Afterimage

by Roderick Geiger

  “I retired from law enforcement a few days after that case, but I continued to investigate on my own time because I hoped I would find something…something that would give meaning to this cruel, serendipitous business of growing old.”

  “And did you?” Warren asked.

  “I found Deverson,” Evans said, turning to study the young analyst’s expression. “Let me ask you something, son. Did you see all those books in the parlor?” He swept his left hand over his head as he continued: “Mythology. All mythology. The wisdom of the ancients? Bullshit! If you’d handed one of those ancient priests a damn disposable cigarette lighter he would have been convinced it was the key to heaven, the hand of god! You don’t sit crosslegged on a goddamned mountaintop somewhere and intuit the true nature of the cosmos! All you do is cook up more stupid goddamned mythology.”

  He calmed down a little. “And then, once in an eon, along comes a giant like Deverson, someone who embodies the very best human qualities: audacious, irrepressible, undauntable, tenacious, ingenious, systematic, undogmatic, courageous, tireless, fanatic and crazy as a coot. Deverson used all the talents and tools nature made available; to this he added the sum total of all the human knowledge and technology he and his confederates could amass; and he did it for damn near 30 years, long hours, day in and day out, until he got to be the first explorer to cross the frontier.” With that Evans swooned, wheezing, out of breath.

  The old woman rose quickly, placed the oxygen mask on him and unlocked his wheelchair brakes. “His blood pressure is so high,” she said, backing the wheelchair toward the door. “You’ll have to come back another time.” From the hallway, she scolded: “And make an appointment.”

  Warren sat in the solarium all alone, staring at the lone giant sequoia. Clouds were coming in now, moving fast, transforming the room from gold to gray to gold and back to gray. For all the old man had said, Warren realized he hadn’t gotten a single shred of information out of him.

  On his way out, Warren set the earliest appointment he could get to continue his interview with Evans: Thursday afternoon. Good. A new file, more chances to get into the field.

  Day 15

  Saturday

  Newsroom, Enterprise Daily News,

  Manzanita, California

  It had been a week since the Manzanita Hospital fire. For Ilene Ishue, ace weekend reporter, it had been an extraordinarily good week. Her fire story had gone out on the Associated Press newswire, picked up by 184 papers in nine countries. And her follow-up about Constance McCormack’s plastic hip joint had reprinted in 97 papers. That amounted to more royalties than the entire rest of the Enterprise staff combined over the preceding 12 months! Of course, Ishue would never see a penny of those royalties. Her stories belonged to the Enterprise even before they were written. The Enterprise received credits from AP when other member news organizations used Enterprise properties, and the value of those credits would pay Ishue’s salary for the next three years! Not bad for just one week.

  But for Ilene Ishue’s mental well-being, it had not been such a good week. She could not shake the anxiety that had started in Claire’s house, which continued to keep her awake at night, distracted during the day.

  She’d taken her usual days off, plus Thursday, gone day-hiking with her two, rat-sized dogs up in the national forest. As she hiked along, she talked to her dogs about her week. Ed and Chal understood every word, often tossing a tilted, panting gaze her way as proof. And they were both such good listeners. Never interrupting, never interjecting what they thought about it.

  Ishue had always been a strong hiker, good for long distance. Many years ago, during summers away from J-school, she took long backpack trips, often alone. No, always alone. In the Sierra. The Rockies. She was a large woman with large features; broad shoulders, treetrunk legs. Whether she ate constantly, starved herself, worked out or couch-potatoed, her weight always hung-in at around 150. Her father was the only man who had ever called her beautiful. He liked to say that a couple thousand years ago, the young men would have fought to the death for a chance at her. “Potential fathers-in-law would have given me dozens of horses just for a date with their sons.” Sure, daddy. Thanks.

  She liked to take her dogs off trail, looking for things that most other people might miss. Maybe a giant old tree or interesting rock outcrop, a strange plant or little side-canyon. Maybe a snake or a swarm of ladybugs or a noisy red-tailed hawk. She liked it when, on one of these side-excursions, her pathetic, deformed little canines would struggle to follow her, get tangled in the brush, commence to pitiable whining. It amused her at how thoroughly unsuited they were for survival, so without a shred of independence from their master, their tiny, fenced-in backyard, their wretched little plastic bowls from whence they sucked all their nourishment. They defied evolution, their very existence flying in the face of Darwin. And yet, here they were! Hers. Her charge. There was work. And there were the dogs. And that was about it.

  In her absence the McCormack assignments had gone to Ben Vilasik, a lifer on the city beat. The hard news guy, the guy who never had to do fluff. Vilasik had written a worn-out story about the failure of fire and hospital officials to find a cause for the accident, and a better piece about a radical drop in MRI clinic business throughout Mayton County. His stories had also done well ‘on the wire’ because of Ishue’s ground work, she was sure. It was, after all, Ilene Ishue who had suddenly thrust the Manzanita Enterprise into national prominence.

  And just as suddenly, as the McCormack story ran its course, as forward-spin on the story dried up, so did life at the Enterprise begin to return to normal, to its small town banality.

  Ishue again found herself alone on weekend shift, listening to the noisy florescent tubes, the obnoxious scanner, working on a puff-piece about Manzanita High’s new cafeteria furniture.

  Three of the students she’d interviewed on Friday said the food was worse than before. Worse after the new furniture arrived? How the hell was that possible? Were they cutting back on food quality to pay for the furniture? Were the kids just taking any available opportunity to complain about the school? Did anybody care?

  She changed screens to her McCormack notes page. According to Bernie, Claire had taken a much-needed holiday to an ‘undisclosed’ location. Ishue tried again calling Claire’s number, now for perhaps the 50th time. Again, no answer, no machine. There was a for-sale sign on the house. On Tuesday, a realtor named Thornton had chased Aaron, one of the Enterprise photogs, off the property.

  A white coat with the blue letters UCD on the pocket? Normally her empirical sensibility would have thrown that one out. But the tattooed patient had corroborated the sighting. Bald man, white coat, blue letters. Who is he?

  UCD. The acronym likely stood for the University of California, Davis. A phone call to the general services office up there revealed the labcoat was probably one of theirs, issued to virtually every department on campus. “We launder 2,000 of those coats every week,” the female clerk said.

  “Do you have an MRI on campus?”

  “Yes, several.” She wasn’t sure how many.

  “Did you ever have one blow up, or catch fire or anything like that?

  “Oh, I don’t think anything like that’s ever…”

  “Please. It’s really important. Maybe you could ask some of your co-workers, maybe people who’ve been there for several years.”

  She said: “Well, let me put you on hold. A long one with scratchy music. “Are you still there? Let me give you a phone number for a faculty member who’s been here since the 70s. He may be able to help you.”

  But every time she dialed it, the number had just rung and rung, like Claire’s. On a whim, Ishue tried it now. Saturday morning at 10:43? What were the chances?

  The line picked up. “Neurology.”

  “Dr. Wen Yeoh, please.”

  “Speaking. Who’s this?”

  He sounded old, raspy, with a faint Chinese accent. “Ilene Ishue. I’m a reporter.”


  “How did you know I would be here today?”

  “Just luck,” she answered. “I’m with the Manzanita Enterprise.”

  “Manzanita? The MRI accident!” The conviction in his voice surprised her.

  “Y-yes…”

  “I need to know exactly how you got my name.” He suddenly sounded angry.

  “I don’t want to get anyone in trouble, doctor.”

  “Are you here collecting evidence for a lawsuit?”

  “Not at all. I’m a reporter. Would you like me to fax you my press credentials?”

  “Who gave you my name?”

  Ishue knew she had to handle this one gingerly, pick her words. But he didn’t give her a chance. He hung up.

  Day 14

  Sunday

  Fresno, California

  “Your two days are up,” Gill announced late in the evening while the computer printed out the 12-page document. “Good luck with the presentation.”

  Sara laughed robustly “You know I can’t do this without you,” she repeated for perhaps the fifth time since Saturday. “Besides, I already bought the plane tickets.”

  Marcy had been surprisingly civil about the whole thing, playing the gracious hostess, serving snacks in the den, preparing meals as the two old research colleagues worked late into the evenings. But Gill could sense her irritation, the way she held her eyebrows, the abruptness in her movements.

  And when they’d left Monday morning in Sara’s rented Mustang, Marcy had kissed him harder and longer than the robotic ‘goodbye dear’ peck he was used to. Gill had sensed a little desperation in it.

  He felt a strange tightness in his gut as they drove southeast toward the Fresno Air Terminal, through the sprawl of comfortable tract neighborhoods. Up until this moment his life here had been an orderly procession of well-planned events, both social and professional. He had a good paying job, flexible hours, a certain amount of status in the community. No surprises. Nothing out of place. He was as happy as a middle-aged, middle-class, professional American male could hope to be.

  Once on the plane to Austin, they talked about some of the other students and faculty who’d worked on INFX at Davis. Yawning, Sara said she’d left several unreturned messages with old Dr. Yeoh. Darrell Huth, a freelance MRI technician, was currently in Montevideo, Uruguay troubleshooting an installation. He’d e-mailed her a four-word message from there: “INFX? Are you crazy?”

  Gill caught himself talking about the team and about old times, fondly recalling 20-year-old anecdotes until he noticed Sara had fallen fast asleep. The Boeing 757 hadn’t even reached its 36,000-foot cruising altitude yet, the seatbelt lights still lit. “Am I boring you?” Gill asked good-naturedly, and it occurred to him that’s what they used to say about Abe Lincoln, that he could sleep whenever and wherever he needed. Jesus did that too, he imagined. Probably Alexander the Great. And now Sara Keplar, mouth slightly ajar, face contorted where it was crushed up against the seatback. He studied the little crease across her cheek formed by a seam on her pillow, the faintly flushed skin around it. She’d been such a klutzy kid when he’d first laid eyes on her in Deverson’s Bio 456 class. Skinny, wire-framed glasses, acne. Amazing how well she’d aged.

  Without anyone to talk to, Gill switched off his reading light and watched out the window as the aircraft raced in and out of icy cirrus clouds. Misty vapors drew off the wingtip in pulses both regular and random. Gill felt light-headed, hypnotized by the contrails, coaxed gently and willingly into a dream…

  As the last students filed into the lecture hall, Gill’s face drew blankly contemplative. The first day of summer session had always been like this for him, melancholy caught up and sustained in the warm summer air blowing past the second-floor window.

  The breeze exhaled again, fluttering the full canopy of sycamore leaves, a pleasant distraction which set him back to musing about all the years – five so far - he’d spent here as a full-time student, nearly bankrupting his parents before landing this graduate assistantship, and still a fair distance to go before completing his master’s thesis.

  He caught himself staring at a girl in the front row, or rather at her long legs, crossed, emerging from a short skirt, tan and perfectly smooth. She was staring back at him, expressionless through smallish wire-rimmed glasses, her pretty face framed by brown-blond hair, wild and thick. He smiled at her and she responded with a cute little grimace. This, he thought, was why he loved college too much to ever leave willingly.

  Far across campus the chimes in Freeborn Hall Tower sounded and the students, 72 in all, settled down to business. Gill stepped forward.

  “Welcome to Bio 456, central nervous system microbiology. I’m your grad assistant, Gill Vrynos, the guy who’ll be checking your papers, helping you with procedures and figuring your final grades, so you’ll want to be very nice to me.

  “Check your cards to be sure you belong here and that you’re concurrently enrolled in 456L. This class is for majors only, has several pre-recs, and believe me, if you don’t belong here, you don’t want to be here.” There was a frantic rustling of papers among the audience as they checked their registration documents.

  Dr. Deverson stepped out from behind the stage, scanning the steeply raked seating of the lecture hall. He wore his perpetual costume, baggy creased slacks, a short-sleeved white shirt with two pockets, wing-tip shoes, and his tiny, half-round, wire-frame bifocals. He was a portly little man in his late 50s, but looked older. Pasty gray skin, dark semicircles under his eyes. What was left of his hair had turned mostly white, matted, uncombed. His only positive feature: a disproportionately large forehead, his cranium distorted, curving outward above the temples. Indeed not a handsome man but with a look of intimidating intelligence. The body atrophied, the mind evolved. At his presence the audience fell dead silent.

  “Let me start by saying the eight-week summer session is too short to cover the material we need to cover. It’s too much pressure on you poor, dear students. Therefore, it’s a good thing you can give it 100% of your attention. Put differently, I hope none of you are attempting to take another class during this session. It won’t work. This and the accompanying lab will probably be more demanding than anything you’ve ever done thus far in your college careers.” To this last word he added a sarcastic exaggeration.

  “In lab you will be working primarily with cute little rodents, performing numerous live-brain procedures, precision electrode insertions, installing fluid lines… There’s going to be plenty of dead mice around here by course end, sacrificing their lives on the off chance one of you will make an important contribution to medical research somewhere down the line.”

  Deverson took a hunched little walk across the front of the stage. Wielding his ever-present rubber-tipped pointer, he deftly flipped open an easel chart, exposing a large profile of a human brain. “Our goal of course is to learn more about this thing, this computer with its 600 to 700 billion parts that can interrelate with such speed and flexibility that it’s actually self-aware. Imagine that!” He shook his head in disbelief.

  Slapping the two-dimensional brain affectionately with his pointer, he continued: “It’s a big jump, ladies and gentlemen, to move beyond the sum of one’s parts. How did this thing get so damned smart?”

  Deverson lowered his arm and sidestepped to the end of a long table at center stage. With a nod he and Gill removed the sheet covering the table, exposing two stacks of video monitors on each end, separated by a subject tray upon which two immobilized mice lay prone, strapped down.

  “In my current research here, I and my colleagues are endeavoring to gain insight into the origins of this amazing machine by working backwards, by meticulous observation and analysis of living organisms at that most important moment of their entire lives, that moment when they cease to be.

  “For vertebrates, the current clinical definition of death is ‘the moment when resuscitation is no longer viable,” but it is a definition in flux. Before the discovery of defibrillation, deat
h was almost certain at the moment the heart stopped. Today, we’ve extended that to the moment of brainwave cessation.

  “Allow me to introduce Carla, on your left, and Bernice, two adult female white mice born of the same litter and, according to these monitors, both clinically dead. Both of their little hearts were stopped about 15 minutes ago by introducing an arrhythmic electrical pulse to their aortic muscles. Deprived of an oxygen source, these little brain cells quickly lose their ability to produce biologically useful energy, and they die, by the millions, these little neurons shutter the windows and close up shop.”

  Deverson took a slow walk around the table toward his attentive audience. “These bottom monitors – electroencephalographs - read brain waves. For about the first ten minutes that activity has steadily declined and now, as you can see, ceased. So are Carla and Bernice dead yet? Clinically yes. Their EEGs are flat. No brain activity.” He slapped the EEG with his pointer.

  “But look here. This large monitor on the end does show some activity. This monitor reads from an electrode planted deep inside her brain. It’s taken years to locate this secret place, this secret chamber in her head. Only about a two millimeters in diameter, a half-million neurons or so, the last place in Carla to die. The holdout.

  He pointed to an elapsed-time clock clicking past 15 minutes, 20 seconds, then nodded to Gill who threw a switch next to Carla’s lifeless body. The mouse began twitching in anguished spasms for about ten seconds while her EEG and EKG monitors bleeped back to life. Gill threw another switch and the tiny mouse stirred, struggling against her restraints, her lifesign monitors spiking erratically.

  “So what is this,” Deverson said, pacing slowly across the stage, hands folded behind him. “Ten minutes after we think she’s brain-dead, we give her a little zap from our miniature defib unit and voila, we’ve got activity…” he slapped the monitors with his pointers…”respiration, pulse, EKG. Assuming no serious brain damage, Carla here will soon be ready to go back in her cage, eating those disgusting little pellet things, running ceaselessly in her exercise wheel.”