Realm of Shadows

by Eldon Farrell

  I should say something, he thinks, what was her name again? It started with an A…I think.

  Pushing him away she twirls around now wearing only her bra and panties. He can feel his desire for her growing as he sits there on the edge of her bed.

  When are you going to start taking your life seriously?

  Hearing Harris asking him this question lessens his excitement. I am taking my life seriously.

  Really? The conversation plays out inside his head like it has so many times before with him. Where did you sleep last night? Out with another random hookup, no doubt. You probably don’t even know her name, huh?

  Casting about his unfamiliar surroundings he has no defense to the charges.

  And on such an important night too. The voice in his head no longer belongs to Harris but is his own. Here you are on the eve of what could be a milestone in your career and what do you do to prepare? You go out to a bar and get drunk and go home with someone you just met. Classy ace, real classy.

  Blinking feverishly he rubs his face trying to silence the doubts inside his mind.

  Sitting down on his lap she pushes him back onto the bed. She’s completely naked now as she straddles him—her haunches resting on his thighs. All thoughts of self-doubt and recrimination vanish as his blood runs south and a yearning rises in him.

  She breathes enticingly in his ear and he’s suddenly very up. Running his fingers along her shoulders and over her nipples elicits a moan from her.

  The night closes in. Nothing matters now but the pleasure of the moment.

  Tomorrow, rolling her over, he vows, I’ll get serious tomorrow.

  Tick-tock. Tick-tock. Tick-tock.

  The sound of the 1919 Grandfather clock marking off seconds fills the otherwise quiet library of Alexander Cummings. The room is centered on the second floor of his three-story home and is shaped like an octagon. The walls are lined with oak bookshelves filled floor to ceiling with leather-bound tomes ranging from war strategies and military history to politics and literary classics.

  Seated in a rich leather chair near the stone hearth, he absently thumbs through an old copy of The Iliad while chewing on the end of an unlit cigar. Every so often his blue eyes stray from the page to look expectantly at the red phone beside his chair.

  It is a hard line—as secure as secure gets—with only one person having the number. Despite having only rarely met him, he’s been working in his service for years now.

  He refers to him only by the handle Chance—chosen because with him you’ve got one and without him you don’t.

  He’ll be calling soon.

  He smiles to himself as the muted light on the phone blinks softly. Lifting the receiver he says nothing choosing instead to wait for Chance to speak.

  The distorted voice that has become so familiar to him says, “You were successful in your task.”

  From experience Cummings knows it’s more of a question than a statement and thus replies, “Of course; though I still wonder at the why of it all.”

  “Yours is not to wonder, only to comply.”

  “If you say so,” Cummings absently states.

  Changing directions Chance asks, “What are you doing to find the reporter?”

  Rolling the cigar to the other side of his mouth Cummings says, “Like you Chance, I’d prefer to keep my cards close to my chest…for now.”

  A garbled laugh crawls across the line before he declares, “You no longer have that luxury.”

  “Nevertheless.”

  “What of the missing data,” Chance asks, “Have you located the evidence that was traded yet?”

  “Not as yet,” Cummings bristles again from having his failings highlighted, “But I’m close.”

  “I’ll bet you are,” the condescension is apparent even through the distortion. “You would do well to remember Wolf just what’s at stake here.”

  “I assure you, I’m well aware.”

  “Really?” Chance questions, his voice projecting the power that he wields. “Then I needn’t remind you that you told me the situation in Hope had been contained. Now if that had really been the case you wouldn’t have been betrayed by one of the men whose loyalty you vouched for.”

  His hackles rising Cummings snaps before he can check himself. “I wouldn’t have been betrayed if we had handled Hope differently. You’ll recall it wasn’t my call.”

  “This is your operation Wolf,” Chance counters, “And it is now you who can’t find the reporter your traitor spoke to or even the evidence he was set to deal.”

  “I’ll find it,” Cummings vows.

  “You’d better. If you’re connected to Hope…well, let’s just say you used up all your political capital over that mess in Stillness. This time, I promise you won’t be spared the fallout.”

  The number of times he used the term ‘you’ is not lost on Cummings. He is quite cognizant of his exposure in this affair—a circumstance that he will need to deal with in course. But he sees no reason to share that information with Chance just yet.

  “It’ll be handled soon.”

  “For your sake it better be,” Chance warns, “The clock is ticking.”

  Chapter 11

  Atlanta, Georgia

  Sitting in front of the mirror, Miriam absently brushes her hair before bed. She’s only going through the motions though, acting on instinct, her thoughts are occupied elsewhere.

  Yet again Roger was late coming home, arriving after eight and completely missing dinner. A frequent occurrence as of late that has left her eating too many meals alone.

  As soon as he got home he went directly to his study and shut the door without a word and has been there ever since. She knows the day did not go well. Lionel called before he got home to apprise her of that much. He wouldn’t go into any specifics except to say that Sadie Randle refused to cooperate.

  Setting the brush down, she knows Roger will be beside himself. Not for the first time she wants to go downstairs and comfort him and not for the first time she doesn’t. Their relationship has become so strained that even a simple act of kindness seems to require an intricate consideration of the ramifications.

  She’s pulled from her thoughts by the sound of a door closing. Hearing footsteps thumping up the stairs, she climbs into bed to wait for him. Roger appears in the doorway and slouches into the room, collapsing on a chair to remove his socks.

  Strangled silence hangs between them.

  He’s looking haggard. Even from across the room she can make out the faint whiff of scotch that is seeping from his pores. He’s been drinking again.

  “Wendy came over today,” she says brightly, “We had a wonderful time. She sends her best.”

  His shoulders heave as a heavy sigh escapes him and acts as his only response.

  “How was your day?” she asks.

  “I-I’m tired,” he whispers dully, “I just want to go to bed.”

  Plastering on a faux smile she tries her best to pretend that it doesn’t hurt to have him not talk to her. Swiping at her right eye she announces, “I have an idea.”

  Waiting for him to raise his defeated glance to her she says, “Can we pretend tonight that everything is fine? Just forget our problems until the sun comes up and...hold each other like we used to. Let’s leave tomorrow for tomorrow to deal with. Can we do that?”

  She can see the glint of moisture in his eyes as he nods silently before joining her in the bed. She knows as his arms wrap around her that he needs this as badly as she does. Like her, he needs to feel connected tonight—he needs to find solace in a familiar embrace.

  Resting her cheek against his chest she listens to the heartbeat she knows as well as her own. “This is nice, isn’t it?” she whispers.

  He gently strokes her hair and tenderly kisses the crown of her head in reply. She smiles from the touch while unseen by her tears run down his cheeks—his voice caught on the lump in his throat.

  “Good evening. Our top story tonight is again the disappearanc
e in Hope. Now into its tenth day, our very own Matt Robinson is on sight and has this report. Matt?”

  “Thank you Kent,” the camera shows Matt standing on a cliff wearing a brown windbreaker, the collar turned up, gripping a microphone, and squinting into the wind.

  “As you can see, I’m standing on the edge of a cliff overlooking Pamlico Sound. I don’t know if you can make it out or not but one mile out to sea is Hope Island where for another night things are eerily quiet. The residents of this little village remain missing at this hour.

  “And the news only gets worse for the families of the missing I’m afraid as today the National Hurricane Center confirmed that a massive tropical depression is tracking to become a hurricane that will collide with the Carolinas.

  “With this development, speculation has begun as to how long the authorities will hold out before abandoning the search ahead of the approaching storm.”

  The screen splits to show the immaculately groomed Kent Overman back in studio asking, “Has there been any word from the authorities regarding what might have caused this yet?”

  After a ten second time delay Matt responds, “Not yet Kent. There has in fact been no official word since the initial press conference announcing this burgeoning tragedy ten days ago. Rumors however are swirling that due to the heavy military presence, that this could be a terrorist attack against our nation.”

  “Exactly how heavy is the military presence?”

  Placing his right index finger over the receiver in his ear Matt nods before replying, “Very heavy. Where I’m standing right now is as close to the island as you can get. You can’t see them from here, but the army has set up roving patrols around the island, and here on the mainland we’ve seen several black-suited soldiers from the private security firm, Black Creek Consulting guarding all access points to the island.

  “Believe me, as of right now; there can be no mistaking that Hope Island is off limits to anyone not in an official capacity.”

  “Thank you Matt and keep us posted,” Kent stoically says into the camera, “That was Matt Robinson reporting live for Channel 5 from Hope, North Carolina.”

  Shuffling papers in front of him he continues, “In other world news, the death toll in Peru continues to rise from the mysterious outbreak that has afflicted that country. 52 are confirmed dead by the World Health Organization, who has reached out for additional help in containing the epidemic. Sources at the Centers for Disease Control stated today that they are actively involved in helping to curb this outbreak and will assist the WHO in any way that they can.

  “The sense of urgency around this outbreak rose further today as confirmed reports of cases in Bogotá, Columbia started to come in. A high ranking official at the WHO stated that ‘the unknown nature of this disease makes its spread beyond the Peruvian jungle a cause for great concern.’ He went on to say that they need to be extra vigilant to contain this epidemic before it can spread further.”

  Sitting in the darkened room Caleb is bathed by the ambient light of the television. All around him are the remains of the night—scattered papers, open boxes, empty bottles, and a worn Bible.

  Suppressing a yawn, he struggles to keep his heavy eyelids open—a struggle he is doomed to lose.

  “In other news, local loser Caleb Fine continues to be made a fool of by the Toymaker. How he has been unable to catch a whiff of this vicious killer for so long is laughable. The victims of this heinous monster cry out for justice and all Caleb can give them is abject failure.

  “He sits night after night poring over old evidence and reading a Bible as if God will provide him with the answers that have been right in front of his face.

  “That’s right Caleb,” Kent points a finger at the camera, “I’m talking to you. You think you can catch the Toymaker but you’ve known who he is for a month now and still can’t find him. He’s got your girlfriend locked up somewhere and you’re doing what? Reading scripture?

  “Face it loser; you don’t have what it takes to catch him. Hell, I’d be surprised if you could catch a cold!” Kent leans back in his chair cackling at the joke he’s made. “God,” he goes on, “When I think about all of the blood on your hands from your incompetence, I wonder how you can even sleep.

  “Wake up Caleb! Time to get a clue—God’s not the answer!”

  Caleb awakens with a start staring at the TV. His hands shaking he listens to the anchorman drone on “Stay with us after the break as our own Michelle Burke recently had the chance to sit down with Samuel Roberts, the long-standing Chief Justice of the Supreme Court. You won’t want to miss what he has to say.”

  Raising the remote Caleb turns the television off and totters away from the couch. Knocking over some piles of paper on the way, he manages to reach his kitchen counter without falling himself.

  God’s not the answer…

  Closing his eyes, he sees Hal standing in Sacred Heart Church nearly a month ago now, declaring ‘This isn’t about religion’.

  God’s not the answer…

  As he rubs the exhaustion from his face, forcing the last bit of his dream from his mind, it hits him. He suddenly sees what he’s been staring at all along.

  “Shit,” with wide eyes and quickening breath he whispers, “That’s it.”

  interlude

  Ten Months Ago

  Mono County, California

  “Black Creek Consulting, Jing Bai’s office; hold please.”

  Before he can respond, the supple voice of his father’s receptionist is replaced by the harmonious notes of Mozart’s Piano Concerto No. 24 in C minor. His prepared greeting dies on the tip of his tongue as a despondent sigh parts his thin lips.

  Outside his trailer he can hear the winds howling as an unusually early taste of winter descends upon the high desert region of Mono Lake. At 6,378 feet above sea level it’s certainly not unusual to find snow here, just usually not in October. At the sight of it, Hong Bai simply shakes his head wistfully knowing what it means for his research project.

  Guess we’ll be closing up sooner then we’d like.

  Mono Lake formed 760,000 years ago as a terminal lake with no outlet to the Pacific Ocean. As a result of this the shallow waters contain high concentrations of dissolved salts. The high levels of alkaline and saline aid an extremely productive ecosystem supported by brine shrimp and migratory birds.

  What has brought Hong and his research team of astrobiologists here though is not the wildlife. They’ve been tasked with the responsibility of acting as independent confirmation for the GFAJ-1 bacterium that was discovered here by Felisa Wolfe-Simon.

  Her discovery caused uproar in the scientific community after she published in the journal Science that the microbe, when starved of phosphorus, was capable of substituting arsenic for a small percentage of its phosphorus and thus allowing it to maintain its growth.

  To the lay person it seems a trivial dispute, but the ramifications of the discovery if proven correct, Hong knows are far reaching.

  All known life is 99% made up of four basic elements: carbon, oxygen, hydrogen, and nitrogen. The discovery of GFAJ-1 deals with the composition of the other 1%. Science has proven that this 1% of life’s recipe is made up of a mixture of nine micronutrients including sodium, magnesium, potassium, iodine, and phosphorus among others.

  What Felisa Wolfe-Simon endeavored to prove with her bacterium is that phosphorus does not need to be present for life to evolve. This would open up a multitude of worlds where phosphorus is not present as potential sites for the discovery of life, if it were true.

  And so Hong and his team are here on what one might deem a quest to discover alien life on earth.

  “Jing Bai’s office; can I help you?”

  Snapping out of his reverie, Hong licks his dry lips before asking, “Is he in?”

  “May I ask who is calling?”

  Developing a sheepish grin, Hong replies, “Sorry, it’s his son calling.”

  “Mr. Bai is unavailable at the moment.”
<
br />   The paranoid part of Hong’s mind questions whether that response was a little too quick. Then again, he is a busy man.

  “Would you care to leave a message?” she intrudes again on his wandering thoughts.

  “No,” Hong stumbles over his tongue, “No that’s OK, I’ll try again later.” He thanks her but the line has already been disconnected.

  Clutching the phone in his hand he looks up again at the window. In the fading light he can see his sad reflection gazing back at him.

  At thirty-seven years of age his jet black hair has already begun to thin. Every day he looks in the mirror now he sees more of his father than he does of himself. They’ve always shared the same dark eyes, though Hong insists that whereas his are inquisitive his fathers are plainly judgmental.

  At only five feet nine inches, he has a slight figure with rounded shoulders and thin arms leading to dexterous fingers. His skin is the color of almonds, blemished only by an angry scar from a molten burn on his left forearm.

  His rectangular face is notable only by its lack of distinction. A weak jaw line, flat nose, and sunken cheeks do little to set him apart from any crowd.

  Setting the phone down he mutters to his reflection, “Later, talk to you later…dad.”

  Leaning back in his chair Hong listens to the soft ringing of the phone that’s pressed to his ear. It’s been two days since he called last with no word from his father.

  “Black Creek Consulting, Jing Bai’s office.”

  Releasing the breath he didn’t realize he was holding Hong stumbles over his words, “Hey—hello, it’s uh…is my father in?”

  The receptionist’s silky timbre quickly informs him, “Mr. Bai is in a meeting at the moment and does not wish to be disturbed.”

  “Oh,” Hong is unable to keep the disappointment from his voice.

  “Would you care to leave a message?”

  “No,” Hong stutters, “I mean yes. Would uh, would you just tell him that I called.”