Mrs. Edith Conrad’s hands gripped tight to her own bony knees. She shook her head and puckered her ninety-year-old face. “No. Oh, Ellen. No.”
“Really? Seems like something you’d go for.” Giggling, Ellen turned around and tried again. “Better?”
“Something softer. Please.”
“Kind of need something to get you into that mode. Huh?” Ellen found an instrumental. “There.”
“Better.”
“I thought so.” Ellen grabbed the chart. “Well, I’ll just go tell Doc Breyer you’re all ready and he’ll be right in.” Ellen winked and while still looking at Mrs. Conrad, opened the examining room door and nearly knocked over Doc Breyer.
“Pardon me, Ellen.” The silvery Doc Breyer laid his hands on Ellen’s shoulders.
“That’s all right. Here’s Mrs. Conrad’s chart.” She moved to leave.
“Ellen.” Doc Breyer called her in a whisper. “She’s still dressed.”
“Let’s just say she believes in that x-ray vision of yours.”
Doc Breyer shook his head, paused then: “Oh, Ellen.” Doc Breyer called her again.
Ellen nearly skidded to a stop in the doorway. “Yes.” She turned around with a smile.
“Pete’s on line two.”
“Pete.” Ellen drew up an odd look. “Pete. Pete.”
“Your husband.”
“Oh, yeah. Pete. Thanks, I’ll take it in your office.”
“I’d really rather you ...” Before Doc Breyer could finish, Ellen was gone and the examining room door closed. “ ... used your cell.” He placed on an old smile, chart in hand and faced Mrs. Conrad. “Edith, you’re looking good.”
“Did ... . did... .” Mrs. Conrad pointed to the door. “Did you ever wonder if Ellen is really all there?”
Tacky, paneled and smelling like cigars was the atmosphere of Doc Breyer’s office. Every other aspect of the building was redone and modernized except for that office. Ellen hated it, but it was private and she needed to use the phone.
Like a warning sign, that blinking red light flashed at her. Cringing then taking a breath, Ellen picked up the phone, and depressed the button. “What!”
“Whoa,” the deep male voice spoke with a hint of a chuckle. “Easy. Why are you yelling?”
“Frank?” Ellen smiled and slowly sat down. “Why are you calling the office phone?”
“Uh, your cell is off.”
“Oh, yeah. Ok, why are you pretending to be Pete?”
“El, please. I wanted to talk to you. The old guy wouldn’t tell you I was calling. What’s he call us? Immoral.”
“That’s because he goes into that lecture on how you’re married to my best friend and ...”
“Hold it. Fifteen years, Babe, retract that last statement.”
“I stand corrected.” Ellen played with the phone cord. “Kelly is married to my best friend.”
“Thank you.”
“So you told him you were Pete?”
“Yeah. I’m not immoral. So I lied.” Frank smiled over the phone. “How are you?”
“Good, now. Seeing how it’s ten-thirty in the morning over this end of the country. And seeing how I’m getting a call. Tell me. You’re not coming home, are you?” There was a long breathy silence from Frank that seeped over the phone. “Frank.”
“El. I can’t. I have detail.”
“Don’t give me the shit, Frank. I’ve known you too long. You are getting worse. It’s getting longer and longer between weekend leaves.”
“I know. But I can’t ... I can’t stand being in the house with her. I can’t. And I can’t stay at a hotel, money’s short.” Frank huffed. “I obviously can’t stay with you.”
“Frank. I know you and Kelly aren’t each other’s favorite people, but what about your kids? You have four kids that need to see you.”
“I know.” Frank sounded humbled.
“You have to come home for them.”
“I will. Next weekend.”
Ellen closed her eyes. “Promise me, Frank. You’ve never broken a promise to me.”
Frank only hesitated for a moment. “I promise you I’ll be home next weekend.”
“Good.” Ellen let out a slight breath. “Now, serious talk over.” She kicked back in the chair, putting her feet up on Doc Breyer’s desk and swiveled left to right. “Tell me about this new Staff Sergeant that answered the phone yesterday. Is he cute?”
May 29th - 2:10 p.m.
New York City, New York
“Something’s not right.” Joe spoke to Brian, covering his own mouth with his index finger as he did. “Look at him.”
Brian turned his head to the right to peer at Agent Johnson. He stood at the counter of the crowded copy store talking to some manager that looked as if he barely was out of high school. “Nah.”
“Yeah.” Joe placed his hands in the pocket. “Donna Devlin is the name of the woman we are supposed to meet here. Sorry, that doesn’t look like Donna ...” Joe cleared his throat when Agent Johnson headed his way. “Here it comes. Bill.” Joe raised his head. “Donna in the lady’s room?”
“Um ... no.”
“No?”
“No.” Bill shook his head. “She isn’t here.”
“What the hell do you mean she isn’t here?” Joe asked edgily. “You told her we’d be here, right?”
“Right. She was really agreeable because she couldn’t take the time to miss work.” Bill told him. “But, it seems Ms. Devlin is at a uh ... tanning appointment.”
“Tanning appointment.” Joe raised his eyebrows, bouncing from heel to toe. “You mean to tell me two years I have been chasing this guy, trying to get anything even a traffic violation on him. And now, now I have what could be my best lead and I have to wait until some minimum-wage copy store clerk gets her tan?”
“I believe so.” Bill nodded. “Yes.”
Joe had a less-than-subtle snicker to his tone. “Oh, I don’t think so.”
^^^^
The male receptionist at Harold’s Hot Tans wasn’t the least bit amused when a serious Joe walked in, flashed his badge, insisted on Donna Devlin’s booth number, and then laid his gun on the counter in an intimidation tactic. After screaming ‘I know my rights’ The receptionist humbly pointed Joe in the right direction.
The rooms were small and smelled of disinfectant. Deep purple light seeped forth when Joe slid open the bi-fold white door. The lid to the long booth was slightly open and Ms. Devlin’s nude body was partially exposed. Turning off the radio, Joe walked to the booth, hunched down some, knocked on the hood and extended his identification through the bed’s opening. “Ms. Devlin. Joe Slagel, CIA. I have some photos for you to look at.”
May 29th - 2:55 p.m.
Centers for Disease Control - Atlanta, GA
She appeared impatient, pacing, looking at the time on her watch then pacing some more before she sat behind her desk. Catherine Donovan, administrator for The Centers for Disease Control was an intelligent, strong woman. But patience was not her virtue and she firmly believed that anyone that said that to her or used that quote often were people that, by nature, were too slow for her to associate with anyhow.
A tall woman in her forties, Catherine was a contrast of fashion when one viewed her. Make up--subtle but there--always graced her average face. Her hair was plain and simple, and she wore feminine clothes, sometimes expensive ones, to hide her semi-masculine figure.
After about the tenth time of lifting the phone to see if it worked, and after numerous games of intercom tag with her secretary to see if that worked as well, Catherine was throwing in the towel. She opened her top desk drawer and pulled out a white business card. She chuckled in the irony of the card. On the front was printed a pizza shop number and some little guy holding a box; on the back was the number of some little guy that held her answers. With the card in her hand she began to dial.
May 29th - 3:30 p.m.
Fort Sioux Research Facility - Nebraska
Dean wo
re civilian clothes, baggy Levi jeans that bunched over his high-top tennis shoes. It sounded like a mini basketball game in his lab the way his shoes skidded across the floor when he stopped. He moved quickly, racing about, tossing things not only into a box but an open briefcase as well.
“Why do you do this every single time?” Molly, Dean’s research assistant and a motherly woman, sat at a desk watching him. “You know every time you do a lecture you take too much.”
“I know.” Dean tossed another folder. “But if I don’t take it, what if I need it? Then I’ll look stupid.”
“I doubt it.” Molly turned her chair when the phone rang and she answered.
Dean scratched his head, peering at his things, trying to check off from his mental check list. “Photos, scans ... ah, yes.” He rushed off across the lab.
“Dean.”
“Molly, barring any breakdown of society as we know it I will be back on Monday.” He brought a small box to his briefcase. “Any problems, if you can’t reach my phone, call my dad’s or reach me at the hotel. And don’t forget to fax those Haiti results off to General ...”
“Dean.”
“Yes?”
Molly held up the phone. “Dr. Donovan, CDC.”
Dean’s whole body cringed in a dramatic way. He bobbed his head and tossed the last folder in the briefcase. “Put her on the speaker phone.” Dean ran his fingers through his hair. He waited for the signal from Molly. “This is Lt. Hayes, how can I help you, Dr. Donovan?” Dean continued to gather up his things.
“Since your jetting away on vacation, I guess it’s safe to assume Carrington’s done.” Catherine spoke over the phone.
“Not going on a vacation, I’m doing a lecture. And yes. It’s done.”
“And?”
“And that is highly classified information. You know that.”
“I also know that Carrington was my baby and you stole her from me. And ... And Lt. Hayes, you promised me you’d send me your findings.”
“And I will.” Dean closed his briefcase. “As soon as I get the clearance from General Green. I can’t do any more.”
“Yes, you can. You can ease my mind and tell me Carrington is not the CDC’s domain. This thing scared me, Lieutenant, and not much has in all the years I’ve worked here.”
Dean, his hand on his hip, shook his head and walked to the phone. He picked up the receiver. “This goes no further than this call. All I will say to you is that Carrington is more your jurisdiction than mine.”
“It was viral, wasn’t it?” Catherine asked with a tad of fright to her tone.
“I have to go, Doctor. Have a good day.” Dean hung up and grabbed his things. He pointed to Molly who gave him a disappointed look. “Don’t ...” Dean backed up. “Don’t say it. See you Monday.” With arms full and making a quick spin, Dean hurried from his lab through the double glass doors.
May 29th - 3:30 p.m.
New York City, New York
“Oh, Joe.” Brian cringed, covering his face as he turned away from the window that looked into a small office. “She’s ... she’s pissed.”
“I know.” Joe reached for the door to the office.
“I knew you wanted to rush questioning her, but ...”
“Brian, she made me wait. All she had to do was be there, right?”
“Right.”
“Well, serves her right. Let’s get this over with.” Joe pushed opened the office door. Ms. Devlin sat wearing only a towel, turned when the door opened and she didn’t look very happy. Joe just smiled at her with a carefree attitude, walking around to the desk and dropping his folder. “Sorry it took so long. Let’s get started.” Joe plopped down to the chair, letting out a sigh of exhaustion. He then swiveled toward her.
“Agent Slagel, I ...”
“This is a nice chair.” He hid the snicker he felt creep of over her huff of disgust. “Now ...” he flipped open the folder. “Before we begin, and before you get your bare ass in an uproar, let me explain a little thing to you called ...” Joe winked. “Obstruction of justice.”
^^^^
Barat Ashrad wanted his apartment to be that way. Dirty. Dingy. Dark. All the blinds were pulled as he worked around a small beat-up kitchen table that sat in the corner of his living room. The television played while Ashrad worked. He was a small-framed man with long dark hair and a dark complexion to match. His hands shook as he fiddled with a small metal box. The anchorman spoke the name ‘Centers for Disease Control’ which caught Ashrad’s attention for the first time all afternoon. He picked up the remote control and pointed it at the television with the horrible connection.
“ ... sources close to the investigation say the threatening faxes to the Centers for Disease Control are pretty much an attention grabber in wake of the recent vigilante movement against terrorism. President Hadley, a man not known for mincing words, had this to say about the wave of mysterious attacks against numerous terrorist camps ...”
“Terrorism has pretty much been a pain in my ass from the day I started working for the government.” President George Hadley, rough, raspy, and loud, spoke in the interview. “If it was up to me, I’d forego judge, jury, and conviction, but we have laws. If people want to take it upon themselves to wipe out terrorism, then they can do it... God bless them.”
The barrage of reporter voices annoyed Ashrad and he heard all he needed to hear. He turned the television back down and continued his work on the hand-held object. He raised his eyes from his work only once after that interview. And that was to the other box on the table, a mid-size box labeled with a bright yellow bio-hazard sticker.
^^^^
Visually, Peter Callaway would have been the perfect Ken and Barbie match with Ellen had the two of them ever gotten along. Tall and striking, perfect dark hair and fashion model facial features, Peter approached his very busy secretary outside of his office. “Mare, I think I want to cancel my appointment with Jonathan Quayle; could you find him for me?”
“Where?”
“I don’t know, don’t you have his cell phone?”
“No. Mr. Callaway, Mr. Quayle is from Philadelphia, where do you propose I start, US Air?” Mare responded sarcastically.
“Try his home office; it’s here in New York.” He ran his hands through his always-perfect black hair. It still looked good even after his fingers finished ruffling it.
“I’ll do it.” She returned to her letter.
“Now.”
“All right.” She checked her Rolodex and began to dial. “Are you going to watch me?”
“You were getting ready to blow me off for a letter. Yes, I’m watching you.” Peter stood above her and eavesdropped.
“Hello, yes, could I have the secretary in engineering please, thank you ... yes, I’m looking for one of your Philadelphia-based engineers that is in town, I was wondering if you could direct me to him... Jonathan Quayle... oh really... Will he be checking in? Thank you.” Mare hung up the phone. “She said you missed him by fifteen minutes. He is now sight-seeing before his meeting.”
“Swell. Get my wife on the phone. On second thought, never mind, she’ll just bitch.” He went back into his office, stopped and looked back at his secretary. “If Ellen does call, tell her I’m in that meeting already. I’m supposed to make it to my son’s ball game. Shit ... he’d better be on time.”
^^^^
Jonathan Quayle bounced nervously back and forth from heel to toe as he glanced at his watch every three seconds. He looked around at the herds of people on the subway—standing and sitting. He tried desperately to find a friendly face to help him. In the station he had approached three people. Not one could direct him or rather would direct him to the right train. So Jonathan took pot luck and guessed, taking the lottery approach and jumping on the first arriving transportation vessel. But time was running short. If he remained clueless of his whereabouts, he would surely miss the six-fifteen flight back to Philadelphia unless his meeting was over in a couple of minutes. That was, of co
urse, if Peter Callaway didn’t leave.
Then he spotted her. If instinct served him right, she would be the one. His salvation.
‘What a friend we have in Jesus ...’ was the song her elderly, fragile, quivering voice hummed as she stepped onto crowded subway car 418. Mabel Owens, a petite black woman, carried a purse nearly as big as herself to an empty seat she knew she could squeeze herself into. She smiled, sitting down, ignoring the grunts by the two passengers on both sides of her. She passed off their sounds of irritation as them just having a long day. She reached into her purse and pulled out the only thing that she would eat until she got home from her second job. Mabel had been doing the same thing for forty-eight years. One job to the next. Work was never an option in all of Mabel’s poor life, it was a must. And Mabel worked hard, never once complaining that it was too much.
She slipped the bag of chocolate pieces out and opened the paper bag. Smiling, she offered the treat to the man on her left. He just shook his head at her. She turned to her right and offered some to the man on her right. He too, declined. “Just didn’t want to be rude.” She spoke to them though they didn’t want to be bothered.
Jonathan approached her. “Excuse me, ma’am, can you help me?”
She looked curiously at him for a second, casing him up and down before answering. “What’s wrong?” She spoke soft and slow. “Did you want some candy?”
“Um, no, thank you. But I do need something. I left my directions for a meeting at my office, I left my phone and I’m lost. I need to get to a building called the Barton Building. I thought it was 47th street, but I was wrong. I’m thinking it’s 53rd. How far out of the way does this subway take me?”
The Big Ten: The First Ten Books of the Beginnings Series Page 2
