Cruel Blue Nowhere Read online

  Racking his brain, he tried to think what he'd heard...something about them having a child, but no specifics. Ben read the chart, finding only scant information -- mostly just the bare basics, that her body had been prepped in an undisclosed location, then flown back here to be vitrified and preserved. The date was about two months before he went to work here a year ago, Ben realized.

  He looked at the photo again, gleaning nothing personal in her trademark sad-eyed stare across time and beyond death. If he were a betting guy, he'd bet Cranston had prepaid for him, their child and the lovely wife to be preserved. But why not in a private location, somewhere he owned? With his limitless funds, he could surely afford his own exclusive facility. Then it occurred to Ben: Cranston must have wanted his wife away from him, perhaps as a means of distancing himself from her. But why?

  Whistling softly, Ben realized there was something seriously weird about this situation. A man in Cranston's position could afford anything he desired, so why have his wife's body stored here in a single unit? There were larger units for several family members to share space, but Olivia was in singular Dewar. On the other hand, the meticulous attention to long-term survival at this facility, especially having its own liquid nitrogen source, could have been the reason her body was here.

  As he started to close the folder, another photo fell out. He picked it up, stunned to see another picture of Olivia -- a shadow of her former self. Obviously, this had been taken after she was ill: her doomed eyes were sunken, her cheekbones sharply defined, a haunting grimace on her face. She had a scarf on her head, probably hiding baldness. Yet as Ben stared, looking closer as he held up the photo to the lamplight, he noticed she was sitting in the prep room at the facility. Alive.

  What the heck?

  Chapter 5

  Unable to sleep after seeing that last picture, Ben tossed and turned half the day. He finally got up around noon, went to the kitchen, started coffee and stared out at the bleak field behind the apartment building. It was early February, and snow was still piled up -- but now it had that ugly nastiness of grime and soot in spots.

  Pouring a cup of coffee, he put a slice of bread in the toaster, and while it toasted, got out blackberry jam. When he sat down at the small table, he tried to clear his head, think straight and not give in to wild ideas. Yet there was something about cryonics he had never cared to explore: what happens to one's soul if the body is suspended instead of allowed to decay? Did it make any difference? After all, mortuary preparation of the body also used a form of preservation even if the body was buried.

  Before taking the guard position, Ben had done a good bit of research and in all the material he'd read, even in the classes held at Mountainside regarding procedures, the mere mention of a soul was never broached. In fact, the more he thought about it, the more this seemed a glaring omission. Most of the world's people had some religious affiliation or spiritual belief, so why this obvious grey area in cryonics?

  As a realist, Ben prided himself on being secular and while not exactly an atheist, still skeptical of religion and spiritual realms. Being a sci-fi fan since childhood had satisfied his imagination, and he tended to look toward scientific answers. But now, he had to admit the possibility that Olivia's spirit was somehow trying to communicate with him from beyond death.

  Taking a sip of the coffee, he shuddered, feeling his hand holding the cup shake, almost spilling the coffee. He didn't know how to reconcile opposing philosophies: on one side was his scientific realism that said he might be going insane; on the other side, his reluctance to speculate that the human soul lived beyond death. Or even that humans had a soul.

  Wandering back to his bedroom, he picked up the file and read through it again. He sat on the edge of the bed, staring into the beautiful, mournful face of Olivia Masterson, studying the glossy perfection, and then the utterly devastated face of a cancer victim in the smaller photo. Why was she in the prep room at Mountainside, still alive? Was she merely visiting? Getting the fifty-cent tour before her future preservation? Something didn't add up....

  Just then, his cell chimed, and he looked down to see it was Tom. "Hey, what's up?"

  "Hope I didn't wake you, but uh, I got a problem."

  "Yeah?" Ben feared what was coming next, since he'd made no effort to return the digital card.

  "You haven't seen my access card to the record's room, have you? I needed it this morning, and it wasn't in my wallet."

  Ben realized Tom must know he'd taken the card, since it had been on the dresser and not in his wallet. "I think we need to talk."

  "Yeah buddy. You been acting kinda...odd lately. How about a beer at the bar when I get off work?"

  "Sure thing, see you around five."

  Ben ended the call, and knew he had to talk to someone about what was happening -- even if Tom thought he was losing it.

  * * *

  Tom came through the door, dusting snow off his coat, stomping his shoes, then walked to the corner booth where Ben was waiting. "Hey buddy, how you doing?" Tom asked, sliding into the opposite seat.

  "Been better."

  Tom peered into his face. "Yeah, I can see that. Hey, did you ever give Carmilla a call?"

  "Not yet, sorry."

  A waitress appeared, asking, "What'll it be guys?"

  Ben spoke up, "How about that new craft beer?"

  "I'll have the same."

  They avoided each other's gaze a few minutes, the silence lengthening waiting for the beers to come. When the heavy steins of frothing beer were before them, Ben launched into a lengthy explanation of what had been happening in the storage room, even admitting he'd taken the card from Tom's bedroom.

  When he finished, Ben took a long draw on the beer, wiped his mouth with a napkin and concluded, "It’s messed up, fucking crazy, so maybe I'm losing my mind."

  Surprisingly, Tom shook his head. "No buddy, you're about the most level-headed guy I know. And you were a cop, took a lot of sanity to live through the things you saw, I'm sure."

  "I always thought so. Although after I was shot, I don't know... I said I quit because I hated being on desk duty. But truth is, I lost my nerve after that shooting. I mean, it was just one of those things that can happen to a cop."

  "You never did say exactly how you got shot, the situation?"

  "Me and my partner were in a bad neighborhood, cruising our usual beat and came up on a bunch of teen gang-bangers fighting. We got out, ready to break it up...and one of them pulled a gun, but the kid was probably no older than twelve or thirteen. I just froze, and he took a wild shot, which hit my knee and I went down. My partner returned fire, got the kid in the shoulder, put him down on the ground. I mean, my partner, Joe, could have been killed..."

  "You too. Sounds like you did the best you could given the circumstances. A kid, jeez."

  "No, I froze. True, he was just a kid, but...that's not an excuse." Ben recalled the flashbacks he'd had the six months after the incident, and heard Tom ask, "Did you have PTSD? Get any counseling?"

  "I think I may still have PTSD, but I bailed on the department shrink. He wanted to put me on medication and I just didn't think that would...help."

  "Do you think these strange occurrences lately might have something to do with your PTSD? I don't know that much about it, but military veterans say it's a bitch." Tom drained his beer.

  "Not sure." Ben wondered why he hadn't considered that? "Maybe."

  "Look, Judy knows a good counselor; one of our kids had issues in their teens, and this man worked wonders. You want me to ask Judy to call him, get a recommendation for someone that deals with PTSD?"

  Ben looked at Tom, said, "Wouldn't hurt, I guess. But you don't think there's anything uh, strange about what I've told you?"

  "That Olivia Masterson's ghost is haunting you?" Tom sighed. "We'd have to admit this is a dicey topic in cryonics if that's the case. It wouldn't do for this to get back to Oglethorpe, or to the media. Can you imagine the implications?"

  "Yeah, a so
ul trapped between life and death. Nowhere."

  "Exactly. Me, I'm not religious. Judy is, and that's why we don't plan on being preserved, instead being buried."

  "I see. I did take that part of the pension, but now...I don't know. Look," Ben said, staring into Tom's face. "Don't mention this to anyone, not even Judy. I mean, you can tell her I need a counselor for PTSD, but not about uh, this other stuff. Maybe it's nothing, or could be hallucinations, something related to PTSD. Even lack of sleep."

  "Got it. And I won't breathe a word to anyone. I do need the card back though, and the file."

  "I brought it." Ben rummaged in his tote, got out the file and slid it across the table. "There you go."

  "I assume the breaker was time for you to get this?"

  "Uh huh, stupid. Had to know. Since you were working there at the time of her prep, do you know why she would have been in the facility before her death?"

  "Why do you say that?"

  Ben pulled the file back toward him, opened it and flipped through the pages...but the photo of Olivia in the prep room was not there. He shook the file, went through it again, shaking his head. "There was a photo...." As he looked up, he saw the puzzled frown on Tom's face. And something else: pity. Thinking he'd gone too far, Ben said, "I must be mistaken, thought I saw another picture."

  Tom stood, took the file and put a hand on Ben's shoulder. "Hey buddy, take it easy. You need to get some sleep, and then set up an appointment to talk with someone."

  Ben nodded, feeling foolish. Had he imagined that picture of Olivia? Or had it dropped out of the folder back in his apartment?

  He stood and walked out with Tom, shivering in the frigid air that hit them outside. Tom said, "Why don't I call Don, have him take your shift tonight and you get some sleep? And if he won't do it, I will."

  "Thanks Tom, that would be good."

  Driving toward the apartment, Ben swiped a hand over his face, feeling his eyes burning from lack of sleep. Tonight, he'd try to catch up on sleep before it caused him to lose a good job.

  He just hoped that was all that was wrong -- lack of sleep, PTSD -- and that he wasn't being haunted by a cryonic patient.

  Chapter 6

  "I promise mom, I'll be there sometimes tomorrow."

  Ben listened to his mother tell him to be careful on the drive, and that his old bedroom would be cleaned and ready for him. As he ended the call, he wondered if this side trip away from here would solve the problem?

  Following up on Tom's suggestion, Ben had an appointment with a trauma counselor -- but it was in Denver. This small, isolated town didn't have a single therapist, which wasn't surprising considering the population was only around eight-hundred people.

  Ben got his suitcase from the closet, starting sorting through his clothing, packing jeans, t-shirts, a couple khaki pants and one dress pair of slacks with a shirt and tie. At least he'd been able to sleep the last few nights, and that had made him feel much better. In fact, he was beginning to wonder if it wasn't just a case of overactive imagination? Or lack of sleep had created auditory illusions, which could happen in extreme sleep deprivation.

  Once his bags were packed, Ben went to the kitchen, getting out a can of soup, putting it in a dish and sticking it in the microwave. Dark outside now, and he saw his reflection cast back at him in the window: a stocky, 31-year-old man with thinning brown hair, brown eyes. He was nothing if not ordinary and had always felt average. Or at least he had before becoming a cop; that job had defined him, allowed him a measure of stature among friends and family.

  And now, he wondered? What was he other than a glorified technician at Mountainside, since security was practically locked down with electronic surveillance. He merely monitored the bank of computers, and in the entire past year, never anything the slightest remarkable had happened. That is, until the latest situation with Olivia...

  Forcing his thoughts back to the present, he got his soup, sat down at the table and flicked on the TV, listening to the latest news. President Trump was up to his usual antics, the media faking outrage at anything and everything while raking in high viewer ratings. Shaking his head, he thought there had to come a point when....

  The TV went silent, startling him, and he glanced up to see the screen blink a couple times, then fill with static. He hadn't seen such a sight in years. In fact, since digital became the norm of broadcasting. Staring at the static, he heard a disembodied voice, but couldn't make out what was being said.

  He hit the remote, wheeling through the stations, but the screen remained filled with static and white noise. Wiping off his mouth with a napkin, he stood and advanced to the large screen TV, reaching around to shut it off...but it came right back on. He jumped nervously, taken aback -- stood staring at the screen which was beginning to show a vague outline, the image of a woman with long blond hair etched into the rolling static. The whispery voice said, "Help me. Please. You are not crazy. Keep trying, keep looking..."

  At that point, Ben grabbed the TV cord and unplugged it, the screen going black. What the fuck was happening to him? As he went to pour out his soup, he was glad he'd be heading out of town tomorrow. Good thing he had a week of vacation built up, and that Oglethorpe had shown no concern about his absence.

  After a quick shower, he packed up his toiletries, then climbed into bed. Tossing and turning, he finally dozed off and soon the dream was upon him:

  Standing in the middle of a field of wildflowers, crystal blue sky above, a distant female shouting, "Over here, come see what I found."

  He started walking toward the voice, could just make out the woman's long blond hair highlighted from the brilliant sun above. Shading his eyes, he glanced around the tall wildflowers, yelling, "I'm coming..."

  He struggled to run, hearing his hesitant footfalls, but gradually realized he was getting nowhere so he stopped. The landscape started brightening, a slow eerie brilliance creeping through the meadow as he tried to see the woman, looking around the empty field. He saw wildflowers appear to melt as the light brightened, seemingly becoming liquid, shriveling and dying right before his eyes.

  He looked up and had to avert his eyes, the heat and light almost blinding him even as he heard the whisper close to his ear, "You are my only hope."

  Jerking awake, Ben sat up and whipped his gaze around the dark bedroom, reaching for the lamp. Disturbed, he put his feet on the floor, and got out of bed. "Welp," he said aloud, "no more sleep for me tonight."

  * * *

  The drive to Denver was a nice distraction, sunny skies highlighting the rugged landscape. A couple times Ben pulled over, took shots with the new camera he'd ordered from an upscale online photography outfit. His interest was in the play of shadows, how the slant of sun could depict time of day, the subtle outline of rugged terrain in the camera's lens.

  When he pulled into his parent's split-level house in the 'burbs, it was around noon and he saw his mom come to the door, step onto the small brick porch. "Ben!"

  He watched her come toward his pickup, giving it the once-over, then joining him as he got out. "You didn't tell us you bought a new truck. That old Honda gave up the ghost, huh?"

  "Yeah, died on me. I've only had the Ford a few weeks, but so far, so good."

  "I've got lunch just about ready. Come on in and we can get your bag later. We have a lot to catch up on, son."

  Ben followed his fifty-year-old mom up the front steps, thinking how she seemed ageless, her short, brown hair in the same bob he'd always known, her clothing simple, plain but well-fitted to her short, slender body. "So, what's for lunch? I'm starving."

  Once inside the living room, his sixty-year-old dad got out of his huge recliner, belched and said, "Glad you made it. How ya doing Ben?"

  They went to the dining room, sat down at the big oak table and began to catch up on the latest; his mom brought out home-made vegetable soup, grilled cheese sandwiches and hot chocolate -- his favorite meal as a kid. Realizing she'd done this for him, he grinned and told her he
'd missed good food, since he lived off microwave-ready meals.

  His mom told him his older siblings were all doing well, and since they all lived within a few miles, his sister had brought his two nephews visiting recently. "You know Georgie is growing so fast, can't keep him in clothes."

  "That reminds me, he put an app on my cell at Christmas. I haven't been able to get it uninstalled. Embarrassing to be upstaged by a ten-year-old."

  His dad laughed. "That boy has his heart set on a career in computers and at this rate, he'll have a head start. You want I should have him come over and take it off?"

  Ben said, "Maybe tonight. I have an appointment tomorrow..."

  "With that shrink," his dad filled in. "Are you sure you need that? I mean, your injury was a year and half ago."

  "Pete, let him alone. I think it's great you are going to see someone. PTSD is real, nothing to live with if you can resolve things," his mom said.

  "I think a few times, just to deal with the trauma issues, and I'll be good. Having some problems sleeping, an anxiety attack occasionally." Ben felt bad enough already, knowing his dad felt seeing a counselor was weakness.

  But they dropped the subject, and resumed the meal, chatting about general things.

  Later, as Ben was hanging his jeans up in his old closet, his mom knocked on his door. "Can I come in a minute."

  "Sure." Ben stopped unpacking, and when she walked in, he patted the bed, sat down and watched her grimace.

  "What's wrong? Did I say something at lunch..."

  "No. It's about er, you said you were having trouble sleeping?"

  "Yes. Of course, with that graveyard shift it's no wonder."

  "Don't tell your dad, but I've been having trouble sleeping too. Since he retired from the railroad, he's home all the time and it's... Well, just different. You know he was gone for long stretches and..."

  "I get it mom. Why don't you ask your doctor for something?"

  "I did. That's why I wanted to tell you that if you need medication, it can help for a short time. But..." She ran a hand through her hair, sighed. "Just that I started having strange dreams when I came off the medication."