Silent Epidemic (Book 1 - Carol Freeman Series) Read online

  “Come,” the voice commanded.  Carol entered the room and knew immediately from his face that all was not well.

  “Did you tell one of my counselors that they could not leave at the end of the day?" Spears demanded. 

  “No," Carol said emphatically. “I merely inquired if she could interrupt her end of the day break to see a walk in."  

  Spears did not reply at first and glared at her.  These encounters were happening more and more as Carol’s patience with what she perceived as lazy state workers was wearing thin. 

  “Carol," Spears sighed.  “You have to use better tact.  After all, you are a manager.” 

  An overworked one.

  “But," Carol began.

  “No buts," Spears interrupted.  “I’m busy and there’s nothing more to say."  

  Carol looked at the Center Director.  This had once been a reasonable individual. Now reason seemed to be replaced by hostility at every turn.  Carol left Spear’s office fighting back the tears.  When she made it to the privacy of her own, she let the tears flow.  Never had she been so frustrated and felt so alone.  It was as if the logical order of the world had been replaced with a new one that supported apathy and self-indulgence.  She just couldn’t live in that world and was being beaten weekly for it.

  * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

  Sam Reynolds had been working for Dominex Pharmaceuticals for the past five years in accounting.  His recent promotion to Vice President of Operations had come two years ago when he had creatively saved the CEO’s proverbial ass.  Mr. Charles Roman had an expensive lifestyle and this might have been his undoing. When the company’s upcoming audit would have revealed an unexplainable deficit, Sam’s ingenuity and the shifting of funds quietly made the indiscretion go away.  The CEO recognized good work and employee potential.  Now Sam was his right hand man.

  Sam sat in a slightly smaller version of the office of the CEO. He had always been a stocky guy.  His height of five foot ten did little to carry his extra weight.  Furthermore, he had inherited his father’s early balding trait, and his receding black hairline continued to age the man.  At the age of thirty-seven, he looked more like fifty.  Sam knew he would never exude the corporate image and felt damn lucky to be where he was.  With his own private secretary and big fat salary, Sam would go to the ends of the earth to protect his new status if need be.  Today, the immediate problem did not require such travel, but it did require some quick maneuvers.

  Several people had reported becoming ill after stopping use of the drug Valipene.  These reports had made their way to the FDA and Dominex Pharmaceuticals was now being required to do some additional research on the effects of drug termination.  Sam knew that a delay in marketing of the generic drug Suprame would create a financial burden the company might not survive.  He shaped and re-shaped a paper clip in his hands as he worked the problem through in his head.  He had to make this FDA requirement somehow go away.

  In previous dealings with the FDA, Dominex had primarily worked with a very “receptive” officer.  Bob Whitford had been the guy in charge of final approvals in Atlanta and had always been open to monetary gain.  He had retired just prior to the final testing phase of Suprame.  Everything that had been submitted up to that point had literally flown by the approval process. 

    When David Manning took over, he had become Dominex’s worst nightmare.  He was a man of integrity.  The man could not be moved by money, however he seemed to value the stability of his marriage.  So, when Manning became the new figurehead in Atlanta, Sam took out an insurance policy, just in case.  Well, the prior footwork was about to pay off.  Sam reached for the phone and dialed a number he knew well.

  “Rico," Sam said. “You remember those pictures you took of that guy from the FDA?” 

  “Sure," the man replied. “I didn’t know you could do that with Jell-O.  He crumbled like a house of cards when he saw those pictures."

  “Sure he did” Sam agreed.  They had only used the photos as a warning.  But the guy was either too stupid or too much of hero to take the bait.  They had not been bluffing.  Now it time to turn up the heat.

  “So, what’s on the agenda for today?” the man inquired.

  “Do you think you can find our Jell-O girl?" 

  “I think I can," the man stated.

  “Good. And Rico," Sam added, “a lot is riding on this."

  “Can I just rearrange his face?”

  “No, leave the man’s face alone for the time being.  Just set up a meeting place outside of here," Sam said and hung up the phone. The last thing they needed right now was a suspicious looking woman coming into the building.  Sam allowed himself a moment of cocky revere.  With his feet up on his desk, he leaned back and thought to himself how wonderful it was that pictures and negatives could be shred, but Jell-O girls never seemed to go away.  Sam got to his feet and went to give Charles an update.  But as he walked past the sixteenth floor elevator, the door opened.  A beautiful woman emerged that Sam did not recognize.  He watched her glide up to the office of the CEO, knock and enter as though she owned the company.  This was clearly not a good time. 

   

  “Sheila," Charles said, almost as a song. “How was your day?" 

  “Long, Charlie," Sheila said flatly.  She sat down in the chair facing Charles’s desk and removed her pumps.  As she lifted each foot to give them a quick massage, Charles could not avoid noticing how her already short skirt rode to the top of her thigh.  Charles got up and went to her, massaging her shoulders.

  “What can I do to make you feel better?" Charles asked sweetly.  This was exactly the question Sheila had hoped to hear. 

  “Sit down, Charlie," Sheila said.  “I think I have the answer to that and maybe a whole lot more."  During the next fifteen minutes, Sheila gave an impressive marketing proposal using charts, graphs and occasional cleavage.  All but the cleavage was wasted on Charles, who only had one agenda.  Sheila continued, despite the awareness that he really was not paying attention. “And in order to accomplish this,” she concluded, “I would have to be in a better position to oversee the daily workings of our department.”

  “You want to be the head of marketing?” Charles asked in an amused tone.  Sheila got up and put her arms around him. 

  “Don’t you think I can handle it?" Sheila purred, as she playfully kissed Charles on his ear.  Charles was getting dizzy from the contact.

  Never able to make a rational decision in the heat of battle, Charles said, “Okay, kid, but give me a few days. There’s a small matter of someone else currently occupying that spot.”  

  While a happy Sheila led a willing Charles to the couch, he thought, I’ll let Sam figure out how to pull that one off, and locked the door.

   

  At the other end of the hall, Sam was just returning to his office when his phone rang. “Sam Reynolds," he answered. 

  “Jell-O girl’s name is Ann Boniture," the voice replied. 

  “Good Work, Rico," Sam said.  “So where is she?” 

  “Still in town.  At least she was last night."  

  “Well, let’s get a little bit better acquainted, shall we?”

  Rico hung up the phone and tapped his index finger on the receiver a few beats.  He was used to turning up the heat.  The original blackmail had been used in the preliminary trials. At that point, Manning seemed to be on board.  When the animal trials were approved, he had received the pictures and the negatives.  Then he suddenly got a conscience. 

  Well, they were gone now.  It would be almost impossible to lure Manning back into the same situation a second time.  He had sworn off strip clubs.  But the stripper still remained.  He felt certain he could find a way to make this guy squirm at just the mention of her name.  People conceded to threats when the implied consequences were ones that a person desperately wished to avoid.  And he knew David Manni
ng would die before he’d let his wife find out about what he’d done.

  Rico locked the door of his dingy smoke-saturated first floor apartment.  If things went well with Ann Boniture, his price would include a residential upgrade. In Atlanta, it was way past rush hour, a term that was becoming more and more redundant as the city had become a sprawling life force.  People from all over the country were attracted here every year due to its mild weather and booming economy.  Atlanta marched forward year after year, oblivious to recessions and unemployment rates.  The result was a city that now stretched out for a one hundred mile radius and was continuing to expand every day. 

  Rico knew exactly where to find Ann Boniture.  He had set the bait and taken the pictures that had subsequently been destroyed.  He returned to the scene of the crime.

  * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

  Ann Boniture was a career girl. Her current employment at the Blue Stallion as a dancer was only a short-term venture.  Her lifelong dream was to get out of Georgia altogether and make it in Hollywood. She had saved an impressive amount of money, avoiding the drug trap.  Ann lived a clean simple life, deviating only slightly when the proposition allowed her to add substantially to her bank account.

  It was now 2:00 AM, and the few people remaining in the smoke-filled club were being asked nicely to adhere to last call.  Ann gathered up her few belongings and began making her way to the door.  It was late, and her level of fatigue made her the most extreme version of her anti-social self.  So, when a vaguely familiar face asked for a moment of her time, she was more than a little resistant.  When the man offered her a twenty-dollar bill, she slowed her pace and then finally said, “Okay, but please just a moment.  I’m fried."  

  The man ushered her to a table and pulled a chair out for her. When they were both seated, Ann listened with partial patience.

  “Do you remember a guy named David Manning?" Rico prompted.

  “David Manning," Ann recited several times to herself.  She couldn’t really place the name, and besides, at 2:00 AM, her brain was not functioning at its best.

  “Pictures at the hotel," the man offered. “FDA."

  “Oh yeah, now I remember," Ann said, cringing at the memory. “Not one of my finer moments."

  “Well, it was a very productive moment," the man added. “And now my employer would like to offer you another, uh, business opportunity.”  

  Ann was now wide-awake and continued to listen.  

  “We want to know if you would be willing to go to his wife and, shall we say, share the details of that memorable night."

  “I thought the pictures were enough and that this was over," Ann said.

  “They were at the time.  Now we need to engage this dude’s help again, and we think he probably won’t just offer it out the goodness of his heart."

  “Fair assessment," Ann offered.  “How much?" she added, always the accountant.

  “My employer hadn’t actually gotten that far.  How much do you need?"

  “Twenty five hundred," Ann ventured.  She knew that this “employer,” whoever he was, could easily fork out that much without a thought.

  “I’ll check it out," Rico confirmed.  Getting to his feet, he offered his hand in an informal agreement.  Ann stood as well, and accepted the handshake.  The man was quickly out the door, and Ann stood momentarily wondering how she could ruin someone’s marriage for twenty five hundred dollars.

  Chapter 4

      

  Carol left her office early, informing the receptionist that she wasn’t feeling well.  That was not really too much of a stretch from the truth.  Every confusing encounter at work was leaving her more and more sick at heart.  She had spent the afternoon in a managers’ massacre meeting.  The organization was getting ready to open a central crisis unit.  The primary function of this department was to accept all incoming crisis and new patient calls, determine the appropriate pathway, and input the information into their new computer system.  Each center was required to provide one volunteer to run the new unit.  No one who was qualified was crazy enough to do that, and so now came the crucial moment when the center would “help” volunteer someone. 

  Carol sat and watched, mesmerized, as the entire management group quickly came to the same conclusion simultaneously.  Vicky Manson was to be the sacrificial lamb.  Carol couldn't believe what she was hearing.  Vicky was one of their best counselors.  She was caring and hard working.  It was as if this was not the first meeting on this subject.  Their conclusion was too rapid and too decisive.  Carol was sure she had missed something. 

  She began to raise an objection, questioning the process of this decision. 

  Spears immediately cut her off by saying,

  "Okay, sounds like we have a winner," and with that, the meeting was over.  Carol wandered back to her office in a daze.  They had just guaranteed Vicky's resignation.  No one that good would quietly go sit in front of a phone and a computer screen every day.   Carol had always prided herself on her intuitiveness, but lately, nothing was making any sense.  It was as if a force beyond her control was at the wheel and despite all her efforts to reclaim it, the momentum continued to pull her and everyone else further off the road.

   

  Carol pulled into the drug store parking lot and made her way inside.  Handing her prescription to the pharmacist, she began to feel some semblance of calm returning. The man took Carol’s note from the doctor and told her it would be about ten minutes. Carol simply nodded.

  Sitting in the small waiting area, she ran over the past few weeks’ events in her mind.  Had she been out of line with the lazy co-worker who refused to complete the crisis call the other day?   Was there some logic to Vicky's job transfer that Carol could not see?  Carol was no longer able to be objective.  It was a world gone mad.  When the rights of lazy staff were strenuously defended and hard workers were sent into exile, then the laws of physics had ceased to exist, and this was becoming a group effort.  

  Carol didn’t think she was being paranoid, but her words were continually being twisted and motivation misconstrued.  And the one constant in the equation was an on-going deterioration of her credibility.  Who was benefiting from this the most?  Carol was pondering this question, when she heard her name called.

  “Ninety five dollars," the pharmacist stated.  Carol just looked at the man in amazement.  “Your insurance doesn’t pay for name brands and there is no current generic for Valipene.  One is supposed to be released soon, though," the man offered.  Carol reluctantly fished out her debit card and handed it to the pharmacist. 

  “Well, I hope it comes out soon," she said, feeling a little victimized, but desperate for the medication.  Carol took the card and the small bag and left the store, heading home.

  When she entered the house, her husband looked up from his computer screen and said, “Another great day, huh, Carol?”  Carol had one of those faces that eliminated her from ever being a successful poker player. She just looked at him and sighed.  “Carol," he said emphatically. “It’s not worth it.  You go there day after day, and every time you come home, you look like death warmed over.”

  “Josh, I’m not quitting."  The debate over Carol’s job had become a daily tennis match.  Where else would she go?  Who would look out for her patients?  How would the world continue to turn without her?  The truth was that she hated to admit defeat, and this was turning into the biggest defeat of her life.  She had always thought that there was no problem that did not have a solution.  She just hadn’t yet figured out what that would be in this case. 

  “Just let me see how things go after a few decent nights’ sleep," Carol offered.  Her husband of fifteen years knew better than to argue with her.  She was often too obsessive and stubborn to abandon a mission until she was officially defeated.  Josh just sighed loudly and returned to his computer screen.

  Josh Freeman wa
s dealing with his own dilemma.  At the age of forty-five, he was still basically a ditch digger.  It wasn’t that his new irrigation business was not doing well; it was just that digging in the dirt was his least favorite job.  Josh had been in the dirt in some form or fashion all his life, and the substance was now his biggest nemesis.  He quietly wished he had never tried to dive into self-employment, and now felt stuck in the proverbial mud.

  Josh had one of those kind faces with compassionate green eyes that always seemed to be smiling.  While wearing a baseball cap to hide his slightly thinning brown hair, he could pass for much younger than he was.  His clean-shaven face completed the youthful appearance.  Josh went back to his computer and alternative career plan.

  The screen before him showed an array of charts and graphs that if evaluated accurately, had the potential to equate into mega bucks. Enough for both of them to retire from the pseudo American dream they were living. Carol’s current dilemma did not ease the pressures of this mission.  Josh returned his thoughts to the stock market and tried to screen out every distraction, of which there were many. 

  “There is an answer in here somewhere," Josh said quietly to himself.  And there was.  He just hadn’t stumbled on to it yet.

  * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

  Sam paced back and forth in Charles’s office and ran an annoyed hand through what little hair he had left. 

  “Sam, just get her into that management position,” Charles stated.  “She’s no dummy.  She can handle the marketing department." 

  “And just what am I supposed to do about the small matter of Jeff Edwards already doing that job?" Sam asked with more than a little sarcasm in his voice. Charles was not used to being questioned and just looked at Sam in amazement.  Sam stopped pacing and took a deep breath.  “These fires are coming faster than I can put them out," he said more calmly.  Charles knew the request was unreasonable and loaded with his own hidden agenda.  He decided to lend fate a helping hand.