Always Love a Villain on San Juan Island

by Sandy Frances Duncan

  He read on. The science of brain reading was still in its infancy, still fairly crude. But some impressive results had been achieved—one recent basic experiment claimed 78 percent accuracy. At Carnegie Mellon, thought reading was the combined project of the psychology and computer science departments.

  A kind of expertise different from Larry Rossini’s. Nothing implanted or injected into the body. Reading only what was there, brain electricity. The body giving itself away without external enhancement. If Noel had understood Larry correctly, all parts of the body contributed to forming his images.

  More articles. From the National Science Foundation, a press release dated May 30, 2008, and published in the journal Science: “A Computer That Can ‘Read’ Your Mind.” Another Carnegie Mellon team “had shown that functional magnetic resonance imaging (fMRI) can detect and locate brain activity when a person thinks about a specific word.” And further, they had developed an even more complex model “that can predict brain activation patterns associated with concrete nouns, or things that we experience through our senses, even if the computer did not already have the fMRI data for that specific noun.” In other words, a computer that could teach itself new variants and complexities based on whatever information it had been fed earlier. A computer that evolved its own bodies of knowledge. Remarkable. Scary.

  A huge leap from the kinds of scientific subject matter Noel had been taught while he was at university.

  He got up from his computer with a strong need to empty his bladder. No wonder, he thought, as he noted his glass stood empty. A bathroom call, and a refill. He wasn’t at all tired, so maybe he’d increase the vodka content. He grabbed his glass, couple of ice cubes, and poured more vodka. Half full. He made a tactical decision and put the can of tonic water back in the fridge. It’d be flat tomorrow, but what the hell. His half-empty glass suddenly seemed an insult. He filled it to three-quarters. Added an ice cube. Now it looked respectable. Wished he had an olive. He took a long sip. Good stuff.

  He checked the time—nearly eleven. Should get some sleep. But this material was too fascinating. Back at the table he read an article from England, the Guardian, also May 30, 2008: “Scientists move a step closer to mind reading.” It covered much the same ground as the previous two. What impressed Noel as much about the articles as the information they presented was their sources—no fringe papers or tabloids these.

  So this would be the league Larry Rossini played in. Or perhaps an even more major one. Was he going to make his work public soon? And his methods? Because clearly those algorithms that had to accompany the nanomolecules in order to bring about the desired visualizations were the hidden part of the process. No wonder he’d kept those from the kidnappers—even at the possible cost of serious harm to Susanna. Instantly Noel realized he had to see Larry’s project in action. He sat back in the chair—not very comfortable—and wondered what it would feel like to have his dreams observed. He sipped. He closed his eyes to stir up any images that might be hiding behind his eyelids. He saw only a play of shapes, colors. Gray-greens, dark reds, occasional shoots of light yellow. Would the Dream Visualizer transfer images like that onto the screen? Course not. Larry’s work was way more sophisticated. Way more . . .

  He realized he’d started to nod off. He forced his eyelids open. He checked the clock on his computer. 11:44. Nearly time for bed. But there stood that inviting glass of vodka. He smiled, picked it up and sipped. First-rate. More articles to be read. He clicked the fifth one, about increases in the blood flow to the brain when activity takes place in a variety of areas. Some questions being asked: Will the notion of certain foods that create brain activity be found in the parts of the brain that deal with taste? Or with chewing? Or smell? Or . . .

  Peter Langley hadn’t returned home directly after driving Jeremiah and Marianne to the ferry. He missed the boy, and even the few minutes with Marianne had been pleasant. No thoughts about getting back together with her, but he understand once again why they’d been so close for such a long time. No, this evening Peter just wanted company, someone easy to talk to. Oh sure, more if possible, but he’d settle for the simple presence of other people, a casual companion over just one drink. He assumed the usual places would still be open—it was summer, after all.

  Thor’s was the closest. One Scotch and soda and he’d head home. He had a nearly full bottle of Scotch at his condo, soda water too, and that drink would cost him a tenth of what he’d have to pay at Thor’s. But Thor’s drink was only a prop, his ticket into the place. He parked, got out and walked in. A low buzz of some sixties rock and a louder drone of voices. Thor behind the bar, working late. He didn’t recognize anyone else—mostly students, he figured, but a half a dozen older men too. No women over thirty, he guessed. Three bar stools stood empty. He sat on the middle one, would see what happened. He exchanged a few empty words with Thor and ordered his drink. “Make it a double, Thor, thanks.” He turned to look at the crowd. The young on the make. Too late in the evening for the older crowd—except for two of the men, he guessed in their forties, hitting on a couple of pretty young things. He turned back to the bar just as Thor brought him a glass with Scotch. An honest double. Also a bowl containing half a dozen ice cubes and a can of club soda. “Thanks.”

  “Run a tab?”

  “No—well, okay.” He dropped two ice cubes into the Scotch and poured the glass full of soda. He watched the brown liquid go tan in the froth. He raised it to his mouth and felt the light Scotch spritz tickle his nose. He sipped.

  “Hello, Professor Langley.”

  He turned. Jordan Beck. “Oh, hi.”

  “Mind if I sit down?”

  Peter gestured. “Grab a stool.”

  “Thanks. How you doing?”

  “I’m fine. And you? What’re you up to?”

  “Just finished my waiter schtick at the Wild Pacific.”

  “From one food and drink establishment to another, is it?”

  Jordan grinned. “Busman’s holiday.” He looked into Peter’s eyes. “I wanted to thank you for introducing me to your friend Noel.” He emphasized the name. “He was really helpful.”

  “Glad it worked for you.” And for me too, Peter thought. No confirmation of plagiarism. Innocent till proven guilty. He was glad he had hired a private investigator. And that the investigator had turned out to be Noel. It might just as easily have been Kyra. Which at an earlier moment might have interested him.

  “Gave me his card and said I could contact him any time I wanted, if I had any more questions.”

  Peter nodded. Time to talk to Jordan about his thesis? Better to do it in his office. Or maybe play detective for a couple of minutes? “So, Jordan, I’ve just finished reading your thesis.”

  Jordan’s smile dropped and a wary hope came over his face. “Yeah? What’d you think?”

  “It’s very good. A fine piece of writing. You’ll get highest honors.”

  Pleasure lit Jordan’s face. As if he’d given five-year-old Jeremiah his heart’s desire. “Hey, great, thank you. Thank you! I sure enjoyed writing it. And rewriting it.” A grown-up self-deprecating chuckle.

  “I did have a question. Maybe it goes to your own questions, the ones you wanted to speak with—Noel about. The journalism/fiction difference.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Have to phrase this as carefully as possible. “The difference in your styles between the earlier essays and the novella, it’s huge.”

  “Yeah, sure, one’s fiction and you can let yourself go more in fiction, and the essays are way more controlled—”

  “I thought I detected something else.” Peter took a sip of Scotch. Jordan now looked uncomfortable. Careful, pushing too hard? “Like a drink? I’ll buy. For writing such a good novella. Scotch and soda?”

  “Oh. Yeah. That’d be great.” Peter signaled Thor, pointing at his own drink and then at Jordan. Thor nodded.

  “So. How did you do it, letting yourself go in the novella?”

  Now
Jordan’s grin looked a bit forced. “Well, first, with the essays, it’s like you told us; the idea behind the thing is where the imagination comes into play. Once you’ve imagined the shape of the essay, you need to control the language to write it. So that your reader will understand.”

  Not quite the tactic Peter had taught, but close enough. “And then with the novella?” Thor brought Jordan’s Scotch, soda and some ice. Peter said, “Yes, on my tab.” He pointed to his own half-empty soda. “We’re fine for soda.”

  “With the novella, something else you mentioned. More than once. Try it if you’re brave enough, you said.”

  Was Jordan blushing? “Did I say something like that?”

  “Yes sir, you did. It’s about leaving ourselves open for critique. The critique of our peers. And listening to it. Hard.”

  “And you did this.”

  “I did. I wrote the first draft of the story, and I liked it enough to show it to a friend. And she liked it a lot and made suggestions. And I rewrote and sent that to her, and she made more suggestions. Over the few months, we did that maybe three, four times. And whenever she asked me why I had written something in one way and not another, or if I wasn’t consistent and she’d ask me why not, well, I had to figure it out and rewrite.” He took a sip of Scotch. “And you know, each time I think it came out better. She didn’t do that for the essays; I wrote those before I met her. So there was a little of her in the novella and that’s maybe why it sounded different.”

  “Intriguing,” said Peter to Jordan, and to himself, Langley, you’re an ass. Jordan follows your taught writing methods right through, and you suspect him of plagiarism. “Thanks for letting me know that sometimes what I teach works out.”

  “Hey, Professor Langley, I learned so much from you. And I’m really glad.”

  “Well, that pleases me.” He raised his Scotch glass, and clinked Jordan’s, who raised his and clinked back.

  They talked another five minutes about the other class Jordan had taken with Langley. In a moment of silence, Jordan said, “May I ask you something, sir?”

  “Only if you stop calling me sir. You’re about to get your MFA, and I don’t need an honorific. My name’s Peter.” He reached out his hand. “Jordan.”

  “Okay, uh, Peter.”

  Peter smiled slightly. For most of the students, the first time with the first name was difficult. By the next week it came more easily.

  “Uh, Peter, could I ask you something? Some help?”

  A direction things did not usually go, thought Peter. At least not so quickly. “Depends on what it is.”

  “So there’s this girl—uh, young woman, this friend. The one who gave me the critique on the novella?”

  “Yes?”

  “Well, I haven’t heard from her in nearly three weeks, or seen her. Since when we first met, there’d never been a time when we weren’t in touch at least twice a week, an email or phone call, even meeting. Now it’s been three weeks and it just isn’t like her.”

  “So what are you saying, that your girlfriend’s disappeared?”

  “Yeah but, see, she’s not my girlfriend; she’s just a friend, and I like her a lot but we’ve never gone out or anything. She’s just graduated from Reed College and I figured maybe one day I’d ask her out, but right now I’m just worried about her. I know where she lives and I’ve called a couple of times and even left a message, but she hasn’t answered.”

  “Where does she live?”

  “Here. On San Juan. At her father’s house. On campus.”

  “And the help you’d like from me?”

  “Would you—would you go with me to her house? And ask her father if he knows where she is? If she’s in some kind of trouble, I’d like to help her.”

  “You can’t talk to him about this yourself?”

  “I don’t know him. Except I know he’s very important on campus. He—he sort of intimidates me. By reputation, I mean. I’ve never met him.”

  The key slid into the lock and the tumblers turned. “He wouldn’t intimidate me?”

  “No sir—Peter. Susanna says he’s your friend.”

  They agreed to meet in the morning. Peter finished his drink and left.

  All the gliding, leaping images on the inside of Noel’s eyelids that might have been electronically transported onto a Visualizer’s monitor were hacked away as Noel opened his lids to the dying sound of grating explosion, crashing glass, the acrid smell of thick smoke. He was in bed. Dreaming? No, still in the kitchen! He leapt to his feet, knocking the vodka glass and deflecting it before it fell, and stumbled. His bedroom door! Smoke underneath—open it? Danger! Don’t let the fire into the rest of the house!

  ELEVEN

  HE STOPPED OUTSIDE the door and stared at the opaque windows. From the voices and music inside, he knew the bar was still open. Half disappointed, half now having to prepare himself. Maybe he really should go back to the house. But he needed to know more about her. But this way? He didn’t have a lot of acting experience, midsize parts in a couple of mid-level plays, and the commedia stuff—he could hardly come into Thor’s as Arlechino, servant, trickster, clown. Had to find a better way. Susanna was remarkable. How did she feel about him? Even if the situation was crazy. Kidnapping. No getting around that. And going into Thor’s now, asking questions about Susanna—no, talking to her friends, learning about them to get a better sense of her.

  He could just talk to Susanna in the morning. He’d ask her . . . He suddenly discovered he was afraid. Of Susanna? No, of Susanna and him. How deeply she electrified him. He’d had his share of fuck-buddies and three of them had been serious affairs; they wanted him in the forever way. He’d had the good sense to back off—he didn’t want any of them outside the sex. And he’d heard sex, no matter how good at the start, deteriorated after a few hundred times with the same woman. Deteriorated. What a notion. It disgusted him.

  But this with Susanna, whom he barely knew, this felt different. One kiss and he knew. By giving her that dress, he’d shot their—whatever it was, relationship?—way out of the stratosphere. He had to know more about her, and not just from her. Where she fit into the world. If he knew what surrounded her normally, he’d have a better sense of this woman he—admit it, Fredric—was falling in love with. Maybe going to jail for kidnapping. Which could not be undone. If he just released her, went with her to the Sheriff, explained? He’d have to talk to her first. He’d have to give up Raoul. Their years of real camaraderie, dumped.

  Okay, go into this place or go home. But home was a rented house chosen only because it had a basement room that could be locked up. Bit of construction work and they’d created a cell in the cellar. Raoul’s joke, shit. He pushed open the door to Thor’s.

  A warm feel to the place. Lights low. At the back of the room, the bar with some stools. One occupied by a woman in jeans talking to the bartender. A dozen tables, some for two, some for a group. Candles on each. Only one table in use, a bunch of noisy drinkers sitting around, four candles. Fredric walked to the bar and sat on a stool two away from the woman. Late twenties, Fredric guessed. The bartender said to the woman, “Excuse me,” and sidled over to Fredric. “What’ll it be, sir?”

  “Stoli on the rocks, please. You got peppercorns?”

  The bartender smiled. “Only for the cognoscenti.”

  “Can you put six out? I’ll choose the four I want.”

  “At last someone comes in who knows how to drink vodka.”

  The woman looked over. “’At shounds good, make me ’un too.”

  “Janey, you’ve had it for tonight. I’ll call you a cab.”

  “Aw, c’mon, Thor, ownee wun.”

  Thor’s hands were working, ice in glass, vodka over. A little plate, a jar of peppercorns, a spoon, eight corns on the plate which he slid to Fredric. “A larger choice for a true gentleman.”

  “Hey, t’ue gennemun, buy me a vodka.”

  Fredric smiled at her, then selected the four—make it the five—largest pepp
ercorns and dropped them into his glass. Lots of laughter from the table behind him. He watched Thor press a coded number on his cell and a moment later say, “One, a lady, ready to go.”

  “Aw, Thor—”

  Thor watched Fredric sip his vodka. “Where’d you learn about peppercorns?”

  Fredric remembered. Raoul. “A friend. Who picked up the taste for it from a woman who’d lived in Vladivostock.” He raised his glass. “Dasvedanya, Thor.”

  Thor glanced at his watch and said to Fredric, “I guess it’s late enough.” He reached for another glass, more ice, the Stolichnaya bottle, poured a healthy double, dumped a dozen peppercorns into his palm, chose eight, into the glass, the other corns back into the jar. “Dasvedanya. What’s your name?” He sipped. “Good.”

  Janey said, “Be good guy, a teensy ’un f’me.”

  Must’ve been a really good joke back there, from the roar. “Name’s Frank.”

  “Welcome, Frank.” And to Janey, “Look, kiddo, here’s your cab.” He came around from behind the bar, took the woman’s arm, led her to the door, opened it.

  The woman cabbie was already up the steps to help her away. Fredric heard her say, “Easy does it, Janey—” The door closed. Thor locked it. He came and sat on a stool beside Fredric. “You new here? Haven’t seen you before.”

  “Just arrived.”

  “What brings you to Friday Harbor?”

  “A month to myself. I’ll be painting.” Fredric had known he’d be getting questions like this. “Maybe some salmon fishing too.”

  “Come to the right place, Frank.”

  “Recommend a skipper who’d take me out?”

  “Sure, couple of guys are real good. I’ve got their cards behind the bar.”

  “Great.” Fredric raised his glass, touched it to Thor’s. “Wonder if there’s somebody you might know; my cousin’s friend told me to look her up. Susanna Rossini.”