The Esther Code

by Michael Danneman

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Except where noted, any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  Copyright © 2014 by Michael Danneman

  Cover by Kristie Birdsong

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever.

  ISBN 978-0-9860749-2-9

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  For Ilana…my soulmate.

  This book is a work of fiction.

  The Esther Code is REAL.

  Chapter 1

  Tonight is the night.

  Tonight he is ready.

  Simon is surprisingly calm considering what he is about to do. But why shouldn’t he be? It is not the first time he has done it, nor will it be the last. He has planned every detail meticulously. He sits in his car, mentally rehearsing the sequence of events. Has he remembered everything? Yes. He has been here before, has become familiar with his target. The crisp air bites at his face as he crosses the parking lot to the visitors’ entrance of Crestwood Assisted Living.

  Again Simon wears his “visiting outfit”: khaki pants, a yellow polo shirt with “Christian Fellowship” insignia over the left breast, an ID card on a chain around his neck, a baseball cap that allows his neatly combed, light brown ponytail to fall through the back, heavy-framed glasses, and a neatly trimmed mustache. A backpack is slung casually over his right shoulder.

  Crestwood is a squat one-story building shaped like a boomerang, with the entrance in the middle of the bend. The place is clean and well lit, even from the outside. As Simon enters the assisted living center, he notices again the absence of that sanitized smell that generally infuses hospitals. Crestwood is the kind of place that convinces the suburban families of Harwood Heights, Illinois, to surrender parents and grandparents to the care of strangers.

  There is an expectable proliferation of faux flowers and indoor plants in the main foyer. So many electric potpourri burners pump out vanilla fragrance that Simon worries the smell will cling to him even after he leaves the building. The facility is secure and adequately staffed. A large plaque instructs all visitors to “Please Sign in” upon arrival.

  Simon confidently strides directly to the frosted-glass sliding window, which is already open halfway. Despite management’s best efforts to imbue Crestwood with the feel of home, there is something inescapably officious about the sign-in process. A clipboard with the sign-in sheet lies on a ledge in front of the open window. There is a pen chained nearby, but Simon produces his own from his shirt pocket. He signs his name sloppily with his left hand.

  A young black man sits behind the desk, reading a large textbook. He glances up and recognizes the visitor.

  "Back again?” After checking the clock on the wall behind him, the man, likely a student, smiles. “I bet the old guy appreciates you."

  Simon peers at the same clock, but he omits writing the time next to his name.

  "Yep. He had any visitors today?”

  "Nope.” The black man shakes his head. “Yesterday his son came by. Didn't stay long, though.”

  Simon nods, “That’s how it goes sometimes. If I don't see you on my way out, I'll catch you next week."

  "Cool. Next week. I'll be here. Keep it loose." The young man flashes a smile, and his attention returns to his textbook.

  Simon walks the familiar hallway to room 128. The door bears a decorative sign with a little plastic window. Large letters inform visitors of the resident’s name.

  FRED SCHMIDT.

  Simon pauses momentarily and ponders that they will soon be sliding that name out and replacing it with someone else’s.

  “You here to read to Mr. Schmidt again?” Simon starts at the voice of the plump, middle-aged nursing assistant behind him.

  “Yes,” he says. His heart is pounding, but he retains outward composure.

  “How long you gonna be?” The nursing assistant's voice is nasal and unpleasant, but Simon does not allow his face to show irritation. She is shutting the door to room 129.

  “We're going to finish the book tonight if he can stay awake long enough. Don't worry,” he adds with a small smile, “I'll make sure he's tucked in for the night before I leave.”

  “Oh, I know you will. You always do.”

  "Thanks, have a good night."

  Simon knocks first, then walks into the room. There is a compact living area with recliner, love seat, upright chair and small TV on a stand. This flows into the bedroom, which displays plenty of family photos. One baby picture has a place of honor on the dresser. Simon surmises that it must be a great-grandchild. Cute kid.

  Mr. Schmidt is lying in the bed watching a television set that is mounted in the corner.

  He is in his late eighties, bald, thin, and pale. The frailty of his body, however, does not extend to his mind. His connections still esteem him as both smart and sophisticated. He still enjoys reading, talking, and exercising his mind, which is why he enjoys Simon’s visits. Mr. Schmidt immediately clicks off the TV when he sees Simon enter.

  "Ah, I was hoping you would be here soon,” he greets Simon in his thin, brittle voice. “Thank you for coming again. I am eager to hear what happens next."

  "Tonight I wouldn't miss. It's a big night," Simon responds, with perhaps too much enthusiasm.

  "Shall we pick up where we left off then?"

  "Not tonight. No book tonight. Because tonight I have something better. Just relax, and give me a second to get dressed up."

  Simon senses the vague confusion building in the old man's mind. He sees Mr. Schmidt staring into him, attempting to pierce Simon’s mystery and find a logical agenda beneath. Simon merely smiles and removes a pair of latex gloves from his backpack.

  “We're not going to play doctor, are we?”

  Simon does not respond as he pulls more items from his backpack.

  “Because I think I get enough of that here,” Schmidt continues with a weak chuckle.

  "Good doctors are hard to come by. I've got another pair of gloves, too. Hang tight, you'll see."

  From the backpack, he removes a white disposable jumpsuit, a surgical hat and mask, and shoe covers. He puts on each item with deliberation.

  “Are you going to paint the room, or something?” The old man's voice grows sharper with each question. His chest is rising and falling faster too.

  “Hold on, I’m not going to ruin the surprise for you.” Simon pulls out a brand new pair of leather driving gloves from a plastic bag. The price tag is still attached to one, and the disconnected halves of the plastic connecting cord dangle pathetically from the leather. He puts these on over the latex gloves.

  “Are we going to do some wood carving? What are we going to do that you don’t want to get dirty?” Mr. Schmidt asks. The old man shows both age and nerves as he begins to button and unbutton the cuff of his light blue pajamas.

  “One minute, one minute.”

  Simon bends over and takes his instrument from the bag. It is a simple thing, yet sinister, consisting of two handles connected by piano wire. Simon made it himself. He keeps it lower than the bed, so Mr. Schmidt cannot see that Simon possesses a weapon. Leaning in close to the old man, Simon whispers something into his ear. The old man's eyes swell grotesquely as he scrambles for the call light on his bedside table. Just as Simon predicted. His moment of opportunity!

  In reaching for the button, Mr. Schmidt lifts his head off the pillow. With a quick twist of the wrist, Simon places his homemade garrote around Schmidt’s neck and pulls the cord tight. Not a sound comes out of the old man—not even a last breath can escape.
Mr. Schmidt’s hands flail meaninglessly, too far to even touch the metal cord that digs into his skin. He makes a few weak attempts to kick his legs, but they are powerless under the comforter. Simon maintains a tight grip for several minutes, until he knows the old man's heart has stopped. It is done. The only breathing he can hear is his own, tense and ragged.

  With forced calmness, Simon removes the garrote and double-bags it. He then removes a Ziploc bag that holds a small piece of paper. The paper is two inches square, with “F.S.” in big typed letters in the center and “parmo sh ta” evenly spaced along the bottom in smaller letters. Simon positions the bag and shakes it gently, allowing the note to fall out and land near the lifeless left hand.

  He then gently moves the body in a sleeping position facing away from the door and tucks Schmidt in as promised. Removing all the other items, Simon bags them and places everything into the backpack.

  He then sits down, takes a book out and begins to read out-loud.

  Chapter 2

  A blinding light intensifies Jamie’s headache. Her thoughts are slow, foggy. She does not know where she is. Blinking rapidly to adjust her eyes to the searing light, Jamie assesses her predicament. She is propped up on a table. Her legs are tied tightly, and she cannot move them. Jamie looks forward and sees her hands tied to the miter gauge of a table saw. She tries to scream for help, but her mouth is taped shut. Questions flood her mind. How did she get here? What case was she working on?

  The small roar of a mechanical engine fills her ears. Sweat pours down Jamie's face as she watches the table-saw start spinning. The blades disappear completely into an illusion of round metal. Out of the darkness, a man’s large hands take hold of the miter gauge. They start sliding Jamie’s fingers towards the saw slowly, five little pieces of wood waiting helplessly for the cut. Jamie attempts another scream as her hands slide toward the threatening blur.

  Adrenaline pumps through her veins. She has to save herself somehow. Jamie tries to bend and move her fingers in any way to escape the blade, but her body refuses to respond. Desperately she tries again, but the effect is the same. Looking for someone to help, Jamie registers that there she is surrounded mostly by darkness, interrupted only by a bright light focused on the saw blade. The darkness is thick and suffocating, and without hope. Jamie is truly alone.

  Something is ringing. It must be a safety precaution to signal impending danger. Yet the hands ignore the warning bell and move the miter gauge closer and closer to the spinning blade. The ringing noise grows louder—Jamie desperately wants to block her ears from the keen sound, but she can only watch her fingers move closer to the saw. Her only hope is that the noise is so loud that someone else will hear it and come save her. But in a few seconds it will be too late. As the saw blade touches her skin, blood spews from her wounds and covers the table. Jamie screams as her terror peaks, forcing her awake.

  Her breath comes in desperate gasps, as she looks around her bedroom, still afraid of impending danger. The room is empty, but eerie in the morning light. Jamie sighs in relief as she confirms that there is no table saw in her room. Her mind begins to grasp that she is safe and in her own home. No danger.

  As the ringing continues, Jamie realizes it is her alarm. She picks up her cell phone from the bedside table and silences it. The time, 5:45 a.m., glares at her. With the echoes of the nightmare in her mind, she is relieved to be awake. Jamie slinks back to the middle of her bed and pulls the covers tight up under her chin. The cotton is soft, comforting, and the lingering smell of Chris’s deodorant pushes the nightmare further back.

  Her boyfriend, Chris, had spent the night, but he was already gone. That is what happens when you date an orthopedic surgery resident. It is also the source of the nightmare. As an FBI agent, Jamie Golding has encountered the most twisted, horrific images of murder and mutilation, and she has dealt with them well. Most of the time, she is able to leave her work at work. Death and brutality are tragic and awful, but at least the dead are gone and safe, she thinks. The dead feel no pain. She is proud of the fact that, despite all of the gruesome sights she has seen, she has never been physically ill. It has become a point of pride. Chris inflicts pain for the sake of healing. Yet the idea of power sawing off the end of a femur in order to do a knee replacement gives Jamie the willies.

  If Chris had not been relating an incident right before she fell asleep, maybe Jamie would not have had her nightmare. He is several weeks into a month-long hand surgery rotation. The patient was a twenty-two year old construction worker who could not speak a word of English. The poor guy had cut off four fingers with a table saw. Chris had explained to Jamie that this was the cause of his all-nighter. He and his attending surgeon re-attached the fingers under a microscope. They were able to re-attach three out of four. A great bedtime story. For some strange reason, the suffering of the living disturbed Jamie more than the mutilation of the dead.

  Out of bed and still shaking, Jamie throws the covers over the empty bed and smoothes them down. She changes into her running clothes. She quickly pulls back her wavy black hair and clips down the stray strands. Jamie checks the time on her cell phone. She only has a few minutes before she has to meet Seth outside her apartment for their morning run.

  Most of her friends despise running, using it only to stave off the weight gain that comes with age. But to Jamie, running does much more than burn calories. She has invested in expensive Adidas Vigor Three TR W running shoes, the perfect choice to take on trails. She looks out the window; she can see

  dawn breaking between the buildings of Montclair, Virginia. It is always a beautiful sight.

  After preparing for the cold morning run with some hydration and stretching, Jamie heads outside and sees her friend Seth Cooper stretching his calf on the street curb. He looks up and grins, curly black hair falling into his eyes. Seth is slightly taller than Jamie, fit, with an average build.

  “Hey!” Jamie greets him. “You ready for this?”

  “Of course! I’m already loose. Let’s go,” Seth replies enthusiastically.

  Jamie leads the way down to Waterway Drive, not too far from her apartment. Seth picks up her stride and begins to speed walk next to her. This is their quick warm-up before starting the hard run. Jamie runs the same path three times a week and saves her longer runs for the weekends. She is not always able to start her day with a run, but she loves it when she can. It gives her a morning coffee boost without the coffee. Today will be an easy day: three-and-a-half miles to start her Wednesday morning.

  Jamie glances at Seth, and without a word, they both transition into a run. Together they find a comfortable pace. The cold air piercing her lungs gives Jamie the feeling of being alive. The thump of her shoes on the pavement and gravel roads is her music. The rhythm is comforting. Jamie looks over and smiles at Seth, who runs beside her with a grin. She can tell he enjoys the morning runs as much as she does. He catches her eye.

  “So, at which hospital is Chris doing his residency? He’s almost done, right?”

  “He’s in his third year at George Wash. in D.C. Two more to go and then maybe a fellowship.”

  “Oh, that’s all?” Seth teases. "I thought he was almost finished." They move to one side as another pair of runners comes down the path, and he feels Jamie’s shoulder rub against his own. Seth feels a rush of excitement at her touch.

  “Personally, I would like to see him more often. Right now, we can only get together about once or twice a week. Once on his post call day, and maybe once on the weekend. Needless to say, he hardly gets any sleep—between work, errands, and driving thirty miles to see me, there just isn’t time.”

  “Sounds pretty crazy. I can’t believe you guys make it work with such demanding jobs.” Seth changes the subject. “So, how's work going? Using your radar lately?”

  “It’s not radar. Just good training.”

  “From your Masters in Forensic Psychology or from your work with the FBI?”

  “Maybe a little of both. Seriously,
though. Pick someone—anyone—I’ll show you it’s not just a degree that enables you to read people.” Jamie is always up for a challenge.

  “Oh, I know what you can do. You don’t have to prove anything to me,” Seth assures her. Jamie looks determined, though, so Seth gives in to her game. “Okay, here comes a pair of runners. Do your magic.”

  Jamie rolls her eyes at his comment, then turns her attention to the challenge ahead. The couple running toward them are clearly college students. The girl wears a pink sorority jacket, while the guy has on a loose sweatshirt with a Greek fraternity’s name plastered on the front. As Jamie and Seth pass, the male runner’s eyes sweep in their direction. Jamie notices that he looks not at her, but at Seth. Once the couple is out of earshot, Jamie explains her observations.

  “College-age couple. The young woman is more concerned about how she looks than actually getting any exercise. She’s extra lean, had a boob job, and nobody works that hard on her hair just to go for a run. The boyfriend is just a trophy she wants; otherwise, she would have noticed he’s bisexual.”

  “How do you do that?” Seth wonders. “Okay, then, what about this guy?”

  An overweight man walks the trail toward them. He looks to be about sixty, and his tennis shoes are brand new. Jamie notices they do not even have the first scuff on them. Out of earshot, Jamie once again reveals her findings.

  “He had bypass surgery not too long ago. This is probably one of his first attempts to ‘workout’.” She sketches the quote in the air. “I doubt he will keep it up for more than two or three weeks. After that, his most vigorous exercise will be finding the remote when it’s lost between the couch cushions.”

  Seth whistles. “Harsh.”

  “The truth is hard, but we need it to change—to become better.”

  Chapter 3

  Simon watches the national news on television. There is no mention of his handiwork. He checks the major news websites. Nothing. He can continue, unhindered. He needs the FBI. Where are they?