Hour of Reckoning (Donatella Book 2)

by Demetrius Jackson

  Earlier that day, the woman called on Patti because she felt strange, as if she was having contractions. Patti, who by that point had promised she would take her to the hospital when it was time to deliver the baby, said she would be right over. Within minutes she arrived at the woman’s house and drove her directly to the hospital. Instead of going to the entrance meant for labor and delivery, Patti drove her into an entrance underneath the hospital. Although the woman thought this strange, she had absolute trust in Patti.

  When they arrived, there was a nurse waiting with a wheelchair. Patti maneuvered the car haphazardly next to the waiting woman and unlocked the door. Two other nurses materialized from the dark recesses of the building to aid the woman into the wheelchair and in a flurry, she was whisked into the waiting doors and into an open elevator.

  Now, as the woman watched the makeshift curtain shaking from left to right and then right to left, she knew the moment was drawing closer and her excitement grew. She couldn’t wait to hold her son in her hands. A life she created, a life she would do anything to protect. Although the baby’s father wanted nothing to do with him and her family had disowned her, her son would know nothing but love. Unconditional, everlasting love.

  Just then she heard a whimper, a cry. Her son’s first sounds. She knew instinctively what was to come next from all the labor and delivery videos that she watched in the middle of the night when she could not sleep. They would need to go and suction the mucus from the baby and give him a quick clean and then he would be all hers.

  She turned her head so she could see the action as best she could and she heard another whimper, another cry. The other nurses in the room had their backs to her and their collective bodies were partially obscuring her view. She could faintly make out the table that they were going to suction the mucus from her son and for a brief moment – just for one moment she saw her son. In that moment she could see his fine, dark hair plastered to his scalp. His little nose, it looked so tiny, and his perfect little lips. And then she could see no more.

  She waited with great anticipation for what seemed like 30 minutes. Distantly she heard a door open, to which she paid no mind because the bodies were parting and her baby was surely making his way to her. However, when the last body had parted she saw Patti standing there in front of her empty handed.

  She wildly looked around for the nurse who was holding her baby – bringing him to her, but no other person came forth. She looked into the face of Patti and she saw both concern and triumph washed over her features.

  “Susan,” she said in her familiar soothing voice. “I’m sorry to tell you but your son – he was stillborn. He didn’t make it.”

  Susan finding her voice yelled a faint whisper, “What do you mean my son was stillborn? I heard him. I saw him. He cried on at least two, if not three, occasions.” Susan could feel the panic rising in her.

  “I assure you he made no sounds as he took no breaths.”

  Susan struggled to wrap her mind around the words that were assaulting her ears. She knew without a shadow of a doubt that her baby had been born. She knew she heard his cry. She looked at Patti with an intensity she had never felt before.

  “Bring me my baby! Bring him here.”

  “Susan we cannot do that. In a situation in which the baby is stillborn, we immediately have him or her checked to see what may have caused this abnormality.”

  Feeling stronger her whispered yell came with more ferocity, “Bring me my baby now!” She wanted to get up and go find her baby, but the nerve block made it impossible to move her lower body.

  “I’m sorry, Susan,” Patti said before turning and walking toward the door. Behind her she could hear the continued pleas from Susan until she walked through the stainless-steel door and it had closed behind her.

  Outside of the operating room she walked up to the figure waiting for her in the hallway. The figure, a slender woman in her mid-40s, stood patiently in her black knee-length pencil dress.

  “Did the transfer go as planned?” Patti asked in a flat voice.

  “Yes,” responded the woman in a high nasally voice. The Dumont’s are the proud recipients of a healthy baby boy and the agreed upon sum has been transferred into your account.”

  “Thank you, Beth,” came the reply.

  “And what should we do about Susan?” the woman asked looking back at the door.

  “No need to make it complicated. She has an IV in place, give her enough morphine to permanently end her pains. Have Raul and Ricky dispose of the body,” she said without an ounce of the compassion she had shown to the woman waiting on the other side of the door.

  “See to it that this is done quickly and that the room is sterilized. I have a feeling Amy Johnson will be ready to pop any day now.”

  February 4th – 11:15 a.m.

  Detective Carl Sampson stewed while he idly spun in his office chair with his face aimed toward the ceiling. Over a month had passed and he had not apprehended the person responsible for the death of Samantha Taylor and, worse, the massacre at GIS headquarters. Every lead he reviewed led to a spiderweb of misinformation. He had to admit that the trail, as sensational as it was, had now gone cold. His only solace came from the knowledge that the FBI woman, Donatella Dabria, had not solved the case as well.

  On several occasions he wondered if she purposefully withheld information from him to solve the case herself. Several times he picked up his desk phone and began dialing the number to her cell phone. Each time he stopped with his finger poised above the last digit and hung up the phone. It was better to believe the FBI agent didn’t have any additional information than to believe she was holding out on him.

  There was also a part of detective Sampson that longed to hear that southern smooth voice emanating from the beautiful woman. At times her eyes felt as if they were piercing his soul and other times, he felt enchanted by their gaze. Nonetheless calling her was out of the question, at least for now. He had been searching for a clue, any clue, he could bring to the investigation before making the call, yet he was still coming up empty.

  “Earth to Sampson,” a voice chided breaking him from deep contemplation. He rotated his chair another 90 degrees so he could face the person who had entered his office.

  “Yes, Officer Johnson,” Sampson responded, eyes fixed on the visitor.

  “Um sir, we are placing a lunch order from Crispy Banh Mi so I’m checking to see if you wanted anything.”

  “No, thank you. I packed my lunch today and I have a ton of work to catch up on. You guys enjoy.”

  “Ok sir, enjoy your lunch sir.” Johnson walked away, swiftly stirring the papers on Sampson’s desk leaving them askew. Sampson, a self-proclaimed perfectionist, began arranging the papers back in a tidy stack at the corner of his desk.

  As he focused on adjusting the papers, he felt a presence looming at the door. Preparing to ask Officer Johnson if he had something more on his mind, he looked up to see the elegant Agent Dabria in her black two-piece suit. Tongue leaden in his mouth he was only able to produce an incoherent sound.

  “Good day, Detective Sampson,” came the smooth harmonic voice from the FBI agent.

  Clearing his throat, “Good morning, Agent Dabria. Please come on in and have a seat,” he said standing to his feet.

  “You’re too kind,” she responded tilting her head forward with a subtle nod. “I don’t much care for police departments. Do you have any plans for lunch?”

  “No. Absolutely not,” he stammered a little too quickly.

  “Good. I know a spot not far from here that we can acquire something light. Do you mind accompanying me for a quick bite? I’d love to compare notes on the progress to bring Terri Buckley to justice.”

  Sampson thought to himself, I haven’t made any progress, yet instead he said, “Sure, let me grab my jacket.”

  Picking up his jacket from the back of the chair and moving toward the door, he placed his right arm into the jacket sleeve swinging it behind his back to insert hi
s left arm into the other sleeve. In doing so the papers at the edge of his desk were transported with the gust of wind to the middle of the desk. Sampson eyeballed the papers and decided they could wait.

  “After you,” he said motioning with his right hand for Donatella to exit the office. She obliged again with the same subtle nod and he followed her pulling the door closed behind him.

  They walked silently through the hallway, Donatella in the lead followed by Sampson. Sampson could sense averted eyes following their synchronized paces toward the elevator. He could feel a bead of sweat forming on his brow as he inwardly pleaded for the elevator to be there waiting on their arrival. He also noticed Officer Johnson from the corner of his eye unable to conceal his stare as well as the others. His mouth momentarily hinged open before he could will his jaw muscles to pull his mouth shut.

  At the elevator, Donatella reached her smooth, silky brown left hand toward the buttons and depressed the one pointing down. He noticed from habits of his single life that she didn’t sport a ring on her ring finger. This would be information he would file away for a later date. Mercifully the elevator was on their floor and the doors parted with the double ding he was all too familiar with.

  The pair rode the elevator down to the ground level in silence. Once the door opened Agent Dabria broke the silence.

  “We can head over to Brent’s Coffee Shop – I’ll drive.” Without a moment’s hesitation she pushed through the doors of the headquarters making her way to the parking lot. Detective Sampson realized with some amazement that he had to quicken his pace to keep up with her long silky strides. Although every step looked as if she was gliding across the pavement, the distance she covered was remarkable.

  Turning the corner and not paying attention, Detective Sampson ran into a woman coming the opposite direction.

  “Oh, I’m sorry Ms.,” he said holding her up so she didn’t fall to the ground.

  The woman gave the detective a sideway look and continued on her journey – he did the same. Drawing his attention back to Agent Dabria who was a few paces from a sparkling black Audi R8, he was once again amazed. She drives that he thought in astonishment. He casually walked over to the passenger side, opened the door, and slid into the black leather seat with red trim. Everything about the interior of the vehicle yelled sleek and seeing Donatella grip the steering wheel with familiarity, he knew she could handle the car and its power.

  Within five minutes of leaving headquarters they pulled up to Brent’s on Trade St. Walking through the front door Sampson could smell the unmistakable aroma of coffee and the delightful surprise of fresh baked goods. He took a detective’s survey of the establishment to realize Brent’s had more to offer than he initially expected. Communal seating that was meant for comfort and relaxing rather than function. Several bays with electrical outlets and USB attachments. A subtle track played effortlessly from the speakers giving additional warmth to the atmosphere. Groups of varying sizes sat around consuming their purchases, chatting away without a care in the world.

  There were still two patrons in front of Sampson and Dabria and at this moment he turned his attention to the menu. They carried an assortment of coffees from espresso to latte, including their home-brewed house blend. His nose had not been deceived as he eyeballed the dessert menu. Shortbread, pecan rolls, and muffins were prominent on the menu that proclaimed, “Baked Fresh Daily”.

  Their selection of sandwiches, soups, and salads anchored the menu. From locally sourced meats, veggies and cheeses to their homemade breads, spreads, and sauces. Taking in the entire atmosphere Sampson felt this would not be his last time at this establishment. As he prepared to commend Donatella on her selection of eateries, they were next in line. A girl in her mid to late 20s with pink hair smiled ear-to-ear as they approached the counter. Sampson figured this was part of her job until –

  “Special Agent Donatella! Oh my God it’s so good to see you again. Anything hot and juicy I can help you with today?”

  “Good afternoon, Margaret,” Donatella spoke, a smile caressing her face. “This is Detective Carl Sampson,” she motioned to the figure standing next to her. “We’re just here for a bite to eat today.”

  The woman shot out her hand toward Sampson. He raised his hand to meet hers and she pumped it feverishly. “It’s so good to meet you Mr. Sampson, I mean Detective Sampson. My name is Margaret and I’m at your service.”

  Sampson returned the smile, it was almost contagious at this point, and responded, “It’s nice to meet you, Margaret.”

  She squeezed his hand one more time before asking, “What can I get you two today, it’s on the house.”

  Both Agent Dabria and Detective Sampson gave their order and in turn were given the number 37 to sit on their table. They found a place to sit at one of the more functional settings, a table with two chairs, next to the window.

  “Detective Sampson,” came the smooth voice from Donatella, “I grow ever more concerned with our lack of progress in tracking down our prey. Terri is not one to sit idly by which makes me grow ever more concerned to what she is plotting.”

  Sampson had been pondering something for the last couple of weeks, yet had not spoken the words out loud, until now. “Are you positive this is the work of Terri Buckley? I mean it’s been a few weeks and we have not made any progress and there hasn’t been any other activity. Maybe the clue from the first murder scene, that of Samantha Taylor, was read incorrectly. I’m –”

  The words snapped off in his esophagus as the hazelnut eyes sliced through the remainder of his train of thought.

  “Detective, I have known Terri Buckley for many years. I was her partner for many years. I have witnessed firsthand what she is capable of when her mind is made up. I know how she thinks and I know that she will stop at nothing to achieve her end goal – whatever that goal happens to be in this situation. So, make no mistake, Terri Buckley is the person behind the Samantha Taylor murder and what happened to those poor individuals at Global Insights Security – of that I have no doubt.”

  Sampson, somewhat skeptical, decided it was in his best interest to keep quiet on the matter. Instead he changed course.

  “I'm still curious about the lone survivor and current CEO of GIS, Veronica King. Something doesn't sit right with me and her disappearance during the massacre.”

  Dabria nodded her head and before she could speak the pink-haired girl personally brought their food to the table.

  “Is there anything else I can get for you guys? Any help I can lend?” she asked with a glimmer in her eyes.

  During the last case Donatella worked, Margaret along with the stock boy, Lave, were able to identify Terri Buckley and thus help Donatella solve the case. Margaret, always eager to assist, looked for every opportunity to help even if no help was warranted.

  “That'll be all,” came the response from Donatella.

  Smile fading slightly and a hint of dejection, Margaret dropped off a few extra napkins that she held in her hand and walked back toward the counter.

  “Indeed, her story seems to have holes, but each one can be explained away. All but the fact that her husband has not come back from the business trip. I called in a few favors and he was confirmed as a passenger on the flight. I'm waiting to hear back from another contact to see if anyone has come across Mr. King since his arrival.”

  “Is there anything that would give you a reason to believe he isn't where he said he'd be?”

  “When I spoke with Mrs. King, I'm 100 percent sure she was lying to me; however, I haven't determined the source of her lie. A couple of days ago I began to focus on the husband. See detective, Terri is a woman who likes leverage and if Veronica King is alive, and Terri is behind the attack, I'm sure she had some leverage – a sense of influence, on Veronica. I want to know what that was and how she could be using Mrs. King.”

  “For arguments sake, let's say you're right. What could possibly be her endgame? Veronica is now the CEO of GIS, a move many in the industry spec
ulated was going to happen fairly soon. She started a foundation in honor of those who were slain. She set up an educational trust for the children or grandchildren of her colleagues who were killed. She announced her company would aid the Cleveland Art Museum with a new security system after hearing that they were hacked. In essence, Veronica King is going on running the company as one would expect.”

  “Yes... nothing seems amiss, and yet something certainly must be.”

  Sampson, resisting the urge to roll his eyes, felt his phone vibrate in his pocket. He reached inside to stave off the vibration when he realized something strange. Inside his pocket, next to his phone was a folded sheet of paper. Sampson did not keep paper in his pockets, thus this foreign intrusion was jarring.

  He pulled it from his pocket with an expression of confusion plastered across his face. This brought a raised eyebrow from Donatella. He unfolded the note, read the contents silently, and then in a surprise, handed the note to Donatella.

  Curious, she plucked the note from Sampson, turned it around so the contents faced her and read:

  Detective Sampson. I see you have taken a keen interest in the case along with Special Agent Donatella Dabria. I'd be careful not to stay too close to her, as those that are close end up being hurt. Not to mention, she is still destined to die, and so are those she cares about. If I were you, I'd leave while you have the chance.

  As Donatella read, Sampson racked his brain trying to figure out where the note had come from.

  Donatella folded the note, “Where did you get this?”

  “It was in my pocket. I'm not sure –” at that moment it dawned on him.

  “When we were leaving the headquarters, a woman bumped into me turning the corner headed to the parking lot. Do you think –”

  “Yes,” Donatella said without a hint of surprise. “Terri Buckley slipped you that note. And that can only mean one thing – she is prepared to strike once again.”