Stillness

by Eldon Farrell

  Consequences

  Chapter 46

  November 1

  Des Moines, Iowa

  Pulling the ornately carved door open Clark Starling ducks his head inside the tiny hospital chapel. Seeing Alex Banister kneeling by the altar he steps inside and lets the heavy door swing shut.

  At the sound Alex turns away from his prayers and watches him come down the aisle. Standing quickly he makes as if to leave before Clark stops him.

  “We need to talk Alex.”

  “After our last conversation Clark,” he answers gruffly “I have nothing to say to you.”

  Alex tries to brush past the deputy but is stopped by a firm hand on his elbow. “I wasn’t asking.”

  The two men eye each other for a moment before Alex relents and backs away toward the altar. Staring at the flicker of a candle flame he asks, “What do you want now Clark?”

  Dropping any pretense of pleasantries, Clark gets right to the point of his visit. “How long have you been having an affair with Angela Lincoln?” His back is turned to him so Clark cannot read his facial expression but he notices his shoulders stiffen in reaction to the question.

  “I told you before Clark,” Alex insists “I’m not having an affair.”

  “I’m obligated to inform you Alex that you’re in big trouble right now. Lying to me is only going to compound your troubles.”

  “I’m not lying,” he responds rather non-convincingly.

  “You weren’t having an affair with her yet you paid for her to stay at a motel. I have a front desk clerk in Stillness who identifies you.”

  “He’s mistaken.”

  “I don’t think so,” Clark shakes his head.

  “Ask Angela,” Alex pleads “She’ll tell you that we’re not having an affair.”

  Clark’s mood darkens as he replies “I would if she wasn’t dead.”

  Alex turns to face his accuser. His face is white as a sheet as he stumbles slightly, putting a hand out to steady himself on the altar. Slowly he slides down to the ground as he struggles to catch his breath.

  Dead? She can’t be…He has to be mistaken, Angela can’t be dead. She can’t be dead! She has to be alive…she has to be…

  Clark watches his reaction and is almost convinced that this is the first time he’s heard the news. “Where were you last night?”

  “I was here,” he answers weakly.

  “I talked to the nursing staff,” Clark states “There’s a window of a few hours for which they cannot place your whereabouts.”

  “I was here,” Alex repeats “In the chapel. Alone.”

  “I’m going to level with you Alex,” Clark begins “This doesn’t look good for you. First your wife is run off the road and you have no reliable alibi. Then your mistress is murdered and again no one can place your whereabouts during the time.”

  “Check the parking records. My car never left the lot last night.”

  “I believe that,” Clark answers “After all you could’ve easily used Angela’s silver Buick.”

  A nervous laugh escapes his throat as Alex says, “I don’t believe this. You’ve got it all figured out don’t you? Except you’ve got the wrong man.”

  “Do I?” Clark asks rhetorically. “The way I see it, maybe Victoria found out about the two of you. Maybe you were going to go back to your wife and Angela didn’t want that. Maybe she ran Victoria off the road and you realized that after our last conversation.

  “So you head over to her room and beat the living shit out of her.” Clark’s voice rises in anger. “It wasn’t enough to just kill her huh? You had to beat her mercilessly first.”

  Tears now running down his cheeks Alex whispers “Do you really think me capable of that?”

  “I don’t know,” Clark answers “You’re the one who’s lying to me.”

  Taking a moment to get composed Alex wipes at his eyes and sniffs away the last of his tears. “I didn’t do that to Angela. Donald is the one who beat her.”

  “The Mayor?” Clark asks incredulously “You’re blaming the Mayor?”

  “It’s the truth.” Standing up Alex says, “He’s not who he appears to be.”

  “Yeah,” Clark eyes him suspiciously “No one is.”

  “I’m telling you Donald beat her up. He damn near killed her. I put her up in that room to get her away from him. It obviously didn’t work.”

  “Did she file a report?”

  Sighing Alex answers “She was afraid to. And now Donald has finished what he started.”

  He killed her. That son of a bitch killed her and I’m the one who’s being questioned. He’s not going to get away with this. If I have to kill him myself, he’s going to pay for this.

  Seeing the hatred flash in Alex’s eyes causes Clark a moment of pause. Stepping back he cautions “I hope you’re not thinking about going after Donald?”

  “Am I under arrest?”

  “No,” Clark answers “Not yet.”

  “Then I’m free to go?”

  Grudgingly Clark admits, “Yes you’re free to go. But don’t go far.”

  Alex storms past him heading for the chapel doors. As he reaches them Clark calls out to him “Do yourself a favor Alex, go sit with your wife and stay away from the Mayor. You’re in enough trouble as it is.”

  Stillness, Iowa

  “How did you know?”

  Even through her cell phone Lynne can hear the disbelief in Wendy’s tone. She can only be talking about one thing.

  “You got the results back on those blood tests?”

  “Yeah,” Wendy answers “Though I had to run them a few times because I couldn’t believe what I was looking at.”

  “You mean…?”

  “The person this blood was taken from is immune to Y. Isidis.”

  Lynne stops walking as she absorbs this news. He was right.

  “But you knew that already,” Wendy says, “When you sent this sample you already knew we’d find immunity. So spill it, how did you know?”

  Ignoring the question Lynne asks, “Any chance this immunity is from surviving an infection?”

  “Maybe,” Wendy replies “A remote chance. The blood shows no signs of recent infection though. If he acquired this immunity through infection, it was from a different outbreak and considering that Y. Isidis is not a naturally occurring pathogen…”

  “It’s not likely he’s ever been infected with this strain,” Lynne finishes her thought.

  “Which means the subject must’ve been born with the immunity which is even more bizarre considering we’re talking about an engineered bioweapon. How is someone born immune to something that doesn’t occur in nature?”

  Lynne closes her eyes as she contemplates the question. I can think of one possibility, but was it even possible fifteen years ago? Just what type of doctor were you Arthur?

  “Lynne?” Wendy asks, “You still there.”

  “Hmmm,” Lynne mumbles “Yeah I’m here, just thinking.”

  “Well think about this—immunity wasn’t all we found in that blood sample.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I had the DNA run,” Wendy pauses before stating “The DNA contains a synthetic gene identical to the one found in the Lambda bacteriophage. Come on Lynne,” she prods, “What’s going on here?”

  “I promise Wendy, as soon as I know for sure I’ll tell you everything. In the meantime, I need one more favor.”

  “Out with it.”

  “Does anyone else know about these results?”

  “No,” Wendy replies “I ran the tests myself so it’s just us who know.”

  “Keep it that way until I get back to you.”

  Lynne can sense her friend’s hesitance over the line and adds, “If I’m right, the person who gave that sample could be in danger if their identity becomes known. Their life could be on the line.”

  “All right,” Wendy concedes “I’ll keep it quiet but you owe me for this and you better tell me what’s going on soon.”

&nbs
p; Smiling Lynne says, “If I’m right then everything that’s going on here is just the consequences of what’s already been done.”

  “Huh?”

  “Soon Wendy,” Lynne hangs up saying “I promise.”

  Quickening her step she heads down Main towards Dennis Street and the Board of Health building. She has one more thing to confirm before going to Caleb.

  “Play that back again.”

  His assistant rewinds the video on his computer screen, setting it up to start again at the beginning. As he watches the video play for the third time, Alex Cummings can feel his pulse racing.

  “Why didn’t I get this sooner?” he barks.

  “I-um, I…” his assistant stammers as he withers under the General’s intense stare. Alex raises a hand to silence his feeble attempts at an answer as he focuses on the images on screen.

  Yet again he watches Kazim sneak into Tesla’s office and go straight for the lower desk drawer. He doesn’t even look in any other drawers or even glance at the papers on top of the desk.

  He was looking for something specific—something he knew where to find.

  Knowing what comes next he grinds his teeth in impotent frustration. “Pause it there,” he orders.

  “What is that he has in his hand?”

  His assistant shrugs his shoulders ineffectually offering, “I don’t know sir.”

  On screen he looks intently at the image of Kazim bent over the desk drawer holding an envelope in his hand. Alex can hear his heart thumping loudly in his ears as he imagines what that envelope might contain.

  Kazim had to know that he’d be seen in Tesla’s office—for him to risk it that envelope must contain something of vital importance.

  Something incriminating…

  “How did this happen?”

  “Sir,” his assistant explains, “We searched that office thoroughly and found nothing of any importance.”

  Alex glares at him until he looks away defeated. “Obviously you missed something didn’t you? You didn’t find that envelope did you?”

  “Sir…”

  “Leave me.”

  “Sir if I may—”

  “GET OUT!” Alex booms causing his frightened assistant to jump and hurry from the room.

  What do you know Kazim? What has Tesla shared with you? Do you know enough to be dangerous? In his head he can hear Eric’s words warning him about Kazim. Hating to be wrong, he can feel his blood boiling.

  His hands begin to shake with rage and also a new emotion—fear. Steadying his grip on the phone on his desk, he places a call.

  “I hate you for this. You took the best thing in my life away from me. My best friend is laid up in hospital right now because of what you’ve done. DOM IS DEAD!

  “And so are you—you’re dead to me now. You hear me? I have no father!”

  Walt Anjou startles awake slumped behind the driver’s seat of his squad car. As his sleep fades, so does the memory of his son’s words.

  Wiping the spittle from his chin off on the back of his hand he blinks his eyes to moisten them and hears once again his son’s last words to him.

  “Live in fear.”

  Grabbing the neck of a half empty bottle between his stubby fingers he takes a swig of the numbing alcohol—more than anything else, it banishes the memory from his mind.

  His ears perk up at the sound of his cell phone ringing as he realizes that this is what woke him up. Shifting his bulk he stretches his arm over the seat and just reaches the phone.

  “What?” he answers groggily.

  “Are you at work?”

  He recognizes the voice instantly. “No.”

  “Why not?”

  Forcing a laugh Walt says, “I didn’t feel like being arrested today.”

  Through the phone he hears The Voice laugh. It has a sinister quality to it that causes Walt’s stomach to clench.

  “Yes, you’ve certainly made a mess of things. That was very stupid of you—keeping a file like that. Fortunately I’m calling you with a chance to redeem yourself.”

  Pressing the phone closer to his ear, Walt’s unsure if he heard correctly. Swallowing heavily he asks, “What can I do?”

  “The FBI is looking for Kazim El Said. You must find him first and bring him to me. He must not talk to the FBI, do you understand?”

  “It’s too late,” Walt mumbles as he wipes his nose. “It came over the police radio a while ago that this El Said guy surrendered.”

  The silence on the other end of the phone chills Walt. In all the times he’s talked to him, he’s never heard The Voice speechless. “You still there?”

  “You have to get him out of there.”

  “He’s probably talking to the Feds right now, what am I supposed to do?”

  “I don’t care—whatever you need to. Unless you want to spend the rest of your life behind bars, you’ll find a way to get this done.

  “Because if you don’t,” his voice becomes low and menacing as he says, “I’ll make sure that the rest of your life is very short. Get it done.”

  The line goes dead and Walt throws his phone against the dashboard. How am I supposed to break this guy out of my own jail?

  Looking out the windshield he notices a lone figure walking briskly down Main. A smile comes unbidden to his lips as recognition dawns on him.

  Opening the door he scrambles out of the car and trails after the figure, a plan already forming in his mind.

  The room is cold and barren.

  Moving his right hand slightly, Kazim sets the shackle around his wrist to rattling against the hard steel rung of the table.

  He knows that they’ve most likely lowered the temperature in this room as a way of getting him uncomfortable, thus making him more cooperative. It is wholly unnecessary.

  He’s been in this room now for what must be close to half an hour. The exact time he can’t be sure since they took his watch away when they booked him and there is no clock on the wall.

  Closing his eyes he tries to center himself and find a comfortable position on the hard plastic chair that they’ve given him to sit on.

  After a few minutes he gives up on the effort convinced that there is no comfortable position to be had. Instead, he sits still with his eyes forward to wait patiently for his interrogator to appear.

  Shortly the door opens and a lone man walks in. He’s wearing a dark suit and tie with a white shirt. His hair is cut close to his scalp and barely rustles as he runs his fingers over his head.

  When he smiles slightly his cheekbones raise drawing attention to both his intelligent gaze and the scar on his left cheek. Kazim decides even before he introduces himself that this man is from the FBI.

  “I have to say this is a first, I’ve never had a suspected terrorist turn himself in before.” Scraping a chair across the tile floor he sits down across from Kazim asking, “You want a lawyer?”

  “I don’t need one, I’m not a terrorist.” Kazim asks, “Did you read the affidavit?”

  “I did,” Caleb answers giving nothing away.

  “And?”

  “And I don’t see what it has to do with you.”

  “It has to do with the people I work for and the crimes that they’ve committed.”

  Sitting forward he asks, “Can I call you Kazim?” Without waiting for an answer he continues, “Kazim you ever hear the phrase guilty by association?”

  Nodding Kazim answers “I did not say I was an angel in this. But I want to help you bring down those whose crimes are far greater than my own.”

  “Then help me,” Caleb leans back in his chair placing his hands behind his head. “Tell me what you know.”

  Taking a deep breath, Kazim nods and begins to talk.

  Sitting at a computer terminal in the basement of the Board of Health building, Lynne intently searches the internet for information on Arthur Wellesley.

  Needing to know what type of doctor he was her search quickly produces fruit in the form of several articles authored by him. S
canning through a few of them on gene therapy and restriction enzymes, she learns that he was a geneticist.

  Just like I suspected but could he have done what I think he did? Was it possible?

  Typing IN UTERO SOMATIC GENE TRANSFER she changes the search parameters and begins clicking through the new results. So intent is she on the computer that she doesn’t hear the door open and shut softly twenty feet behind her.

  The basement is lit only sparsely and offers many shadows in which to hide in. Moving her cursor over another link she clicks it and begins reading.

  In 1990 W. French Anderson became the first person to attempt authorized somatic gene transfer experiments on humans. In 1998 he proposed to begin in utero somatic gene transfer experiments and in the process, in his words, "push the envelope" on inheritable genetic modification.

  Specifically, Anderson asked the NIH's Recombinant DNA Advisory Committee (RAC) to review a draft proposal asking for permission to begin somatic gene transfer experiments on fetuses in utero that had been shown by prenatal tests to be afflicted with a fatal childhood genetic disease, adenosine deaminase (ADA) deficiency. The proposed gene transfer procedure was intended to get corrective genes into a fetus' system at a stage early enough to prevent the defective genes from inflicting developmental harm on the fetus. However, gene transfer at early developmental stages poses a "high risk" that some of the transferred genes would locate in precursor egg and sperm cells, and thus alter inheritable genes.

  Anderson has been a vocal advocate of inheritable genetic modification for therapeutic purposes. In his draft proposal he freely acknowledged the possibility of "inadvertent" germline modification, and said that this "might be considered a benefit."

  She remembers hearing about the debate that took place over this proposal. The RAC issued a unanimous agreement stating that it was premature to undertake any human in utero gene transfer experiments.

  And then after several other deaths were linked to other gene therapy experiments, the matter disappeared from the collective mindset.

  But was he the first person to attempt somatic gene transfer experiments or did Arthur Wellesley beat him to the punch? Did he find a way to alter his son’s developing immunity to protect him from a coming plague?