17
The thing that Jillian planned to do with Nan later that day was give her a healthy dose of hell. Spencer’s sudden appearance at the rendezvous point between her and Reese was far too convenient to be mere coincidence. Nan—and only Nan—could have tipped him off to Reese’s presence in the city.
“You were the only one who knew, Nan,” Jillian raged at her sister. “And I asked you not to tell him.”
Nan’s head was still throbbing from her big New York night out and she was close to tears. “I didn’t do it, Jilly,” she said. “I swear it, Jilly. Really…”
Jillian was unmoved by this display of emotion. “What were you talking about last night, last night when I was in bed. The two of you were out here. I heard you.”
“We were just talking,” said Nan defensively. “Just shooting the breeze. Nothing more than that.”
“Talking? About what?”
“Just talking, Jillian,” said Nan. “Please, don’t do this. It’s not good for you.”
Jillian remained coldly inquisitorial. “Where did you go last night, Nan?”
“Please, Jillian,” Nan pleaded, “listen to yourself. You’re driving yourself crazy.”
Jillian spoke through clenched teeth. “Just tell me. Where did you go last night?”
Nan shook her head and wiped a tear from her eye. “I love you, Jillian. Spencer loves you. We all do…so much…”
“Spencer was there, Nan,” Jillian replied. “And you were the only person who could have told him about Reese.”
Nan fought back her tears and looked at her sister, she bit her lip and then, reluctantly, picked up her backpack and headed for the front door of the apartment.”
“I love you, Jillian,” she said. “But I’m not going to do this with you … I love you…” Nan slammed the door behind her, leaving Jillian alone with that radio. The children sang: “Itsy-Bitsy Spider.” But then the song was over, and the children just sat there staring at Jillian. Her face was filled with loneliness and fear—and she was so consumed that she had not been paying attention to her class at all.
Finally a little girl summoned up the courage to speak. “Mrs. Armacost?”
Jillian shook her head as if just waking from a dream “I’m sorry, honey,” she said, “what is it?”
“The song is over.”
Just then the school bell rang and Jillian realized with some relief that school was over as well.
It was only a sense of duty and routine that made Jillian stop by her mailbox to see if she had missed any important announcements or handouts. There was only one piece of mail for her, an envelope which she tore open. Inside was a single piece of paper with a padlock key taped to it. Scrawled on the paper were the words: “New York Storage. Unit 345—Mrs. Armacost. Be careful.” It was signed, “Sherman Reese.” Jillian rode the huge freight elevator up to the third floor of the New York Storage facility. As the giant stainless cube rose slowly, Jillian wondered what lay in store for her in Unit 345. She was about to find out.
The elevator stopped, the door opened, and Jillian stepped out. The vast storage floor, lined with hundreds of locked bins stretching off into the far shadows, was absolutely silent and poorly lit by occasional fluorescent lights. They were controlled by a large button on the wall next to the elevator. A sign above it read: TO CONSERVE ENERGY, LIGHTS SHUT OFF EVERY 30 MINUTES. Jillian did not see it; rather she was intent on finding Unit 345. The place was a maze and the only sounds were the buzz of the lights, the hum of the ventilation outlets, Jillian’s footsteps on the concrete, and her breathing. She walked past row after row of white doors with numbers stenciled on them. Everything was clinical looking as if the place were a laboratory. She found door 345 and put the key in the padlock and opened it.
Jillian stepped into an eight-by-eight cube. Jillian pulled closed the door behind her and fumbled for the light switch. She snapped on the overhead and found that she was standing in the middle of a little archive. There was a desk and chair and shelves from floor to ceiling packed with folders. There were boxes of documents. Everything was neat,. clean, and appeared to be organized to the point of what seemed to be mania. Part of the walls were given over to cork bulletin boards, each covered with orderly rows of newspaper clippings, all of which concerned Spencer Armacost in some way. There were sober accounts of his shuttle missions from scholarly journals, there were magazine stories that had been planted in the glossies by NASA public relations.
Sherman Reese had kept up to date. There was a picture and advertisement from Aviation Week showing Spencer, Nelson, and a mock-up of the McLaren jet, along with the announcement: Coming to the skies, 2013.
Sherman Reese had been in New York for a long time before making his attempt to get in touch with her. She felt a wave of nausea when she saw the stack of photographs, all of them taken in New York City—Spencer on the sidewalk, Spencer entering the apartment building, Spencer getting into a cab… Spencer talking with Nan. Jillian could only wonder when that one had been taken…
In the middle of the desk was a videotape with a Post-it note stuck to it. It read: “For Jillian.” Just as she picked it up the lights in the storage facility clicked off.
There was utter darkness for a second or two, then the dim yellow security lights kicked in. Jillian was spooked and dashed out of the storage locker, running through the maze of corridors until she found the welcoming light in front of the elevator. She punched the call button and stood in the dim light listening to her breathing, silently begging the elevator to arrive.
The elevator slid open and Jillian started to throw herself into it, but instead found herself face-to-face with a young couple pushing a large pallet piled high with storage boxes.
“Getting off,” said the man.
Jillian stepped back. “Sorry,” she mumbled.
They pushed-their burden out on to the floor, the woman hitting the button that turned on all the lights. Trying to calm herself down, Jillian stepped into the elevator and the door closed. The panic did not sink. She was alone in the big metal box and she clutched the videotape, her arms wrapped around her belly. She was deathly afraid and she did not have the slightest idea of what. She knew she was afraid of the videotape—but she also knew that she had to see what was on it. But Jillian steeled herself, pushed the videotape into the VCR, took the remote control, sat on the couch, and hit the play button.
There was a flash of static then an image. Sherman Reese’s hotel room. Sherman stepped in front of the camera. It was plain that he was very nervous. His laptop computer was open on the bed next to him and he glanced at it from moment to moment.
Sherman spoke directly into the camera. “It’s a joke, right… But if you’re watching this tape, then I never got to that meeting with you. If you are watching this tape, Mrs. Armacost, then I am probably flicking dead. This is the backup. That’s what they always taught us at NASA,” he said. “Always make sure you have a backup. This is mine…” He paused a moment, as if thinking about his own mortality. Then he gazed steadily into the camera lens. “I’m not crazy,” Reese said. “I wish I were. I prayed I was, but I’m not.” He paused again. “I’ve been thinking you might be thinking that you’re crazy, too. How could you not? I mean, after all that’s happened…”
It was as if that speech was a little prologue, an introduction to what happened next. From the pocket of his suit coat he pulled another small tape recorder, one identical to the one she had carried away from him and smashed.