by Peter Idone
If she was attempting to shock Logan, he confidently behaved nonplussed. On the other hand, there was a tone in Natalie’s voice that hinted at hostility. It wasn’t toward him, that much he was sure of. Looking at her, he could feel the same wanting and lust as any of the men in the room would. She certainly dressed the part; her bosom was both large and comforting, and the cleavage she exhibited was ample.
“What do you think went on over at Pine Haven, Joe? I mean the accident? Have you heard any rumors as to the reasons why?”
“I haven’t a clue, then or now, other than what I’ve read or local news stories on TV, and that wasn’t much. I’ve got other worries, like how to pay for my next installment of property taxes. Where is my next paycheck going to come from? I got laid off yesterday from a job that I expected to last longer than it did.”
“You had a wife, I gathered from your most recent conversation with Randy the barkeep. Any kids?”
“No. My wife and I split up last March. She was always afraid of getting sick. This area, the whole county, has a reputation for negative health effects. It all has to do with the Triumph power station and the shit dumped into the river. It’s in the drinking water. So she left for good.”
“I’m not unsympathetic as to how a divorce has impacted you, but there is a reputation for high incidence of breast cancer in these parts. It’s documented. It fucking makes me nervous being here. I never drink out of the tap.”
“Bottled water is no better, and it’s more expensive than oil. My mother died of breast cancer, and so did Jill’s aunt. I can understand, to a degree, why she wanted out. That was my wife’s name. Jill.”
“Why did you stay?”
“I was told I was stubborn. I was born here in Essex. My family is…was here. I inherited the house from my folks. So did my sister, but I’m living there now, taking care of the place. I can’t sell anytime soon, as the market’s crashed. Besides, in Essex Station, it is definitely the wrong side of the tracks for anyone to move to.”
“I’ve driven through it. Looks mean.”
“People are just trying to get through the day like everyone else,” Logan said defensively. He didn’t mean to. “It wasn’t always like that.”
“What do you do for a living?”
“Anything I can get my hands on. Construction. Remodeling. Demolition. I can do just about anything that doesn’t involve plumbing. Maybe I should have. They make almost as much as heart surgeons. At least they did at one time.”
“Plumbers? You’re joking.”
“I’m joking.”
“Were you in the war, Joe?”
“Not this last one or any other. I lost two cousins in Iraq in oh-seven and oh-nine. A good friend of mine since high school was killed in Afghanistan in eleven. There are some things that are worth fighting and even dying for, but not those places and not this government. It’s all a moot point now in light of what has happened in the last war. There was a time I was thinking about enlisting, but Jill and I were getting serious back then. We were in our early twenties, and the possibility of marriage was soon to become a reality. Plus my buddy Greg warned me off. He’d done so many tours with no end in sight. He wanted out, was sick of it. He made it very clear to me that it would be a big mistake, and he was right. I don’t think I’m cut out for that. If I was in the military, I’d probably be dead right now. My friend Greg certainly is. His was probably the best advice I got from anyone.”
“How about Essex. Is it worth fighting for?”
A fleeting sense of guilt passed over him. “I suppose, if I mean what I say, I should have had more involvement with the Essex antinuclear defense association. That was the spearhead in organizing opposition. I was recently divorced, I was broke, and both my parents had passed away. My dad was the most recent. Soon after Response Team Management and Control arrived, the movement was co-opted and has never been heard from since. A buddy of mine tried to recruit me, and now he has either left town or been picked up. Apparently the ACLU has taken on the cases of some in the leadership. I knew it would be a bad time for me to get seriously involved. I would have been little to no use to anyone, and I couldn’t have raised the money to make bail, let alone a lawyer.”
“Who knows? You might get another chance. Besides, this radioactive waste thing is temporary.”
“Is it? I don’t think so. That was the entire thrust of the opposition. There will be no incentive for the utility or DoE to dig it back up. At first it was used as a stopgap for a poorly managed utility. Now, with Pine Haven closed for so long, it will stay there. Maybe the plan is to turn this whole place into a dump site.”
“You’re probably right. I don’t think you or your fellow residents have too many options left to you, at least not in this political climate.”
“I can’t afford to move, so I will have to deal. Whoever is making the decisions—a corporation, the government, the Air Force, a combination of all three—they’re going to have to deal as well. They want me out? Then they’re going to have to pay. Those flinty bastards aren’t going to do me on the cheap.” This really set off a fire in him. He could feel his blood pressure rising considerably. “I’m sorry, but could we change the subject?”
“Certainly, of course…I suppose we should get down to the reason why you came to see me in the first place. Your dog.”
“Yes, my dog and more specifically, what killed her.” Logan began a very detailed account of the events of the following night. After a while he asked if she was going to take notes or record their conversation. If it would help, he didn’t mind.
“That won’t be necessary. I have been blessed by Mnemosyne.”
“Who?”
“Mnemosyne. The goddess of memory. I’m not crazy. What I mean to say is I have a near photographic memory. What you tell me won’t get lost or forgotten.”
“That must have served you well studying for exams in school.”
“I kept very good grades.”
“Tell me something. This crossed my mind after I spoke to you this afternoon. Why were you down at the fuel depot the other day?”
“To get gas, like anyone else. Why?”
“And that little guy the Tacticals picked up—what was his name?”
“I have no idea. Why do you ask?”
“You seemed awfully interested in what he said to me.”
“I’m a curious gal. I was simply wondering what all the fuss was about. I ask questions about everything. I consider it a strength of my character. It’s why I’ve been able to work for Glass. I couldn’t believe how nasty you answered me.”
“Once again I am sorry. What I was feeling had nothing to do with you.”
“Right. I simply walked into the crossfire.”
“In a manner of speaking, yes. By the way, how long have you worked for Glass?”
“Shortly after I finished college, although we met during my last year. We met at a seminar on media disinformation campaigns and how the government was doing to the population at large what they used to do—and still do—to the UFO community. It’s been going on for years, but now it’s more pronounced. Stockholders, board members, they’re all part of the power structure which has turned into a giant octopus. It’s hard to tell where one tentacle ends and the other begins.”
“So Glass writes about UFOs?”
“Mostly, yes. Glass did a seminar on disinformation campaigns targeting individuals and groups in the UFO community. Also how certain conspiracy theories may have been orchestrated by government agencies or individuals with ties to the government. He also had a website that the government forced him to shut down. His other interests include the new emerging power structures that are taking place in the country and the world at large, especially since the last war and subsequent events. There has been a serious fear factor afoot in this country for years. I would go so far as to say decades. It has caused the population at large to become not only afraid, but docile. A large majority doesn’t trust government, or authority
, but they no longer have the will or an idea to combat it. The middle class has shrunk almost to nothing. You need a middle class to maintain a democracy.”
“And he expects to find answers to those questions here at Pine Haven? Isn’t it pretty small in the scheme of things?”
“What can I say? Glass likes to study the small details. And, in the scheme of things, just how small is Pine Haven? There was an accident five years ago. The facility is abandoned for research, but the Air Force deemed it necessary to maintain a security presence and keep the place off-limits. Now the security aspect has been taken over by a private police/military contractor. The TRT is a subsidiary of Del-Con Technologies, which has been quietly involved with the USAF since before the Central and East Asian conflicts. They do as much business with them as Raytheon and Lockheed. Aspects of the relationship between the Air Force and Del-Con are practically indistinguishable. Since the accident, the perimeter of Pine Haven has nearly doubled. Fences topped with razor wire, with motion and sound sensors attached. An observation tower has been erected with CCTV live interface, infrared surveillance systems, and sniper nests. They’re trying to establish three-sixty perimeter awareness while burying low-level radioactive waste, temporarily, and it just might be more than low-level waste they’re worried about. Are they trying to keep people out or something in?”
Natalie became reticent for the rest of the conversation. She did mention something about Glass’s website that was closed down by the government. It seemed as though she didn’t want to talk about the matter and wished she’d never brought it up. In the manner in which she started to retreat from Logan, he got the hint and didn’t press it. He went back to finishing his own story about Tara, the obscene-looking dog-man, and the rest of the events from the other night, but felt he rushed through it, that the nuance and emotional impact that had affected him so deeply was lost on her.
“Well, then, I’ll have to run this all by Glass and see what he thinks. Give me your phone number so I can keep in touch, should it be necessary.”
He gave her his mobile and land-line numbers, but when he asked for her phone number, she politely but emphatically declined. “I like to initiate any and all follow-ups. Giving out my phone number to the people I interview is done on a case-by-case basis.”
“And my case doesn’t warrant it.”
“I didn’t say that. Let’s reserve the right for an opinion for the time being. Everything is hearsay until some detail or similarity, no matter how minute, is corroborated.”
“But this really happened to me.”
“There might be a trend that hasn’t surfaced yet because people don’t know what to look for or how to interpret what they’ve seen. I don’t disbelieve you, Joe. On the contrary. I just have to check some things out. See what’s in the literature. How about another drink?”
“No thanks, I…” He was about to say he couldn’t afford to be gracious and buy her one. That he was so tight he couldn’t even buy himself a pint at Gleason’s, the dirty, worn-out pub down the street. Natalie was an attractive young woman, and he wished he had a few tools at his disposal to charm her back to his house. But that could prove futile since he didn’t know the relationship between her and Glass. Besides, the meeting was a bust. Interesting company, but nothing tangible resulted. Natalie knew even less than he did about the humanoid dog, which amounted to nothing. He excused himself. “I have to wash my hands.”
She nodded in a curt, almost dismissive manner. On his way to the restroom, Logan sensed her gaze watching him, making a tally of his worth, and he became self-conscious. This isn’t a date, he told himself, and you’re not getting lucky. That doesn’t mean I won’t try once I get back to the table. What’s there to lose?
The men’s room was just off the dance floor and down a flight of carpeted stairs. Settees and chairs were positioned in the wide, high-ceilinged lounge. A couple of whores were seated near the entrance to the ladies’ room. A swift glance at Logan and he was ignored. Apparently they had a preference, or maybe they instinctively knew he was not a consumer. He shouldered his way through the black-lacquered bathroom door and entered the ornate, yet deteriorating, white-tiled bathroom. It reminded him of an old, dirty subway station—even the smell: the place reeked horribly. At a long porcelain trough filled with ice shavings, he relieved himself. For a moment as the ice cratered and melted, he imagined his urine was a hot yellow laser burning through the hull of a starship.
As he washed up at the sink, a stall door opened behind him, and an old, disheveled figure in a blue raincoat and rain hat ambled out, buckling up his trousers. It was Henry Bock. He joined Logan joined at the row of sinks. “Mr. Bock. Hello.”
The old man looked at him through the reflection in the mirror. He appeared even more slovenly than he had earlier in the day: still unshaven, his puffy cheeks highlighted by gray whiskers. He had the appearance of some back-alley miscreant.
“Joe Logan. We talked this morning, remember?”
“Oh yes? The fellow with the dog.”
“Yes. I contacted Chris Glass, or at least his research assistant, like you told me. I hoped she could help explain what was going on.”
“What’s going on? Here in Essex? I’ll tell you what’s going on! The laboratory doors have burst open and monsters have poured forth!”
“Keep your voice down.” Logan was a little shocked by the vehement and theatrical manner Bock chose to make this pronouncement. “What monsters are you talking about? The cysts?”
“The cysts. Yes, that and some creature half-dog half-man that has been attacking livestock. Originally I thought it was something I could sink my teeth into, excuse the pun, to make good use of my expertise while here, but I have been warned off.”
“Warned off by whom?”
“Turner’s people. Tactical Response Team Emergency Management and Control. Turner is in charge both here at Pine Haven and at the Triumph nuclear power station. TRT has the security contract for all atomic facilities in the northeast and central region.”
“Who’s Turner?”
“Colonel John Turner, former deputy commander of Air Force Office of Special Investigations. Section Seven. His department answered directly to the secretary of the Air Force and all counterintelligence operations. He’s retired now, but his relationship with the Air Force is undiminished, I think.”
“What exactly have you managed to learn since we spoke last? You mentioned the half-dog half-man attacking livestock.”
“I haven’t learned very much. Just some strange, four-legged creature lurking about the neighborhoods. Larger than an Irish wolfhound, but with a human face or human-like. It wears a collar with blinking lights. One fellow said it ripped out the throat of his dog. That’s how it kills, by engorgement.”
The old fool doesn’t know who I am, Logan realized. He can’t remember who he has spoken to or in what order.
Bock dried his hands on the towel turnstile and left the men’s room. Logan followed. The table where he and Natalie had been sitting was empty. He made a quick scan of the dance floor and bar, but couldn’t spot her anywhere. The place had filled considerably and the music had increased in volume, some obnoxiously old techno-beat. He sat down across from Henry Bock at a table the old man had arbitrarily chosen. “You spend a lot of time here?”
“I don’t get out much,” Bock admitted. “The drinks were free, mostly, in the beginning. Now I’m treated no better than the locals.”
“What happened?”
“Oh, I don’t know. Traps are set. One can so easily become compromised. Response Team officials were hoping I’d play ball by their rules. There are experts who can devise ways in which an individual can be reduced to a cipher. Even a criminal. It appears I have absconded with funds from my office in order to prolong my field investigation. I’ve become so obsessed with the situation here that I’d stop at nothing: steal and even ruin my career and reputation to prove a conspiracy of wrongdoing on the part of the Tacticals and the U.
S. Air Force. I’m being asked to leave.” Bock’s face rapidly turned into a compressed grimace. He leaned over in his chair and groaned.
Logan became alarmed. “What’s happening to you? Are you ill?” Perhaps the old man had had too much to drink, which was evident, and was about to vomit.
Logan was ready to jump out of his chair to avoid the spew, but Henry straightened up and resumed his normal, inebriated self. “Radiation poisoning. We all have it. Some are born with it. It’s in our bones. Do you realize, since Chernobyl, it has entered the food chain to such a degree that every organism on the planet possesses a trace amount at the very least? This is not even taking into consideration Hiroshima, nuclear testing, atomic war games in the forties and fifties, and the unleashing of low-yield nuclear weapons in the Central and East Asian theaters of conflict in the recent past. It’s not called the Dislocation for nothing. God knows how much has penetrated our bloodstream and internal organs. The metallic bitter taste of strontium ninety always in the back of the throat. I half expect to cough up a piece of lung or worse, shit my entrails out of a collapsed rectum. I have flushed some horrible things down the toilet, but that will be the worst. I’ll be done for.”
Logan was at a complete loss as to how to respond to this morbid diatribe, but soon it didn’t matter. Henry Bock suddenly shifted gears, apparently feeling better. He was making catcall noises to a redhead in a green dress who was standing at a table of boisterous Tacticals. She looked over to Henry, who gestured obscenely, but then looked away in distaste. Logan thought it was time to get the old man out of there before he caused a scene. “What do you say we go for a cup of coffee? I’ve had enough of this place. How about it?”
“Give me a lift won’t you? It’s not far.”
Logan agreed. Anything was better than arousing the ire of the Tacticals, who seemed to be as drunk as Henry but far more dangerous. As they wove through the crowd on the dance floor, Henry reiterated a piece of advice. “Get in touch with Glass, young fellow. If you want to know anything about what is going on here, Glass is the man to talk to.”