Tarnished image, p.1
Tarnished Image, page 1
THE TELEVISION SCREEN CAME TO LIFE WITH A BLIZZARD OF white and black dots, which were quickly replaced by a pure, unbroken blue. A second later an image appeared of three men sitting around a conference table in a room David did not recognize. The darkness outside the windows indicated that the event had occurred long after sunset.
The two men were strangers to David, but he knew the third one very well. David was watching himself meet with two people he had never before seen. He watched himself open the briefcase and turn it first toward the man on the right, then the man on the left. The briefcase was filled with money.
Abruptly the tape ended.
“Pretty convincing, don’t you think, Dr. O’Neal?” FBI Special Agent Hall asked.
David was devastated. His head reeled; he felt nauseous. “It’s not real,” he said weakly. “That’s not me. It didn’t happen.”
“Do you expect us not to believe our own eyes?” Hall countered. “Come on, Dr. O’Neal. Let’s put this charade to rest and save the hardworking taxpayers some money on this investigation. Confess and we can all get on with our lives.”
David sat in silence and shook his head. “I’m telling you the truth. Why won’t you believe me?”
Hall turned to Calvin. “Give him good counsel, Overstreet. He’s going to need it.”
TARNISHED IMAGE
PUBLISHED BY WATERBROOK PRESS
2375 Telstar Drive, Suite 160
Colorado Springs, CO 80920
A division of Random House, Inc.
The characters and events in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to actual persons or events is coincidental.
Scripture quotations are from The Holy Bible, New International Version (NIV) ©1973, 1984 by International Bible Society, used by permission of Zondervan Publishing House. Also cited, The King James Version of the Bible.
ISBN 1-57856-046-2
eBook ISBN: 978-1-60142-830-1
Copyright © 1998 by Alton L. Gansky
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying and recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.
Cover Design: Mark D. Ford
Cover Images: Image Source Limited | Index Stock Imagery
Tony Freeman | Index Stock Imagery
Photodisc
v3.1
To my brother, Richard.
This one is for you, Bubba.
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Other Books by This Author
Acknowledgments
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Epilogue
ALSO BY ALTON L. GANSKY
Terminal Justice
Acknowledgments
Every novelist owes a debt to the people who help make a project like this possible. The lucky author will have an assertive and knowledgeable agent, a publisher who is willing to make the work a success, an experienced editor to acquire and oversee the myriad details that surround every book, a line editor who keeps the author from revealing his ignorance about the English language, and a family to provide support.
In my case, I’m fortunate to have all this and more. I wish to express my gratitude to my agent, Claudia Cross, for returning my phone calls (and for allowing me to borrow her name, which I use liberally throughout the manuscript); to Daniel P. Rich, the president and publisher of WaterBrook Press, for giving me the opportunity to share my stories; to my editor, Lisa Bergren, for her guidance and for finding something of value in what I do; to Lila Empson for her keen eye as she reviewed the manuscript; and to my family who continue to show their support in new ways.
I would also like to express my thanks to the many experts who gave of their time and knowledge to keep me on track with the technical and specialized matters that appear in this book. Any such matters correctly conveyed are in large part due to them. Any errors are exclusively mine.
Prologue
Sierra de Agua, Belize, Central America
1990
PERSPIRATION DOTTED HIS FOREHEAD AND STREAKED HIS cheeks. Raising a tremulous hand, the young man wiped his face. He grimaced. Pain pierced every joint; every muscle protested the movement with scorching agony. His skin felt aflame, and his head throbbed percussively. A small and pathetic groan issued from his parched throat, passed split and swollen lips, and joined the guttural emanations of the other fifteen patients.
He closed his eyes for a moment and then reopened them, focusing on a large blue-green fly that rested on the white mosquito netting that surrounded his bed. The fly was motionless except for its front legs, which it furiously rubbed together like a famished man rubbing his hands before a banquet table. Unfortunately the netting that kept him safe from insects also kept out the light, sweet breeze that wafted in through the open windows spaced throughout the ward. The breeze played a lullaby on the supple leaves of nearby trees, but the young man could not sleep; he could only wait and hope the disease that incapacitated him would leave as quickly as it had come. He doubted that it would.
He was fourteen and until a week ago was strong and full of energy. He had run where others walked, and he had loved nothing more than playing soccer after school with friends. Four of those friends were on the ward with him now, and two others had already died. Soccer no longer occupied his mind, only survival.
A movement outside the netting caught his eye. A woman in a white smock stood next to his bed.
“How are you feeling?” she asked. Her American accent was sweet to his ears.
“Bad, doctor. Really bad.” His voice was weak. “Are my parents here?”
“They were, but I sent them home,” she answered without emotion. “It’s best that they not see you right now. You don’t want them to get sick too, do you?”
He shook his head slowly. Bolts of pain ripped down his back.
“You’re a good son,” the doctor said. The young man watched as she raised a large hypodermic and removed the plastic cover that protected the big-bore needle. “I need to take another blood sample.”
He didn’t want to give blood. He was tired of giving blood. He wanted to go home and to sleep in his own bed. Still, he offered no objection.
The doctor pulled back the white netting and leaned over him. The blue-green fly took flight. Deftly she plunged the needle into a vein just below the crook of his elbow. When she was done she raised up the hypodermic and studied the red fluid contents. She grinned and closed the netting. “Try to get some sleep. Maybe your parents can see you tomorrow.”
The young man smiled weakly and watched as the woman with dark hair walked away.
Closing the door behind her, the woman in the white smock secured the lock. It was the only room in the small outlying clinic capable of being locked, and she was the only one with a key. Turning, she faced a ten-by-fifteen room filled with laboratory equipment and a computer terminal. A broad table, upon which rested a large, rectangular glass box that looked like an aquarium without water, dominated the room. A small white piece of paper had been taped to the glass container. It read: Aedes aegypti. Carefully carrying the syringe of blood she had drawn from the teenager on the ward, she made her way to the table and gently set it down.
She felt a moment of sadness for the boy. He would be dead in two or three days. This fact bothered her some, but not unduly; she had, after all, been responsible for his disease.
She leaned forward and placed her face near the glass surface and closely studied the container’s inhabitants. A smirk spread across her face. She raised a hand and drummed her fingers on the glass. A thousand mosquitoes swarmed into frenetic flight. Her smirk erupted into laughter.
Glancing at the blood-filled syringe she said aloud, “Is anyone hungry?”
1
La Jolla Shores, California
1999
THE AUGUST SUN HUNG HIGH IN A DEEP TURQUOISE SKY AND poured its effulgence down on the beach. David O’Neal took in a long, deep breath through his nose. The air was perfumed with the smells of salt water, warm sand, and suntan lotion. The day was hot, and he could almost imagine a sizzling sound coming from the well-oiled bodies of sunbathers who joyfully roasted themselves in the sun’s intense light. Not David. He preferred to lie on his reclining lawn chair in the full shade of the beach umbrella he had rented from a local vendor.
The cry of gulls and terns overhead blended with the gentle sounds of rolling surf to compose a relaxing symphony that lulled him to the edge of gentle slumber—something to which he would happily surrender. This was the first real day off he had taken in sixteen months of steady, grinding, mind-shredding work. Yet despite the unrelenting pressure, high learning curve, and foreign nature of his job, he would not trade one moment of it.
Being the director of Barringston Relief, the largest relief organization in the world, was as fulfilling as it was demanding. Since assuming the position after the death of his friend an d employer A.J. Barringston, David had traveled to twenty-four countries, getting acquainted with the heroes who labored in the worst possible conditions. He had made a return trip to Africa, where he spent time in Rwanda, Republic of Congo, Burundi, and Sudan. He also toured the relief work his organization had recently established on the island nation of Madagascar. His travels took him to famine-stricken North Korea, where farmland had failed to recover from devastating floods. Several weeks were spent in South and Central America. He walked along the Appalachian Mountains and the inner-city streets of Los Angeles, Dallas, Miami, and New York. Everywhere he went, he saw the worst possible conditions; he also saw the brave men and women who faced those elements with passion and aplomb.
David O’Neal worked with the same tireless passion of his predecessor. The broad expanse of the world and the unrelenting need of the suffering now defined his life, which had once been expressed in church work. The enterprise of relief was now the power that energized his soul. It was his work, his dream, his service, and his worship. He thanked God for it every day.
Today, however, he was not Dr. David O’Neal, head of Barringston Relief. No, this day he was just plain old David, citizen of the beach on a searing hot August afternoon.
Through drowsy eyes, he scanned the beach. Children scampered joyfully along the shore while others built sand-castles with their parents. Fifty yards out in the water, body-surfers struggled to find a wave with sufficient energy to carry them in its foamy grasp. It was a futile effort, for the rollers were nearly as still as the air was calm. Only gentle waves made their way to the sand to flop lazily on the shore, spreading diaphanous froth on the sand. That was fine with David. It meant that he could relax more and worry less about Timmy.
Like the other children along the strand, Timmy was enjoying the water. David spied him as he raced forward into the ocean, leaping wildly over the two-foot waves as if they were moving hurdles. Once the water was waist high, Timmy would leap boldly into an oncoming wave only to surface rubbing his eyes and coughing. He was having a great time.
Unlike the other children, Timmy stood just over six feet tall and was nearly twenty-four years old. Despite his adult height and age, he was still a child within. His intellectual and emotional development had been tested and compared to that of an eight-year-old. While many who met the boy-man were bathed in pity, David often found himself admiring him. The young man was resilient, strong, and chronically cheerful. Every day brought him new joy and a renewed zest for life. Living was an unending adventure. Not a bad way to live, David had thought many times.
Timmy had known a hard life, living on the streets where other homeless people frequently beat him. A.J. had rescued him from just such a beating years ago. A.J. was the closest thing the boy had ever had to a father. Now that he was gone, David filled that role.
Assured that Timmy was well, David once again closed his eyes and waited for the simple sleep of relaxation to envelop him.
A muted sound jarred him from his trance: a ringing, electronic and annoying. Glowering, he reached for the cell phone that had been tucked away in a tote bag he used to carry towels and sunblock. He had to search for a moment before finding it.
“David O’Neal,” he said, after snapping open the small folding phone.
“Dr. O’Neal,” a tinny and distant voice said through a haze of static, “this is Osborn Scott. Sorry to bother you on your day off.”
“No problem, Oz,” David said. Osborn Scott was a new addition to Barringston Relief. A quiet, capable man and driven scientist, Oz—as he insisted on being called—normally stayed to himself, preferring his work to social contact.
“How was your trip to Belize?” Osborn asked. Even over the phone, he seemed distracted.
“Fine, but puzzling. I’m afraid I came home with more questions than answers.”
“Are people still getting sick down there?”
“Yes. It’s not an epidemic yet, but it’s worrisome. All our research doctors know is that it’s viral. But I don’t think you called me to talk about Belize. What’s up?”
“I need to show you something,” Osborn said.
“Can it wait until tomorrow?”
“I think you might want to see this sooner than that.” Osborn’s voice was tense.
“Is there a problem?” David asked. He could feel his stomach tighten. If Osborn was concerned, then David’s life was about to become far more complicated.
“I’d rather not talk about it over the phone.”
David sighed. “OK, I’ll be there in about half an hour. That’s the best I can do.”
“That’ll be fine.” Osborn hung up.
A puissant feeling of disquiet replaced the sense of peace that had permeated David only moments ago, and for good reason: Osborn Scott was the head of CMD, the catastrophe monitoring department. If he was as concerned as he seemed, then something frightening was in the works.
Seated on the three-foot-high concrete wall that separated the sand from the cement walkway that paralleled the shore, a thickly built man with a marine-style haircut carefully aimed a small camera in the direction of the person he had been assigned to follow. He depressed the shutter button. Click. The picture was recorded, not on an emulsion of film, but on an electronic chip inside the body of the camera. The image, and the scores like it he had been taking since David O’Neal arrived at the beach, would not need processing. Instead, the camera would simply be downloaded onto the hard drive of a computer. From there the pictures would be used any way his boss decided. He had no idea what that would be, and he didn’t care.
The camera he held was an amazing and expensive item. He had been reminded of that fact many times by Jack and that pencil-necked geek with whom he was to leave the camera. “Ten thousand dollars,” they had said several times as if he were some dumb high school kid who was borrowing the family car for the first time.
Click. Another shot. Click.
The assignment was boring. Sitting in the hot sun, dressed in a pair of brown walking shorts and a white T-shirt, the man waited patiently for his target to position himself so he could snap a usable picture. Unfortunately, that meant prolonged periods of inactivity as David lay quietly in the shade of an umbrella. The retarded boy had been much easier to photograph. He had not stopped moving since arriving at the shore and stood in the sun most of the time. His pictures would be the best. The man wished he could say the same for the ones of David O’Neal. He would just have to wait and see.
The thick man watched as David gathered his things together, returned the rental umbrella, and walked to the car with the young man close behind. The man took another ten pictures then opened a palm-size cell phone. He dialed a number. An answer came on the first ring.
“Jack, here.”
“He’s moving,” the thick man said evenly.
“Got it.” A moment later the connection was broken. Jack was never one for long conversations. No matter. At least now he could get out of the sun. There was no need to follow David O’Neal. They knew where he was going, and people would be waiting—people with cameras like his as well as high-end video equipment. The phone call O’Neal had received that prompted his departure had been monitored and recorded. The truth was, everything there was to know about David O’Neal was known, and every place he went someone would be nearby, watching, recording, and waiting.
Standing, the thick man stretched, yawned, and placed the cell phone back in his pocket. He strolled to his own car.
The fifty-three-story Barringston Tower cast a lengthening shadow on the four-lane downtown street that passed in front of it. David never ceased to be amazed at its beautifully designed exterior. Instead of sterile glass and cold concrete that had become the redundant theme of many mid- and high-rise buildings in the heart of San Diego, the Barringston Tower was adorned with earth-tone pebbled panels. Along each floor were planters brimming with hearty plants. Each time David saw the structure he was reminded of artist renderings of the Hanging Gardens of Babylon.
Turning the wheel of his Ford Taurus, David steered the car through the drive that led to the first of two subterranean parking garages. Near the central bank of elevators was a parking place marked with a sign: DR. DAVID O’NEAL, CEO, BARRINGSTON RELIEF.
