by Brian Olsen
“We’d better have our second date right now, then,” Alan replied, leading him back to his bedroom.
As Pete pulled the door shut behind them, Dakota leaned back with her laptop and started trying to rebuild DakotaCo’s fortunes. Most of Saturday’s gone, she thought. I’ll have to do laundry tomorrow. She reflected on how strange it felt to be focusing on such banalities after what had essentially been a council of war. Best to enjoy the rest of the weekend, she decided. Who knows what Monday would bring?
Chapter Thirteen
Alan, Caitlin and Mark investigating
Alan sat at his desk outside Dakota’s office on the fourteenth floor of Amalgamated Synergy’s main building and tried to figure out if he should do something with Derek Wallace’s personal possessions. There were plenty – the desk was littered with toys, pictures and assorted kitschy crap, most of it Broadway musical related. There were photos of Derek in various shows posted to the bulletin board, a couple of Disney figurines, a coffee mug with “I really need this job” and the logo to A Chorus Line printed on it, and a Times Square snow globe holding down a stack of Playbills.
He had wondered if the police would be there when he arrived that morning, but the office was quiet. He assumed that at some point Derek’s family would want his things, and while he felt that packing everything up would be a nice gesture, he couldn’t do it without arousing suspicion. He and Dakota had agreed on two things – to pretend not to know each other, and to feign ignorance as to the reason for Derek’s absence. They wanted answers; they didn’t want to answer questions themselves.
Alan eventually decided to take one of the pictures to give to Caitlin. She was in it, it was from a show they had done together, so he supposed she had some claim. It looked like it had been printed out on Derek’s desktop printer, so it wasn’t as if he were stealing anything of value, and Caitlin would appreciate it.
Alan was a little surprised Dakota had never noticed Caitlin in the photo, but from what he had seen of “work Dakota” so far, maybe he shouldn’t be. Despite the gravity of the situation she had rushed to get to her desk on time. The only instructions she had given him were to answer the phone if it rang and to keep his ears open. In the meantime, she was going back to work on her organizational chart for Amalgamated Synergy – she was mad at herself for overlooking the connection to Mark’s gym, and wanted to be sure there wasn’t anything else she was missing. Even in a crisis, she couldn’t bring herself to do anything besides company business while on company time.
So Alan had sat at the desk, idly poking around the computer, looking for anything informative. Most of the other assistants on the floor had stared curiously at him briefly on their ways in, then sat at their own desks without saying hello. If anyone on this floor knew of Derek’s death, they were keeping it to themselves.
One by one, his three other supervisors had arrived and introduced themselves. Dakota had described her officemates to him, and she was spot on – slovenly Sandra, dimwit Mei and grumpy Julio. Each seemed surprised to find someone other than Derek sitting at the assistant’s desk, but Alan couldn’t discern if the surprise was genuine or feigned.
He had asked each of his supervisors if there was anything he should be doing, but Sandra had pretended she hadn’t heard the question, Mei had brightly suggested that he could catch up on his reading, and Julio told him to do whatever the hell he wanted as long as he left Julio alone. So Alan sat.
After about fifteen minutes he acknowledged that the identity of their mysterious tormentor was not going to drop from the sky, so he turned to his computer and opened up Facebook. Derek was still logged in, and the dead man’s feed unfolded before Alan. There were over a hundred new notifications, all of them from friends who had commented on Derek in a post or tagged him in a picture. Nearly all were memorials.
Alan scrolled far down to the bottom of Derek’s feed. He stopped when he hit the night of the party and then started working his way up. There were plenty of pictures – there was one of Alan and Pete someone had taken, with the caption, “I don’t know who these two gay guys are but they didn’t come up for air once.” There were a few posts from people the next morning, thanking Derek for the party and telling him what a good time they’d had.
Then, Saturday afternoon, a post from Derek’s brother, telling Derek’s friends that Derek had passed away early Saturday morning, that there would be a memorial service in New York and that information would be forthcoming. After that came dozens of stunned comments from Derek’s friends. Alan noticed one near the top of the page from Lachlan Harris, whom he recognized as the hot Australian guy Caitlin had hooked up with. Lachlan wrote about how in shock he was, that Derek seemed fine when he had left and how much he wished he had stayed over, like Derek had asked him to.
Alan had to look twice at the next item after Lachlan’s to be sure he was seeing it correctly. It was from Derek, posted late in the evening on Sunday. It said, “I had fun at the party I had in my home! I’m saying thank you to the guests! I will enjoy seeing you the next time that I have a party!”
After that was a torrent of replies, alternating between outrage and confusion. Some were asking if Derek was really alive, wondering if the whole thing was some awful hoax. Most seemed to think somebody had hijacked Derek’s page and was posting under his name. Bizarrely, several of both kinds of comments were “liked” by Derek – or by whoever was posing as Derek – with the occasional inappropriate reply of “LOL!” or “OMG!”
The most recent comment was from Derek’s brother, posted less than an hour ago. It read, “My brother Derek is dead, this is some sick fuck who stole his password. Whoever you are, you don’t even speak English well enough to fool anybody. My brother was MURDERED and you think it’s funny? My parents and I are DESTROYED by what has happened and I hope you rot in hell for your sick joke. I had to identify my big brother’s body yesterday you son of a bitch. I’ve already called the police, they’ll find you and you won’t think it’s so funny then.”
As Alan watched, he saw the small “Like” link under Derek’s brother’s comment change to “You like this.” Then a reply appeared: “LOL! See you at Christmas bro!” The reply was left by Derek Wallace.
Hurriedly, Alan logged out of Derek’s page. Clearly somebody else was logged in to the page at another location, but Alan didn’t want anyone to think he was the one being so cruel. What kind of person would taunt someone like that, under circumstances so horrific? He logged back in as himself and tried to calm down with some mindless minutia, but he had just enough friends in common with Derek that it wasn’t much of a distraction.
He knew he shouldn’t, but he navigated to Jumpa and logged in to Work It. Derek wasn’t logged in, thankfully, though the game page popped up as a favorite in the browser. He clicked his Drone and set him to work. He was making far more Jumpa Beans than usual for completing the same tasks – it seemed his new employer, CorporationSimulation, was much more profitable than DakotaCo. He snooped around the virtual company, but he couldn’t find any new information on its CEO, the mysterious J84z33. Before long, the fun of the game was spoiled by the knowledge that he was assisting a suspected murderer, and he logged out. He decided he was done playing Work It for good.
He spent some time playing some of his other favorite online games. They weren’t as satisfying as any of his PC or console games, but they passed the time. What he really needed, he thought, was a handheld game console to take to boring temp jobs, but if he bought one of those he might never see reality again. He had plenty of Jumpa Beans now, enough to get a good head start in another Jumpa game, so he navigated to CollegeTown, a university simulation game, and started creating an avatar.
* * *
Caitlin arrived at the main Amalgamated Synergy building in Midtown shortly before noon. The lobby was impressive: all marble, with a soaring high ceiling, pseudo-Renaissance faux-frescos and heavy iron and gold chandeliers dangling above. Despite her stately surroundings she felt li
ke she was walking into a horror movie, as if this office building were really a serial killer’s vacation cabin in the woods.
Take a breath, she told herself. Chill out. You’re a pale white blonde. You’re totally the lead in this movie. You’ll survive for the sequel. Unless you’re the slut. Be honest, you’re probably the slut.
She shook herself out of her reverie and approached the security guard, who had looked up from his newspaper as soon as she had set foot in the door and was waiting impatiently for her to speak. He was an older white guy, in his mid-sixties or so, but neither his age nor his desk job seemed to have softened him much – his arms were muscled, his face was weathered and his disposition was surly.
“Excuse me?” she said hesitantly. “Hi. I have an appointment?”
“Who are you here to see, honey?” he asked her.
She was fearful for her life, so she let the “honey” slide. “They said to ask for Bump Studios? I’m supposed to go to the basement.”
“Uh-huh,” he said suspiciously. “You’re with those people, are you? I had friends in the mailroom, you know.”
Caitlin was baffled until she remembered what Marisol had said about the mailroom staff being fired and the basement cleared out. “Right, sorry, Officer...uh...” She looked at his name badge. “Wilson. I didn’t have anything to do with that. I’m just here for the day.”
He seemed unconvinced as to her innocence, but he moved his copy of the Times aside to get at his computer. He tapped a few keys, looked up at her, and asked, “What’s your name, sweetheart?”
“Caitlin Ross.”
He seemed satisfied with her right to be there, if still not happy about it. “Look into the camera.”
She saw a small webcam on the desk and half-smiled as he grabbed a photo. She heard the sound of a printer whirring, and, after some maneuvering under her line of sight, he handed her a lanyard with her name and picture on it, as well as the date and the word “Visitor” in unfriendly red lettering.
“Put this on, leave it on as long as you’re in the building. Basement’s down the stairs, don’t take the elevator.”
She put on the lanyard and muttered, “Thanks, pumpkin.” He had already gone back to his newspaper and didn’t notice.
She walked past the elevators to a heavy door labeled “Mailroom.” A second security guard stood watch in front of the door. He was tall, dark, handsome, and intimidating. He was probably in his forties or so, African-American, built like a brick wall. His name tag read “Johnson.”
She hesitated, but Officer Johnson ignored her. He stared straight ahead, no expression on his face, and didn’t so much as cast a glance at her as she approached. With an apologetic shrug, she tiptoed past him, opened the door, and descended.
The staircase ended in a cold concrete corridor. A sign pointed her in the direction of the former mailroom, from which she could hear a great deal of activity. She stepped through the doorway at the end of the hall and into a dream come true.
The large, low room was filled with cameras, lights, monitors, computers, and all sorts of other film studio equipment which a career spent entirely on stage had utterly failed to prepare her to identify. All the cameras were pointed at a green stool sitting on a green floor in front of a green wall. Caitlin had no idea what was about to happen, but she was getting the feeling that it was going to be amazing.
“Caitlin? Hi!” came a warm voice from beside her. She turned and saw a friendly-looking man, probably in his thirties, with thick-framed glasses, an ironic mustache and a t-shirt that read “I am the Wizard of Speed and Time.” He grabbed her hand and shook it firmly. “Great to meet you. I’m Doug.”
“Hi! Nice to meet you. Are you the director?” she asked him.
“Director? No. Well, sort of. I’m in charge of the shoot today, so I guess you could say I’m the director.”
“Oh,” she said simply. “Okay.” She wasn’t sure what to say to that, so she said nothing.
“Did they tell you what you’re doing here today?” he asked her finally.
“No,” she said, laughing. “Just to show up. I have no idea what this is all for.”
He laughed with her. “As long as we’re being honest – I have no idea what this is for, either. But I can tell you what you’re going to be doing, at least. We’re doing some motion capture, body and face, and they want us to record some dialogue while we’re at it. Well, not dialogue, exactly, but they gave me a list of sounds and intonations for you to read.”
“They?”
“Amalgamated Synergy. Our new lords and masters. They bought us out last week.”
“Us? Sorry, I usually say more than just pronouns, but you’re the first person with any information I’ve spoken to.”
“No problem. By us I mean Bump Studios. Terrible name, I know, it sounds like we make porn, but we’re an effects house. I guess AmSyn’s getting into the movies. Here, come with me, you can get ready while the crew finishes setting up.”
He led her past the sea of green to a curtained-off area towards the back. “Sorry, we’re not quite ready for you,” he continued. “They only told us this weekend that they wanted to do this here. We’ve been in since Saturday afternoon trying to get it ready. It’s a terrible space, the ceiling is too low, it’s cramped and hard to light. I guess it used to be their mailroom. Shouldn’t be too big of an issue today, I hope. You won’t need to move around too much.”
They arrived at a makeshift office and changing room set up behind the curtains. An older woman, in her fifties or so, with horn-rimmed spectacles, pursed lips, and a cardigan draped around her shoulders, stood up to greet them.
“Hello, Caitlin. What a pleasure to meet you.”
She had an English accent, Caitlin noticed – slightly posh. Doug introduced her as Cynthia, an executive from Amalgamated Synergy who was overseeing the project.
“She’s our tight-lipped boss,” he said. “Won’t even give me a hint as to what all this will be used for.”
“I’m not being mysterious on purpose, Douglas,” Cynthia replied. “I’ve been given an objective, I’m here to see that it’s met, that’s all. I don’t know the ultimate purpose, either.” She frowned, her pursed lips puckering further. “I was brought over from the London office for this. I’ve no idea why, I don’t know anything about the movies.” She plastered on a smile. “Still, I’ve been with Amalgamated Synergy for over twenty years, I’m not one to bite the hand and all that. Are you ready for Caitlin to begin, Douglas?”
“Not quite yet. We’re still setting up, and our wardrobe super was delayed – her car gave her bad directions, she says. She should be here soon.”
“Am I going to get to wear one of those green bodysuits with the ping-pong balls on them?” Caitlin asked him.
“It’s black, and they’re little lights, but yes,” Doug answered.
Caitlin couldn’t restrain her enthusiasm. She bundled up all of her fears and forebodings about AmSyn and packed them away in the back of her mind.
“That’s amazing,” she exclaimed. “I can’t wait to get started.”
“Douglas, why don’t you go check in on all the technical hoo-dee-doo?” Cynthia said. “In the meantime, Caitlin dear, I have some forms for you to fill out. Did you bring identification?”
Doug ran back to the set while Caitlin rummaged around in her bag. “I’ve got my passport – here.”
“Wonderful. Have a seat, fill these out, and we’ll make you a proper Amalgamated Synergy employee.”
* * *
Mark arrived at the eighteenth floor of Amalgamated Synergy’s main building and stepped tentatively off the elevator. His hands were clenched into fists, and he was trying his best to maintain a state of constant hyperawareness. It was making him sweat. He had ridden up with a handsome woman in a pantsuit and he kept expecting her to go for his throat. His tension, perspiration and frequent flinching made her equally anxious – she had exited the elevator hurriedly on the sixteenth floor, shooting
a nervous glance back at him as she stepped off.
The lobby receptionist, a cute redhead in a wheelchair, smiled at him as he approached. “Hello!” she said cheerily.
He took an involuntary step back, and her friendliness turned to caution. Her hand hovered near her phone as she spoke to him slowly. “Can I help you? Are you in the right place?”
He stammered nonsense for a moment, then fumbled for the visitor’s lanyard he had shoved into his pocket. “I’m a visitor,” he said. “I’m here to see Pickle. Elizabeth. Miss Dundersfield.”
“Oh,” she said, only slightly reassured. “All right. Let me see if she’s in. What’s your name?”
“Mark. Mark Park. She’s expecting me.”
“Mark Park? For real?” Without waiting for an answer, she picked up her phone and punched a few numbers. She spoke quietly with someone on the other line, then covered the receiver with her hand. “You can go back,” she said to him. “To your right, take a left, then just keep going.”
As she continued talking to whoever was on the other end, Mark made his way to Pickle’s office. He didn’t know how far back to go, so he asked for directions a few times. Each time he was sure he was in for a stabbing, but everyone he stopped just told him to keep going.
Pickle’s office was the furthest from the lobby. A slender African-American man, about Mark’s age, was on the phone at a desk seated just outside the closed door. “He’s here,” Mark heard him say.
The man hung up the phone and stood to shake Mark’s hand. “Hi, Mark, nice to meet you,” he said. “I’m Dell, I’m Miss Dundersfield’s executive assistant. She’s just going to be a minute. Can I get you anything? Coffee?”
“No, thanks, I’m good.” Mark was determined not to have sex with Pickle until he was sure that she was no longer being mind-controlled, but he still thought it might be a good idea to avoid coffee breath. Just in case.
The two men stood silently for a moment. Mark reached for a question to break the silence. “How long have you worked for Pickle? Miss Dundersfield, I mean?”