As a point of interest, this portion of the story is entirely unique to the book and does not exist in any form in the screenplay. I felt that a prologue offered the excellent opportunity to introduce Veronica Stark, Detective Adrian Stark’s deceased wife, and that by getting to know her character, even if only briefly, the reader would have the opportunity to better understand Adrian’s grief and desire to leave the police force.
The prologue also more clearly justifies the substantial legal settlement paid to Adrian Stark, allowing the reader to more fully understand the horror, loss and pain suffered by him, as well understanding his anger at the department for allowing Victor Sanchez to escape and his desire to sue the city.
As a point of disclaimer, I must mention that there has been no editing done to the book thus far, and what you see below is just as it hit the screen when it was originally written. So please try to be kind. If you can’t be kind, try to be constructive.
Without further ado, Germ Line: Revolution, The Prologue:
Prologue
Veronica Stark pulled her three-year-old Nissan into the garage of their modest Valley ranch home and immediately tapped the remote hanging from her visor, closing the door behind her. The loud rumble of the rollers on their tracks was oddly assuring. As a cop's wife she knew the drill, "Be aware, look strong, stay in the light." She knew to close and lock the doors behind her, stay on the main roads, and shout "Fire" instead of "Help" if she ever got into a jam. She was also aware that she had been drilled in these precautions out of love; that they weren't just lip-flap platitudes because bad things did happen to good people.
Veronica, (Ronnie to her friends,) was one of the good people. She recycled and lived as greenly as possible. She volunteered at the Lutheran Food Bank twice a week, helped out their neighbors whenever the need arose, and kept a kind word for almost everyone. Of course she was perfectly capable of telling some douche bag asshole to fuck off in thorough, explicit and colorful terms if he or she warranted the viper tongue.
People generally liked her and liked being around her. Those that didn't were most likely jealous of her easy manner and wholesome good looks. Her blue eyes sparkled humor, she kept an open mind and she took excellent care of her body, working out every other day at the Bally's on Victory and running an average of thirty miles a week. On the superficial side, she paid top dollar to have her nails done once a week and had artificially highlighted hair. At thirty-two, she also had a superbly shaped, drum-tight ass she that was secretly proud of and that her husband adored, sometimes caressing and speaking to it as though it were a separate entity.
As a couple, they didn't pull down a ton of money, not by L.A. standards, but that didn't matter because on most days they were happy. She worked part time at the library, (though her hours were dwindling as budget cuts took effect,) and her husband only made ninety grand a year before overtime as a detective second grade with the LAPD. Combined, they netted about a eighty thousand after taxes. It seemed like a lot when you said it out loud but in an area where the average home price was five hundred thousand dollars, gas cost four bucks a gallon and everywhere you went was a forty-five minute drive, it didn't go all that far. It seemed like they were constantly struggling to save. With a two thousand dollar mortgage and two car payments they were lucky to put away a steady ten percent, and that was law.
On that particularly warm Valley day, the coolness of the garage was a relief as she climbed from the Murano. Veronica didn't run the A/C very often in order to save on gas. She had money on the brain as she locked the car door, the alarm chirping reassuringly.
On the other side of the door separating the garage from the house, Samantha their Border Collie was barking up a storm. With so much on Veronica's mind it was merely itch at the back of her brain. Samantha was, however, insisting that she hurry up.
"I'm coming, Sammy! Knock it off."
She had just received news. Big news. She had peed on the stick the night before so she had some idea, but it wasn't until her doctor had read her the results of the blood test that she actually believed they were going to have a baby. They would need to come up with the money to build out the nursery. They'd have to dig into their savings, but wasn't that what it was there for?
They were going to be parents. Finally. After ten years. It was almost ridiculous. She had met and married her husband fresh out of the academy and they had tried to get pregnant almost from the moment they hit their honeymoon suite overlooking the cerulean blue waters of Maui. They continued to try when they got home, every night, and sometimes during his lunch break. They had even sacrificed several mornings a week, often forgoing the most important meal of the day, in pursuit of parenthood.
Both she and her husband were only children and they had decided before taking their vows that they wanted a house full of kids. If not enough for an entire baseball team, at least enough for a solid infield. She knew in her heart that Adrian would be a great father, one of those super-dads who always said the right thing, knew how to build tree houses, and showed up at all the important events whenever he could. The Job, with a capital J, was important to him, but family came first whenever possible.
As cop-wives went, she was one of the lucky ones. He didn't drink except modestly at parties, came straight home after work and he left the stresses of the office in the office. Beyond all that, after a decade of marriage, they were still hopelessly in love.
After five years and no still bundle of joy, it seemed that Veronica and Adrian were destined to remain childless. They had discussed other options: adoption, surrogacy, foster care, but there always seemed to be some excuse for putting off the next step. After eight years they had stopped talking about it. After ten, they just forgot about it and went on about their lives.
But now… She could not wait to break the news. She had held off telling her husband, even after the stick had revealed the parallel pink lines, because she wanted to make certain there were no mistakes. She could now plan the perfect evening. She'd take an inventory, run to the store, then start working on the perfect meal: chicken Marsala, garlic mashed potatoes and cinnamon sweet carrots, with a glass of sparkling Moscato for Adrian and sparkling water for her. He would wonder about the wine but she would wait and deliver the news over crème brûlée--
Movement in the shadows where Adrian kept his golf clubs caused Veronica to drop her keys. They lay forgotten as the man stepped into the light. Veronica knew this man from somewhere but couldn't quite place him. He wasn't a neighbor. He didn't visit the library. He was wearing an orange jump suit, which was odd because usually only detainees in county lock-up wore the orange jump suits. She had seen young people wear them as fashion statements, but he was her age, maybe a year or two older, Hispanic with an oily, pockmarked complexion and two days worth of facial hair; she didn’t think he was trying to be cool.
"You dropped something, mamacita." He slid around the front of the car with cat-like grace, his eyes never leaving hers.
"What are you doing in here - my husband is a police officer, I think you'll want to be leaving now." She wasn't scared yet, not exactly. She was mostly pissed. She had shit to do. She needed to take an inventory, get to the store. She didn't have time for this nonsense.
"I know your husband, bitch. He that stupid mother-fucker think actions got no consequences."
Phantom icy fingers squeezed her intestines as she fully realized who this man was. She had just seen him on TV being perp-walked into the station house by her husband; she and Adrian had watched the footage on the news while snuggled in bed two nights ago. According to Adrian, he was a disgusting, shit-bag rapist wanted for a half dozen killings in the north valley. Adrian had hunted him down, taken him without a fight, and escorted him to jail where he belonged. His name was Victor Jorge Sanchez, and he was standing in her garage.
Veronica needed her keys. The garage remote was on the key chain. She needed to open the garage door and run as fast as she could, yelling, "Fire! Fire! Fire!" Survival instincts took over. It didn't matter who he was, or why he was there, she just needed to get out. In a blink, without taking her eyes off of him, Veronica squatted and felt for her keys; they were just to the left of her searching hand.
He was on her in an instant, grabbing her by her ponytail. She forgot about the keys and stood straight up, powerful thighs driving her compact body like pistons. She caught him under the chin with the top of her head, knocking him backward onto the hood of the car, forcing him to release her hair.
She bolted for the door to the kitchen, knowing it was locked, hoping she had forgotten, certain she hadn't. She gave the knob a desperate twist - it didn't budge.
On the other side of the door, Sammy was going nuts. A thought flitted through Veronica's mind, "He better not touch my dog!"
She bolted for the garage door, thinking, "Scoop up the keys--"
She heard them skitter across the concrete a beat after registering the impact on the toe of her Asics. They were now somewhere under the Murano, where they remained until forensics put them in a plastic bag nine hours later.
The garage door had an emergency switch, just in case you somehow got locked in the garage without the remote. Where was it? On the wall. Which side? There was also a quick-release handle. Veronica couldn't remember where that was either. Shit! She and Adrian had gone over all this when he had the new motor installed three years ago. They couldn't afford it, but when it had malfunctioned and closed on his Explorer, that had ended the discussion. There!
She grabbed it--
Her arms were suddenly wrenched backward, white-hot pain shot through her shoulder sockets, causing her to cry out. She was swung around and slammed face first into the hatch door of the Nissan. Blood filled her mouth as her front tooth pierced her lip. She saw stars and darkness explored the edges of her consciousness.
Her left arm was twisted up behind her until she thought it would snap. She felt her shorts being ripped down to her ankles. She let loose an involuntary guttural grunt as she was entered from behind. Tears streamed down her face as she struggled, ineffectually, unable to find leverage. Her last thoughts were of her baby.
Adrian Stark found his wife's body six and a half hours later lying by the rear tire of her car. Her shorts were around her ankles and her throat was slashed. He didn't know at the time that she was carrying their only child. Even so, all he could do was sit beside her holding her hand, his body wracked with deep, gut wrenching sobs.
The next-door neighbor, who happened to be passing by with his Pekingese, was the one who called 911.
