Oversight (11 page)

From the parking lot, Sam watches the fog muster behind Twin Peaks. In a few hours, the mist will occupy the city. It’s entrancing, the stately pace of the white waves; everything else moves so fast, in jump cuts and frames per second. His reverie is ended by the Dopplered roar of a low-flying air taxi.

“Is everything alright, Sam?” Marilyn asks.

Pondering the question, Sam is almost ready to believe it was born of compassion. But he knows better. He knows that’s the network’s way of asking if he has any needs that can be met with a quick debit or two. For every void in your soul, there’s a shrink-wrapped product to make you whole. Still, even counterfeit concern is welcome. Like a placebo, it has some effect.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” he answers. “Just thinking about Fiona.” He mounts his motorcycle without knowing where he’s going. In four hours, he has to be home. He owes a visit to Ikura Industries, the fish distributor Ernesto mentioned. But he’d rather go early, when the boats return with their catch.

“Perhaps she’d like some art in her room,” Marilyn suggests.

That’s who he needs to see: Cayman’s daughter. She might be able to offer some insight regarding her father.

Marilyn continues, “For a limited time, Corbis is offering its Beautiful People collection for fifty percent off. Studies indicate that clinical outcomes are seven percent better if patients are surrounded by faces as opposed to landscapes.”

“Whose study?”

“Please be more specific.”

“Who funded the study?”

“The International Federation of Portrait Photographers.”

Sam rolls his eyes. “I’ll pass, Marilyn.” Over the rumble of the engine, he asks for the location of Amy Ibis.

Marilyn answers, “According to Content Corp’s feed, Amy Ibis is at the University of California, Berkeley, speaking at a demonstration.”

Leavi
ng his bike under the shade of a token tree just off Telegraph Avenue at Dwight Way, Sam makes his way toward the UC campus. Pedestrians spill from the sidewalk into the street, slowing traffic. At Moody’s Liquid Pharmacy, just south of Bancroft Street, students linger over self-prescribed drinks containing unregulated herbs, hormones, and stimulants.

The UC campus is packed with protestors dressed in the clothing of the mid-1960s—not the garish hippie garb of the Summer of Love but post-Eisenhower conservative, with thin ties, bobby socks, turtlenecks, and a distinct absence of hair-care products. A few sport signs that say “Free Speech.” Several hundred of these student time travelers stand in front of Sproul Hall, drunk on defiance, cheering a folk singer who’s lip-synching “We Shall Overcome.” Something about the scene is wrong. It takes a minute before Sam realizes what it is: no brand logos on any of the clothing or signs.

Some of the surrounding police are wearing uniforms from the same period—1964, according to the bystander who hands Sam a flyer with the headline “Why We Fight.” The remaining forces of the law, loitering in the background of the reenactment, are equipped with more modern gear, like articulated body armor and microwave guns. Sam watches, fascinated, as the police of yore drag those playing protestors away. Mock scuffles unfold; pseudo-students take beatings from foam batons. It’s all quite convincing, except that everyone’s having a good time.

A network inquiry reveals that those present are members of the Northern California chapter of the Society for Collective Memory, a national reenactment group devoted to exploiting a loophole in decades-old legislation known as the Flag Protection Act.

Asked to elaborate, Marilyn explains that gathering to recreate a historical event represents an exception to the law, which generally limits protests to twenty people or less. Though the exemption was slipped into the statute by a Confederacy-crazed senator from North Carolina, groups beyond his constituency of Civil War buffs were quick to recognize the opportunity. So much so, in fact, that there are a number of cases before the courts in which competing historical societies are vying for exclusive performance rights to the more famous demonstrations.

“The most contentious,” Marilyn says, continuing her summary of recent news coverage, “is the fight between the African-American History Project and the Aryan Foundation over the 1963 Lincoln Memorial gathering where Dr. Martin Luther King delivered his ‘I Have a Dream’ speech.”

“Right,” Sam says, more to himself than to Marilyn, “I saw something about that a few weeks ago.”

“If you’re interested in learning more about Dr. King,” Marilyn says, “why not try a Final Days tour of Memphis? Learn what really happened when Dr. King was assassinated, with the help of a Tony Award-winning cast. You’ll see Memphis through the eyes of those who were there that fateful day in April 1968. You’ll visit the restored Lorraine Motel, where you’ll see a reenactment of Dr. King’s death. And afterwards you’ll relax at the famous Peabody Hotel. Built in 1869, this historic landmark is more alive than ever with Southern hospitality. If you act now, you’ll save ten percent off the Final Days weekend package rate of $12,000.”

Sam doesn’t answer. He’s busy scanning the protestors for Amy Ibis. Pressing through the crowd, he makes his way toward the steps of Sproul Hall.

“Nice costume,” jeers a youth in period dress.

Mild laughter bubbles up among the young man’s friends.

Sam glares. His critic grins. Sam kicks him in the shin. He continues onward, his transgression hidden from the cameras by the crowd.

When he looks up, he recognizes Amy standing among a group of protestors under a tree. Even in costume—a knee-length white skirt, a pillbox hat, and a three-quarter-sleeve jacket—she’s more beautiful than her pictures suggest. So much so that he thinks there has to be some secret deficit, a counterweight to the advantages that are hers by birth. She’s staring into space, perhaps bored by the faux protest.

Sam approaches and her eyes find his. A slim scar reaches across her cheek, ever so slight, too indelible perhaps for even the best surgeons. Oddly, it pushes her closer toward perfection.

He stops in front of her, grasping for words.

“You look lost,” she says, as if it’s something to be desired. “It becomes you.”

“I was looking for you.”

“You must be Sam Crane. My father warned me about you.”

Sam can’t help but grin. “My bark is worse than my bite.”

Her answering smile is somewhere between sultry and smirking. She tours him with her eyes. “That’s a sign of remorse,” she says. “The committed strike in silence.”

That she’s teasing him, Sam has no doubt. Whether she’s being mean-spirited or playful, he’s not so sure. “Is that a confession?” he asks.

“Just the truth.”

“I’ve found that whenever someone mentions ‘the truth,’ that person is lying nine times out of ten.”

“I painted by numbers too, when I was five. I grew out of it.”

“What can I say? I’m in touch with my inner child.”

Amy laughs. “Why don’t you just ask me if I killed Xian?”

“That would be rude.”

“A gentleman! You’re more of an anachronism than these demonstrators.”

“While women do tend to favor poison, there are more likely suspects. Your father, for instance.”

“I suppose that’s why he warned me about you.” Amy appears intrigued by the possibility. “Do you really think he did it?”

“Not really, but maybe he knows who did.”

A pause. Sam wishes he could read her better.

“So Xian was poisoned?” Amy asks.

“Yes. I’d have thought you’d heard.”

“I don’t care for the news. I find it depressing.”

On cue, the demonstrators start chanting.

“I see why they banned this sort of thing,” Sam observes.

“Would you like to interrogate me some place quieter?”

Sam thinks about it for a moment. “Yeah, I would.”

Retracing his steps along Telegraph Avenue, Sam follows Amy to People’s Park, the nearest landing area for air cars. Blasted grass and bent trees show the ravages of jet engines and fan blades. Among the ‘gents who make their homes in the withered brush, most are profoundly deaf.

A black Boeing air sedan is waiting. Gull-wing doors rise in sync like Busby Berkeley cobras. Amy ducks inside; Sam follows.

“This is David, my driver,” she says over the pair of idling engines.

David nods, his overbroad features shown in frightening close-up on the video monitor mounted behind his seat.

Amy sits facing forward; Sam faces backward. He is struck by how appropriate this is for someone always focused on the past.

“You don’t say much,” Amy remarks over the rising drone of the rotors.

“I’m the strong, silent type,” Sam answers.

A cryptic smile appears on Amy’s face. She looks out the window.

Berkeley recedes below. Four outboard Rolls Royce engines tilt horizontal. There’s a moment of weightlessness as the air car drops just before accelerating. Out the portside window, Sam can see the missile turrets atop the Bay Bridge. The water beneath sparkles as if strewn with the ruins of a shattered sun.

Within minutes, the sedan slows over the northwestern edge of San Francisco, already buried in fog. The engines swing vertical and the craft rises for a moment as the rotors slow. Then comes a computer-calibrated drop and a gentle landing.

Sam emerges after Amy. They’re standing on a landing platform. An elevated causeway connects to the beach. The platform ends at a hillside, by a lift designed to bring air cars up from street level. A stairway ascends to Sea Cliff, perhaps the city’s most exclusive neighborhood. Houses in the area routinely top three hundred million. And that’s for a fixer-upper.

“When you’re ready to go, David will take you home,” Amy says as she starts up the stairway.

Sam reminds her that his motorcycle is still in Berkeley.

“David,” she says as if addressing her network agent. “Please see that Sam’s motorcycle gets airlifted to his house.”

Sam has Marilyn set up a temporary access code to disarm his bike’s motion alarm. By the time the arrangements are made, they’ve reached Amy’s house.

Amy leads the way through the iron gate. The front yard is small but manicured. The house is Tudor in style, built in 1932, Amy says. Vines drape its rough brick walls.

Sam is impressed. “It’s lovely,” he says, following Amy inside.

“Everything in its right place,” she answers.

“Pardon?”

“That’s how my father used to encourage me to clean up. He likes things to look a certain way.”

“You sound bitter.”

“I was trying for weary.”

A pause.

“I’m listening.”

“I know,” Amy answers. “That’s why I’m considering my words carefully. It’s just tiresome. Everything is his.”

“I can see that.” Sam surveys the foyer. There’s a gilt-framed mirror, its reflective silver flecked with imperfections. Overhead, a chandelier gleams. Fresh irises, perhaps a dozen, stand splayed in a vase on a marble-topped side table. Busy fleur-de-lys wallpaper reaches from the waist-high wood molding to the picture rail just above the door frames. Against the far wall, flanked by two Louis Vuitton suitcases, a grandfather clock tells time as if meting out scoldings.

“So why not live on your own? You’re hardly strapped for cash.”

“Now it’s your turn to sound bitter.” Amy turns and walks through the parlor toward the kitchen.

“I suppose I am,” Sam admits, following behind. Though he’s watching the shift of her hips, he adds, “You have some nice antiques.”

“Thank you.”

“Did you get them from Kenneth Wren?”

Amy stops in the dining room, at the kitchen door. In the muted light, she looks somewhat surprised. “Several of them. Do you know Kenneth?”

“We met.”

“Does that mean you were lovers?”

Sam is surprised by the question. “Hardly.” He’s tempted to protest that he’s straight, but decides she’s baiting him. “Is that all it takes? A meeting?”

“If you’re reckless.”

“Sound like anyone you know?”

“I’ll have to think about it.”

There’s something sadistic about Amy’s smile. Or perhaps it’s just that she seems to know how much he wants her.

“Can I get you something to drink?” she asks.

“Water would be great.” Sam finds it curious that there’s no help, particularly given the immaculate state of the house. Perhaps the cook is out shopping.

Amy fills two glasses with sterile water from the autoclave; she hands one to Sam and leads the way back to the dining room, then out to the balcony.

It’s cold outside in the fog. The view would be spectacular in better weather. Amy takes a seat in one of the two deck chairs; Sam remains standing.

“You may want to sit down,” she suggests.

Music suddenly fills Sam’s head; vibrations course through his teeth.

Are you prepared for the unexpected?

How’ll you fare when a bomb’s detected?

Time to get your ducks in a row.

Explosions happen, don’t ya know.

So insure your life with Annabel Lee!

Peace of mind will set you free.

“Damn it, I’m being streamed,” he shouts over a sound only he can hear.

Amy takes his hand and pulls him down to sit on the chair beside her. The music stops.

“There’s a resonator that sweeps this neighborhood,” she explains. “It can only track down to shoulder-level when you’re standing. Below that, it’s blocked by the rooftops.”

Incredulous, Sam says, “This is a residential area.”

“My father thinks it was installed as a prank by one of his company’s competitors.” Amy runs her hands through her hair. “It’s only been up a week. I’ve already filed a complaint, but the zoning inspectors are backlogged for months.”

“I hate advertising.”

“We have something in common.”

A hesitant smile unfolds on Sam’s face. He stares into Amy’s eyes, and she, back into his. It’s the coldness in her voice that makes him unsure.

“You hate advertising, but you don’t mind the income,” Sam ventures.

“I’ve been supporting myself since I was eighteen,” Amy insists. “He’ll buy things for me sometimes. But I make my own way. That’s why I took Ibis as my surname.”