I sit and look at the pictures of the girls. My favorite is the one right after Christi got her training wheels taken off. She was so proud standing next to her little bike, a huge grin on her face. There’s a new picture that I haven’t seen before. The girls are in their spring dresses. Tanya didn’t tell me about that.
I open the FTP program. Catalog.com hosts our page–two years for whatever the price of buying the domain was. I connect to where our files are housed, navigate on my computer to the folder holding the zj.doc file and send it across. It’s a small file but with a slow dialup connection it takes a few minutes to complete. In order for anyone to get to it, they’d have to first know that there is a file called zj.doc, that I had the forethought to actually send it somewhere remote, where I sent it, the password to access it at that site, and the password to open it.
It is safe.
I have fears, and I believe my fears are the same as those of most writers, at least those who keep their stories in electronic format. My fears rotate around that of losing my files, whether to a computer thief, a virus, an unrecoverable crash of my hard drive, or just my own stupidity. When I was home, before departing on my journey to search for a writing career, I always printed off my stories and chapters so that I had a paper backup. That has been harder to do once I went mobile. I do have a small printer, which I left in Seattle, but carrying around reams and reams of paper and printing off countless versions of my writing seemed ridiculous. So I invested in a portable CD burner. Everything I write is now backed up onto rewritable CDs. It’s something I’ve gotten in the habit of doing every few days.
I pull out the burner. Once I have it powered and connected to the USB port on the laptop, I drop in the backup CD I’ve been using and begin the file copy. While that’s going on I microwave two hotdogs and place those and a couple rows of mustard on two buns. By the time I return to the computer the copying is done. Sitting so that my body blocks the camera’s vision of what I’m doing I put in a second blank CD and copy everything again. This is just to ease my fear of losing all my writing to a thief. They may have watched me enough already to know I keep a backup. If they have reason to steal my computer they’d naturally grab the CD as well; the reason for a second backup.
This one I’ll hide.
While the burner churns at the millions of bites, I chew my dinner and consider where I’ll hide the CD. Kitchen or bathroom.
Toilet tank.
No. If they think I’ve hidden something that’s the first place they’ll look.
Kitchen then.
I scan the entire place in my mind, look at the underside of drawers, behind the kick panel of the dishwasher or the refrigerator, or up in a hidden area under the sink.
When I finish the hotdogs, I’m still hungry. The burner is done so I place the CD in a protective paper sleeve and, concealed, carry it with me into the kitchen. I pour a bowl of cereal, dump in sugar and milk and analyze the kitchen while I eat. I don’t like any of the places I’ve thought of, if for no other reason than I don’t have tape to secure it anywhere.
And then I notice the box of Rice Chex. So simple. I slide the CD between the box and the plastic liner and put the cereal away.
Now I feel almost satisfied. There’s still that phobic urge to backup one more time. I shake it off and consider password protecting my computer. If they are going to get into it they will. I might as well not make it so hard that they break something along the way. There is nothing in there that I, or they, should have to worry about unless they find my secret file. I cannot imagine how they’d be able to do that even if they knew it existed. I wonder if I should delete it. I can always recover it from Catalog.com or from my hidden backup.
Are you being overly suspicious here, Zach? It’s just a security camera. Are you blowing up your self-importance to the point that you think what you’ve written could be a threat to someone? You’re just a writer and probably not all that good a one at that. Which, of course, is the reason they picked you. The cameras are probably just in case they need to monitor someone and most likely haven’t been turned on for you. Maybe the previous tenant was a woman and Victor Vandermill has some erotic urge he needs to satisfy.
I don’t much like that thought either. What if he or someone else gets his rocks off watching me in my nakedness? You’re becoming irrational. If you don’t settle yourself down you’re not going to be able to sleep. You’ll become so self conscious that you’ll not be able to move.
I shake off the vision, not liking at all where my imagination is taking me. I clean up my dinner dishes–one bowl, one plate, a knife and a spoon–shut down the laptop and go in search of Aileen.
Chapter 13
. . . may not have tried to grapple with prey, but merely to deliver one crippling stab wound, and then wait for the prey to die.
—Spell of the Tiger
In my search, I run into Ulla. She points me to Ms. Bravelli’s apartment, same floor as mine but on the opposite side of the building. There’s no answer to my knock. I go up a floor and poke my head into the boardroom, which is also used as a lounge for the echelon. I have lounged there myself once, upon Victor’s invitation. Only Henri Cassell is there. To my surprise he invites me in and pours me bourbon without asking if I want one.
At first we chat about nothing significant. He shows none of the throw-the-bastard-reporter-out attitude I saw the first day I arrived. He asks me how my writing is going. I tell him it isn’t as I haven’t been given a direction as yet, but for the time being I’m busy researching.
“Ah.” He takes a gulp of his bourbon. “I imagine once this is all over and we all settle back into our routines we’ll be ready to help you out a bit, or rather they. I actually have no idea why you were hired so. . .” He lets it drop right there. There’s an uncomfortable silence and then he says, “How are you liking your apartment? Do you have any needs that Ulla hasn’t been able to fill?”
“I’m very comfortable.”
“If there are any mechanical problems, just tell Ulla. She’ll notify one of our maintenance people.”
“No problems that I’ve seen.” I sip on the bourbon–a very small sip as this is something I am not accustomed to. I try not to make a face. “How long have you been with Sans Sanssabre?”
His grin has a tipsy slant. “Is this an interview, Mister Price? Is your research meter running or are you making chat?”
I consider that for a moment. “A professional writer’s research meter is always running, even when he’s making chat.”
“That’s fair, I guess. Then if I say, ‘off the record,’ what would that mean to you?”
“That would depend a bit on what we are talking about. If you say it’s off the record that you saw the president goose his secretary, that would mean I couldn’t print it and use you as a source. However that doesn’t mean I wouldn’t go out and try to find other evidence that the president likes to goose his secretary, or evidence that you could be someone from the opposite party trying to start something.”
“So you are not party specific.”
“It kind of depends on the wind.”
“Which way it blows?”
“Or how is smells.”
“I see,” he laughs.
“What is it about the length of time you’ve been here that would need to be off the record?”
He drains his glass and puts it down. “Nothing, actually. Just feeling the ground around which you stand.”
“Trying to figure out what political persuasion I am? See if I carry a bias, maybe?”
“We all carry a bias. I’m always interested what bias applies to whom.”
“What is your bias then, Henri?” I attempt to turn the question upon him, but just like with Aileen, I don’t know when to keep my mouth shut. “You’re a far swing liberal working for a far swing conservative.”
His smile indicates anything except amusement. “Our political differences don’t mean we are not friends or close partners in this c
ompany. We have the same goals. I helped him build this company.”
“But for some reason you don’t agree with . . .”
“Mister Price.” He holds up both hands. “Please. I don’t feel like discussing politics with you, especially since you apparently are never off duty. I can get into a nice political argument with most anybody except a reporter.”
“Journalist,” I correct. He ignores me.
“Reporters have a way of making everything–democrat, republican, farmer, baker, student, teacher–everything, take on a feeling of dirt. You guys don’t want the facts. You want the dirt. That’s why I don’t like you. It’s not you personally, it’s what you do.”
“We can’t dig up dirt, if there is no dirt.” I’m trying not to take it personally. “What dirt is it you’re afraid I’ll find?”
“See what I mean,” he says, picking up his empty glass and pointing it at me. “You’re already going for the jugular.”
“How long was Peter McCully with the company?” I ask.
This stops him short. He thinks I’ve suddenly shifted subjects–which I haven’t. I’ve received another of my visions, or inspirations, whatever one wants to call it. Henri is afraid of something and it’s vibrating around him. What it is, I have yet to determine, but the question seems right.
“What do you mean?” He pulls his glass in close to his chest.
“A simple question. Trying to get some background on him.”
“Since the beginning.”
“Victor brought you and the Doctor on board about the same time then.” I make that a statement, not a question. I wait, but he doesn’t deny it. “And I suspect probably Doctor Zitnik as well, and Ms. Bravelli,” I add.
He sets his glass down. I expect he’s been intending on refilling it except he didn’t intend to get into a discussion with me. He knows he can’t hold his tongue once he has had too many.
“Yes, yes. So what’s your point?” He slurs the yes’s.
“No point, Henri. Up until now I’ve been learning about cats and tigers and DNA and cloning. I hadn’t looked at the company itself, its history. I have yet to learn how old it is. Sans Sanssabre has a vision, I can see that. Is it written down anywhere? What inspired Victor Vandermill to pursue this? Was it a life-long dream or an idea that just popped up? Was it even his idea at all or was he just the one who financed it?”
“All reasonable questions you should ask him. I’m sure he’ll be glad to tell you the entire story.” With that Henri turns away and like a man who knows he’s not stable, determinedly walks out the door.
I dump the remainder of my drink in the sink. Too rich for my blood.
Back in my apartment I pull out the journal and make my dutiful non-threatening entry. I’ll bring up the laptop in the morning and after adding my psychic impressions of Henri Cassell, go through the procedure I did earlier. Contrary to my normal routine of undressing and then turning off the light, I turn off the light and then undress. I lie in bed and think. Sleep is a long way off.
Henri knows that Peter McCully was murdered, and for a reason I have yet to put my finger on, he’s scared. I wonder who else knows Peter was murdered.
Chapter 14
The following day, Saturday, one week after my arrival, I awake to the sight of water dripping in front of my window. The sun is shining. It was well after 2:00 a.m. before I fell asleep. It’s now 10:00. I’m curious if the water dripping means the temperatures have risen above freezing. Although I’m anxious to find out, there are other things I want to do first.
After a shower and shave I make breakfast–bacon, eggs, toast and coffee–and retrieve the secluded CD. I make my entries in my secret file, send it off to Catalog.com and then burn it to the CD.
I feel rather stupid, actually more like phobic. I’m afraid of people peeking at what I write, maybe afraid that the killer will find out that I suspect something. I try to deep breathe the fear away, but it’s no help. The tightness in my chest makes me wonder what it’s like to have a heart attack. I put away the laptop, which makes me feel a little better, and then stand at the window with my third mug of coffee. I know I should stop at one, but there are days, too many days recently, that require several more. This one will not be my last. There may even be another pot.
The bright day has gotten brighter and the world is obviously melting. How long will it take to melt this much snow? How far away is real spring? There is a feeling in the air and it’s not joy at approaching spring. Rather, it’s ominous, almost apocalyptic. I want to slap myself across the face, knock such feelings of doom out of my head. But I also know that it is useless–knocking away the feelings that is–as useless as turning away from an approaching tornado in hopes it will be nothing more than a gentle afternoon breeze. When I get these impressions they always mean disaster; someone in close physical proximity to me is going to die or be seriously injured. I can never put my finger on who, how or exactly when.
One such time was when the girls were very young, babies actually, and we were all together waiting to cross a street in downtown Dallas. The weather was mild and many people were out. I was carrying Rebecca. Tanya was pushing Christi in the stroller. The light changed. People moved and then the feeling came over me. Often times it eases on me over a period of hours or even days, kind of like what is happening now, but that time it hit me quickly. I received no visions, no words of warning, just a horrible feeling that means something bad will happen and I cannot do a thing about it.
“Stop!” I yelled to Tanya. I never have any idea if stop or run or lie on the ground are the right things. Stop is instinct in a fearful situation. She spun around and realized instantly from the look on my face why I said stop, no more able to do anything about it than I was. She picked Christi out of the stroller and then stood close to me and waited. People walked around us. She looked north. I looked south. We waited, waited . . . waited until she said, “Maybe this one was nothing,” and then said, “Oh my God!” When I turned around she was looking up and backing into me. A girl not much older than a child was inching her way along a window ledge, five floors up. We learned later she was only thirteen years old. A head poked out the window and yelled words I couldn’t make out. The girl turned, slipped, dropped onto the ledge and then bounced away and plummeted to the sidewalk not twenty yards from us.
These are the kinds of feelings I get. Very frustrating feelings because I can never do anything to stop whatever it is that is about to happen. It’s this kind of feeling I have now; however this one has been coming on me for several days. At the time I thought it had to do with the death of Doctor McCully and the surrounding tension and gloom. I am now readily aware that it did not. Why I don’t feel the approach of all bad things, I don’t know. I sensed nothing before McCully’s death.
So what is it that is about to happen? When? Today? Tomorrow? Usually at this point it’s no more than a day away, or maybe hours. My disaster sensors could be off kilter with everything else I’m currently worried about. It could be anytime in the next few minutes or the next few days.
I certainly can’t stand here and stare into white space until something happens. I decide to go in search of Lance or Aileen. I turn to head out.
The phone rings.
My feelings don’t currently correlate with the phone, so I pick it up.
“This is Zach.”
“Hi, Zach. This is Aileen Bravelli.”
I’m surprised into silence.
“Zach?” she says. “You still there?”
“Yes . . . Sorry. I . . . ah . . . wasn’t expecting . . .”
“If you’re in the middle of something I can check back with you later.”
“No. I’m not doing anything. It’s just that this is only the second time my phone has rung since I’ve been here. I kind of forgot I had one.”
She laughs. “Sometimes I’d like to unplug mine for good.”
“I was just about to go look for you.”
“Oh! Why’s that?”
“I want to apologize.”
She doesn’t say anything.
“Can we get together?” I add. “Meet somewhere?”
“Have you had lunch yet?”
“I had a late breakfast.”
“Oh!”
“But if you’re cooking . . .”
“Come on over. I’m just doing soup and sandwiches. Bring your favorite beverage. Also, bring your camera.”
My feelings of doom are momentarily forgotten. My favorite beverage is a beer–but not for lunch. I refill my coffee mug, grab my notebook and Nikon, and head out the door.
Aileen’s apartment is identical to mine, only reversed. Everything on the right in mine is on the left in hers. The décor is a lot nicer, however. Curtains and vertical blinds dress the window. Several huge potted plants sit about; smaller ones take up tables and counters. I touch one to see if it’s real. It is. I’m impressed, and I tell her.
“I’ve always had a knack for plants. I must have been a florist in my previous life.”
“Or a horticulturist,” I say “Maybe it’s what you are meant to do in your next life. You’ll be a horticulturist and find you have a knack for understanding old bones. You’ll say then you must have been an archaeologist in your previous life.”
“I’m not an archaeologist.” Her voice takes on an edge. “I’d have assumed with all your research you would have figured that out by now. I’m a paleontologist. So many people get that mixed up.”
“Sorry. Must be a pet peeve. Kind of like my being called a reporter when I’m a journalist.”
“A photojournalist at that,” she says. “Certainly a lot more than just a reporter.”
“You’re making fun of me. How about we call a truce on our pet peeves. The soup smells good.”
“Truce.”
Comfortable silence for a bit. “So . . . why did you tell me to bring my camera?”
She looks past me and then points with a wooden spoon. “Her.”
I swing around to find a sabre-toothed cat strolling out of her bedroom. “Holy shit!” My legs are trying to pull themselves up underneath me. I’m actually considering climbing onto the counter.
Sabre-Toothed Cat Trilogy Page 9