Tarnished Image (33 page)

Switching off the television, David turned and took in the lovely form of the woman who lay asleep on his sofa. Several strands of her red hair rested on her smooth cheek. David knew that beneath her closed eyelids were vibrant blue eyes that never failed to capture his attention. He watched as her thin frame moved rhythmically with each breath.

This was the woman he loved, and he was grateful to see her sleeping peacefully. He had been unable to bring himself to wake her.
Let her sleep
, he thought.
The couch is comfortable and, more important, close.

David wished that he could keep her close always, but even more so now. Not a minute went by without the image of her in the pictures—one with the crosshairs of a rifle centered on her head, the other of her in a smashed and fiercely burning car. Those images were demons. They possessed his mind and stirred up fear and pain. That is what they had been designed to do. David wondered what kind of person could create such pictures. Clearly, a very unbalanced individual and a deadly one.

Despite the enhanced security he had ordered for Barringston Tower, he still feared for the safety of Kristen and Timmy. If something happened to them … He couldn’t think about it.

It was all so unfair. He had done nothing to deserve this. All he had ever done was devote his life to God and to helping others. Why him? Why should he be singled out by some sadistic tormentor?

Those words brought a new image to his mind. Less than a week ago, Timmy had stood in David’s office watching the video of the tsunami that had obliterated the coastal regions of Bangladesh and India. In his innocent, simple way, Timmy
had asked the most profound of questions. A question that had plagued theologians and philosophers for millennia: Why do the innocent suffer?

Of course Timmy had asked it differently, more naively, but the question was the same. “Were they bad people?” Timmy had asked. David had assured him that they were not, but that had not appeased the young thinker. The next question had shaken David. “Why?” Timmy had asked. “Why did God let that happen?”

David had no answer then, and he didn’t have one now. He knew the arguments for the existence of pain; he had read the books, but he still was without an answer that would satisfy either Timmy or himself. He could not explain the fairness of an undersea earthquake that created a record-breaking tsunami that inundated and killed tens of thousands of people.

They were not bad people. They were just people. People who loved and married and gave birth to a new generation. They felt pain, experienced joy, laughed aloud, wept in silence, had dreams, experienced fear. Their crime, their only crime, was living in the wrong place.

It wasn’t fair, but it was life. It wasn’t fair that David was being terrorized and that the people whom he loved so dearly might be in danger. It wasn’t fair that people he had never met, but whose life might be saved by Barringston Relief, would suffer and die because someone had a vendetta against him. It wasn’t fair, but it too was life. And just like those poor souls in Cuba who had been bombarded by Hurricane Claudia and those around the Bay of Bengal, he would have to make the best of it.

Sitting and waiting for something to happen wasn’t making the best of it.

David walked from the living area to the corner of the suite that overlooked the bay. The moon was high in the night sky. Lights from the downtown skyline flickered and winked like fireflies in a forest. A glass-topped work station complete with computer was next to the glass wall. David sat behind the computer and turned it on.

As he waited for it to finish its self-check and to automatically sign onto the network, he thought of Kristen asleep on the couch and Timmy, still sound asleep on David’s bed. Somebody was using them as pawns in a horrible game. Someone had threatened their lives. David knew the threat was real.

They needed protection, and the only protection that David could think of involved his getting to the bottom of the matter. The police and FBI would be of no help; they were sure that he was the problem, not some mysterious person or persons. He was the target of their investigations, and they were dedicated to proving his guilt, not absolving him of a crime. He was alone in the matter. He could count on the support of a few people, but the weight fell on his shoulders.

There had to be a connection. Somehow and someway, David had become a threat. To whom, he did not know. His mind ran back to the discussion about the DHF virus and the new and improved mosquitoes. It was the only association he could imagine. He had been in Belize, and Barringston Relief was conducting research there. Could someone be threatened by that research? If so, who? Perhaps someone was responsible for the DHF outbreak and feared discovery. But again, who?

Raising his hands to the keyboard, David paused and wondered what his next step might be. Barringston Relief had
one of the most complete databases in the country. From his terminal, David could access information on any country, see maps, search current events, watch special video reports, and more. It was almost too much information.

He typed in the word
Belize.
A moment later a color map of Central America appeared on the screen. He had seen all this before he had left on his trip. What made Belize special? It was a small country with just over two hundred thousand people. San Diego county was populated by ten times that many. It was a democracy with a decent life expectancy: sixty-six years for men, seventy years for women. The country was becoming a tourist attraction as more and more people discovered its cays, islands, and the world’s second-largest barrier reef. In short, it was a pretty country but not an important one.

David’s frustration expanded. “This is the wrong approach,” he said softly. “I need more to go on.” His eyes felt weary, gritty, but he had no desire to sleep. He felt like the solution was just out of reach. If he tried a little harder, worked a little longer, then he might make some headway. “Perhaps a shower and some fresh coffee would help,” he said to himself.

Rising from his desk chair, he started for the kitchen and then stopped. He had caught sight of Kristen asleep on the couch. Turning back to the desk, he reached over to the phone and turned the ringer off. He didn’t want anything to awaken her.

Greg listened impatiently as the phone at the other end of the connection rang. “Come on, Dr. O’Neal,” he mumbled with frustration. “Pick up.” He was excited about his new
find and couldn’t wait to share the news with David. It had taken some doing to get connected. First, he called Barringston Relief, but since the hour was late, he had been electronically transferred to the communications department. Only after insisting that it was vital that he speak to Dr. O’Neal did communications connect him directly to David O’Neal’s suite number.

On the fourth ring there was an answer. “Hi, this is Dr. David O’Neal. I can’t come to the phone right now …” Greg swore. He would have to leave a message.

The message machine beeped, indicating it was ready to record. “Dr. O’Neal,” Greg said excitedly. “This is Greg Cheney. I’m at the video lab at San Diego State. I’ve found something important. I was going over the video and the copies of the photos you gave me. Remember how I told you about the tell in the video, the shadow that was cast the wrong way? Well, there’s more of them, but you have to look real close.”

The telephone lines could not diminish the excitement in Greg’s voice. “I started with the assumption that if there was one tell, there might be others. So I chose a scene—the one with you, the blond lady, and the two bad guys—and broke it into several plots. I wanted all the players on the screen. Then I began a close examination of each area. If I were going to paint in a few clues, that’s where I would do it.”

Greg wished he were talking to a person instead of a machine, but this information was too important to hold on to. “I don’t understand it, Dr. O’Neal, but maybe it will mean something to you. I started with the woman, magnifying the image as much as I could and still have some resolution. I found nothing special at first. By analyzing her
facial movements during the kiss, I determined that she is a real person on a set, and not a later addition. Anyway, I started at the top of her head and worked down. When she leans over to kiss you … well not you, but whomever … you know what I mean. When she leans over, an earring becomes visible from behind her blond hair. It’s a gold mosquito. Weird, huh? At first I didn’t give it any thought. There are all sorts of weird earrings today, but I got suspicious when I was taking a close look at the briefcase with the money in it. There’s a CGI—computer generated image—of a mosquito on several of the bills. And there’s another one. The men at the table have small mosquito tattoos on their hands. Well, not really tattoos. These are computer generated. I doubt they actually exist on their hands. I don’t know what mosquitoes have to do with anything, but I think they were put there intentionally. I bet the artist who did this either had second thoughts or was being forced into making the video and pictures.”

Greg bounced on the balls of his feet. “Anyway, I’m going to keep working on this. The lab at the college doesn’t have a phone, and I won’t be able to hear the pay phone from there, so you can’t reach me, but I’ll call you in the morning.”

Greg hung up and walked away from the phone.

David had taken his time in the shower, allowing the hot water to do its therapeutic work. He tried to push every thought from his mind, but there were too many of them. Too many fears, concerns, questions, anxieties, and no answers. Thirty minutes later he was back at his desk with a fresh cup of coffee in his hand. He leaned back in his chair and took a sip of the warm, dark liquid.

A small red numeral one on his answering machine caught his attention. He punched the play button and listened as the eager voice of Greg Cheney played through the tiny speaker.

David’s subconscious started screaming.

He looked at the phone. Realization poured over him like a flood from a broken dam. His phone was still tapped. When Calvin had ordered the electronic search of the building, they had found listening devices in David’s office and the conference room. They also had found that an external connection had been made to his private line. David had insisted that they be left in place. It was the only way of reaching his tormentors, the only way to flush them out. Now he regretted that decision with every fiber of his being. If they were listening in, then Greg could be in danger.

David had to warn him. How? The college was closed. He would never be able to make contact over the phone lines.

Bolting from his chair, David exited his suite and took the elevator down to the cafeteria. There he found a pay phone and placed a call to Calvin.

Aldo Goldoni dropped the handset of the phone back into its cradle. His operative had just informed him of a conversation between David O’Neal and someone named Greg Cheney. It was a loose end, and loose ends were not permitted. They had a habit of growing into problems if not dealt with properly.

A combination of anger and excitement wrestled within him. Anger because his plan was showing frayed edges that wouldn’t be there if he had been allowed to act sooner instead of playing games of intrigue with his mark. But he was a hired hand, and he did what his client wanted. Usually.