Mourning Dove

by Donna Simmons

  Counting his steps he veered right and found the old pine marking the split in the trail. He ducked the first two branches and squeezed in beside the damp concrete guardian of the coastline. His breathing slowed as he waited. The fog horn bleated its call of warning once, twice, and again. He could hear no sound from his tracker. After five more blasts from the channel he heard another sound in the distance. He smiled at his pursuer’s heavy breathing. The man was heading in the wrong direction.

  He climbed to the top of the hill behind the bunker then beyond it. Slowly, feeling his way through the brush, he came to a concrete base and set his pack down behind its damp surface. It was slick with sea mist and ice. He held his breath and unzipped the canvas pack. Waiting for sounds of the tracker, he heard only the measure of time from the channel. When his breathing slowed he took out a length of cord, a cylinder the size of a cigar, two five-inch long stainless steel rods, and a disk. He pulled off an insulated glove, and quietly slipped the cylinder into the glove until it stiffened the middle finger smiling at the appropriate gesture to the game he played. He made a noose with the cord and looped it around the wrist of the glove, pulling tight. When he reached inside the plugged air shaft he gently lifted out a collection of leaf debris. Deep inside, he wrapped his fingers around the buried treasure of his childhood, smiled because it was still here, and placed it beside his pack.

  Holding the end of the cord under his boot, he eased the tethered glove into the shaft. He fashioned a cross out of the rods, reached down into the shaft with his chest pressed to the wet exterior and lodged the crossed rods where they would go no further. By his estimation the cylinder was another ten feet down the hole.

  Sliding down behind the air shaft he leaned back and picked up the piece of oiled canvas wrapped around his childhood treasure. When he opened it in the darkness he felt the round of his marble cat’s eye, the rough of the piece of iron pyrite his father told him was fool’s gold, and the sharp edge of a flint arrowhead.

  Sara felt the arrowhead slice into her finger and instinctively sucked on the cut to ease the pain. The mist pulled her back into the dream.

  One more task then he’d lead his enemy away from the cache. He slipped the disk from its case, listened to the sounds of silence around him then scraped the disk across the rough surface at a corner of the concrete base. He snapped it in two, then two again, and dropped it into the shaft.

  He rewrapped the souvenirs of a time when he felt invincible and placed the memory on top of a collection of leaf debris over the crossed rods in the hole. He layered another handful of leaves above that, a hand length from the top.

  His pursuer was backtracking, breathing slower but walking like a rhino crashing through the brush.

  He grabbed a second disk from his pack and slid it into his pocket. A home recording of The Doors, just in case his pursuer got lucky. A third disk with the formula of a failed attempt was in his bag. He’d scratched its surface with his knife in the car, but it would keep them busy for months and lead them nowhere.

  Now he would lead the hound away from the fox. He slid the pack onto his back, retreated to the top of the bunker, and climbed down the ocean side. Quickly, he leaped over icy patches in the seaward path. Over the rocky ridge, he turned in toward the trail where he last heard the footsteps.

  Sara felt her heart pounding against her chest wall and tried to wake. She was sucked back into the dream.

  He grabbed a twig and broke it in two to guide the tracker in. It wouldn’t be long now. Behind a large rock he held a sturdy branch, waiting. His enemy was breathing heavy again. He was easy to track. Seconds became heartbeats and the foghorn blew as the man came nearer to the trap, one footstep, then two. He swung the club into the tracker’s back. The man screamed and fell over the rocky ledge. Carl listened. The only sound then was that of the waves crashing on the rocks below and the timing of the channel horn.

  It was far too easy. In the morning, when he could see, he’d come back and look for the body. He walked the rest of the path to the rocky breakwater and climbed out onto the granite barrier. He was so very sick of this life. He stared out into the fog. The channel horn his only companion.

  Sara felt something lifting her away from him. Carl was pushing her out.

  The crash of the surf masked the sound when he whispered, “Life sucks and then you die.” It echoed once when the shot rang out.

  “NO! Carl! NO!” Sara sat up and tried to catch her breath. She pulled back the covers and turned on the light. Fresh blood was smeared across her nightgown. A half inch cut across the pad of her left index finger was bleeding.

  ***

  “Sara, love, it’s okay, it was just a nightmare.”

  “God, don’t do this to me again. Let me go, Matthew. I need to go to him.”

  “Shush, it’s okay. I’ve got you.” He wrapped his arms around her from behind. “I’ve got you.” His hand came away sticky and wet. “You’re bleeding. Did you cut yourself?”

  “Oh God, Matthew, something’s wrong.”

  “It was just a nightmare,” he whispered. “Breathe easy. Sh, you’re okay.” He rocked her in his arms cradling her head against his chest, running a hand slowly up and down her back. “Sh, I’ve got you.”

  His heart was pounding like a kettle drum. Her heartbreak and the anguish of her screams were inside him. “It was just a nightmare. Easy now, easy.” He soothed her until her breathing was quiet once again.

  “Let’s get your bleeding stopped then you can tell me your nightmare?”

  “I can’t. I just can’t.”

  “Is it because you can’t recall it or is it because you don’t want to revisit it?”

  “I don’t want to go there again.”

  “Okay. I understand that. Tell me how you cut yourself.”

  “I didn’t, he did. I don’t know how this happened. In the dream I was Carl. He rubbed his finger over the sharp edge of a flint arrowhead and cut himself. This finger,” she held up her left index finger with blood still oozing from the jagged cut.

  “Lets tend to your finger, and then we’ll talk about the dream.” He wrapped a tissue around the cut and held it with a firm grip. “If you share the nightmare the pain will ease. Trust me. Several years in therapy taught me that.”

  “When?”

  “When my mother died I began to have nightmares. A therapist helped me analyze my terror and the nightmares stopped.”

  “I need to talk to Carl. That’s what I need to do.”

  “Love, he’s dead. And nothing we can do will change that.”

  “The nightmares stopped when he began talking in my head. I haven’t heard him since I left Portland. Now the nightmare is back.”

  “I won’t argue with you about Carl’s ability to communicate. Tell me if the nightmare is the same one you had in the past?”

  “Yes. No.”

  “Is that a definite?”

  “It’s not funny, Matt. The end of it is the same but there was a lot more in the beginning.”

  “In the nightmare were you there with him?”

  “No, not as me; I was him, or in him, until the gun fired. Then I screamed when he fell into my arms. That was when we separated.”

  “Tell me the nightmare from the beginning. And tell me what’s different from prior nightmares.”

  “In a minute, I need to use the. . .” She slipped from the bed, walked to the bathroom shutting the door behind her. He ran his fingers through his hair and took a deep breath. Bloody hell, she’d scared ten years out of him with her scream.

  ***

  “Carl?” In the dark bathroom Sara whispered her son’s name. “Are you with me?” Silence.

  Come on Carl, I need you. What’s happening? Why are the nightmares back? Answer me, damn it!

  “Sara, open up.” Matthew called from the other side of the door.

  “In a minute.”

  Carl, talk to me. She pleaded her thoughts again.

  “Sara, open the door.�
�

  “Just give me a moment, Matthew.” Carl, talk to me! The silence was devastating. She didn’t realize how much she depended on Carl’s presence. The pain of his absence hurt like the week he died. She slid to the floor up against the tub edge, tears in the back of her throat, and buried her face against her knees.

  “Sara, if you don’t open this door in the next sixty seconds, I’m going to break it down.”

  Don’t be stupid. It’s unlocked.

  The door clicked open and soft light spilled into the bathroom. Matthew sat on the floor beside her and lifted her left hand into both of his. “Just so you know, this is not the commode, love.”

  “I know that.”

  “And, I’m not stupid,” he added as he stroked her fingers between his own.

  “I never thought you were.”

  “You just told me not to be stupid.”

  “No I didn’t.”

  “Sara, never mind.”

  “What are you talking about?” she asked.

  “Why don’t we go back into the bedroom?”

  “I would rather stay here.”

  “Okay, so tell me the nightmare from the beginning.”

  The story spilled out as Matthew stroked her fingertips, always holding tight to her index finger. She could feel her finger going numb.

  After she’d finished retelling most of the nightmare, he said, “You have a vivid imagination.”

  “Now, you have to trust me. I know where he put it. If I only knew who killed him we could end this.” Sara squeezed his hands and asked him to help her up.

  “Sara, I’m pretty sure I know the name of his killer. I need to find the traitor in the agency first, get enough proof to put him away, and close down the circuit that connects the cult with the terrorist cell.”

  “But if we know where the disk and cylinder are, why can’t we go and destroy them?”

  “Don’t mention the disk and cylinder ever again. It could get you killed. Both are safe where they are until this is finished. We’re close, Sara. Just a little more time and we’ll trap them all.”

  She tossed a wad of tissues into the toilet and flushed. She wished all her problems were as easy to eliminate.

  CHAPTER 30

  “How’s your son?” Sara asked when Pam joined her for breakfast in the big conference room.

  “He’s fine. He ate something he shouldn’t and it paid him back. What happened after I left yesterday?”

  “After Matthew’s keynote we had a strategy meeting in Robert’s suite. Did you catch our media statement on television? Let’s see the little punk get out of this one.”

  “Didn’t you hear?” Pam leaned toward her when Sara tucked herself into the table.

  “Hear what?”

  “The first news report this morning was that Jeffery Dane was released on bail early this morning, and then killed in a hit and run.”

  Sara was numb with shock over yet another death. From the added volume of conversation the news was filtering through the conference room as they spoke.

  “The word is he was driven home by his attorney. He got out of the car and a light colored sedan came out of nowhere and hit him hard enough to bounce him twenty feet away. The driver never stopped. That’s all the information the police gave out in their news bulletin this morning.” Pam looked over Sara’s shoulder toward the front of the breakfast gathering. “Holy crap, they’re here.”

  Sara turned to follow Pam’s gaze across the room. Two patrolmen and a man in a black suit were standing in the front entrance of the hall.

  “It appears the police are looking for someone.”

  “With my luck, they’re probably looking for me,” Sara said.

  “Stand up and wave them toward you,” Pam said. “It will look like you asked them to come.”

  “Pamela Lawson, you have a devious mind.” She acted on Pam’s suggestion and the two patrolmen and plain clothes detective threaded their way toward them. The breakfast gathering hushed to the point of dead silence.

  “Gentlemen, I’m Sara Stafford from Starr Shine Communications. How may I be of service to you?”

  “Ms. Stafford, may we speak with you in private?” asked the detective wearing a gray pinstriped suit and a red tie decorated with a grease spot at about mid-chest.

  “Considering the interest your arrival has made, I would suggest we walk over to the rear exit and hold our conversation where everyone can see but not hear.”

  The detective agreed and directed Sara toward the rear exit. A tray of glasses dropped to the floor somewhere in the room. She turned then as three of Chicago’s finest blocked the view of their conversation from the fifty or so observers around the room.

  “Ms. Stafford, we need to know where you were at three-thirty this morning.”

  “A reasonable question, detective, I was in my room trying to deal with a minor plumbing emergency.”

  “Can you explain that?”

  “My toilet was overflowing. I called Mr. Farrell, who came to my rescue and in turn called the front desk for assistance. I believe it was a little after three. The gentleman at the front desk at that time can verify the time if you care to check with him.”

  “I see. And how long were the two of you occupied with the plumbing problem?”

  “The last of it was mopped up around five this morning. Mr. Farrell went back to his suite to get cleaned up. I took a shower and dressed for the last day of the conference. He should be here any moment.”

  “What kind of car do you drive Ms. Stafford?”

  “It’s a forest green Sebring convertible. But I’m not using a car here at the conference. I flew in and took a cab from the airport. I’ve been sharing cabs with the other staff in the evenings. Is there anything else I can help you with?”

  “Do you know the name of the desk clerk and maintenance people who saw you at 3:30 this morning?”

  “No, but I’m sure you can get that information at the front desk.”

  “Thank you for your cooperation, Ms. Stafford. If you have anything else to add you can reach me at this number.”

  Palming his card, she extended her hand and shook his and the hands of the two uniformed patrolmen.

  “Ms. Stafford?” he added before she could walk back to her table. “Do you know where we can find Mr. Farrell?”

  “I suppose, he’s either in his room or on his way down to breakfast.”

  Cutting through a sea of whispered gossip across the room, Sara stopped at a table to chat with a woman she remembered from the afternoon session the day before. Reaching down to the floor, she retrieved the woman’s napkin and laughed at her interpretation of the way Sara shuffled the police out the back door. The fake smile Sara wore faded away when she left the dining room. In the elevator, she flipped open her cell and dialed Matthew’s number. It was busy, probably the police. She punched in the second number and southern charm answered on the second ring.

  “Hello, Elaina. It’s Sara Stafford. How was your trip?”

  “Oh my dear, you know those planes. By the time you get comfortable they start fussing over you and you don’t get a peaceful moment to yourself.”

  “Is Robert available?”

  After a minute, he was on the line, “Hello Sara, any more sleuthing this morning?”

  “Not by me, sir. I’m concerned though that more has happened to wreak havoc with our conference. The police were here during breakfast. I’ve been told the mayor’s son was released early this morning and then killed in a hit and run. They wanted to know where I was at the time. There were a lot of attendees in the room when the police showed up. Thanks to some fast thinking by Pam Lawson, we managed to make the situation look like I had called them.”

  “Sara, join me at 1:30 in my suite; I’ll contact Mr. Farrell.”

  He disconnected before she could say another word.

  ***

  An acid war was attacking Sara’s stomach. Three Tums, a big inhale, and she knocked on the boss’s door, 1:30 on the
dot. Robert opened it with a warm smile.

  “Hello again, little lady, I saved a seat for you at lunch. When you didn’t show, Elaina ordered something sent up for our meeting. We were just having a second cup of coffee.”

  In the sitting room of Robert’s suite Matthew was seated with his legs stretched out and crossed at the ankles. No one else was present.

  “Sara,” Matthew nodded in her direction.

  “Hello, Matthew. I tried to reach you several times this morning. Your cell keeps sending me to your message center.”

  He reached into his jacket pocket and checked. “Sorry about that. I must have pushed the wrong button.” He knew what button to push. Sara felt like she’d just entered a luxurious spider web.

  “Help yourself to some of this spread,” Robert offered. “Elaina called in the order before she left.” A platter of finger sandwiches, another of vegetables surrounding a small bowl of green colored dip, and a tray of assorted bite sized pastries filled the coffee table in the center of the room. A pot of coffee and a teapot decorated the bar of the mini-kitchen to the left of the sitting area.

  Sara took the vacant seat across from Matthew, placing her briefcase beside her. “I’m sorry I missed your speech today, Robert. I spent most of the noon break in my room with a migraine and a grumpy stomach.” She reached into her case, “I prepared a list of what’s going on that might help to understand and settle down any problems we’re having in PR.”

  “Sara, tea or coffee?”

  “I’m not sure my stomach’s up to more caffeine, Robert.”

  “Well, then, I suggest you try some of the fare Elaina went to all that trouble to order for you.”

  There was no backing out of that gracefully. “That may just do the trick. Maybe I will have a cup of tea, then. Thank you, sir. As I was saying, this is the list of unusual events that have happened since just before we left for the conference on Monday to the present time. I’ve made copies for each of you. I don’t believe this many out of the ordinary incidents can be called coincidence. Someone is trying to sabotage this company, or someone placed very high up in the organization. I’ve eliminated everyone who may be at risk, except Jonathon, me, and you, sir. Since Matthew doesn’t actually work for Starr Shine Communications, I originally removed his name from the list. But I’ve added him back since he’s been at the scene of almost every incident or closely related to it. I thought of the people here at the Chicago office who helped put this event together. They’re on a separate list. My gut tells me they’re not at risk. What we need to find out is who instigated the events that appear to be designed to bring down our company.”