City of Sand

by Robert Kroese

  “Anxious. No, excited.”

  “The first answer is usually the more reliable response.”

  Valerie thought for a moment. “I think it started excited, and then got more anxious toward the end.”

  “The end.”

  “When Jessica disappeared.”

  “How long did this go on?”

  Valerie shrugged. “A month? Maybe six weeks?”

  “Did you tell Detective Lentz about this?”

  “More or less,” said Valerie. “I told him about Jessica going outside to talk to Cameron Payne sometimes. Lentz wasn’t this thorough.”

  Benjamin nodded. This wasn’t the first time he’d heard that. Most investigators didn’t realize how much the average witness knew without even knowing they knew it. “The funny thing about people talking in hushed tones like that is that it makes you pay even more attention to what they’re saying,” Benjamin said.

  “Yeah,” Valerie said. “But I didn’t hear anything.”

  “Nothing?” asked Benjamin. “Not a phrase here or there? Or even a single word?”

  Valerie thought for a moment. “I got the feeling they were talking about money sometimes. I remember Jessica saying, ‘is it going to be enough?’”

  “Good,” said Benjamin. “Anything else?”

  “I don’t think so,” Valerie said. “Well, there was something she said that was a little weird.”

  “What?”

  “I mean, it’s not what she said that was weird, so much as the way she said it. Like you said, how your ears perk up when somebody starts talking all quiet. Normally I would have thought she was just talking about some web thing having to do with colors or browser settings or something…”

  “But it stuck with you, because of the way she said it.”

  “Right. Like it was some kind of big secret or something.”

  “What did she say?”

  “Just a word. It kept coming up. After a while I was listening for it, you know? A lot of times it was the only word I could make out.”

  “Valerie, what was the word?”

  “Glare,” said Valerie. “Like I said, it’s probably just a web design thing, but the way it kept coming up when she was…” Valerie trailed off, realizing that Benjamin was staring at her. “What?” asked Valerie, suddenly nervous. “Does it mean something to you?”

  “Did you say anything about this to Detective Lentz?” Benjamin asked.

  Valerie shook her head. “No, I just thought of it now. Should I have said something?”

  “No,” said Benjamin. “It wouldn’t mean anything to him.”

  “Does it mean something to you?”

  “No,” said Benjamin. “Not yet.”

  Chapter Six

  It couldn’t be a coincidence. Could it?

  Benjamin found himself wandering around downtown aimlessly, and realized that he was hoping to run into the strange homeless man he had encountered the previous day—the man who had muttered about being “blinded by the glare.” Did it mean something? Or was Benjamin finding connections where there were none, out of desperation to make sense of what had happened to Jessica?

  He didn’t find the homeless man, and once again his head hurt from being assaulted by the California sunshine. Finally he broke down and bought a baseball cap from the Walgreens downtown, which helped somewhat. He popped a couple more ibuprofen and had a tuna sandwich and a Diet Coke at a café, then returned to his car. Once ensconced in the warm Buick, he realized how exhausted he was. For all the sleep he had been getting, he felt like he’d been up most of the night. Feeling the need to rest his eyes for a moment, he leaned back in the seat—and awoke hot and sticky with sweat.

  The Buick’s clock said 4:25. He started the car, rolled down the windows and cranked up the air conditioning. What was wrong with him? He had no sensation of time passing at all, and he felt groggy and unrefreshed. He felt like someone else was borrowing his body and running up the mileage without his permission.

  Once the chill of the air conditioning had cleared his head a bit, he drove back to the motel, stopping along the way at Starbucks for another large coffee. At the motel he stripped off his damp clothes, took a shower and brushed his teeth. Once he had gotten dressed in clean clothes and downed half the coffee, he felt more alert, but now a low-grade anxiety had seized him, and the caffeine was not helping.

  For the first time since he’d arrived in Sunnyview, Benjamin felt truly alone. More than alone, he felt unmoored. The problem, he decided, was that Sunnyview was simultaneously familiar and foreign, like a stranger who is the spitting image of someone you once knew. The familiar served only as a reminder of how much had changed, how much was lost. His daughter was gone, and the conversations he’d had with Cameron Payne, William Glazier and Valerie Rocha made him think he’d never truly known Jessica in the first place. Their portraits of Jessica conflicted with each other, and none of them matched his memories. And in the end, thought Benjamin, what am I but the sum of my memories?

  What he really needed was some normal interaction with people, a confirmation that life went on outside the solipsistic trap he was building for himself. Benjamin hadn’t planned on attending Glazier Semiconductor Fiftieth Anniversary party, but now he began to think it might be just what he needed. Meet some people, have a few drinks, reconcile the Sunnyview of the past to the Sunnyview of the present. And maybe, in the process, learn something about the daughter he didn’t know as well as he had thought he had. In fact, now that he thought about it, he’d made a rookie mistake in his investigation of Jessica’s disappearance: he’d spend most of his time asking about her friends and employers, assuming that he had little to learn about Jessica herself. Maybe if he made an effort to understand her better, he’d have more luck figuring out how she’d ended up face down in a creek. It was too late to be a better father to her, but he might still be able to bring her killer to justice.

  He wasn’t sure what the appropriate attire at such a gathering would be; Silicon Valley was famously informal, but Glazier Semiconductor was one of the oldest companies in town, and presumably one of the most conservative. Benjamin hadn’t bothered to pack a suit, but he threw on a jacket and tie. As long as the party wasn’t a formal affair, he wouldn’t look terribly out of place.

  As it turned out, he was overdressed. William Glazier was the only person in the place wearing a suit and tie. Everyone else looked like they had just come from work or were on their way to a church picnic. The event was held in the Sunnyview social hall, which had all the glamor—as well as the acoustics—of a high school gymnasium. The venue’s primary virtue seemed to be its size; Benjamin estimated that there were close to a thousand people in attendance. Most of these were presumably Glazier Semiconductor employees, but even so, this had to be a very small fraction of Glazier’s workforce. Benjamin knew that over 2,000 people worked in the Sunnyview facility alone, and the company had another 20,000 employees worldwide. He guessed that it was only management that had been invited—or required, perhaps—to attend. The line workers who actually assembled and packaged the various electronic components Glazier Semiconductor manufactured were probably at home eating Hamburger Helper or Domino’s Pizza.

  A considerable amount of effort had been expended to transform the social hall into a shrine to Glazier Semiconductor’s history. Large speakers had been set up in the corners to treat the attendees to a wide variety of music that had been popular during Glazier Semiconducter’s early days. Bobby Darin’s “Mack the Knife” gave way to Doris Day’s “Que Sera Sera,” which was followed by Jerry Lee Lewis’ “Whole Lot of Shakin’ Going On.” Old black and white photos had been blown up into posters that were hung on the walls all around the hall, and a slide show of color photographs was being projected on one wall. Tables and chairs had been set up in one half of the hall, while the other half was left open to allow people to talk and mingle. Benjamin stood, holding a glass of wine, off to one side of the throng, where he had a good view of t
he slide show. Interspersed with the photographs were snippets of historical information about Glazier Semiconductor or Sunnyview. He realized after some time that some of the images were black and white photos that had been tinted; it had been so subtly and professionally done that he hadn’t noticed at first. Was Jessica responsible for that? An odd combination of pride and anger came over him. On one hand, he had to admire the technical proficiency required to make a black and white photo appear to have been taken in color, but on the other hand it irritated him that someone—even if it was his own daughter—would deliberately alter something from the past. His past. What gave her the right?

  And yet… the photos did look like the Sunnyview that Benjamin remembered. After all, his childhood hadn’t been in black and white; the photos were monochrome because of a limitation of the technology of the time. By adding color, Jessica—if it had been her—had actually brought the images closer to fidelity with reality. And it wasn’t as if Benjamin had some sentimental attachment to the original photos; he was fairly certain he’d never seen any of them before. So what logical objection could he have to the enhancement? Perhaps it was the introduction of the subjective into the photos: no matter how accurate the colorization had been, the artist had injected part of herself into them. Had that barn really been that shade of red, or was that the shade that Jessica thought it should have been? And why did it matter so much to Benjamin?

  He had hoped that the presentation would help him reconcile the town of his memories with what he had seen of modern-day Sunnyview, but the slide show left him feeling even more unsettled. The past was spilling over into the present, and the present was intruding into the past, giving Benjamin a sort of chronological vertigo. Making matters worse, the presentation was on an endless loop, repeating about every ten minutes, so that it seemed like the sleepy Sunnyview of his youth was transforming into its modern-day counterpart and then instantaneously regressing to its former self, a universe in microcosm expanding and contracting ad infinitum, ad nauseum. He was relieved when the slide show was halted and the emcee called for the attendees to take their seats.

  Benjamin found a placard with his name on it at one of the tables, and introduced himself to the people seated near him. He had to admonish himself for being surprised that he wasn’t sitting at William Glazier’s table; of course the seats near Glazier would be reserved for VIPs. Benjamin’s name had been added to the guest list at the last minute, and he was seated with a seemingly random collection of engineers and managers. Most of them made a point of mentioning their job title to Benjamin as he shook their hands, but Benjamin simply gave them his name. If they were curious as to who this strange old man was sitting at their table, they didn’t show it. After the introductions, they contented themselves with shop talk, seemingly oblivious to Benjamin’s presence. He had come here to get out of his head and connect with some real people, but he was beginning to think he’d feel less alone watching a movie on cable back at the motel.

  Eventually dinner arrived, and Benjamin pretended to be preoccupied with his chicken marsala while the engineers droned on. Just when Benjamin was beginning to think he couldn’t take any more talk of LEDs and integrated circuits, the music stopped and the emcee tapped the microphone to get the crowd’s attention. He thanked everyone for coming and introduced the CEO of Glazier Semiconductor, James Klassen, who spent five minutes giving a whirlwind tour of the history of the company, from its founding in an abandoned body shop west of downtown Sunnyview to its current status as one of the world’s biggest manufacturers of integrated circuits. Klassen then introduced a man who had been one of Glazier’s first employees, working for the company from 1953 to 1987. The man, who had to be in his nineties, gave a long, rambling speech about his experience at the company, in a thick Hispanic accent. Benjamin had difficulty concentrating on what the man was saying, and found himself staring at the man’s left hand, which was strangely smooth and hairless, as if it had been badly burned at some point. Benjamin heard the man say something about “giving a lot to the company,” and he wondered if the scarring on his hand was the result of a workplace injury. A moment of awkward near-silence, filled with whispers and murmurs, followed. The man hurriedly went on to talk about how grateful he was to the company and how much it had given him. He credited Glazier Semiconductor for making it possible for him to buy his house, and for scholarships that helped his daughter get through school. He continued to ramble until the emcee cut his mike and started clapping, prompting the crowd to break into applause as well. Benjamin felt a little bad for the old man, but the man bowed slightly at the applause and walked back to his seat with a smile on his face, apparently unaware of any indignity.

  Next up was William Glazier himself, who delivered an emotional speech about his friend Dominick Spiegel, who, besides Glazier himself, was the man most responsible for the success of the company. Spiegel and Glazier had worked together on projects funded by the military during World War II, and their work had laid the groundwork for the invention of the semiconductor in 1947. Spiegel, who had been a medical doctor before his expertise in X-Ray technology had gotten him recruited into the war effort, was the more personable of the two, but it was Glazier that had seen the commercial applications of the semiconductor—particularly the transistor, which was the foundation of all modern electronic components. Spiegel died in a car accident less than two years after the founding of Glazier Semiconductor, but William Glazier had done his best over the years to make sure Spiegel’s contribution was not forgotten. In particular, he had worked to honor Spiegel’s work at Sand Hill Children’s Hospital, a private charity that had been founded to care for orphans after World War I. Both Glazier and Spiegel had sat on the hospital’s board, and Spiegel spent hundreds of hours there doing pro bono work. In 1953, the year after Spiegel died, Glazier created a charitable foundation to build a new children’s hospital to replace the dilapidated building that used to sit on the edge of town, near Sand Hill Creek. Glazier’s intention was to name the new facility Spiegel Children’s Hospital, but Spiegel’s widow insisted that her husband wouldn’t have wanted his name on the building, so the old name—Sand Hill Children’s Hospital—continued to be used—even though the new hospital wasn’t near Sand Hill Creek. In 1965, Glazier published a book about the future of computing, which he dedicated to Dominick Spiegel. (It was this book, Benjamin recalled, that originated the concept known as Glazier’s Law: the prediction that the number of transistors on an integrated circuit would double roughly every two years.) In 1984, Glazier endowed a chair in Spiegel’s name at Stanford.

  In fact, as Benjamin listened to William Glazier’s speech, he began to feel that it was less about Dominick Spiegel and more about William Glazier’s devotion to the memory of Spiegel. It reminded him of the prayer of a televangelist who is more concerned with the approval of his audience than actual communion with the Divine. In twenty-four years on the Portland police force, Benjamin had seen a lot of self-absorbed, guilt-ridden monologues, and William Glazier’s speech damn sure fit the pattern. The question was: what was Glazier guilty about?

  Benjamin cast his gaze around the room, but saw no recognition of the oddness of Glazier’s speech in anyone’s eyes. Was this just how Glazier talked? Were these people just used to it? Or was Benjamin’s radar out of whack? He certainly hadn’t been himself lately, so it was quite possible he was hearing something in Glazier’s speech that wasn’t there. He’d learned to trust his instincts, but he was in a strange town, and he’d been under some pretty serious emotional duress. I’m tired, he thought. I should go back to the motel and—

  Something was wrong. The room had gone silent, and everyone was staring… at Benjamin. Had William Glazier said his name?

  “Come on up, Benjamin,” said Glazier, for what Benjamin realized was the second time. He felt a tightness in his chest. What the hell was this? Now the televangelist was doing altar calls?

  Benjamin looked around uncertainly. “I—” he started.
>
  “It’s alright, Benjamin,” said Glazier reassuringly. “We’re all family here. Jessica may not have worked with us long, but she was one of us, and that makes you family.”

  Benjamin found himself getting to his feet, and the crowd began clapping politely, smiling sympathetic smiles at him. Benjamin’s instincts were poised between fight and flight. He simultaneously wanted to run away as fast as he could and to throttle William Glazier until his eyes popped out. What the fuck did Glazier think he was doing? How dare he?

  If anyone else in the hall thought it was odd that a grieving father was being called up to speak to an audience of his dead daughter’s former co-workers, they didn’t show it. They were all supportive smiles and applause. Benjamin was at a loss about what to do, other than play along. As much as he wanted to tell Glazier to go fuck himself, that would only make the situation even more awkward—and certainly wouldn’t help his efforts to determine what had happened to his daughter. In a haze, Benjamin walked to the podium. William Glazier stepped aside, beaming warmly at him.

  “I’m not sure what you want me to say,” said Benjamin.

  “Whatever you like,” said Glazier. “We were hoping you’d say a few words about Jessica.”

  “Whatever I like,” muttered Benjamin, stepping up to the microphone. He was sorely tempted to give Glazier what he asked for. He wanted to tell the crowd about the time he’d taken Jessica to the county fair when she was ten. She’d eaten so much ice cream that she didn’t touch her dinner, and Benjamin had emptied her plate onto his when her mother wasn’t looking. He wanted to tell them about the conspiratorial glances and giggles they’d shared. He wanted to tell them that he loved that little girl more than anything, and he didn’t know what had happened to her. That he hadn’t lost his daughter yesterday or last week, but rather at some indeterminate point between Katherine being diagnosed with cancer and his drinking getting out of hand. That he would give anything just to go back and pinpoint the last moment that he and Jessica had shared any sort of connection.