Much better than rape.
The memory was too raw to bring back, yet too hard to push away. That evening, Michael Morse had entered her apartment moments after the thug had escaped, only to curse, curse, curse himself for failing to arrive earlier, to save her from him in time.
With trembling hands, Michael had called 911 and at the same time, collected her teeth from the floor. He had tried to revive her, to no avail. Lying in a pool of blood, Ash had had no breath in her.
Her misfortune—if you can call it that—had not ended there. As a result of her injuries, she had fallen into a coma. During the days that followed, Michael had come to the hospital time and again, hoping to see her regain her consciousness. At the same time, he had been bracing himself against the suspicions leveled at him not only by police but also by her ever-vigilant Ma.
Having been interrogated for a number of days, Michael had pointed out to Mrs. Winters that not even a shred of evidence had been found to establish any kind of guilt on his part. In response, she had just sniffed at him. “Well,” she had said, with an acid tone. “Some people are good at lying.”
Meanwhile, there had been little change in Ash’s condition. He had begun to doubt that Dr. Patel, who had operated on her, could bring her back from the dead, despite his impressive titles: Professor of psychology and neurosurgery and Chair of Neurological Surgery and Physical Medicine in UCI Medical Center. A second opinion would clarify her fate, Michael had thought. Perhaps her medical records could be reviewed by someone else, someone objective. A skillful, well respected brain surgeon.
Finding such an expert would become his goal, his singular obsession. It had carried Michael through long, sleepless nights. The more he had searched for the best expert, the more references had appeared for a particular one: Dr. Michael Foreman, Assistant Professor of Neurosurgery and Radiology, working in the interventional neuroradiology suite at the University Hospital of Staunton College of Medicine.
His phone number committed to memory, Michael Morse could not bring himself to make contact. After all, being merely a boyfriend, not a next-of-kin, prevented him from obtaining her medical records and presenting them for evaluation.
He could, of course, hand that phone number to her mother, so she might make the call. He had, indeed, come close to approaching her with that suggestion, but the look in her eyes had stopped him cold. It had spelled one thing. Mistrust.
Being suspected for a crime had not been easy on him. But that had paled by comparison to seeing Ash lying immobile in her hospital bed, wrapped in bandages head-to-toe, clinging to life at the mercy of plastic tubes and electronic instruments.
“Oh, sweetheart. You, of all people, know I didn’t do it,” he had whispered, hoping for her eyelids to flutter, for her fingers to move, to give a twitch, a sign, a hint of recognition. “Maybe I’m mistaken. Maybe even you can’t be sure.”
Even after she had awakened, the cloud of suspicion seemed to continue hanging over him.
Or so he felt.
❋
“Well?” said the secretary.
“Well what?”
She set some papers next to the shredder and tapped her fingers impatiently over them. “Well, you told Ash about the meeting, didn’t you?”
“I did. Sent her several text messages.”
He avoided mentioning that they were left unanswered. In fact, he couldn’t even be sure that Ash knew of the recent business news. The takeover.
Only a couple of weeks ago, their startup was acquired by a large military operations research group, headed by a man with a reputation for a lack of any technical understanding of the projects under his control. Mr. Armstrong was notoriously well-connected. A year ago, he had become a project manager. Soon after, he had become the director of engineering, and now—the president. Thousands of his employees wished he could hold on to one position for just a few months so as to learn what he was supposed to do.
The first thing he did was move them into this new, highly secured building. The second thing was setting up this meeting.
At his end, Michael knew there would be a change in direction, but in his heart he resented it. The technology he had developed in his startup would no longer serve games in video arcades. Instead, it would serve politics. That is to say, war.
The secretary turned her back to him and started shredding some papers. At the side of the pile was a white envelope. It looked familiar, so he glanced at it a bit closer. Yes, he had seen it before. Scribbled on its front flap was the sender’s name. Lace.
“You can go in now,” said the secretary, over the noise of the machine. “The president is ready for you.”
❋
Even before the door opened fully, it revealed a glimpse of the executive office. Encasing the space was a large expanse of glass. The purr of faraway traffic seemed to press against it. Pacific Coast Highway curled in the distance like the tail of a missing cat.
The skyline of Laguna Beach was still wrapped in morning fog. Silhouetted against it was Mr. Armstrong. This was the first time Michael saw him. Correction: it was the first time, if you don’t count catching sight of him the other day, out in the parking lot, with the most unlikely companion. A teenage girl.
What had happened between those two seemed nothing less than odd. She had reached for his arm. Mr. Armstrong had flung her hand away and marched right into a waiting Mercedes. Once inside, he had motioned to his chauffeur to drive away without delay.
Meanwhile, the girl had slipped some envelope over the rising edge of the passenger-side windowpane. For fear of it cutting off her fingers, she had uttered a cry.
For no good reason, Michael had aimed his cellphone to snap a picture. Just then, a reflection of her face had flashed across the tinted glass. Then the car had jerked into a spin and sped away.
Even though his cellphone was lost, he could recover that image from his data storage provider. Michael recalled zooming into the photograph, hoping to see her face up close. Instead, what had come to the fore was something completely different: a white envelope, falling down. By the sender’s name scribbled on the front flap, that was the same envelope.
Perhaps he was misinterpreting things, or embellishing them with the aid of an overactive imagination. To be fair, he resisted passing judgement on Mr. Armstrong, except to mention to himself one undeniable fact. Within a few hours, that girl’s throat had been slit.
Hands clasped behind his back, Mr. Armstrong was looking at the view. “Morning,” he said.
In profile, his forehead was massive and deeply pleated. Wisps of white hair clung to the skin fold between his neck and the back of his head.
“Morning, sir.”
With a wide sweep of his hand, Mr. Armstrong gestured toward the conference table. Inlaid into its rosewood and mahogany grain was the company’s logo: a shield with two crossed swords.
Sitting down, Michael found himself swallowed up into an overstuffed leather armchair. His palms were clammy, which forced him to wipe them off on his pants under the table. In its burnished top, the president’s reflection slid across the surface, upside down.
“I appreciate people who come into my office and give me their best advice, even if it makes them uncomfortable,” said Mr. Armstrong. “I thought you might be candid with me today.”
“What d’you want me to tell you?”
“Everything you know.”
“Where, exactly, shall I start?”
Mr. Armstrong slammed his fist on the table, until the shield and cross-swords seemed to clack. “Start with your partner. What’s her name, again?”
“Ashley.”
“She’s an industrial designer, is she not?”
“The best! Our startup would not have been the success it was without Ash—”
“Perhaps so. But at this point, do we need her?”
“Excuse me, sir?”
“Given the new direction here,” said Mr. Armstrong, in a slow, grumbling tone as if talking to a rebellio
us child, “she can contribute little from now on.”
“I beg to differ,” said Michael, his muscles stiffening. “Given any direction, her role is vital. May I explain it to you, sir?”
“Please do.”
“For the customers of this company—say, military planners, or soldiers in training—virtual reality provides an uncanny sense of immersion. It tricks their brains into believing they are walking on that narrow beam high above an enemy city or riding an amphibious vehicle up the shore, anticipating an imminent attack. Ash did amazing work extending the immersive qualities and emotional impact of this experience, even before putting on the headset and long after taking it off.”
“And how did she do that?”
“By having participants step inside a physical environment, with props that were designed by her. It resembles a cross between an art installation and a minimalist stage production. Entering it prepares them mentally for the journey, before they take a plunge into virtual reality.”
Michael waited for a response, but none came, so he went on. “This physical environment also provides a gentler exit, beyond just yanking off the headset. How can I explain it to you? Getting off virtual reality is like waking up from a dream. You don’t want to do it abruptly, especially if you’ve just been on a virtual battlefield, escaping an attack. If you wake up too soon, violent incidents may occur.”
Mr. Armstrong glanced out the window into at the faraway sailboats. He must have liked what he saw, because it was then that he did something strange. He smiled, which seemed at odds with his usual grim face. To make matters worse, his smile continued to widen even as he relaxed his fist and opened his palm, across which was a scar.
“Perhaps you’re right. Perhaps her work is valuable,” he said. “But even so, I’ve made my decision. I must fire her.”
“Why?”
“Because not being here at this meeting shows utter contempt.”
Michael felt a rush of anger at this misguided decision, knowing it would not only cost Ash her livelihood but also rob both of them of the joy of creating new worlds, together.
He considered responding with some excuse for her absence. No, excuse was the wrong word. She had every reason to be alone for as long as it might take for her to heal. She was still in pain, still seeking revenge on the man who had forced himself on her, if only she could figure out who it was.
How could Michael share the little he knew about what had happened to her with someone who was practically a stranger to him, someone who didn’t know Ash and didn’t seem to care?
Before he could gather the words into a sentence, Mr. Armstrong moved a step closer. His heavy figure was mirrored in the window, over the view of the sailboats.
“I’d rather hire someone else,” he said. “In fact, I’ve already lined up the perfect candidate to replace her.”
Michael leaned forward, out of the soft cushion embracing his back. Cold sweat started forming on his upper lip. “You asked me to be candid, so I must tell you this: no one else is as creative—”
“How can you say that,” said Mr. Armstrong, “when you don’t even know who my candidate is?”
He leaned over Michael and tightened his fingers over the shoulders of his armchair, throwing it into a swivel.
The walls moved around and around until Michael faced the other way. Someone was standing there, half-hidden behind a door that led into a private chamber.
“Hello there,” said the man, with a sickly smile.
Chapter 3
Rumor had it that for some time now, the president had been seeking to install his nephew in any available position, so as to shake him—by hook or by crook—out of being a lazy bum.
So the familial identity of the candidate was no surprise, except for one thing: when the man turned to him, Michael realized they had already met. Moreover, they had struck an uneasy on and off friendship, which began about a year ago, at an art exhibition recommended to him by Ash.
“Meet Manny Bullock,” said Mr. Armstrong. “He goes by Bull.”
“Hello again.”
“You two know each other?”
Yes, Michael knew the man, knew his temperament. You might call it artistic. It had been on display right from the start, when at the heat of discussion with several art critics, he had hurled one of his own stone carvings at the floor. Even worse: at the sight of the fragments, he had thrown a fit.
“We go back a long way,” said Bull.
For a man bearing the nickname of a formidable animal, he looked incredibly small. Despite being in his thirties, he was no taller than a ten-year-old boy.
Bull unzipped his leather jacket and flung it over his shoulder. The legs under him were short, but in all other respects—the veins, knotted on his thick neck, and the eyes, set deeply into their cavities—he looked nothing like a child. Everyone knew that he was given to extravagant mood changes, which made most people stay away from him.
Michael, who often felt like an outsider himself, had a soft spot in his heart for anyone who lived in isolation. Both of them had an issue with authority figures. For that reason, he thought he understood Bull, who hated being financially dependent on his uncle, despite doing nothing to change it.
Michael took a step forward for a handshake, but Bull took a step back, not even bothering to remove his leather gloves.
Michael smiled. “Haven’t seen you for a long time.”
Bull lifted an eyebrow. “Haven’t you?”
“Sorry,” said Michael. “I’ve been so immersed in designing my virtual games—sometime surviving the undead, other times slaying mythical beasts—”
“All at the cost of our friendship,” said Bull. So tight were his jaws and so strained the muscles in the corners of his mouth, that the words came out with a spurt. “You avoiding me?”
That set Michael back on his heels. “No! Why would I want to do that?”
“Because.”
“Because what?”
“Because you know how unpleasant I can be, especially when I have one of my headaches.”
Mr. Armstrong tensed up. “Now, now. That’s enough.”
At this point, Michael expected him to turn the conversation to matters of the work at hand, such as improving the design of finger controllers, which let you touch things in the virtual world, and of the jumpsuit with its vibrating actuators, which lets you feel your movement there with heightened articulation.
But no. The president skipped such matters altogether. Instead, he dwelled on lighthearted chitchat.
“So!” He clapped his hand fondly on his nephew’s shoulder. “What mischief have you been up to these days?”
“Working on a new sculpture,” said Bull. His tone was uneasy. Perhaps for him, art was an intimate thing, not to be violated by trivial words.
Meanwhile, Michael was becoming impatient. There were a couple of things that weighed on his mind, none of which had to do with this meeting.
First, the white envelope. Out of curiosity, he wanted to snatch it from the pile of papers next to the shredder, before it was too late.
And second, his cellphone. Even though it was lost to him, its information was stored in the cloud data storage. He needed to hack into it, so as to erase any record of his location last night. This way, even if police found the thing, or even if they accessed the cloud, there would be no digital proof of him being at the murder scene.
His mind was racing, trying to find an excuse to get out of the meeting, out of the executive office.
Meanwhile, Mr. Armstrong went on talking to his nephew. “Why didn’t you join me last night? It was quite an adventure, aboard my new sailboat.”
“Sorry,” said Bull. “I couldn’t. My headaches, you know.”
“Ah, nonsense! Even you would have enjoyed it—”
“No, I wouldn’t.”
“Without you there, I had no choice but to steer her away all by myself, which, as it turned out, was a mistake. My muscles still ache from pulling up the
sails, and this wound—oh, it still bleeds from time to time.”
“Does it?”
Mr. Armstrong waved his hand in the air as if to blow the question away. “Oh, it’s nothing. Nothing at all. A stupid paper-cut I’ve had from before.”
“It’s infected,” said Bull. To his uncle’s surprise he added, “Let me take care of it.”
“First, take off your gloves.”
“My hands are too cold. Trust me, you wouldn’t like the touch.”
“No matter, then. I’ll get someone else to do it.”
Called to bring in the first-aid kit, the secretary took Mr. Armstrong’s hand in hers, cleaned the wound, dressed it, and wrapped the bandage around his wrist.
“I have a message for you.” She pulled the bandage diagonally over the back of his hand and around his fingers, leaving the fingertips exposed. “Ash called.”
“Oh, did she?”
“Said she was sorry. Couldn’t make it for this morning’s meeting.”
“That,” said Mr. Armstrong, “cost her the job.”
And without losing a beat, he went on describing his voyage last night. “The horizon was nowhere to be seen. And the waves! They were this high! Twice, they swept me overboard. If not for my life-jacket, I wouldn’t be standing here, talking to you today.”
Bull snorted. “A shaky deck, that’s not my idea of having fun.”
Mr. Armstrong pretended not to hear that.
Once the secretary applied an adhesive tape to secure the bandage in place, he escorted Michael to the glass door, instructing him to bring his nephew up to speed in the next few days on whatever it was that needed to be done.
❋
For the moment, the secretary remained behind him in the executive office, which gave Michael the opportunity he needed to sift through the pile of papers next to her desk and recover the thing that piqued his curiosity. A certain white envelope.
Virtually Lace Page 2