by Lou Paduano
No answers came in the weeks following their botched operation. The CDC swept the confines of Oliver Blake’s lab, retrieving samples for study and removing the body of the fallen—the remains quarantined. Homeland Security oversaw the aftermath. All records were classified, and any chance at answers was buried in red tape. Each step was by the book—each for the safety of the country still reeling from the loss of twenty-three people in a callous act of terrorism.
Time passed in a blur. Even the funeral. Words were spoken by others. She had none to offer. Her words, her final order, had ended the man’s life. What could be said to make up for that decision? What could she provide for the grieving, her own team included, to make up for that choice—one she would make again in an instant?
There was no secondary objective. No mission to retrieve a live sample. Their job had been clear: find the man and his records. Grissom had lied to the team and it had cost him his life. It was another question never to be answered.
“Why?”
Metcalf placed her briefcase next to the metal desk in the center and dropped her morning news atop the surface. Reports and status updates from the previous shift were shuffled aside, their number growing. She couldn’t focus on them, unable to give them the attention they deserved. When she had lost Grissom, she not only lost the head of her field team, she lost her second-in-command: her deputy director. Now everything fell to her and she wasn’t ready yet to handle things.
Not when the questions remained.
Metcalf left the desk and the backlog behind. At the rear of the office was a small credenza. A pitcher of water and four empty glasses sat upon a cloth in the center. She shifted the contents to one side and lifted the cloth to reveal a small keyhole. She slipped a silver key from her pocket into the waiting lock, the movement as natural as breathing.
A metal box sat within. Metcalf’s chest clenched as she pushed open the lid. Hundreds of photos rested inside. The one on top was of a bright yellow farmhouse with a wraparound porch and hanging swing. Sitting on the swing, hand-in-hand, were her and Grissom. They smiled and laughed at the innocence of the day, the sheer peace of the moment.
It was a companionship that grew over time. Grissom had stood at her side from the very beginning, through the formation of the department, and the fights therein with every agency in Washington. She’d asked him for his loyalty and he’d answered with a decade of service and dedication to their cause.
Grissom did the asking after the photo that day at the farmhouse.
She never could say no to him.
“What the hell was I thinking, Jake?”
The box snapped shut and the concealed door closed over top. She shuffled the pitcher back into place after pouring a small glass to drown the contents of her stomach trying to fight their way to the surface.
Her work continued to wait. She loomed over it and let out a long breath, grateful when the door opened.
“Director?” the strong voice called before stepping inside. Stephanie Atwater wore a black sheath dress with a red blazer that covered her shoulders. A pair of flats dulled the sound of her arrival.
“Yes, Stephanie?”
She always brought a warm smile to the dismal space. A consummate professional, she never overstepped her bounds, keeping the chatter focused on the business at hand. It was exactly what Metcalf desired from her personal assistant.
“The Council is on the line.”
“Of course they are.” She’d avoided the matter for the last two weeks. Grissom had handled them in the past, the more tactful of the pair. Now it was another task passed to her with his loss. They called daily, demanding answers, pressing for information that either didn’t exist or couldn’t be explained. Everything available was already in the reports offered by her team and every member of the operations staff that had been present the day of the Blake operation.
An inquiry was set, a requirement in these situations. Part of her couldn’t wait to finish the investigation to put it behind them. Yet, that meant leaving Grissom behind as well in a way. It was a conversation she wasn’t ready to have.
“Take a message.”
Stephanie nodded, hand to the door. “Is there anything I can do? Agent Grissom…”
She paused when Metcalf’s gaze lowered. The mere mention of the man’s name affected them all. The petite blond offered another nod, then slipped into the shadows of the doorframe.
“I’ll let them know.”
Left alone, Metcalf pulled the chair out and set to work. Morning papers from across the country waited for her. She dug through the news, stopping at the fourth periodical on the pile—the morning edition of The Buffalo News. The image screamed at her, fingers tightening and rending the photo into a blur of color under their grip.
Work would wait—questions, too, for that matter. Hell, the entire world could take a number. She failed Grissom but refused to do so again. This time she had the chance to make it right.
Her briefcase was back in hand and the door opened without hesitation. Her steps quickened, ignoring the swath of people milling about outside the Research room. She was nearly to the hall when Stephanie called, “Director?”
Metcalf stopped. “I’m taking some time.”
Stephanie nibbled the corner of her bottom lip. She kept her voice low and away from the curious gaze of those around. “Far be it from me to question it, especially in light of everything, but is that wise?”
Metcalf smiled. Stephanie’s concern was always appreciated—and always accurate. “Not in the least.”
Sullen eyes accepted the response, a glance back to the phone and the recently ended call a reminder of the stakes.
“What is it, Stephanie?”
“They’ve assigned an investigator to look into the operation,” she said.
“Who?”
“An independent consultant…”
“Hollis,” Metcalf hissed. David Hollis had his hand in every government agency without the need of a badge. He had no place in this, yet somehow sifted through the rubble of their tragedy, hoping for opportunity. “Damn.”
“There’s more,” Stephanie continued. “They’ve also hired a replacement for Deputy Director Grissom.”
Deputy Director. Her assistant chose her words carefully. The new recruit was not intended to fulfill Grissom’s other role as Head of Field Operations. They would not be a useful component to the department, but another bureaucrat to run numbers.
“Did they say who?”
“They didn’t.”
Metcalf nodded, and backed away slowly. She needed to be away from her office. “Send me the information when you have it.”
“Where are you going?”
She lifted the paper, the image of the courthouse and the accused Ben Riley dead center on the page. “To settle some accounts.”
Chapter Five
The bowl swirled beneath Wilson Dupree as he vacated every ounce of food and liquid he’d swallowed over the last two days. He heaved, and the final contents in his strained and agonized stomach splashed his reddened cheeks. He pawed at the remnants glued to his lips and wondered when it would end.
Eventually, the delicate balance in his gut returned and he settled along the bathroom floor of the convenience store. It was the closest stop within reach, the urge sudden and violent.
Staggering to the bathroom mirror, Wilson wiped the flakes of half-digested food from his face. He spit vigorously into the sink, hoping to remove the taste of the previous night’s canned chili from memory. The very thought of it made him inch slightly back to the toilet bowl.
His unkempt hair covered his eyes and he pulled it back. His forehead burned at the touch. His eyes were swollen, bloodshot from a lack of sleep. The pain kept him up, and the inability to rest increased that agony in a never-ending cycle.
Wilson shook the dreariness from his eyes. Once-sharp green orbs faded to gray in the dismal lighting of the bathroom. He swiped at
the dusty mirror, moving closer for a better look.
What is happening to me?
He pounded out of the bathroom and almost bowled over Juniper Flynn, the owner of Mainly Convenience. The mid-fifties attendant carried a tire around her midsection. Her left foot dragged behind the right in an effort to follow her one and only customer.
“Feeling all right?” she asked, her mouth only able to open on the right side, which caused her words to be muffled in Wilson’s plugged ears.
“Don’t worry, June,” he said without looking. He continued to shuffle farther into the store. “I made sure to hit the target. Mostly.”
He rounded the corner quickly and made a beeline for the medicine aisle. He bent low, his bleary eyes unable to make out the signage along the rows of products.
“Wilson?”
“Aspirin,” he muttered, continuing through the different selections offered in the small shop. “Just need aspirin.”
He paused near the front of the store. A large gap in products where the aspirin once sat stared back at him.
“No.”
Hands pawed at the neighboring items. He shoved them aside, from eye drops to antacids, all in the hopes of finding a lost box of ibuprofen, or some Tylenol forgotten in a rush. Boxes crashed to the floor in his desperation and he collapsed along with them, then rested uncomfortably with his back against the display.
When he opened his eyes, June was holding out a bottle. “Here.”
He snatched the pills from her, and snapped open the lid. Three pills shuffled into his shaking hand. He downed them without a second glance. His head pounded, and his fever pulsed, but he already felt better from the pills—the mental effect enough to keep him moving for a little longer.
“You too, then?” he asked as he fought for his feet.
June made no effort to help, her stocky frame barely able to carry her own weight, let alone the six-foot-two former star of the high school football team. She tapped her temple lightly. “Like a brass band against my skull. It’s why I hoarded the good stuff.”
“Thanks.” He wiped his forehead free from a fresh layer of sweat. “Sorry about the mess. Don’t know what—“
“Got nothing better to do today anyway. You should try and take it easy though, Wilson,” June said. She moved for the counter. “Like the rest of town.”
Wilson nodded at the emptiness surrounding them. Usually at this hour, people were swarming the streets. Instead, there was no one—no sound. Just the barrenness of the city. Wilson checked his watch, blinking hard to focus on the digital display.
“Taking it easy would be nice, June,” Wilson said. “Too bad I’m late to pick up the kids. Again.”
Primrose Elementary marked the western border of Bellbrook and the sister town of Centerville. The line in the sand also served as the barrier Wilson’s ex-wife refused to cross, leaving him the duty of picking up his kids from school.
Lectured time and again for his inability to read a damn clock, the exhausted soul could hear the words from Assistant Principal Browne even as he pulled into the lot. He parked to the rear, hoping to avoid the glut at dismissal.
A dismissal that should have been ten minutes earlier.
Wilson checked his watch again, syncing up the timepiece with the Buick’s clock. Both matched, yet no children raced down the street or around the playground to the left of the school. No parents waited at their vehicles for the rushing feet of kids excited for afternoon cartoons and junk food.
He shuffled from the car and the sun blinded his bleary eyes. The aspirin cut down the pain, but a humming remained behind his ears, piercing like the wail of an infant. He passed his neighbor’s mini-van; the engine was running and driver’s side door open with no one inside.
“Weird,” he commented before starting for the front door to Primrose.
The office matched the scene outside. No sign of life. Paperwork littered the ground and phones were left off their base. The hall followed suit. Each step brought more anxiety to Wilson’s sore chest.
“Josh?” He rounded the corner for the third-grade class of his son. Backpacks lay in piles near desks. Jackets remained in the closet in the back of the room.
“Where the hell?” He left the scene behind, and turned for the first-grade corridor. “Amy?”
He stood in the frame of the empty classroom, tears mixing with sweat. Where could they be? What happened to them?
Grabbing Amy’s fallen Wonder Woman backpack and her purple raincoat, Wilson ran down the hall. A pair of glass doors marked the rear of the building. Beyond them sat picnic tables filled with desserts and treats for the kids.
“Fall Days,” he breathed. He wiped the tears from his eyes. “I forgot about Fall Days.”
It was a celebration every October. The school marked the occasion with a field day, one last real outing before the weather turned unpredictable. Josh had invited him to the party. How could he have forgotten?
A rush of wind greeted him when he opened the door. No other sound was heard save for the brisk air swirling and the random bird call caught in the draft. Wilson’s eyes widened at the sight of the looming oak trees casting a long shadow over the back of the school. They spread from the exit, filling the periphery and extending far into the distance—a great forest.
“How did—?”
Wilson doubled over in pain, his hands plastered over his ears as a shrill cry filled his senses. His heart pounded to match his head, the threat of his skull splitting a genuine possibility for the man.
His knees slammed into the metal running at the base of the doorframe. Amy’s belongings fell from his hands. He couldn’t see, couldn’t think. The act of breathing became a foreign task to him. He struggled with everything.
The sound grew to a crescendo until his struggle inevitably ended.
Wilson Dupree’s hands dropped from his ears, and his arms fell slack along his sides as he stood. His eyes, once as green as the lush trees before him, faded to gray and then to white. Stumbling from the school, Wilson left the last remnants of his daughter’s belongings and walked mindlessly into the forest.
He never looked back.
Chapter Six
Ben ran his fingers over the bloodstain adorning his tie. He’d inherited it after his father’s passing. The soft fabric comforted him, the large single blotch of deep red overlaying the black linen.
From the job…
He’d never wanted the job, never had the desire for the work his father always held in such high esteem. All he saw in it was darkness, one that swallowed up the man and his entire world too often. Despite his feelings, Ben followed his father’s footsteps and served. He wore the badge proudly, trying to help where he could, to make a difference and bring some light back into his city.
He’d failed.
At the end of the trial, the testimony provided against him by Detective Horace Waters and a dozen others put the final nail in the coffin of everything that remained of Benjamin Harrison Riley. His life ended, and a new one was waiting outside in the form of two burly federal agents, there to escort him to his prison transport and a twenty-year sentence for crimes he’d never perpetrated.
Unable to handle the strain—the judge’s harsh words booming in his ears—Ben took to the nearest restroom. He needed to be away from the storm of reporters, the lights from cameras, and the screaming of questions dizzying to him. Away from the mistakes made and the ignored advice that had led to his arrest. It was his one last act of defiance before all choice, all personal freedom faded and he became a number in the system, wearing nothing more than a prison jumpsuit.
It sounded slightly dramatic, but it helped him justify sitting in the narrow bathroom stall for the past thirty minutes playing with his tie. A knock on the door reminded him, however, that his time had long since run out.
“Occupied,” Ben said. Staring deeper into the red splotch of blood on his tie, he almost caught his father staring back. The m
an had always judged—always hoped for more from the young man.
“I’m aware,” a woman’s voice answered, causing Ben to smile. “Your ass has to be numb by now.”
He reached for the lock and clicked it over. The door swung open. “Like you wouldn’t believe.”
Emily rolled her eyes. Her arms crossed her chest as she leaned against the wall opposite the stall. Since the trial began, Ben cared to be around few people. Even fewer wished to be anywhere near him, considering the allegations against him. If anyone topped the list, though, it was the fiery brunette in front of him.
Ben struggled to stand. His black flats scrunched his toes, the pair two sizes too small. They were all he had. He fixed his tie along his white Stafford shirt, his handcuffs clattering with each movement. “You know you don’t fit the gender-specific nature of this room, right?”
“Be glad it’s me in here and not the escort outside you managed to piss off with this pouting business.”
“I prefer to call it a deep contemplation of the universe. Sounds cooler.”
“No it doesn’t.”
“It rolls off the tongue easier than ‘coming to grips with my life being stolen from me and my face being plastered on every screen as the poster child for police corruption.’”
“Ben.” Emily reached for his shoulder. He let her squeeze, feeling the warmth of her fingers, the joy of her presence for a brief moment before pulling away.
“You didn’t have to stay.”
“No one else is coming, Ben. I kept hoping, kept praying something would change, but… No one is coming to your rescue.”
“I know,” he announced over the rushing water from the faucet. He splashed the cool liquid along his cheeks. “I wish to God I knew why.”
“So do I,” she said with a long breath. “I’ve been asking around—”
“Don’t,” Ben said. “Are you insane?”
“Hey,” she replied in an attempt to calm his heaving chest. “You didn’t do this. If you would have let me take the stand to tell the jury, to speak on your behalf, I would have.”
