Authors: Elle Lothlorien
Davin heads towards my room. Every time a camera detects motion, it turns on, so Davin’s progress to my bedroom is chronicled by the smoke alarm in the hallway before transferring to the teddy bear in the bedroom.
Of course, West was still moving around in the apartment somewhere during this time. In fact, other people would have been constantly setting off cameras in other rooms during the entire seven weeks, so where was that footage?
Davin edited it out
, I think, realizing that “Compilation” is the edited version. That would take time–a lot of it. So why bother?
And then I realize something: I’ll be able to see everything that happened during my “lost weeks” with Brendan. The prospect of being able to fill in the blanks once and for all is too tempting to pass up.
And if I see anything like I saw on the sleep lab video
, I think,
I’ll let
him ride the left side of that wave after all.
“But why would Davin hide something like that?” I mutter aloud.
He was furious when I told him I was testifying for the defense. If he had something on a disk that would change my mind about Brendan, why wouldn’t he tell me about it?
The question alone is enough to send a creeping sense of uneasiness through me.
After ten minutes, I realize that my life, even when it’s being surreptitiously recorded by my brother’s boyfriend, is absolutely
dreary
. The meds definitely didn’t kick in right away, because I have to fast forward just to get past the first three days of me being zonked out. Even when I’m physically standing up during those three days, I shuffle around like a zombie, eating and showering only when forced to by West or Davin. I rarely ever make it out of my pajamas.
No wonder why this disease makes you want to sleep all the time
.
But after those three days, something different definitely happens. I get up and shower on my own, something that doesn’t go unremarked on by my brother on the recording. The next day I even put on makeup. I talk on the phone, pay bills, email friends.
After a few more minutes of watching my normal, boring behavior, my mind starts to wander, which is when I notice a piece of paper taped to the plastic next to the laptop’s on-board mouse. A combination of letters and numbers are written on it: “E4 152:14.”
“E four, one hundred fifty-two, fourteen…” I murmur. I puzzle over it for a few seconds before it hits me. “Episode four, one hundred fifty-two hours, fourteen minutes.”
It’s a time stamp.
Using the mouse, I “grab” the little square on the media player seek bar so I can fast-forward to the same time on the disk. Even as I do this, I know that whatever I’m about to see will no doubt epitomize the saying “Ignorance is bliss.”
But really,
I think,
what could Brendan have done that was worse than the sleep lab?
I release the square on the seek bar and wait for it to load, certain that I’ve mentally prepared myself for whatever I’m about to see. The footage starts to roll and it’s pretty boring, benign stuff…at first. And then it isn’t.
My hands fly to my mouth. “Ohmygodohmygod….” I mumble again and again through my fingers as the scene unfolds. A horrified “OH MY GOD!” follows not too long after. I jump up from the couch, pacing the room in a frenzy, hyperventilating. It takes me ten minutes to pull myself together enough to go back to the computer, back to the same spot on the recording.
I’m still stunned by what I see, but this time I force myself to watch. There are two more unexpected interruptions on my part that prompt me to leap up, pace a hole in the carpet, and gasp for air in between sobs, but I eventually see it all the way through to one hundred ninety-one hours, thirty three minutes.
I stop it and go back to the beginning. Then I watch it again. And again.
The third time through, I look away from the screen and just listen to the sound. I mute the sound on the fourth viewing and watch only the video. “Unhealthy,” I say aloud after I’ve watched it halfway through another time. “This is just really unhealthy.”
I’m walking a fine line between calmly coping with what I’ve seen and screaming at the top of my lungs until I pass out. Everything I knew, everyone I understood–all of it’s been turned upside-down. Day is night, open is closed, and I just can’t watch any of this anymore. I feel for the button on the side of the laptop to eject the disk.
Then I freeze.
This may be your only chance to watch it all,
I tell myself, adding,
Ignorance is bliss only if you never took a bite of the apple in the first place.
So I don’t eject it. I watch my fourth KLS episode in its entirety, all the way through to the one hundred ninety-one hour, thirty three minute mark, fast-forwarding only through the parts where I’m definitely alone in my apartment.
Compilation Episode 4
finally comes to a close four hours later, the final scene between me and Davin playing out in my living room the day I “woke up.”
“
You don’t remember anything
? says Davin to me on the screen. “
Since the day you came home from the sleep lab until the second you woke up
?”
I clench my jaw, only understanding now why he was so intent on having that question answered.
“
I already told you twice: no
,” video me say.
“
Well, that’s good
, he says. “
And bad. Very bad, you know, for this…other thing
.”
“Yes indeed,” I say aloud to Davin’s video incarnation. “
Very
bad for this ‘other thing.’”
I pop the disk out and sit there on the scratchy, ugly couch, spinning the disk on my index finger while I think. I’m having trouble sorting through all the ramifications, good and bad, for me, for Davin, for Brendan, for West. It’s a zero-sum problem; anything on the disk that benefits one person absolutely and utterly screws the pooch for someone else.
I’ll call Rev
, I think. But then I remember that I’d have to show him the footage, something I don’t think I can bear.
And what if he has to turn it over to the DA?
Destroy it
, I answer myself.
Just burn them all
. But I know I can’t. Too much hangs in the balance.
The sleep lab video wasn’t embarrassing enough?
I scold myself.
Wait ‘til they get their hands on this
.
You’ll never get offered another part again.
Ten minutes later I’m still on the couch spinning the disk on my finger, still spinning myself in circles. “Enough’s enough,” I say. I close the media player, leaving the San Clemente webpage that Davin had left open. I’m about to close the browser when I see something at the top of the page that makes me do a double-take. Underneath the title “SCI Hazardous Operations Area Schedule” is a date: “November 3
rd
.”
The day Davin was killed at Ghost Point.
What was he doing looking up the San Clemente bombing range operations schedule for November third
?
When did he did he look this up?
A quick check of the browser history answers my question: November second, the day before Davin disappeared at Ghost Point.
So he was thinking of surfing Pyramid Cove
on San Clemente,
I tell myself.
Nothing unusual there. He went to Ghost instead…so what?
Except…
I think back to the last conversation I had with Davin, trying to recall his exact words. “If the Ghost is too gnarly I’ll just…”
I wrack my brain, trying to think of the ending. “He’d go get lost?” I say aloud.
It hadn’t fazed me at the time; “getting lost” was Davin’s way of saying he was going to drive that boat of his until he found some good surf. I’d been so concerned about him going to Ghost Point, that I’d paid no attention to the rest of his words anyway.
There was more though
, I think.
Something about a plan? He had a plan, there was a plan…?
Then I remember. He hadn’t told me that
he
had a plan, he was asking me what mine was:
“If the Ghost is too gnarly I’ll just go get lost
.
What’s
your
backup plan?”
I gasp and jump to my feet. “He wasn’t
getting
lost!” I announce to the empty room, the realization feeling like a smack in the head.
It’s a long shot
, I tell myself, trying to remain calm even as I pull out my cell phone and dial Andy Gordon’s number.
“C’mon…” I mutter, hoping against hope that Andy will answer even though I know full well he’s juggling the post-production of
Evensong
and the pre-production of his next movie.
Looks like it’s my lucky day.
“
Claire-Bo!
” he says, sounding overjoyed to hear from me. “
You hangin’ in there? I saw that they set a trial date. You need me to come to court with you, you just let–”
I cut him off. “Andy, remember those marching orders you were waiting for?”
“
I remember
.
You ready to give ‘em
?”
“I’m ready. Are you okay with orders that don’t require a lot of explanation?”
“
Those are the best kind
,” he says with a chuckle. “
Simplicity saves a lot of time
.”
“Okay, I took the Metro to Marina Del Rey this morning from my brother’s place, and I–”
“You did
what
? Why’d you do something like that for?”
“Well, for one thing, I don’t have a driver’s license–”
“My god, how long did that take you?”
“Uh, not long…about an hour and a half I guess. Anyway, I really need to borrow a boat for the day, and I was wondering–”
“Sure, sure, no problem. Let’s see, I’m pretty sure mine’s still at the marina, because my daughter took it out yesterday with some friends, so we’ll need to get you from wherever you are to the marina.”
“I can take a cab. I just need to know where to go.”
He snorts. “
You’re not taking a cab, Claire. I’ll send a car for you.
”
“Andy, there’s no need to–”
“
I’ve been sleeping at the studio for the last week, so it’s not like my driver has anything better to do. Just tell me where you are. I’ll call the marina and let them know when you’ll be there.
”
“Thanks, Andy. I can’t tell you how much this means to me.”
“Going somewhere by yourself?”
“Yeah, I thought I’d run off and get lost somewhere,” I say.
“Good idea,” he says. “God knows you have to get away from it all when things get to be too much.”
“I agree,” I say, eyeing the computer screen. “It’s important to have a backup plan.”
Chapter Twenty-Six
“San Clemente Control Bravo, this is motor vessel
Best Boy
Charlie Foxtrot niner-three-three-four on channel sixteen, switch to and answer channel six. Over.”
I crouch down on the sleeping bag and wait for a response.
“
Roger, motor vessel Best Boy Charlie Foxtrot five-five-seven-three. Switching to channel six.
”
I switch to the operating channel. “San Clemente Operations, this is motor vessel
Best Boy
Charlie Foxtrot niner-three-three-four on channel six.”
“
Roger, motor vessel Best Boy Charlie Foxtrot five-five-seven-three. Go ahead.
”
“Requesting emergency contact with Lieutenant Commander Grayson.”
“
Motor vessel Best Boy Charlie Foxtrot five-five-seven-three, please state your position.
”
“San Clemente Operations, be advised that we are north three-two point eight-two, and west one-one-eight point three-eight bearing zero degrees magnetic, distance two hundred yards south Pyramid Cove. Requesting emergency contact with Lieutenant Commander Grayson.”
“
Roger, Best Boy. Stand by.
”
It won’t take them long to figure out my lie. I cross every finger and toe I have that Gray isn’t passed out on a beach somewhere after last night’s binge-drinking memorial service.
“
Best Boy Charlie Foxtrot five-five-seven-three
,” comes Gray’s voice, sounding not hung over, but very, very pissed. “
This is Lieutenant Commander Grayson. Be advised that radar sweep does not confirm your vessel location at coordinates provided. Recheck your coordinates while we pinpoint your transmission.
”
I take a deep breath and say two words: “Number One.” Then I stop, letting them catch his attention before continuing. “Number One, this is
Best Boy
Charlie Foxtrot five-five-seven-three on channel six, requesting an emergency private channel.”
There are few pops of static and ten seconds of silence.
“
Roger Best Boy. Switch to and answer hang channel.
”
I exhale with relief, my fingers flying on my handheld to get to channel ten.
“
Best Boy
,
this is Number One
,” says Gray. “
And this had better be good, because there’s a Navy cutter heading your way. She will be up your ass in two minutes.
”
I snort. “‘My way?’ Which way is that? Your guys get any better at pinpointing transmissions in the last year, Number One? The last time you did this training exercise your guys ended up in…where was it? Singapore?”
“
You’d better talk quick, or you’re going to find out if we’ve gotten any better
.”
“Fine, I’ll make this short: Who were you expecting on November third when the island was hot? Was it Two or Three? Or was it both?”
A whole bunch of dead air, and then: “
Who is this
?”
“Even the hang channel isn’t secure, Number One. But thanks for telling me what I need to know. I’ll call you later.”
My hands are shaking as I turn off the radio. Crouching on the sleeping bag, I shuffle forward, push the tent flap out of the way with my hand, and step out onto the sands of Lost Gorge. I turn in a circle, taking in the unfamiliar tent with its unused sleeping bag, the full jugs of water, and the cook kit by the fire pit with a layer of sand and grime on it, the pile of untouched driftwood. It looks like a set that’s been dressed for a camping scene, but was later abandoned after it was cut from the script.