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.
Sunday, June 8, 2008
Chapter 6
The night sky was black. 'Not a sight many southern Californians get to see. Before moving to desert ten years ago, Brian had always thought the day sky was greenish-greyish blue and the night sky was pink. Here it was actually black, with dark blue circles around the countless stars. The desert floor was beige and the moon made outlined the distant hills in silvery tan.
Brian bounced along in the passenger seat of a police car. The powerful 8 cylinder Ford Crown Victoria functioned surprisingly well off road. The uniform driving it simultaneously talked on his cell phone, typed into the car's police laptop, checked his pager and ate a cheeseburger. Brian, still a bit groggy, had thought riding with the patrol officer would be safer than following in his own car. All things considered, and given that there was no other traffic, he was comfortable with his decision.
"Damn, I am hungry. " The officer once he got off the phone. He took another bite and then said through a mouth full of cheeseburger, "I had my lunch I got the call." He pointed to a crumpled wrapper in the passenger footwell. "Watch out for my other Big Mac you get there. 'First time I ever threw up on the job. Darn waste of money." He took a swig of diet Coke, expertly avoiding spilling anything as they went over another depression in the desert. Then he a box of onion rings out of the fast food bag. Keeping his eyes on the road, he nudged Brian with it, his way of offering some. Brian took an onion ring, then the uniform took the box back and started feeding himself with his left hand while holding the steering wheel with his right.
"It's not even like it's the middle of summer. That's when bodies really, really reek. It's barely spring, but I guess it got warm enough."
They both munched their onion rings in silence for a moment.
"It's the stomach acids that do the damage, you know."
Brian nodded absently. The cop was treating him like a ride-a-long instead of like a fellow cop. That tended to happen when you were young and weren't wearing a uniform. Plus, the cop was talking to cover his own nervousness about what he'd seen.
"See, when you're alive, you produce mucus in your stomach. It's like snot. It keeps acid from burning right through you." He dug around for the last of the onion rings. "But when you die, the snot stops and the acid eats through, and then the intestines get exposed, and it's just a mess."
"Yeah, I know." Brian said.
"It smelled awful."
"Yeah, I bet."
"And it would change too, like if the wind would pick up a little, the smell would change a little, just enough to keep it fresh, to keep your nose from getting used to it."
This was getting old. Brian stared out the side window and mumbled, "Haven't you ever smelled a dead body before?"
"Huh, yeah, I have. I dunno why this one bothered me so much. But it kinda hurt my nose. All that gross dead-body smell with a double-helping side-order of bleach."
Brian's stomach involuntary clenched as he turned and stared at the cop. "Bleach?" A dead body has a distinctive sweet-rotting smell of sulfer and methane and butyric acid. Bleach was not normally in that mix, but Brian had smell that mixture before. He immediately understood the cop's extreme disgust and at the same time his worry and curiousity was stimulated. He'd seen a case ten years ago where a body had been found, covered in bleach. Could this be the same killer?
Brian bounced along in the passenger seat of a police car. The powerful 8 cylinder Ford Crown Victoria functioned surprisingly well off road. The uniform driving it simultaneously talked on his cell phone, typed into the car's police laptop, checked his pager and ate a cheeseburger. Brian, still a bit groggy, had thought riding with the patrol officer would be safer than following in his own car. All things considered, and given that there was no other traffic, he was comfortable with his decision.
"Damn, I am hungry. " The officer once he got off the phone. He took another bite and then said through a mouth full of cheeseburger, "I had my lunch I got the call." He pointed to a crumpled wrapper in the passenger footwell. "Watch out for my other Big Mac you get there. 'First time I ever threw up on the job. Darn waste of money." He took a swig of diet Coke, expertly avoiding spilling anything as they went over another depression in the desert. Then he a box of onion rings out of the fast food bag. Keeping his eyes on the road, he nudged Brian with it, his way of offering some. Brian took an onion ring, then the uniform took the box back and started feeding himself with his left hand while holding the steering wheel with his right.
"It's not even like it's the middle of summer. That's when bodies really, really reek. It's barely spring, but I guess it got warm enough."
They both munched their onion rings in silence for a moment.
"It's the stomach acids that do the damage, you know."
Brian nodded absently. The cop was treating him like a ride-a-long instead of like a fellow cop. That tended to happen when you were young and weren't wearing a uniform. Plus, the cop was talking to cover his own nervousness about what he'd seen.
"See, when you're alive, you produce mucus in your stomach. It's like snot. It keeps acid from burning right through you." He dug around for the last of the onion rings. "But when you die, the snot stops and the acid eats through, and then the intestines get exposed, and it's just a mess."
"Yeah, I know." Brian said.
"It smelled awful."
"Yeah, I bet."
"And it would change too, like if the wind would pick up a little, the smell would change a little, just enough to keep it fresh, to keep your nose from getting used to it."
This was getting old. Brian stared out the side window and mumbled, "Haven't you ever smelled a dead body before?"
"Huh, yeah, I have. I dunno why this one bothered me so much. But it kinda hurt my nose. All that gross dead-body smell with a double-helping side-order of bleach."
Brian's stomach involuntary clenched as he turned and stared at the cop. "Bleach?" A dead body has a distinctive sweet-rotting smell of sulfer and methane and butyric acid. Bleach was not normally in that mix, but Brian had smell that mixture before. He immediately understood the cop's extreme disgust and at the same time his worry and curiousity was stimulated. He'd seen a case ten years ago where a body had been found, covered in bleach. Could this be the same killer?
Chapter 5
"Blood? Oh, Faber, du muss nicht das tun. Es it gefahr!" She had switched to German now, so she could speak openly without Katy understanding them. Katy would leave them alone until they switched back to English. She always assumed they were either fighting or talking about chemistry when they spoke German.
"Ist's nicht gefahr," he replied. "It's not dangerous. You know Hep-C and AIDS aren't spread like that." Before she could continue her motherly scolding, he held both her hands, looked her straight in the eye and said, "What's going on? You smell of fear. Be straight with me."
"Yes, I'm afraid. I don't know why." She looked down at their hands. "Yes, something happened. Geena got stuck with a sharp today." A sharp was any kind of medical instrument that might be a bio-hazard, such as a hypodermic needle or disposible blade. Each room at the laboratory had a red box labelled "Biohazard" where sharps were to be disposed of.
"How did that happen?" He was beginning to regret tasting the blood. He wasn't worried about contamination, but the idea of tasting Geena's blood, of being in any way connected with her, made him uncomfortable.
"I guess that's what's upset me. She didn't know. I just saw her arm bleeding. She hadn't even noticed. Then we looked around and found a syringe on the floor, and we didn't know what was in it, or how it got there. We don't even know if that's what cut her."
"She was bleeding and she didn't know it? Where was she bleeding from?"
"Her back, over her left shoulder blade. I saw a spot of blood on her lab coat and asked her about it, and that was the first she noticed it."
"That's a pretty strange place to be bleeding from. And I wouldn't expect a hypo to cause a cut that would seep through her blouse and lab coat."
"Yes, it's strange. We're doing a wide-range test of the contents of the syringe and a test of the blood on her coat as well, we'll have the results in a couple days."
"Why don't you go and get some rest, Mom." I've got a job in the city this afternoon. When I get back, let's go to the lab together.
"Ist's nicht gefahr," he replied. "It's not dangerous. You know Hep-C and AIDS aren't spread like that." Before she could continue her motherly scolding, he held both her hands, looked her straight in the eye and said, "What's going on? You smell of fear. Be straight with me."
"Yes, I'm afraid. I don't know why." She looked down at their hands. "Yes, something happened. Geena got stuck with a sharp today." A sharp was any kind of medical instrument that might be a bio-hazard, such as a hypodermic needle or disposible blade. Each room at the laboratory had a red box labelled "Biohazard" where sharps were to be disposed of.
"How did that happen?" He was beginning to regret tasting the blood. He wasn't worried about contamination, but the idea of tasting Geena's blood, of being in any way connected with her, made him uncomfortable.
"I guess that's what's upset me. She didn't know. I just saw her arm bleeding. She hadn't even noticed. Then we looked around and found a syringe on the floor, and we didn't know what was in it, or how it got there. We don't even know if that's what cut her."
"She was bleeding and she didn't know it? Where was she bleeding from?"
"Her back, over her left shoulder blade. I saw a spot of blood on her lab coat and asked her about it, and that was the first she noticed it."
"That's a pretty strange place to be bleeding from. And I wouldn't expect a hypo to cause a cut that would seep through her blouse and lab coat."
"Yes, it's strange. We're doing a wide-range test of the contents of the syringe and a test of the blood on her coat as well, we'll have the results in a couple days."
"Why don't you go and get some rest, Mom." I've got a job in the city this afternoon. When I get back, let's go to the lab together.
Chapter 4
Brian woke up to see the sight and sound of his cell phone flashing, ringing, vibrating and doing everything but singing and dancing on his night stand. It started the way the end of the world will start, he thought, with a phone ringing at 3:00 in the morning. It was a line from some book he'd read. He was still half asleep.
He caught the phone just as it skittled off the table, and answered it.
"Reder here." He already knew who it was, and what it was about. A phone call at this hour only meant one thing.
"Lieutenant Reder. Brian? Sorry to wake you." That was Lynn, the police dispatcher, a kindly, middle-aged bleached blond. She was always a mixture of professionalism and motherliness. "We've got a body out in Mary district. The patrol guys thought you should come out."
Not every dead body found in the area warranted calling a homocide detective. Sometimes people died, and it was murder. But when in doubt, homocide was called in. As a detective, Reder normally worked a 9-to-5 day shift, but he was on call 24 hours a day for circumstances like this.
"Okay. What's the location?"
"No address. It's out in the desert. Maybe you should come to the station and a unit can drive you out, or can follow it. That would be easiest for you."
"Okay, thanks. Good idea."
"It's rough terrain out there, too. Better wear boots." That was the motherliness coming in. Brian often got teased about his dapper manner of dress. He was the only homocide detective he knew that actually wore the occassional trench coat.
"Thank you, Lynne."
"Oh more thing, Brian." Lynne's voice sounded a little flat. "The guys asked me...what's the name of that stuff you have, that scrambles your nose or whatever?"
"Odorscreen, Lynne." Odorscreen is a relatively new Israeli product that reduces nauseating odors by 'filling up' the receptors in the human nose that perceives them. In particular, it masks the instinctively revolting smell of bodily decay. Its manufacturer markets it as being particularly useful in the event of widespread disaster with many deaths. Mitigating awful stenches improves relief worker efficiency and reduces psychological trauma. Movies sometimes portray cops as putting mentholatum on their upper lips to hide the scent of death, but they don't. It doesn't work, and it's usually not necessary. Brian had also been teased a couple times for discreetly using Odorscreen.
"The guys were wondering if you could bring some for them."
He caught the phone just as it skittled off the table, and answered it.
"Reder here." He already knew who it was, and what it was about. A phone call at this hour only meant one thing.
"Lieutenant Reder. Brian? Sorry to wake you." That was Lynn, the police dispatcher, a kindly, middle-aged bleached blond. She was always a mixture of professionalism and motherliness. "We've got a body out in Mary district. The patrol guys thought you should come out."
Not every dead body found in the area warranted calling a homocide detective. Sometimes people died, and it was murder. But when in doubt, homocide was called in. As a detective, Reder normally worked a 9-to-5 day shift, but he was on call 24 hours a day for circumstances like this.
"Okay. What's the location?"
"No address. It's out in the desert. Maybe you should come to the station and a unit can drive you out, or can follow it. That would be easiest for you."
"Okay, thanks. Good idea."
"It's rough terrain out there, too. Better wear boots." That was the motherliness coming in. Brian often got teased about his dapper manner of dress. He was the only homocide detective he knew that actually wore the occassional trench coat.
"Thank you, Lynne."
"Oh more thing, Brian." Lynne's voice sounded a little flat. "The guys asked me...what's the name of that stuff you have, that scrambles your nose or whatever?"
"Odorscreen, Lynne." Odorscreen is a relatively new Israeli product that reduces nauseating odors by 'filling up' the receptors in the human nose that perceives them. In particular, it masks the instinctively revolting smell of bodily decay. Its manufacturer markets it as being particularly useful in the event of widespread disaster with many deaths. Mitigating awful stenches improves relief worker efficiency and reduces psychological trauma. Movies sometimes portray cops as putting mentholatum on their upper lips to hide the scent of death, but they don't. It doesn't work, and it's usually not necessary. Brian had also been teased a couple times for discreetly using Odorscreen.
"The guys were wondering if you could bring some for them."
Saturday, May 31, 2008
Chapter 3
Desert Laboratory
1996
"We've got a deal, you need to do your part."
The guard looked worried. He wasn't worried because he was abusing the trust of his position, or that he'd promised to help a dangerous specimen escape where he might - no, would - commit more crimes. He was worried because he'd just lost $2000 in the stock market after following Chapman's instructions.
"It's not that hard," Chapman continued. "All you have to do is follow what I say."
"Yeah, but $2000. That's a lot of money for me. It takes me a month to earn that."
"Harvey, I made this facility a million dollars a month, twelve months out of the year. Don't you think I can make us some money in your little account?"
"Yeah, but $2000...."
"You knew there would be draw-downs. I explained to you how this works. You follow my system and we'll make the money to do what we want. I'll get what I want and you'll get what you want."
Harvey knew it was true, but it was just so hard.
"If my wife finds out about the $2000 she'll kill me."
Chapman was sitting at his computer table, six computer screens ranged in front of him, masses of charts and tables. The financial markets he traded were closed, and he had his back to the screens. And his back was also to the tiny key-hole video camera he knew was in the room. The radio was on and a few books were piled in front of the microphone. Casually, so that no one, not even the guard he was talking to, suspected Chapman knew about the surveillance.
"If my wife finds out about the $2000 she'll kill me," the guard said.
"She'll really kill you?"
The guard looked down at Chapman. He was twenty, half the guard's age. His eyes were so clear and innocent. The guard could never tell whether he was joking or not.
"No, of course she won't really kill me."
"Then what are you worried about?" He still couldn't tell if Chapman was kidding.
"She'll be angry. Hurt and angry."
"But what will she do?"
Harvey was silent a moment. He couldn't tell where this was going.
"Nothing."
"Then what do you care?"
Harvey might have said that when his wife was angry he felt bad about himself, and that when she was hurt, he felt hurt too, but he didn't have the words, and he knew, somehow, that Chapman would not understand, and didn't really care.
"Look," Chapman said. "We have a deal. Your wife isn't going to kill you. Wives don't do that. I mean, who do you even know who's killed anyone." He looked at the guard so sweetly, so innocently. His eyes were so blue, the whites of his eyes, so white.
"No, one, of course," No one. Except you. Chapman had made his point. He and Chapman had a deal, and Harvey decided it would be better for everyone if he stuck with it.
1996
"We've got a deal, you need to do your part."
The guard looked worried. He wasn't worried because he was abusing the trust of his position, or that he'd promised to help a dangerous specimen escape where he might - no, would - commit more crimes. He was worried because he'd just lost $2000 in the stock market after following Chapman's instructions.
"It's not that hard," Chapman continued. "All you have to do is follow what I say."
"Yeah, but $2000. That's a lot of money for me. It takes me a month to earn that."
"Harvey, I made this facility a million dollars a month, twelve months out of the year. Don't you think I can make us some money in your little account?"
"Yeah, but $2000...."
"You knew there would be draw-downs. I explained to you how this works. You follow my system and we'll make the money to do what we want. I'll get what I want and you'll get what you want."
Harvey knew it was true, but it was just so hard.
"If my wife finds out about the $2000 she'll kill me."
Chapman was sitting at his computer table, six computer screens ranged in front of him, masses of charts and tables. The financial markets he traded were closed, and he had his back to the screens. And his back was also to the tiny key-hole video camera he knew was in the room. The radio was on and a few books were piled in front of the microphone. Casually, so that no one, not even the guard he was talking to, suspected Chapman knew about the surveillance.
"If my wife finds out about the $2000 she'll kill me," the guard said.
"She'll really kill you?"
The guard looked down at Chapman. He was twenty, half the guard's age. His eyes were so clear and innocent. The guard could never tell whether he was joking or not.
"No, of course she won't really kill me."
"Then what are you worried about?" He still couldn't tell if Chapman was kidding.
"She'll be angry. Hurt and angry."
"But what will she do?"
Harvey was silent a moment. He couldn't tell where this was going.
"Nothing."
"Then what do you care?"
Harvey might have said that when his wife was angry he felt bad about himself, and that when she was hurt, he felt hurt too, but he didn't have the words, and he knew, somehow, that Chapman would not understand, and didn't really care.
"Look," Chapman said. "We have a deal. Your wife isn't going to kill you. Wives don't do that. I mean, who do you even know who's killed anyone." He looked at the guard so sweetly, so innocently. His eyes were so blue, the whites of his eyes, so white.
"No, one, of course," No one. Except you. Chapman had made his point. He and Chapman had a deal, and Harvey decided it would be better for everyone if he stuck with it.
Thursday, May 29, 2008
Chapter 2
Becky was collapsed on the sofa when her son Faber walked into the living room. He was such a big man; she was always proud to see him. Nearly 7 feet tall, broad-shouldered, he was even stronger than he looked. And best of all, he was kind, in every fiber of his being. Katy was a perfect counterpoint to him. Pale and willowy where he was dark and muscled. She wasn't a short woman, but her head barely came up to his chest. He was a generous soul and he attracted others to him whowere equally generous in spirit.
Faber was already looking concerned as he walked into the room, and Katy let go of Faber and came to Becky as soon as she saw Becky's appearance. She sat down on the couch on Becky's left and hugged her. Faber sat on his mother's right and held them both.
"Becky, you look terrible, what's wrong?" Katy squeezed Becky's arm. Becky was still wearing her white lab coat. One sensible-but-professional black pump was on her right foot. Its mate was across the room by the front door.
"Oh, you two sillies." Becky smiled at them. "Nothing's wrong. I just had a long night. Very promising advances in our work. I'll just catch a bit of rest and head back to the lab."
Katy shook off the worry that had come up the moment she saw Becky. She drew back a little bit, relieved. It must be have been something significant to keep her up the entire night. "It must be exciting to a scientist. What have you discovered?"
Becky paused a moment and turned away slightly. "Well, we transposed some genomes and found a transvectored matrix." She was almost mumbling. "I can describe it to you in detail if I can find some graph paper and a scientific calculator. Although maybe I'd be better off with some warm milk and a bit of rest first the description of our work is really quite involved."
"Let me make you some warm milk," Katy said with genuine kindness and not a little relief at the prospect of missing the mini-seminar that seemed to be looming.
Faber normally would have smiled at his mother's tactic. She had taught him many ways of evading questions, ending conversations, and making people go away. The multi-syllabic words, the request for a calculator and the promise of a detailed scientific explanation was overkill. Generally just one of those techniques could politely send anyone running. He'd never seen Katy use those techniques on Katy before, and never in such a sledge-hammer-like way. Clearly, there was nothing to smile about today.
Faber hugged his mother against his shoulder and rested his head on the top of hers. He waited until they could hear Katy's soft movements in the kitchen, the clinking of cups, the milk being poured into a saucepan.
"What's the matter, Mom? You seem afraid."
"Seem?" That was one of their code words. Unconciously, Becky looked down at her clothes and drew her collar against her neck, but there was not hiding it. Faber knew she was afraid.
He held her right hand in his two large hands. "Was someone hurt at work?"
Becky shook her head.
He lifted her hand to his face, almost as if to press it against his cheek in tenderness. He glanced around; no one was near. He could still hear Katy in the kitchen. They were unobserved.
He ran his tongue over the back of her hand.
Becky didn't even try to pull her hand away. She just looked down and started crying.
He whispered, very low, so Katy would not hear. "If no one was hurt, why do I taste blood on your hand?"
Faber was already looking concerned as he walked into the room, and Katy let go of Faber and came to Becky as soon as she saw Becky's appearance. She sat down on the couch on Becky's left and hugged her. Faber sat on his mother's right and held them both.
"Becky, you look terrible, what's wrong?" Katy squeezed Becky's arm. Becky was still wearing her white lab coat. One sensible-but-professional black pump was on her right foot. Its mate was across the room by the front door.
"Oh, you two sillies." Becky smiled at them. "Nothing's wrong. I just had a long night. Very promising advances in our work. I'll just catch a bit of rest and head back to the lab."
Katy shook off the worry that had come up the moment she saw Becky. She drew back a little bit, relieved. It must be have been something significant to keep her up the entire night. "It must be exciting to a scientist. What have you discovered?"
Becky paused a moment and turned away slightly. "Well, we transposed some genomes and found a transvectored matrix." She was almost mumbling. "I can describe it to you in detail if I can find some graph paper and a scientific calculator. Although maybe I'd be better off with some warm milk and a bit of rest first the description of our work is really quite involved."
"Let me make you some warm milk," Katy said with genuine kindness and not a little relief at the prospect of missing the mini-seminar that seemed to be looming.
Faber normally would have smiled at his mother's tactic. She had taught him many ways of evading questions, ending conversations, and making people go away. The multi-syllabic words, the request for a calculator and the promise of a detailed scientific explanation was overkill. Generally just one of those techniques could politely send anyone running. He'd never seen Katy use those techniques on Katy before, and never in such a sledge-hammer-like way. Clearly, there was nothing to smile about today.
Faber hugged his mother against his shoulder and rested his head on the top of hers. He waited until they could hear Katy's soft movements in the kitchen, the clinking of cups, the milk being poured into a saucepan.
"What's the matter, Mom? You seem afraid."
"Seem?" That was one of their code words. Unconciously, Becky looked down at her clothes and drew her collar against her neck, but there was not hiding it. Faber knew she was afraid.
He held her right hand in his two large hands. "Was someone hurt at work?"
Becky shook her head.
He lifted her hand to his face, almost as if to press it against his cheek in tenderness. He glanced around; no one was near. He could still hear Katy in the kitchen. They were unobserved.
He ran his tongue over the back of her hand.
Becky didn't even try to pull her hand away. She just looked down and started crying.
He whispered, very low, so Katy would not hear. "If no one was hurt, why do I taste blood on your hand?"
Monday, May 19, 2008
Chapter 1 continued
After the morning greetings, Bubbles sniffed his bowl. The usual routine. He pulled the ten pounds of meat out of bowl and lay it on the ground. Then he lay down next to the food and ate it, after the manner of all big cats. He had a leisurely meal with Faber watching him, and Katy, Faber’s assistant, watching Faber from outside the enclosure. For safety, only one trainer would be in the enclosure at a time, with the other standing by in case there was trouble. A sally port, or double-gate, led to where the cat was housed.
“Okay, Bubbles, are you ready for playtime?”
Bubbles had finally finished his breakfast. Faber walked over to a corner of the enclosure that, somewhat inexplicably, was equipped with a computer, monitor, keyboard and mouse. It almost looked as if the big cat spent his free time surfing the net, but in the reality the equipment were heavy-duty, cat-safe theatrical props. A computer company had commissioned a television ad compaign and the director wanted to film a jaguar staring at a computer screen and manipulating a mouse with his paw.
The big cat was still busy grooming himself, and Faber settled down to wait until he was done. Many things are needed to be an Hollywood animal trainer: knowledge, courage, self-discipline, money, land, marketing skills, and perseverence are just a few. But the most important of all is patience, and Faber had that in abundance. Faber thought time spent in a companionable silence with the cat was valuable. They didn't always have to be playing or training. Even on a movie set, Faber never tried to rush a cat. He knew there was no rushing a cat.
He called over to Katy, "Is my Mom home yet?"
"No, she spent all night at the lab. She called again around 8 am. 'Said she'd be home soon." Katy was looking around the enclosure absent-mindedly, mentally cleaning up droppings, hosing down and sanitizing the concrete areas, sort of thinking about all the things she'd be doing once Faber moved the cat to another area for her. Manure management was a huge part of her job; it was a huge part of everyone's job at the sanctuary. "I don't think she's ever stayed there overnight before."
"No, I don't she has since you've been here. When I was a kid, she'd be there all night all the time."
"Really? I didn't think your Mom was like that." Katy shook a bit of beige dessert dust out of her hair. That hadn't sounded right. Katy knew what a devoted mother Becky was. She'd been a single mom from the very beginning and her son was always her number one priority. "Who'd you stay with when your mom was at the lab overnight?"
He stared at her for a moment. She almost thought he was offended. She had never seen him take offense at anything before. But he was just taking a moment to process what she said. "Overnight? Oh, I see. No, she wouldn't leave me at home while she worked. She'd bring me along."
"Serious? What did you do at the lab?"
"I'd help her with her work, and she'd teach me stuff. We'd do all kinds of things."
"All night?"
"Actually, I had a little room there with a little bed."
"What kinds of things did she teach you there?"
"Oh, this and that. Some math stuff, sometimes. Boring." Faber looked back at the cat. He was using his big right paw to groom behind his ears now. Faber knew his routine. The last step of groom was to wash the ears, first the left, then the right. The cat would be done and ready to train within the next minute, and Faber would have a natural reason to cut short his conversation with Katy.
His mother had not taught him any "math stuff." She had taught him many, many things, few of them were ever boring. She'd even taught him the response he had just used, and they had practiced it using role-playing several times over the years. If a friend asks you to list information, say 'this and that' in a bored voice. Say it relates to math or science or something the listener finds intimidating. Then call it boring. He had learned methods for evading questions in all settings. If in doubt, respond to the question by saying 'why do you ask?' This will usually deflect the question, but at the very least it will buy you time and give you clues how best to answer. There were other methods for other settings. Instead of answering the question asked, think of the question you wish they'd asked and answer that. If pressed, wear the listener down with a very, very long response with long sentences and big words.
Over the years he had learned all the responses to any conversational gambit. He had practiced nearly every social situation that could be anticipated. He was never at a loss for words, although he'd been taught, and had rehearsed, the situations where he should appear to be. And always, always, he'd been taught never to discuss this training with anyone.
Katy seemed interested. Faber realized that he'd never discussed his upbringing with her at all. One of the qualities that made him so well-liked and sought after was the fact that, per his training, he rarely talked about himself. Instead he would draw other people out and let them talk about themselves. Ironically, this would leave the impression that he was fascinating because he made other people feel that they were fascinating.
Katy asked, "What did the other scientists think of you visiting there and having a room and stuff?"
"Oh, I dont' know." Of course he didn't know. In all his thirty years, he had never once met or been seen by anyone she worked with. He had a vague impression that they believed she'd given him up for adoption at birth. But it wasn't his habit to volunteer information. "They didn't mind, I guess."
Bubbles suddenly walked over to the edge of the enclosure closest to the house and curled up next to the fence. Katy and Faber gave each other a knowing glance. The cat had heard Faber's mother's car. She'd be home in few minutes.
"Should we go in?"
Faber gave Bubbles a quick neck rub and kissed him on the nape of the neck - his way of saying goodbye.
"Sure, we'll pick this up later. Bubbles will be in a better mood when he sees Mom."
Faber watched Bubbles as he worked the mechanism to open the first gate. and walked into the sally port Then he checked that it was securely closed. Always two checks, using two senses: A visual check that the door was locked, and a tactile check. He shook the gate strongly to make sure everything was tight and secure. He did the same thing after exiting the sally port on the outside.
He gave Katy a kissed and they walked into the house arm in arm.
“Okay, Bubbles, are you ready for playtime?”
Bubbles had finally finished his breakfast. Faber walked over to a corner of the enclosure that, somewhat inexplicably, was equipped with a computer, monitor, keyboard and mouse. It almost looked as if the big cat spent his free time surfing the net, but in the reality the equipment were heavy-duty, cat-safe theatrical props. A computer company had commissioned a television ad compaign and the director wanted to film a jaguar staring at a computer screen and manipulating a mouse with his paw.
The big cat was still busy grooming himself, and Faber settled down to wait until he was done. Many things are needed to be an Hollywood animal trainer: knowledge, courage, self-discipline, money, land, marketing skills, and perseverence are just a few. But the most important of all is patience, and Faber had that in abundance. Faber thought time spent in a companionable silence with the cat was valuable. They didn't always have to be playing or training. Even on a movie set, Faber never tried to rush a cat. He knew there was no rushing a cat.
He called over to Katy, "Is my Mom home yet?"
"No, she spent all night at the lab. She called again around 8 am. 'Said she'd be home soon." Katy was looking around the enclosure absent-mindedly, mentally cleaning up droppings, hosing down and sanitizing the concrete areas, sort of thinking about all the things she'd be doing once Faber moved the cat to another area for her. Manure management was a huge part of her job; it was a huge part of everyone's job at the sanctuary. "I don't think she's ever stayed there overnight before."
"No, I don't she has since you've been here. When I was a kid, she'd be there all night all the time."
"Really? I didn't think your Mom was like that." Katy shook a bit of beige dessert dust out of her hair. That hadn't sounded right. Katy knew what a devoted mother Becky was. She'd been a single mom from the very beginning and her son was always her number one priority. "Who'd you stay with when your mom was at the lab overnight?"
He stared at her for a moment. She almost thought he was offended. She had never seen him take offense at anything before. But he was just taking a moment to process what she said. "Overnight? Oh, I see. No, she wouldn't leave me at home while she worked. She'd bring me along."
"Serious? What did you do at the lab?"
"I'd help her with her work, and she'd teach me stuff. We'd do all kinds of things."
"All night?"
"Actually, I had a little room there with a little bed."
"What kinds of things did she teach you there?"
"Oh, this and that. Some math stuff, sometimes. Boring." Faber looked back at the cat. He was using his big right paw to groom behind his ears now. Faber knew his routine. The last step of groom was to wash the ears, first the left, then the right. The cat would be done and ready to train within the next minute, and Faber would have a natural reason to cut short his conversation with Katy.
His mother had not taught him any "math stuff." She had taught him many, many things, few of them were ever boring. She'd even taught him the response he had just used, and they had practiced it using role-playing several times over the years. If a friend asks you to list information, say 'this and that' in a bored voice. Say it relates to math or science or something the listener finds intimidating. Then call it boring. He had learned methods for evading questions in all settings. If in doubt, respond to the question by saying 'why do you ask?' This will usually deflect the question, but at the very least it will buy you time and give you clues how best to answer. There were other methods for other settings. Instead of answering the question asked, think of the question you wish they'd asked and answer that. If pressed, wear the listener down with a very, very long response with long sentences and big words.
Over the years he had learned all the responses to any conversational gambit. He had practiced nearly every social situation that could be anticipated. He was never at a loss for words, although he'd been taught, and had rehearsed, the situations where he should appear to be. And always, always, he'd been taught never to discuss this training with anyone.
Katy seemed interested. Faber realized that he'd never discussed his upbringing with her at all. One of the qualities that made him so well-liked and sought after was the fact that, per his training, he rarely talked about himself. Instead he would draw other people out and let them talk about themselves. Ironically, this would leave the impression that he was fascinating because he made other people feel that they were fascinating.
Katy asked, "What did the other scientists think of you visiting there and having a room and stuff?"
"Oh, I dont' know." Of course he didn't know. In all his thirty years, he had never once met or been seen by anyone she worked with. He had a vague impression that they believed she'd given him up for adoption at birth. But it wasn't his habit to volunteer information. "They didn't mind, I guess."
Bubbles suddenly walked over to the edge of the enclosure closest to the house and curled up next to the fence. Katy and Faber gave each other a knowing glance. The cat had heard Faber's mother's car. She'd be home in few minutes.
"Should we go in?"
Faber gave Bubbles a quick neck rub and kissed him on the nape of the neck - his way of saying goodbye.
"Sure, we'll pick this up later. Bubbles will be in a better mood when he sees Mom."
Faber watched Bubbles as he worked the mechanism to open the first gate. and walked into the sally port Then he checked that it was securely closed. Always two checks, using two senses: A visual check that the door was locked, and a tactile check. He shook the gate strongly to make sure everything was tight and secure. He did the same thing after exiting the sally port on the outside.
He gave Katy a kissed and they walked into the house arm in arm.
Sunday, May 18, 2008
Chapter 1
9:00 am and Faber was done earning money for the day. He made the usual notations in his daily work journal, switched off two computers and six monitors and left his home office to do his real work.
“Okay, Katy, time to feed the cat,” he said as he walked into the kitchen.
“I know that. I’m the one in charge of cat-feeding,” she laughed. She was standing at the counter wearing a a tank-top, her brown hair tousled, smiling and radiant. “You’re early today.”
“I have a set of rules I always follow. I’ve made enough for the day. I’m done.” He gave her a kiss. “I’m glad I got done in time for breakfast.”
“Me too. Bubbles will be glad to see you so early.” She handed the bowl to Faber and they walked through the yard together. The day was bright and the sun was just coming up over the hills to the east.
“Where’s my little kitty cat?” Faber called when he saw Bubbles. Bubbles gave him a disinterested look, cat fashion, and then gracefully got to his feet and paced around, anticipating breakfast. He was never allowed to go hungry, but he enjoyed the morning ritual all the same. 9:15 a.m. on the dot, every morning, 4:00 p.m. every afternoon, and if anyone who thought Bubbles couldn’t tell time was wrong, wrong, wrong. Usually it was Katy who came and talked to him and told him how beautiful he was, but if she was alone she’d never pet him, she’d just give him the food and that was that. If two humans came at breakfast, it meant there would be play time, and that was fun.
Faber walked through the second gate, put the bowl of food down and leaned against the fence to watch Bubbles eat. The big black cat naturally didn’t go directly the food dish. He walked around his enclosure pretending he didn’t notice the food or the man. Then he made a winding approach toward Faber and rubbed his flank against his leg, quickly marking him with his scent and proclaiming to all other cats that this big human was his. He purred as Faber reached down and scratched his neck. An unusual purr that only made a noise on the exhale. He rubbed his nose and whiskers against Faber’s hand in a more personal scent-marking gesture. Faber casually pulled his hand away as Bubbles started to lick it. Like all cats, Bubble’s tongue was designed to rasp flesh from bone. To be licked by a housecat is uncomfortable, but a friendly lick from a jaguar would cause instant road rash.
“Okay, Katy, time to feed the cat,” he said as he walked into the kitchen.
“I know that. I’m the one in charge of cat-feeding,” she laughed. She was standing at the counter wearing a a tank-top, her brown hair tousled, smiling and radiant. “You’re early today.”
“I have a set of rules I always follow. I’ve made enough for the day. I’m done.” He gave her a kiss. “I’m glad I got done in time for breakfast.”
“Me too. Bubbles will be glad to see you so early.” She handed the bowl to Faber and they walked through the yard together. The day was bright and the sun was just coming up over the hills to the east.
“Where’s my little kitty cat?” Faber called when he saw Bubbles. Bubbles gave him a disinterested look, cat fashion, and then gracefully got to his feet and paced around, anticipating breakfast. He was never allowed to go hungry, but he enjoyed the morning ritual all the same. 9:15 a.m. on the dot, every morning, 4:00 p.m. every afternoon, and if anyone who thought Bubbles couldn’t tell time was wrong, wrong, wrong. Usually it was Katy who came and talked to him and told him how beautiful he was, but if she was alone she’d never pet him, she’d just give him the food and that was that. If two humans came at breakfast, it meant there would be play time, and that was fun.
Faber walked through the second gate, put the bowl of food down and leaned against the fence to watch Bubbles eat. The big black cat naturally didn’t go directly the food dish. He walked around his enclosure pretending he didn’t notice the food or the man. Then he made a winding approach toward Faber and rubbed his flank against his leg, quickly marking him with his scent and proclaiming to all other cats that this big human was his. He purred as Faber reached down and scratched his neck. An unusual purr that only made a noise on the exhale. He rubbed his nose and whiskers against Faber’s hand in a more personal scent-marking gesture. Faber casually pulled his hand away as Bubbles started to lick it. Like all cats, Bubble’s tongue was designed to rasp flesh from bone. To be licked by a housecat is uncomfortable, but a friendly lick from a jaguar would cause instant road rash.
Thursday, May 15, 2008
Prologue
Just teach me to despise.
Will time make men more wise?
Here within my lonely frame,
My eyes just hurt .....
“Shape of Things”
The Yardbirds, 1966
A laboratory in the Southern California Desert
United States Air Force Base
Undisclosed Location
1966
“No woman will ever agree to it.” Dr. White was almost shouting. He didn’t know why.
Dr. Jeffries sighed and ground out his cigarette. “We’ve been talking about this for months. I hope we don’t have any blue-collar middle-class moral scrupples popping up at this late date.”
“I’ve been a scientist a lot longer than you have.” Oh great, he thought, why did I say that? He was sixty-years-old. Jack Jeffries had been his graduate assistant, just as Geena Ganard was Jack’s assistant now. Funny thing, these young women going to college, even going to graduate school, and studying genetics, of all things. Geena was top-notch, but she’d inevitably find a nice husband and settle down and raise a family. It would be a shame to lose her. But White was distracted now. The point was, he had no reason to be arguing with that little snotnose Jack Jeffries as if they were third-graders. Maybe it was simply the newness of the experiment, the uniqueness. Maybe that’s why he felt upset. The genius of it. Of course it was uncomfortable to change the world, uncomfortable to be brilliant. They were going to change the world with this program. Change it for the better. He calmed down.
“Middle-class morals.” He snorted. “We are scientists. It’s just that no-“ He almost said ‘no decent woman,’ but he stopped himself. He really needed a drink. “I simply find it unlikely that an intelligent, healthy young woman –the kind of genetic stock we need–would agree to it.”
Geena cleared her throat and the two doctors grew silent for a moment, vaguely embarrassed that they’d been arguing as if she weren’t there.
“I’ll do it,” Geena said.
A smug expression started on Dr. Jeffries’ face while Dr. White suddenly realized he wasn’t quite as sophisticated as he thought.
“You’ll do it? You’ll host it?” He almost wanted to shake the girl.
“Host it? As if it’s an ‘it.’ As if it’s a parasite? No. I’ll be it’s mother.” She paused for a moment. “I’ll be the child’s mother.”
White looked down at Becky. She was old enough to be his daughter. His granddaughter. She was so lovely; her soft brown eyes, her delicate, young features. So intelligent. And so idealistic. If only he could take her aside, talk with her. Together they’d realize that they didn’t need to be so selective about the mother. They could find someone else.
The AM radio made a tinny sound. The Yardbirds were singing. When time and tide have been. Fall into your passing hands. Jack and Geena were staring at him. The silence had become uncomfortable. Please don’t destroy….
If he wanted a mother of good genetic stock, there was none better. All his arguments had been met. There was nothing else to do.
“Alright. I’ll make arrangements for the artificial insemination.”
They were still staring at him.
“You will be doing this by artificial insemination, won’t you?”
Will time make men more wise?
Here within my lonely frame,
My eyes just hurt .....
“Shape of Things”
The Yardbirds, 1966
A laboratory in the Southern California Desert
United States Air Force Base
Undisclosed Location
1966
“No woman will ever agree to it.” Dr. White was almost shouting. He didn’t know why.
Dr. Jeffries sighed and ground out his cigarette. “We’ve been talking about this for months. I hope we don’t have any blue-collar middle-class moral scrupples popping up at this late date.”
“I’ve been a scientist a lot longer than you have.” Oh great, he thought, why did I say that? He was sixty-years-old. Jack Jeffries had been his graduate assistant, just as Geena Ganard was Jack’s assistant now. Funny thing, these young women going to college, even going to graduate school, and studying genetics, of all things. Geena was top-notch, but she’d inevitably find a nice husband and settle down and raise a family. It would be a shame to lose her. But White was distracted now. The point was, he had no reason to be arguing with that little snotnose Jack Jeffries as if they were third-graders. Maybe it was simply the newness of the experiment, the uniqueness. Maybe that’s why he felt upset. The genius of it. Of course it was uncomfortable to change the world, uncomfortable to be brilliant. They were going to change the world with this program. Change it for the better. He calmed down.
“Middle-class morals.” He snorted. “We are scientists. It’s just that no-“ He almost said ‘no decent woman,’ but he stopped himself. He really needed a drink. “I simply find it unlikely that an intelligent, healthy young woman –the kind of genetic stock we need–would agree to it.”
Geena cleared her throat and the two doctors grew silent for a moment, vaguely embarrassed that they’d been arguing as if she weren’t there.
“I’ll do it,” Geena said.
A smug expression started on Dr. Jeffries’ face while Dr. White suddenly realized he wasn’t quite as sophisticated as he thought.
“You’ll do it? You’ll host it?” He almost wanted to shake the girl.
“Host it? As if it’s an ‘it.’ As if it’s a parasite? No. I’ll be it’s mother.” She paused for a moment. “I’ll be the child’s mother.”
White looked down at Becky. She was old enough to be his daughter. His granddaughter. She was so lovely; her soft brown eyes, her delicate, young features. So intelligent. And so idealistic. If only he could take her aside, talk with her. Together they’d realize that they didn’t need to be so selective about the mother. They could find someone else.
The AM radio made a tinny sound. The Yardbirds were singing. When time and tide have been. Fall into your passing hands. Jack and Geena were staring at him. The silence had become uncomfortable. Please don’t destroy….
If he wanted a mother of good genetic stock, there was none better. All his arguments had been met. There was nothing else to do.
“Alright. I’ll make arrangements for the artificial insemination.”
They were still staring at him.
“You will be doing this by artificial insemination, won’t you?”
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