted for. The final termination notices had been back-dated and logged. Everything was in readiness. Opening the car door, he slipped out into the cooling night air. It was unfortunate, he mused, but certainly not uncommon how sometimes when people grew older, they became forgetful and unreliable in their business affairs. He doubted that anyone was going to give the lapsed insurance a second thought, except Fereman, Jr. |
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