Afterimage

by Roderick Geiger

  Roberto reached under the bar and removed a newspaper, handed it to her, Friday’s Sacramento Bee open to The Nation page. Her eye went directly to an article about Gyttings-Lindstrom, their investigation into the cause of the Manzanita accident. She scanned the article quickly, then looked up.

  “You wonder where Mrs. Deverson went?” Roberto nodded toward the open paper.

  “Eugene? You think she’s there?”

  “Yes. This place, Eugene…it is the chosen place.”

  “Chosen place?”

  “The Holy place,” Roberto said with reverence, gesturing toward his second drawing. “The place of the second coming.”

  “Are you planning to go there?”

  “No. It is not necessary that I be nearby when the Lord is reborn.” He pointed at the floor. “This place…this place is holy too. Years from now they will come to see where the Professor, the instrument of God…did his holy work. And I think the Lord will come here too. He will come here to take me...” His voice trailed off. Then he looked her in the eye: “You must have felt it, the power in this place, the holiness in these grounds.”

  She was reminded of what she’d overheard Claire’s friend, Bernie, say in the hospital. How had she put it? The creepy jeepies! Yeah, this place gave her the creeps, like Claire’s house. And like Manzanita Hospital as well. And suddenly it was getting worse. Was it some kind of residual radiation from these accidents? Was it dangerous? And why Claire’s house? She thanked him for the meal and excused herself.

  At the door he said: “The days ahead will be filled with miraculous things, Ilene Ishue. God be with you.”

  “Thanks,” she said as she jumped into the Fusion and peeled out, as if trying to escape from something, not stopping until she was 10 miles clear, at the base of the I-5 onramp. She slammed on the brakes, sliding on the dirt shoulder. “Jesus, Ilene,” she said aloud and immediately felt self-conscious. She sat a moment, calming herself. Did she have any reason to stay in this area? Any other contacts she might exploit? The sanitarium? Should she bother to look for Detective Evans? Anything else at the university? Screw it! Let’s get the hell outta here! She hit the onramp at full throttle; the Fusion’s anemic I-4 doing the best accelerating it could, headed north toward Oregon.

  Day 9

  Friday

  Eugene, Oregon

  It was mid-afternoon by the time Ishue exited onto West 99, headed into downtown Eugene. Instead of going directly to the Gyttings-Lindstrom plant, she cruised the streets around the University of Oregon looking for student hangouts, preferably some place where she might get a cup of good coffee. She parked on Kincaid Street and proceeded on foot through the cold. The town glittered through a shroud of thin, icy fog, which gave shape to her breath. She stopped at a restaurant-bar called The Glenwood and began asking student-aged patrons what they knew about Gyttings-Lindstrom.

  Having logged hundreds of hours of man-in–the-street type interviews (another job usually pushed-off on the new-hire) Ishue had developed a knack for talking to strangers. She had a knack for injecting excitement and significance into even the blandest subjects and soon had several students gathered around, anxious to talk. From one she learned about a controversy over alleged animals’ rights violations a year earlier at Superscan, just before an opportunistic James Gyttings had acquired the young, troubled company. The building, located four miles across town from the college, had been the site of several small demonstrations. She also learned that the plant sometimes hired part-time students to do various jobs. A waitress named Marla, who also worked at Gyttings-Lindstrom as an electronics assembler on the weekend shift, told Ishue there was a lot of tension at work just now because some corporate bigwigs were in town. A large section of the plant was being cleared out for some project relating, it was rumored, to the Manzanita accident.

  “Gyttings is here,” Ishue said matter-of-factly. “May I sit?”

  “You know, I kinda need that job at the plant,” Marla said nervously. “There isn’t a lot of work around here for students.”

  Ishue looked at her waitress uniform. “You seem to be doing okay.”

  “I work here two nights a week and at the plant two days. I just bar-r-r-ely get by.”

  “Sorry,” Ishue said. “I promise I won’t use your name. And I’m not looking to torch the company. For all I know they’re the good guys.”

  The pretty coed frowned, accentuating dimples between her chin and cheeks. “They’ve been installing this thing in the warehouse they call a Modular Hospital, big trailers that connect together...someone said these things are normally used by the military. Operating rooms, patient wards, nursing stations, intensive care, staff lounge, pathology lab, god knows what else.”

  “Wow! A people hospital?”

  Marla looked around in both directions, then turned to Ishue and nodded. “I thought you might like to know,” she whispered, “why so many of these bio-tech and pharmaceutical companies have been setting-up research units here in Oregon.”

  Ishue nodded, focused into the blue eyes of the young coed.

  “It’s the doctor-assisted suicide thing.” Ishue looked surprised so Marla continued. “Twice Oregon voters approved initiatives that legalized doctor-assisted suicide. There’s a rumor at G-L that this is the big test.”

  Ishue shook her head.

  “The Manzanita thing,” Marla said. “This is the showdown. This is where they test the laws for real.”

  Ishue wrinkled her nose. “They’re going to do doctor-assisted suicides at Gyttings-Lindstrom?”

  Marla nodded her head enthusiastically. “That’s the rumor.”

  It was almost 5 p.m. by the time Ishue had walked back to her car. Traffic was heavy on the drive across town, but lightened-up out on the Florence-Eugene Highway which passed near the Gyttings-Lindstrom plant, located in an underdeveloped industrial park on the extreme west end of town.

  The building itself was nearly new, a modernistic arrangement of unpainted concrete walls of varying heights set at varying angles, lots of interesting shapes and corners, all edged in smoke-tinted glass. Ishue entered through the front past a TV news crew from Portland. Their reporter was shooting an intro with the building as a backdrop.

  Ishue stepped in and scanned the lobby. There were eight people in the room, all but one up and milling about. She soon learned why: a guard was telling everyone to leave.

  “We’re closed,” the guard said several times.

  Ishue approached the second guard at the reception station.

  “Hi. Do you have a press relations person around?”

  “It’s after five,” the guard answered. He was past middle-age with a slightly hunched back.

  “My watch says a couple minutes to,” she said sweetly.

  “They’re all gone home,” he said.

  She leaned over his reception station and flashed her press pass as if it had some legal – or perhaps magical - authority. “Could you please check. I’ve come a very, very long way. See? From Southern California.”

  “Wait here,” he sighed, then disappeared through an electrically locked door behind him.

  “What ever happened to sweet, little-old-lady receptionists,” she said aloud.

  “What was that?” A voice behind her said. The voice came from a 30-ish, nerdy-looking man with black-plastic rimmed glasses and a laptop computer, open on his lap. She figured him to possibly be a reporter, but more likely some kind of engineer.

  She sat next to him so that she could peek at his computer screen. “Is this heah the repo-ta waitin’ area?” she asked in her fake southern accent.

  There was something about the way she tilted her head that caught his fancy. “Sure. Have a seat. Nice fake accent.”

  “How do you know it’s fake,” she scowled, leaning over his computer screen. “Whatcha got there?”

  He closed the laptop, chuckling.

  “Who are we waiting here for?” she asked.

  The guard returned and repeate
d: “They’re all gone home.”

  “It’s okay,” Ishue announced to the guard. “I’m with him.”

  After a brief silence he glanced sideways for a better look at her. Full figured - but not fat, pretty legs, a mid-thigh-length skirt and a colorful blouse that complemented her tan skin. Her body language exuded confidence. “You’re pretty obnoxious, even for a reporter.”

  “My secret to popularity,” she said. “How long you been sitting here?”

  “I think we’ve reached the point in our relationship where we should be formally introduced,” he said. “And you are?”

  She smiled comfortably. “Ilene Ishue, Manzanita Enterprise.” She extended her hand delicately.

  “Manzanita, eh?” he said shaking her hand. “Ishue. I know you. Rather, I read your stories online.”

  What a surprise. I’ll bet he never turns off his computer. “The price of fame,” she beamed. “First one on the scene. Scoop Ishue, they call me.”

  “I’m Warren, EPA investigator,” he said. “Pleased to meet you, Scoop.”

  She sized him up slowly. About five-nine, her height or maybe an inch taller. Not that bad looking, really. “Have you got a first name, Mr. Warren?”

  “That is my first name.”

  She’d removed her reporter’s notebook. “Last name?”

  “Did you get the impression I was giving an interview here?” He had reopened his laptop, holding it at an angle away from her line of vision.

  “Not at all,” Ishue said, leaning in. “I just wanted your name and number so I could ask you out to dinner.” As many times as she’d been rebuked, ignored and turned down flat, Ishue had never learned how to quit.

  My god, she’s flirting, Warren thought. He liked that she wasn’t wearing any makeup and he liked the way her hair smelled. Beautiful, black hair. “I’d probably lose my job if it got out I was talking to a reporter.” He handed her his card.

  “Oh,” she said, suddenly feeling awkward. She settled back in her chair, staring straight ahead, trying to think of something to say.

  He beat her to it. “I’m afraid I’m suspicious of your motives.”

  “Motives,” she blurted. “You think I need information from…” she checked his card… “Mr. Specialist II with the San Francisco Regional Office of the Environmental Protection Agency?” She wrinkled her nose. “What could you possibly tell me about MRIs or Gyttings-Lindstrom or…” She stopped herself.

  Warren nodded knowingly.

  She flashed her eyebrows at him, plunked her elbow onto the armrest between them and used her forearm as a pedestal for her chin. “Okay. So I guess I could possibly have a couple questions for you, but that’s not why I asked you to dinner.”

  A well-dressed woman came through the security door and said: “Mr. Vardell, Mr. Chalmais will see you now.”

  Warren got up, then turned awkwardly to face Ishue. ‘W…Where are you staying?”

  “Holiday Inn.”

  “Me too! Maybe I…I’ll see you later?”

  “Gee, I don’t know.” Ishue said coyly. “It depends on your motives.”

  As soon as Warren disappeared behind the inner door both guards showed Ishue, politely but firmly, out into the dark, cold evening. The Portland TV news crew was striking light trees back into the van. Ishue made eye contact with the reporter, an attractive oriental girl, and they had a moment of cultural bonding. Ishue approached and introduced herself.

  “Barbara Chan; Eyewitness news,” she said, shaking Ishue’s hand. They exchanged cards. “Manzanita? Guy over there from The Economist. CNN here earlier.”

  “I arrived too late to talk with PR. Did I miss anything?”

  “Not really. They’re preparing laboratories for the scientists and they’re taking precautions to insure the safety of the public and the workers and blah, blah, blah.”

  “Yeah. Looks like it’ll be dead around here until Monday,” Ishue offered.

  “Fort Knox would be easier to get into than this place over the weekend,” Chan said. Her crew was yelling for her to get in the van. “Gotta go. Maybe I’ll see ya next week.”

  “Yeah,” Ishue waved. Anxious to test the Fort Knox theory, she took a walk around the building, yanking on every door, finding every one locked tight. The locks used magnetic cards instead of keys. Very secure looking. In back, she followed an alley along a 12-foot-high concrete wall topped with an overhang and watched-over by camera boxes every 30 feet. Two steel-framed wooden gates provided access for trucks. Ishue stood under a large red fir tree across the alley and waited, her little digital camera in hand. Ten minutes passed before the gates clattered open and a box van with California plates emerged. She took pictures of the van, then headed for the closing gates and was met by two guards.

  “Hi fellas,” she said lamely. Before the gates closed shut she observed several tractor trailers at the loading dock, a Peterbilt with Texas plates, a huge, trailer-mounted generator and several cars, among them two stretched limos. Even if she got into the yard, there was no clear way into the secure building. So much for espionage.

  Ishue knew there would be no regular staff at Gyttings-Lindstrom over the weekend, no public - or press - relations people for her to work with, get her in the door. The plant was now officially closed, an armed camp of rent-a-cops.

  This is the part she liked, the challenge to be inventive, resourceful, cunning. The guy from CNN didn’t get to be the guy from CNN because he lacked these qualities; she knew the competition would be top rate. And reporters from national magazines or TV networks wielded a lot more prestige than reporters from small-town dailies. But Ishue wasn’t entirely hapless. She knew most reporters would back off over the weekend. Not her. This would be her chance to put some distance between herself and the pack.

  As she inventoried her advantages she immediately thought of Claire, the woman whose life and system of beliefs had been turned upside down by the accident in Manzanita. Ishue was almost positive she was the only reporter who knew that Claire thought she was being haunted by…ghosts. “Nah!” she said aloud. Not much advantage there.

  Then there was Marla. Would the part-time Gyttings-Lindstrom employee prove to be a valuable asset? Would she be willing or able to spy from the inside?

  But mainly there was Warren Vardell, the EPA analyst who had apparently gained access to Non-PR personnel within the company. “Non-PR personnel,” she said dreamily out loud. Personnel who weren’t trained to stroke you, snow you or screw you. A good bit of luck finding the young man; her best lead.

  Ishue stopped for fast-food on the way back to the Holiday Inn, then called Ed. He was in a bad mood, gruff and short. But telling him about the two leads she’d developed in just a couple hours seemed to smooth his feathers.

  “By the way,” Ed said, chewing annoyingly on something, “That guy Ian Nigels came out of his coma this afternoon.”

  “Shit,” Ishue grimaced. She’d gone to an amazing amount of trouble to come up here because the leads had dried up down there. Now the eyewitness MRI technician was back amongst the living.

  “Shit what?” Ed said.

  “I missed it.”

  “Yep. Sent Vilasik.”

  “And” - Ed was eating two different textures of food at the same time, by the sound of it - “the guy’s a complete nut. Paranoid. Claims he spent the last ten days in another dimension. His family’s suing the hospital, the city, everybody. We wanted to do another interview with him but he seems to have vanished. We figure the lawyers got him hidden somewhere so he doesn’t blow it. Or maybe aliens abducted him.”

  “Did Vilasik get any good quotes from Nigels?”

  “Course. Hold a sec while I close this out.” There was muffled talking for a moment. “We had to cut ‘em though. Too wacko. Here, I got it on my screen: ‘They don’t know what they’re doing. They’ll rupture the barrier and they’ll never be able to close it.’ Yeah, that’s what the guy said. Adamantly, I might add. Pretty good sci-fi, huh?” Ed started to la
ugh, then his laughter picked up steam and Ishue could hear other people in the office laughing and even Ishue was chuckling a little.

  Warren called at 8:00 that evening. They agreed to meet in the dining room in fifteen minutes. She had second thoughts as soon as she got off the phone. Was she really up to this? Drinking, laughing, flirting; pumping this guy for information? She wanted to jump under the covers and hide, but she fought it off.

  Warren got to the dining room first, got a table by the window that faced the Willamette River, but it was too dark to see much of anything beyond the glass. Only his reflection, which he pondered while reviewing the day’s events, starting with the messy search of the Ruptura property, inconclusive except for the MRI clinic in the outbuilding, but no sign of Dr. Evans.

  “Great,” Al had said afterwards, “we raided the old-folks home.” But the team had confiscated several boxes of the Society’s records, and Al, after a cursory reading of a few of these documents, seemed pleased enough to authorize Warren’s coming here as the Agency’s lead investigator.

  The hostess arrived with an apology that the dance floor in the adjacent room had been booked for a wedding reception and would not be available this evening. Distorted music from a jazz quartet drifted in from the room.

  Ishue and the waiter arrived at the same time. Warren ordered two Margaritas, Ishue’s a double. “I’ll know if it’s not a double,” Ishue called after the waiter in a slightly threatening, slightly joking tone, then instantly regretted the comment. She smiled sheepishly.

  Warren smiled back.

  “What’s with the bad music?” she asked.

  “Wedding next door. Sorry we won’t be able to dance the night away.”

  “Thank god,” she said. “No offense, Warren. I just don’t think I could handle that right now.”

  “Me neither,” he said.

  “I have to tell you I feel kinda awkward.”

  “Me too.”

  The drinks came.

  “So is it a double?” Warren asked.

  “I wouldn’t know.” Ishue was looking around the room. “I’ll bet you half these people are reporters,” she said, sipping at the straw in her Margarita.