Terminal Justice (45 page)

“Oh, A.J., I …” David didn’t finish his sentence. A.J.’s body jerked in spasms, his eyes blinked once, and his throat emitted a soft gurgling sound. A.J. Barringston, defender of the abused and neglected, was dead.

“DID YOU SMUGGLE A PIZZA IN FOR ME?” WOODY Summers asked David.

David looked down at the man in the hospital bed. Standing next to him was Stephanie Cooper. Seated in a nearby chair was a woman that Woody had introduced as his wife. Kristen stood next to David. “I’m afraid they confiscated it in the lobby. A hungry pack of interns is enjoying it right now.”

“Pity,” Woody replied with a chortle. “Nothing like a pizza to help a man recover from shoulder surgery.”

“I hear you’ll be back on duty soon,” Kristen said.

“Next month,” Woody replied. “Four weeks of R and R here in San Diego, then back to the FBI salt mines in D.C.” Everyone laughed. “I think I owe you a word of thanks for saving my life, David.”

“Actually, I owe you an apology.”

“Apology?”

“You and Stephanie were right all along. It’s still hard for me to believe, but A.J., Sheila, Roger, and Eileen were doing everything you said they were. I don’t think I’ll ever forget that moment in Small World when police removed the masks of the two gunmen. Even with the heavy makeup I could recognize Sheila and Roger.”

“I know that wasn’t easy for you,” Woody said. “And no apology is needed. You were loyal to a man who did a lot of good. He just couldn’t recognize the line between good and bad any longer.”

“Still, I’m sorry.”

Woody nodded his head. “I’m glad you weren’t hurt badly. How’s the head, Kristen?”

“I’ve lost all desire to wear hats, but I think I’ll be okay as soon as the knot goes away.”

“What will happen to Barringston Relief?” Stephanie asked.

“I spoke to Archibald Barringston before I came over here. He said that its operations will be placed in administrative trust under the guidance of Barringston Industries and that an independent executive will be named by the courts. After that, no one knows. The Justice Department is investigating. We’ll have to wait and see.”

“What about Eileen Corbin?” Woody asked.

“Disappeared,” David said. “Without a trace. She did leave behind her equipment though. I think there’s some interest in that.”

“I guarantee there’s a lot of interest in that,” Woody replied. “It’s a shame really. She is brilliant.”

There was an uneasy silence that was broken by Woody. “So what happens to you, David? What do you do now?”

“Mr. Barringston has asked me to stay on. He’s also asked me to watch over Timmy for a while. Both he and Timmy have a lot of grief to work through.”

“You’re going to stay with Barringston Relief?” Stephanie asked.

“As long as I can. There are some wonderful people there, and the organization does a great work. Despite the misguided actions of some, there are still many heroes out in the field saving lives every day. That should continue.”

“It will, David,” Woody said. “It will. As long as there are people like you and Kristen, it will. Now enough of this. Go get me a pizza. I’m hungry.”

T
HE FOLLOWING IS AN EXCERPT FROM

Prologue
Sierra de Agua, Belize, Central America
May 15, 1990

PERSPIRATION DOTTED HIS FOREHEAD AND streaked his cheeks. Raising his hand, the young man wiped at his face and grimaced at the act. Every joint was pierced with pain; every muscle protested the movement with ferocious agony. His skin felt aflame, and his head throbbed as if it were an anvil in a blacksmith’s shop. A groan, small and pathetic, issued from his parched mouth, passed split and swollen lips, and joined the guttural emanations of the other fifteen patients.

He closed his eyes for a moment and then reopened them, focusing on a large blue-green fly that rested on the white netting that surrounded his bed to keep insects out. The fly was motionless except for its front legs, which it furiously rubbed together like a famished man rubbing his hands over a banquet table. Unfortunately the netting kept out the sweet, light breeze that wafted in through the open windows spaced throughout the ward. The breeze played a lullaby, using the supple leaves of nearby trees as instruments, but
the young man could not sleep; he could only wait and hope the disease that incapacitated him would leave as quickly as it came. He doubted that it would, but hope was all that he had now.

He was fourteen and until a week ago was strong and full of the energy of youth. He ran where others walked, and he loved nothing more than playing fusball after school with his friends. Four of those friends were on the ward with him now, and two others had already died. Soccer no longer occupied his mind, just survival.

A movement outside the netting caught his eye. A woman in a white smock stood next to his bed. “How are you feeling?” the woman asked. Her voice, lilting with an American accent, was sweet to his ears.

“Bad, Doctor. Really bad.” His voice was surprisingly weak. “Are my parents here?”

“They were, but I sent them home,” she answered without emotion. “It’s best that they not see you right now. You don’t want them to get sick too, do you?”

He shook his head slowly. The effort sent ripping bolts of pain down his back.

“You’re a good son,” the doctor said. The young man watched as she raised a large hypodermic and removed the plastic cover that protected the large bore needle. “I need to take a blood sample.”

He didn’t want to give blood. He was tired of giving blood. He wanted to go home and sleep in his own bed. Still, he offered no objection.

The doctor pulled back the white netting and leaned over him. The blue-green fly took flight. Deftly she plunged the needle into a vein just below the crook of his elbow. Moments later she was done. He watched as she raised the hypodermic and studied the red fluid. She smiled and closed the netting. “Try to get some sleep. Maybe your parents can see you tomorrow.”

The young man nodded slowly and watched as the woman walked away.

The woman in the white smock locked the door behind her. It was the only room in the small outlying clinic that was capable of being locked, and she was the only one with a key. Turning, she faced a ten-by-fifteen room filled with laboratory equipment and a computer terminal. Dominating the center of the room was a broad table upon which rested a large, rectangular glass box that looked like an aquarium without water. A small piece of white paper had been taped to the glass container. It read: Aedes aegypti. Carefully carrying the vial of blood she had just drawn from the teenager on the ward, she made her way to the table and gently set the syringe down.

She felt a moment of sadness for the boy. He would be dead in two or three days. This fact bothered her some, but not unduly; she had, after all, been the one to give him the disease.

She leaned forward and placed her face near the glass surface and closely studied the container’s inhabitants. A grin spread across her face. She raised a hand and drummed her fingers on the glass box. A thousand mosquitoes swarmed into frenetic flight within the container. Her grin broadened into a full smile.

Glancing at the blood-filled syringe, she said aloud, “So, is anyone hungry?”

THE AUGUST SUN HUNG HIGH IN THE DEEP TURQUOISE sky and poured its effulgence down on the beach. David O’Neal took in a long, deep breath through his nose. The air was perfumed with the smells of salt water, warm sand, and suntan lotion. It was hot, and David could almost imagine a sizzling sound coming from the well-oiled bodies of sunbathers who, with no regard for the dangers of skin cancer, joyfully roasted themselves in the sun’s bountiful light. Not David. He preferred to lie on his lawn chair in the full shade of the beach umbrella he had so wisely rented from a local stand.

The cry of gulls and terns overhead blended with the gentle sounds of rolling surf in a relaxing symphony that lulled him to the edge of gentle slumber; it was something to which he would happily surrender. After all, this was the first real day off he had taken in sixteen months of steady, grinding, mind-shredding work. Yet, despite the unrelenting pressure, high learning curve, and sometimes foreign nature of his job, he would not trade one moment of it.

Being the director of Barringston Relief, the largest relief organization in the world, was as fulfilling as it was demanding. Since assuming the position after the death of his friend and employer A.J. Barringston, David had traveled to twenty-four countries getting acquainted with the “heroes” who labored in the worst possible conditions. He had made a return trip to Africa where he spent time in Rwanda, Republic of Congo, Burundi, and the Sudan. He
also toured the relief work his organization had recently established on the island nation of Madagascar. His travels took him to famine-stricken North Korea where farmland had yet to recover from devastating floods. Several weeks were spent in South and Central America. He walked along the Appalachian Mountains and the inner-city streets of Los Angeles, Dallas, Miami, and New York. Everywhere he went he saw the worst possible conditions; he also saw the brave men and women who faced those elements with passion and aplomb.

David O’Neal had worked with the same tireless passion as his predecessor. The broad expanse of the world and the unrelenting need of suffering people now defined his life, which had once been expressed in church work. The enterprise of relief was now the power that energized his soul. It was his work, his dream, his service and worship. He thanked God for it every day.

Today, however, he was not Dr. David O’Neal, head of Barringston Relief. No, today he was just plain old David, citizen of the beach on a searing hot August afternoon. Through drowsy eyes, he scanned the horizon. Children scampered joyfully along the shore while others built sandcastles with their parents. Thirty yards out in the water, body surfers struggled to find a wave with sufficient energy to carry them in its foamy grasp. It was a futile effort, for the rollers were nearly as still as the air was calm. Only gentle waves made their way to the sand to flop lazily on the shore, spreading diaphanous foam on the sand. That was fine with David. It meant he could relax more and worry less about Timmy.

Like the other children along the strand, Timmy was enjoying the water. David spied him as he raced forward into the ocean, leaping wildly over the two-foot waves like they were moving hurdles. Once the water was waist high, Timmy would boldly leap headfirst into an oncoming wave only to surface, rubbing his eyes and coughing. He was having a great time.

Unlike the other children, Timmy stood just over six feet tall and was nearly twenty-four years old. Despite his adult height and age, he was still a child within. His intellectual and emotional development had been compared to that of an eight-year-old. While many who met the boy-man responded with pity, David often found himself admiring Timmy, for the young man was resilient, strong, and chronically cheerful. Every day brought him new joy and a renewed zest for life. Living was an unending adventure for him.
Not a bad way to live
, David had thought many times. Timmy had known a hard life, surviving on the streets where the other homeless had frequently beaten him. A.J. had rescued Timmy from just such a beating years ago. A.J. was the closest thing Timmy had ever had to a father, and now that he was gone, David filled that role.

Assured that Timmy was well, David once again closed his eyes and waited for the simple sleep of relaxation that he knew was just moments away.

A muted sound, foreign and misplaced, jarred him from his trance. David blinked in confusion. There it was again: a ringing, electronic and annoying. Subconsciously, he glowered and reached for the cell phone he had tucked away in a utility bag he used to carry towels and sun block. He had to search for a moment before he found the small black phone.

“David O’Neal,” he said, after snapping open the small folding phone.

“Dr. O’Neal,” a tinny and distant voice said through a haze of static, “this is Osborn Scott. Sorry to bother you on your day off.”

“No problem, Oz,” David said. Osborn Scott was a new addition to Barringston Relief. A quiet, capable man and a driven scientist, Oz—as he insisted on being called—normally stayed to himself, preferring his work to social contact.

“How was your trip to Belize?” Osborn asked. Even over the phone, he seemed distracted.

“Fine, but puzzling. I’m afraid I came home with more questions than answers.”

“People still getting sick down there?”

“Yes. It’s not an epidemic yet, but it’s worrisome. All that our research doctors know is it’s viral. But I don’t think you called me to talk about Belize. What’s up?”

“I need to show you something,” Osborn said.

“Can it wait until tomorrow?”

“I think you might want to see this sooner than that.” Osborn’s voice was tense.

“Is there a problem?” David asked. He could feel his stomach tighten. If Osborn was concerned, then David’s life was about to become far more complicated.