Every Waking Moment (14 page)

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Authors: Chris Fabry

BOOK: Every Waking Moment
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Streams from Desert Gardens

outtake 1

Camera shaking, being positioned.

Shot of empty office, empty chair. Devin walks into shot and turns.

What’s that?

JONAH (OFF CAMERA):
New lens. Sit down
 
—I want to try it out.

Devin sits.

How much did that cost? And where’d you get the money?

VOC:
You don’t need to know everything. Just talk.

About what?

VOC:
I don’t care. Anything. Why we’re doing this.

Why? We’re doing this because we can’t
not
do it. That’s the best answer. We’re doing this because this is what we were made to do.

VOC:
We were made to have a failing business?

We’re not failing. Don’t you see? Some of the biggest breakthroughs came when everybody thought something was a failure.

VOC:
Give me one example.

I don’t know. The lightbulb. The coffeemaker. Are you done?

VOC:
No, stay there.

Camera zooms and refocuses.

VOC:
What makes a good documentary?

Well, it’s certainly not letting the director get in front of the camera. You’re supposed to stay out of the way. Be seen, not heard. A good documentary presents the illusion that you’re simply watching life. And the viewer is not really
watching
; they’re participating in the process, discovering as the camera discovers. When you achieve that, you know you have something special.

VOC:
Preach it.

A good film draws you in because it feels like life. That’s what we’re doing at Desert Gardens, showing real life.

VOC:
Turn left a little. No, my left. There. This looks really good. So keep going. Why did you choose this place, these people?

My grandfather was here. I would come to see him and listen to the stories of my family. After the crash
 

VOC:
Say more about the crash. For our viewing audience.

My parents . . . You know this. My parents died in a plane crash. A private company plane. They weren’t
rich or anything, just headed to a conference. Plane went down and I was alone. A pack of wolves took me in, though.

VOC:
Is that why you do this? Connecting with other people?

I’ve never thought of it that way, but maybe. This kind of fills in some pieces for me. But it’s more than that. More than some psychological catharsis, if that’s what you’re saying.

VOC:
Hey, I’m just testing out a new lens.

Will that work on a long shot?

VOC:
That’s what it’s for.

CHAPTER 21

DEVIN SAT
in his car counting bricks in the wall surrounding the massive home of Calvin Davidson. He hadn’t seen the old man yet and he was running out of gas because he had to keep the air conditioner running. It was about five degrees warmer here than in Tucson.

He had searched for the man’s phone number but it was unlisted. He had the address because Miriam Howard had given it to him. She had warmed to his idea of telling Treha’s story and suggested he try to find some information about Davidson, so that morning he’d gone all in and driven two hours and now here he was. Waiting.

Devin wasn’t sure how this man connected with Treha and Dr. Crenshaw, but it seemed important to Miriam. And that was enough for him. Because this idea about Treha was golden. So he had to get Miriam to trust him, give him access now that Desert Gardens was closed to him. This was a way to prove he was fully invested.

It was one of Devin’s strengths
 
—tenacity. Or maybe foolishness.

When he’d first pulled up, he rang the bell and passed the time waiting by reading a paper taped to the front door.
A lawn care company had left it and the date of service was the day before. Apparently Davidson’s slow-drip sprinklers were operating, though some plants in the xeriscape were in distress, and the company would need access to the control panel inside the garage
 
—could the occupant please call to set up a service appointment? Davidson’s phone number was scribbled at the top of the bill and Devin programmed it into his phone.

He’d dialed as soon as he returned to the car but received no answer. He was hoping to hear Davidson’s voice, but a machine told him to leave a message. Devin had, though now he thought it might have been a mistake. He had hemmed and hawed at why he wanted to see the man.

A text came from Jonah:
Any geezer activity?

Devin replied:
Zilch. Saw a neighbor walking. Said he hadn’t seen Davidson in a week.

Detect any odors?

Somebody is barbecuing.

Do you like your Davidson medium or rare?

Not funny.

Hang tough.

Devin noticed the gate opening in his rearview and a UPS truck barreled through. He had followed a garbage truck into the subdivision, past the slow-moving gate, and wound to the Davidson property on at least two acres along a side street. Devin’s heart skipped a beat when the truck’s brake lights shone in front of him; then the truck moved to the next house, and the man in brown shorts with wraparound sunglasses and gelled hair knocked on the front door. A woman answered and signed for the package and life went on.

The truck gave Devin an idea. He drove back through the
gate
 
—getting out was a lot easier than getting in
 
—and twenty minutes later he was back at the same spot where his car’s slight coolant leak had left a yellowish-green spot on the pavement. He parked and pulled out the book-size box and some tape he had bought at Office Depot. He didn’t want to make it too hard in case the man had arthritic fingers.

He opened the spiral notebook he kept with him and took three runs at the message. The first two tries felt too desperate. Phrases like
please call
and
I need to talk to you
covered the page. It sounded pathetic and he didn’t want that. He wanted to draw the old man in with a hook, make him yearn to know who had sent the box. He told himself this was okay, it was for a good cause, though he wasn’t sure.

Devin pushed the thoughts away and wrote, this time finding something mysterious and inviting.

Your house is being watched. Call this number. I can help.

He wrote his cell number beneath the words but didn’t sign the note. He folded the page twice and placed it in the box, writing
Calvin Davidson
on the front. The sun was fully up when he propped the box against the door and rang the bell. He retreated to the car and watched the front windows to see any movement of drapes or shutters. His view was partially blocked by mesquite trees whose brilliant-green branches had taken over.

An hour later, bored out of his mind, Devin was so hungry he could hear his stomach speaking another language. He checked his phone to find the nearest restaurant and looked once more at the box by the front door.

He was gone a few minutes and returned with two chicken
sandwiches, waffle fries, and an iced tea. Devin shook his head when he saw the box was gone.

We have activity,
he texted Jonah.

You dig him up in the backyard?

Not funny. Stay tuned.

He unwrapped the first sandwich and ate ravenously, the prospect of finally breaking through stirring his appetite. In the middle of the second sandwich, the phone rang. The number was restricted. He tried twice to unlock the cell but his greasy fingers slipped. On the third try he answered and glanced at the house as he tried to swallow and talk.

“Yes?”

Silence on the other end. A
click-click
 
—or maybe
cluck-cluck
. Like someone’s dentures. He decided to go for it.

“Mr. Davidson, thank you for calling.” Firm, confident. Exuding strength.

He had always believed you could tell much about a person by their voice. Not just word choice and demeanor, but also the actual vocal print. The human voice was unique to each person
 
—like a fingerprint.

He knew next to nothing about the man on the other end, but when he heard the first words from Calvin Davidson’s mouth, Devin knew he had discovered gold.

“Are you with them?”

Four words. Crackling, like hot water poured over ice. Also deeply resonant, as if coming from some underground cavern. Davidson sounded like an actor Devin’s mother had loved. She would point him out in films when Devin was younger, and now the man was typecast as the grizzled, confused old man.

“Who are you? What do you want with me?”

“Mr. Davidson, don’t hang up. I’m a friend.”

“You are no friend of mine.”

What richness. Texture. And the syntax
 
—not the colloquial
you’re
, but
you are
. Devin couldn’t wait to get a microphone on the man and watch the meters dance.

Careful not to sound needy. Let him hear poise.

“Your home is being watched.” Of course, Devin was the one watching. “I’d like to help you
 
—”

“Surveillance. You tell me nothing I don’t already know. They come at night. When I try to sleep. They can sense me sleeping. Or maybe you’re one of them.”

“No, I’m not one of them.”

“They’ve planted listening devices in the ceiling. My phone. They’re engineering plants now, modifying them genetically to listen in on conversations.”

Devin waited, took a breath. “Sir, my name is Devin Hillis. I’m not your enemy.”

“And who are you with, Devin Hillis?” Davidson spat his name as if it were a curse.

“I’m not with anyone. I mean, I own a company called Life Reviews. We produce video presentations, make films
 
—documentaries.”

“Documentaries. Do you think people care about the truth these days? We can’t discern the truth from the lies being told us.”

“Sir, a friend suggested I contact you. Her name is Miriam Howard.”

“I’ve never heard of her.”

“She runs a retirement home
 
—at least she did until a couple of days ago.”

“You’re not taking me there. I won’t go. I know that’s why they’re listening, so they can trap me. So they can have me committed, put a white jacket on me.”

“That’s not why I’m calling. One of her residents knew you. He wrote you a letter and she wanted you to have it.”

Silence on the other end except for the wheezing rasp, as if he were exerting himself. Devin looked at the front windows of the house but there was no movement.

“You’re with the government, are you not?”

“What?”

“Or are you selling something?”

His voice was a bubbling cauldron of contempt. Wonderful. At least there was passion.

“I’m not selling anything. I’m here to help.”

“So you are from the government. Here to help yourself.”

The call cut off and Devin cursed. He’d felt he was making a connection with the man; then the line went dead. He redialed.

A sharp tap against the window.

Devin glanced over to see the barrel of a handgun. Square and ancient. Behind it, a wrinkled hand gripping the revolver. A face full of wrinkles and derision.

Poise suddenly left Devin, along with composure and control. The gun jerked toward the ground twice, and Devin interpreted this correctly and rolled his window down. He noticed the cordless phone in the man’s other hand.

Calvin Davidson wore a blue cardigan sweater and plaid pants. They looked thin, like pajamas. His face was neatly shaved up to the thin mustache, which reminded Devin of his grandfather’s, though Davidson had missed a patch under his chin and the skin around it was blotchy and red as if he had been scratching with fingernails that were just a little too long for a person with all his sanity. His eyelids were puffy, like wrinkled cotton balls.

The man’s mouth was open as if his dentures were giving
him pain; then he gnashed his teeth. “They can’t trace this. Every gun sold these days has a number, a trail to follow.”

Devin nodded.

“Not this weapon. It was taken from a German soldier in the Ardennes Forest. It’s a relic, like me. But even relics can have life. Do you understand?”

The old man leaned down farther. His eyes were green and clouded, but there was fire behind them. Like a rumbling volcano ready to spew ash. Devin gulped, and as hard as it was not to stare at the gun, he kept his eyes on the man’s face.

“You don’t need to use that, sir.”

“Do you think a firearm that is seventy years old, give or take, could actually work after all this time?”

Good question. Devin tried to answer, but his mouth could only form the word
I
and no sound came from his lips. He looked at the barrel and the wrinkled finger wrapped around the trigger.

Davidson put the phone in his sweater pocket and the antenna stuck out. Then he grabbed the back of his head and rubbed. “Microwave towers are strong here. A man can’t think straight. A man might pull the trigger.”

“I’m sorry,” Devin finally managed. “I didn’t mean to bother you. I’m only trying to contact you.”

“Spying is not contacting. Sending cryptic messages in boxes, calling my unlisted number
 
—this is at the very least harassment. The authorities would agree with me.”

Devin held up both hands. “I only wanted to talk.”

The gun in his face now. The man’s pitch was low, air traveling over the vocal folds and the vibration slow and grating. But his face and the veins in his neck tensed.

“They have ways of controlling the mind. The medicine
they give, the contaminated water, the messages they send through television, subliminal advertising, even during sports
 
—messages in the end zone.”

Women have higher voices because they have shorter vocal cords. But men’s voices can rise in moments of stress and great emotion. Fear, excitement, and joy also affect the voice.

Which was why Devin wanted to scream like a schoolgirl.

He put the car in gear and held his foot over the brake. “The man’s name is Crenshaw. The guy who sent you the letter. James Crenshaw. He was a doctor.”

He had hoped this would snap the man out of his stupor, that he would show recognition and invite him inside, to laugh and say it was all an act. Instead, Davidson squinted, his eyebrows bushy with several rogue hairs branching out like the mesquite trees. He put both thumbs on the hammer and with great effort pulled it back.

“I’m leaving,” Devin said.

His cell beeped with a text message as he accelerated. Jonah, asking for an update.

Contact made,
Devin texted as he drove through the gate.
Need a new icebreaker.

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