The Panic Zone

by Rick Mofina

  “It is? Is someone calling you to tell you your son is alive part of the grieving process?”

  Pierce let a long silent moment pass.

  “Emma, your leaving home to search for Tyler at the clinic in California, the symbolic place of his origin, is extreme, but it is still part of the mourning process. As is your anxiety, your disbelief, even your self-recrimination. As you said, you were the one who suggested the picnic, which resulted in the drive and accident. You said that had you not gone on that drive the tragedy never would have happened. This is survivor’s guilt. Essentially all of these symptoms have converged to form your yearning, and at the same time, deceive you into believing Tyler is alive. It’s a protective mechanism.”

  “Wait!” Emma held up her hands. “I don’t understand.”

  “I know it’s difficult to absorb what I’ve identified.”

  “No. Not that. I thought you believed that Tyler was alive, that the phone call, the information I obtained from Polly Larenski—who admitted she sold Tyler’s files, admitted someone somewhere has Tyler—all pointed to the fact that there is some sort of plan, plot or conspiracy going on.”

  “No, Emma, I’m sorry if I gave you that impression.”

  “I thought with you being from L.A., that you had contacts with police, authorities, that you were going to help me follow up on Polly’s information. It was all very real. I did not hallucinate any of that.”

  “Emma, I understand—” he cleared his throat “—but I also agree with the earlier observation by Dr. Kendrix that you were hearing and searching out what you needed to hear to counter your disbelief. You need to be assured that Tyler did not suffer in the fire while you lay a few feet away unable to go to him.”

  “No!” She clenched her hands into fists. “You are my only hope.”

  Pierce said nothing as a long awkward silence passed.

  “Emma. I understand that you believe deeply that what you’ve experienced is reality, that it has in fact happened. I promised at the last session that once I had your test results, I would explain how I would help you confront what is real. And that’s what I’ve done.”

  All the blood drained from Emma’s face as he reached for a pad.

  “I’m going to give you a strong prescription and I want you to follow it.”

  As his pen scraped across the pad, Emma shut her eyes.

  Her faint light of hope had gone out.

  Pierce tore the page from his pad. It was the sound of betrayal as Emma felt the last measure of hope being ripped from her heart.

  Pierce was like all the others.

  He didn’t believe her.

  No one believed her.

  She sat motionless in the chair as Pierce went around his desk and opened his office door to where Emma’s aunt Marsha and uncle Ned had been waiting.

  “She’ll need this prescription.” Pierce gave it to Emma’s aunt. “You can get it filled at the hospital pharmacy on your way out. Emma—” Pierce put his hand on her shoulder “—I’ll see you Friday at the same time?”

  She said nothing.

  “We’ll have her here,” Uncle Ned said.

  “Thank you, Doctor,” said Aunt Marsha.

  No one spoke in the car. Emma sat with Aunt Marsha in the back. Uncle Ned drove and fiddled with the radio, finding a classical music station. He kept the sound low.

  Emma loved them. Their devotion to her was unyielding, never giving way to their own pain. She could not have survived this far without them. They were halfway across town, stopped at a red light, when Emma made a decision.

  “Can you please take me to the cemetery?”

  Uncle Ned looked in the rearview mirror where he found Aunt Marsha’s face and the answer.

  “Of course, dear,” Emma’s aunt said.

  When they reached the entrance to the Sun View Park Cemetery, Emma asked her uncle to stop.

  “I’d like to go the rest of the way alone. I’ll walk home later.”

  “But, dear?” Aunt Marsha was worried.

  “I need some time alone out here, a long time.”

  “We can wait, or come back,” Uncle Ned said.

  “I’ll be fine. I’ll walk home. I just need to be alone, to think.”

  The anxiety in her aunt’s eyes was clear.

  “Don’t worry, Aunt Marsha.”

  “Try telling the rain not to fall.”

  Both women released a laugh.

  “What happened is nobody’s fault,” her aunt said.

  “I know.”

  “We love you, Emma,” her aunt said.

  They drove off, leaving Emma alone to walk along the high prairie that disappeared into the mountains. She made her way around the headstones to the gravesite that was marked by a white wooden cross and a mound of dark earth.

  The stone wasn’t ready yet.

  The small plate affixed to the cross read Joseph Lane and Tyler Lane.

  Emma sat on the grass.

  No one else was in the cemetery.

  Birds twittered.

  Am I wrong? Is everyone else right? Have I lost you forever?

  She was so tired. She didn’t know what to do.

  I want to be with you. I need to be with you.

  A breeze rolled down from the Rockies and lifted her hair, tugging her down a river of memories as moments of their lives together rained upon her like falling stars.

  I feel your hand, Joe. I really do. I feel that shirt, that stupid faded denim shirt, softened by a thousand washings. I feel your skin. I smell you. I taste your cheek on my lips.

  Oh, Tyler, Mommy sees you laughing in the sun.

  I see you, Mom and Dad.

  I see the fires that took you all.

  I see you together.

  Don’t leave me here.

  Can you hear me?

  Please, take me with you.

  I want to be with you…. I can’t bear to be alone.

  I can’t be without you. I can’t. I can’t live without you.

  I can’t fight anymore.

  Was I wrong about it all?

  Was the phone call really about Dr. Durbin’s letter? Was Polly Larenski crazy with grief, too? Was she not in her right mind when she called me and said Tyler was alive?

  Help me!

  Joe, help me! Tell me what to do. Tell me what is real because I don’t know anymore. Send me a sign, show me the way, please. It hurts so much.

  Time slipped away as Emma struggled with half-dreamed fears, listening and searching. But no one spoke to her and no signs emerged.

  Reality descended upon her with the sinking sun.

  She was alone.

  Defeated.

  She had come to another decision.

  As she walked home from the cemetery, the truth emerged at every turn and every corner where she was met by the ghosts of her happiness.

  There was the Wagon Wheel Diner where she first saw Joe. And there was the Branding Bar where she met him again a month later. And there were two houses that Joe and his crew built. And down the way, in the distance, she saw her school and, near it, the hospital where she had Tyler. There was the park where he liked to play.

  I can’t live without you.

  Reality had arrived with the night, and the truth was as dark as the starless sky. She walked into Yancy’s Drugs, went to the cold remedy aisle and snatched a large bottle of extra-strong sleeping pills.

  The store was deserted.

  Mindy, the teenaged clerk, picked up the bottle from the counter. She hesitated to slide it over the scanner next to the cash, giving Emma a look that telegraphed her knowledge. Like when boys bought condoms or Mindy’s girlfriends paid for birth control or Rudy, the furniture salesman, bought hair dye. If you wanted to know what was really going on in Big Cloud, talk to the checkout girl at Yancy’s Drugs.

  “How are you doing, Emma?” Mindy turned the bottle to find the barcode.

  “I’m having trouble sleeping, Mindy. How’s your mom?”

  “Go
od. We’re so sorry about what happened and everything.”

  The scanner beeped.

  “Will that be cash or charge?”

  Emma set a ten on the counter then gathered up her change, her pills and left. When she put the bottle in her purse, it sounded like a baby’s rattle.

  Aunt Marsha was relieved when Emma arrived home. Uncle Ned woke from napping in front of the TV and an old John Wayne movie.

  The Searchers. Joe’s favorite. Was that a sign?

  “Do you want something to eat, dear?” Aunt Marsha asked. “I can fix you a chicken sandwich and we have potato salad.”

  “No. I’m not hungry. I’m going to bed. I’m very tired.”

  “Oh, before I forget, I have your new prescription in my purse and Dr. Pierce said you were to take two pills before bed. I’ll get them.”

  After Emma swallowed the pills with a glass of water, she hugged her aunt, a bone-cracking, passionate hug that lasted more than a moment.

  “Goodness, dear!”

  Then Emma hugged her uncle the same way.

  “Thank you both for everything. I love you.”

  “We love you, too, Em.” Uncle Ned, rubbed his eyes. “Sleep well.”

  “Emma?” her aunt asked. “Is there anything you want to talk about?”

  Emma stopped, swallowed, blinked back a few tears and forced a weak smile before shaking her head.

  “I’m just tired.”

  Alone in her bedroom she shut the door.

  She got a cup of cold water from her bathroom and set it and the bottle on her nightstand under the glow of the reading lamp.

  In the dim light, she undressed and wrapped herself in one of Joe’s old flannel shirts. She pulled out Tyler’s stuffed teddy bear from her bag as well as her wallet, which held a worn snapshot of the three of them at the park.

  She loved this picture.

  I want to be with you. When I sleep, I dream. In my dreams we are together. I need to be with you.

  She could hear crickets in the night. See the darkness from her window.

  Warm joy flowed through her heart, carrying her to every tender memory, every sweet second of their lives together.

  Help me find my way back to you.

  Please.

  It hurts.

  The bottle rattled slightly when she reached for it.

  It was hard to see because of her tears, but she managed to read a few words on the label: One hundred extra-strength capsules. The recommended dosage for adults was two before bed.

  She unscrewed the cap, stared at the foil seal.

  She caught her breath, then using her thumbnail, punctured the foil.

  She peeled it back, removed the cotton and peered inside.

  50

  New York City

  Wyoming.

  There’s a link to Wyoming, Jack Gannon thought, working late at his desk at the World Press Alliance.

  But what is it? And there’s a link to Brazil, Africa, human traffickers, an ex-CIA player and something called Extremus Deus. Man, this story shoots in a thousand directions but I have no way of knowing how the threads connect.

  A planned attack was feared.

  Gannon sensed time was hammering against him.

  People have died. People have been murdered. I’ve got to nail this story.

  He had to settle down, he had to focus.

  Reaching for his mug to take a hit of coffee, his hand shook. He set the mug down. Jet lag, he told himself, it’s jet lag.

  He’d returned from Africa late yesterday.

  Or was it the day before?

  He’d lost track of time.

  He glanced out the window. Dusk had fallen on Manhattan and the Empire State Building ascended from a galaxy of light. His body was sore from stress, from tension. He’d arrived at the office that afternoon and worked with a sense of urgency, propelled by caffeine and adrenaline. The midlevel editors had left him alone. He was working for Melody Lyon.

  For her part, Lyon had yet to get a face-to-face debriefing from him. She’d been in Montreal, then in Boston on company business. She was due back at headquarters at any moment and she’d ordered him to wait at the office no matter how late she was.

  All right, Gannon, focus.

  He tried the coffee again, managed a decent gulp and got back to work.

  He had so many files open that he risked freezing up his computer. He’d scanned in the pages he’d found near the café bombing in Rio and was reviewing them. He’d also downloaded and opened everything from Maria Santo and Sarah Kirby’s group in Rio. He had Adam Corley’s massive file open, and he had his own notes on what he suspected were the major veins of the story.

  What was connected to what?

  It was overwhelming. He had to pick an angle, see where it led, then pick another.

  All right, the human traffickers were linked to illegal adoptions, which usually involved young children, even babies, which could be tied to—where was that now? He clicked on several files. There—fertility.

  There—the Golden Dawn Fertility Corp. What was that? Where was it?

  A quick online search confirmed that the Golden Dawn Fertility Corp. was in Los Angeles, California. Had they been in the news lately? Gannon searched WPA’s news databases. All that came up for the last five years were features on infertile couples.

  Wait, what was this item from the Orange County Register?

  Santa Ana Woman Dies in House Fire

  Polly Marie Larenski died from smoke inhalation in a blaze that destroyed her town house in the Civic Center area. Larenski, 37, was living alone and had recently worked as a lab manager at the Golden Dawn Fertility Corporation in Los Angeles. Cause of the fire, which resulted in $500,000 damage, remains under investigation by the Arson Unit.

  Gannon highlighted the phrase “Golden Dawn Fertility Corporation in Los Angeles.”

  It called to mind something he’d seen in Maria Santo and Sarah Kirby’s files—a reference to LA #181975 to Wyoming847.

  Right.

  Wyoming again. Adam Corley had something on Wyoming, as well.

  He searched Corley’s files until he found it again: a document among dozens of others. There was the file again: Big Cloud, Wyoming—Golden Dawn Fertility Corp. He opened it.

  There was a list of names and nothing else.

  Joseph Lane, Emma Lane and Tyler Lane.

  What was this about?

  “Jack?” Rachel, the news assistant, stood before him. “Melody’s back—she’s meeting with George and Al in the conference room now.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Because it’s late, they’ve ordered in some Chinese.”

  Gannon smelled the stir-fried food before he entered.

  Melody Lyon and her two senior editors, George Wilson and Al Delaney, were loading their paper plates and opening soda cans.

  “Nothing Jack tells us is to leave this room until we clear it. George, get the door, please?” Lyon said. Then she turned to Gannon: “Help yourself to some food. You look tired. How bad was it in Morocco?”

  Gannon recounted the history of his research but withheld details about his torture.

  “After I found Adam Corley’s body, they took me in for questioning.”

  “Who took you in?” Lyon asked.

  “Moroccan police, security types.”

  “And what have you got now?”

  “I have a lead from Brazil that the café bombing may be linked to a larger group, possibly a conspiracy involving human trafficking, illegal adoptions and maybe even a feared attack against the U.S.”

  “That’s quite a tale, Jack,” George Wilson said, “and held together with maybes and a lot of possible links. Is any of it verifiable?”

  Gannon knew Wilson disliked him for what happened in Rio de Janeiro. He also knew the point of these meetings was for the editors to challenge Gannon’s findings, to ensure that every iota of research was solid, backed up with sources or documents; that it had no holes. Because ultimately the
news organization, editors and reporters were like mountain climbers roped together on a story.

  A weak link anywhere could bring them all down.

  “I’ve got some files and documents I’m going over,” Gannon said.

  “What are the sources of the documents?” Wilson asked.

  “International aid and human-rights groups—mainly Corley’s group, Equal Globe International.”

  “Groups with political agendas,” Wilson said.

  “Groups that the United Nations relies on for frontline information.”

  “Right. Don’t get me started on the UN,” Wilson said. “I’m a little skeptical about fears of an attack. How many times have we heard this kind of talk before and nothing comes of it? You have anything else?”

  “I met a U.S. intelligence agent in Morocco. He was present at my questioning.”

  “That so? And how did you verify that he, or she, was an intelligence agent?” Wilson asked.

  He saved my fucking life, Wilson, was what Gannon wanted to say. Instead, he said, “It was clear by his actions. He intervened. Later he told me that Corley may have had information related to a planned attack against the U.S.”

  “This is what he wanted you to believe?” Wilson asked.

  “You’re twisting things,” Gannon said.

  The editors exchanged glances.

  “What’s the agent’s name?” Lyon asked.

  “All he gave me was contact information.”

  “Of course,” Wilson said.

  “In any event,” Lyon said, “Jack’s on to something substantial here.”

  “I’m not convinced.” Wilson was reading from his BlackBerry. “See, when we learned Jack was going to Morocco, I had Taz, our bureau chief in Rabat, do some checking. His Moroccan police sources told him that Adam Corley, the Irish ex-cop who also volunteered with Equal Globe International, was tied up with drug dealers who likely murdered him.”

  “That’s bullshit,” Gannon said.

  “Jack, Taz has lived in Morocco for twelve years. You were there for what, three days?”