by Alan Brudner
The group's identities were being withheld pending notification of their families. Preliminary reports suggested they all worked for high-tech companies. IBM. Intel. Cisco. I didn't see any reference to Cybronics. A color photograph of the scene showed them already covered up with a black tarp.
I turned on the TV, and as I flipped the channels I repeatedly saw images of seagulls gliding over the Golden Gate Bridge in the foggy orange-gray light of the San Francisco dawn.
A wave of nausea welled up inside me as I walked back into the bathroom and vomited a disgusting red-streaked acidic substance into the toilet. Was Schuyler one of the six? My skin was clammy and I felt strangely removed from my body, as if its thumping sweating tightening retching clawing reactions were happening to someone or something else.
There was a TV speaker in the bathroom. From a distance not far enough away, I heard something about a note found in the bottom of the Gatorade pitcher, initialed by all six of them. It said something to the effect that high technology companies and executives were being unfairly treated by Congress and the courts—Cybronics and Avery Kord in particular, as well as Microsoft—and that they wanted their deaths to call attention to the shortsighted inhumanity of those whose backward anti-tech thinking would send us all back to the Middle Ages. The commentators were pointing out that they were the antithesis of the Unabomber: he killed others to make some kind of warped statement against technology; they apparently killed themselves in a pro-tech frenzy.
I didn't calm down, but at some point my soul and my brain and my body reconvened in an effort to operate as a single being. I figured the San Francisco Six were probably some of the people in Katie's seminar, but I couldn't be sure. If all she planted in her prototype program were some pro-Cybronics messages, it sure was potent. Nor did I have any idea whether Sky was one of the six. I managed to call my office to ask Lucille whether anyone from San Francisco had contacted her. Through the telephone receiver, I could hear that she had on a television or a radio and was listening for the same news I was. Then I had her switch me over to my boss, so I could tell him I was taking an official leave of absence to find my son. He sent me back to Lucille, who had been placed on hold by the San Francisco sheriff's office. She patched me in. We listened to an unbearably repetitious Muzak version of "Up, Up and Away" before someone finally picked up. I explained who I was and why I was calling.
"We didn't call you?" the voice asked.
"No."
"Well, we're making the calls now. So if you get one, you'll know..."
"Why can't you just tell me? If I give you his name, and he's not in the group, you can just deny it."
"Different unit. Besides, how do I know you're who you say, and not a reporter? Or a suspect?"
"How could I be a suspect? It was a suicide!"
"That's what the papers say," came the reply. "But until the investigation is complete, that's just a prediction. If you catch my drift."
"Loud and clear," I said, but he hung up.
Then I instructed Lucille to get an atlas and call the police department in every city in the United States, from A to Z, tell them all about Schuyler and fax his photograph if they didn't have one.
"Got it," she said. "By the way, Mr. Lightman, I spoke to ISI. Sky hasn't used a credit card in a month. Mr. Casey said to tell you he struck out. But that other man you asked him about—that Driver guy—"
"Hank."
"Hank. Henry. Whatever. It turns out he's got a criminal record, Mr. Lightman. If you like, I can fax the ISI report to your room."
"I like."
As soon as I hung up, the fax started coming through.
It was a three-page report. It included a criminal history that reflected old convictions for loitering, unlicensed gun possession and trafficking in child pornography. Two other child porn arrests resulting in dropped charges. His credit history was ordinary, as were his deposits and withdrawals from a savings bank based in Portland. He had a safe deposit box, which I figured was probably a common necessity for people who need to stash child porn. But he also had an account at a bank in the Cayman Islands. I was curious about that; it didn't quite fit the picture. But other than the fact that it existed, there was no available information. A footnote to the report recited Cayman bank secrecy laws. There was a handwritten, oversized exclamation point next to the footnote.
Chapter 29
After a cup of black coffee in the lobby lounge and a free refill, I wandered a few blocks into the business district until I found a Radio Shack. I paced around waiting for it to open. The clerk must have thought I was nuts. Most rational people don't need to wait outside a store just to buy a cheap cassette player.
I took the shuttle bus to Tampa Bay Memorial. No Harry Cardinsky this morning. I was almost disappointed.
This was Florida, not too far from Orlando, and the hospital had a busy children's wing, so I wasn't surprised to find a few Disney tapes in the gift shop. I bought one called Sing-A-Long Songs. It featured the Seven Dwarves singing Hi-Ho, as well as Bear Necessities from the Jungle Book and some more recent Aladdin and Lion King numbers. I figured it would be as good as any. Heck, I was betting on a longshot.
Katie's mother was already in the room when I arrived. Katie's skin looked grayer, a sign I perceived as negative.
"Hello, Annie," I said, extending my hand.
Mrs. Wilnot looked at me but her expression was blank.
"She's really sick today," Annie said in a quiet voice. "Internal bleeding. She may need a transfusion."
"What's her blood type?"
"AB positive. The universal recipient."
"I'm O positive. I'd be happy to give mine." I smiled as I made the offer. "All the scotch and tequila in it might calm her down."
She allowed herself a slight smile.
"Why do you care about her?" she asked.
"My son's missing," I said. "As I told you, he designs software for Cybronics. I think maybe there's a connection."
She shook her head from side to side, looked at the floor. I did, too. The tile was old and cracking, free of dirt but stained with years of sickness, the rolling wheels of I.V. poles and gurneys and wheelchairs, the worn-out rubber soles of mournful visitors.
"I brought something with me," I announced to the room.
Annie glanced over as I opened the Radio Shack bag, took the cassette player out of the box and inserted the batteries. Then I struggled with the plastic jewel-box that held the cassette. I bent a corner back and forth repeatedly until my finger hurt and the plastic cracked open.
Two worried older adults and a comatose patient in a neuro ward are not your usual audience for Simba and Baloo and Ariel. Trust me, the theme songs and the pale green hospital room that smelled of stale urine were a strange combination.
Charlene walked in at the end of Timon and Pumba's rendition of Hakuna Matata, "means no worries," and smiled broadly, white teeth gleaming against her black skin. Her mouth would have made a great billboard for Colgate or Crest.
"I told you your Uncle Clay be coming back for you, honey," she said, holding Katie's hand as she took her pulse.
"A little fast this morning," Charlene said, looking up. "132. Like she just jog a few miles or have a high fever."
Charlene closed the translucent privacy curtain to take Katie's temperature and clean her up. I stood in the hallway and glanced down the hall as Pocahontas belted out some musical questions about whether you can paint with all the colors of the wind. I knew I couldn't.
"A child in there?" asked a stooped old lady shuffling along with the aid of a metal walker. At her pained pace, I estimated she'd reach the end of the corridor in a few hours.
"Not exactly," I said.
"Shame. At least I've lived my life."
"Hey, look!" Charlene yelled out. I rushed back inside. The curtain was open and so was the front of Katie's blue hospital gown.
"No time to be modest," Charlene explained. "Look at her eyes."
They were ope
n. I leaned over to get a closer look. The pupils widened mildly as my head blocked the fluorescent light.
They suggested consciousness.
I glanced up at the brain wave monitor. I didn't know how to read it, but the map it graphed out went from tracing an almost straight line to outlining the Catskills. The monitor next to it showed a pulse of 145.
"Katie," her mother said.
"Sweetheart," whispered Charlene.
"Forget about your worries and your strife," bellowed Baloo and Mowgli.
There seemed to be some kind of glimmer in her eyes, a flicker, but still no physical response. No movement.
I took her hand.
"Katie, can you hear me? Katie, can you hear me? Katie?"
Still nothing.
"Katie, I'm Schuyler Lightman's father. Sky works with you at Cybronics. Do you understand?"
Her eyes looked wetter. I glanced at the lines on her monitors. The Catskills were looking more like the Himalayas. Her blood pressure cuff inflated automatically every five minutes. The latest readout was 200/120.
"That's high," Charlene said. "I'd better get a doctor."
Charlene walked out.
I sat next to Annie and gave her Katie's hand.
"Please, Katie, come back," she said. "Come on, Katie."
Side one of the cassette tape ran out. Annie started singing. Her voice was melodic, almost operatic, more mellifluous than anything on the Disney tape. But the words that came out were even a step farther removed from Mozart or Verdi or The Rolling Stones.
"FLINTSTONES, MEET THE FLINTSTONES, THEY'RE A MODERN STONE-AGE FAM - I - LEE - - -"
I would have pinched myself but I knew I was awake. My dreams were never this outrageous.
I talked to Katie, calmly, directly into her ear, softly but louder than a whisper, as her mother sang.
"Avery Kord," I said. "Saint Andrew's Church. I saw him on the computer screen."
"FROM THE TOWN OF BEDROCK—"
"Avery Kord caused this, didn't he, Katie?"
"THEY'RE A PAGE RIGHT OUT OF HIS - TO - REE!"
"Katie, Avery Kord did something bad, didn't he?"
Blood pressure 214/123. Pulse 148. Eyes open, conscious, but not responsive. Where the heck were Charlene and a doctor?
"Katie, let's try something. One blink for yes, two for no. Can you blink?"
A mild flit of the eyelids. Barely perceptible. Or was it my imagination? I wasn't certain.
"LET'S RIDE WITH THE FAMILY DOWN THE STREET"
"Katie, did Avery Kord do something bad?"
A definite blink, I thought.
"THROUGH THE COURTESY OF FRED'S TWO FEET—"
"Did he do something to you over in Orlando?"
"WHEN YOU'RE WITH THE FLINTSTONES, HAVE A YABBA-DABBA-DOO-TIME—"
A blink.
"A DABBA-DOO TIME—"
"Did he make you test the subliminal suggestion program?"
Another blink? Not clear.
"Did you finish creating the program?"
A flit? I wasn't sure.
"Is it finalized? Did you send Avery Kord the codes?"
Two blinks. I was certain. Or was it one? Annie Wilnot was looking, but her mind seemed far removed, somewhere in Hanna-Barbera land. I couldn't tell what she noticed. I wasn't sure what it all meant, but I suspected Kord still needed Sky to complete and perfect the program.
Blood pressure 226/130. Pulse 170. Still no nurse, no doctor.
"You tried to resist but couldn't?"
"WE'LL HAVE A GAY ALL TIME! WILLLLLLLMA!"
The heart rate monitor suddenly went flat and started beeping. The blood pressure monitor showed a steep drop. The brain waves lapsed back from tracing the Himalayas to sketching the edge of a sidewalk.
Charlene and a doctor wearing a green scrub suit and a surgical mask and cap finally walked into the room. The doctor glanced at the monitors just as they all started tracing straight lines and sounding out a chorus of whines. His deeply-lined eyes looked sad and tired and defeated.
The doctor ran out into the hall without removing his mask and yelled "defibrillator!" He continued down the hall and left the scene as two doctors in white lab coats and the machine took his place so quickly I thought they must have been sitting outside the room. But the doctors, assisted by Charlene and repeated mega-jolts of electrical charges, couldn't bring her back.
When it was over, Charlene closed Katie's eyes with her fingers. Tears filled her own, as they did mine. Annie was humming "Meet George Jetson." I was sure she hadn't noticed her daughter's blinks. Or forgot them if she had. Annie had moved into a cartoon universe in which brightly colored people and clothed animals jump off cliffs and lie down on train tracks and dive out of airplanes without parachutes, all ready to come back for the next segment or the next episode.
Katie had been conscious long enough to tantalize me, but I was the only one who'd ever know. And I wasn't sure.
As Charlene sat with Annie and stroked her hair, I picked up the cassette player and walked out of the room. The old lady with the walker still ambled down the corridor. She had gotten about ten yards farther.
"A shame," she said. "At least I've lived my life."
"You still are," I said, rushing by as I hit the rewind button.
I followed the signs and the yellow line along the wall until I reached the children's wing. I walked toward the nurse's station but as I passed a waiting room, I noticed seven or eight children gathered around a young woman reading The Cat In The Hat.
I walked in and sat down. The children all looked at me. One was in a wheelchair. Two had no hair.
"May I help you?" the woman asked.
"I just wanted to give you this little present," I said. I handed over the tape player. "It's for this wing."
"Thank you, sir," the woman said.
"Let's hear it," one of the children said, glancing at it.
"Yeah, let's play it."
The woman hit the play button. In short order, Baloo was crooning, "the bear necessities, the simple bear necessities, forget about your worries and your strife—"
The kid in the wheelchair smiled.
A few minutes later I walked out into a scorching, humid Florida afternoon. I needed Eliza and I needed a stiff drink and I needed a way to save my son before it was too late.
If it wasn't already.
Chapter 30
"Katie's dead," I said to Eliza. "Cardiac arrest."
"You sure that's the cause?"
"I was there."
"She had I.V. lines?"
"Right."
"Wires?"
"Electrodes. To measure brain activity."
"Oh?" Eliza asked. "Did you see whether the electricity was going in or out?"
"Of course not."
"So then you don't know, Cliff," she said.
"Come on, Lize."
"Cliff, when I was an insurance photographer, you wouldn't believe the kind of stuff I saw. A little 4-inch stick marked up as a 12-inch ruler, for example. So when a claimant photographed a pothole with the stick next to it, the hole looked three times bigger than it really was. Things aren't always what they appear, is what I'm saying."
"She's the seventh person in the computer industry to die under suspicious circumstances this week. Six in this cult thing. There was a note."
"My point exactly."
"You really think he'd—"
"Go that far? Who knows? But where's the line between murder and convincing someone to do it? You know subliminal suggestion is what they used to call brainwashing."
"So you think Sky's probably next?"
"Let's hope he's still next," she said. "Do we know he's not one of the six out in California?"
"Not for sure, although my guess is they were part of that seminar Katie was talking about. Maybe they overreacted or something. Hang on." I picked up the phone and dialed the hotel operator. Lucille had called to say there was still no word from San Francisco. I hung up and looked back at the monitor
.
"No new info?" Eliza asked.
I shook my head.
"Kord's going to be on Sixty Minutes this week, too. If the San Francisco thing doesn't trump his guest appearance. He plans to show the world what a lovable guy he is. What great toys his company makes. If you have a computer, the bastard's even going to zap some kind of surprise present to you."
I stared at Eliza. I doubted the computer's optic sensors could pick up the anguish in my face, but I could see it in hers. She was ashen. It was hard to believe the monitor could reproduce such subtlety in shading.
"I never felt so lost, Eliza. Like I'm treading water somewhere out in the middle of the Atlantic. I look around and see nothing but water, miles and miles of water against a darkening sky. The sun is setting and my arms and legs are tiring out."
"Shut up," she blurted out. "I have a plan." Her voice was louder than I thought the speakers could go.
"Sorry, I just—"
"Slap yourself in the face for me." She cut me off at full steam. "At least until you get that virtual reality headset and the sensation suit. Then I'll be able to do it myself."
"But we don't even know where he is, Lize. Or if—"
"You work on finding him, Cliff. Phone calls. Scarlett. That cop in Portland. Your whole damn Rolodex. You put up posters. Ads in the paper. The whole shebang. As fast as humanly possible."
"Right," I nodded. "I already have Lucille making a zillion phone calls. Using Investigative Services International. But if we advertise that we're looking for a drop of olive oil in the North Sea, we'd probably find it faster than we'll find Sky."
"You can't win if you don't play," she said. "But that's just part one. Because while you're canvassing the country, I'm going to be loading up."
The optical sensors must have picked up the quizzical look on my face. She answered before I asked.
"Absorbing some data. I'm going to hack my way into the virus creation lab. The place where they concoct the latest, greatest computer cancers."
"To do what, Lize?"
She rubbed her forehead, twirled her hair. She was thinking and appeared uncomfortable.