Stillness Page 7

Leaving the safe for the moment he moves on to the computer sitting on the desk. Starting it up, he runs a search for documents containing certain key words. As the CPU whirs silently through the search he returns his attention to the safe. It would be best if he found the key. While not necessary to open it—there are other ways—if the key is found by others it will lead them to think that something is missing.

  A chime sounds as the computer returns the search results. From within his jacket he removes a hard drive and proceeds to switch out the drives. Shutting the computer down, he pockets Markov’s hard drive and grabs the safe on his way out.

  In a bowl by the door he finds a myriad of keys and Markov’s wallet. Pocketing the items he decides to try the keys later.

  Replacing his cap and glasses he watches Covington scoop up some papers from the coffee table and crumple them up in his pack.

  A final sweep of the apartment to make sure nothing is out of place and they head for the door. Wire to wire in less than twenty minutes—within limits.

  Kazim heads straight for the car out front while Covington visits the superintendent one final time. Once in the front seat he turns his cell phone on and dials a number.

  Speaking deliberately he says two words before ending the call. “It’s done.”

  Several hours later as dawn breaks on another fall day, Dr. Hyman Allen unlocks the front door to the medical examiner’s building.

  He’s worked as the chief medical examiner for the county for the past twenty years and not once in that time can he remember being called in on a Saturday morning.

  Absurd! As if this case couldn’t wait until Monday morning at a decent hour, he grumbles to himself.

  Stifling a yawn he walks down the bleach smelling corridors of the building on his way to the basement examination room.

  Even at this early hour his hawkish features—pointed nose, alert all-seeing eyes, and white mane of hair—appear intimidating. Or they would if anyone else was in the building to notice.

  The normal procedure for an autopsy would call for at least one other person to observe. But in a move of defiance Dr. Allen cancelled off his observer and decided to take care of this matter solo.

  Besides, he reckons it’s not like I’m going to perform the autopsy this morning anyway. All I was told to do was confirm an identity and that’s all I plan on doing.

  Entering the cold examination room he dons his white coat and latex gloves. Slipping glasses over his eyes and fitting a mask in place over his mouth and nose he prepares to start working on the body resting on the center table.

  Running through the usual checklist of duties in his mind he proceeds with the confidence that comes with experience. Taking fingerprint samples he scans them into his computer and runs them through the system to hopefully find a match.

  While the computer works he returns his attention to the John Doe on the table. To his eyes the man appears all together unremarkable. Certainly no one of enough importance to drag me out of bed on a Saturday, that’s for damn sure!

  As he bags a few hair samples for DNA analysis, the computer over his shoulder beeps its completion. Well, let’s see who you are mister.

  Hitting the enter key to bring up the results he reads the identification. With each line his mood blackens ever more. Glancing back at the naked man under the white sheet he whispers to no one “It can’t be…”

  Ripping his gloves off he races from the room to find a phone leaving the computer on and the screen flashing a warning in bright red colors:

  Person on Terror Watch List!

  Contact Federal Authorities Immediately!

  The speed, at which the federal government moves, contrary to much popular belief, is not always slow. There are certain events that can cause the bureaucracy to move at a lightning fast pace.

  This morning when fingerprints were taken from an unidentified corpse and entered into a database for identification, it triggered one such event.

  When the database returned a match for Dr. Nikolai Markov, the information was immediately relayed to the proper authorities and funneled through the network to a branch of the Federal Bureau of Investigation, and the desk of Special Agent Caleb Fine.

  Agent Fine was immediately redeployed to Des Moines to take possession of the remains and search Dr. Markov’s home.

  And so as the afternoon draws to a close he finds himself standing in the corridor outside Dr. Markov’s apartment. He’s dressed in the bureau issued dark blue suit coat and pants, wearing a white shirt and dark colored tie. The bulge of his sidearm is very visible under his suit coat.

  His black hair is styled in a crew cut, a holdover from his days as a United States Marine. His features are rugged and handsome. He has a strong brow that looms above his intelligent green eyes. Over the years his nose has been broken twice and as a result is almost flat, except for two bumps on the ridge where the bone was broke. A two inch long scar on his left cheek from a knife blade only adds to his intimidating presence.

  At thirty years of age he is still in the best shape of his life. Under his clothes his washboard stomach and muscular arms are testament to that.

  Flanking him in the hallway are three agents and a very scared landlord. “Open it up,” Caleb instructs the squat landlord.

  Instinctively his right hand gravitates towards the bulge under his jacket as the landlord slips the key into the door lock and opens up the apartment.

  Caleb places a strong hand against the landlord’s chest and holds him back as the three other agents sweep the apartment in a highly coordinated fashion.

  After the all clear signal is returned Caleb follows the landlord into the apartment.

  “Thank you for your help,” Caleb says to the landlord “You can leave us to our work now. We’ll let you know when we’re finished.”

  “You guys too huh?”

  “Excuse me?” Caleb asks.

  “Homeland Security was here last night rousting me from a sound sleep to get into this here apartment,” John complains “This is the last time I rent to foreigners let me tell you.”

  Shaking his head he leaves them to their work as Caleb closes the door behind him. He files the information he’s just heard away for later before turning back to the apartment and the task at hand.

  “All right boys,” he says, “Let’s leave no stone unturned. Tear this place apart—tag and bag everything no matter how insignificant. I want to know what Markov was doing in the United States and I want to know now!”

  Chapter 10

  Stillness, Iowa

  The wind in his hair and the purr of the engine before him, Scott Lee bumps over the main line crossing over the 5th Sideroad on his way to Concession 5.

  In the passenger seat of his Mustang, Jaime Lincoln breathes in the night air as her blond hair swirls all around her. She’s dressed in black jeans and a tank top and Scott can hardly keep his eyes on the road.

  The clock on the dash reads 8:45 and they’re on their way to The Still to hopefully meet up with Gaetano and Dominique.

  Without slowing down Scott takes the soft turn onto Concession 5 and guns the motor down the flat stretch of land surrounded by cornfields. Two miles out of town The Still just appears out of the fields, dark brick in the night illuminated by the dull neon lettering along the front.

  Shifting down Scott turns into the gravel parking lot and finds a secluded spot to turn the engine off. “Ready for some fun?”

  “You know it.” Together they get out and walk hand in hand towards the club. A handwritten chalkboard announces outside the door that Sonic Violation has been cancelled tonight and that Dick Nixons will be on stage tomorrow night.

  Inside they pay the five-dollar cover and quickly find Guy and Dominique laughing while they shoot a game of pool.

  “Buddy what’s up?”

  Guy shakes Scott’s hand bumping shoulders in the process. “Not much. How were the shows?”

  “Could’ve been better, but we nailed most of the sets.”


  “You do realize Scott that we were in the middle of a game here?”

  Scott smiles at this. “Honestly Dom I didn’t realize the way you shot pool could be called a game.”

  Puckering her lips she touches her middle finger to them and blows him a kiss.

  Nudging Guy with his elbow Scott asks, “You going to let your girl treat me like that?”

  Basking in the mischievous smirk on Dom’s lips, Guy looks from her to Scott nodding, “Yeah.”

  “All right then,” Scott lightly shoves Guy before hurrying around the table “If that’s the way it’s going to be.”

  Grabbing Dom around the waist he lifts her up spinning her around in the air. Her squeals and pangs of laughter are infectious and soon they’re all frivolously laughing.

  “How about we call this game honey,” Guy says catching his breath, “And you two fine ladies can chat awhile while Scott and I get us some drinks.”

  “Now you’re talking my language,” Scott says, “The usual Jaime?”

  Together Guy and Scott head for the bar while the girls grab a table near the back of the room away from the stage.

  “So how’s school going?”

  “School,” Gaetano pauses in saying “Is going great.”

  “But,” Scott finishes his thought “Home is still fucked right?”

  “As ever.”

  Stepping to the bar they order a pitcher of beer with four glasses. The usual. “You think your pops is ever going to let all this go?”

  “I doubt it man.”

  “Well who gives a shit then am I right? You’re doing what you want and if he can’t see that who needs him.”

  Halfheartedly Gaetano mumbles “Yeah.”

  “Say it like you mean it,” Scott raps him one on the shoulder as the pitcher of beer is set down in front of them.

  “Thanks Mike,” Gaetano says as he takes the pitcher away to the table.

  Hanging back Scott asks, “Say what happened to Sonic tonight?”

  Shrugging nonchalantly Mike Smith answers, “I don’t know something about the singer coming down with some such or another illness. After I heard them say they were out I kind of drifted off. You’re still on for tomorrow right?”

  “Healthy as a horse and hung like one too. Dick Nixons are good to go.”

  “Good, because I really don’t want to rely another night on the jukebox.”

  “Well if you had something recorded after 1979 on it,” Scott quips.

  “Funny,” Mike flips him off “I’ve got customers waiting. See you tomorrow.”

  Laughing heartily Scott saunters towards the back of the room and his friends. Turning the chair around, he sits down grabbing a glass.

  “Cheers,” he says raising it high. Smiles all around, they clink glasses and drink.

  “So did you have fun on your tour?” Dom asks Scott.

  “Well you’re very kind to call it a tour Dom, but I don’t think three shows in state count as a tour.”

  “Especially not the dives that book you guys,” Guy jokes.

  “Ha, ha, ha,” Scott tilts his head to one side in a sarcastic gesture before continuing “The shows were fun, especially the second one at the Whiskey Rock. We nailed that set—brought the fucking house down!”

  They all laugh at that—comfortable with one another in a way that only true friends can ever be.

  “But,” Scott adds, “I’m really glad to be back.” Wrapping his arm around Jaime’s shoulders he says, “I just missed you too much.”

  “Yeah,” Jaime smiles mischievously, “I know what you missed.”

  “Well,” Scott raises his eyebrows suggestively, “There’s always that too.”

  Leaning into her boyfriend Jaime rests her head on his shoulder and feels the warmth spreading within her heart—convinced that no one else could ever make her feel that way.

  “So why have you been hiding out on campus so much Guy?”

  “I haven’t been hiding out,” he explains “I’ve been participating in a research program on explaining statistical abnormalities with regression equations. Dom knows what I’ve been doing—you never told her?”

  Dom gives him a look that screams ‘yeah right.’ “As if I could wrap my mind around whatever you just said. I find it easier to give you a hard time and tell everyone you’re hiding out.”

  “Well either way,” Scott raises his glass struggling to keep a straight face as he does, “It sounds like one helluva fun time. I can’t believe you got in the program, I mean the line of wannabes must have stretched around the block!”

  They all laugh again as Guy playfully flips him off and Scott clutches at his chest pretending to be wounded.

  The night stretches away like this before them. Good friends, good drink, good times. Smiles and laughter, dancing and young love, and for one night all is right and perfect with the world.

  For these four it seems the times will always be this good and plentiful—the skies will always be sunny.

  But unbeknownst to them, in the distance dark clouds are forming and a storm is brewing. Soon the laughter will be stolen from their ears and the smiles will be wiped from their faces.

  But until then, all they have is this night and each other—and all is right with the world.

  Chapter 11

  Three Weeks Earlier

  Atlanta, Georgia

  Stifling a yawn, Lynne Bosworth rubs her tired eyes and tries to focus on the reams of study notes that clutter her desk.

  The words swirl on the page before her eyes blurring their meaning before she can commit them to memory. Shaking her head in disgust she decides what she needs is more caffeine.

  Pocketing her keys she heads for the door just as someone knocks. Opening it she sees the cheery face of her best friend Wendy standing on her doorstep.

  “God, you look exhausted honey.”

  A thin smile, “I was just on my way out for some coffee Wendy.”

  “Good,” Wendy replies “Mind if I tag along?”

  “I actually have a lot of work to get done tonight.”

  “No you don’t Lynne,” Wendy says with a motherly tone rich in caring and concern. “You need to relax and get some sleep before you crash.”

  Somewhere inside her Lynne knows that Wendy means well. She knows that the only reason she’s here is because she’s worried about her. The knowledge should make her feel warm and loved—but it doesn’t.

  It makes her feel weak—an object of pity. It makes her angry. “I’m fine Wendy,” she says a little too brusquely as she closes the door behind her and brushes past her.

  Trailing behind her friend Wendy calls out “I don’t believe you. I know you well enough by now Lynne. Everyone makes mistakes.”

  Lynne stops stock still at the curb. She doesn’t turn to face Wendy who continues “You need to let go Lynne. Forget the Warden, he’s just an asshole.”

  Lynne turns around and Wendy shrinks a little under the weight of her steely gaze. Whether it’s the physical exhaustion or something else, for a moment Wendy glimpses what Lynne has always kept hidden behind a mask.

  The fear and pain she sees in her frightens her more than she could ever imagine. Then the moment is past and the mask is back in place. “I’m fine Wendy. Please just go home.”

  Watching her walk away Wendy remembers just how hard life has been for Lynne. She forgets sometimes how much tragedy has touched Lynne’s life. And it’s not just the deaths she’s had to mourn either. There is something so tragic about needing success so bad that it defines who you are.

  Rushing after her she grabs her hand, “Lynne if you keep this up you’re going to burn out. You can’t know every little thing and thinking differently is just dangerous. I’m worried about you.”

  Softening Lynne replies “I have to do better Wendy—I just do. If I make a mistake in the field, people will die and it will be my fault. I…I can’t…I have to do better than that.”

  “People die Lynne, that’s just the way it go
es. Nothing you do is going to change that.”

  Pulling her hand away Lynne whispers “I have to do this my way Wendy. I know you mean well, and I love you for that. But it doesn’t change anything. I have to do this my way. Please just let me.”

  This time Wendy lets her walk away. Shaking her head solemnly she knows that the one person Lynne so desperately wants to save is the one person she’ll never get the chance too.

  She only hopes that the long shadow cast by Edward Bosworth is not so long that it swallows his daughter whole.

  Chapter 12

  October 14, the Present

  Stillness, Iowa

  “Mommeee!”

  The cry of her child awakens Martha Brown from a light sleep. Quickly she slides her feet into her slippers and leaves the master bedroom, running down the hallway to Matthew’s room.

  “Mom,” Matthew says as she appears in the doorway.

  “What is it dear?”

  “I don’t feel good.”

  Cinching her robe tighter around herself she sits down on his bed and feels his forehead for a fever. The heat startles her. “Where does it hurt?”

  “My stomach mostly. I just feel so…”

  “Lay back down honey.” Rising from the bed Martha goes over to the doorway and calls for Tom to come quick. In moments her husband is standing beside her. “Matt’s burning up Tom and he says his stomach hurts.”

  Tom feels his son’s clammy forehead with his own hand and agrees that the fever is serious. As he stands there Matt lurches upright in bed and vomits all over the sheets and Tom as well.

  “God!”

  “It’s all right Martha,” Tom says, “Get something to clean this mess up with. Get up son; let’s sit down in the chair for a moment.”

  “I’m sorry dad.”

  “Don’t be champ, just relax. And if you feel like throwing up again just use the wastebasket.”

  When Martha reappears with paper towels Tom says to her in a low voice “We need to get him to a hospital. His fever is way too high to be safe.”