Afterimage

by Roderick Geiger

  It was too far to drive, so Warren had toyed for awhile with the idea of Tyler’s flying to Eugene alone. But Warren had always wanted to be with his son the first time the boy flew in an airplane, to relive the wonder of it through the boy’s eyes.

  When he’d arrived at the SFO Alaska Airlines terminal Tyler had been waiting, all alone, his little Sesame Street suitcase on his little lap. Louise and the boyfriend had dropped him off two hours earlier so they could get the hell to Reno to gamble and drink and lose all her child-support money.

  “I wasn’t afraid, Dad,” Tyler had lied. “I knew you’d come.”

  Warren had gathered the boy up in his arms and jumped on the return flight to Eugene.

  Louise had packed for the boy as if he’d been headed for L.A. Sneakers and swimming trunks, a wind-breaker jacket. Back in Eugene, Warren had taken him shopping, got him a good jacket, boots and a little snow-suit. He’d promised the boy a trip to the mountains to test it out later in the week.

  He’d tried to call Ishue several times during the day; from the plane, the Eugene terminal, the clothing store. He was starting to develop a complex, a paranoid fantasy about her whereabouts, the story she’d filed, the clever way she’d seduced all that information out of him. What a naïve fool he’d been.

  “Who do you keep calling?” Tyler had asked.

  Not wanting to put the boy off the way Louise had with her parade of ‘gentlemen’ callers, he’d told the boy: “Grandma and grandpa,” and avoided all mention of Ilene Ishue.

  That evening Ishue had caught up with them in the hotel coffee shop.

  “Where you been?” he’d asked.

  “Working,” she’d said. “A G-L employee told me there was an explosion inside the building this afternoon.”

  “Is she you’re girlfriend?” Tyler had asked excitedly.

  “Nah,” Warren had said. With her standing right there? Wrong answer!

  As Warren made the trip across town to the Gyttings-Lindstrom building early Monday he reviewed all the things Chalmais had said during the Friday interview. Foremost on his mind was how the vice-president had claimed the facility wouldn’t be ready for testing for several days. Chalmais had seemed candid and forthright, certainly very congenial. But on further analysis, the VP had acted perfectly politic, had said nothing specific, left himself a backdoor on every subject. He’d skirted the issue of the INFX project by saying he knew very little about it, that his company had hired members of Deverson’s old team specifically because of their expertise and familiarity with the subject. Regarding public safety concerns raised by several environmental groups, Chalmais had artfully fallen back on the company’s perfect safety record, both in the laboratory and in the field where more than 11,000 MRIs built by Gyttings-Lindstrom were used every day.

  In his comfortable drawl, Chalmais had freely acknowledged inviting Adel Deverson to join the research team because of her insight into her late husband’s work. But he admitted no duplicity in transporting her out of California; moreover, company lawyers had already obtained a judgment overturning earlier psychiatric findings of the widow’s incompetency. Adel was free to do as she pleased and it pleased her to be right here.

  Chalmais had then taken Warren on a tour of the facility showing off the fire and explosion suppression systems, drawing on reams of engineering calculations and design blueprints. The visit had left Warren confident that the situation was well in hand, that the company was moving swiftly but prudently toward finding a cause and cure for the Manzanita problem.

  He’d said as much in a preliminary report that he’d e-mailed to his superiors in San Francisco on Saturday. Ishue had read the e-mail and said it sounded like a company press release. Fluff, she’d called it. That had embarrassed him a little, made him feel amateurish.

  But last evening in the coffee shop, with Tyler sitting there, Warren had not invited Ishue to sit with them. He’d been cold to her and he wasn’t sure why.

  “What are we gonna do heeeere?” Tyler said, peeking over the Buick’s door panel at the big, concrete and black-glass building. “Can I take my seat belt off now?”

  Warren nodded. He’d come this morning unannounced with plans to burst in on Chalmais demanding to know why he hadn’t been advised of the first test. Now he wasn’t so sure. He was wavering. He hadn’t thought this through.

  “I’m hungry, Daddy,” Tyler said. It was all Warren needed. He backtracked to a restaurant on Seneca Road. Warren bought a Eugene Register on the way in.

  “I want French toast,” Tyler demanded, but Warren’s attention was hooked on a small headline, page A-1, below the fold:

  Explosion Rocks Medical Plant.

  By Ilene Ishue, Griffin News Service, Eugene, Oregon.

  An explosion yesterday shook the building where a major MRI manufacturer is investigating what went wrong with one of its machines two weeks ago in a California hospital.

  Thirty-four employees of the Gyttings-Lindstrom plant in Eugene, who felt the building shake at about 2 p.m. Sunday, were laid-off at the end of their work shift, one of the employees said. The employee, who asked not to be named, said the company gave no reason for the dismissal of all its weekend-shift workers.

  Several of the newly fired employees said they think the company is doing dangerous work in the laboratories that were refitted last week, the ex-employee said.

  Workers noticed a vibration in the building for about a minute, followed by shaking and a thunderclap noise.

  The incident did not set off fire alarms, nor was it detected in nearby buildings in this mostly vacant industrial park at the west edge of town.

  A Gyttings-Lindstrom Magnetic Resonance Imaging machine is suspected of causing the explosion in Manzanita - two weeks ago Sunday - which claimed the life of one person and critically injured another. The company is using their Eugene facility to run experiments in an ongoing investigation of the Manzanita tragedy.

  Company officials were not available Sunday for comment.

  “French toast with powdered sugar, okay Dad?” Tyler said. The waitress drummed her pencil impatiently on the binding of her order pad, eyes fixed on Dad.

  “Oh, I’ll have the…uh…special omelet,” Warren stuttered. Why hadn’t Ilene told him she’d filed this story? His mind raced. Last night. How had he said it? “Maybe it’s best if Tyler doesn’t get the wrong idea.” Oh, shit. Wrong idea? Had he really used those words?

  “Sure,” she’d said flatly. This morning, when she’d come into their room, smartly dressed and ready to go, he’d said he couldn’t have a reporter along when he confronted Chalmais. “I’d kind of hoped you’d watch Tyler for me,” he’d said.

  She’d given him a wounded look which he should have recognized, but hadn’t.

  “Tyler,” she’d said stiffly, “don’t you want to go with Dad?”

  “Yeah!” Tyler had exclaimed.

  Over the course of the weekend he’d told Ishue everything he knew and she’d agreed to sit on it and she hadn’t broken her promise. That was good. Warren knew he’d be in big trouble for talking directly with the press. If it wasn’t grounds for dismissal, then at the very least it would go into his file like a malignant tumor, festering any chance he had for a promotion in this decade.

  No, Ilene had not broken her promise. She’d done her own investigative work, filed her little brief as she was expected to do. The story had gone out on the wire, picked up by interested newspapers, including, of course, the Eugene Register, whose reporters had pathetically missed it.

  She hadn’t told him about the story because he hadn’t really given her a chance, because he’d been a jerk. Several times during breakfast he tried calling but there was no answer in her hotel room and her cell phone did not respond. Warren called his office in San Francisco.

  “Of course I read the damn story,” Al said. “Along with everybody else in the United States. This is big news, Warren. People are worried about these machines and now they’re even more worried.”
>
  “They didn’t tell me they were going to run a test this weekend, Al.”

  “Did you ask?”

  “Point blank,” Warren said.

  “What have we learned then?” When Warren started to speak, Al interrupted: “Never mind! I need you to get in the laboratory and insist on observing the next test. If they give you any crap, tell them we’ll slap them with a federal warrant.”

  “Yes sir.”

  “We’re the lead agency on this thing, Warren. I need an eyewitness report from you on the very next live test.”

  “Yes sir.”

  “Josephson is going to send two agents up there Wednesday. You’ll brief them and cooperate with them.”

  “Yes sir.” Josephson was the Resident Agent in Charge of the Criminal Investigation Division in San Francisco. The agents enroute would undoubtedly outrank him and most likely start bossing him around the moment they arrived. Most of them were ex-military. Cops, not scientists.

  “Good boy.” Al hung up.

  “Are you in trouble Daddy?” Tyler asked, syrup smeared on his cheek.

  “Yes sir,” Warren said, handing him a napkin. “That’s for sure.”

  Chalmais leaned over the intercom and punched the talk button: “I said I didn’t want to be disturbed.”

  “I thought you should know,” his administrative assistant said, “the man from the EPA is in the lobby.”

  The vice-president tapped on the little joystick that controlled the lobby camera. “Who’s the kid with him?”

  “Yes Mr. Chalmais. His son, Tyler.”

  “How folksy. Brings the kid on field work.” Chalmais switched to another camera, which looked directly down at Tyler’s disheveled blond hair. He was drawing a picture on a sketch pad. Chalmais zoomed in and recognized the likeness of a monkey. “Have them wait for me in the atrium, Gloria. Get them away from those bloodthirsty reporters out there.” He watched the monitor for a moment to insure his order was carried out promptly, then he lifted his eyes to the people sprawled out comfortably in his plush office.

  “EPA?” Gill said.

  “Yeah. After that story in this morning’s paper I expected him back. Seems like a nice young fella, cooperative, kinda naïve, but he seems to know a lot about INFX.”

  “He made the connection?” Sara said offhandedly, nibbling on a spinach-filled croissant. “It was only a matter of time.”

  “Ah suppose,” Chalmais pondered. “That means the press is gonna get it soon. There’s only so much spin we can put on this thing. It’s best we move ahead with all available speed. Mr. Galtrup? How does Lab Three look?”

  “Like someone launched an ICBM through the middle of it,” Galtrup said, spread out on the loveseat, his head on one armrest, his knees hooked over the other. “Three days, maybe more.”

  “Then how does Lab Two look, Mr. Galtrup?”

  “The short bore rig? Should be ready to go by tomorrow.”

  “Make it tonight. From now on we’ll run our tests late at night just in case we shake things up again.”

  “The short bore is set for the chimp,” Gill said. “If we reset for rats…”

  “Let’s not do that,” Chalmais interrupted. “Let’s send the chimps through tonight.”

  “Ill advised,” Gill winced. “We know there’s a correlation between the explosion and the subject’s brain size. It would be irresponsible to jump from rats directly to chimps without more data. A lot more data.”

  “Lab Two is reinforced for the monkeys, Doctor,” Chalmais said harshly. “We used your calculations to do the work.”

  “Deverson’s calculations,” Gill corrected. The old professor had fried a lot of monkeys in that rural lab. “Too many variables. I’m just not that comfortable with a dead man’s calcs.”

  “Ouch,” Sara gibed, glancing skyward. “I can’t imagine it could be any worse then the Manzanita blast. Lab Two is contained for that magnitude explosion, isn’t it Gill?”

  Gill shrugged. “I thought so before the 204 test, but now I’m not so sure. I never saw Manzanita ground-zero.”

  “I did,” Sara offered. “The damage would seem consistent with Deverson’s estimates.

  “Great!” Chalmais said. “If that’s true then Lab Two is rigged to handle it and we’re good to go, yes?”

  Gill sighed. “I just want to go on record…”

  “Objection noted,” Chalmais snapped. “Let’s shoot for 9 p.m.” He checked his watch. “We’ve all got a lot to do between now and then, so if you’ll excuse me. Dr. Lomax, stay for a moment please.” He got up to escort the others out, adding: “Sara, I need you to be responsible for Mrs. Deverson. Could you go over and pick her up, have her here, in my office, by noon.”

  Sara nodded. “Okay, but aren’t you paying me a little too much to handle driving chores?”

  “She trusts you…and she’s worth it,” Chalmais said as he closed the door behind her and leaned his back against it. “I hope. How we lookin’ Abe.”

  “Well, I’ve been to hospices up and down the state, more than a dozen so far.” Lomax poured a coffee. “There’s no shortage of interest, Tony, but it’s a big jump from being interested…to actually volunteering for something like this. One hell of a big jump.”

  Chalmais sighed loudly. “I’ve got a video conference with Jim in a couple minutes and I’d hoped for something specific.”

  “I’m not saying it’s impossible, but we may have to relax our standards a little.”

  Chalmais moved back to his desk. “I’m gonna let you explain it to Jim,” he said, turning the camera and monitor to face Lomax’ chair. He pulled another chair close just as the phone rang. The image of James Gyttings shimmered to life, seated in a rustic, log-walled office.

  “I see you’re out at the ranch, Jim,” Chalmais said.

  Gyttings nodded, his expression neutral, pure business.

  “Abe, go ahead,” Chalmais said, turning sideways.

  Lomax cleared his throat. “You were right when you predicted the difficulty we’d have finding volunteers. Someone with a clear mind who can function without drugs…not so easy to find.”

  Gyttings leaned forward. “You’ve got no one?”

  “Not exactly. I’ve found an advanced AIDS patient, a 30-year-old man who insists his lover must be his passenger.”

  “Have they cleared the legal paperwork?” Gyttings asked.

  “Most of it,” Lomax responded.

  “I believe we promised Adel she would be first,” Gyttings said.

  Lomax and Chalmais exchanged glances. “Maybe we can talk her into waiting,” the doctor said.

  Gyttings said: “Keep trying to find her a passenger, doctor. We should prepare for the AIDS patients as well, but we’ll make the final decision later.” The two men nodded.

  “The modified 880 - or should I call it the Twin Tunnel - is almost ready. We won’t have time to fabricate nacelles for it so it won’t be very pretty, but we did dry-test it early this morning.” Everybody nodded for a moment. “Give me an update on the test schedule out there, Tony.”

  “We’re gonna solo a chimp tonight,” Chalmais said. “Then on Wednesday, we’ll tandem two chimps through our G-L 6. Maybe we’ll be ready for the Twin Tunnel this weekend or early next week.”

  Gyttings shook his head. “There isn’t time. Skip the solo chimp, go directly to the tandem experiment tonight.”

  “Gill isn’t going to go along with that,” Chalmais said.

  “I’m leaving it up to you to make him understand,” Gyttings scowled. “The tandem experiment goes tonight with or without Gill.” He paused to take a long, deep breath.

  “Let me sketch this out for you, gentlemen. Our stock has tanked 68 percent in the last 15 days, we’re up to our necks in cancelled orders, half the clinics who use our machines have ‘temporarily’ closed and the other half can’t buy a patient. The only good news? Our competitors are in a similar tailspin. GE announced massive layoffs yesterday at the Hartford plant. Siemens
is expected to close Dusseldorf this week. Matsushita and Samsung are tight-lipped as usual but we know they’re hurting just as bad.” He leaned forward, crossing his arms on the desk.

  “To make matters worse we’ve got the news media circling overhead, looking for any opportunity to ambush our research. And we have intelligence the EPA is stepping up their investigation.”

  “Understood,” Chalmais said sheepishly.

  “Good. We’re shipping the Twin Tunnel tomorrow. Assemble it quickly. Judging by the damage that goddamned little rat did to our test bed yesterday, we can’t afford a lab animal test of the Twin Tunnel. We’ll have to go directly to the main event.” Gyttings folded his arms and sat back in his big cowhide chair, collecting his thoughts.

  “We need hard data; proof the scientific community will buy. If we don’t get it this week there won’t be an MRI industry left to save. Abe, check your volunteers into the facility as quickly as you can. Be ready. Have options. Gentlemen…no surprises. No excuses.”

  Warren sat on the rim of a swimming-pool-sized planter, staring absentmindedly at the jungle of tropical plants. By resting his head on the seatback, he could comfortably watch the condensation form on the glass ceiling, and at the same time see some of the taller plants: bird of paradise, date palm, elephant ear. There were no magazines, no reading materials in the atrium.

  Tyler occupied himself for awhile sitting on the tile floor drawing animals in his book. A cow, a lion, a monkey. Then he went for a walk around the atrium, trying to find an unlocked sliding glass door or a gap in the drapes. Only one slider was open, the one through which an administrative assistant named Gloria had led them in. It opened onto a hallway decorated with framed photographs of the company’s MRIs. Tyler didn’t know what the machines were for, but since everybody was smiling in the photographs, maybe it had something to do with rides, like Disneyland or Six Flags.

  There were only two doors along the hallway, both restrooms, and a double door at the end guarded by a manned security station. That was the door to the lobby. The guard there watched Tyler expressionlessly. Tyler went into the boys’ restroom but he didn’t have to go so he looked around for about as long as it took to pee, then went back to the atrium where Chalmais was thumbing through his sketchbook.