There Is A Reaper ...
By
Charles V. De Vet
Doctors had given him just one month tolive. A month to wonder, what comes afterward?There was one way to find out—ask a dead man!
The amber brown of theliquor disguised the poison itheld, and I watched with asmile on my lips as he drank it.There was no pity in my heart forhim. He was a jackal in the jungleof life, and I ... I was one ofthe carnivores. It is the lot of thejackals of life to be devoured bythe carnivore.
Suddenly the contented lookon his face froze into a startledstillness. I knew he wasfeeling the first savage twingeof the agony that was tocome. He turned his head andlooked at me, and I saw suddenlythat he knew what I had done.
"You murderer!" he cursed me,and then his body arched in themiddle and his voice choked offdeep in his throat.
For a short minute he sat, tense,his body stiffened by the agonythat rode it—unable to move amuscle. I watched the torment inhis eyes build up to a crescendo ofpain, until the suffering became sogreat that it filmed his eyes, andI knew that, though he still stareddirectly at me, he no longer sawme.
Then, as suddenly as the spasmhad come, the starch went out ofhis body and his back slid slowlydown the chair edge. He landedheavily with his head resting limplyagainst the seat of the chair.His right leg doubled up in a kindof jerk, before he was still.
I knew the time had come."Where are you?" I asked.
This moment had cost me sixtythousand dollars.
Three weeks ago the best doctorsin the state had given me amonth to live. And with sevenmillion dollars in the bank I couldn'tbuy a minute more.
I accepted the doctors' decisionphilosophically, like the gamblerthat I am. But I had a plan: Onewhich necessity had never forcedme to use until now. Several yearsbefore I had read an article aboutthe medicine men of a certain tribeof aborigines living in the junglesat the source of the Amazon River.They had discovered a process inwhich the juice of a certain bush—knownonly to them—could beused to poison a man. Anyone subjectedto this poison died, but fora few minutes after the life left hisbody the medicine men could stillconverse with him. The subject,though ostensibly and actuallydead, answered the medicine men'severy question. This was theirprimitive, though reportedly effectivemethod of catching glimpses ofwhat lay in the world of death.
I had conceived my idea at thetime I read the article, but I hadnever had the need to use it—untilthe doctors gave me a month tolive. Then I spent my sixty thousanddollars, and three weeks laterI held in my hands a small bottleof the witch doctors' fluid.
The next step was to secure myvictim—my collaborator, I preferredto call him.
The man I chose was a nobody.A homeless, friendless non-entity,picked up off the street. He hadonce been an educated man. Butnow he was only a bum, and whenhe died he'd never be missed. Aperfect man for my experiment.
I'm a rich man because I havea system. The system is simple:I never make a move until I knowexactly where that move will leadme. My field of operations is thestock market. I spend money unstintinglyto secure the informationI need before I take each step. Ihire the best investigators, bribeemployees and persons in positionto give me the information I want,and only when I am as certain ashumanly possible that I cannot bewrong do I move. And the systemnever