“Make sure they give you a double stateroom,” Devon shouted to Emilie. “I’ll see you this evening.”
Petard led back up the beach toward the commons. His soldiers were everywhere, conducting a roughhouse search of the station, tossing furniture and personal effects out into the weather. “That’s people’s stuff you’re ruining,” Devon complained.
Petard sidestepped the comment. “No one is above suspicion” he said, waving Devon inside the building, then directing him down the office hallway. The lieutenant gestured for Devon to sit on one side of Devon’s desk while he made himself comfortable on the other. Petard began firing off specific questions about the young Australian’s equipment. Had Devon analyzed the damage to the T-phase or any of the hydrophones? What did he know about the contents of the data stream in the last moments before the power blackout?
Frustrated, Devon squinted his blue eyes, trying to harden his facial features. “If you want any technical information out of me, Lieutenant, I’ll expect some damn courtesy.” He surprised himself with how much resolve he managed to muster. He added: “Whatever intrigue you suspect on this Island – I have a right…”
“Very well,” Petard said quickly. “We believe agents of a foreign government are trying to disable the network.”
“Disable the IMS?”
Petard nodded. “And successfully, here.”
An attack on the United Nations International Monitoring System meant someone wanted to test nuclear bombs in secret! What else could it mean? “Someone…meaning a country?”
“I cannot be more specific. Now it is your turn.”
“Yes.” That’s fair. “I can’t retrieve the deep-water hydrophone because I need a special trawling rig, and I need calm seas, neither of which I’ve had.” Devon motioned with his palm up, waiting for some kind of tit-for-tat, which he didn’t get.
“And what of the Multiple Sensor buoys?” Petard asked forcefully.
With a sigh Devon reached under his bookshelf and produced a briefcase-sized plastic and aluminum enclosure. “This is the guts from number two MS buoy. I retrieved it yesterday. But I suspect all six will look similar to this.”
He placed the box on his desk and opened it, revealing PC boards, components, all melted together into an indistinguishable blob, as if the contents of the box had spent an hour in the oven.
“These things work on batteries recharged by little wave generators.” To demonstrate, Devon lifted and lowered the box several times. “Not a very powerful generator, but enough to run the sensors and the intermittent data transmitter…I assure you, they don’t make near enough power to melt the circuit board. The electricity that did this had to have come from elsewhere…an external power source.”
Petard snapped several photos with his cellphone.
“So what did this?” Devon asked. “What’s your theory?”
Petard ignored the question. “What about the data stream? Can we salvage any of it?”
Devon kicked a pile of old computer towers under his desk. “There isn’t a working CPU on the island I can link to these hard drives, so I haven’t been able to access the data…but it could be there, all of it, right up to the final nanosecond before the blackout…”
Petard stood up on lanky legs, grinning. “You’ve been most helpful…”
“Hold on there, mate. It’s your turn to answer a question.” When Petard nodded, Devon continued: “How did anyone get out here to sabotage this stuff? Tell me these people don’t have submarines.”
“Hmmm. It is also possible they have been hiding out on the island for several weeks.”
Weeks? Foreign agents spying on them for weeks?
“Perhaps they were stowaways on your supply vessel.”
“Argyle,” Devon said. They’d come ashore from the supply ship without Captain Rachete’s knowledge? It was pure cloak-and-dagger stuff! Devon had been thinking about international intrigue ever since he’d agreed to this assignment. The United Nations monitoring network shouldered the task of detecting nuclear explosions anywhere on - or under - the planet. “Okay,” he hypothesized, “the Iranian military wants to test a nuclear weapon, but if the test is detected by the United Nations, then Israel, the USA – and others - will have justification to launch airstrikes on their nuclear facilities. So Iran sends agents to disable the network beforehand.” Devon was unable to hide his excitement.
Petard frowned. “I cannot comment about that, but I hope you can see why it was necessary to evacuate everyone to Reims.” He paused a moment. “The chance remains that one or more of your student colleagues is involved…as an agent…or terrorist.”
“No! These kids? I’ve been here longer than any of them. I think I would have…” Even as he said it, his mind raced through the list of grad students doing nine-month hitches out here. Spies? The exotic newcomer, Ravinder? Perhaps Emilie is the spy, methodically seducing the caretaker of the IAEA’s monitoring equipment!
“Nor is the faculty above suspicion.” Petard added. “Not even yourself.”
Day 17
Thursday
Anza Borrego Desert State Park,
San Diego County, California
They waited in silence, shivering, huddled close together in their sleeping bags, backs propped-up against a sandstone boulder.
The two men watched the sky bleach lighter by degrees, tediously and deliberately through an infinite blend of grays, then fade to a light blue as the sun cracked over the horizon, bathing them in ochre gold.
“I thought it would never come up,” Wayne said, eyes closed, slowly relaxing his upper-torso in response to the warmth. “It’s supposed to be hot in the desert.”
Thomas studied the face of his partner. Gone was the ruddy complexion, the roundish shape and hint of a double chin, replaced now by pallid, parchment skin, exposed cheekbones and jaw. A pair of desert wrens played tag in a nearby tamarisk, chirping loudly at one another before darting away.
The two men loved camping in the desert this time of year, seeking secluded spots, often driving for hours over near-invisible jeep tracks to find the perfect campsite. For a short trip, two or three days, their usual choice was Death Valley National Park. But they couldn't go there now. It was a decision they came to simultaneously, without daring to mention the name of the place. Instead they came here, to this mesa high above the Anza-Borrego Badlands, with a clear, enormous view to the endless east, the earth dropping away into it’s own curvature.
They'd left Hollywood the morning before, stopping once at the pharmacy to refill a half-dozen prescriptions, then again at the market. Thomas had done all the shopping, leaving Wayne in the Explorer to listen to a Mozart CD. “I think I’ll rest awhile.” Wayne had remarked, as if he were just a little tired at that particular moment, but both men knew the simple act of walking into a supermarket had become too difficult for him now.
Thomas studied the face, wondering if this might be the last time they'd do this together, and a tear made its way down his youthful, freckled cheek.
“Hey,” Wayne said softly without turning or opening his eyes. “We have to live in the moment, partner.”
“You're so goddamned brave,” Thomas sobbed. “I can’t stand it anymore. We have to talk this out.” There was silence now and Thomas wondered if he should have held his peace, just as he had for the last three years. So much had gone unspoken between them in this stoic battle, but now, with the war almost lost, Thomas knew he must find something to fill the space. High above them, unseen, the distant noise of a jet aircraft invaded their privacy, almost inaudible, yet loud in the otherwise perfect silence. Thomas’ stomach wrenched, thinking about a small coyote they’d seen on the highway 20 miles back, ripped open and mashed by repeated tire strikes. He couldn’t get the grisly image out of his head.
Wayne fumbled for his sunglasses and slipped them on. “What’s there to talk out? We both know what's happening here. Do we need to say the words?”
Thomas had composed himself.
He climbed out of the sleeping bag and began rummaging through the back of the Explorer for his clothes. “I just don't know what I’m going to do when...”
“I know what I'm going to do,” Wayne said quickly, filling the pause. “I have very few choices left to worry about.”
“Quit talking like that,” Thomas pleaded.
Thomas dressed quickly, then sat crosslegged in the dirt, working on the backpacker stove. As always, and regardless of the depth of conservation, he always managed to busy himself with something, busy his hands, busy his mind. This apparent lack of attentiveness had antagonized many people over the nine years Wayne had known him - Thomas occupied with disassembling the TV remote or sharpening knives or cleaning the heating element in the coffee maker. Wayne wondered how many times he’d made excuses for Thomas, this nervous idiosyncrasy, this seemingly rude behavior.
It occurred to Wayne now, here, in this moment, that it wasn’t remotely important. As he watched Thomas work, he tried to sink into the ground, to merge with rock and sand, to disperse into it. But he knew he could not disappear. It was too soon. He did not have the vision yet, the perspective to see his life as a whole, as meaningful and dignified and a connected whole. “I love this place,” he said, sensing that it should be a place like this; undamaged, untouched by human schemes where he could mix with the dirt from whence he’d come.
A jackrabbit flashed across the sand behind the truck, moving in a blur, then stopped, frozen for a moment, looking like a chunk of wood, then zipped away.
Thomas had the gas pressure pumped up enough to light the stove. “I’ve decided we're going on a road trip up the coast, through the redwoods, then over to Ashland,” he said without looking up. “Take a month or so.”
It instantly struck Wayne as a grand idea, retracing the route they'd taken many times, visiting friends along the way, then returning to the town where they first met as cast members in a production of Cymbeline at the Ashland Shakespeare Festival. Completing the circle. Closure. He shut his eyes and summoned an image of the rugged forests surrounding the quaint, Elizabethan hamlet. “But your career is just starting to take off. You can't afford to be away that long.”
Thomas stopped fidgeting with the stove and looked up. “I’ve decided,” he repeated. “We’re going.”
Day 16
Friday
Holiday Inn,
Davis, California
Warren had fallen asleep with the motel TV on. When he awoke he groped around the bed for the remote, then scanned for the Weather Channel. The window shade was down but thin slices of grayish daylight streamed in around the edges. It was 8:33 and another Pacific storm was sweeping into the Sacramento Valley, expected to arrive by noon.
Senior Detective Martin Evans, who had spent two weeks working the Deverson missing persons case, was arguably the world’s foremost authority on Dr. Deverson. Shortly after the case Evans had retired. He would now be pushing 75 years of age. According to the firm that managed the county’s pension funds, he presently lived in Ione, about an hour east of Davis in the foothills of California’s gold country. Every time he tried calling Evans’ phone number he got an answering machine, which said: “You’ve reached the Ruptura Society. Please leave a message or visit our website at www.membranaruptura.org.” Warren had attempted to access the site several times and found it consistently out of order. Now he tried calling Detective Evans again and got the same message.
His research on the subject had revealed that the Society filed with the IRS as a tax-exempt religious organization and held a current California Department of Health Services license to operate a crematorium.
Warren exited highway 104 in Ione and found a coffee shop for breakfast. Although there had been dense fog around Davis, it was sunny here, wet from recent rain. Warren was feeling invigorated. He opened his laptop on the table and reviewed Evans’ missing person report. The detective had included no information about Deverson’s research; nothing about his thesis, his methodology, his goals. He hadn’t even mentioned MRIs. That information had been covered by a Sacramento forensics consultant hired shortly after the accident in Deverson’s lab. The forensics report mentioned finding bits and pieces of numerous medical imagers, “such as a C-T scanner and others.” Evans surely must have known more than he’d bothered to include in his report, but would he remember the details? Would he be forthcoming?
The address was actually several miles west of town, a large, Mediterranean-styled two-story ranch house on a flat agricultural lot a long way from it’s nearest neighbor. It had once been a grand home, 10,000 or more square feet, earthtone stucco, red tile roof, surrounded by well-kept gardens, wide lawns and rows of date palms and stately Monterey pines. A sign on the front door read: “Please Come In.” Warren obliged.
He entered into a large deserted parlor, walls lined with bookshelves, two overstuffed chairs facing a bay window. A gas-log fire danced in the marble-faced hearth. The house was separated from the parlor by a room-length counter, flanked by wooden displays, which offered books, pamphlets and various types of incense for sale. There was a smell to the place that he couldn’t quite identify at first: musty, moldy, mediciny, mildewy, mixed with generous doses of aerosol air-freshener, a vain attempt at masking the smell. It was hard to tell which was worse. Then it hit him: it smelled like a convalescent hospital.
Warren rang a small brass bell on the counter and an elderly woman’s singsong voice responded: “I’ll be with you in a moment.” Warren drifted over to the fireplace to admire a large portrait above the mantle. It was an oil painting of an elderly man, trim and tall, standing in a Yosemite meadow. A dignified gentleman, the Merced River at his feet, Half Dome on his left, El Capitan at his right. Beneath it, a silver tag read: “Dr. Martin Evans – Founder of the Ruptura Society “ and below that: “Though your life eventually flickers and dies, the light you create radiates onward and outward forever.”
“I’ll be damned,” Warren mused. “Doctor, no less.”
“May I help you?” A small, gray-haired woman smiled from behind the counter, her head barely clearing the polished wooden counter-top.
“Yes. Might I see Dr. Evans?”
“Do you have an appointment?”
Warren sighed. “No, but it’s very important.”
A look of mild disgust washed over her round, liver-spotted face. “I’ll have to see if he can accept visitors. Who may I say is calling?”
Warren approached, card in hand. “Tell him it’s about Deverson. Dr. Deverson.”
Her eyes widened and she slipped away.
Warren now noticed numerous small Formica signs attached to the edges of the bookshelves. These seemed to identify the books by subject matter: “Ancient Wisdom, Atlantis, Mu, Egypt, Sanskrit, Tibet, Buddha, Confucius…” And on another wall: “Comparative Religions, Judaism, Islam, Jesus, Tao, Shinto, Zoroaster…” And another wall: “Philosophers, Ancient, Eastern, Medieval, Occult, Modern…” Curious as to what might pass as “modern” in this place, Warren started for this section, but was interrupted.
“Dr. Evans will see you now,” the little woman said, struggling to lift the hinged countertop. Warren helped. “Follow me, please,” she said graciously.
Warren ambled behind, passing down a long hallway dimly lit by wall-mounted candelabra lamps. Additional light shone in from pebble-glass transoms above some of the hallway doors. Warren peeked in the open doorways as they passed. One appeared to be a meeting room, a table surrounded by chairs; another, the kitchen, reeking of garlic and curry. The next two rooms looked like hospital rooms, one occupied with a bed-bound patient, another filled with medical equipment, carts of instruments and electronic monitoring apparatus.
The woman led through a door at the hallway’s end, entering a solarium, a very old addition to the even older house. The floor creaked loudly.
Evans sat facing the expansive rear yard, a view dominated by a giant sequoia redwood. He was seated in a wheelchair, and in spite of the warmth
produced by an unvented gas heater by the door, his legs were covered with a crocheted blanket. He was thin, almost bald, his skin pale-white to faint yellow. He did not look well, Warren concluded, not at all. “Sit,” he said without turning. “What does the federal government want with me now?”
The old woman sat on one side of Evans, Warren, the other. The young field analyst sat in his chair backwards, resting his elbow on the ridge of the chairback. “I think you know, sir.”
Evans chuckled phlegmatically, laboriously swinging his gaze to make eye contact with his guest. “How old are you, son.”
“Twenty-seven.”
“Hell of a good age to be, isn’t it? Yes, I know why you’re here. The question is, do YOU know why you’re here?”
Warren thought a moment. “Now that you mention it, sir, I’m not entirely sure.”
Evans laughed again, then coughed. “Good. Go ahead, fire away.”
Warren cleared his throat. “I’ve read your missing-person report on Deverson, and I must say, it’s left me with more questions than answers.”
“Everything that needed to be in there was in there,” Evans said.
“I suppose, but can you tell me what the professor was doing? What was he out to prove?”
Evans took his time to think, wringing his hands lightly. “Deverson was an explorer. He was exploring the soul of man.”
“How do you mean?”
“Now there’s a big question. A very big question.” The old man stared off dreamily. “Something happened to me while I was investigating that case. I came to realize I didn’t have a spiritual bone in my body, that I’d rejected everything I couldn’t see or touch, that I was two-dimensional and miserable, had been all my miserable, two-dimensional life. Do you have any idea what it feels like to realize you’ve spent - make that wasted - the best years of your life on something that makes you feel empty, leaves you nothing meaningful to show for it? Of course you don’t. I pray you don’t…not ever.
Afterimage Page 6
