Tarnished Image (26 page)

A breeze made heavy with moisture from the ocean blew across the small balcony of the twenty-seventh-floor hotel room. Aldo Goldoni, dressed only in plain white boxer shorts, sat on the thin, wrought-iron rail that separated the balcony from the 270-foot drop to the parking lot below. Indifferent to the danger, he rhythmically swung his legs back and forth and let the soft breeze caress his sweaty body. His chest heaved as he drew in a bushel of air with each inhalation. Perspiration trickled down his well-honed but thin body like rivulets of rain on a pane of glass. He faced the city lights, returning each sparkle with a glare of hatred.

Behind him his room lay in disarray. Mattresses were thrown against the wall; bedding was cast about in piles. The inexpensive chair and side table had been upended. Pages of the
San Diego Union Tribune
had been torn and cast about.

Aldo didn’t care. He didn’t care that the destruction was his fault. He didn’t care that he sat exposed to the outside
world. At the moment he didn’t care who knew about him, who watched him. All he could see was the determined face of David O’Neal standing behind that fancy wood stand and boldly proclaiming his innocence.

He should have crumbled
, Aldo thought.
What kind of man can see a picture like that and calmly ignore it?

Aldo had crushed men stronger and more powerful than David O’Neal. That’s what he did. He brought powerful men to their knees until they begged for mercy; then he would gleefully deny it. David O’Neal should be no different.

Anger began to rise in Aldo again. He could feel it inside, pushing, pressing to be released, to erupt one more time. He clenched his fists, digging his nails into hands already made tender by the repeated blows he had delivered to the motel mattress.

He should have crumbled right there
, Aldo thought.
Right there, right then, he should have broken.
But he didn’t, and that fact ate at Aldo.

Lowering his head, he forced himself to relax, working a mental exorcism on every infuriating thought. He forced himself to think of the one good thing that would come out of O’Neal’s self-righteous behavior: Now Aberdene would be forced to up the stakes. That meant that Aldo could do that which he was best at—killing.

He looked forward to that call, and he knew with certainty that it would come. O’Neal was not going to roll over for anyone, at least not voluntarily. He possessed a rare courage, a courage exhibited only by those of great moral fiber or those with no morals at all. O’Neal was in the first group; Aldo in the latter.

Swinging his legs over the railing, he placed his bare feet
on the balcony and strode purposefully into his room. His mind was made up. The time had come. First he would return the room to its original condition. It wouldn’t do for the maid to come in tomorrow morning and see this. That would draw attention to himself. He hated attention. Next he would shower. Then he would call Jack. It was time to meet Aberdene herself. She would see things his way. He would see to that.

T
HE EARLY MORNING SUN
,
UNHINDERED BY THE USUAL DRAPERY
of morning clouds, poured into David’s office. It was 6:30. After a night of unsatisfying sleep, David had come to his office early. On his desk were a large cup of coffee that gave off diaphanous wisps of steam that gently danced above the cup, an untouched cheese Danish he had picked up at the cafeteria, an open Bible that had been turned to the fifth chapter of Matthew, and the three terrifying photos.

Already David felt tension permeating his muscles, contracting them like a musician overtightening the strings of a guitar. He had begun his morning with a reading of the beatitudes, the nine blessings from the Sermon on the Mount. When David had been a pastor he had loved to preach from these verses. For him they summed up the entire mission of Christ: the reconciliation of God and man. In this passage he saw the heart’s desire of the Savior to bless His own, to comfort them in a way that could not be achieved in any other fashion.

David needed to be blessed. He needed the intervention of the divine, and he needed it quickly. Over the last twenty-four hours he had felt his resolve eaten away by the events that surrounded him. He knew he was being framed. That frightened and angered him. But it was the magnitude of
effort to frame him that bothered him most. Who could hate him that much?

Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.

He picked up the third photo, the one he had received right before the press conference, and studied it. He had not shown the terror-filled image to anyone. He ran a cautious hand across the photo, feeling its smooth surface. It wasn’t a typical photo. Its size, like the others, was larger: 8½-by-11 inches instead of the typical 8-by-10 of processed photos. Before Greg had left yesterday, David had asked him about that. Greg had said that the pictures were not true photos taken with a standard camera and processed, but that they were color prints from a high-end color laser printer.

It wounded David to look at the photo. Each time he viewed it he was filled with the scorching pain of terror. He forced himself to study it, to take in its details, to find some clue, but it was a wasted effort. All he could see was the crushed shell of a red Mazda Miata engulfed in flames. The photo was taken—created, David corrected himself—from the rear of the car. It was clear enough to see the lifeless body of a red-haired woman slumped forward on the steering wheel. He could also see the vanity license plate above the rear bumper: R
ED
H
OT
. It was the personalized plate that David had obtained as a gift for Kristen, a reference to her red hair and red car.

The fire was consuming the car. Even though the image was static on paper, it was alive in David’s mind. He could see the flames licking up the gas from the ruptured tank and, filled with its power, consuming the combustibles in the car—the seats, the carpet, the rubber … the body.

In the upper left corner of the picture were the words
But the peasants
—
how do the peasants die?
David had already looked up the reference. They were the dying words of Leo Tolstoy. Calvin was right. The tormentor had a penchant for death. Such knowledge failed to comfort David. The idea of an educated assassin was all the more frightening.

He knew the person in the car was not his beloved Kristen. He knew that someone had fabricated the whole thing, but he could not expurgate the fear, shock, and terror the picture brought. He shut his eyes, squeezing them tight as if he could press the image from his mind, force it to drip away with the rising tears.

Blessed are those who mourn, for they will be comforted.

Another emotion flooded David’s mind and heart—anger. Rage, like water that had spewed out of an old, eroded dam, inundated him, flooding his thoughts, his reason, his composure and carrying away the now shattered remains of his happiness. He wanted to lash out at those who had undertaken to destroy him and his work. Violent thoughts flooded his mind, but each thought was laced with guilt. His Christian faith did not teach him to hate, but to forgive. Could he forgive those who had done such vile things and had threatened Timmy and Kristen?

When he had been in church ministry, David had traveled to a retreat for ministers. It had been set at a campground filled with pine trees. A lake, large and captivatingly beautiful, was at the center of the camp. Pastors from all over the state had come to the camp for a time of fellowship, relaxation, and spiritual cleansing. The organizers of the camp had arranged for a couple of speakers to bring messages each night. One such message had left an indelible mark in
David’s memory. He had long since forgotten the speaker’s name, but he did remember one line in the sermon: “The hardest people to forgive are not those who have done something to harm you, but are those who have done something to harm those you love.” David understood that truth more now than ever.

Blessed are the meek, for they will inherit the earth.

There was a knock on the doorjamb. David looked up and saw Oz standing at the open door to his office. “You’re in early, Oz.”

“Actually, I’ve been pulling an all-nighter. I grabbed a few hours’ sleep in one of the apartments.”

David nodded. “Come in. Sit down. Where’s Claudia now?”

Osborn crossed the office and took a seat opposite David’s desk. David stacked the photos and turned them facedown.

“Just north of New Orleans and moving inland. She was downgraded to a four after crossing Cuba. The city took a beating, but because of the advance notice there has been little loss of life. The Red Cross and National Guard are pouring into the area.”

“Property damage?”

“Extensive, but manageable. Cuba is a different matter. She took the worst of it. Tidal inundation, wind damage, flooding.” Oz shook his head. “We don’t have definitive reports yet, but the Cuban news footage out of the area is frightening. They’re going to need medications to battle cholera and other diseases and, as you know, Cuba has always been chronically short of good medicine.”

“And with our funds frozen we can’t lift a finger to help,”
David said with disgust. “The best we can do is transfer medical materials and food from stockpiles in other countries. I have a report here that says we have some goods in Mexico that can be shipped to Cuba, but it’s not enough. We’re doing the same thing with supplies in India, but those won’t last very long either. As it is, Mr. Barringston is paying the shipping costs.”

“How are you doing?” Oz asked. “You’ve had a catastrophe of your own to deal with.”

“I’m hanging in there,” David admitted.

“Is that helping?” Oz nodded toward the open Bible.

“Yes, a great deal,” David answered. “My faith is everything to me. Especially in difficult times. The Bible reminds me that other people have gone through worse things.”

Osborn shifted his gaze out the window.

“What’s on your mind, Oz?” David asked softly. “I think you have more on your heart than the tsunami and Hurricane Claudia.”

“I’m not a very open man, David. I’m about as private as they come.”

“I understand.”

“Let me ask you a question,” Osborn said, leaning forward in his chair. What you said in the board meeting, is it true? You are innocent of all the charges?”

“You have my word on that,” David answered quickly. “I can’t give you all the details now, but we know for a fact that I’m being set up.”

“Do you know by whom?”

David thought about the listening devices that were still in his office. “No, not yet. Some threats have been made, so I must be cautious.”

“How are the others treating you?” Osborn asked. “I mean, our fellow workers.”

“Politely for the most part,” David replied. “I have noticed a few whispering when I walk by. I suspect that if we can’t get the money freed up soon, there’ll be more tension to deal with.”

“I know what that’s like.”

“Oh?”

Osborn dropped his head. David could see that he was weary and that the last few days had taken their toll. Over the years, David had become an excellent judge of character. When he hired Osborn, he felt that the man was genuinely brilliant, trustworthy, and a little haunted. Whatever haunted him was rising to the surface like an ancient shipwreck that had somehow regained its buoyancy.

“I don’t talk about it much. But maybe it will help you. It’s rather painful and embarrassing.” Osborn shifted in his seat.

“I understand those two emotions,” David said.

“Not long after I received my Ph.D., I landed a job teaching meteorology to undergraduates at the university. That was in 1989. I was only twenty-five at the time. I had been able to secure research funds for a team to study storm surges related to hurricanes. That was the year Hugo came ashore in South Carolina. It did seven billion dollars worth of damage and killed over five hundred people along its course. At the time I thought storms like that were magnificent, full of power and fury.”

Osborn turned his gaze to unseen sights outside the window. David knew he was looking back through time.

“When the reports of Hugo’s approach were made
known, I assembled my team. Most were graduate students, but we had two undergrads with us. Exceptional students with a keen love for the study. Bob Hazelwood was one, Donna Gifford the other. They were engaged.

“Once we had an idea of where Hugo would make landfall, we flew in. Despite the evacuation notices, we worked our way to the ocean’s edge. After all, we were there to study the storm surge. Part of our goal was to measure the force with which the surge came ashore and to gain an accurate measurement of its depth. We were also to videotape as much as we could. It’s all tricky business, David. Very tricky.”

“I can imagine.”

“When the storm arrived,” Osborn continued, “it came in with winds of 150 miles an hour. Debris was flying everywhere. I had seen scores of videos taken in hurricanes, but I had never actually been in one. It was incomprehensible.” Osborn raised his hands to his ears and closed his eyes. “The sound … the sound was deafening. We had situated ourselves on the third floor of a six-story parking structure. The sides were open, so the wind whistled around the concrete corners. Rain propelled by the wind pelted us. It felt like we were being hit with grains from a sandblaster. And it wasn’t just the wind, but the debris—plywood sheets, corrugated tin roofs, tree branches, twigs, everything—flying, spinning, tumbling.”

David watched in silence as Osborn took a deep breath and let it out slowly. His face had paled. “It was … magnificent, majestic, so very powerful. I have never been so excited in my life. It was everything I hoped it would be. It was the reason for which I had been born.” He shook his head woefully. “I got too caught up in it, David. I was too much in love with the storm. I didn’t watch over my crew.”

Osborn fell silent.

“What happened?” David prompted.

It took several seconds for Osborn to respond, and when he did his voice was just above a whisper. David had to lean forward over the desk to hear.