Tarnished Image (2 page)

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: D
R
. D
AVID
O’N
EAL
, CEO, B
ARRINGSTON
R
ELIEF
.

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

“Thanks for the hamburger, David,” Timmy said as he hugged himself in an effort to ward off his chill.

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

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

“I think you may have 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 in 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 and watch television. I have to meet with someone for a few minutes, and 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.”

“OK.”

The elevator arrived at the top floor and opened its doors. Timmy, arms filled with towels and the tote bag, 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. He resisted, feeling that it was an unneeded extravagance. Worse, it would remind him of his friend lost to a violence David had yet to overcome. Nonetheless, he 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. Since becoming CEO he had averaged fourteen hours a day working when he was in the country and more 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 and everything in it, as well as the staff of nearly five hundred, were largely subsidized by Barringston Industries. Barringston Relief paid no rent or utilities for the use of the top ten floors. Barringston Industries occupied the thirteen floors below that, 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.

The enigmatic Archibald Barringston, founder of the global construction company that built high-rise structures in scores of foreign countries, led Barringston Industries. Twenty years prior, he had given a ten-million-dollar jump-start to his son Archibald Jr., known as A.J. to everyone. A.J. had guided the relief agency from its inception. Today it was the largest nongovernmental organization in the world.

Monies for the actual relief work came from several sources. First, people from around the world made donations. Since almost all of the relief organizations overhead and operational expenses were covered by other sources, more than 90 percent of contributions received by individuals and businesses went directly to relief work—a higher percentage than any other relief organization. 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 biotechnology necessary to end famine and related diseases. Side benefits from this research improved crop production in the United States and other countries. Profits from these products were poured back into the relief work.

The elevator descended one floor, and David exited into a lobby. The lobby was empty except for a few chairs and potted trees situated around the perimeter. Three departments—communications,
political analysis, and catastrophe monitoring—shared the floor. A large pair of oak double doors led to each office complex. The CMD was behind the doors to his left. David entered.

Casually he strolled through the half-dozen cubicles that delineated individual work areas and tried not to look conspicuous. Although there was no formal dress code for employees and attire ran the spectrum from jeans and polo shirts to three-piece suits, David’s swim trunks, sandals, and San Diego Padres T-shirt was stretching it. When he had left the beach, he had planned to head straight to his apartment, change clothes, and quickly make his way to the CMD offices. That plan had changed when Timmy made his disappointment about leaving the beach early known by lowering his head and extruding his lower lip. David knew he was being manipulated, but he couldn’t help feeling guilty for making Timmy leave the beach so early. 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 half an hour; he was now late.