“Jensen Lattimore himself?”
“No.”
“You’re certain he’s not behind any of the—”
“I’m certain,” she confirmed coldly. “When can we expect to receive your proposal, Mr. Tanner?”
I gave her the date of my birthday and told her I’d be in touch.
Comforted by the fact that at least part of the DigiArt project was bogus, I swung by a video store to rent some hardware, then picked up Fiona outside Pro Robics. She directed me down Queen Anne Avenue, then right on Aloha, then left and right again, then told me to park wherever I could find a slot. The street was West Olympic, the building was the Irish Apartments; I followed her to a unit in back.
It was cozy and dark, with hardwood floors and a redone kitchen and grillwork on the windows to fend off the fiends. The inclinations of the occupant were obvious—the living room walls were covered with Imogen Cunningham; the kitchen walls were covered with Edward and Brett Weston; the bedroom walls were covered with Fiona. When I asked if I could go take a look, she gave me reluctant permission.
She came in a variety of packages, from expensively framed enlargements to Polaroids glued to poster board to snapshots stuck around the edges of the dresser mirror. The poses were various, from formal to casual, stylized to realistic, somber to smiling, indoors to out, nude to swimwear, sportswear to formal attire. Fiona in all her aspects, Fiona everywhere, Fiona flagrant and coy and ethereal and enticing.
When I got back to the kitchen I was smiling. “Nice portfolio.”
“Thanks. Real or decaf?”
“Decaf.”
“Sumatra all right?”
“Some of my best friends are Sumatrans.”
She put the coffee in a metal filter. “Who did you want to be when you started modeling?” I asked as she waited for the water to heat.
“Cheryl Tiegs. She did fashion and TV, then got her own line of clothing and married a rich guy. Seemed like a perfect life.”
“How far did you get with it?”
“Not far. I started to outgrow the mold by the time I was eighteen. I starved till I was anemic and anorexic, and worked out till I had shinsplints and stress fractures, and still couldn’t keep down to a six. So I went on to other things.”
“Figure work. With a pass at smut along the way.”
She shrugged. “That’s life.” She finished with the foam and looked at me. “Why are you here?”
The bedroom display had rendered me foolish and fervid. I draped an arm across her shoulders. “Does there need to be a reason?”
She stepped away and lowered her eyes. “I think so.”
I snatched my arm back to my side. My face was as hot as the coffee.
“I’m sorry,” she said quickly. “I know I flirted with you yesterday, and you seem like a nice enough guy, but …” She shrugged. “I’ve screwed for a lot of reasons but there was always something. You know? I’m sorry,” she repeated.
“Don’t worry about it. It was dumb of me to think you’d be interested.”
“You’re upset.”
“No, I’m not.”
“Yes, you are. I led you on. I do that too much. I thought, well, I don’t know what I thought—that you were dangerous or something. A Bad Boy. Someone I could brag about to my friends—a romp with the private eye. But when the chips are down, that doesn’t seem to be enough.”
“It shouldn’t be.”
“I’m glad you understand.”
What I understood was that she’d been around beautiful bodies all her life and it was only natural that she couldn’t force herself to be interested in someone whose skin sagged and belly bulged and hair was speckled and sparse.
Fiona focused on the espresso machine for the next few minutes, steaming the milk, pouring a second round of coffee, giving me a chance to regain self-respect. When she was finished she looked at me. “If you’re going to be around, maybe we could go out once in a while. You know. See if something develops.”
“Thanks, but if things go the way I think they will, I’m leaving town tomorrow.”
She frowned. “What way is that?”
“I’m closing in on Nina. The key is a guy named Jensen Lattimore. Know him?”
“I’ve heard the name.”
“Every beautiful woman in Seattle has heard his name. Did his people try to recruit you?”
“Yes, but I didn’t play ball.”
“That makes you perfect.”
“For what?”
“Bait. I can’t get to Lattimore except by offering what he craves.”
“Which is what?”
I met her look and held it fast. “I’ve got a video camera in the car.”
“So?”
“I was hoping you would make a movie that Lattimore can’t resist. One that will make sure he sees me when I tell him I’m your representative.”
Her scowl was quick and damning. “I suppose you’ll be the art director.”
I shook my head. “I’ve got a tripod. Just set it up and do your thing. I’ll be back about eight for the tape.”
“Tell me why I should even think about this.”
I said what I had to say to win her. “Because if you don’t, Nina Evans may end up like Mandy Lorenzen.”
She paused for so long I was sure she was going to send me packing. “I can’t,” she said, and started to cry.
“It’s all right. I understand. You don’t do that type of—”
“It’s not that I don’t want to, it’s that I can’t.”
“What do you mean?”
“I can’t be what he wants.” With an angry jerk, she raised the hem of her shirt and showed me the scar on her belly. It was long and white and eerily phosphorescent, like the skin shed by a poisonous snake.
“Caesarean,” she murmured softly. “Eight months ago. The baby was choking; they needed to get it out in a hurry to save it.”
“Did they?”
She shook her head. “I hope you have better luck with Nina.”
CHAPTER 26
“What is this place?” she asks, nervous for the first time as she is led into a chamber dark all around with dusky walls and charcoal furnishings and black vinyl flooring.
“The Reality Room.”
“You mean virtual reality, don’t you?”
“I mean what I say. This room contains the only life I wish to live. What happens in here is infinitely more engaging than anything outside.” He giggles. “Forgive my intensity.”
She gulps a gift of air. “What do I have to do?”
“Sit in that chair and keep your eyes open.”
“I don’t wear goggles or anything?”
“We’re beyond such rudimentary instruments—this is an immersion chamber; the environment contains an image over 270 degrees of surface. Of course, a chamber like this is not optimal, either.”
“Why not?”
“It’s immobile—both the system and the user must be fixed for it to function. Resolution is less than ideal, also. Fortunately, that won’t be a problem much longer.”
“Why not?”
“The people at the Human Interface Technology Lab are working with Micro Vision to develop a retinal display that will be as mobile as a pair of eyeglasses.”
“How would that work?”
“A small headset projects a laser image directly onto the retina. The entire retina is occupied; there is no leakage. Reality is impenetrable; it follows you everywhere.” He laughs at his joke so she does, too.
“This thing is ready now?”
“Not quite. But soon.”
She looks around the room and experiences the zing of claustrophobia. “Where are you going to be during all this?”
He gestures with a finger. “In the command center, punching up the appropriate files. Ready?”
“I guess so.”
“Good. The first sensation you will experience is absolute darkness. Unless you’re a particularly adventuresome spelunker, it’s not a condi
tion one encounters often. But don’t be alarmed.”
“Easier said than done, I have a feeling.”
Lattimore disappears and she wriggles toward comfort in the upholstered chair. When the lights go out she discovers he is right—there is no visible distinction between having her eyes open and closed. It is disorienting and a little fearsome; she subdues a surge toward panic by pressing a fingernail into her palm.
Time drifts. She begins to think it’s a trick, that her plan has been divined and she has become imprisoned. Then comes a blast of light and roar of sound and she is surrounded.
By herself.
Her likeness is straightforward at first, posed in the various venues Chris selected for their shoots. The distinction is in clarity—she seems more real than real, her body more defined and dimensional than it appears even at home in her mirror. She is magnificent. She is overwhelming. She is omnipresent. She is also irritated that they have toyed with her so blatantly, but as the display progresses she begins to be transformed. She is fascinated, then amazed, then astounded. Within minutes, she is aware of nothing but her own evolution within a world she has neither visited nor heard about.
It begins subtly, her body lengthened, then shortened, widened, then narrowed, as though she has stumbled into the hall of mirrors, as though she has become a fluid. Colors cascade over and around and through her, reminiscent of the psychedelic light shows she has seen in sixties movies, to the accompaniment of acid rock. Then she is dissected like a frog, her legs, arms, and chest, and nose and ears and eyes become star players and take a solo turn, after which they multiply—suddenly she has six feet, four elbows, nine knees, a dozen breasts, a score of buttocks lined up like balls in a bowling alley. Then it becomes surreal.
Her parts are rearranged—nose in her navel, hands at her ears, eyes in her breasts, nipples on her knees. Then it turns bucolic. In the middle of a tranquil meadow, she emerges from the soil like a sunflower, as ratified as Primavera, a triumph of botany and bio-genetics. Solitary on a beach, she is engulfed by a roiling sea, becomes as much a part of it as kelp. Supine on a bright white rock, she seems entirely unaware that a tiny red rose has blossomed from the black grass of her pubis. Splayed on black pavement like a murder victim, she is suddenly aloft, drifting on a cloud, the world an irrelevance below her, her business that of angels.
She then becomes a tree, her face lined and solemn within the trunk, her arms laced into the branches, her legs thick roots that plunge into the loamy soil in search of sustenance. Then she is a car, her smile a chrome amusement. Then a fish. Then a bird. Then she becomes commercial. She performs a runway show of fashion, her attire ranging from strapless gowns to sassy shorts to a variety of enticing lingerie even though she has never worn such items in her life. Each costume change is instantaneous.
As it threatens to become too much, an overdose of improvisation, the chamber is briefly black, then lights come on and Jensen Lattimore is by her side.
“Well?”
“Amazing.”
“I thought you’d like it.”
“What are you going to do with it?”
“Sell it.”
“For how much?”
“Fifty bucks a disk, probably.”
“How many customers are we talking about?”
“A million, maybe.”
“So you’ll make fifty million bucks off me.”
“Gross. Yes.”
She laughs. “Now let’s see the good stuff.”
“What do you mean?”
“You know what I mean. The private stock. The stuff you keep under the counter that goes to the highest bidder.”
There was a message at the motel to call Chris Wellington. When I did, he asked if I could see him right away. I told him I had some business I was trying to set up for later that evening, but I would try to come by in the morning.
“If the business has to do with Jensen Lattimore,” he said stiffly, “then you won’t waste your time coming here first.”
I was headed for the door when the phone rang. “How’s it going?” Peggy asked, her voice faint and dejected.
“Okay. How’s it going with you?”
“Not good.”
“What’s the problem?”
“I don’t know. I’m getting to think I don’t know Ted as well as I thought I did.”
“This isn’t a good environment to make that kind of decision,” I said. “Emotions are too close to the surface. Wait till Nina is back in the fold and things have calmed down.”
“When do you think that will be?”
“With luck, by tomorrow.”
Her breath hissed like water about to boil. “What have you learned? Where is she?”
“I’m not sure I’ve learned anything; I’m just taking a flier in hopes of shaking something loose.” I hesitated, then blurted what had been on my mind all afternoon. “I’m trying to do the same thing you did six years ago.”
“What’s that?”
“Use a woman for bait in hopes the bad guy will be lured into the trap.”
She paused long enough to reprise that awful evening. “Well, I hope it works out better than last time.”
“I’m not confident of it.”
“Why not?”
“My bait’s not as good.”
She laughed a rueful chorus and told me to be careful. I told her that I’d gotten better at it since she’d seen me last.
I got to DigiArt in twenty minutes. Wellington was dressed in camouflage gear and his face was smeared with black greasepaint. He didn’t give me time to ask why.
“I’ve done something dumb,” he said even before I sat down. “You seem like the kind of guy who can get me out of it.”
I shrugged. “I’ve had some experience along those lines.”
“This particular brand of dumb put someone I care about in jeopardy.”
“Are we talking about Nina Evans?”
He nodded, then invited me to sit down, so I did. He asked if I wanted some coffee and I declined. I asked if he had any liquor.
He shook his head. “I’d prefer you keep a clear head,” he preached with a lump of self-righteousness.
“Why’s that?”
“I’d like you to help me this evening.”
I looked at his outfit. “Do what? Assault the post office?”
“Get Nina back from where I took her.”
“Where’s that?”
“Jensen Lattimore’s cabin.”
“The one in Issaquah?”
That slowed him down. “How’d you know about that?”
“Sources,” I murmured, as though I had counterespionage at my disposal. “As a matter of fact, I was planning to pay Jensen a visit myself if I could figure a way to get in. How’d you find Nina?”
“I didn’t need to find her; she’s been with me all along.”
“Where?”
“A condo in Madison Park.”
“You were living together?”
He shook his head. “We were working together.”
“On what?”
“A project for Mr. Lattimore.”
“Maybe you’d better explain.”
And he did—the exclusive arrangement, the condo, the secrecy, the video sessions, the breakthroughs that were behind it all, names like Electric Image and Silicon Studio that permitted tricks and capabilities with film and video even beyond those that Jeff Evans had told me about.
By the time he was finished, he had answered a lot of questions but not quite all of them. “If you cared about her, why did you take her to Lattimore?”
The twist in his face suggested he had already asked himself that and wasn’t proud of his answer. “She asked me to. She said she wouldn’t do any more work if I didn’t. She said if I didn’t take her she’d go on her own.”
“Why’d she want to see him? I thought she didn’t go along with the smutty side of the business.”
“Curiosity, maybe. Or maybe she was going to try to reform hi
m. Women do that, I’ve noticed,” he concluded dispiritedly.
“Why are you worried that something bad is going to happen?”
His expression turned grim and fearful. “Because Jensen Lattimore is insane.”
“Insane how?”
“He’s obsessed by women. Not women as people; not even women as sex objects—I think he may be a virgin, in fact. But he’s obsessed with women’s bodies and by what can be done with the female form after you scan it into a computer. The naked woman is a metaphor for everything he believes that cyberspace can be.”
“What does that mean?”
“Jensen grew up in an age when looking at naked women was wrong. Shameful. Immoral. I’m sure he got caught some time or another and was punished for his peeping. And I’m sure as an adolescent he got slapped for trying to go too far with girls he dated. Well, now he looks at naked women all day long.”
“He just looks?”
“And manipulates. He gets off on controlling every square inch of their flesh, which he can do the minute he digitizes it. The images he creates are symbols of his ascendance over the forbidden world of female flesh, of the obsolescence of old rules, of the reversal of roles. What he does is turn the tables. He makes women ashamed of posing the way he was made to be ashamed for looking at them back when he was shoplifting Playboys.”
“Is he dangerous? Voyeurism isn’t always violent; sometimes it’s even a palliative.”
“If he doesn’t get what he wants, he can be.”
“Has he harmed women in the past?”
“Usually he just threatens to embarrass them. Most of the time, that does the trick. But he’s got some thugs on hand in case it doesn’t.”
“He used those methods to raise money, too, didn’t he?”
Wellington nodded. “That’s how he got started. Back when he was trying to get financing for Lattiware, he and Richter lured the daughters of several prominent men into his web. He paid most of his start-up costs with the checks their daddies wrote to keep pictures of their darlings from being leaked to the skin mags or the tabloid media. But what was originally a blackmailing tool soon became an obsession. He kept manipulating women long after his need for money evaporated.”
“Did Lattimore kill Richter?”
Wellington shrugged. “I don’t know. He might have, if Richter threatened to expose his scheme.”
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