The Oculus Heist

by Alex Moss

  EIGHT

  A pale elderly man in a grey suit leans from the window of his brown sedan, and presses the door buzzer at the gate to the drive that leads to Doctor Xander Michael Grant’s home in the hills. He doesn’t have to say anything. There is a camera to identify him. The gates swing open far too slowly for anyone’s patience. The elderly man taps the steering wheel, hammers the throttle, and drives through, leaving about an inch on either side of the car as the gates are only half-open.

  Another brown sedan follows close behind. In this bright, gorgeous LA light, both cars seem almost golden in color. They are both unusual vehicles in the sense that neither shows the brand name of the car, both identical. They’re clearly American by design, but they could easily originate from a number of Motown automakers–a new model that nobody has seen yet, or an early stage prototype. They snake up a short, steep drive into a rotary where Xander’s white BMW X6 is parked up alongside his sleek, glass-and-steel home. The two sedans park on the rotary and the grey-suited man climbs out and a team of three other gentlemen climb out of the other and proceed to unload the trunk of their sedan, pulling out black polycarbonate cases.

  Two of the men are dressed smartly in a suit, while the third is more disheveled and intellectual - the same man that pitched Sainthood to Kenneth Molloy.

  Xander opens the door to greet them and waves them through and across the threshold to his luxurious home. He’s more presentable now, shaved, showered, and looking his best. It all seems an act. There’s still a hint of discomfort about him, unsure, uncommitted, and basically compromised in some way, and the pale elderly man senses it when he walks by and lightly taps Xander on the shoulder.

  He gives Xander a look.

  Not a comforting or friendly one, but more of a judgment call with delayed consequences. Xander lowers his head and looks at his feet.

  The pale elderly man is in one of the bedrooms with his team who are unpacking the black cases. The therapy patient is laid back in a semi-reclined bed. His mask is back on to cover his facial features, and his head is lopped sideways.

  The bedroom overlooks the valley, like the operating room, and sunrays cast swaths of light over the patient’s bed.

  He stirs and seems to bathe in the light, kicking some of the covers away to reveal his white gown with full-length sleeves, black chest and arm hair sprouting from the cuffs and neckline.

  “Would you like me to close the blinds?” asks Grant, entering the room, noticing the writhing, fidgety man in the ruffled bed.

  “No, you can leave them. The warmth is nice,” the patient replies in a deep, groggy voice that severs each word.

  The grey-suited man stands in the corner, as far from the sunlight as possible, propping the edge of one of the vast glass panels that make this house seem like a fish tank in a sea-life amusement park. He waits for his team to set up the equipment, which they are doing in a hurried fashion, connecting sections of a unit to makes up a white cylinder that looks like a large lampshade dangling from an adjustable arm, then lowered over the bed and the patient. There is a slim tablet to control the device and the suited guy taps away on this.

  Another besuited man lowers the cylinder, while the geeky guy approaches the patient, blocking the sun’s warmth. The patient senses it and remains still, his breathing uneasy. It’s clear he can’t see through the mask.

  “May I?” says the geeky guy. He holds the patient’s head and props it up a little so that the cylinder can be lowered over him.

  “What is happening?” the patient asks.

  “We just need to run a few tests.”

  “Tests. What for?”

  “To find out if the procedure was completely successful.”

  “Procedure?” The man is starting to panic, but he’s possibly too drugged to be physically unmanageable. Both men gently hold him by the arms and tell him not to worry about a thing.

  The pale elderly man glares at Doctor Grant. “He’s supposed to remember what therapy is and why he might need it. What’s going on?”

  “Don’t worry, sometimes long term memory takes a while to reboot in some subjects. It’ll come back to him.”

  The cylinder is lowered over the patient’s head and an array of LED light patterns strike up over its surface. It’s like a heat map, at first, static colors in square or oblong shapes, but then after a moment, patches of light seem to change color in waves as though it were a living breathing organism that mirrors the activity of neurons and synapses.

  “We are going to ask you a series of questions,” the pale elderly man steps forward into the sunlight and looks over the shoulder of the geeky guy with the tablet. Xander sits on a chair and stares at his shoes and fidgets nervously.

  “What kind of questions?”

  “The kind you won’t like.”

  “Okay.”

  “Okay? Why is that okay?”

  “Well, that sounds like something my mother used to say.”

  “Oh?”

  “The questions were never that bad.” He pauses. “Are these the questions? Has the test started?”

  “Yes, I suppose it has. How perceptive of you.”

  “You don’t need to flatter me.”

  “I’ll try not to.”

  “Hmm.”

  “What?”

  “You don’t sound sincere.”

  “I wasn’t trying to be.” He pauses, then, “Did you murder your wife and children?”

  “Excuse me?”

  The elderly pale man and the geeky guy pay close attention to the light patterns on the cylinder head unit and the data on the tablet.

  “Was that the kind of question your mother asked you?”

  “I—”

  “Answer the question. Did you murder your wife and children?”

  “I don’t understand the question you are asking me.”

  “Why don’t you understand the question?”

  “Because I love my wife and children. I wouldn’t hurt them, ever.”

  Xander Grant looks up. He’s eyeing for a reaction in the pale man’s face. Some hint of approval or a gesture of satisfaction, but both he and the geeky guy are still looking at the data.

  “So, it’s not that you don’t understand the question, you can’t comprehend why I am asking it?”

  “I guess.”

  “So what is the answer to the question then?”

  “Well, it’s no.”

  “No what?”

  “No, I did not murder my wife and children.”

  “That’s good. That’s great. You’ve done great.”

  “Why?”

  “We need to check in greater detail, but on the surface evidence, you’ve passed the test.”

  “I have a question.”

  “Shoot.”

  “When can I go home and see my wife and children? You know, the ones that I didn’t murder?” he quips.

  “You will never see them again.”

  “What?”

  “You will start a new life without them.” The pale man glances at Xander Grant in frustration. “He should remember this, Xander. Perhaps you were a little heavy-handed and inaccurate in the frontal lobe.”

  “Yes!” This is a resounding holler of proclamation. “Yes, I know. I remember. It’s coming back to me now. I am to become a Saint.”

  There is a sense of relief in Xander Grant’s face.

  The team have packed up, exiting Xander’s home, closing the door behind them. The pale man looks up to check Grant isn’t watching them and then nods at the geeky guy who pulls out a device from his trouser pocket.

  He steps over to Xander’s BMW X6, crouches down. and reaches under the side panel skirting to place the device on the car before stepping away to rejoin the others who are about to leave.

  NINE

  The neon str
eetlights of East LA are blurry green through the tint of Kenny Hackett and Tilman Greenberg’s black Town Car–easily clipping the hooves of wild horses as it weaves and waggles down Olympic Boulevard in the rain. They’re in a hurry, and for good reason. Stelson is unconscious on the back seat, laid out on clear plastic sheeting. His wrists are bandaged in bloody strips of bed linen. One sharp swerve lifelessly rolls him off the seat into the foot-well, his left arm wrapping awkwardly behind his back. His rib cage rises and falls.

  He is alive.

  “Where are we goin’ to get this done?” asks Tilman.

  “The beach. They’ll assume the gulls got to him first.”

  Kenny and Tilman grimace. The salty ocean air at dusk irritates their sinuses as they drag Stelson, his arms across their shoulders, head bowed, crucified–his toes carving out a track in the moist sand until they get ten or so meters from the shoreline where the gulls and sandpipers congregate. They drop him on his back and turn his head toward the setting sun. Tilman looks around to see if anyone is watching them. There are a couple of early evening joggers and dog walkers but they’re a long way off and heading the other way, south toward Santa Monica. Between here and Malibu they have some space and time to do what they need to do.

  “Another beautiful day in paradise.” Kenny pulls out a knife and admires the way the orange light reflects off the blade.

  Tilman kneels down and holds his middle and forefinger to Stelson’s carotid artery. He adjusts the placement of his touch and frowns and then looks at the blood-soaked bed linen wrapped around his wrists.

  “Didn’t he bleed out enough to die? The motel bathroom was like a halal abattoir.”

  “He ain’t dead?” Kenny asks.

  “No. The pulse is faint, but there’s a god damned pulse nevertheless.”

  “Shit.” Kenny is pissed. Kenny kneels down and gets a good look at Stelson’s eyelids that are firmly closed, a breeze blowing grains of dry surface sand onto them where they stick to the natural moisture of his skin. “We gotta kill him. The shock of the blade will see to that.”

  Tilman is not comfortable with Kenny’s malevolence.

  Kenny looks at him. “There are no borders anymore, Tilman. ” He hands the knife to Tilman and he takes it reluctantly. “That’s an order.”

  Tilman goes pale but he knows full well that he doesn’t have to do this. “Why don’t we just wait? He’ll die naturally if we just leave him.”

  “Ain’t worth the risk. Someone will find him first. You know the value of the items. What some folks will pay for them. Take a look and remind yourself.”

  Tilman peels back Stelson’s eyelids to look at those pale green eyes that are a locked window to the soul. But what does this contained energy and matter actually tell anyone about Stelson’s soul? It’s too different and unexplainable. Tilman’s face fills with a lustful greed that pushes Kenny’s buttons because he gladly wallows in this co-conspiracy.

  “Then you do it.” Tilman hands the knife back to Kenny.

  Kenny shrugs. “Ok. If you’re too yellow.” He takes the knife back and swiftly brings it to Stelson’s lower eyelid and gradually lowers the apex to a spot in which to start cutting–but as soon as cold metal touches skin, Stelson’s eyes turn molten and the odd shaped pupils adjust as they take in sun bursts millions of miles away. There is a resurgent life force here and it freaks out both Tilman and Kenny who take one look at each other and flee out of pure shame for what they were about to do.

  Sand divots are jettisoned in their wake.

  As soon as the sun dips completely below the horizon, Stelson blinks for the first time since this morning. His inanimate state draws the attention of scavengers. Small hermit crabs cross his eye line. One even dares to probe his dry, pursed lips. Stelson lets it and waits for it to move on. Gulls circle overhead and then dip in turn to make a better judgment of the body on the ground. This goes on for a while until the flock decides to land and gather a few meters away and it’s only the bravest birds that patter over to peck at Stelson’s legs just to goad a response. The others huddle down to sleep for the night.

  A long yellow beak comes out of nowhere on target for Stelson’s left eyeball–a lone dive-bomber. The shock causes Stelson to lunge and he flips over onto his chest with his head in the sand to protect his face. The lone gull is still going at him, lancing the back of his head and neck. Stelson pulls his knees to his chest and pushes himself up so that he is half standing and this finally spooks the bird, so it flies off to what seems like the moon.

  Stelson gazes out across the ocean. Taking it in helps his vigor and he gets up onto his bare feet. He licks a swollen finger and wets his eyelids and feels the wind which moments later gives him goose bumps. This is enough to taste the joys of living once again, so he turns and heads inland toward the distant beams of light trailing along the Pacific Coast Highway.

  He plods along the side of the highway with Will Rogers State Beach on his right shoulder. His progress is painfully slow and he has no intention of thumbing a ride. Not in this state. He resembles a younger version of the vagrant he bludgeoned to death the night before. With all the color drained from his skin, he is the walking dead and he knows that he either has a long road back to the living or a sharp right hand turn into the ocean and nirvana.

  The sun rises and sets twice more before he reaches Cedars-Sinai Medical Center on Beverly Boulevard. The time-lapse highlights of his journey are turtle-like in pace and look something like this:

  Cars swerving to avoid him as he crosses San Vincente Boulevard at 14th Street.

  Staring up at a moonlit cedar tree in the central greenway of the Boulevard.

  Watching a coyote take a crap on the ninth hole at Brentwood Country Club.

  Some apathetic middle-aged out-of-towners in an RV stopping to take pictures of him, exclaiming, “He’s so young,” and then driving off.

  Random drive-by lobs of Big Gulps, soaking him in Mountain Dew, Dr. Pepper, and piss.

  Finding an old pair of tennis shoes.

  Examining the cuts and blisters on his feet.

  Cutting the toecaps off the tennis shoes so they fit.

  Stopping to listen to a gaggle of vagrants spouting intoxicated nonsense at him and not letting him move on. The will is there, but not the energy to hurt them.

  Moving on. A broken bottle hitting him on the back of the head. Moving faster now.

  Passing Cedars-Sinai and looking up at the sign and crossing the street.

  Doctor Xander Michael Grant, wearing green scrubs, stands outside the entrance to the Cancer Center on Beverly Boulevard.

  His initials are as always gold monogrammed into the pressed cotton over his heart, silver hairs peeking out from underneath his maladjusted hair cap, and his specs are expensive–low profile titanium and carbon. He’s nimbly smoking a cigarette, swapping it from one set of bony fingers to another–but when he sees the gaunt and half-dead young man approaching him, he stubs it out and tenses up in a way that would suggest he knows what to expect.

  Stelson stops and looks at the still-glowing cigarette butt. “Naughty naughty.”

  “Bad habit.” The Doctor feels foolish.

  “Am I in the right place?”

  The Doctor looks Stelson over–a visual assessment of his health and he looks concerned for sure but he’s not going to be rushing to help anytime soon, because out of the corner of his eye he can see a brown sedan parked up about a hundred and fifty yards along on the left. He doesn’t look in its direction.

  “I guess that’s a no.”

  “How old are you, son?” Xander stays back and remains calm.

  “I know where this is heading so we’ll end it right here because you know nothin’ about me and what I’ve been through.”

  “So why the hell have you stopped to chat? My wallet, Rolex, and wedding band are not on my person.” He hol
ds out his arms in the same way Anna did when she was presenting him with the scars on her wrists.

  “I just thought you might be interested in me as a subject for research or somethin’.”

  Xander just wants him to leave, but he remains calm and lets things play out.

  “I bled torrents from the wrists for hours. I woke up on the beach ‘bout two days ago and I’ve made it here on my own without a helping hand. I should be dead.”

  “Yes, I guess you should.”

  “You don’t believe me.”

  “No, I believe you, but--”

  “But what?”

  “You are not that unusual. I’ve seen a lot worse.”

  Stelson seems deflated.

  “There are some blind men living in a commune in Redondo Beach whom you should go and see.”

  “Why?”

  “Because they were all here at different points in time, but they were all admitted in the same way. They were found bleeding from the eye sockets. Their entire eyes had been removed but they were still alive even after they had bled out half their body weight. It’s been said that they sold their eyes to a certain class of bidder. These blind men called it ‘therapy’.”

  It’s clear that Stelson is trying to take it all in but he’s too exhausted. “My eyes are okay,” he says.

  “They are more than okay. You need to look after them.” The Doctor looks concerned for Stelson. “Go home, son. If you’ve got one somewhere, and I hope you have because you don’t want to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

  “Been there, done that. Survived.”

  “Then you’ve been lucky.” The Doctor walks back inside the monolithic building. “Don’t even try to follow me inside. You won’t get very far, believe me. So go home, I implore you, and hide yourself away.”

  Stelson does, and the brown sedan doesn’t shift from its position down the steet. He continues onwards until he is standing outside the house that was his home in East Hollywood.

  His mother, Mimi, opens the door to Stelson. She looks him over in a similar fashion to the doctor at Cedars but there is no concern for his wellbeing. She half-smiles, satisfied that her son has been put through the ringer.