Afterimage

by Roderick Geiger

  Thomas had wanted to make a fuss, to demand the procedure be performed immediately. But he did not want to anger the INFX staff, to be disqualified completely, perhaps even forced to leave the facility. He felt helpless. Pressed between the urgency of his lover’s condition and the charity of his host’s promises. And besides…where else was there to go? Neither his nor Wayne’s parents were returning phone calls. The cellphones didn’t work in here, but the main switchboard did. Curious. Was it possible someone was restricting incoming calls? But why? Internal security had intensified to the point that Thomas could no longer leave the residential wing…except to visit Wayne in IC One, under escort.

  It had been a part-time nurse who told Thomas about the first INFX. Detective Evans and Justin Holt. Otherwise he probably wouldn’t have known. Passed over for a celebrity? If Wayne died before they could…Thomas stopped himself…forced the thought away.

  That same nurse also told Thomas about the new patients who had been moved into the hospital wing over the last few days. Now there were five advanced terminal patients in house, at various stages of legal processing. Had any of them been cleared? The young nurse didn’t think so. Time was running out!

  The more INFX seemed to be slipping from his grasp, the more he wanted it. He was no longer afraid. No longer apprehensive. He just wanted it. If not for himself, then at least for Wayne, who would be dead soon, either way.

  So while waiting for his escort, Thomas carefully searched the little motel-like room, examined the cheap, laminate furniture, even checked behind the curtains covering the fake window. Thomas was looking for something to use as a pry bar. Adel is right! No more excuses. No more delays.

  As usual, Thomas’ escort waited in the hall outside Intensive Care One. The guard was a fat, middle-aged man who didn’t hide his revulsion at Thomas’ sexual preference. But Thomas had long ago ceased to care about such things. Inside the unit, pneumonia was devouring what was left of Wayne’s lungs, drowning him in his own blood and mucus in spite of the suction line routed through his nose. Thomas usually sat beside the clear plastic isolation tent, talking softly to the heavily-drugged body - to the person within, speaking in normal tones about normal things. Nothing upsetting. Nothing new. Nothing earthly for Wayne to worry about.

  But today Thomas hurried around the tent to the double doors in the far wall. He’d seen a doctor come through these doors once before. Of course they were locked. But the steel fire-extinguisher bracket he was carrying in his pants leg slipped between the doors and provided ample leverage to spring the latch free of the strike plate.

  Beyond was a darkened room, IC Two, and beyond that, the hallway with the guard seated across from the nurses’ station. A distraction would be needed.

  Thomas returned to Wayne’s side, unzipped the tent and slipped in. “Don’t be afraid,” he said, trying to make his voice reassuring and brave. Then he yanked off the oxygen mask. Wayne’s eyes snapped open. He jerked forward, tried to inhale, choked, made a gurgling sound. Thomas gasped in panic. But there was something in Wayne’s eyes that said he understood. It was okay. He even seemed to relax a little, a wet wheezing sound coming from deep in his throat. To Thomas it seemed like several minutes, but it was actually only seventeen seconds before the respirator alarm went off.

  Responding to the remote alarm, two nurses arrived within a minute. They found the door locked from within and summoned the guard to break it down, which he did, cursing, after three attempts. “Goddamn queers,” he mumbled as he and the nurses hurried in. “Where’d he go?” The guard noticed one of the double doors ajar and headed into IC Two. He tripped over a crash cart in the darkness before reaching the main doors. Outside, the hallway was empty. “Where’d that faggot go?” He called the Security office to report the missing person, then returned to IC One.

  Thomas had been hiding behind the nurse’s counter, shaking with fear. When he heard the doors close across the hall, he took a deep breath and peeked over. The guard was gone. Thomas hurried around the counter, up to the pharmacy cabinet, broke the glass and shoveled a 500ml syringe, a 24-point needle and a dozen vials into his San Francisco Giants baseball cap.

  He now headed back toward the residence wing, trying not to look suspicious, wondering how many of the little ceiling security domes actually did have cameras inside. Suddenly two guards rounded a corner ahead, running directly toward him. His heart sank. So much was riding on this plan…and now it was finished. Dashed! He was caught. But the guards ran right past him and disappeared down the hall. Thomas made it to Adel’s room as planned. Unlocked, he slipped in. Adel was seated in the room’s only upholstered chair, her red-and-white tipped cane resting across her knees. “I knew you could do it,” she said.

  “The guards will catch up with me in a few seconds,” Thomas said as he dumped his hat on the bed. He read the labels aloud: “Sodium nembutal, sodium pentothal, thiopental, hydrogen cyanide, lorazepam, phenobarbital, alprazolam…”

  Adel directed him to fill the syringe from several of these, then to thoroughly crush all 12 bottles with the base of a heavy lamp.

  Now she expertly wrapped her biceps with a piece of surgical tubing. A commotion in the hallway. Someone knocking rapidly on the door, agitated voices, then heavy pounding. “Help me with this, my brave Thomas,” she said, sensing his hesitation.

  The INFX team was in the conference room wrapping up their last meeting of the day. It was late and everyone was tired, cranky. They’d been discussing experimental design, and who among the fresh volunteers might get the nod, if any. But it was beginning to look like the next INFX might stay on hold. Too dangerous. Too many variables. And that suited Gill just fine.

  They were adjourned and rising to leave when Blackburn took an emergency call, cupping his hand over his earpiece. “You’re sure about that? Okay, bring them in.” He looked up at the others: “It seems we’ve had some intrigue here this evening. Thomas attempted to kill Wayne by removing his oxygen.”

  “Is he all right?” Gill asked.

  “He’s stable. But while our nurses were tending to Wayne, Thomas broke into the pharmaceutical lockup.” Confused murmurs issued from around the long table. Blackburn continued: “Apparently Adel has injected herself with something…”

  Suddenly the conference room doors burst open and a gurney clattered through, then Thomas, followed by two nurses, three guards. Adel lay on the gurney against the partially raised backrest; face flushed and glistening with sweat. “You should thank me,” she said with labored breath. “I’ve simplified your decision.”

  “What’d you take,” Lomax demanded. Adel forced a smile without reply. “You know we’ll find the vial and just give you the damn antidote, Mrs. Deverson.”

  One of the nurses held up a metal wastebasket and gave it a shake to the sound of broken glass. “Take your pick,” she said. “Looks like about ten vials in here.”

  “Let’s draw some blood then; do it the hard way.”

  Before the nurse could open the kit Adel slipped into unconsciousness. The other nurse held her by the wrist, feeling her pulse. “We’re losing her,” she sing-songed.

  “Do something,” Chalmais demanded.

  Adel had calculated well, Lomax knew. “Without knowing what she injected…”

  Blackburn fixed his gaze on Thomas. “What did she take? Tell us or face accessory to murder charges.”

  “You think I give a fuck?” Thomas snapped, his boldness surprising even he. “We come here willing to sacrifice our lives for your project. Do any of you realize how hard it is to make a decision like that? Of course you don’t! People don’t think about things like that unless they have to…and even then…” He seemed to calm a little. “But we thought about it and we made the decision and it’s given our lives some small sense of purpose. So let me tell you what you’re gonna do. You’re gonna put Wayne and Adel in that goddamn machine in there and you’re gonna make good on your word.”

  Chalmais’s expression said he did not l
ike having decisions made for him, and he especially did not like being told what he was going to do. “I don’t think so. Wayne is okay, no thanks to you.” Thomas gave a surprised look. “That’s right, son. We got the oxygen back on him in time. So Wayne’s out of the running.”

  “Game’s up,” Blackburn said forcefully. “We got it all on video. Accessory to murder. One more time: what’d she take?”

  Thomas glanced around the table at the expectant faces and swallowed hard, his confidence faltering. He felt like he was going to faint. Or worse, cry.

  “Accessory to murder!” Blackburn repeated angrily.

  Thomas held his ground, tight lipped. Just a few more seconds…

  Ishue had been trying her very best to remain silent. With Gyttings mysteriously absent, she knew her presence here was tenuous, that she needed to be seen and not heard. But she sensed a terrible anticlimax was about to ruin the story, so she said: “You’re not going to waste it, are you?”

  “Should I escort the reporter out?” Blackburn said through clenched teeth.

  “Don’t even think about it,” Ishue snapped back at the security chief.

  “It’s okay; we can use some impartiality around here right about now.” Chalmais rose to his feet. “But first I’ve got to make a quick call.”

  Sunday

  21,000 feet over central Nebraska

  Sara had never played this game before. She’d always made a point of dumping the last lover before taking up with the next, even if it did occasionally interfere with the spontaneity of love…or passion.

  And Sara had never made love in a jet before either. Well, except maybe the one time in that 747 bathroom. Jim’s airborn office converted, by the touch of a button, into a stateroom, a bed lowering out of the ceiling onto the desk. At the height of their lovemaking, Gyttings had punched a button on the headboard, signaling the pilot to drop the Cessna Citation into horizontal free-fall. 12 seconds of weightlessness. She’d orgasmed there, floating three feet above the silk comforter.

  Afterward, she’d spooned up behind him and whispered: “You and your pilot have that maneuver pretty fine-tuned, don’t you, loverboy.” He’d chuckled, but hadn’t tried to deny it.

  Sara knew him by reputation. Self-made billionaire; or at least he was two weeks ago. Many of the women he dated were celebrities - gorgeous, wealthy and as young and diverse as his mood of the moment.

  Not that she held the moral high ground. She’d been sleeping with a married man. Twice, she and Gill had been together. Or was it three times? She had to think about it for a moment. Yes, three.

  How long ago? Only eight hours since she’d gone to Gill’s room. She’d wanted to tell him directly she was leaving with Gyttings…but she’d chickened out, dropping a few clues instead. Subconscious clues. Gill was no dummy. He must have known. But he was married. What could he say?

  Eventually Gyttings would have asked Sara to take a ride in his plane just for the pleasure of her company. He was strongly attracted to her looks and drawn to the fact that she was within two months of his same age. A special bond. A special time.

  And he needed Sara. She had the skills. Quick on her feet, solid public speaker, a problem-solver, political smarts, super-self-motivated, and an expert on INFX. Especially that.

  But he was not a forward person by nature. Not really. Not a salesman. He avoided artificial situations, contrived meetings. He didn’t like hitting on women and he certainly didn’t need to.

  James Gyttings had learned early on that he didn’t need to be an expert at anything. He just needed the ability to seek out and employ the right experts to execute his ideas. And while designing a sound business plan was an art unto itself, the real trick lay in the selection of the goal. ‘A map is only good if you have someplace to go,’ his grandfather had once said to him. Destination. That was his gift. Gyttings believed in being a visionary, a big-picture-guy’s big-picture-guy. And INFX, he felt beyond all reasonable doubt, was the biggest picture he had ever seen.

  So Gyttings doubled her salary, offered her $2 million worth of stock to accompany him to Washington D.C. for a Monday AM meeting with Daniel Sanderlin, Director of EPA. Texas Senator Ted Wilcox, a close Gyttings friend and chairman of the Senate Intelligence Committee, had arranged the meeting, which had effectively put a hold on the joint EPA/FBI investigation of INFX. On two occasions Wilcox had intervened to block the issuance of federal search warrants for the Eugene facility, either of which would have likely led to the immediate cessation of the INFX project. Now Wilcox was insisting that Gyttings make an in-person plea to the Director himself. Nothing less would do. Board members of the National Science Foundation would attend, along with Deputy Directors of Homeland Security and FBI, and several members of Wilcox’ Committee. Probably others. Gyttings had taken a hard look at the available personnel. If anyone could pull this off, it was Sara Keplar. She would make them understand what was at stake here.

  So now, sitting on their respective sides of the airborn bed, Sara and Gyttings reached the crux moment in their relationship.

  “As a rule I never become personally involved…” Gyttings said, pulling his plain but expensive blue jeans up over his hips.

  “With your subordinates?” Sara said, admiring her breasts in the bathroom door mirror. Guys, she’d learned, would tolerate a fair amount of gravity-induced contouring in the name of NOT caving-in to surgical enhancement. It was sexier. Who said that? God, it was Gill. Gill had said that.

  “Colleagues,” Gyttings added quickly, “high-level consultants.”

  $2 million colleagues, Sara thought. After today’s NYSE close it was more like $1.8 million. Sell? Not on your life! “Fellow explorers, Deverson would have called us.”

  Gyttings leaned over to the row of windows. 30,000 feet directly below, the Mississippi River flowing cartoonlike under the plane. He had a funny thought: “How are you at dealing with overbearing newspeople? Lots of them?”

  Keep your focus, she thought, flashing her sea-blue eyes across the bed. At last, at last, the right place. At exactly the right time.

  Just then the pilot came on speaker: “Sorry, sir. I have an emergency call from Eugene.”

  Chalmais explained the situation quickly. “She’s got us,” he said in conclusion. “I think you understand, Jim. We only have a few minutes. It’s now or never.” There was some static. “She’s gone, Jim. No pulse. Lomax just called it.” More static.

  “Jesus,” Sara said ominously. “She killed herself to go into the machine?”

  Chalmais came back. “I think we’re clean here, Jim, legally, I mean. I think we gotta go for it…”

  “What we’ve got to do is remain calm and rational,” Gyttings corrected. His mind was racing now, running down the list of possible disasters that might befall them.

  It was enough for Sara, who began nodding enthusiastically. Then it hit her. “Who’s the passenger?” she whispered. Then more loudly: “Tony, who’s her passenger?”

  “Wayne.”

  “Wayne?” Sara repeated automatically. The brevity of the sentence, the single-word sentence alarmed them, they locked eyes and each saw fear there, moments of uncharacteristic indecision. Sara swallowed hard, turned to stare blankly out the window.

  “I need a complete press blackout on this,” Gyttings said firmly.

  Static.

  “I understand,” Chalmais said.

  “I’m not there, Tony.” Gyttings continued. “I can’t really make this decision. This one’s yours.”

  More static, worse now.

  “Tony! Tony?” Nothing. “Tony, if you can still hear me, I want you to know I’ll back you up - whatever you need to do.”

  The static was gone now, replaced by silence. James Gyttings looked at Sara and thought about the first time he’d ever laid eyes on her, the day she’d made the INFX proposal in Austin. That mid-thigh-length skirt she’d been wearing. And then again in the hotel room, her sky-blue eyes against the turquoise suit. Eons ago. Or
was it only a few weeks? She looked scared now. Scared, intense, her jaw working, skin flushed, eyes sharp, purposeful. It was powerful and it became her.

  He clicked off the phone and said: “There goes our plausible deniability.”

  Chalmais returned to the conference room. “It’s up to us. Do we have enough time to do this?” He posed to the group.

  “Is 15 minutes enough?” Lomax asked.

  “It is,” Galtrup said, a tiny squeak in the last syllable.

  A voice inside Gill’s head was talking now, telling him to walk away, out the door, to the airport, get a flight to Fresno. Don’t look back. Let someone else run the test. Galtrup, yeah, Galtrup could do it – the procedure was now mostly automated anyway… with just a little training…ten minutes or so to go over a few things.

  He had arrived at the point of no return. If he didn’t run now he would probably never see his two little girls again, except maybe through thick, chicken-wire glass, with a little round metal screen to talk through, and a cell-mate named Snookems anxiously awaiting his return.

  Gill shook his head to clear his mind of the self-indulgent apparition. The actions of Adel and her accomplice had all but eliminated any liability for the INFX team. He looked over at the reporter, who had challenged them not to waste the opportunity. That’s what Sara would have said too. Sara and Gyttings…together? He could still not believe she’d left him again. So what if he’s like the 12th richest man in the world. So what if he’s handsome and powerful.

  Let Galtrup run the experiment and capture all the glory? Wait a second. Gill suddenly noticed all eyes on him, quietly awaiting his final word, either his approval or his veto. How…respectful. It was as it should be. “I agree,” he said authoritatively, pushing a button on the conference phone: “All lab personnel. Emergency procedure in 10 minutes. All lab personnel to your stations immediately. Orderlies to IR One. Technicians to the Bridge now.” He turned to the others in the conference room: “Assuming we have enough personnel here on a weekend at…” he checked his watch… “almost midnight…” Gill waited 10 seconds and repeated the command.