Afterimage

by Roderick Geiger

  “You from Georgia?” the older guard said, backhanding his all-too-obvious co-worker in the shoulder. The younger guard, who had been ogling her up and down, looked away.

  “Mmm-hmm,” Sara said.

  “You’re relationship to the patient?”

  “Daughter.”

  “Haven’t seen you here before...”

  “You, we’d remember,” the younger guard tossed in.

  “Been out of country.” She held out her hand impatiently for the return of her license.

  “I need to give this to your mom’s therapist. You have to talk to her before you can go in.”

  “Everybody does,” the younger guard added. “It’s procedure.”

  She was told it would be a five-minute wait, five minutes for Sara to ponder the wisdom of this plan. It had seemed like a good idea at the time. A justifiable risk…

  But interviewing with this therapist changed that. Adel’s therapist might remember what Bernice really looked like, and if not, would certainly know her patient well. She could ask questions that Sara could never hope to answer. If she became suspicious she would be impossible to deceive. Sara was led into a small, gray room adjacent to the lobby, a room with a mirror but no window. A desk without clutter, without the accouterment of someone actually working in this space. A desk with a chair on either side, like a police interrogation room. Sara tried to hide her nervousness.

  The woman came in pleasantly extending her hand: “Hi, I’m Gail Holcomb, your mother’s therapist.” They sat and Holcomb asked: “Is this your first visit here?”

  Sara detected a little incredulity in her voice. She handed Holcomb an Army ID card and her passport. Corporal Bernice Deverson, Specialist First Class. “Been in Iraq.” She popped her chewing gum.

  “Adel never mentioned you were coming…is she expecting you?” Holcomb asked, scrutinizing the IDs.

  Uh oh! “No. I’m not much at writing letters.”

  “Ordinarily we don’t allow visitors without making arrangements first.”

  “She’s my mom!”

  “I know it sound’s harsh…” Holcomb condoled.

  “Look, I’m on a short leave…the longer I put off seeing her, the harder it gets to come out here. But I made it! If I don’t see her now, I don’t know if…”

  Holcomb nodded understandingly. “We need to talk a bit first.”

  “Sure.” Sara relaxed. She’s buying it!

  The therapist opened her manila folder, the only thing on the desk. “How was she the last time you saw her,” Holcomb sighed.

  “At dad’s funeral three years ago. Okay physically. She seemed to be coping with the blindness…”

  “How about mentally?”

  “Not so good. She wasn’t letting it go. Dad, I mean.”

  Holcomb sighed again. “Your mother insists she talks…communicates with your father from beyond the grave.” She shook her head sadly, leafing through the papers. “She’s been very consistent about that. In addition to therapy, Doctor Litrando has tried five…no, six different drug courses.” She was reading from the file now, fumbling with the loose sheets: “Deep psychotic break; vivid, multi-sensory hallucinations; sporadic, short-lived periods of relative lucidity between delusional episodes. Even lucid, the patient cannot distinguish reality…” She peered up over the folder. “On the positive side, she does take pleasure in her art.”

  “Art?”

  Holcomb slid several drawing across the table. “Braille art. We have a teacher - actually they call themselves coaches – comes in twice a week.”

  When the first sheet settled in front of her, Sara almost dropped her character. It wasn’t art; it was a blueprint! Carefully drawn to scale, intricate, long lists of specifications along the columns, breakout details. It was a blueprint for a machine. By the third sheet, Sara was sure. These were plans for an MRI.

  “This is amazing! How did she do this?”

  “Yes, well, these are drawings of you father’s designs for…what was it…” she fumbled with several more sheets…”uh, a hybrid medical imaging machine of some kind.” She was reading from Dr. Litrando’s comments again: “‘an obsessive-compulsive fixation on the set of plans, reproducing them with what would seem to be photographic accuracy…’ It’s not uncommon among people who lose their eyesight suddenly to fixate on one of the last things they saw. Of course people usually don’t go to this extreme…” She was still sliding the pages across the desk. “We calculate she spends about 600 man-hours on each one of these things.”

  Dumfounded, Sara counted pages…eight in all.

  “…about one per year,” she was saying. “Actually, your mother is kind of famous. There’s been write-ups in several psychology journals about her.” The consensus seems to be that letting her create these images reinforces her delusional world…where she believes her husband’s ghost is at her side helping her draw.” She paused. “But she is a dear woman, and it seems to make her happy so we continue to encourage it.”

  “That’s good. Thank you for that.”

  “Hon, you should prepare yourself. Your mother is not here in this same world with us.” The therapist glanced at her watch, then rose. “I’ll show you to her.” She led outside to a large, pool-side patio, about half full of other patients and visitors.

  Sara stiffened. It was clear the therapist intended to make the introduction herself. Adel would hear the wrong voice and become confused. Holcomb would get suspicious…

  The 70-year-old woman was seated, facing the lake, talking quietly to no one in particular, gesturing liberally with her hands.

  “Adel, honey,” Holcomb announced.

  Adel, engrossed in her private conversation, didn’t turn to the voice.

  “Adel. You’re daughter Bernice is here.”

  Adel whirled. “Bernice?”

  “Hi mom,” Sara winced, waiting for the onslaught.

  “Bernice dear,” Adel said with a knowing grin. “I wasn’t expecting you.”

  “Sorry I didn’t call, mom,”

  “So forgetful. Just like your father. Gail, you can leave us now.”

  “You’re sure,” Holcomb said, as much to Adel as to Sara.

  They both nodded.

  Sara pushed a chair up in front of Adel and sat. Adel was quiet now, grinning from ear to ear.

  “Sara! How clever of you. He’s always said you’re the most resourceful student he ever had.”

  “Thanks for not letting on, Adel. How did you know it was me?”

  “He told me, of course.”

  “Who?”

  “Who do you think? You’re practically sitting on top of him.”

  Sara flinched. There was no one within 20 feet. “Who?”

  “Mark, of course. Could you give him a little breathing room, please, move over just a little.”

  Sara moved her chair a foot to the left, wondering whether it was the right idea to humor the poor old woman. “Better?”

  “Much. Mark says hello. He asks what took you so long?”

  “I’m so sorry, Adel. I’ve no excuse. I’ve been neglectful. Self-involved. Selfish. No excuse. I hope you’ll find it in your heart to forgive me.”

  Adel’s face softened. “And now you show up right after this Manzanita accident? Quite a coincidence, Sara?”

  “No coincidence. You know I came because of the accident.”

  “Hmmm. That woman down there, Constance McCormack. She disappeared without a trace?”

  “Yes. Without a trace.”

  “Just like Mark?”

  “Yes.”

  “I presume you’ve come for the lab notes,” Adel said.

  Forgetting Adel’s blindness for a moment, Sara nodded. “Yes. Is that still possible, Adel?”

  “The notes are still waiting for you at the house. And it’s all still there, all except the last three months before the lab explosion, which was removed from the house by Detective Evans, and the last couple weeks-worth which burned in the explosion.”
<
br />   “The most recent notes are missing?” Sara said, tensing up.

  “Mark will help us piece it back together.”

  A small comfort. The last several months of notes, drives, discs, drawings, specifications – unavailable? The magnitude of this shortcoming was bearing down on Sara like a tidal wave.

  Adel leaned forward and spoke reassuringly: “Have you seen my drawings?”

  Sara nodded.

  “I can reproduce the notes just as well. There’s only a few pages that really matter. I can read them to you. With a coach I can re-draw diagrams for you.”

  Adel turned her head out across the lake, and for a moment Sara turned as well, curious what the blind woman was sensing. Halfway across the mile-wide water, a flock of distant birds flew low across the glassy surface. Cranes, or maybe pelicans.

  “Graceful, aren’t they,” Adel said. “They’re low…I can hear their wings working down on the water.” When Sara didn’t respond, Adel said: “I understand the research is going to start soon at a Gyttings-Lindstrom factory in Eugene, Oregon.” She turned unseeing to face Sara squarely. “When do we leave?”

  “Hey, guys,” Sara said, popping her head back into the reception area. Both guards turned. “My mom is really dying to see my new convertible. Can she just come out for a minute?”

  The guards jumped to their feet in unison. The older of the two answered: “No, ma’am. We ‘d lose our jobs if a patient got into the parking lot.”

  Sara thought a moment. “Well, you know, how about if I drove my convertible to her. You guys could just open the gate over there and I could drive in, right down that little service road to her bungalow, let her see it, then I’d drive right back out. Promise.”

  The two men looked at each other for guidance.

  They’re security guards…of course they don’t know she’s blind. “Please, guys. It’s real important she sees how well I’m doing so she doesn’t keep worrying about me.”

  When still they said nothing, Sara added: “She’s such a worrier. I’m afraid she’ll worry herself to death.”

  “I don’t guess there’s a problem with it,” the younger man said uncertainly.

  The older guard nodded, removing a busy keychain from his beltloop. “You’ll have to make it quick, honey.”

  The younger guard gave her a little salute as she passed through the gate and onto the gravel road running between the bungalows. She stopped in front of Adel’s cabin, turning the car just enough to conceal the passenger’s door.

  First they loaded a suitcase, then a briefcase, then Adel, who slipped into the back seat and covered herself with a blanket.

  The guard saluted again as Sara drove out.

  Once out on the highway, Adel climbed into the front seat. “Put the damned top down,” she blasphemed.

  Sara lowered the roof while raising Gill on her cell phone. “She’s with me,” Sara said excitedly. “But there’s a wee little problem.”

  “Uh huh,” Gill said.

  “I kinda busted her out of the joint.”

  “Uh huh,” Gill repeated flatly. “Isn’t that a felony of some sort? And what about the lab notes…”

  “I’ll get back to you,” Sara said, squeezing the ‘end’ button, dropping the phone.

  “Your family had you legally committed to that facility,” she said to Adel, who was thoroughly enjoying the wind in her hair. “The police will come after us, and since I helped you, they’ll arrest me.”

  “They’ll have to catch us first,” Adel chortled, palming the top of the windshield and hoisting herself a few inches up into the slipstream.

  Sara pondered this predicament until her phone rang. It was Gill: “You kidnapped Adel?”

  “Yeah.”

  “They want to know if anyone saw your plates.”

  “No, I don’t think so. But they saw the car. It’s…kinda distinctive.”

  “Oh, let me guess. A red Mustang convertible?”

  “That’s…pretty…close,” she answered.

  “Okay. The lawyers say get her up to Eugene. Can you make Sac International by three?”

  Sara checked her watch. “Yeah, but we have to stop for the lab notes.”

  “Too risky. The farm – that’s the first place the authorities will look.”

  “But Gill, we have to get those notes.”

  “Later. Find out where they are and the company will send a van shortly.”

  “I don’t like that.”

  “Nor I, Sara, but the lawyers are calling the shots now. They say that once she’s in Oregon they can file a motion to have her declared mentally competent, and since the farmhouse is still in her name, it and all it’s contents are hers. Did you get all that?”

  “Uhg.”

  “Good. United Airlines flight 215 takes off from Sac at three. You’re VIP. Go directly to the boarding gate. Arrives Eugene at 5:20 p.m. A limo will be waiting.”

  “Problem. Adel insists on stopping at home first.”

  “Not possible, Sara.”

  “Turn off here,” Adel shouted. “It’s the quickest way.”

  Sara obeyed, making the left on Yolo County E6. “She says just a few minutes. We have enough time.”

  Adel held up ten fingers above the windshield and her blouse cuffs fluttered like moth wings.

  “She says ten minutes. We’ll make it easy.”

  Sara took advantage of the deserted, back country roads, blasting past 100mph. In a few minutes the farmland gave way to fresh suburban developments, brand new four-lane roads with median dividers, signal lights, housing tracts and shopping centers. And as they got closer, huge earth-moving machines, dust, survey crews. “Holy shit,” she said when she realized she was inside the property lines of what once was the Deverson farm. They drove on slowly, in silence.

  Sara pulled off at the Deverson house as she had so many times before, but this was the first time she’d ever seen the gates closed. These were two wagon wheels welded into an elaborate iron frame, chain-locked together and hinged on two stone pilasters 18 feet apart. “Honk three times, then twice,” Adel said.

  Three minutes later Roberto arrived driving a dilapidated golf cart. “Mrs. Adel,” he called out excitedly, opening the gates.

  Sara hid the car behind the house. They went in the back door.

  In the kitchen Adel raised her arms. “My daughters hate this place. They pretend he’s not here, like they can hypnotize themselves into ignoring Mark’s presence. It must be done by sheer force of will, I’m sure.” Then she seemed to drift off. “Do you feel him?” she asked dreamily after a moment.

  Sara couldn’t say that she did, but it was cold and musty and the place held a strange metallic odor. Besides, her stomach was tied in a knot and she felt slightly dizzy. Is this how all criminals feel? She whipped out her cell phone but got nothing on the signal strength meter. As a joke she looked ceilingward and said: “Okay, Doctor Deverson. Do you mind?”

  When she looked again, the phone was showing a strong signal. That’s creepy.

  “Lab notes in the attic,” Adel said distractedly. “Attic access in the closet next to the bathroom.” She drifted off into the heavily draped living room and sat in the dark beside the hearth. Sara could hear her talking quietly as she climbed into the attic and hit redial. “Gill. We’re in.”

  “Damnit, Sara. Okay. Have you checked to see if all his lab notes are still there?”

  “Looks like it. I’m checking now.” Using her sleeve she dusted off a few of the boxtops. They appeared to be stacked in order, by date, the year scribbled in black felt pen.

  When Gill heard her coughing from the dust, he said: “Sara? Are you all right? What’s going on?”

  “Looks like the detective got the last box. It isn’t here.”

  “Damn. What was his name?”

  “Evans. Yolo County Sheriff’s Department.”

  “Hopefully it’s still in their evidence room. I’ll get the lawyers on it. Sara? You need to get moving. Get o
utta there.”

  “What about these notes?”

  “Leave it. We have a large van coming up from the Gyttings-Lindstrom warehouse in Richmond. Tell the caretaker to let them in. Do you understand all that?”

  “Hmmmm.” Sara had felt out-of-sorts since walking in the door. But now it was getting stronger, her stomach tying in knots.

  “What, Sara? The signal’s breaking up. You sound weird.”

  “Weird. You want weird? You should be here in this house.”

  Gill paused. “I didn’t get that. Say again!”

  “I said I can handle it. Large van. Tell the caretaker. United flight 215. Don’t worry.”

  Day 10

  Thursday

  Yolo County, California

  Warren felt good to be back in the Buick’s plush interior, sailing on cruise control up the I-80. Not a particularly good week thus far - he’d had two run-ins with Louise, Tyler had been in another fight at school and a Resident Agent in Salt Lake had bullied him out of the Cedar City file, which meant he wouldn’t be working the field there. No free trip to Utah. No Zion, no Canyonlands. Other than some minor damage to his ego it was no big loss. His interest had shifted to the Deverson file, which had gotten a major boost from the recent announcement that Gyttings-Lindstrom would soon conduct an investigation of the Manzanita accident. It couldn’t be a coincidence that the scientist Gyttings-Lindstrom hired to lead the investigation once studied under Deverson at Davis. On that particular subject, Warren had had several telecons with a Senior Specialist at the Surgeon General’s office. The Deverson file was definitely a comer.

  As far as his personal life was concerned, well, it was good to be leaving it behind too, even if only for a day or so.

  His first stop was the Deverson farm out on Yolo County Road 28. He’d learned from the local power utility that the farm’s electrical meter was still active, that the Adel Deverson Trust had been paying the power bills, and that the bills were small but inconsistent, indicating sporadic occupancy. “It’s probably a weekender; not used much,” the female clerk at Yolo Power had surmised.