In the Time of Man

Chapter Nine

Chapter Nine

Becky Acuna was standing along the wall of windows at the front of the newsroom as the guest who had just been interviewed by Michelle Mina engaged in an animated discussion with a group of apparent religious fanatics. She was wondering why none of the station’s photographers were recording the confrontation when she felt the cell phone in her pocket begin to vibrate. After she flipped looked at the screen, Becky saw that the number was listed as “unknown.” Normally, she didn’t take such calls but she was bored sitting around the empty news department and pressed the green button to talk.

“Becky Acuna,” she said cheerily.

“It’s called the Slims Disease,” a man’s voice said.

“Excuse me?”

“I said it’s called the Slims disease.”

“What is?”

“What’s killing those people you have been wondering about out at Luke Air Force Base.”

“Who is this? And how in the hell do you know what I’ve been wondering about?”

There was a pause on the other end and Becky heard the man exhale deeply. “My name is Barton Crawford.  I’m a scientist who………”

“I know who Barton Crawford is,” she interrupted. “But how do I know you are Barton Crawford?”

“I don’t know. I can’t help you with that. But I can help you with getting the story out at Luke, if you want it. I’ve been leading the research and critical care teams out there for some time now. I know more about what’s going on than anyone you can find.”

“I thought I read in the paper a year or two ago you were in town working on some virus project at ASU,” Becky said.

“A very nice cover story and it has worked quite well for some time.”

“How’d you know I was interested?”

“One of our orderlies. He told me he had talked to you.”

“He was afraid for his life. Aren’t you?”

“Yes, I suppose I am. But not from the disease.” The man was beginning to sound impatient. “Do you want this story or not? I’m ready to call another reporter if you want to take a pass.”

“Of course I want it.”

“Can you take down GPS coordinates for my cabin where I’m doing some independent research?”

“You’re not at Luke?”

“No. Not today and I couldn’t get you in there anyway.”

“Can’t you give me an address and I can just look it up?”

“No. It has no address. I’m up a canyon in the Superstitions.”

“Okay. Just a sec. I’m in TV, remember. I bring a camera person with me. Not just a pencil and notepad.”

“I understand.” 

After she finished talking to Barton Crawford or whoever was imitating Barton Crawford, Becky went over to the photographers’ bullpen to get someone to go on a story with her up to the mountains. The room was empty, though, and she saw only two people in the entire news department. Both of them were reporters who Becky thought could barely operate a pencil, much less a digital television camera. At the assignments desk, she saw Mike Burke leaning into a phone call, his faded blue shirt pulled tight across his bony back.

“Mike,” Becky said as he dropped the cell onto his desk. “When was the last time you shot a story?”

“Been a while, Beck. Why?”

“I need somebody to go with me right now on a big one and nobody’s around.”

Burke stood up and looked at the names in written on the assignments board. “I’ve got nobody coming in for at least a couple of hours,” he said.

“You’ve got to go with me, Mike.”

“Well, if I have to, I will. What’s so important?”

“Remember the story I’ve been trying to get at out at Luke?”

“Yeah, of course.”

“I just got a call from a guy who says he’s the lead scientist out there and there’s a weird disease killing people and they can’t seem to stop it.”

“Sonofabitch. Really? Who was the call from? He say his name or are we playing off the record?”

“Barton Crawford.”

“Barton Crawford? Jesus Christ. Let me get a camera and I’ll meet you in the unmarked unit. It’s the only one we have left.”

“I’m going to drive my own car as far as that county park out at the foothills. We can leave it there and I’ll ride up with you from that point. We’re going to get back late and I don’t want to have to drive all the way back across town to get home.”

Burke shook his head. “I’ll see you outside in a few minutes. I’ll follow you.”

Less than two hours later, after following myriad GPS instructions, Mike Burke and Becky Acuna were driving down a gravel draw lined with cottonwoods. All the way out to the mountains, Burke had been asking her questions she could not answer.

“Hey, maybe you just took a call from one of those wackos who watches TV and obsesses on reporters,” Burke had suggested. “This is his plan to lure you out to the boonies and have his way with you.”

“Yeah, well, I’m not really worried. I’ve got the mighty Mike Burke to protect me.”

“You’re in trouble, young lady,” Burke had laughed as he threw a cigarette butt into the gravel and snorted out his final plumes of smoke.

In the late afternoon light, the waxy green leaves on the cottonwood and sycamore limbs hanging over the stony road looked artificial against the dark backdrop of rock walls and shadows falling across the narrow valley. A small frame house was constructed against the rear of the canyon. Becky thought it looked like the structure had been built into the rock, almost as if it were an elaborate entrance to a cave. Four small windows were evenly spaced across the front.

Burke parked next to a four-wheel drive Jeep Cherokee and before Becky and he were able to unbuckle their seat belts and get out, the imposing figure of Barton Crawford was standing on the wooden porch, offering greetings.

"Ms. Acuna, I'm pleased that you came."

"It's Becky, please, Dr. Crawford. This is Mike Burke. He’s actually my managing editor but he’ll be shooting this story for me.”

Burke and Crawford shook hands. "Let's go in,” the scientist said. “We’ve got some ground to cover.”

“We need to grab the camera gear,” Becky explained. “And then we’ll be right in.”

The main room they eventually entered was furnished like a modest tract house in the suburbs with a sofa and recliner, a new Sony 4K television set contrasted the otherwise mundane décor; a few Indian rugs covered most of the wooden floor and a pair of inexpensive department store prints hung on opposing walls. Barton Crawford led them through the domestic part of his cabin and into a spacious back room, which had clearly been set up as a lab. 

"We’ll need to do the interview in here,” he explained. “Can I fix either of you a drink?"

"Not supposed to drink on the job,” Burke muttered as he fumbled with a light stand.  “But I could sure go for a nice cold beer, if you have one.”

“I do. Becky?”

“No thanks.”

When Crawford returned with Burke’s beer, Becky noticed the confidence with which the scientist moved and how he was light of foot instead of heavy with his years. His white hair was pulled back into a short pony-tail and his dark skin was wrinkled but age seemed to be his least distinguishing characteristic. His height made Becky feel quite tiny.

"Here you are."

After handing Burke the can of beer, Crawford sat on a stool next to a stainless steel workbench. There was a moment's silence as he watched Burke set up the camera and Becky sensed the scientist was also sizing up the forty-something woman who was about to interview him and probably make his existence unbelievably complicated and dangerous.

“How’s this going to work?” Barton asked as Burke approached him holding out a wireless microphone.

“I’m just going to pin this on you here, run the wire down your shirt, and then you two start talking and forget I’m here,” Burke explained. A moment later the managing editor turned photojournalist had placed his eye against the viewfinder and racked the focus. “Okay, we’re rolling, Beck.”

“Okay.  Dr. Crawford, let me start by asking you…………”

He put up the palm of his hand. “I’ve got to give you the disclaimer first, Becky.  You’re getting into something here that’s more than just another interview or news story.”

“Uh, okay.” 

“Once we start taping,” Crawford explained. “There’s no turning around. There’s just no way for you to un-know what I am about to tell you. I’ll be violating about a half dozen top national security clearances and your report might be considered treasonous once it is broadcast, First Amendment or no. They’ll get you under the Patriot Act. The truth is that you could very well be tried as a spy and be shot and it won't make a damned bit of difference that you were spoon-fed this stuff by one of their own security-cleared scientists. So, if you want to get up and leave, best do it now.”

Becky showed no hesitation. “That’s a bit melodramatic, I’d say. But assuming it’s true, what about you, Dr. Crawford? Will they kill you?”          

"Maybe. But I’d have to say the only thing that scares me any more is my own conscience. There's nothing more dangerous than an old man, you know?"

"All right then," Becky answered. "Let’s get going. You mentioned something called Slims Disease in your somewhat cryptic phone call. Is that what these people have that you are treating at Luke Air Force Base?"

“Yes, and it’s 100 percent fatal. We have been struggling the past few years to figure out the agent that carries the disease and how it is transmitted from one person to another. We only know that it does not appear to be an airborne contagion, at least not yet, because no one treating the patients in Bleak House has yet contracted Slims Disease.”

“Oh yeah, the Bleak House. I recall that Vicente had used that name.”

“That’s the unofficial name given our research and treatment efforts inside of Hangar 3C on the base. It’s completely funded and protected by the U.S. federal government.”

Becky was suddenly overwhelmed with questions and had to struggle to maintain a narrative flow to what she was asking. “Where do these sick people come from? If the disease is spreading so rapidly and is such a threat, how have you been able to keep it a secret?”

“The ill tend to be so desperate to survive that when they are approached by government agents they willingly sign strict non-disclosure agreements, at least that is what I have lately been told. We supposedly find out about them through various health agencies and referrals. The HIPAA laws on patient confidentiality have helped to keep much of this secret and restrain doctors from talking. As for the NDAs, patients are told they will not ever see their families again unless they are cured, nor will the bodies be returned to their families because of community health risks. When they die, and as I said, they all do, an unnamed third party informs the family in a manner that leaves no record. In some cases, we’ve simply had to abduct people from their lives to get them into treatment. I’ve only recently learned the way operations are conducted outside of Bleak House. I am not sure why this hasn’t gotten to be public information yet, though. There are just too many potential leaks in our processes.  Nonetheless, I’ve found that most journalism is fairly timid in 21st century America.”

“Fair enough.” Becky paused. “I’d like to get a sense of what you know about this Slims Disease. You’ve been doing this, I gather, for a couple of years? You must know something more about it than the fact that it kills effectively.”

Barton scratched the tip of his nose and leaned his head backward, speaking almost to the ceiling. “What we are doing, Becky, is the process of elimination. I know you are familiar with Mad Cow Disease. I’ve been looking very closely at the Transmissible Spongiform Encephalopathy, these so-called TSEs; not because Slims Disease has any similar characteristics but because how TSEs are communicated is still subject to some proof.”

“What do you mean? And for clarification, TSEs, aren’t these the prions that cause Mad Cow?”

“Yes, that’s the Bovine Spongiform Encephalopathy. The human variant is known as Creutzfeldt-Jakob Disease. But it seems to be in numerous types of mammals; it’s a wasting disease in sheep, elk, deer, and others.” 

Barton stopped. Becky thought he was trying to find a way to keep things simple for her. “Look, the main reason we are looking at Mad Cow and the human variant CJD is because we don’t really know for certain how these diseases move from one living creature to another. I mean, we know that prions, which you are probably aware are sort of rogue proteins, are the agent that activates Mad Cow and creates the plaques that destroy the brain. But we just don’t know how long prions can be dormant within a host and we don’t know what activates the disease or even how it makes its inter-species jump to humans or between the different species of animals. There’s a pretty strong argument that CJD fatalities have eaten beef infected with Mad Cow prions.”

“I’m getting lost here, Dr. Crawford.” Becky sat her notebook on the table next to where she was standing to conduct the interview. “I just need, I think, to understand Slims Disease.”

“Yes, yes. You’re quite right. But what I am trying to say is that we are dealing with the mysteries of both incubation and transmission with Slims Disease just as we are with prions and Mad Cow. That’s why we are studying Mad Cow and TSEs so closely.  We’ve thought from the beginning of Slims that we might be able to solve its riddles if we ascertain out how long prions remained dormant in incubation, what activated them, and then how they got communicated to another organism, human or animal. If we understood those things we might get an understanding of what is causing Slims and what activates it to stop being asymptomatic and turn acute before being transmitted. We’re considering some evidence that shows sexual transmission. But it’s a tenuous theory, at the moment. Homosexual males are turning up in Bleak House at a slightly disproportionate percentage above their estimates in the general population but we think that’s probably just anomalous. All we want to know is why in the hell do these random people get infected with this thing? That’s what I have been trying to find out.”

“And did you?”

“No, not really. But I have a pretty strong theory now and that’s what I want to share with you.”

“Well, share away,” Becky Acuna said. “That’s why I’m here.”

“Having lived in Arizona, I assume, most of your life,” Crawford said, “I am guessing you are familiar with the cattle mutilation phenomenon.”

“Yes, I am. You’re talking about the cults that use lasers to kill cattle and then drain their blood.”

“I hope you don’t believe that, Becky. It’s complete nonsense. There’s something real taking place that is also without explanation. I started a study this summer to look at mutilations and gather data. Originally, I thought I might get answers about Mad Cow and prions. There was nothing there, though. But I had good tissue from mutilated cattle and data from dozens of incidents so I thought I’d examine T-cells and retroviruses. I think it’s possible that cattle are being used to study Slims Disease for the creation of anti-bodies. At least, I hope that’s what’s happening.”

“All right, Dr. Crawford, please keep this as simple as possible. I’m sure you know we have to try to communicate with as many people as we can.”

“Yes, yes. Of course. But come over here, Becky, and let me get Mr. Burke to follow you with his camera.”

Burke popped the DSLR camera off of its tripod plate and kept recording as he walked. The lens took in the clutter on Crawford’s work surfaces, which were messy with Petri dishes, beakers, microscopes, small centrifuges, and numerous pieces of electronic equipment that Becky did not recognize with only her high school science background. All the objects were new and appeared expensive. 

Barton Crawford’s main work area was a marble-topped counter, built to accommodate his great height and set up in the middle of the spread of scientific gear. Becky was unable to imagine any knowledge coming out of such a disorganized and confusing arrangement. 

Barton leaned his hip against the counter and suddenly started talking more to the camera than Becky, which she always thought made interview subjects appear annoying and preachy and self-serving.

"The problem with Slims disease has always been where did it come from? When the virus turned up initially, we didn’t even know we were looking at a virus. It took almost two years to identify and isolate. Some researchers are convinced that Slims was originally contracted by an urban monkey species in sub-Saharan Africa. But no one has provided scientific proof. The startling thing about Slims Disease is that it’s a T-cell virus, and we have never, until this sickness materialized, found such viruses to survive in humans.”

“I’m sorry, Dr. Crawford, but would you mind explaining what a T-cell is?”

“Of course not. It’s basically a principal type of white blood cell that has an important role in the human immune system.”

“Very good. Please, continue.”

“The problem occurs when viruses enter T-cells. And what’s dangerous about that is that T-cells tend to be retro-fitting. In other words, these are extremely adaptive viruses because they are being carried in T-cells. No matter what type of cell structure they are exposed to, regardless of the vaccine attempts we come up with, the virus retro-fits itself to the cell structure by mutating after its exposure to the tissue. This means that we may knock off some of the viral cells, but the survivors adapt, and all the vaccine has done is to make them stronger, more virulent.”

“Which means while you are trying to cure these people in the Bleak House you fail and all you do is make the disease more able to kill more people. Maybe you should stop?”

"Well, hold on. You are right about the problem Slims retroviruses present in dealing with humans. As you’ve suggested, we're afraid to even try vaccines and drugs. I will say, though, that what physicians and researchers fear the most on this is that we reach a point where the disease alters itself to the point that it fits water cells or strengthens to where it can be borne in the air on microbes of bacteria. And that is entirely possible. Right now, I’d even say it might be probable; I’ll explain that in a moment. That's the marvelous adaptability of T-cells, you see. They can thrive in a molecule of almost any biological substance for a given period of time and it's pretty obvious where that eventually takes us. If this disease reaches the point where it can move by water or air, we're talking about the potential extinction of the human race as a scientific reality."

"Jesus," Becky whispered. "Are you sure a virus can do that?"

"We don't know, Becky. But we can no longer be sure that it will not and that is more than enough cause for alarm in the scientific community. I recently vented some of the T-cells for Slims into a sealed mouse’s cage. The cells had been incubated in human tissue. In less than 10 days, the two mice in the environment were dead."

"My god. So what you are doing here is trying to find a vaccine that works before we get to that point?"

"I really wish we were that far along." The scientist sounded almost apologetic. "But we're not even close. All the vaccines we've tried on an experimental basis have been nothing more than shot-in-the-dark hunches. And besides, what good is treatment if the disease is different once you begin vaccination? The problem is, Becky, we can't really understand any disease or begin to consider treatments and cures until we know its origins. That gets us back to the reasons I contacted you. I believe I have learned something critical about the genesis of Slims."

"You know where it began?" Becky asked.

"I don't profess to be certain of anything. But I do believe that I have come up with a pretty good hypothesis that's been tested and turned into a strong theory. Let me show you."

“Okay,”

Barton Crawford reached over to move a microscope and a stack of glass slides closer to Becky and the lens of the camera.

"If I lose you anywhere, please speak up."

"Sure. Sure."

"All right, then. To know any disease, you have to find others with similar characteristics or symptoms. When I went looking for research literature in retroviruses, I found that most of the work had been done by veterinarians. T-cell viruses appeared in animals before humans. So I sought out illnesses in animals that were symptomatic in some way of Slims Disease. There really were none. But there were a few that had an occasional parallel. Sometimes, a new disease occurs as a strain of an old one, although I really couldn't find that in the case of the Slims, either.  Scientifically, it's generally believed that if the disease originated in another recognizable form or strain, we would have been able to trace it. Not possible, however, with Slims.”

“You’re suggesting,” Becky asked. “It sort of spontaneously generated? Appeared out of nowhere?”

"That seems to be the case,” Barton Crawford conceded. “Or at least it’s one of the few possibilities we are left with. One of those is that this occurred when two diseases made their way into tissue at the same time and generated a hybrid illness of sorts.  The other possibility is that it was artificially created. Two viruses could have been genetically spliced together or altered using CRISPR or incubated at the same time in the same tissue culture. I think genetic splicing is more likely of the two scenarios."

"You mean someone just sort of created a fatal disease without a cure?"

"Well, follow me through this because I'm not sure there is a direct answer to your question. I won't bore you with how I came up with these choices. Conjecture and luck brought them together. I spent a year doing a variety of combinations of animal diseases until I hit upon the right set. All of this grew out of the cattle mutilation study, by the way. The closest to Slims I could find in cattle was the Bovine Leukemia virus.  So that's what we have here. Take a look."

Crawford slipped the slide with a blood sample under the metal clips of the microscope. Becky stared into the eyepieces at what looked to her like nothing more than various colors and shapes.

“I’ve got an adapter so we can project that onto the wall later for your camera,” Crawford explained. "You are looking at blood cells sampled from cattle with Bovine Leukemia Virus; it’s essentially a cancer of the blood in cows. What I came across next, with only a few characteristics similar to Slims, was the Sheep Visna virus. It’s also in the family of retroviruses. It’s nothing more than a virus that destroys the brain in sheep. Ranchers call it brain rot. It occurred initially in a sheep epidemic of the disease in Iceland for about twenty years from 1930 to 1950. It was isolated in 1949 as the first ‘lenti’ or ‘slow’ virus."

            Becky drew away from the microscope and looked at a culture dish Crawford had placed in front of her and the camera.

"So in this case,” he continued, “We know that cattle are the host we have chosen because of the suspicious mutilations, we use cattle tissue as a culture and then expose it to the Bovine Leukemia virus and the Sheep Visna virus together.  The result is startling."

“So what am I looking at here?” Becky asked.

“Take a look at the specimen on this slide. What you will be looking at is Bovine Visna Virus.”

“And that is?”

"It’s Slims Disease in cows, Becky. Cattle had it first, it seems. But I had to take it one step further. If you use cattle tissue as the culture or host to create Slims Disease in cows, then I had to ask would that happen with human tissue as the host?”

“I guess I know the answer to that one, don’t I?”

“You certainly should, yes. Using human tissue to host Bovine Leukemia and Sheep Visna viruses, which as I said became the Bovine Visna Virus or Slims Disease in cows, I discovered that it ultimately produced the human T-cell Leukemia Virus 1, or HIV1, which is Slims Disease in humans.”

“It’s a Human Immunodeficiency Virus? It attacks the immune system? That’s how these people are dying?” Becky asked.

“HIV1 was Slims Disease’s first form, Becky,” Barton Crawford said.“I sent off tissue and viral samples of Bovine and Sheep Visna to NIH and asked them to do genetic splicing for me. The return samples cultured in human tissue did exactly as those that were simply cultured together. They all produced HIV1. But it has mutated beyond that now. It’s doing things now that we cannot isolate or explain, consuming flesh and energy and causing organ shutdown. We’ve had very few patients die from illnesses they contracted from weakened immune systems, though we take great precaution to make sure no one brings a bug into any of their rooms.”

“And you still don’t know where it comes from or what causes it?”

“No. But based upon what I just showed you we do know something fairly critical.”

“Which is?”

“Slims Disease is not a naturally occurring disease borne of conditions in nature. It was artificially created, synthesized. Someone invented this presently, unstoppable illness. I am certain of that now after running these procedures dozens of times and exposing it to mice. The next questions are who did this and why.”

“You mentioned cattle mutilations earlier in the interview. You think that’s connected?”

“It seems likely that cattle were used to either host the original forms of Slims and test it for virility or they are being used in a desperate effort to create a vaccine or some sort of cure. In any case, whoever or whatever is conducting the experiments on cattle has a level of technology with which I am not familiar. The type of exsanguination we see at the sites and the total absence of any rational explanation for how these mutilations are conducted only leads to conclusions that are outside the parameters of our current science. I just can’t figure out if they are trying to save us now or kill us.”

“What are you saying, Dr. Crawford?”

“I guess I’m just saying I am certain now that there is a level of intelligence operating in our world that I know nothing about, that our science knows nothing about, and it has apparently, for reasons we cannot fathom, unleashed upon us a disease that is, as of yet, incurable. The optimistic view is that this technology is being used to create a cure, but it’s hard to reach any conclusions even with this level of research.” 

Becky laughed softly in an attempt to diffuse the accumulated tension in the room.  Mike Burke continued to do his job without comment and record the conversation. 

“It’s all a bit diabolical, isn’t it Dr. Crawford.”

“Quite. And I wake up every day thinking I am going to come out of a bad dream. The handful of colleagues I know who have security clearances to work on this are talking now about doing calculations on a theoretical point in time when the last humans die.”

“Oh, come on. It can’t be that bad. Really?”

Yes, it can and it is, Becky.” Barton Crawford put his head down and appeared to Becky as though he were recomposing himself to make certain there was no doubt about the seriousness and certainty of what he was telling her.

“There appear to be millions of people in Africa that have already contracted Slims Disease. We’re having trouble getting any kind of help from the U.N. or the various governments over there. The epidemic, which is turning into a pandemic, is simply viewed as starvation in parts of sub-Saharan Africa. And there is a lot of starvation but it has turned into a kind of political beard for this even greater threat. There are too many sectarian wars and corruption for us to get any kind of reliable information out of Africa. But even if our low number estimates for the infected are close to accurate, and rates of transmission are comparable to what we are seeing in this country, we are looking at a statistical certainty that within a matter of several months, not years, that Slims Disease will kill more people than any other sickness in human history. The World War II era flu in 1918 and the Black Plague will look like a childhood ear infection, Becky. And this thing just seemed to come at us out of nowhere.”

Barton Crawford had finished speaking. He had nothing further to tell Becky. She was silent trying to think of additional questions but none came to her.

“Well, thanks, Dr. Crawford. I think.”

Becky stood and Mike Burke looked out from behind the camera. Immediately, Burke began shooting b-roll around the lab, which was needed for editing over Becky’s narrative. Crawford also hooked up the projector to his microscope and put the cell images on a white wall to be recorded. Becky tried to make small talk with Crawford but it wasn’t the easiest thing to do since they had just had a very real conversation about the end of the world. In fifteen minutes, Burke had finished and packed his gear and the three of them were standing on the creaking wooden porch.

“If it’s okay, I’d like to get back with you for a separate story on the mutilation phenomenon, Dr. Crawford.”  Becky did not look at the scientist but watched Mike Burke stow the gear in the back of the SUV. “I want to file this report, after I’ve done a bit of follow-up, of course, and then do a piece on the cattle mystery.”

“That’s fine,” Crawford said flatly. “You have my contact info. Just don’t try to reach me through the Bleak House.”

“Of course not. Thank you, sir.” 

Becky shook Barton Crawford’s hand and looked up at the blank face of a man who appeared to be contemplating the repercussions of what he had just done.

“Thank you,” Crawford answered.

 Walking to the truck, Becky looked up at the ragged outlines of the Superstitions against the purple and black sky offered up by the Arizona sunset. She was comforted by her reconnection to the real world, an emotion she often felt coming out of the theatre with her husband Gene after watching one of his foolish horror films.

“Gotta be a buncha shit, Beck,” Mike Burke grunted as they turned off the gravel road onto the state highway. “I mean, I know he’s a Nobel Laureate and everything, but maybe he’s just spent too damned much time in the lab. Ya think?”

“I don’t know, Mike. You don’t make up that kind of detail and you don’t put a lifetime reputation on the line without knowing what you are talking about.” Becky hit the power window button to draw out the smoke of a cigarette Burke had just lit. “And I thought he actually seemed a little scared.”

“Maybe so. But I think we’re going to have a damned hard time getting this story past the front office.”

“Yeah, I know. I know.”

                                    *                                  *                                  *

Not until Mike Burke had dropped her off at her car did Becky realize she was heading home to an empty house. She had not thought about the fact that Gene and the kids were out of town at his mother’s down in Mexico. A quiet house was rarely an enjoyable experience for Becky Acuna. Working in television news was intense and nothing unwound her as well as the sound of her children's voices and the soft clatter of their play. Unlike a newsroom, the chaos of a family and home was reassuring. 

This particular evening, though, Becky felt a bit of guilt over her relief that her family was not home and they were in Mexico celebrating her mother-in-law’s birthday.  After what she had just heard, Becky had no more complex of an ambition than to stare at bad television programs with her brain turned off until she faded off to sleep on the couch. 

She turned her car onto Starlight Way and found the sun cradled in the sharp valley at the end of the road, a ball of molten orange beauty. Becky thought about the day Gene had driven her and the kids out to the new development just to ridicule its consumptive yuppie character. They had even laughed about the pretentious phoniness of the street's name. They had a bit of serendipitous timing, though, and came away with unexpected impressions. 

The sun was right there between the mountains because they had made the mistake of stopping by at the end of the day and it had appeared as if they could ride right down to the end of Starlight Way and park next to the sunset. A sales rep showed them a legal covenant guaranteeing no structures were ever to be built to block the setting sun and several weeks later they ended up buying a home at the end of the street, nearest the sun and its endless glorification of Arizona evenings.

Tonight, Starlight Way seemed particularly quiet. Normally, there were at least a few children playing along the curb or in front yards. But Becky saw none. She looked over at the Swann's house as she passed to see if their boys were out but the basketball court in the drive, rarely unused, was deserted. When she looked back up the road, a black vehicle, some kind of Town Car of Crown Victoria, she thought, was slowly moving down the street. Odd that she had not noticed it when she had turned into the neighborhood, since her street was so short. 

The car appeared to be barely moving as she approached and then accelerated slightly as it passed. Becky saw that it was long, almost a limousine. The windows were darkened and it was impossible to see the driver. She forgot to look at the plates. What possible reason was there for a limousine on Starlight Way at the end of a work day? Adjusting her rearview mirror, she tried to get a better look at the car as it moved off. But it wasn't there. Doesn't make sense. A car doesn't just disappear. She tilted the mirror at a sharper angle to see if it had turned into a driveway but she saw no sign it had ever even been on the street. Where the hell did it go so quickly? 

“Maybe I’m just over-tired and worked up,” Becky thought.

In her driveway, she punched the button for the garage door opener on her sun visor.  Instead of parking inside, though, she stopped and got out to search the street for the black car. She went down the sidewalk past three houses thinking the vehicle might be parked nearby. When she saw nothing, Becky headed home almost convinced she had just imagined its presence. 

She was relieved when she remembered the Greta's twentieth anniversary. Her neighbors were supposed to celebrate together tonight and then have friends over for a Saturday cookout. They may have rented a limo to go out for a romantic dinner together before all the out of town celebrants arrived for the party. Wasn't like them, though, to do the extravagant. Oh well, that must be the case because it was the only explanation that made any sense.

In the entryway at the back door, Becky punched in the security code to make the alarm stop beeping. She shuffled through a stack of mail, mostly bills, which Gene had left on the counter and then went into the living room and clicked on CNN.  Slipping out of her low heels and into a pair of flip flops she had left near the bathroom, Becky realized she had forgotten to put the car in the garage. She went back through the living room to the front door to go outside because she had parked at the lower end of the driveway and the car was closer to the front of the house. 

The moment Becky placed her hand on the door knob, she spotted the black limousine through the small, leaded glass window of the door. The long car was parked immediately in front of her house, facing against the direction traffic had to take to leave the neighborhood. The windows of the Ford were black, much darker than she had initially thought, and looked like they were designed more for privacy or anonymity than shielding occupants from the sun. She moved away from the door window and waited a few minutes before looking a second time. Becky was suddenly and acutely conscious of the quiet in her house and the press of her beating heart against her chest.

“Ridiculous,” she concluded. “It's only a car parked in front of the house. I just need to go out and see who it is and what they want.”

Instead, Becky eased herself back to the window as though she were trying to avoid being seen by anyone who might be outside. And someone was there. A man in a dark suit. Just standing next to the car. Good god, who was he? What the hell did he want?  He’s just staring at the house. She rolled her shoulder against the wall and went to a curtain to hide as she peeked back out to the street. He was motionless, statue steady, sunglasses, his jaw pointing his chin at the house like a weapon. 

Becky eased the curtain back into position and almost ran down the hall to the master suite. Through a window in the bedroom, she looked down the street to see if any of her neighbors were outside. No one was around and there did not appear to be lights in any of the windows. Almost desperate to understand, Becky returned to the front door of her house. She tried to convince herself she was being silly and amplifying an event in her mind that probably had a simple and reasonable explanation. With her hand back on the knob, she took a deep breath before opening the door to go outside and ask the man what he wanted, if anything. 

Through the window, though, she saw that he was approaching the house. Her immediate reaction was to slip the deadbolt into place and then flip on the landscape lighting. The lights did not stop him; he continued up the walk and in seconds the doorknob turned slightly in her hand until the lock caught. A weight bumped against the outside, a pressure test, she assumed, before he attempted to kick it open.  Almost always in control of herself, Becky Acuna realized she was very close to screaming. No other action came to mind. Calling the police was a hopeless act.  Sheriff's officers usually took at least twenty minutes to respond that far out in the county. What else was there to do besides scream? There were no guns in the house and she regretted that choice for the first time.

A shadow passed through the landscape light and moved across the living room draperies. He must be going around to the side of the house or the back where he was less likely to be seen. The fence rattled between the garage and the back wall and she figured the man had roughly pushed open the gate. The back doors were locked. But if he was determined to enter the house, he could probably bust down either of the two rear doors. A moment later, she heard him bouncing against the door to the utility room. He did not seem to be trying very hard to crash it open. Christ, the alarm. I should have never turned it off. But if he comes in the back door, he’s got a minute of beeping before it notifies the monitors. He probably cut the phone line anyway. She grabbed her cell phone from her purse and hit the speed dial button for Mike Burke. She could think of nothing else to do. No answer. 

Becky scanned the living room for the heaviest object, testing several for weight.  Finally, she picked up a brass and crystal lamp from an end table. Raising it above her head, she pushed with both arms and threw the lamp through the plate glass window. For some reason, the landscape lighting began to flash. She may have hit the outside switch. Shattered glass was all across the sidewalk and glistened like chunks of ice. 

Pressed against the front door, Becky watched through the smoky glass to see if the intruder was leaving. From between the garage and the house, he came walking slowly in the direction of the black limo. At curbside, the man opened the driver's door, stopped, and looked back before getting in and going down the road. He did not appear hurried.

Becky moved away from the front door and into the hallway away from any windows.  She sat on the floor with her back against the wall and began to shake. Ten minutes later, after regaining her composure, she wondered how long it would be before police arrived and what kind of an explanation she might offer for having tossed a lamp through her own front window.