Chaos Read online

  Cover image by Simon Osborne © Digital Vision/Getty Images, Inc.

  Cover design by Jessica A. Warner © 2007 Covenant Communications, Inc.

  Published by Covenant Communications, Inc.

  American Fork, Utah

  Copyright © 2007 by Jeff Downs

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any format or in any medium without the written permission of the publisher, Covenant Communications, Inc., P.O. Box 416, American Fork, UT 84003. This work is not an official publication of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. The views expressed within this work are the sole responsibility of the author and do not necessarily reflect the position of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, Covenant Communications, Inc., or any other entity.

  This is a work of fiction. The characters, names, incidents, places, and dialogue are products of the author’s imagination, and are not to be construed as real.

  First Printing: June 2007

  This book is dedicated to all of my students—

  both past and present.

  Each one of you has been

  both a student and a teacher to me;

  it’s what I believe education is all about.

  PROLOGUE

  The young blonde reporter, dressed in a no-nonsense blue-gray business ensemble, sat up a little straighter behind the news counter, her expression more dour than before. “In other news tonight, Officer Jake Wellington, a fourteen-year veteran of the Denver Police Department, was shot dead last night in Montebello while investigating what an anonymous caller had referred to as a ‘drug house.’”

  Footage of that drug house now replaced the reporter’s image as she continued with the story.

  “There have been complaints about the abandoned apartment building before. Homeless transients have occasionally used the condemned five-story building for shelter.”

  Quick interior shots of clothing and garbage strewn around haphazardly were shown next—clear signs of someone having once lived there.

  “When an anonymous caller reported having witnessed the selling of drugs, officers were sent to investigate.”

  The blonde reporter’s image returned, the head shot of a police officer filling the upper right-hand corner of the screen. “Officer Jake Wellington, the father of two, was surprised by a gunman hiding behind a door on the second floor.”

  The officer’s portrait was suddenly replaced by the image of a police squad car with a set of blood-red cross hairs superimposed on top of it.

  “Officer Wellington is the fourth officer to die in the line of duty in the last two months, and an intense hunt is now on for his killer . . .”

  CHAPTER 1

  It was the end of the day—Wednesday. I had begun the day teaching eighth graders the wonders of intransitive verbs, tried to teach a group of seventh graders in pre-algebra—again—the difference between a rational and irrational number, and had rounded out the day with a computer class followed by two classes in wood shop.

  When the day had finally come to an end, I immediately rolled up my long sleeves, loosened my loud tie, and made my way to the teachers’ workroom. I had a couple of worksheets I needed to copy for one of tomorrow’s classes, and I knew if I didn’t get there quickly I’d find myself standing in a line of similar-intentioned teachers waiting to use the copier.

  I rounded the door of the workroom and quickly discovered that I was too late. Again. Mr. Henderson, our history and geography teacher, appeared well-entrenched in a copying project that I could see would take some time. The man never ceased to amaze me. I’m convinced he alone has contributed substantially to the destruction of the rain forest—40 percent, maybe even 50 percent.

  Hoping I was wrong about how long he’d be glued to the copier, I walked over to the water cooler instead. As I downed my first cup of water, I noticed him fiddling with the automatic stapler on the machine. That was it. I knew I wouldn’t get to the copier until morning. I refilled my cup.

  I had just tossed the paper cup into the garbage can when my eye caught my mail slot on the opposite wall. I pulled the pile from the box labeled Mr. Harrington and began leafing through each unsolicited book order, office supply catalog, and workshop invitation, tossing them appropriately into the nearby trash can or paper recycling box next to it. Within the stack of junk mail and ads were two envelopes, one large and bright yellow, the other white and shorter.

  The yellow envelope contained a receipt from a local building supply store for the plywood I’d ordered for shop class a week ago.

  On the second envelope, in sloppy writing, was my name, and then the name of the school: Jason Harrington, Wilcox Middle School, Golden, Colorado. I ran a finger through the top of the envelope and withdrew a greeting card. On the outside was a simple cartoon drawing of a friendly looking duck shaking hands with what looked to be a sick turtle.

  Underneath the cartoon were the words, “Since you’re stuck in your shell I thought I’d drop in for a visit . . .”

  The turtle had a look of dismay on his face, and I could guess what was coming next. I opened the card to discover I was right. On the right-hand side, the card’s message was completed: “. . . whether you wanted me to or not.”

  I chuckled for a second or two before my eyes were drawn to the left-hand side of the card. On it was the same sloppy printing that had appeared on the card’s envelope.

  At the time I had no way of knowing the significance of those two simple sentences.

  CHAPTER 2

  I read the words a third time: I found you, Musor. Now you will die.

  I had no idea who this Musor person was, but it certainly wasn’t me. If this was a new marketing tactic, it was one of the strangest ones I’d ever seen. A practical joke, perhaps? I looked around the workroom for anyone who might be trying to gauge my reaction to what had to be one sick practical joke. Except for me and Mr. Henderson, who was still married to the copy machine and oblivious to everything else, the room was empty. I quickly poked my head out the workroom door to see if anyone was in the hallway.

  No one.

  The message made absolutely no sense to me, and I quickly dismissed it as being irrelevant. My name wasn’t Musor, I didn’t know a Musor, and the envelope being addressed to me had to be a fluke. It was then I made the first biggest mistake of my life: I tossed the strange greeting card into the garbage, turned, and left.

  As I passed the school’s office, I saw, through the large office windows, the secretary still at her desk so I stepped inside. “Hey, Ann.”

  She was deeply involved in her Quicken program, but managed, as usual, to do two things at once. “Hi, Jason. What’s new?”

  “Oh, nothing. Say, I got a small greeting card in my box. You wouldn’t happen to remember who delivered it, would you?”

  Ann’s fingers stopped typing, and she looked in the mirror she kept by the side of her computer monitor—a mirror that allowed her to address whoever was behind her without having to turn her head. It took me some getting used to. “You’re serious?”

  I threw up my hands in a conciliatory gesture at the expression on her face and began backing up from her reflection. I had temporarily forgotten that she handled hundreds of pieces of mail every day. “All right. Easy. Easy there. I was just asking.”

  We threw each other a friendly grin, and I fished out of my pocket the receipt I’d slipped there minutes earlier. “Here. We’ll stay on safe ground, what do you say?” I wrote my name on the receipt for my shop supplies, reached over, dropped it in the correct wire bin next to her computer, and left. Ann’s fingers had resumed their tapping before I’d even stepped out the office door.

  “That I can handle,” she called out as I waved good-bye.

  I was in the process of shutting down my th
ree classroom computers when I suddenly remembered I’d come in twenty minutes early that morning so I could have a shot at the copier. That obviously hadn’t worked out, and, the way things were looking this afternoon, it appeared I’d be doing the same thing tomorrow. I walked over to the door and hit the button that signaled I wanted to talk with the office over the intercom.

  “Yes?” Ann replied.

  “Hey, I came in early this morning. I’ll be coming in early again tomorrow. Permission to skip out a half hour early today?”

  “Just a minute.”

  I knew she was wheeling her office chair back three feet and delivering my request to our principal, Mr. Bell. He was a reasonable man, so I’d already hit the lights and had my key in the door when the expected answer arrived.

  “His eminence says yes, Jason. See you tomorrow.”

  And that was that.

  I shut the door. The day was over and Mr. Harrington was just Jason again.

  It felt great!

  I lived only five minutes from the school in a small two-bedroom apartment. Two years with mission companions and a slew of roommates in college after that convinced me that when I finally graduated, I wanted to come home from work to someplace quiet—someplace I could relax and just put my feet up. Of course, that didn’t rule out my desire for female companionship. But the truth was I’d been so busy trying to get my feet under me in education that I really wasn’t doing the kind of socializing I wanted to. Singles ward or no, the fact was that after a long day of students I was pretty well shot both mentally and physically. Besides, only one of the four door handles of my ’89 Dodge Omni worked, and that was on the driver’s side. The red, sun-faded hunk-of-junk wasn’t exactly what I would call a chick magnet.

  Of course, I might not be giving the little car the credit it deserves. Because a couple days earlier, while filling the gas tank of said hunk-of-junk, I was surprised to run into Kelly Nicholls—a girl I’d dated in college—coming out of the convenience store. She was passing through Golden on her way to Boulder but seemed genuinely pleased to see me. And, to be honest, I was pleased to see her too. It was obvious we’d both changed over the past few years, but there was something in her eyes that hinted a touch of magic might still be there between us. Unfortunately she was running late and I had a few cars behind me wanting my place at the pump, but I asked her out for dinner Thursday night—an odd choice, I know, but it just worked out that way—exchanged phone numbers, and was really looking forward to getting together again and catching up. Tonight I needed to call her up and make the arrangements for tomorrow. It would take some careful planning, since she said she lived a couple hours away.

  By the time I’d pulled into my parking stall, aside from making that phone call, I had my entire evening planned—one thick steak on the grill, a garden salad, a bowl of Fruity Pebbles to wash it all down, and just me in my recliner watching college basketball.

  I was a bit surprised when the apartment manager, a man in his late fifties who was always busy with something around the complex and always wore a faded blue jumpsuit, approached me just as I was getting out of my car.

  “Jason. How were the kids today?”

  I grinned, shutting the car door and straightening. “Well, they’re all still alive. I’d guess you’d say it was a good day.”

  He continued standing there.

  “Is there something I can do for you, Jim?”

  The man ran a hand through his thinning silver hair and pursed his lips a few times.

  I slapped my hand against my forehead. “I’m late again, aren’t I?” I removed my tie and threw it through the open driver’s side window. “So help me, Jim. I’m sorry. All the days just seem to run together this time of year. I’ll get you the rent right away.”

  The man nodded a few times and grinned. “That’s fine, Jason. If I’m not in my apartment, just slip it under the door. I’ve got to get the checks off to the landlord by tomorrow morning.”

  I gave him a quick salute and, to show I was sincere, began jogging toward my unit. Five squat, two-story buildings made up our complex, with my particular unit seemingly built as an afterthought. It was turned at an odd angle to the others, which was good in the sense that my bedroom window on the first floor never had headlights slashing past it during the night.

  I rounded the far end of the building and had just about reached my front door when I stopped short.

  Everyone in my building worked, and all the others wouldn’t start arriving home for another hour at the very least. Consequently, the building, as expected, was silent. What was not anticipated, however, was my open door. At first I thought maybe Jim had been fixing something. But then I realized he would have told me if he was going to go into my apartment.

  When my eyes first noticed the deadbolt fully extended, the doorjamb splintered, and pieces of door molding littering the linoleum entry, I was stunned.

  Seconds later, however, I was downright angry.

  Here I was, working hard for the few things I had, and someone decided to break into my place and steal them from me.

  Without thinking, I pushed open the door and walked across the wood splinters and into my apartment’s small kitchen.

  I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. This wasn’t a theft; it was vandalism. My second most favorite possession in the world, my microwave, was lying on its side against the kitchen cabinets, its acrylic door cracked, its metal casing askew. Cabinet doors were either broken open or kicked in, and what few dishes I had were shattered on the floor.

  I took only a few steps and was in the living room. My olive green couch—a Deseret Industries treasure if there ever was one—was slashed open in several spots, its cushions, also slashed, lying at the opposite end of the room. My black leather La-Z-Boy recliner, my most favorite possession, had also been slashed in several places. The entertainment center leaned on one of the recliner’s arms. My DVD player, stereo, and CDs were scattered all over the floor.

  I was seething.

  Why in the world would someone do something like this? I thought.

  I walked down the hallway and glanced into the bathroom. The mirror was shattered, and the top of the toilet tank lay in several large pieces on the floor.

  The bedroom next to it wasn’t any better. My bookcase and computer were melded into a single unit, crumpled together on the floor. My office chair had been slashed and thrown on top of everything like chocolate sauce on a massive ice cream sundae.

  When I finally entered my bedroom, I was ready to put my fist through the wall.

  But I checked my anger the moment I saw a kitchen knife sticking out of my simple wooden headboard. No doubt it was the very knife that had been used on the couch and chairs and was just about where my head would be if I were to suddenly feel the desire to lie down.

  It was seeing that knife sticking into the headboard that changed everything. At that very moment, my apartment took on a completely different feeling. Rather than the cozy refuge I’d always considered it to be, it suddenly had become vast and open, offering me no protection whatsoever.

  My skin was crawling, and the hairs on the back of my neck standing up when I realized what I’d inadvertently done. Yes, my place had been trashed, but I’d just barged right into the middle of it. Is the robber still here? Have I just backed myself into a corner? What if he’s armed?

  Every corner and every closet door in each bedroom and the hallway suddenly seemed the perfect hiding place. The best thing for me to do, I decided, was to back out and call the police right away. I could be as angry as I wanted, but I knew full well that anger wouldn’t offer much protection against a lead bullet.

  Of course, if the intruder was unarmed, then stand back. Two years of football, three years with the wrestling team, and growing up with three brothers had to count for something. But I forced such thoughts from my head; false bravado wasn’t what I needed right now.

  I was turning to leave when something struck me as odd. I looked at
my room once more.

  There wasn’t anything on my bed.

  Well, not exactly. The bed had been stripped of the normal sheets and blankets, but in the center of the queen-size mattress sat my telephone. When I took a few steps forward to take a closer look, I noticed a couple of open pill bottles amid the floral design of the bare mattress. Scattered atop the mattress were small blue and white pills. I picked up the first bottle and then the second. One was for a prescription for something I couldn’t even pronounce. The second bottle was empty and contained no markings whatsoever.

  The phone rang.

  In that single instant I think my life span was reduced by three years.

  After taking a few deep breaths, I was finally able to reach down and pick up the receiver, stopping the ringing that seemed much louder than I ever remembered it being.

  “Hello?” I said, dropping the empty pill bottles back onto the mattress and then pinching the bridge of my nose with my thumb and index finger.

  “Ah, Musor! So good to finally put voice with picture.”

  Musor? There’s that name again. “I think you’ve got the wrong number. Who is this?”

  “My apologies for what I do to apartment. But was necessary.”

  The voice had an accent of some kind. A strange, thick accent. Russian? I was very confused. “Look . . . I . . . Who is this?”

  “I told you. I am one who destroyed your place and, when time is right, I will be one who kills you.”

  I stood there shaken, not knowing what to say. I had to be talking to some kind of nut. But then, apparently it was the same nut who’d put a knife in my headboard.

  “Look, I don’t know—”

  “Calm, Musor. You knew this was coming. It was only matter of time before I found you. And, soon, you worry about nothing. I am almost ready now. Oh, yes, feel free to call police as I know you want to. I give you warning. They believe nothing you say. You have nowhere to run or hide . . . cop killer.”

  The line went dead.