Virtually Lace

by Uvi Poznansky

  Had it been shredded?

  No! There it was.

  He tucked it in his breast pocket and walked off with it.

  Once in his office, Michael flicked on the light switch. He opened his desk drawer, careful not to make it warble on its steel sliders, and somewhat sloppily, flung the stolen envelope in its direction. An old photograph slipped out, tumbled over the lip of the drawer, and ended up landing at the foot of the desk. There it was, face down, looking inconspicuous in the big mess of things, between one stack of software specifications and another.

  He promised himself to look at it. Later. Right now, an idea crossed his mind. It must have waited for the right moment. And now that it was here, it became urgent, overwhelmingly so, even more than examining some image, or hacking into his cellphone data without leaving tracks behind, so no one could tell how it was erased.

  Michael would reconstruct the murder scene. Then, he would search for clues.

  To start with, he opened a Google Earth view of California on his computer and tapped Laguna Beach. Then he centered the map at the intersection of Cliff Drive and Jasmine Street, before zooming in.

  A tortuous shoreline was marked down the middle of the screen. One contour after another turned as sharp as a pencil, then lifted up to its proportional altitude above the shoreline. Hills heaved up, valleys caved in. The mountainside filled with rocks. Some of them were veined with water.

  Pacific Coast Highway came crackling its way noisily, one segment after another. From out of nowhere, color bled into the landscape, defining its streets. They adhered to the skin of the topography. No longer a flat sketch—now the landscape had become three-dimensional.

  He strapped on the headset that Ash had designed for him. In the virtual reality industry, headsets were as bulky as a helmet. By contrast, this one was made of some thin film, which made it feel like it wasn’t there, even though it included all the necessary equipment: built-in motion sensors and an external camera tracker, which drastically improved image fidelity, as well as head tracking. Before you knew it, soft lenses would swing around your left and right temples and with a digital click, come directly into contact with the eyes.

  At this point, Michael had dual vision. In one layer, he saw the constructed scene; in another—his office, lit by a fluorescent lamp that was strobing overhead. He switched it off and in a heartbeat, the room drowned in darkness.

  Now he could focus much better. Something about the scene made it look wrong. By default, an imaginary light source was established at the center of it, shedding light vectors at an arbitrary angle of eighty degrees overhead, to simulate daylight. It intensified the horizontal surfaces by making them bright. At the same time, it washed the vertical ones with stark shadows. When compared with his memory, the result appeared remarkably contrived.

  Despite wanting to forget everything about last night, the lamppost at that street corner became clear in his mind. Slowly, stealthily, its shadow had started prowling to the other side...

  This simulated view had to be corrected. The fastest way to do it was for him to access the code via its voice recognition and comprehension interface.

  “Generate time grid,” he said, “starting at 8:03pm. April 30th. For that date, find the course of the sun. Set the angle of rays.”

  The shadows changed direction. Darkness engulfed more surfaces. Shady secrets seemed to start whispering all over the landscape.

  “Simulate a breeze coming from the ocean. Accelerate rate ten times original pace. Play!”

  Around him, shadows started swinging as the sun angled its way to the west. When finally it sank, the horizon glowed in red.

  What was that noise?

  In a layer behind the sunset, his office door was open just a crack—exactly as he had left it. The walls were as shady as ever. Nothing stirred. Standing there perfectly still, only he could hear the wind. Only he could spot the trail, twisting and turning at the top of the rugged cliffs across his office floor, between one stack of software specifications and another. Why, then, should he find himself feeling awkward, as if he were an intruder in his own office?

  There was no way to control the mad throb of his blood, to force it back into a regulated pace. Michael took off the headset. With the sound of a puff, Laguna Beach vanished from view—only to reveal a reflection, someone’s reflection flashing across his computer screen.

  By the subtle hint of perfume, he knew who she was even before turning around to look at her. Every muscle in him ached for her touch. He wanted so badly to wrap his arms around her waist and gather her, at long last, to his breast. But his heart told him she would resist.

  Ash.

  He gave her a slow up-and-down look. In an instant, her cheeks became rosy. Perhaps to gain control over her blush and make it vanish, she bent down and before he could stop her, picked the photograph from where it had landed on the floor. Then she turned it face-up.

  The image was a bit out-of-focus, clearly the work of an amateur. In the background was the haze of a single spotlight, which cast a bluish shine on a young ballet dancer. She balanced, ever so gracefully, on her tiptoe, arms stretched overhead to sprinkle a glitter of some kind around her. Some of it glinted, a bit here, a bit there, in her braided hair.

  Ash gasped. Her lip turned pale as she bit into it. “Oh, I see.”

  “What?”

  “Silly me. I thought you promised to wait for me.”

  “As long as you need, Ash. I love you.”

  “No, not anymore.”

  “Trust me. I do.”

  “I can trust no one,” she said. The little scar at the corner of her eye, in the shadow of her lashes, was new to him. “There’s a different girl now in your life. How can you deny it?”

  Chapter 4

  He remembered the way she had looked, not just on the night of the incident, when he had found her, but earlier, on the night of their first kiss.

  Now, she looked different. Gone were the wavy curls that used to ripple down to her shoulders. Michael was amazed by her new haircut. It was cropped short at the back, with spiky layers at the top. Her eyes looked larger, and there was a new expression in them, which he found hard to define. Sadness? No, something more intense. Rebellion. Against everything, it seemed. Against him, too.

  “Such a beauty, she is,” said Ash, pointing at the photograph.

  Detecting a hint of jealousy, he said, “Let me explain.”

  Where could he start? First, he took a step closer to her. When his lips brushed her forehead, a small cry came from the back of her throat. Was it desire? He thought so at first. But then the sound changed to something else. Fear.

  Michael held back a sigh. His heart ached for what she had gone through. The man who had sullied her robbed both of them of their carefree, easy closeness. Now, was she still cautious, still unprepared to be touched?

  “Don’t get this close to me,” said Ash, but her blush said otherwise. He had seen it before, in the early days of courting her. It had drawn him closer, till he had found himself lost in the glow of her hazel eyes. Here it was, that same blush, that same glow. Love, all over again.

  It gave him hope. Once she healed, things would go back to the way they were between them. Meanwhile, there was the risk of losing her trust. He had to explain how he had gained possession of this photograph.

  He said, “This is not what you think.”

  “Really?” she said. “It isn’t?”

  “I don’t even know this girl, not really.”

  “What’s her name?”

  “Lace.”

  For a split second, her eyes narrowed. “How, then, did you happen to get hold of her picture?”

  He had to admit, “I stole it.”

  “From whom?”

  “It was sent to the president of the company, Mr. Armstrong.” Trying to shift the conversation towards a safer topic, a professional one, he asked, “Have you met him yet?”

  “No. I’m in no hurry to get what’s coming
to me from him.”

  “What’s that?”

  “A little pink slip.”

  He was astonished that word had gotten around to her this fast. “Oh, so you know he’s about to replace you, do you?”

  She shrugged, but her tone was one of hurt. “I don’t even want to work for him.”

  “I’ll do what I can to change his mind.”

  “No. No need. I’d rather work on my own.”

  “That’s the way we’ve always done things.” Rolling up his sleeves, he felt her looking at his muscular arms.

  “Yes.” She lowered her voice to an intimate alto. “Just you and me.”

  “Just the two of us, working together out of the back of my garage.”

  She smiled as if to say, “Those are the times I miss,” which swept him into the same feeling.

  Meanwhile, her gaze fell on the photograph, once again. “So this thing, it belongs not to you, but to the president?”

  Eager to prove that he had nothing to do with that girl, Michael opened the drawer and handed the envelope to Ash, pointing at the name of the president on the its back.

  “Look!” she cried. “There’s something inside.”

  “Really?”

  A piece of paper peeked out. Ash slipped it into her hand, unfolded it carefully, and started reading out loud:

  Daddy dearest,

  This is not the first time I call you that. By your silence I know you can’t stand it—but in my heart, that’s what you are.

  Anyway, me coming here must be giving you some unease, mostly because having a lost daughter find you, after all these years, can cause a few bumps with your wife, your legitimate children.

  And a scandal can’t be good for your career, either. But mine is not exactly the scandal you expect.

  It’s much worse.

  Michael raised his hand to stop her. “Oh! Perhaps we shouldn’t read any more of this. Perhaps we should forget what we’ve heard so far.”

  “I feel awkward too, like we’re gawking at a private scene through a keyhole,” she said. “I feel for her, but maybe what happened between Lace and her father isn’t really our business—”

  “Except for one thing.”

  “What’s that?”

  “It’s the same thing that made me snatch this letter away from the shredder. This girl, she’s dead.”

  Her pupils widened in disbelief. “Really? How d’you know?”

  “I just do,” said Michael, reluctant to talk about how he had followed Lace, how he had found her body.

  “Ah!” said Ash. “Just as I thought.”

  “What?”

  “You have your secrets, too.”

  He lowered his eyes, unable to admit the whole truth to her. He didn’t know Lace, that part was true. But he had followed her that night, for reasons he could not explain even to himself, only to find her lifeless.

  Eyes glistening with what he thought was curiosity, Ash turned back to the letter. And in her voice, he could hear Lace, saying,

  It’s gonna take a long while for me to write this, because I want to get everything right, just in case.

  I mean, in case something happens to me.

  Unfortunately, I must act. I must do so faster than I can explain things in words.

  In my first letter, I said I don’t want money from you, only recognition. But since you’ve refused to meet me, I must reverse myself. Perhaps that’s what you’ve expected all along, that’s what made you distance yourself from me.

  Money is something I need. I need it desperately. Right now. And I have no one else to turn to but you.

  Ash raised her eyes from the letter. Tears welled up in them. Apparently, something in the writing touched her in a way he was unable to understand.

  She wondered, “Did Mr. Armstrong see this as a blackmail attempt?”

  To which he said, “I wonder.”

  Ash flipped the paper over, and even before starting to read, her face turned pale.

  In case you’re wondering, which somehow I doubt you are, last Saturday I went through an unspeakable ordeal.

  I woke up lying on the floor of my apartment in severe pain. With effort, I stumbled onto my feet with blurry vision that prevented me from seeing myself in the mirror. When finally it cleared, I discovered that my face wasn’t bruised, but my body was. It was black and blue all over.

  Before molesting me, the monster—what else can I call him?—must have drugged me, using a dose that would kill a horse. He must have hoped that I would die; or at least, that I wouldn’t be able to identify him.

  For a few days, I had trouble remembering my own name. So now, he thinks he’s safe.

  He’s wrong.

  I know who he is. His time is up.

  I need money. I need it urgently, so I can find a place to hide, or else he’ll get me before I do him.

  At this, Ash gasped.

  She swayed on her feet as if about to faint. Michael steadied her by putting his arm around her waist and leading her, step by step, to his chair.

  “This is so similar to what I’ve gone through,” she muttered through clenched teeth. “With one exception.”

  Not wanting to pry, Michael hesitated to ask, “What’s that?”

  With quivering lips, she said, “This girl was lucky.”

  He was surprised at her choice of word. “Lucky?”

  “Yes, you heard me right,” she said. Normally, her smile would bring some color back into her cheeks, but not this time. “Lace could remember who forced himself on her. I can’t.”

  He found no way to respond, no way to make things better for her. In the silence that descended upon him, Ash turned back to reading:

  I’m attaching my picture just to show you that until now, I had great aspirations. I worked hard, as long as Ma was alive, to become a dancer. I wanted you to be proud of me, Daddy. I so wanted to be accepted.

  But now... Now that I’m damaged, I don’t even know if I can go on with my previous plans. I don’t know where to turn.

  You’re a rich man, a resourceful one. So I beg you, please, please find it in your heart to help me. You can manage some way to do that, with not a soul knowing about all of this but us.

  Love,

  Lace

  Ash let the letter fall from her hand.

  Michael drew closer and kissed her forehead. She moaned softly, her eyes brightening. Perhaps she was wondering what it would be like to encircle his neck with her hands and kiss him back.

  Then all of a sudden, Ash lifted her arms to his shoulders. He stroked them gently, all the way up to her wrists. Goosebumps were pebbling on her skin and his.

  “Don’t stop,” she whispered.

  “Sweetheart,” he murmured back, “you’re in a safe place now, here with me.”

  “I want to believe it.”

  In place of a reply, he reached for her hand. Her palm felt good in his fingers, it felt warm and oh so soft, and he found himself aroused. She lifted her face to him. Coming closer, he took in the fragrance of her hair. Their kiss lasted no more than a second, a light touch of his lips brushing back then forth across hers, before he eased away.

  Then she said, “What happened to this girl tells me to use caution. There’s nowhere safe for me.”

  “I’ll protect you.”

  “You can’t. You weren’t there last time.”

  He lowered his head, feeling guilty. “I was too late to come to your rescue. I don’t know if you remember, but I was the one who found you, I called an ambulance—”

  “That I remember,” said Ash.

  She got up to her feet and ever so gently, combed through his hair with her fingers.

  “I was too late,” he repeated, his voice full of agony, of remorse. “But now, I promise—”

  “Don’t.” She opened the door to get out. “The only way I can imagine being out of trouble is not by your promise, but by mine. One day I’m going to remember who he is, just like Lace did. And when I do, I’m going to kill
him.”

  Michael escorted her out of his office. Looks from other employees, whose names he hadn’t learned yet, followed them along the corridor from each cubicle they passed, until they reached the lobby.

  Here, glass walls mirrored their figures as they walked towards the double doors that took them outside. To him, it felt like a long, agonizing way to say goodbye, during which Ash didn’t touch him. Oh, how he wished she would!

  She must have known he was watching her reflection, watching the little smile that flickered up the corners of her mouth. But what that smile meant, Michael had no idea. Perhaps she was thinking of revenge.

  He hoped that wasn’t true. Perhaps she was thinking of kissing him.

  Chapter 5

  Common wisdom suggests that the killer always comes back to the murder scene, because of an urge to relive the thrill—morbid as it might be—of taking a life. Michael felt a similar urge, but he told himself it was for purely analytical reasons, so he might study every detail and plug it into his computer simulation, in search for clues.

  His cellphone and the attached miniature omnidirectional camera had sunk in the waves at the murder scene. At this point, he assumed they were lost to him. But he was determined to recover something else left behind: his shoes. His good pair of shoes, to be exact. How could he have forgotten all about them, until now? Last night he had tossed them away, so as to move barefoot over the pebbles and into the shallow water, where the body lay atop the rocks.

  Because of the shock, he had only a vague memory of his way up the trail back to his car. Now, the last thing he needed was for those shoes to fall into the cops’ hands, to be examined for traces of his DNA.

  He could just imagine them—the shoes, not the cops—wrapped in two little plastic bags, one marked ‘exhibit F’ and the other ‘exhibit G.’ Finding them in time was a pressing task. It was time to go back to Laguna Beach.

  By noontime, the veil of morning fog lay in shreds. Out of it emerged gray cliffs. The ocean sprawled at their feet in endless recoil. One breaker after another turned upon itself and, reduced to shallow silence, rolled its froth backwards from the shore. A flock of gulls camped on top of the rock formation. They seemed to be contemplating the scene with a patient indifference.