Stillness

by Eldon Farrell

  “All right,” Will takes a step towards Walt’s desk but doesn’t sit down. “I have new evidence on my parents’ case.”

  “That old line again?” Walt mocks, “Perhaps you should be more focused on the charges that you’re facing.”

  Ignoring the remark Will continues, “I’ve been talking to Jacob lately. We’ve been helping each other to…fill in the gaps.”

  He studies Walt as this information is absorbed. Seeing him bluster slightly and shift his weight in his seat strikes Will as nervous behavior bringing a smile to his lips.

  “Jacob Castle is wanted for questioning.”

  “I’ll be sure to let him know,” Will stares deep into Walt’s eyes. “I know my parents didn’t die of gunshot wounds. I can prove that the gunshots were inflicted after death. Do you know what that means Sheriff?

  “It means that the autopsy report was wrong…was forged. It means that Jacob’s gun didn’t kill my parents and there never was any case against him. It means that whoever authorized that autopsy report by all probability also framed Jacob for the murders.”

  “More stories,” Walt sneers unconvincingly, “All you have is more stories from an overactive imagination.”

  Pressing his palms against the surface of Walt’s desk Will leans over it saying, “You think so? I did a little digging—do you know what I found?

  “The doctor who signed the autopsy report wasn’t the county medical examiner. There’s no record that a Dr. Tesla ever held that position. Curious, huh? What do you think Agent Fine and the FBI will make of that Sheriff?

  “What’s the matter, no snappy comeback?” Leaning down even further Will whispers, “Who do you think could’ve forged that report? Who do you think could have framed Jacob? More importantly, who do you think the FBI will think did it?”

  The two men stare at each other in a tense silence before Will leans back from the desk saying, “I don’t have all the answers yet but make no mistake, I will soon enough.

  “I know that you had something to do with this Sheriff—I know it. I know that your hands are dirty—stained with the blood of my parents—and when I prove it, you’re going down.”

  “Are you threatening me boy?”

  “No,” Will shakes his head, “No. Threats are the last act of the desperate. With the evidence I have, do I look desperate to you?”

  Cocking his head to the side Will adds, “You’re looking a little peaked though.” Flashing a knowing smile at him Will turns to leave calling over his shoulder “Be sure to let Agent Fine know that I was looking for him.”

  Beginning to sweat, Walt reaches in his pocket and removes a handkerchief swiping it across his forehead. He’s been in a fog for most of the morning after what happened with Gaetano last night but he’s fully alert now.

  First my son, now Sullivan, I’m being assaulted from all sides. It’s all coming apart.

  “What was that all about Sheriff?”

  Looking up at Dodson, Walt shrugs his shoulders answering “Nothing.”

  Standing up he heads towards the back rooms and privacy. Not being able to put it off any longer he reaches for a phone to make a call.

  Des Moines, Iowa

  Feeling the vibration of his cell phone, Kazim El Said unclips it from his waist while checking the caller ID. The number is all too familiar to him.

  As it rings again he looks around his spartan apartment debating about whether or not to answer it. It is his day off and after a week of digging for answers all he wants to do today is forget everything about work.

  The incessant ringing makes that impossible however, so with a resigned sigh he answers the call.

  “Took you long enough,” the voice observes.

  “I’m a busy guy,” Kazim curtly replies. “What’s up?”

  “You tell me.”

  Confused, Kazim asks “What do you mean?”

  “I’m hearing things that greatly displease me. I’m hearing that you’ve suddenly taken up asking questions as a hobby.”

  “That a real problem for you?”

  Derisive laughter echoes across the phone line causing Kazim to grind his teeth and clench his fist tighter around the phone.

  “You were in the archives,” the voice asks, “What dirty little secrets can you prove?”

  Silence is the only reply.

  “Just as I thought,” the voice declares confidently. “I trust that I won’t be hearing any more about you asking questions.”

  “And if you do?”

  “It won’t be pleasant.” The threat is obvious in his tone.

  “And if I already have the answers I’m looking for, what then?”

  Kazim can almost picture this powerful man on the other end of the line, sucking in a tight breath to control his temper.

  “I don’t believe you know anything and for your sake I’d keep it that way. If you can’t follow orders you can be replaced. I’d think about that and tread very carefully if I were you.”

  The line goes dead leaving Kazim to slowly flip his phone shut and consider his current predicament. Try as he might, he can see no easy way out of it.

  Chapter 42

  October 31

  Stillness, Iowa

  Halloween.

  It’s the time of year when ghosts and goblins awaken from their slumbers to flood the streets of every town across the country. They seek tricks and treats and the sounds of their laughter keeps the burgeoning winter at bay for just one night.

  But this year is different. This year the streets will be empty of revelers as parents across town are too afraid to let their little ghouls go out.

  This year the monster is real and it’s stalking this small town in the heart of America. Friends and neighbors have already been lost to this insidious creature that spawns fear and heartbreak in its wake.

  This monster—invisible to the naked eye—is more fearsome than the scariest creatures of lore or cinema. It kills without reason or prejudice. It cannot be bargained with. It is on the tip of everyone’s tongue and yet is never spoken of.

  It is seen everywhere—this invisible threat.

  This Halloween people are afraid that the evil that haunts their minds and stalks their streets cannot be stopped.

  Fitting her mask in place over her nose and mouth Lynne Bosworth proceeds to slide the curtain back from around a patient’s bed.

  She examines the thirty-six year old male with a critical eye. His skin is flushed and beads of perspiration dot his forehead. To the touch, even with latex gloves, his skin is warm and clammy.

  Consulting his chart she reads the nurses notes regarding his fever. It spiked as high as 103 degrees two days ago but has since then fallen to a moderate 100.1 degrees where it’s remained steady.

  He coughs weakly and she can hear the raspy sound of the fluid that is amassing in his lungs. His breathing is labored, coming in short gasps followed often by a coughing session.

  She knows that he’s in the full grip of pneumonia now and that there is little that they can do for him. Consulting the chart she reads down the litany of antibiotics that have already been tried, and have already failed.

  Streptomycin, Gentamicin, Doxycycline, even Ciprofloxacin failed to make a dent against his infection. And yet, there’s no doubt that he’s infected with the strain of Yersinia pestis that is proven to not be resistant to any of those medications.

  Shaking her head her ponytail sways gently between her shoulder blades as she focuses on the patient. We have to be missing something. What is causing these antibiotics to be useless? What is it about this man that is rendering our best efforts to come to nothing?

  Scanning his chart again she grimaces as she notices that he’s had a flu shot. With the vaccines certified as being clean, there’s no help there.

  Finding nothing in the chart even remotely resembling a magic bullet, she replaces it at the foot of his bed as he begins to cough again.

  Giving the patient a warm smile she gently inserts a hypodermic n
eedle into his IV administering a therapeutic dosage of painkillers. Maybe it will help to make him a little more comfortable. Sadly shaking her head, she leaves him feeling rather useless. How she wishes she could do something more for these people.

  The next patient on her list is a twenty-nine year old woman who three days ago spiked a fever of 104 degrees after developing a violent hacking cough.

  Her case however offers some hope. Apparently the doctors have been astounded by her recovery. She was put on fluid recovery therapy as the high fever led to rapid dehydration and for a time it looked as if she wouldn’t make it much longer. Then in the past two days her fever has dropped to a very slight 98.8 degrees and her cough has all but disappeared.

  There’s no doubt that she had a full blown infection of pneumonic plague—the very same bacterium that’s infected and killed so many others. Yet, a course of 1 gm administered intra-muscularly twice daily of Streptomycin has worked on her.

  She’s recovering and if she makes a full recovery Lynne hopes to find answers from the sera in her blood. Answers that if she finds could help so many others.

  What makes you different? Why did the antibiotics work on you?

  Opening the curtain she walks in and begins her examination. The patient’s color has returned to her skin and she no longer looks pained or flushed. Pressing a stethoscope to her chest she listens to her breathing. It’s no longer labored and she can no longer detect any fluid in her lungs.

  “How are you feeling today?”

  Blinking twice the patient answers “I’m feeling better. Actually I was wondering when I could go home?”

  “I’m just going to take a blood sample okay?” She nods and Lynne injects the needle into a vein in her arm and slowly fills the vial with her possibly precious blood. “You’ll have to ask your doctor about being released.”

  “You’re not a doctor?”

  Smiling Lynne answers, “I work for the CDC as an epidemiologist. I’m a doctor who studies epidemics to find ways of unraveling their secrets. Unfortunately though, I have no say in when you go home.”

  “Do you know why I got better?”

  Lynne sees the look in her eye that screams the rest of the question—when so many others didn’t?

  Withdrawing the needle she expertly stores the vial before answering, “Hopefully this sample will help me find that out. But you should consider yourself very lucky.”

  On a whim she lifts the patient’s chart to look for one piece of information in particular. Finding no mention of it she asks, “Did you receive a flu vaccination?”

  The patient’s eyes widen in an exaggerated display of relief. “No. And thank God for that too, when I read about what that shot did to people…I shudder to think.”

  “Actually,” Lynne corrects her, “The shot was harmless, the report you read was incorrect.”

  “Well I couldn’t have gotten a shot anyway,” she explains as she smoothes the sheet on her bed, “I was sick with a viral infection at the time.”

  Furrowing her brow Lynne asks, “When did you recover from that infection?”

  “Not that long ago. I barely got over that before I came down with this.”

  Her mind whirling now, Lynne is about to ask some more questions when she hears a commotion from beyond the curtain. Putting her thought aside she pulls the curtain to the left to have a look.

  Down the makeshift ward she sees a lone nurse trying to placate an obviously agitated teenager. Ripping her mask off, she sets the blood sample inside a cooler and heads in their direction.

  Drawing close she examines the young man. His body is skinny for his age and when combined with his long legs it gives him a lanky appearance. Blue tinted eyeglasses do little to hide the fear that she sees in his irises.

  The nurse reaches out to grab his arm and he violently jerks away from her touch. Stepping back from her he sends more bangs of auburn hair across his scared face.

  Coming within earshot Lynne hears the boy say, “I need to see a doctor. Just let me see a doctor. Please.”

  The note he hits with that last word leaves Lynne with the distinct impression of desperation. Why is this boy so desperate to see a doctor? Giving him the once over Lynne concludes that he doesn’t look sick.

  “What’s going on here?” she asks the nurse.

  “I’m sorry,” the nurse apologizes “But this boy refuses to leave the ward.”

  “Are you a doctor?”

  Lynne looks at the frightened youth while considering her response. “I am. I’m Dr. Bosworth with the CDC. Why are you here young man?”

  Calming down some he steps towards her saying, “I want to help. My name’s Derek Rohm.”

  “Nice to meet you Derek,” Lynne smiles in a conciliatory manner. “Why do you need to see a doctor to help?”

  After a pregnant pause Derek blurts out “I’m immune to this infection.”

  Instantly Lynne catches the look of disbelief in the nurse’s eyes and knows that it must match her own. Clearly this boy is more unbalanced then I thought.

  “Don’t look at me like that!” Derek cries taking another step forward. “I’m not crazy! My two best friends died from this and I didn’t.”

  Feeling sorry for him, Lynne speaks in a soft voice “Derek, that doesn’t mean that you’re immune. I know that it’s hard to lose loved ones. I know that you wonder why them and not you, but sometimes that’s just the way of things.”

  “No,” Derek rolls his eyes skyward, “You don’t understand! We were all exposed and I didn’t get sick. A woman! A woman right outside here coughed in my face and I’m still fine. I’m immune! You have to listen to me!”

  Seeing that he’s getting worked up again Lynne raises her hands in front of her chest and whispers, “All right, all right. Let’s say that you are immune, what do you want us to do Derek?”

  “Take my blood,” he exclaims “Take my blood and give it to the sick to save them.”

  “I’m afraid it doesn’t work like that Derek.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Lynne notices the nurse creeping towards Derek and shoots her a glance that says stop. “Derek, do you understand that different people have different blood types? Even if there were antibodies in your blood, they’d have to be worked up in a lab before we could think about using them.”

  “Then do it, please, I-I just…” he lowers his head as tears start to stream down his cheeks, “I just want to help.”

  Watching his shoulders quake as he fights the tears, Lynne’s heart goes out to him. I know all too well what you’re feeling.

  Moving towards him she coos softly, “It’s all right Derek. It’ll be all right.” Opening her arms to him she wraps him in an embrace. Slowly she feels his weight leaning against her chest as he gives in to his need to be held. His arms wrap around her waist as he rests his head on her breast and cries softly from grief.

  After a time she no longer feels him shuddering with every breath and slowly pushes him back to look him in the eyes. She smiles gently to reassure him then says while still looking at him, “Let’s draw some blood.”

  Handing him off to the nurse she catches the look of disbelief and simply nods saying, “Draw his blood, I’ll have Atlanta run tests on it.”

  Watching her take him away she feels her heart swell again as he looks back over his shoulder to mouth a thank you.

  “Lynne.”

  Turning around at the sound of her name being called she sees Henry Abbot decked out in his white coat and stethoscope walking towards her.

  “Everything all right?” he asks.

  “Yeah,” she replies “Just trying to help a boy overcome his grief. What can I do for you?”

  “Danny called while you were busy,” Henry leans in close, his voice betraying the seriousness of what he has to say. “General Cummings has called for a meeting. Danny and I both think you should be there.”

  Despite herself, she smiles. How could I have ever suspected that this man could not
be trusted? He holds her gaze in his affectionate blue eyes as she says, “I appreciate the heads up Henry, but Josh is in charge now. I’m sure that he can handle it.”

  Reaching out he entwines his fingers around hers pulling her along. “Let’s go Lynne,” he says with a kind smile, “Some of us would prefer you to still handle it.”

  Blushing slightly, she allows herself to be led away.

  Sliding the curtain open, Gaetano looks in at the wreckage that his best friend has become. The soft whirring of the ventilator’s bellows reminds him of the sound Darth Vader makes when he breathes. It’s a cold and lifeless sound that wraps tiny fingers of ice around his already fragile heart.

  Stepping into the room he closes the curtain again and nudges Jaime awake from her nap. She blinks twice before recognizing him.

  “You don’t look good Jaime,” he asks, “How long have you been here?”

  She wipes at her eyes and the dried stains on her cheeks from crying. “I can’t leave him,” she explains looking at the prone body of Scott Lee, “He’s gotten so bad.”

  “When did they hook up the ventilator?”

  “Two days ago, I think.” Standing up she comes around the bed and wraps her arms around his neck. Squeezing him tightly she whispers in his ear, “How are you doing?”

  “I’m getting by,” he lies, “Don’t worry about me.”

  “I do worry Guy. I still can’t believe that Dom is gone.”

  Dom.

  His eyes begin to moisten as he pulls away from Jaime’s embrace. Taking a seat he swipes his hand across his eyes as Jaime sits back down as well.

  In the comfortable silence of friendship—broken only by the rhythmic up and down of the ventilator’s bellows—Gaetano feels his loss and shares some of his pain.

  “It’s odd what you miss,” he begins “I’m sure I’ll miss the big things later, that they’ll be plenty of time for that. But right now, it’s the little things that I miss. When I think about Dom, I think about the way her nose used to scrunch up when she laughed. I think about the way she used to bite her bottom lip when she watched scary movies. I see that precocious smile of hers every time I close my eyes at night.