Infertile Grounds

by DB Carpenter

  Sarah shook her head. She had absolutely no idea, perhaps never.

  "There's nothing wrong with focusing on you for a while," Camilla said. "You, of all people, deserve it."

  Sarah smiled at Camilla as she stood to leave. "Get some rest, we've got an important couple of days ahead of us," Camilla said as she left the room and shut the door.

  Sarah didn't bother to undress. She just lay back on the bed fully clothed and closed her eyes. As she drifted off to sleep she dreamed and in her dreams she saw the future that she had created for mankind – a secure, less-troubled world where millions of kids weren't dying of malnutrition and disease each year and the earth wasn't being raped to support an ever-expanding population. It had taken God seven days to create the earth and set it in motion and it had taken Sarah eighteen years to course-correct it.

  If there were truly a God, she was surprised that He hadn't foreseen the problems of making human beings so smart that they could become too viable, too dominant.

  Day 5 – Thursday, July 2

  3:10 am PDT Malibu California

  Chris had managed to get the last American flight from Boston to LAX and now he drove up the hillside road, looking for Camilla Haywood's address. There. The number was carved into a raised panel high on a stucco wall that supported a large iron gate.

  "Excellent," he muttered. Now that he knew exactly where to go, he drove back down to a beach parking lot that he had passed minutes earlier. In the morning he would go back to the house and see if he could find a way to speak to her. Right now he needed to catch some sleep. He shut off the rental car, lay down on the seat, and fell asleep.

  When he awoke, the car wasn't particularly hot but his clothes stuck to his body. It was just after 9 a.m. as he climbed out of the car, stretched and rummaged through his bag to find some fresh clothes. Very few people were on the beach as he walked down to the water. He stripped down to his underwear and dove into the Pacific for the first time in his life. It was just like the Atlantic. That realization was disappointing – he had always expected the Pacific to be something different, something better.

  After a quick stop at a convenience store to buy a prepaid cell phone, Chris drove straight to Camilla's. Ten minutes later his car idled at the ornate gate that solidly blocked access to her home. His window was down and he took a few deep breaths before leaning out the window and pressing the button. Silence. After a minute he pressed it again. This time holding it down for fifteen seconds. Again, nothing.

  For the first time, he realized that this trip to California might be pointless. Pell had been on the verge of delirium and had probably given him bogus information. Even if this was her home, who was to say she, or anyone, was home. She probably had houses all over.

  He put the car in reverse and started to back out to the street when a voice crackled over the intercom. "Can I help you?"

  Chris got out of the car and walked back to the security box. "Hello?"

  "I said, can I help you?"

  "Is Camilla Haywood here?"

  "And you are?"

  "Chris Foster."

  "Is Ms. Haywood expecting you?"

  He shook his head, and before he could speak the word 'no', the voice continued. He was being watched on closed-circuit camera. He scanned for the camera and found it mounted on the side of a palm tree about thirty feet away.

  "Does she even know you?"

  "Well, not exactly –"

  "I'm sorry sir, but Ms. Haywood is out of town on business, and even if she were here, she doesn't see unexpected visitors – for obvious reasons."

  Chris stared at the little speaker, and blurted out, "I'm with the FBI. I'm looking for an old college friend of Camilla's. It's a matter of the utmost urgency. I know that Ms. Haywood probably gets all kinds of fruit-cakes walking up here and I appreciate that you can't be too careful, but it's imperative that I talk to her today."

  "Do you have any identification?"

  "Yes," he replied as he reached for Pell's ID which he had taken from him back at his house. As he flipped the leather case open confidently and held it up to the camera, he hoped it didn't have a good telephoto lens because if it did, his little ruse would be over.

  "I'm out of the Bangor, Maine branch," he continued, assuming Pell's identity. As he did, he wondered how Pell was doing. He'd have to make a call to the hospital to see if he could get any information.

  Silence ensued, long enough for him to get nervous, and then the voice said, "Who are you looking for again?"

  "Actually, I didn't say who I was looking for. Who are you?"

  "Albert James Winslow," the intercom man replied.

  "Albert James Winslow," he repeated. "Listen to me, Mr. Winslow. I don't have the time to play games. I need to know where Camilla Haywood is. I just spent the entire night traveling from Boston to talk to her. If she isn't here, I need to know where she is. Now. Let me in so we can talk."

  After a moment, an electric motor hummed behind the wall and the gates swung open.

  "I'll meet you at the top of the driveway," the voice said as the speaker went dead.

  He turned around, hopped into his car, and raced to the top of the winding driveway where he found Albert standing next to a shiny new full-sized Suburban. All of the doors were open, and it was fully loaded with suitcases and bags.

  He walked over to Albert extending his hand as he admired the beautiful grounds and spectacular view.

  "Quite a house," Chris said.

  "It is."

  Chris turned to the Suburban and said, "Going someplace?"

  "I'm moving some stuff back to the house in Beverly Hills," he replied. "I'm actually in a rush today, sir. I'm happy to help you, but let's make it quick."

  "Okay, Albert. Firstly, may I ask what your relationship to Ms. Haywood is?"

  "I'm Ms. Haywood's personal assistant," Albert replied.

  "Excellent. Then this is the deal. I need to talk to Ms. Haywood in relation to an important case that the Bureau is working. It's imperative that we find an old Harvard buddy of hers, Sarah Burns, and we're chasing down every possible lead. This is a matter of national urgency."

  Albert's brown eyes flickered slightly. Recognition? He couldn't be sure. The name definitely rang some sort of a bell with this guy, but as quickly as it had been there, the look was gone.

  "I've never heard of her," Albert replied. "But I'll be happy to ask Ms. Haywood about her when I see her tonight."

  "Is there any way we can get in touch with her right now?"

  Albert shook his head. "No."

  "Are you sure? Don't you have a cell phone number for her? You must know where she is right now if you're her personal assistant."

  "I'm afraid I really can't provide you with her cell phone number. I have a strict non-disclosure agreement in my employment contract that prevents me from giving out those details to anyone. I have to respect her privacy and she has to be able to trust me implicitly. Surely the FBI can find a phone number?"

  "Of course but it would be a lot easier if you just gave me her number, or better yet, tell me where she is, and I'll be on my way."

  "Sorry but I can't."

  "Let me explain how this works. This is one of those cases where the FBI will open our arms wide and drag everybody in. Then we sift through everyone to see who's guilty and who's innocent. Believe me when I tell you, Albert, it's no fun being accused by us."

  "Are you threatening me?"

  "I don't make threats."

  Albert glared at him before saying, "Like I said, I've never heard of Sarah Burns. I'll talk to Ms. Haywood as soon as I can, but until then I'm not going to let you stand here and try to intimidate me or extract personal information about my employer from me. I'm happy to put you in touch with her attorney."

  The words Sarah Burns rolled off his tongue as if he said them all the time. Chris had only mentioned her name quickly in passing, and he not only remembered but repeated it with ease. Albert James Winslow was hiding somethi
ng.

  "Do you really want to go that route?" Chris asked.

  "Fine. Is there someplace I can reach you this evening?" Albert asked. "I'll call as soon as I talk to her."

  "I'll call you. What's your mobile number?" Chris entered the number into a new contact on his mobile. He repeated it to Albert to confirm and then said, "And what's the address you are heading to in Beverley Hills?"

  Albert gave Chris the address and he entered that as well.

  "I'll call you around 8." Chris walked over to his car and was about to get in when he turned to Albert and said, "Do you have any kids, Albert?"

  Deep lines appeared on Albert's previously smooth forehead and his face flushed as he said in a trembling voice. "I had a daughter but she died a long time ago. When she was three. Why?"

  Chris had just wanted to see Albert's expression when he lobbed out that question but now he felt like a jerk. "I'm sorry."

  Albert pursed his lips, shook his head softly, then turned and walked to the mansion. His previously erect stature now slightly compressed.

  Chris climbed into his car and drove away. At the end of the street he pulled into the parking lot of a convenience store and stopped to gather himself. What was he going to do now? Should he head over to this Beverley Hills address? Getting a room for some rest would be a good start; he could certainly use some food and sleep. He also needed a plan. His previously mundane, quite predictable life was slipping completely out of his control.

  He bought a Gatorade and a couple granola bars. As he sat in his car eating, he saw Albert drive to the end of the street and stop at the red light. Once it turned green, Albert took a right, driving north up the coastal route. Beverley Hills was in the opposite direction.

  Chris started the car and accelerated out of the parking lot across the busy street. Several cars' horns blared as he cut them off. He focused on Albert, who was about a hundred yards in front of him. The Suburban's size made it easy to follow in the moderate traffic. After half an hour of tailing him, Chris relaxed. Albert obviously had lied about his destination.

  Heading north with the ocean on his left seemed inherently wrong and threw off his normally excellent sense of direction but the scenery more than made up for it. The highway wound between towering hills on his right, covered with magnificent stilt legged houses, and swaths of white sand beaches speckled with early sun worshippers to his left. He'd hate to live in one of those houses when the big one hits. He envisioned them tumbling down the hillside, spewing debris before shattering into a million pieces. How could people live with that constant threat hanging over them? As a born and bred Yankee, he couldn't do it. Throw a few feet of snow his way in a blizzard, or one hundred ten percent humidity in the middle of a scorching summer heat wave, no problem. But earthquakes? No thanks.

  Seeing and following Albert was the biggest break he'd gotten all day and as he tailed him, his mind wandered back to Karen. They had always talked about flying out to LA for a vacation, renting a sports car, and driving up coastal Route 1 to Seattle.

  "That one's never going to happen," he said to the wind. His arm rested on the door, and the warm air flowed over it, soothing him. But each time his thoughts turned to Karen his blood pressure skyrocketed. Would he ever be able to give someone that much of himself again? He'd always coveted his trust – not giving it out freely. If you don't earn it, you don't get it – it was that simple.

  9:23 am Boston, Massachusetts

  "He was just babbling," Carl said to the doctor and his intern. "He doesn't know what's going on."

  "Do we have to put any containment protocols in place?" The doctor asked.

  "No, definitely not," Carl replied. The doctor glared silently back at Carl.

  "I need to notify our administrator. I'm not comfortable with this."

  "There's nothing to be uncomfortable about," Carl said. "He's just an agent that went bad and shot a cop. That's it."

  "But what about what he said? He was definitely talking about a virus."

  "He's wounded, almost died, drugged, you can't take what he said as fact."

  "In my experience, patients in his state never lie. They may lose their inhibitions but they don't lie. I'm bringing in my management now," the doctor said. "I know what I heard and we have specific protocols that we have to follow in situations like this. It's simple. We –"

  Carl's face reddened with every word from the doctor's mouth. "I don't care what you heard. I'm telling you your protocols don't apply here."

  "I'm afraid that's not your call."

  Carl exchanged a quick glance with Irving then said, "Fine, if I tell you what's really happening will you work with us to bring him out of it so we can interrogate him."

  Pell's heart pounded as he rounded the last turn. He was in the lead, but someone was closing fast. His lungs burned as he tried to suck in enough air to keep him going. An unusually large crowd lined the track for the meet at Braintree High School. He was running the 800 meter – his specialty – and he could see the finish line up ahead. He wanted to peek behind him but to save precious milliseconds, didn't. The quickening drumbeat of footsteps of the runner closing the gap behind him were getting louder with each second.

  The crowd cheered. Pell, Pell, Pell. He leaned forward and pushed himself to the limit. The finish line neared. The runner behind him no longer gained. He was going to win. He could feel it. These Regionals would be his biggest victory ever – next stop, the state championship.

  Twenty yards to go. Fifteen. Ten. Nothing could stop him now. As he closed in on the finish line he glanced at the crowd on the side of the track. His friends and family cheered him on, screaming, jumping up and down, and chanting his name over and over. Out of nowhere, two men in blue overcoats and suits stood quietly in the middle of the frenzied crowd. They were motionless and emotionless as they glared at him.

  He knew them and didn't know them at the same time. They weren't from here – this time at least. His focus was gone, but fortunately his momentum wasn't as he sailed across the finish line, still looking at the out-of-place men.

  He won. The crowd engulfed him. It was almost a new record – a couple of hundredths off. As he celebrated, he forgot about the somber men until a firm, cold hand clenched onto his shoulder.

  Pell turned to find one of the men standing directly beside him. "We've got to talk," he said.

  He looked back at the revelers, but they had moved on without him, carrying his victory on to the celebration.

  "We've got to talk," the man echoed.

  Pell awoke and looked around the unfamiliar room in complete confusion. The two men from his dream were there outside the door looking at him through the window and talking to each other. But where was he? At first, he thought that maybe he had been on a bender and blacked out, but slowly it came back to him – the trip to New Hampshire, showing up at Chris' house, and finally being left in the car outside the hospital. A hospital in Boston.

  He looked at the men again. Carl Moscovitz. He's probably got a hard-on over what they're going to do to me.

  As he stared at the equipment around him, a middle-aged strawberry blond nurse walked into the room. Their eyes met, and she gave him the nicest of smiles. He couldn't remember ever seeing a prettier face as she walked over to his bedside.

  "You're awake," she said softly. "You're in the Intensive Care Unit at Mass General, Mr. Pelletier."

  His throat was extremely dry, but he managed to crackle, "How long have I been here?"

  "Just over twelve hours. They found you outside in your car last night."

  "Could I have some water?"

  The nurse filled a cup, and poured it into his parched mouth, before checking the dials and equipment around the bed.

  "Are you comfortable?"

  He felt stoned and in little pain. They were pumping him with some powerful narcotics. He nodded in reply.

  "There are two men outside from the FBI that want to talk to you Mr. Pelletier. One of them was here all nigh
t," the nurse explained as she motioned with her head to Carl and Irving standing eagerly outside the room. "Do you feel up to it?"

  "I suppose so," said Pell.

  "Our Head of Critical Care agreed to let them have five minutes with you. Do you understand?" She said with a bright smile.

  Pell said he did and she waved the men in before saying, "I'll be back in five minutes."

  Carl didn't wait long before starting in. "So what happened in New Hampshire yesterday, Pell? You shot a cop. Do you remember that?"

  Pell winced and asked, "Did he make it?"

  "He –," Irving said.

  "No," Carl said. "He died this morning. So that's two fellow law-enforcement professionals that you've killed. That's got to be some kind of a record."

  "It was an accident," he said in a raspy, weak voice.

  "Wasn't that what you said about Allen Jenkins? I just can't believe you did it again. Take some responsibility, man."

  Pell grimaced. He truly wished that he had died yesterday.

  "He was going to arrest me. Why were they after me anyway?"

  "You were interfering with a federal investigation, going against my direct orders. You forced my hand."

  "You said you were dropping it," Pell replied. "I had to."

  "This Sarah Burns thing is big. If it had been any other agent, I would have let them lead the investigation, but you –" Carl scrunched his face, wrinkling his thin lips and curling his sharp nose. "I don't have any faith in you. You're a screw-up and there was no way I would trust you with a case like this."

  "You're a bastard," Pell said.

  Carl smirked, leaning down close enough that Pell could smell a recently chewed breath mint and said, "I've been looking for a way to get rid of you for years, and thanks to your own stupidity, I not only get to fire you, but I'll get to see your sorry ass rot in jail too. Just perfect."

  Even though Pell's mind was cloudy from the drugs, his face heated up, "Fuck you, Carl."