Death & Other Lies
Page 1
DEATH
&
OTHER LIES
Carol L. Ochadleus
Table of Contents
Title Page
Death & Other Lies
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
A Note from the Publisher
About the Publisher
This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real locales are used fictitiously. All characters appearing in this work are the product of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the written permission of the publisher.
For permission requests, write to the publisher
“Attention: Permissions Coordinator”
Zimbell House Publishing
PO Box 1172
Union Lake, Michigan 48387
mail to: info@zimbellhousepublishing.com
© 2014, 2019 Carol L. Ochadleus, Author
© 2019 Brian Kotulis, Cover Design
Published in the United States by Zimbell House Publishing
All Rights Reserved
Hardcover ISBN: 978-1-64390-062-9
Trade Paper ISBN: 978-1-64390-063-6
.mobi ISBN: 978-1-64390-064-3
ePub ISBN: 978-1-64390-065-0
Large Print ISBN: 978-1-64390-066-7
Library of Congress Control Number: 2019942528
Second Edition: July 2019
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2
Zimbell House Publishing
Union Lake
DEDICATION
In Memory of
Dorothy and Charles Genetti
May their loving and generous souls continue to guide
my footsteps.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
FIRST AND FOREMOST, I must thank my husband, Don, for his support and unwavering encouragement. He is a guiding light who draws sunshine out of the gloom and offers the steadfast rock I cling to in the dark. I do not thank him often enough for the joy he brings to my life. All that I can do is because of him and his delusional optimism.
I also must thank my children: Brian and Elizabeth Kotulis, Lauren and Brent Baginski, Nichole and Joe Szyszkiewicz, Kathryn and Brandon Davis, and Don and Stacey Ochadleus. I love each of you and am fortunate to call you my friends as well as my children. You and your children generously share with me your spirit, wisdom, laughter, and just the right amount of chaos to keep my life deliciously unbalanced.
Brian Kotulis deserves a sincere thank you for designing the cover of this book. I am in constant awe of his amazing artistic talent.
A sincere thank you, as well, to Holly G. Miller, of the Saturday Evening Post. Early on, she reviewed my synopsis and encouraged me to publish. Without her pushing, this book would not have been possible.
Chapter One
June 14th
Phil Forester would have rudely ignored the young man who approached him as he left work, but the large wad of bills Rashid Zand held, caught his attention.
Minutes later the two men sat facing a rotating platform as a stripper named Luscious Lana caressed a pole.
“How much money are we talking about?” Phil asked Rashid, his eyes straying to the dancing girl.
Lana’s legs worked seductively, while her pendulous breasts, coated in glitter, bounced with the beat of the loud music. Two dozen men, regulars of the Rumpass Room in the shady end of Philadelphia, whistled and waved fists of cash in the air.
“Enough to pay off your gambling debts and give you a good deal extra,” Zand answered.
Phil’s head snapped around. “How do you know what I owe? You bugging my phone?”
“You sit every night in the Landing Zone. The more you drink, the more you complain about your money troubles. Do you not wish to be free of such debt?”
“Maybe. But I’m sure you’re not going to give me money for nothing, what do you want?”
“You work at Marsh Laboratories, run by your government.”
“Yeah, you saw me walk out fifteen minutes ago.” Phil’s face darkened. “Now you’re following me too?”
“I have friends who work in the casinos you frequent, the expensive stores you shop, even the restaurant where you eat. We are everywhere. I know a lot about you. But it is not necessary to follow your footsteps, Mr. Forester. You are quite vocal about your job as well.”
“What of it? It’s a free country.”
The two men shared a small table in the darkest corner. Zand’s face was in the shadows. “You sound like a brilliant scientist, Mr. Forester. A genius maybe. You talk about the power of your knowledge, how it can build or destroy businesses, even governments. I know as a biological chemist, you work with viruses and diseases which make you powerful,” Zand’s voice dropped to a whisper. “But that power is wasted on a simple paycheck when it could be worth so much more. I decided to approach you because you may have what I want, and I can provide what you need. Are you interested?”
Keeping his eyes off the stage was hard. Phil shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “Keep talking. I might be interested but get to the point. What the hell do you want?”
“Let me tell you a story, Mr. Forester.’’ Zand paused while another patron was seated near them by the hostess. He lowered his voice and continued. “I have been in your country for over two years and must return home soon to my village near Tehran. I have learned many things here. Americans live in a different world than my people do. We must constantly defend ourselves from those who wish us harm.” Zand waved off the approaching waitress. “Last summer, my family was attacked while going about their business. Several people were killed, including my mother and two sisters. We have no protection from our government or the police. We must protect ourselves. The attacks are frequent throughout our village, and hundreds are killed each year. They must be stopped. With your help, we can give my people some security. We wish to build a weapon that will scare our enemies into leaving us alone.”
“Scare them ... or wipe them out?”
Rashid spread his arms wide, palms up. “Mr. Forester, do I look like a murderer? I simply seek a way to protect my family’s home. You have freedom; we do not. A weapon, a deterrent, will buy us freedom.”
Zand was a good-looking young man, with a slight
build and neat dark hair, dressed in jeans and a cotton shirt. His serious but youthful face seemed sincere as he leaned forward folding his arms on the sticky tabletop. “Not all middle-eastern people are terrorists, Mr. Forester. Some of us only want to protect our way of life. Balance the power, so to speak. Surely you can understand the pain of losing one’s family and our wish to prevent further bloodshed.”
Phil sipped his beer and digested the story that was probably fictitious. His attention was distracted yet again by the bouncing breasts. It didn’t matter to him why the guy wanted a weapon. The whole middle-east was a hotbed of shitheads ready to blow each other away for century’s old feuds. He knew what they did to the U.S. on 9/11. Not that he was particularly patriotic, but it galled him that he had been near ground zero only the week before the attack and could have died along with the thousands of others who did. He didn’t care if they wanted a weapon to scare, or even to kill off a few hundred of their neighbors. He briefly wondered if he should turn the guy over to the Feds. Phil took a long drink. No, better nix that idea. The guy knows way too much about me and would probably go down swinging. Phil’s fingers drummed the table top matching the beat of the music. The guy is right about one thing, I can use the money, and I’m smart enough to know they’ll just get what they want from someone else.
“There is something that might work,” he said. “We have a special project, one that uses an old virus.”
“What does it do?”
“If it is prepared right, it can cause immediate paralysis and eventually death. A guy at Marsh has worked on it for a couple of years.”
“Could it be released in an air born manner?”
“Probably, if it’s added to some type of aerosol component, you could turn it into a spray.”
Zand’s eyes grew darker with interest, and for the first time, he smiled. “We will need a sample.”
“That could be difficult. That shit is crazy dangerous and usually locked up.”
“Of course, but I am sure you can get it. We will need all of the research, as well. I assume there is an antidote.”
“Yeah, that was the point of the project. It’s unstable. It’s not finished, but it may be close.”
“How long will it take for you to get everything?”
Phil clenched the arms of the chair and shifted in his seat. “Hold your camels; I didn’t say I would ... or even could, get it. Errington is extremely protective of his work. I can’t exactly ask him for it, can I? And what am I supposed to do with a dangerous virus? Just walk out with it in my pocket?”
“Let me help you figure it out.” Zand ignored the perceived insult and put a friendly hand on Phil’s arm. “Please. Hear me out.” He removed a fat envelope from his pocket and laid it on the table. “For a sample of this virus and the research that goes with it, you will be well rewarded. I am prepared to offer you ten-thousand American dollars right now if you agree to help. If you are not interested, you are free to walk away, and this conversation never happened. Must I find someone else who wants our money?”
“That’s not nearly enough. I want at least a hundred grand; no ... make that a hundred and fifty grand.”
“You ask a great deal, but it is not unreasonable. It can be arranged. You will get the balance when I have what I asked for. Are we agreed?”
Phil downed the rest of his beer. “I can probably figure out a way, but it will take some time ... a few months. Errington’s still working on it. You guys want it complete, right? Won’t do you much good until I can get it all.”
“We do not have endless patience, Mr. Forester. We must have it as soon as possible. Perhaps I should talk to this Errington.”
“That’s a laugh. I thought you knew everything. No one else there will help you, especially Matt. He’d run right to the authorities if you even hint at what you want.”
“And what assurances do we have, Mr. Forester, that you won’t run as well?”
“I’d say the ten big ones you have here says I won’t.” Phil picked up the envelope and wrestled it into his jacket pocket. “What you guys do to your fellow countrymen is your business. I gotta take care of my own problems.”
“I like to know who we are dealing with, what can you tell me about this Errington?”
“Matthew Errington. He calls this virus his Project Hope. You know the type. Wants to save the world. He’s got his head stuck in a test tube all day ... no idea what goes on outside his lab. I can get into his computers and copy his work. He’s a workaholic, probably takes his work home as well ... so if I can’t get to it at Marsh, I might have to make a house call.”
“Is that wise? What about his family?”
“Doesn’t have any. Single. Lives alone. I know where, and I know when he won’t be there. Let me worry about Errington. Just don’t get too antsy, it will take time like I said. But, yeah, I think I can get it for you.”
Triumph flared briefly in Zand’s eyes. The torment of living in the bowels of these American cities was finally paying off. His master had been correct. The disgusting Americans were stupid and easily manipulated. To Phil, he meekly nodded. “That is good. I get what I need, and you will be happy.”
Luscious Lana finished her routine and was making the rounds of the room looking for private business. As she approached their table, Rashid Zand stood to leave.
“These lovely women are most entertaining,” he smiled at the stage where three new dancers demonstrated their skills, “unfortunately I have another appointment. Here is a phone for you to reach me. It is untraceable to either of us. I will contact you soon to learn of your progress. Until then, please be aware Mr. Forester, I would hate to see anything happen to you, but if you betray me ...”
Phil hoisted his empty glass in Zand’s direction. “I got it. I am a genius, you know.”
Zand pulled out the wad of large bills and handed Lana several. “Take good care of this man.” To Phil, he added, “Please stay and enjoy yourself. Consider this a taste of how we treat our friends.”
“Suits me. I was surprised when you wanted to meet here. Didn’t think you guys like this kind of joint ... loud music and naked girls.”
“We are all men, Mr. Forester. And I find the setting to be most conducive to business. If questioned, no one here will remember seeing either of us. In here, no one looks at faces.”
Chapter Two
September 15th
“Kate, I’m home! Kate?” Matt Errington was barely inside the door of his apartment in suburban Philadelphia before the load in his arms spilled over. “Damn,” he cursed as an avalanche of bills and junk mail hit the floor. His irritation was immediate but short-lived. He even forgave the key which was stuck in the lock and threatened to break as he wiggled it free.
He hoped Kate was ready. It had been a long day in the lab, and there wouldn’t be much time to get to the arena before the Flyer’s game started. If they were late, it would mean a smelly shuttle ride from an overflow lot. But none of it actually mattered. Nothing was going to ruin his good mood or the evening he planned. He patted his pocket for the small velvet box, and a boyish grin split his face as he pictured their romantic dinner after the game. He only feared that she would think it was too soon.
Carefully balancing his briefcase and laptop, he nudged the door shut with his shoulder and dumped everything on a small table. As he stooped to retrieve the mess, he yelled again for Kate, but still, no sweet voice echoed back.
Matt knew Kate should have been home hours before, yet the apartment was dark, cold, and uneasy. It wasn’t like her to be late. An inner alarm poked him, but he shook it off and in his logical fashion listed several possible reasons for her delay. She could have lost track of time, had car trouble, or sometimes her appointments did run late.
Regardless, he was a bit piqued she hadn’t called. She should know he would worry. He reached to turn on the lamp.
Nothing in his logical life prepared him for what he saw. Like a punch to the gut, it nearly doubled him
over. The difference to his home was dramatic. White slits of light poured through the mini-blinds and settled on the pale walls. Immediately his pallor blanched to match them. A quick sweep of the room forced the breath from his lungs. The fear he kept in check for months that the dream would end, had come true. All of Kate’s things were gone. She had left him.
Her laptop, her soft rug, her knick-knacks, all gone. So were her pretty water-colored prints of graceful old homes of the Eastern Shoreline gone off the walls and his old posters, lifeless and immature, were back again. The blue sweater usually flung over the chair, her raincoat on the hook, and the slippers she left by the door, every sign of her was gone.
Matt’s eyes clenched shut, and he fought to breathe. He knew he shouldn’t jump to extreme conclusions, but what other answer was there? Would she leave him like this? Without warning? Without an explanation?
Slowly he studied the room again, stark, and functional. How did I live like this before Kate? No color or warmth. In just a few weeks, she had filled it with energy, brought it to life. She made it home.
On a Sunday afternoon, after she moved in, they found an art festival in the park. In a small tent, a young man was selling offerings made from metal, wood, and clay. “A typical starving artist,” Matt had laughingly called him. A ragamuffin in ill-fitting clothes, the man’s long hair blew wild about his thin face. Kate must have seen something in the indefinable objects that escaped Matt. There was a true concern on her face when she asked him, “What do you think?” Matt thought they were ugly but surprised them both when he let her pick two. She was genuinely pleased. The twisted forms which took up residence on an end table were now gone as well. In their place lay several old issues of a scientific journal, spread out, each with a slight coating of dust.
Pain sharp as a saber pierced him as he swung around to face an empty window. Kate collected small glass vases and had several in a rainbow of colors. Her favorite was cobalt blue. Matt felt terrible the day he chipped its top by accident. He had turned it around so she wouldn’t notice. She kept them all on the windowsill where they caught the early afternoon sun. As through a prism, the carnival colors danced upon the walls. Bile rose in his throat. Life without Kate would again be as bleak and bare as the dusty ledge in front of him.