Okay, time to turn on my own little psychological autopilot and drive home. Actually, he didn't even think that, he just did it. For five years he'd been doing the same thing every single workday. Climb into the car. Drive home. Five years of habit. So he surprised himself when he stopped in front of the very house Black had wanted him to visit.
Hmm, Freudian slip, I guess. Freudian complete realignment of driving directions. Like a Freudian GPS. Whatever.
He pulled up to the house and sat in his car looking at it for a minute. Contrary to popular belief, despite its being a crime scene, it was not "toilet papered" with yellow and black police tape. It being an entire week since the latest mangled body was pulled from the place, there was no longer even a single news van parked illegally in front of it. The only clue that the place was a crime was a crudely installed hasp and lock on the front door, secured by a padlock. Well, that and the broken window in the front which made the lock the police had installed completely worthless. The broken window was very large, practically what one might call "French doors," and naturally, was not caused by the same events that caused the death. The broken window was just a bit of random mayhem, kids breaking in to wander around, drink in the lovely atmosphere of death and see if there was anything left to steal.
Zucken was a grey Camry with its door open parked in the driveway. That must be Black's. He got out of his car. I'm here, might as well see what game the damsel in distress is playing. Better than another night alone, anyway. Maybe he'd just give her the interview and take her to dinner. He walked up to her car and suddenly felt a little strange to be arriving empty handed. He almost felt like he should have a bouquet of flowers or a bottle of wine with him. It's been a long time since I've been on a date. A generation, an era. Flowers? Really.
He head a familiar ding-ding-ding as he walked up to the open driver's door. The key was in the ignition and the Toyota was politely complaining. Silly girl, she'll run down her battery. He reached in and took the keys out, then he closed the door. This really wasn't the neighborhood for this sort of carelessness.
He walked up to the house. A nice house, large, pinkish-beige stucco, shake roof. It had little turrets and rounded windows, a suburban house aspiring to be a Gothic-inspired Hobbit-hole.
- More to come ---
Sunday, July 6, 2008
Wednesday, July 2, 2008
We now interupt this blook to write a short story - Part One
"Look, I went over there and..." The voice on the phone sounded scared. Maybe not genuinely scared, but human, at least. "Come on, I'm a reporter. I'm trained to be skeptical. But it's just...It scared me."
Mark Zucken drummed his fingers on his desk and wondered why he had bothered coming to work today. The voice was only almost human, he thought, but not quite. Maybe snake. Possibly vulture. Could a snake and a vulture breed and create a viable offspring? Of course, how do you think Times reporter are born? Throw in a background of wolf too, the way these reporters loved to pander garbage science to a sheep-like public.
"Professor Zucken, are you there?"
"Sorry, I was wool gathering.” Ha, good one. Sheep. Wool-gathering. “What was your name again, Miss?"
"Constance Black. Anyway, Professor, I'm at the house right now, and there's just something about this place...I wish you come and, well, expose the fraud. That's why I called you. You're famous for debunking paranormal manifestations, and if could debunk this...well," she laughed a little. "If you could debunk this, I'd be relieved."
Hmm, famous. She called me famous. That was a bald attempt to get his help by stroking his ego. As a doctor of psychology, he could see through that ploy. As a post-pubescent high school graduate, he could see through it.
Of course, he was famous. Famous among crack-pots, that is. Crackpots who actually threatened, threatened, him, who would actually send him hateful, misspelled emails because they were offended by his attempts - mere attempts, mind you - to breath some sense into an idiotic public so bereft of meaning and logic that they just rush to believe any silly ghost story that happens along. It was just depressing. People got stupider and more gullible every year...he didn’t think it could get any worse until that one guy, that stalker, five years ago – Oh, God, what that stalker had taken from him? He was a different person before. But now he was a man who did not involve himself in any way with with paranormal anything.
Zucken tucked the phone against his ear with his shoulder and patted down his jacket pockets, looking for cigarettes. Constance was still talking, sounding more and more scared. What an act. She sure had a pretty, sexy snake-vulture-wolf voice, though. Ah, more inducements. Her apparent fear: an appeal to his male instinct to be a hero. And the sexy, young voice? Obviously an appeal to other male instincts. Did they teach this stuff in journalism school, or did she have a minor in marketing as well?
He searched his desk drawers. Two dead spiders and a dusty Baby Ruth bar wouldn't dare eat without first carbon dating, but no cigarettes. He snapped the desk drawer shut. He quit smoking last month.
Black was still talking. Wind her up and watch her go. Actually, it was pretty decent of her not to bring up what happened five years ago. Goodness knows, it had been in the papers enough; she must be aware of his history. Everyone was. Decent? No, wait. She’s just clever enough to know that bringing up that horror would completely alienate him. So she makes up some silly story and tries a different angle to get his help Yeah, yeah, she's at the house and she's scared. Well, if she were really scared, she wouldn't be at the house anymore, now would she? I ought to change my phone extension to a 976 number. If people had to pay to talk garbage to me, the world's sum total of garbage would be reduced.
He suddenly felt a bitter, black hatred stab at him. How dare this damn reporter? Of course, she wanted to interview him. She’d interview him as an expert on her the “paranormal” aspects of these murders, then she’ll sprinkle in the details of the murder five years ago. He almost could see straight for a second. So his private loss and torment was meant to provide entertainment to this lady’s readers? He put his head in his hands for a moment. His hands came away wet. Stupid allergies making his eyes water.
Black was still talking. No wonder bitterness was called “bitter”ness. He could taste bile on the back of his tongue.He cut Black off. “I know this can’t mean much to you, but six people are dead. Do you think it's decent to sell newspapers by puffing up some silly psychic angle?”
“Mr. Zucken, that’s now what I’m trying to do. Please help me—“
Since Constance Black wasn’t there, he had to make due with giving the phone his tradement contemptuous glance. Okay, he was back to himself again. Nicely acerbic, and all wounds healed.
Mr. Zucken, indeed.
“That would be Doctor Zucken, if you don’t mind, thank you. I simply don’t understand wy an educated woman like yourself would pander to a superstitious public. It's one thing when some old mom and pop hotel tries to drum up business by saying they've got a Civil War era..."
He paused a moment. Was there something wrong with her cell phone, or was she actually shrieking like a horror movie vixen? Oh, please. As his students would say, puh--leese.
"As I was saying," What was he saying? Oh, yes, "Saying you've got the ghost of a Civil War soldier, or even the ghost of a pregnant Flapper Girl who threw herself down a well, well, that's one thing, but these deaths, these horrible deaths ..."
Hmm. Actually, did he have a point? So it's okay to market some dusty tourist trap using old deaths, but it's not okay to sell newspapers using deaths that happened last week? Black would probably call him on that bit of fuzzy thinking. If she worked for The Times she wasn't stupid. She didn't sound stupid. Hysterical, but not stupid. Well, maybe a little. Moot point now. Her screaming had reached a crescendo during his peroration and now the phone was dead.
Screams and hangs up. Ooh, I'm so worried and anxious I just better rush over there and save her. What a hack. I'm going home.
--------------
Zucken headed out to the faculty parking lot and got in his red Miata. Sure, it was a midlife crisis car, he thought. He always that that when he saw his shiny car, but he loved it just the same. And why shouldn’t he have a mid-life crises? He was 44 years old. Let’s see, if this is mid-life, then I’m assuming I’m going to live to be 88 years old. How uncharacteristically optimistic. Zucken figured he was probably over due for his midlife crises.
He turned the key and the engine roared to life like it had waiting for him all day and was excited that someone was going to get to be driven. Zucken shifted gears smoothly; he was proud of his skills, although the drive home was so habitual he hardly needed to think about it. It was only just getting dark, still early evening. He’d head home to his home, cook dinner with Dina, help the kids with their homework and then head to the gym and work out. No, no. That was five years ago. Yeah, five years ago. He pressed his lips together and drove on automatically. He used to hate helping the kids with their math homework; it made him feel so inadequate. What he wouldn’t give to be doing some algebra tonight. Or, heck, they’d probably be doing Calculus by now.
Zucken turned on the car radio, loud. Time to stop thinking. It made his allergies act up.
Mark Zucken drummed his fingers on his desk and wondered why he had bothered coming to work today. The voice was only almost human, he thought, but not quite. Maybe snake. Possibly vulture. Could a snake and a vulture breed and create a viable offspring? Of course, how do you think Times reporter are born? Throw in a background of wolf too, the way these reporters loved to pander garbage science to a sheep-like public.
"Professor Zucken, are you there?"
"Sorry, I was wool gathering.” Ha, good one. Sheep. Wool-gathering. “What was your name again, Miss?"
"Constance Black. Anyway, Professor, I'm at the house right now, and there's just something about this place...I wish you come and, well, expose the fraud. That's why I called you. You're famous for debunking paranormal manifestations, and if could debunk this...well," she laughed a little. "If you could debunk this, I'd be relieved."
Hmm, famous. She called me famous. That was a bald attempt to get his help by stroking his ego. As a doctor of psychology, he could see through that ploy. As a post-pubescent high school graduate, he could see through it.
Of course, he was famous. Famous among crack-pots, that is. Crackpots who actually threatened, threatened, him, who would actually send him hateful, misspelled emails because they were offended by his attempts - mere attempts, mind you - to breath some sense into an idiotic public so bereft of meaning and logic that they just rush to believe any silly ghost story that happens along. It was just depressing. People got stupider and more gullible every year...he didn’t think it could get any worse until that one guy, that stalker, five years ago – Oh, God, what that stalker had taken from him? He was a different person before. But now he was a man who did not involve himself in any way with with paranormal anything.
Zucken tucked the phone against his ear with his shoulder and patted down his jacket pockets, looking for cigarettes. Constance was still talking, sounding more and more scared. What an act. She sure had a pretty, sexy snake-vulture-wolf voice, though. Ah, more inducements. Her apparent fear: an appeal to his male instinct to be a hero. And the sexy, young voice? Obviously an appeal to other male instincts. Did they teach this stuff in journalism school, or did she have a minor in marketing as well?
He searched his desk drawers. Two dead spiders and a dusty Baby Ruth bar wouldn't dare eat without first carbon dating, but no cigarettes. He snapped the desk drawer shut. He quit smoking last month.
Black was still talking. Wind her up and watch her go. Actually, it was pretty decent of her not to bring up what happened five years ago. Goodness knows, it had been in the papers enough; she must be aware of his history. Everyone was. Decent? No, wait. She’s just clever enough to know that bringing up that horror would completely alienate him. So she makes up some silly story and tries a different angle to get his help Yeah, yeah, she's at the house and she's scared. Well, if she were really scared, she wouldn't be at the house anymore, now would she? I ought to change my phone extension to a 976 number. If people had to pay to talk garbage to me, the world's sum total of garbage would be reduced.
He suddenly felt a bitter, black hatred stab at him. How dare this damn reporter? Of course, she wanted to interview him. She’d interview him as an expert on her the “paranormal” aspects of these murders, then she’ll sprinkle in the details of the murder five years ago. He almost could see straight for a second. So his private loss and torment was meant to provide entertainment to this lady’s readers? He put his head in his hands for a moment. His hands came away wet. Stupid allergies making his eyes water.
Black was still talking. No wonder bitterness was called “bitter”ness. He could taste bile on the back of his tongue.He cut Black off. “I know this can’t mean much to you, but six people are dead. Do you think it's decent to sell newspapers by puffing up some silly psychic angle?”
“Mr. Zucken, that’s now what I’m trying to do. Please help me—“
Since Constance Black wasn’t there, he had to make due with giving the phone his tradement contemptuous glance. Okay, he was back to himself again. Nicely acerbic, and all wounds healed.
Mr. Zucken, indeed.
“That would be Doctor Zucken, if you don’t mind, thank you. I simply don’t understand wy an educated woman like yourself would pander to a superstitious public. It's one thing when some old mom and pop hotel tries to drum up business by saying they've got a Civil War era..."
He paused a moment. Was there something wrong with her cell phone, or was she actually shrieking like a horror movie vixen? Oh, please. As his students would say, puh--leese.
"As I was saying," What was he saying? Oh, yes, "Saying you've got the ghost of a Civil War soldier, or even the ghost of a pregnant Flapper Girl who threw herself down a well, well, that's one thing, but these deaths, these horrible deaths ..."
Hmm. Actually, did he have a point? So it's okay to market some dusty tourist trap using old deaths, but it's not okay to sell newspapers using deaths that happened last week? Black would probably call him on that bit of fuzzy thinking. If she worked for The Times she wasn't stupid. She didn't sound stupid. Hysterical, but not stupid. Well, maybe a little. Moot point now. Her screaming had reached a crescendo during his peroration and now the phone was dead.
Screams and hangs up. Ooh, I'm so worried and anxious I just better rush over there and save her. What a hack. I'm going home.
--------------
Zucken headed out to the faculty parking lot and got in his red Miata. Sure, it was a midlife crisis car, he thought. He always that that when he saw his shiny car, but he loved it just the same. And why shouldn’t he have a mid-life crises? He was 44 years old. Let’s see, if this is mid-life, then I’m assuming I’m going to live to be 88 years old. How uncharacteristically optimistic. Zucken figured he was probably over due for his midlife crises.
He turned the key and the engine roared to life like it had waiting for him all day and was excited that someone was going to get to be driven. Zucken shifted gears smoothly; he was proud of his skills, although the drive home was so habitual he hardly needed to think about it. It was only just getting dark, still early evening. He’d head home to his home, cook dinner with Dina, help the kids with their homework and then head to the gym and work out. No, no. That was five years ago. Yeah, five years ago. He pressed his lips together and drove on automatically. He used to hate helping the kids with their math homework; it made him feel so inadequate. What he wouldn’t give to be doing some algebra tonight. Or, heck, they’d probably be doing Calculus by now.
Zucken turned on the car radio, loud. Time to stop thinking. It made his allergies act up.
Monday, June 30, 2008
Chapter 10
The early afternoon sun glowed its way through Brian's light blue Oxford shirt. He'd abandoned his coat and tie in the backseat of one of the police cruisers. He was on his third packet of Odorscreen. None of the other cops had taken him up on his offer of sunscreen, but his extra Odorscreen packets had temporarily made him the most popular detective on the force.
He watched the evidence technicians carefully gather up soil from around the body in the pit. The coroner's wagon would be there soon to pick up the body. There had been a delay of two hours because by the time the police were ready to have the body taken away the Medical Examiner's office was in the middle of their shift change.
The lieutenant had arrived around noon. He was keeping a discreet and upwind distance from the body. Brian stood in the sun and half listened to the sergeant explaining to him what they'd found.
"You can see needle still sticking out of his arm, right there." He pointed, although they were too far away to see. "He's like a moment frozen in time. He must have OD'd and his friends buried him here."
"'First time I've ever seen that."
"Yeah, that's pretty, um, consciencious of his friends. It's not like they had to dig a whole. There was a natural crack or crag in the earth here, they just had to cover him up."
"'Still pretty unusual. Druggies usually leave their friends just wherever. They don't call an ambulance when they OD and they're still alive. They sure don't bury then when they."
"Well, maybe he got a little bit of help OD'ing."
Brian tuned out their conversation and listened to the two beat cops he'd given the Odorscreen to. They were standing right by the pit.
"The maggots had a field day with this one, they sorta wriggled this body half-way out of its clothes. See the white down there in his lap? That his bones."
"Yeah, I see it. What a mess."
"D'you hear Gene found a body in a van last week?"
"Yeah, I heard. It was an OD like this, right?"
"Yeah, another dumb-ass hype, but not like this. Gene's was fresh. The van was parked in back of a pizza place. hype was living in his van, and he was sitting down when he OD and he sort of slumped over when he died..."
The other cop made a face, he knew what was coming.
"...So when the M.E. guys moved him, man, his face looked like a pizza. And with the pizza smell coming from the building, oh, damn, I almost lost my lunch." They chuckled.
"What did Gene do when he found him?"
"That guy is so stupid. He probably saw the hype sitting up in the van was all like 'get out of the car!"
"Yeah, he'd be the only one who'd bring in a dead body on a resisting arrest charge."
"Yeah, he'd try to put cuffs on him and his arm would fall off." They started laughing. A little whistling past the graveyard. They saw Brian; they usually weren't as friendly with him, but the Odorscreen had put them in a good mood.
"Hey, Brian, take a look at this guy." He pointed to an open gym bag next to the corpse in the ditch. "He's got all his works in nice, neat plastic bag. A little box of hypodermic needles, a bottle of rubbing alcohol, cotton swabs in a ziplock. His clothes are all nicely folded. This guy was like the Martha Stewart of hypes. "
Brian stared down at the body. Something wasn't right. He looked at the exposed bones of the pelvis where decomposition and insect activity had almost completly exposed the bone. In contrast, the arms were almost pristine. The parts of the arms closest to the ground were black from pooled blood, of course, but the rest of the skin was only slightly green and barely puffy from the gasses of decomposition. The arms must have gotten splashed with the bleach. That would explain their condition. But something wasn't right.
"Hey, look, the guy had good taste in cars. There's a '72 Oldsmobile 442 mechanics manual in his bad. 'Looks like a couple other manuals too." The cop leaned over a little, but he couldn't read the names of the other manuals, but he notice something else, and the two joking cops grew as quiet as Brian, as quiet as the body in the pit.
This guy didn't work on cars. There was no grease on his small hands. There were no track marks on his arms. And his bare pelvis showed a large oval-shaped pelvic opening.
The wise-cracking old cop swayed a little in the dry, afternoon sun.
"This is a girl."
He watched the evidence technicians carefully gather up soil from around the body in the pit. The coroner's wagon would be there soon to pick up the body. There had been a delay of two hours because by the time the police were ready to have the body taken away the Medical Examiner's office was in the middle of their shift change.
The lieutenant had arrived around noon. He was keeping a discreet and upwind distance from the body. Brian stood in the sun and half listened to the sergeant explaining to him what they'd found.
"You can see needle still sticking out of his arm, right there." He pointed, although they were too far away to see. "He's like a moment frozen in time. He must have OD'd and his friends buried him here."
"'First time I've ever seen that."
"Yeah, that's pretty, um, consciencious of his friends. It's not like they had to dig a whole. There was a natural crack or crag in the earth here, they just had to cover him up."
"'Still pretty unusual. Druggies usually leave their friends just wherever. They don't call an ambulance when they OD and they're still alive. They sure don't bury then when they."
"Well, maybe he got a little bit of help OD'ing."
Brian tuned out their conversation and listened to the two beat cops he'd given the Odorscreen to. They were standing right by the pit.
"The maggots had a field day with this one, they sorta wriggled this body half-way out of its clothes. See the white down there in his lap? That his bones."
"Yeah, I see it. What a mess."
"D'you hear Gene found a body in a van last week?"
"Yeah, I heard. It was an OD like this, right?"
"Yeah, another dumb-ass hype, but not like this. Gene's was fresh. The van was parked in back of a pizza place. hype was living in his van, and he was sitting down when he OD and he sort of slumped over when he died..."
The other cop made a face, he knew what was coming.
"...So when the M.E. guys moved him, man, his face looked like a pizza. And with the pizza smell coming from the building, oh, damn, I almost lost my lunch." They chuckled.
"What did Gene do when he found him?"
"That guy is so stupid. He probably saw the hype sitting up in the van was all like 'get out of the car!"
"Yeah, he'd be the only one who'd bring in a dead body on a resisting arrest charge."
"Yeah, he'd try to put cuffs on him and his arm would fall off." They started laughing. A little whistling past the graveyard. They saw Brian; they usually weren't as friendly with him, but the Odorscreen had put them in a good mood.
"Hey, Brian, take a look at this guy." He pointed to an open gym bag next to the corpse in the ditch. "He's got all his works in nice, neat plastic bag. A little box of hypodermic needles, a bottle of rubbing alcohol, cotton swabs in a ziplock. His clothes are all nicely folded. This guy was like the Martha Stewart of hypes. "
Brian stared down at the body. Something wasn't right. He looked at the exposed bones of the pelvis where decomposition and insect activity had almost completly exposed the bone. In contrast, the arms were almost pristine. The parts of the arms closest to the ground were black from pooled blood, of course, but the rest of the skin was only slightly green and barely puffy from the gasses of decomposition. The arms must have gotten splashed with the bleach. That would explain their condition. But something wasn't right.
"Hey, look, the guy had good taste in cars. There's a '72 Oldsmobile 442 mechanics manual in his bad. 'Looks like a couple other manuals too." The cop leaned over a little, but he couldn't read the names of the other manuals, but he notice something else, and the two joking cops grew as quiet as Brian, as quiet as the body in the pit.
This guy didn't work on cars. There was no grease on his small hands. There were no track marks on his arms. And his bare pelvis showed a large oval-shaped pelvic opening.
The wise-cracking old cop swayed a little in the dry, afternoon sun.
"This is a girl."
Chapter 8.5
Geena, Jeffries and White walked across the parched, dry dessert of the old military base. Graceless, regimented streets, dreary beige and white buildings, lots of space where there once was poorly-tended grass and were now dried up weeds. It looked like any other closed based in the country. There still remained the traces of expectancy, of the youth and even the excitement that was once there. Cheap base housing - duplexes that were once alive with young families. Wide streets that big trucks and jeeps once rumbled down. The atmosphere was still evocated. It brought back memories for White. It was alien to Geena, and, of course, it meant nothing to Jeffries.
They were walking slowly, from the parking lot to a giant hanger some distance away. Slowly, for the benefit of Geena, who was pregnant. Jeffries walked just a little ahead, Geena and White behind. White's body was turned toward Geena as he walked, in a protective, solicitous posture. His arm hovered behind the small of her back, as if he wished to support her but had too awe of her pregnant state to dare touch her.
A construction crew was at work. The threesome could see their trucks parked around the hanger, and could hear very faint noises of the work they were doing.
White was relieved when they walked into the shadow of the hanger, and some moments later, when they actually entered the huge structure, he relaxed and dropped his hand to his side. The three found some aluminum chairs and sat down near the great open doors. It was cool there.
They talked about the plans for the construction of what would be a combination maternity ward, school and laboratory.
"Are you excited, darling?" Jeffries patted Geena's swollen stomach. She put a loving hand over his and clicked their wedding rings together.
"To think, this place was once devoted to war. And now it's going to be devoted to creating a new type of human, one that will help us evolve past war."
Jeffries gave her a heartfelt- and genuine-looking smile. "Of course that's our plan, but don't let any of the brass hear you talking like that. The Army is funding us to create a super soldier, not a super peace-maker."
She smiled back. It felt good to be pregnant. Tired and sore and clumbsy, but good to be the mother of something really wonderful and special. She put her right hand over her husband's hand and reached out her left to Dr. White. It was a good day.
A large truck pulled up to the far side of hanger doors. Geena, White and Jeffries watched the workmen unload several room-sized, heavily reinforced animal cages.
They were walking slowly, from the parking lot to a giant hanger some distance away. Slowly, for the benefit of Geena, who was pregnant. Jeffries walked just a little ahead, Geena and White behind. White's body was turned toward Geena as he walked, in a protective, solicitous posture. His arm hovered behind the small of her back, as if he wished to support her but had too awe of her pregnant state to dare touch her.
A construction crew was at work. The threesome could see their trucks parked around the hanger, and could hear very faint noises of the work they were doing.
White was relieved when they walked into the shadow of the hanger, and some moments later, when they actually entered the huge structure, he relaxed and dropped his hand to his side. The three found some aluminum chairs and sat down near the great open doors. It was cool there.
They talked about the plans for the construction of what would be a combination maternity ward, school and laboratory.
"Are you excited, darling?" Jeffries patted Geena's swollen stomach. She put a loving hand over his and clicked their wedding rings together.
"To think, this place was once devoted to war. And now it's going to be devoted to creating a new type of human, one that will help us evolve past war."
Jeffries gave her a heartfelt- and genuine-looking smile. "Of course that's our plan, but don't let any of the brass hear you talking like that. The Army is funding us to create a super soldier, not a super peace-maker."
She smiled back. It felt good to be pregnant. Tired and sore and clumbsy, but good to be the mother of something really wonderful and special. She put her right hand over her husband's hand and reached out her left to Dr. White. It was a good day.
A large truck pulled up to the far side of hanger doors. Geena, White and Jeffries watched the workmen unload several room-sized, heavily reinforced animal cages.
Thursday, June 26, 2008
Chapter 9
“So, how is Chapman doing?” Faber spoke without turning his eyes from the wheel. His mother had taught him the importance making of eye contact when speaking, and the importance of not making it while driving a car.
“Oh, just fine, just fine. He’s all grown up now.” Becky really didn’t know what to say. She was always startled when Faber asked about Chapman. They’d never even seen each other, but Becky had once mentioned that there was a little boy Faber’s age living at the laboratory, and Faber had occassionally asked after him ever since.
“Maybe I can finally meet him when we get to the lab.”
“Uh, huh,” Becky said non-commitally. Fat chance, she thought. She would never allow the two to meet; she’d kept the two apart for the last thirty years; she wasn’t going to introduce them now. Chapman was the last person she’d want to introduce to anyone. She loved him, but he was not a good person to know.
Faber turned the pickup onto the last stretch of empty road and they finally arrived at the laboratory. It was a long, steel building, a huge old Quonset hut. It looked like a gigantic tin can half-buried on its side in the desert, dome-shaped from the front, rectangular from the back. The inside of the building was a sharp contrast to the dusty outside. Skylights in the roof let in a filtered light that, augmented with cunningly arrayed artificial lights, fed and illuminated a maze of ornamental trees and hanging and potted plants. Stepping into the building, one almost had a feeling that one was stepping outside instead of going inside. The carpet was green and the rows and rows of office cubicles almost looked like a Pueblo village. A village abadoned by everyone except a lone security guard. No one worked on this floor. All the operations took place far underground.
The guard greeted Becky and nodded to Faber as they headed toward the elevator. Down five stories. The Quonset hut sat above an old missile silo. It was wonderfully cool and quiet in the laboratory and the linoleum and acid green walls of its Army days had been redecorated; it was now all gleaming white, brushed steel and chrome. Sterile, but in a stylish way. Lights set near the floor washed the walls with a pearly glow.
They headed down a moodily-lit corridor toward Becky’s office. Becky stopped for a moment and picked up a piece of paper from the floor. Faber looked over her shoulder to see what it was. In the barren glamor of the hallway, it was fascinating to see a piece of trash. So out of place, as if it might carry some significance.
They both shrugged when they saw what it was.
“It must have fallen out of Joe’s pocket,” Becky said. Joe was the security guard. “I guess his wife must have sent him shopping.”
“I guess they’ve got a lot of washing to do, Mom.” They chuckled. It was almost humorous, and they needed humor. They were both worried about the source of the blood. That’s what they were there for. Faber crumpled the paper and put it in his pocket. He’s throw it away when he came across a garbage can. It was just a grocery store receipt for three gallons of bleach.
“Oh, just fine, just fine. He’s all grown up now.” Becky really didn’t know what to say. She was always startled when Faber asked about Chapman. They’d never even seen each other, but Becky had once mentioned that there was a little boy Faber’s age living at the laboratory, and Faber had occassionally asked after him ever since.
“Maybe I can finally meet him when we get to the lab.”
“Uh, huh,” Becky said non-commitally. Fat chance, she thought. She would never allow the two to meet; she’d kept the two apart for the last thirty years; she wasn’t going to introduce them now. Chapman was the last person she’d want to introduce to anyone. She loved him, but he was not a good person to know.
Faber turned the pickup onto the last stretch of empty road and they finally arrived at the laboratory. It was a long, steel building, a huge old Quonset hut. It looked like a gigantic tin can half-buried on its side in the desert, dome-shaped from the front, rectangular from the back. The inside of the building was a sharp contrast to the dusty outside. Skylights in the roof let in a filtered light that, augmented with cunningly arrayed artificial lights, fed and illuminated a maze of ornamental trees and hanging and potted plants. Stepping into the building, one almost had a feeling that one was stepping outside instead of going inside. The carpet was green and the rows and rows of office cubicles almost looked like a Pueblo village. A village abadoned by everyone except a lone security guard. No one worked on this floor. All the operations took place far underground.
The guard greeted Becky and nodded to Faber as they headed toward the elevator. Down five stories. The Quonset hut sat above an old missile silo. It was wonderfully cool and quiet in the laboratory and the linoleum and acid green walls of its Army days had been redecorated; it was now all gleaming white, brushed steel and chrome. Sterile, but in a stylish way. Lights set near the floor washed the walls with a pearly glow.
They headed down a moodily-lit corridor toward Becky’s office. Becky stopped for a moment and picked up a piece of paper from the floor. Faber looked over her shoulder to see what it was. In the barren glamor of the hallway, it was fascinating to see a piece of trash. So out of place, as if it might carry some significance.
They both shrugged when they saw what it was.
“It must have fallen out of Joe’s pocket,” Becky said. Joe was the security guard. “I guess his wife must have sent him shopping.”
“I guess they’ve got a lot of washing to do, Mom.” They chuckled. It was almost humorous, and they needed humor. They were both worried about the source of the blood. That’s what they were there for. Faber crumpled the paper and put it in his pocket. He’s throw it away when he came across a garbage can. It was just a grocery store receipt for three gallons of bleach.
Wednesday, June 25, 2008
Chapter 8
Becky and Faber raced along the desert highway toward the lab. They were in Faber’s pickup truck. It was a little beaten up; it was in full use at the sanctuary, but it was clean. Faber was a careful driver. Not macho, not careless, fast enough to not drive people crazy, but not fast enough to be a menace. Despite his seemingly dangerous lifestyle, he did not take unnecessary risks.
It was still early morning and they were driving into the rising sun. Becky’s felt wired. Too much caffeine and too little sleep, and now the mystery of the blood. She felt like the inside of her head was dusty and eyes were sandy and dry.
The blood. The lab. That place had always been a place of menace. Hope, dreams, love…and menace. Becky looked over at Faber. Such a large and handsome man, long arms, long legs, deeply tanned skin. Intelligent, successful and kind. Becky’s heart filled with pride, and just as quickly the fear rose up in her. Why was motherly pride always followed by motherly fear?
She looked at the spot on her sleeve and thought about Faber’s tasting it to determine it was blood. She wanted to scold him, but he’d been careful and no one had seen him. She tried to be worried that he might have exposed himself to HIV or Hepatitis C, but as a scientist she knew those diseases were caused by blood-to-blood contact and that he was not in any realistic danger. But what if it had been a toxic substance on her sleeve? He couldn’t just going around tasting unknown substances. What if it were lead or mercury or some other poison. She turned to him and started to speak, then turned away. That wasn’t what she was worried.
Why did she let Faber drive her to the lab to investigate a stupid bloodspot? She shouldn’t have worked all night. The lack of sleep had decimated her judgment. She looked at the bloodspot again. Whatever caused it was no minor thing. She knew that. The terrible, decades long menace of that laboratory told her that. She had a feeling that something was happening, something that had been in the works for a very long time. But whatever it was, whatever danger there was, did not compare to the harm that might come to Faber at the laboratory. Not physical harm, but mental harm. They say knowledge is power, but there is some knowledge a mother will do anything to prevent her child from acquiring.
It was still early morning and they were driving into the rising sun. Becky’s felt wired. Too much caffeine and too little sleep, and now the mystery of the blood. She felt like the inside of her head was dusty and eyes were sandy and dry.
The blood. The lab. That place had always been a place of menace. Hope, dreams, love…and menace. Becky looked over at Faber. Such a large and handsome man, long arms, long legs, deeply tanned skin. Intelligent, successful and kind. Becky’s heart filled with pride, and just as quickly the fear rose up in her. Why was motherly pride always followed by motherly fear?
She looked at the spot on her sleeve and thought about Faber’s tasting it to determine it was blood. She wanted to scold him, but he’d been careful and no one had seen him. She tried to be worried that he might have exposed himself to HIV or Hepatitis C, but as a scientist she knew those diseases were caused by blood-to-blood contact and that he was not in any realistic danger. But what if it had been a toxic substance on her sleeve? He couldn’t just going around tasting unknown substances. What if it were lead or mercury or some other poison. She turned to him and started to speak, then turned away. That wasn’t what she was worried.
Why did she let Faber drive her to the lab to investigate a stupid bloodspot? She shouldn’t have worked all night. The lack of sleep had decimated her judgment. She looked at the bloodspot again. Whatever caused it was no minor thing. She knew that. The terrible, decades long menace of that laboratory told her that. She had a feeling that something was happening, something that had been in the works for a very long time. But whatever it was, whatever danger there was, did not compare to the harm that might come to Faber at the laboratory. Not physical harm, but mental harm. They say knowledge is power, but there is some knowledge a mother will do anything to prevent her child from acquiring.
Sunday, June 15, 2008
Chapter 7
July 1967
Geena was screaming.
“She’ll just have to endure the pain of childbirth.” Dr. Jeffries said. “Women have been doing that since Eve got kicked out of the Garden of Eden.”
Another contraction and a muted scream this time. Geena was in great pain, but she was also tired almost beyond endurance.
“Recently, it’s only the women whose doctors screw up the epidural who have to suffer like this.” Dr. White said.
“Well, you should have done it yet. I’m not a obstetrician.” Geena was staring at Jeffries, but wasn’t seeing him. She was in her own world of pain. Jeffries looked down at her and Dr. White watched as he rearranged his face into something approaching sympathy.
“Great bedside manner, Doctor, but I kept telling you we needed to bring an obstetrician in here, or at least a midwife.”
“We couldn’t do that, and you know it.” Geena moaned. The contractions were coming very fast. “Why do you always have second thoughts at the very last minute? We don’t know what this baby is going to look like. If it’s all covered in brown fur, do you really want this birth announced on the front page of the --”
“Okay, okay. Let’s not argue – Oh, God.”
The baby’s head started to emerge. Both doctors, although not obstetricians, knew what to do. With barely a word, they worked like a well-oiled machine, bringing the baby into the world, giving it an APCAR score, putting silver nitrite into the eyes. Perfectly healthy. Dr. White held the baby as they two men examined here. Full head of black hair, darkish skin with pink fingertips, slighter long-than-normal arms, much leaner than a baby human. She was exactly what they expected, half human and half Bonobo Chimpanzee.
She looked back and forth between the men. Her big brown eyes seemed extremely alert. This looked hopeful already. Jeffries smiled, a real smile for once. The little creature was actually cute.
Dr. White brought the baby to the head of Geena’s bed. “She’s adorable, Geena. We’ve done it. You’ve done it. You’re the mother of a new type of human. Would you like to hold her?”
Geena put her arms out for the baby. She glowed, just like all new mothers, her face filled with love. Then she drew her arms back and screamed in pain again.
A twin was emerging.
Geena was screaming.
“She’ll just have to endure the pain of childbirth.” Dr. Jeffries said. “Women have been doing that since Eve got kicked out of the Garden of Eden.”
Another contraction and a muted scream this time. Geena was in great pain, but she was also tired almost beyond endurance.
“Recently, it’s only the women whose doctors screw up the epidural who have to suffer like this.” Dr. White said.
“Well, you should have done it yet. I’m not a obstetrician.” Geena was staring at Jeffries, but wasn’t seeing him. She was in her own world of pain. Jeffries looked down at her and Dr. White watched as he rearranged his face into something approaching sympathy.
“Great bedside manner, Doctor, but I kept telling you we needed to bring an obstetrician in here, or at least a midwife.”
“We couldn’t do that, and you know it.” Geena moaned. The contractions were coming very fast. “Why do you always have second thoughts at the very last minute? We don’t know what this baby is going to look like. If it’s all covered in brown fur, do you really want this birth announced on the front page of the --”
“Okay, okay. Let’s not argue – Oh, God.”
The baby’s head started to emerge. Both doctors, although not obstetricians, knew what to do. With barely a word, they worked like a well-oiled machine, bringing the baby into the world, giving it an APCAR score, putting silver nitrite into the eyes. Perfectly healthy. Dr. White held the baby as they two men examined here. Full head of black hair, darkish skin with pink fingertips, slighter long-than-normal arms, much leaner than a baby human. She was exactly what they expected, half human and half Bonobo Chimpanzee.
She looked back and forth between the men. Her big brown eyes seemed extremely alert. This looked hopeful already. Jeffries smiled, a real smile for once. The little creature was actually cute.
Dr. White brought the baby to the head of Geena’s bed. “She’s adorable, Geena. We’ve done it. You’ve done it. You’re the mother of a new type of human. Would you like to hold her?”
Geena put her arms out for the baby. She glowed, just like all new mothers, her face filled with love. Then she drew her arms back and screamed in pain again.
A twin was emerging.
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