Terminal Justice (46 page)

“I’d rather not talk about it over the phone.”

David sighed. “Okay, I’ll be there in half an hour. That’s the best I can do.”

“That’ll be fine.” Osborn hung up suddenly.

A puissant feeling of disquiet replaced the sense of peace that had so permeated David a few moments ago, and for good reason: Osborn Scott was the head of C.M.D., the Catastrophe Monitoring Department. If he was as concerned as he seemed, then something monumental and frightening was in the works.

David wasted no time calling Timmy in and packing his things.

Seated on the 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 man he had been assigned to follow and depressed the shutter button.
Click
. The picture was recorded, not on the 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 had 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 anyway his boss decided. He had no idea what that would be, nor did he care.

The camera he held was an amazing and expensive item, something he had been reminded of many times by Jack and that pencil-necked geek he was to turn the camera over to. “Ten thousand dollars,” they had said several times, as if he were some dumb high school kid who couldn’t grasp the concept 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 tee-shirt, the man waited patiently for his target to position himself so he could take 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 hadn’t stopped 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, returned the rental umbrella, and walked to the car with the young man close behind. He took another ten pictures and opened a palm-sized 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 video cameras. 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, waiting.

Standing, the thick man stretched, yawned, and placed the cell phone back in his pocket. Then he leisurely strolled to his own car.

The fifty-three story Barringston Tower cast an ever 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 artists’ 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.”

A minute later, he and Timmy, still dressed for the beach, were standing at the elevators. Timmy shivered despite the heat of the day. His swim trunks and white tee-shirt were still wet; sand clung tenaciously to his bare feet.

“Thanks for the hamburger, Dr. David,” Timmy said as he hugged himself in a effort to ward off the chill left by the ocean.

“It was the least I could do after making us leave the beach earlier than we planned. I appreciate your being a good sport about this.”

“You’re welcome.” Timmy shivered again. “I still feel cold, Dr. David.”

“I think you may have picked up a little sunburn. That’s why you feel cold.”

“A burn can make you feel cold?” Timmy asked puzzled.

“Sometimes, Timmy. I know it doesn’t make sense, but it works that way.”

“Oh,” he replied innocently. “Will it hurt?”

“The sunburn? A little, but I have some stuff to make it feel better.”

A soft chime announced the arrival of the elevator cab. The two stepped inside, and David removed a small plastic card from his wallet and inserted it into a slot next to the control panel. Immediately the doors closed, and the elevator began its rapid rise to the fifty-third floor.

“When we get to our floor, Timmy,” David began, “I need you to take our stuff to the apartment and put it away. You can take a shower then watch television. I have to meet with someone for a few minutes. Then I’ll be up. Can you do that?”

“Sure,” Timmy said. “Can I have a soda?”

“Absolutely,” David replied with a big grin. “Just be sure to put your wet clothes in the bathroom. I’ll deal with them later.”

“Okay.”

The elevator arrived at the top floor and opened its doors. Timmy stepped out and walked toward the penthouse apartment he shared with David. When the mantle of leadership passed from the murdered A.J. Barringston to David, the Board of Directors insisted that he move into the large flat. David resisted, feeling it was an unnecessary extravagance. It would remind him of his lost friend—a violence he had yet to overcome. Nonetheless, David acquiesced.

It wasn’t long before David realized the importance of living in the suite. Directing Barringston Relief’s worldwide efforts was not a nine-to-five job. Over the last sixteen months he had averaged working fourteen hours a day when he was in the country and longer when abroad.

The luxurious suite presented some problems, as did the entire Barringston Tower. Visitors often assumed that monies that could be used in hunger relief and other efforts were being spent
on the magnificent high-tech building. More times than he could count, David had explained that the building, everything in it, as well as the staff of nearly five hundred was largely subsidized by Barringston Industries. The top ten floors were used rent- and utility-free by Barringston Relief. The thirteen floors below were occupied by Barringston Industries, and the remaining thirty floors were leased to various businesses. The lease money from those organizations paid for the building and the cost of its operation.

Barringston Industries was led by the enigmatic Archibald Barringston, founder of the global construction company that built high-rise structures in scores of foreign countries. It had been Archibald Barringston who, twenty years prior, had given a ten-million-dollar jump-start to his son Archibald Jr., known to everyone simply as A.J. From there, A.J. had guided the relief agency from conception to being the largest such nongovernmental organization in the world.

Monies for the actual relief work came from several sources. First were donations from people around the world. Since almost all of the relief organization’s overhead and operational expenses were covered by other sources, more than 90 percent of donations received from individuals and businesses went directly to relief work—more than any other relief organization in the world. Substantial funds were gained from patents on research done by Barringston scientists and engineers. Barringston Relief did more than take meals to the hungry; it was the leader in the development of the bio-technology necessary to end famine and famine-related diseases. Side benefits from this research improved crop production in the United States and other countries. Funds from these products were poured back into the relief work.

The elevator descended two floors, and David exited it into a lobby. The lobby was empty except for a few potted trees and chairs situated around the perimeter. The floor was shared by three
departments: the Communications Department, the Political Analysis Department, and the Catastrophe Monitoring Department. A large pair of oak doors led to each office complex. The C.M.D. was behind the doors to his left.

Casually he strolled through the half-dozen cubicles that delineated the work areas and tried not to look conspicuous. Although there was no dress code for employees, and attire ran the spectrum from jeans and polo shirts to three-piece suits, his swim trunks, sandals, and a San Diego Padre tee-shirt were stretching it. David said hello to the few workers who caught his eye. When he had left the beach, he had planned to head straight to his apartment, change clothes, and then quickly make his way to the C.M.D. offices. That plan had changed, however, when Timmy made his disappointment about leaving known by lowering his head slightly, a heartbroken expression across his face. David knew he was being manipulated, but he couldn’t help feeling guilty. He made things right by promising to stop for a hamburger and shake on the way home. That had added an additional twenty minutes to the trip. David had promised to meet Osborn in thirty minutes; he was now twenty minutes late.

Osborn’s office, a twenty-by-twenty room with a teak desk and credenza and floor-to-ceiling windows on two walls, was in the corner of the tower and overlooked the dense cluster of buildings of urban San Diego. From fifty-one floors up, the view was captivating. Osborn, a stately, middle-aged African-American, was not looking out the window. Instead, peering through small, wire-rimmed glasses, his eyes were fixed on his computer screen.

“I’m sorry to have taken so long, Oz,” David began, “but things took longer than I expected.”

“No problem,” Osborn answered without looking up. “Let me show you something.”

David walked over to stand behind Osborn. On the large color monitor was a photo of the Gulf of Mexico and the Caribbean Sea.
The picture was detailed, showing mountains, valleys, rivers, and even clouds overhead.

“What am I looking for?” David asked.

Osborn picked up a pencil and pointed at the monitor. The sharpened end touched the glass screen and gave a discernible tap. “Here, fifteen degrees north by about seventy degrees west.”

David leaned forward and squinted. “That clump of clouds?”

“Yeah,” Osborn leaned back and scratched his chin thoughtfully. “Except it’s more than a clump of clouds. It’s a tropical storm, a big one, and I think it’s on its way to being a hurricane.”

“Hurricanes happen every year,” David replied. “I don’t think you called me here to show me a new one.”

“We’ve already had two this year,” Osborn said as he leaned forward and tapped a key on the keyboard. Instantly, the map zoomed out to reveal more of the area. Again Osborn clicked a key, and again the map shrank. David could now see the entire eastern seaboard. “The first two started well out in the Atlantic and moved toward the coast, but each turned north and never made landfall.” As he spoke, Osborn traced the paths of the previous storms. “No harm, no foul. This one, however, is sure to hit something.”

“Like what?”

“Too early to tell. It’s not even a proper hurricane yet, but it will be, and I think it’s going to be a big one.”

“How can you tell?”

“Gut feeling right now, but this is what I do. This is why you hired me last January. I study catastrophes; it’s my science, my passion.”

That was true enough. Barringston Relief had been heavily involved in the easing of world hunger. Its considerable resources were aimed at meeting immediate and long-term needs. When the mantle of leadership fell to David, he added another dimension to the work: emergency aid to victims of cataclysm. Every year millions of people were killed, injured, or left homeless by natural disaster. It was David’s dream to ease that pain. That’s when he hired
Dr. Osborn Scott, one of the highest acclaimed students of catastrophe. His reputation was global.