“Oh,” said Michael, with a start. “I know this little girl!”
And Ash said, “You do?”
“Yes! But with everything else going on, I nearly forgot about her.”
“Where? When did you meet her?”
“Just before I discovered the body.”
He remembered it now: how, at the sound of her piping voice, he had turned around to find the girl’s freckled face looking up at him; how he had wondered why no one had kept an eye over her, especially at that late hour, at dusk; how she had pointed at those boys, wrestling there just in front of her; how she had raised her wicker basket to him, so he might buy one of her seashells; and how she had drawn his attention to the pearls, strewn all over at her feet.
Michael pushed his chair back and went over to squat next to the little girl, so as to be on the same level as her.
“Hi, Mister.” The little one squinted against the setting sun. “I met you before. You gave me a quarter.”
“Yes, I did. Now, I have a question for you.”
“It’ll cost you.” The girl measured him smartly up and down. “Another quarter, Mister.”
He dug up a coin from his trouser pocket and threw it up in the air so it would flip reflections in the sunlight.
The little girl caught the coin and examined it.
“This time,” he said, “it’s not a shell I want.”
She opened the palm of her hand. There, glimmering between her fingers, stirring like a living thing, was something he never hoped to see again.
Michael gasped in amazement. “Oh! The pearl necklace! That’s just what I meant to ask you about—”
“I knew it!”
“Can I see?”
The little girl handed it to him. “The clasp is broken.”
“Yes,” he said. “It’s been torn apart.”
“If you give me a whole dollar, it’s yours, Mister.”
“You sure?”
“Yes. It’s damaged.”
“How did you find it?”
“I came back to the beach early the next morning and picked up all the little pearls I could find. Tried to put it all together again, really, I did.”
Michael examined the necklace carefully, end to end. The silver thread running through the bruised pearls showed up through a gap, because some of them were still missing.
Meanwhile, the little girl twirled her ruffled dress. “It’s good, Mister. All I ask for it is one dollar. Worth much more, you know.”
It was then that an angry cry erupted over their heads.
“What on earth are you doing?” yelled the waitress. “How many times do I have tell you? How many times?”
“Sorry, Mommy!”
Red-faced, the waitress came out puffing and huffing and slapped her daughter on the cheek. “You know better than to bother customers. Go find your brothers!”
“But Mommy—”
“I’m mad at you, mad at them! They should do a better job at keeping an eye on you. Go tell them that!”
“But—”
“Go! Before I spank your little butt!”
The little girl grabbed back the necklace, threw it into her basket, and jolted into a quick escape. In a second she was gone.
Michael stared into his empty hand. So did Ash.
The waitress turned to them, her hand piling the puffy hair behind her ears, then wiping the perspiration from her face. At last, she composed herself enough to force a smile to her lips. It cascaded down into her first chin, then into her second.
“Well,” she said, this time in an overly sweet tone. “You decided already?”
❋
Ash took the bus home after dinner. Michael went for his evening jog along the beach, after which he started climbing up the trail on the way back to his car. A drizzle trembled in the air, and from time to time, gusts of wind slapped across the path. Blocked in inky lines, the cliffs rose up against the pale, transparent wash of waves in the background.
A sense of loneliness swept through him, perhaps because of the chill. When his cellphone started buzzing, he jumped at the opportunity to talk to someone, anyone, even if it was some wrong number. It wasn’t. It was Dr. Michael Forman, whose call the other day had been left unanswered. Why on earth would this successful man, who had such an illustrious education, be looking for a high school dropout like him?
“Michael Morse?” said the doctor. His voice was raspy. Tired, too, perhaps because of spending long hours at the ER, or because of the mixed blessing of saving some of his patients, losing others.
“Yes, that’s me.”
“I’ve been trying to get in touch with you for some time now. Let me introduce myself—”
“I know who you are,” Michael blurted out.
At the other end, the man gasped. “You do?”
Michael recalled seeing his picture somewhere: a handsome fellow, older than him by five years or so, but already weighed down, perhaps by the gravity of his profession, his face pasty as if he rarely saw the light of day. In his eyes was an unmistakable look, the look of being tired, even bored with life, as if he would rather escape the all-too-bright glare of professional success and do something entirely different. Play the drums, maybe.
“Doctor Forman,” said Michael, “a few months ago I read scores of your abstracts, which I found online. Fascinating research. Of course, I’m unqualified to fully understand it.”
“Oh, I’m flattered,” the man said, in a somewhat uneasy manner. There was a repetitive sound at the other end. Perhaps he was drumming over his cellphone with those long surgeon fingers of his.
The conversation came to a halt, so finally, Michael was moved to explain, “At the time, I wanted my girlfriend to get a second opinion from the best brain surgeon out there, but since then—”
“She’s stopped dating you?”
“She’s recovered.”
In return Dr. Foreman gave a chuckle, or that’s how it sounded to Michael Morse. So, he felt compelled to clarify. “She’s awakened from her coma—but what caused it in the first place remains a constant source of pain. You see, Ash was raped and severely beaten. Even worse: to this day, she doesn’t know the identity of the attacker.”
“Sorry to hear it,” said Dr. Foreman. “Of course, at this point I can’t do much to help—but I know someone who can.”
“Really? Who?”
“My cousin, Rachel Foreman. She’s in Chicago. A few years back, she worked at a series of jobs at non-profit organizations, devoting herself to helping abused women or women otherwise down on their luck. Let me text you her number.”
“Thank you, but I don’t think Ash will want to talk with her.”
“Why not?”
Feeling suddenly choked, Michael uttered a sigh. “Because. Ash seems to think that no one can possibly understand what she’s gone through.”
“Well then.” Dr. Foreman cleared his throat, which seemed to remove his cool, professional tone. This was personal. “Tell her that Rachel, too, suffered an ordeal of a horrific nature.”
“Even so,” said Michael, shaking his head.
“To make a long story short, my cousin was kidnapped on the highway, then fitted with a suicide vest loaded with TNT, part of a blackmail scheme against her family, you see. Moments after the bad guys got what they wanted, the vest exploded.”
“Oh no!”
“So, Rachel was scarred for life, in more ways than one. She’s still healing, which allows her to understand pain like no one else can.”
“You say she’s in Chicago?”
“She is, but nowadays, distance is immaterial. I know she can do wonders for Ash, even over the phone.”
“I’ll give Ash her number,” said Michael Morse. “Who knows, maybe she’ll call.”
He took a breath and hope filled him. Could his sweetheart emerge from that dark, tight place where she seems to have been trapped?
Meanwhile, Dr. Foreman said, “So, I’m glad to hear you don’t need my profe
ssional advice anymore. At this point, I need yours.”
Michael was flabbergasted, but managed, somehow, to mutter, “Mine? About what?”
“Virtual Reality,” said Dr. Foreman. “I’ve heard you’re unmatched in designing VR systems. Games, in particular.”
Michael Morse couldn’t help but beam with pride. “I’ve done my own Dungeons & Dragons game, back in high school, and it was good enough to fool the senses, if I say so myself.”
“So I’ve heard! A friend of mine—you may know him, Ralph Guthrie—told me it was the most brilliant, the most immersive version he’d ever played.”
“Oh, Ralph likes to exaggerate,” said Michael, waving a hand as if to dismiss the compliment and at the same time knowing this is a failed attempt at humility. “I admit, there’s nothing I enjoy better than riding upon the scaly backs of dinosaurs, surveying some prehistoric landscape. You should try that yourself, sometime!”
“Can we meet?”
“Where?”
Dr. Foreman sounded surprisingly ready for this question. “I’m attending a neurosurgical conference in San Diego and would appreciate it if you came to hear my talk.”
Michael hesitated, so Doctor Forman pressed on, weaving in his technical jargon with great ease. “It’s about the interpretation of functional MRI in association with electroencephalography to map brain activity. Don’t worry, it’s more straightforward than it sounds. Afterwards, we can discuss Virtual Reality, perhaps over a glass of scotch at the bar.”
In a blink, Michael found himself overcome by curiosity. Still, he had trouble picturing himself mingling with doctors and investors dressed in suits and ties at some elegant conference hall. “I don’t think I’ll fit in with your kind of crowd.”
“Never mind that,” said Dr. Foreman. “I have a lot to discuss with you. I’m trying to develop systems to diagnose brain damage and compensate for it. Funds I can get, but need someone with your skills to make this dream a reality.”
“You mean, virtually.”
“That’s just what I mean. So, will you come, Michael?”
“Let me think it over.”
❋
Lightning stabbed the night sky. By the flash of light, the two benches came into view. Now, he could isolate the outlines of two boys and a little girl, flanked by two cops.
Michael wondered, what were they doing out here in the dark? And what were they looking at?
The little girl hopped up on the bench and stretched herself up on the tips of her toes to look over the twigs. She placed her right hand on the cop’s shoulder, and with her left hand she pointed at something far below.
“There,” she said. “See? Down there in the sand, by that wooden stake?”
“I’ll go check it out,” said one cop.
And the other cop said, “You stay here with your two brothers. Better yet, all three of you go find your Mommy.”
“Please,” said the little girl. “Can’t I come with you?”
“No! You stay here,” said the cop, firmly this time.
“Why can’t I come?”
“Because I said so.”
“What happened, down there? Can you tell?”
“No,” said the cop, much too quickly. Clearly, he was lying. “I can’t.”
“I’m afraid.”
“Go find your Mommy. Go! This is not a pretty sight.”
Meanwhile, the other cop called in for help. In no time more police arrived, with a few reporters following them. Flashlights were crisscrossing each other, until they closed in on fallen figure down below.
Stunned, Michael turned his head. Even from this distance, he knew. There was no need to examine it any closer. The broken carcass at foot of the cliff had a cast on one foot, a bandage on the other.
Meanwhile, the cellphone emitted a buzz, bringing a CNN newsflash to his attention. Michael read:
The body of a homeless man was found this evening at Laguna Beach. According to Police, he committed suicide shortly after being interrogated for suspicion of murder.
Shaking his head, Michael stood there, stunned.
There was much he didn’t understand about what had just happened, but of one thing he was sure.
This was no suicide.
Someone had silenced the old man, forever.
The wind went on blowing. It lifted a blanket of sand to cover the beard, the knots of silvery hair. Dark crimson stained the pebbles under the snapped neck. Dark crimson laced the collar of the raincoat.
Chapter 12
At his office the next day, Michael was in the midst of a video chat with Bull. Frustrated with getting no help from him, he was about to say something when in came the president, unannounced.
“Don’t give me excuses, Bull. Don’t tell me about another one of your headaches,” said Michael, desperate to find a positive note on which to end the conversation. “When will you be here?”
“Oh, I don’t know.” Bull slurred his words. “Right now I can’t think, can’t figure out anything. All these excruciatingly boring design requirements, or whatever you call them, are just too much for me. I thought virtual reality was going to be easy. I thought it was going to be fun—”
“Fun it is, once you construct it in detail!”
Bull groaned. “Enough. I feel like I’m dead. Really, I need to sleep it off—”
“Fine,” said Michael. “Your uncle is here. Want to talk to him?”
“Not particularly.”
“Later, then.”
Mr. Armstrong seemed distracted. He said not a word about what he overheard of the video chat. Instead, he looked around the office, inch by inch, as if in search for something.
Michael turned off the video chat. “I was just talking to Bull.”
“That’s good, very good,” said Mr. Armstrong, absentmindedly.
“I explained, at great length, what virtual reality props I need him to design.”
“Just what I wanted to hear.”
“I told him about the new glove Ash has designed for me.” Michael handed it to the president so he might feel it. “See? It’s amazingly light—”
“Nice.” The president did not as much as glance at it. “Very nice.”
“It allows you to touch things in the imaginary world as if they were real. A whole body suit from the same fabric—with strategically placed electronic gadgets—would be great, that’s what I told him. Wearing it, you would feel the wind blowing, the sun radiating, and different floor materials responding to your footfalls at various degrees of hardness and friction.”
Mr. Armstrong didn’t seem to be listening. Instead, he shuffled a paper here, a paper there on the bookshelf, stuck a finger between one binder and another and took a peek in-between them.
Michael raised an eyebrow at this nosy behavior, but to be on the polite side, he decided not to question it. Instead he said, “Good ideas, right? Bull said little about them and asked even less.”
Mr. Armstrong leaned over him and peered at the desk area behind the computer. “My nephew, he’s a fine artist. Give him time. I’m sure he’ll come up to speed.”
“This job requires more than artistic skill. It requires technical know-how, and above all, perseverance to explore different solutions, both of which I’m afraid Bull doesn’t have. Unlike Ash—”
“Oh stop it! You want me to give her the job back. I’m going to do no such thing.”
“But—
“But nothing!” stressed Mr. Armstrong. “From now on, I don’t want to hear a mention of her name.”
With that, he clutched the handle of the top desk drawer and with a sudden screech of its metal sliders, yanked it open.
“Aha! What have we here?” He grabbed the front flap of a white envelope, on which the name ‘Lace’ was scribbled. “How did you get your hands on that?”
What choice did Michael have but to admit the truth?
“I stole it,” he said, and braced himself for punishment.
“I thought so.”
Tired of playing the role of a compliant employee, Michael found himself ready to bolt out of that place, and for good measure, slam the door behind him. “Since you don’t want Ash to work for the company, how about you fire me, too?”
To his surprise, the president burst out laughing. “That’s what you’d like, wouldn’t you! You have a contractual commitment to us. Don’t even try to wiggle out of it!”
“You’re right, sir. I am in your hands.”
The president was on the verge of losing his temper. “Yes you are, to your misfortune and mine. I don’t like your attitude, but we both know one thing. If your knowledge were somehow lost to us, this company will become worthless. It’ll simply fall apart!”
Realizing that the company relied on him for its survival, Michael considered using this fact in the future as a bargaining chip, especially when it came to bringing Ash back. Her skills were sorely missed here, and even more so was her presence.
Having her by his side would be inspiring. Her creativity would stimulate his. With Ash, he would be like god, hammering out a perfect new world, a virtual one. Together, they would be invincible. Nothing could stop them from forging ahead with cutting-edge ideas. Nothing would stand in their way—not even the suspicion of foul play by the president.
Even if Mr. Armstrong was the one to kill Lace, perhaps to stop her from claiming to be his daughter, there was no threat posed by him to anyone else, right? At any rate, from now on Michael knew one thing. If Ash were close-by, he would be galvanized into action. He would be eager to meet any danger head on.
Meanwhile, he found a way to bend the president to his will. But first, he had to give this power game some careful thought. So for now, all he said was, “Let me get back to work, then.”
Mr. Armstrong took a deep breath and pulled a photo out of the envelope. It showed a young ballet dancer balancing on her tiptoe, arms stretched overhead to sprinkle a glitter of some kind around her.
Virtually Lace Page 8