Stillness

by Eldon Farrell

  Beds fill up every available room in the two floor school with the overflow spilling into the hallways where makeshift cots are arranged or the patient is simply laying on the gurney they were brought in on.

  Closing the chart he places it back at the foot of the bed and examines the newest case. Twenty-eight year old Reed Jameson admitted with the all too familiar symptoms of fever, weakness and rapidly developing pneumonia. The same pneumonia that Henry knows in too many others has led to respiratory failure.

  Maybe, Henry hopes, he’ll be spared that fate. So far it seems he’s responding to the gentamicin which makes his chances of recovery far greater than that of most of the patients Henry has seen.

  Leaving the room he wanders the halls almost aimlessly, stopping occasionally to help a patient as best he can. And that he knows is the problem. No matter how hard I try I can’t seem to make a difference.

  In medical school he learned the historical facts of plague. He can still remember reading The Decameron, written by Giovanni Boccaccio, an eyewitness account to the ravages of the plague in 1348:

  The symptoms were not the same as in the East, where a gush of blood from the nose was the plain sign of inevitable death; but it began both in men and women with certain swellings in the groin or under the armpit. They grew to the size of a small apple or an egg, more or less, and were vulgarly called tumors. In a short space of time these tumors spread from the two parts named all over the body. Soon after this the symptoms changed and black or purple spots appeared on the arms or thighs or any other part of the body, sometimes a few large ones, sometimes many little ones. These spots were a certain sign of death, just as the original tumor had been and still remained.

  No doctor's advice, no medicine could overcome or alleviate this disease, an enormous number of ignorant men and women set up as doctors in addition to those who were trained. Either the disease was such that no treatment was possible or the doctors were so ignorant that they did not know what caused it, and consequently could not administer the proper remedy. In any case very few recovered; most people died within about three days of the appearance of the tumors described above…

  The violence of this disease was such that the sick communicated it to the healthy who came near them, just as a fire catches anything dry or oily near it. And it even went further. To speak to or go near the sick brought infection and a common death to the living; and moreover, to touch the clothes or anything else the sick had touched or worn gave the disease to the person touching.

  Not until now was he aware of just how helpless the doctors of that time must have felt.

  They knew nothing of what was killing their patients and had to stand by and watch it happen just the same. And are we any better? For all we’ve learned we’re still just as helpless in the face of unknown danger.

  He’s shaken from his thoughts by the blaring of an alarm down the hall. Another poor soul is attempting to alleviate their pain. Reaching the scene he does everything he can to stabilize them. The trouble is how little he can do.

  Soon the fight is over and another bed is ready to be filled.

  Chapter 39

  October 29

  Sitting behind the desk in his study, Donald Lincoln slowly swirls the brandy in his glass. He holds the goblet in a claw grip while his eyes are fixed on the sloshing of the dark liquid.

  His expression is deadened as he remembers the events of last night. Snippets of memory flash across the glasslike surface of his cold eyes.

  With little effort he can hear the screams of his wife as she begged for mercy. He can feel her skin as it split under his knuckles. He can smell the lingering scent of copper from her spilled blood.

  Just the memory of striking her is arousing him.

  Setting the glass down without taking a sip he exhales loudly in the silence of the room. The entire house is tranquil now, like a warm blanket on a cold night.

  It wasn’t so serene last night.

  Closing his reptilian eyes he savors the sense memories that clothe him in armor reminiscent of a medieval torturer.

  The bitch got what she asked for. I told her not to anger me, but she kept pushing me.

  Seeing himself in his mind’s eye stalking her, his excitement is supremely noticeable by the bulge in his pants.

  She kept blaming me for Cody’s death. As if it wasn’t obvious whose fault that really was? She’s to blame totally for the loss of my son!

  And I showed that fucking whore just how she was to blame.

  Moaning from pleasure he relives the blows he landed to her face. How she staggered backwards and cracked her head off the marble floor.

  He straddled her then and rained down heavy fists to her lying, unfaithful face. The sounds still resonate in his ears—that hiss and pop of blood and bone under duress.

  Touching a finger to his face he traces the scratch on his cheek that she managed to inflict. The memory floods him not with anger, but with pride. For him, the mark is not to be hidden but worn proudly as a scar of battle.

  She thrashed wildly like any lowly animal that’s desperate to escape the jaws of a predator. I barely felt the sting, but she surely felt the reply. Yes…

  He remembers rising from her prone body and driving two violent kicks to her stomach. Trying desperately to send his foot right through to her womb so that she would never be able to befoul the earth again with any more of her offspring.

  The sight of her laying unconscious at his feet—clinging to life—brought a smile to his lips then as the memory of it does now.

  She’s gone now. When I woke this morning all that remained in the room was the evidence of the violence. I’ve nothing to fear though; she wouldn’t dare go to the police. Not after last night.

  He remembers leaning down over her battered body and whispering in her ear as he squeezed her breast hard to rouse her from the abyss.

  Come after me…and Jaime will suffer!

  So I know exactly where she’s gone. She’s run off to him. The SOB who’s been fucking my wife. The SOB she thought I knew nothing of.

  She’ll run to him and soon enough he’ll run to me. I’ll be waiting. And when he comes I’ll kill him for ever touching what’s mine.

  “Jacob.”

  At the sound of his name being called Jacob Castle looks up from the vodka and orange juice that he’s been staring at. Recognizing William Sullivan silhouetted by the slanting rays of the late afternoon sun, he turns back to his drink without a word.

  Taking the stool next to him, Will looks around The Still. The place is next thing to empty. He orders a coffee when Mike Smith saunters over to them and then turns to Jacob.

  “You’re a hard man to find.”

  Sipping his drink Jacob blithely answers, “Obviously not hard enough.”

  Pointing at the glass in his hand Will says, “A little early for that isn’t it?”

  Glaring at him out of the corner of his eye, Jacob downs another gulp asking, “What are you, my mother?”

  Mike delivers Will’s coffee then drifts back to the other end of the bar to resume cleaning the wooden surface. Jacob watches him work for a few minutes before asking, “What do you want Will?”

  “I need your help.”

  Turning on his stool to face him, Jacob takes another sip of his drink before shaking his head saying, “Get out of here Will. I can’t help anyone anymore.”

  “I don’t believe that,” Will reaches out and takes the glass out of his hand. Setting it down hard on the bar he sloshes some of the orange liquid onto the wood. Lowering his voice he says, “I have the proof that you’re innocent.”

  Jacob’s bloodshot eyes reveal no reaction to this revelation. They stare at each other for a few moments in silence before Jacob reaches out and grabs his drink. Downing the last of it he raises the empty glass to get Mike’s attention.

  “Didn’t you hear what I just said? I can prove you didn’t kill my parents.”

  “And why would I be interested in that?” J
acob takes the refilled glass from Mike and when he is once again out of earshot says, “I already know that I didn’t kill your parents Will.”

  “And now I can prove it.”

  Slamming the glass down Jacob turns on Will. “I don’t need it proven!” They stare at each other and despite his inebriated state, Jacob can’t help but see the all too familiar face of his old friend Bobby in that of his son.

  Turning away he continues, “You shouldn’t have come back here Will. And you sure as hell shouldn’t have dug up your parents’ grave.” Sniffing he swipes his sleeve across his nose and takes another drink.

  Getting angry now Will grabs Jacob by the arm and turns him forcibly towards him. “You know what you shouldn’t have done Jacob? Do you, huh? You shouldn’t have changed your story!

  “Why did you do that? What was the deal huh? You change your story of what you saw and they let you go?”

  Ripping his arm free Jacob replies, “You need to let this go Will. I don’t care what you think you’ve found; you don’t know what you’re getting yourself into. For your own sake—for your parents’ sake—drop this before you find something you don’t want to find.”

  “What are you so afraid of?” Will asks pointedly. “You’re innocent.”

  Taking another large gulp of vodka and orange juice, Jacob whispers “I may not have killed your parents Will, but I’m not innocent. Not anymore.”

  Beatrice Rohm is a good mother.

  Like any good mother she can tell when something is bothering her child. She possesses that innate sense that all mothers have that allows them to tell at a glance that something is wrong—words are not necessary.

  She has that feeling now.

  Looking across the dinner table at Derek she knows that he’s not right—that something is off.

  Bowls of vegetables and potatoes steam on the table between them as they lower their heads to say grace. Beatrice recites the familiar words from memory with no thought at all—her mind focused solely on her son.

  Finishing the prayer she lifts the plate of ham and offers it to Derek. He takes it with mumbled thanks. Once all the food has been dished out she can no longer remain silent.

  “Derek honey, what’s wrong?”

  Looking up at his mother, his bangs fall over his eyes. Brushing them aside he halfheartedly replies, “Everything’s okay.”

  “You’re not okay Derek.” She nervously balls her right hand into a fist on the tabletop as she says, “You couldn’t possibly be okay with everything that’s happened. Would you like to talk about it honey?”

  In that all too familiar move of teenagers the world over; Derek shrugs his shoulders nonchalantly, shaking his head. Such practiced indifference can never be wholly believable.

  “Do you feel all right? You don’t feel sick do you?” the fear in her green eyes is undisguised.

  Looking at his mother, Derek recognizes the over protective streak and placates her, “I’m not sick.” Lowering his gaze to his plate of food he adds, “In fact, I’m beginning to think that I’m immune to this plague.”

  “What!?” her tone is an unpleasing mixture of disbelief and fear. “Why would you even think such a crazy thought?”

  “Think about it Mom,” he plays with his vegetables for a moment, pushing them around his plate with his fork before explaining. “Both Tim and Cody got sick and yet I didn’t. I’m not sure where Tim got infected but I know it was Tim who infected Cody.

  “I gave him mouth-to-mouth the same as Cody. He got sick yet I didn’t. Then there’s the woman I helped. She coughed on me. I felt her spit on my face Mom.

  “She was sick and contagious and yet I’m still fine. If I’m not supposed to think I’m immune, what am I supposed to think?”

  “That you’ve been lucky. That in His infinite grace, the Lord has spared you.”

  “Do you really believe that God has anything to do with what’s been going on around here?”

  Setting his fork down, Derek rises from the table and heads for his room leaving Beatrice in mute reply—words are not necessary.

  Atlanta, Georgia

  The knock sounds lightly on his office door before it’s opened and Charles Womack walks in. Sitting up in his chair Roger Whittaker gives the Chief of Infectious Diseases his full attention.

  Charles Womack is a graying man of fifty-nine years who has spent the last ten in his current position. In that time he’s earned the reputation of being a no-nonsense individual with the great diplomatic mind of an excellent petitioner on Capitol Hill.

  Today, he’s dressed in a black pinstripe suit and a pressed white shirt. He smoothes his liver spotted hand down his flowery tie as he takes a seat across from Roger.

  “What can I do for you Charles?”

  A crooked smile parts his lips, revealing the gap between his front teeth as he replies “I’m curious as to how it went with Lynne.”

  “As well as can be expected,” Roger elaborates “She didn’t take to her new assignment with much vigor but I know she’ll do everything she can to help Josh.”

  Arching his eyebrows Charles asks, “Are you sure?”

  “I know Lynne.”

  Accepting the reply Charles asks, “What’s the latest on Iowa?”

  Biting the tip of his tongue Roger answers “The epidemic seems to be abating somewhat. There have been 485 cases so far resulting in 354 deaths.”

  Doing some quick calculations in his head Charles points out, “That’s over seventy percent mortality.”

  “True, but as you know it used to be approaching ninety percent.”

  “What about elsewhere?”

  “Des Moines is reporting a further 51 cases with 29 deaths. The numbers were last updated this morning. Their mortality rate is hovering around 60 percent. Of the surrounding states, Nebraska seems to be the hardest hit with mortality approaching 50 percent.”

  “Well at least the worst of it seems to have been contained to Iowa,” Charles nods at the paperwork on Roger’s desk asking, “How are we coming with the inserted genes, do we know what they do yet?”

  “We’re working overtime on it but so far we’ve had no luck pinning it down.”

  “Well as soon as you know I want to know.”

  Roger nods his understanding and noticing that Charles is preparing to leave he raises a finger to him saying, “I was wondering if we could talk?”

  “What about?”

  Clicking his tongue against his teeth, Roger proceeds with the question that’s been nagging at him. “I want to know why I was overruled.”

  Sighing Charles replies “Let it go Roger.”

  “Lynne is more than capable of heading this investigation. Why was she removed from it?”

  “Since the moment she hit the ground there she’s fought against bioterrorism as a cause of this outbreak. She was wrong and it’s been my experience that when an agent is that wrong, their ability to function in the matter is compromised. We can ill afford any mistakes with this case. Josh brings a fresh perspective unclouded by personal opinion.”

  “So it’s all about politics then? Fisher fell in line with what the top brass around here have been pushing since day one, and Lynne didn’t.”

  Shaking his head Charles points out “This is not news to you Roger. We went over all this when the decision was made to replace her. What are you trying to accomplish here?”

  “I’m trying to make you see that it’s a mistake to remove Lynne from leading this investigation.”

  “You said she would follow Josh’s orders.”

  “She will,” Roger begins, “That’s not the issue. She’s done a great job leading this difficult investigation so far and she doesn’t deserve to be removed simply for political reasons.”

  “An objection,” Charles declares, “That if I’m not mistaken you’ve already made and had overruled. Your affection for Lynne is clouding your judgment here Roger. A more experienced agent is the best call here.”

  “EIS officers are sen
t out with no experience all the time around here Charles. That’s how they learn and gain experience.”

  “Not this time.” Charles stands up smoothing his tie as he does. “Take my advice on this Roger. The decision is final and if you’re smart you’ll fall into line behind the rest of us.”

  Reaching the door he stops and says over his shoulder on his way out, “I’ll be waiting for those results.”

  Chapter 40

  Stillness, Iowa

  She feels the bed tense slightly before it relaxes again as her husband quietly rises. Victoria Banister can feel his eyes upon her but she shows no sign of being awake.

  She’s decided that this is the night that it stops. For months now this has gone on with her being aware—who knows how long it went on before she became aware.

  Alex gets up in the middle of the night and disappears for a few hours to return before dawn. And always the next day he seems contrite and forlorn. She knows that something is going on and she’s determined to find out what.

  Lying awake she listens to him dress and slip from their bedroom before she stirs. Throwing the covers back she quickly dresses in jeans, a T-shirt and a robe.

  Cracking the door a little she listens for sounds of her husband downstairs and when she hears the jingle of keys she exits the bedroom and sneaks to the top of the stairs. From there she watches Alex go out the front door.

  Down the stairs she goes and hurries around back through the kitchen.

  Going out the back door she moves around the outside of the garage and waits as the door slowly opens. Her heart is pounding in her chest and part of her is telling her to go back to bed and trust her husband.

  But as his car pulls out of the garage in the middle of the night another part of her is telling her to follow him. It is the stronger of the two impulses and so she scampers down the front lawn to the side of her car.

  Keeping the lights off she pulls away from the curb and speeds to catch up to her husband.