Afterimage
by zerofret
Chapter 4: Soft Focus
October 15, 1988 -Stan was in particularly high spirits that day. Not only was it a beautiful autumn Saturday morning, but some very good news had also come his way. He had qualified for a generous amount of grant money for his next film project. He was starting to break through and make a name for himself in L.A.'s notoriously competitive entertainment industry.
He was walking to his car in a shopping mall parking lot, when the voice – familiar and full of good humour – came from behind him.
"Stan the mannnnnn."
Stan turned to see Alex Chang climbing from a car he had just walked by. He hadn't seen Al in at least two years. His group of USC friends had drifted apart after graduation, each one busy establishing his place in the world. Now came this chance encounter. Stan broke into a delighted grin; he was genuinely, and pleasantly, surprised.
"Oh man, is that really you?" he asked, disbelievingly. "It has been way too long!"
The two shook hands warmly. It looked to Stan like life was treating Al pretty good. He wore sharp looking clothes under an expensive trench coat, and he exuded an air of confidence. It seemed the computer industry agreed with him quite nicely.
"Yours?" he asked, running a hand lightly over the BMW Al had gotten out of.
"Yeah. I've been driving it for about a year now."
Stan nodded approvingly. "It's a beaut." He shook his head. "I still can't believe I ran into you. What's it been…a couple of years? We really have to get together sometime soon and do some catching up."
Al nodded in agreement, then asked, "What do you have on for tonight?"
"Tonight?" Stan laughed, a bit surprised. "What did you have in mind?"
"How about taking in a ball game? Dodgers, just like old times."
Stan regarded his friend skeptically, wondering if he was joking. "Tonight? The first game of the World Series? There wouldn't be a ticket left anywhere!"
Al waved a hand dismissively. "No, that's not a problem."
Stan raised an eyebrow, hopeful. "You have tickets? What, did someone cancel on you?"
"No. Actually, Cyberdyne has a corporate box," Al replied offhandedly.
"Whoa!" Stan exclaimed. "Mr. Big Business Man! Mr. Major Player! A corporate box, no less. Looks like you're living the good life!"
Al took the good-natured ribbing with a smile. "So what do you say?" he asked. "Are we on?"
"Are you kidding? I'm there!"
"Great!" Al then added a cautionary note. "You realize the A's are probably going to crush us, right?"
Stan clapped him on the shoulder. "Have faith, buddy," he said optimistically. "Have faith."
ooOOoo
Later that evening, Stan was duly impressed as Alex ushered him into a luxury suite on Dodger Stadium's 200 Level. He paused for a moment to absorb the lush surroundings: carpeting, comfortable looking sofas, soft lighting, a catered buffet spread across two tables.
"Nice digs," he commented casually to Alex.
"Be it ever so humble…" Al replied in kind. He watched Stan taking it all in, knowing his real reaction was still to come. Stan's head might as well have been on a swivel; when he turned once more to Al, he had dropped the affected cool demeanor.
"This is amazing! It really is. I'm impressed."
Al smiled. "Well, it's one of the perks of working at Cyberdyne."
"Great perk. I'll work for them," Stan kidded.
Al laughed. "Why don't we grab some drinks, and I'll introduce you to some people," he suggested.
"Lead the way."
For the next few minutes they mingled with others in the suite. Stan met a number of Al's co-workers. He noted that they were, on average, a surprisingly young group…even the execs. Cyberdyne, it seemed, was cultivating an image of youthful and eager workers, all exceptionally bright and looking to make their mark on the world. That was certainly what they had seen in Al four and a half years ago.
Stan wandered over to where the suite opened out on to the stadium. Cyberdyne's seating overlooked the first base line. It was looking like a sellout, just as he had expected it would be. The air was charged with excitement and anticipation; the Fall Classic had come to Los Angeles for the first time since 1981. And it would be an all-California affair, with the Dodgers taking on the Oakland Athletics.
Al appeared at his shoulder, also taking in the sights and sounds of the rapidly filling stadium. "Should we get our seats?" he asked. He gestured at the tiered seating area directly in front of the suite. There were about five rows of theatre style seats; an aisle ran down the middle of them.
"Sure. They'll be starting the pre-game ceremonies soon."
Al took a few steps down the aisle stairs, then stopped and pointed at the second row from the back on the right hand side. Stan nodded his agreement. Al started to move into the row, then stopped again, looking to his left. Stan glanced over and saw a man sitting across the aisle in the same row as theirs. Worksheets and files were spread out on his lap, and on the seats to either side of him. He was deeply immersed in their contents. Al chuckled at the sight.
"Hey, Miles," he greeted him, "glad to see you could leave your work for awhile and come and enjoy the game."
The man glanced sheepishly at the mountain of paper work spread out around him. "Come on, now," he replied good-naturedly, "it hasn't even started yet. I'm just keeping busy."
"Yeah, I can see that. Is Tarissa with you?"
"No. She said she didn't think she felt up to a long night out."
"Everything's okay, though?" Al's voice held a note of concern.
"Oh, yeah, she's fine."
"That's good. How far along is she now?"
The other man's face lit up. "Five months," he answered with a wide smile.
"Five months," Al repeated. "You ready?"
He laughed. "I hope so. I'm excited, that's for sure."
Al gestured to Stan now. "This is Stan Morsky, a friend of mine from my university days." To Stan he said, "This is Miles Dyson. He's in the Special Projects division with me. He and his wife are expecting their first child."
Dyson extended a hand. "Nice to meet you."
"Nice to meet you, too," Stan said, as they shook hands. "And congratulations."
"Thanks," Dyson replied, beaming. "Are you in the computer industry, as well?"
"No, the film business, actually. Writing, directing…that kind of thing."
Dyson looked rather impressed. "Really? I've been out here in L.A. for awhile, but this is the first time I've met anyone from the film industry."
"Well, I'm still getting established, really. I've done some documentary work, and some film shorts. I'm working my way up to features. Where were you before you came to L.A.?"
"Cyberdyne brought me out here about a year and a half ago from Detroit."
"We recruited him right out of grad school," Al confirmed. "We weren't going to let someone else get him first. He started out as a lab assistant, but I convinced Simmons and Kroll – they're the partners – to assign him to Special Projects."
Down on the field the player introductions were just about finished. The anthem singer was being announced.
"We better get to our seats," Al said. "Put that work away and relax for a night, Miles. Tarissa would want you to."
Dyson indulged Al with a nod and a smile, but he made no move to gather up the paperwork. Stan and Al moved back across the aisle to the seats they had chosen earlier. Stan doffed his Dodgers cap as the first notes of the anthem rang through the stadium. All of this – getting to go to a World Series game, visiting with a friend that he hadn't seen in a long time – was an unexpected bonus, and he intended to enjoy it to the fullest. When the anthem ended, Stan looked over at Al while tugging his cap back down on his head.
"Play ball!" they said simultaneously. Laughing, they settled down into their seats.
When the game started, it looked like things might go south early. The Dodgers got into a bases loaded jam in the top of the first inning. Al shot Stan a grim "I-told-you-so" look, and Stan was reminded of his friend's dire prediction from earlier that morning. To their delight, though, L.A. escaped the situation without a single run being scored. In the bottom of the inning, the Dodgers then tagged Oakland starter Dave Stewart for two runs. The stadium crowd exploded into wild cheers.
But the second inning brought more problems. Once again Oakland filled the bases, and a tense crowd waited to see if the escape act could be pulled a second time. It wasn't to be. Slugger Jose Canseco strode to the plate and promptly launched a grand slam home run, for a 4-2 Oakland lead. It seemed the rout was on for the heavily favoured power hitting Athletics.
"Crussssshhhhed," Al lamented, as he watched a stream of A's circle the bases. Stan, however, wasn't quite ready to concede defeat.
"It's early yet."
It did seem like a good time for he and Al to start doing some catching up of their own, though. They ordered a couple of beers, which were served to them at their seats. Stan was loving the special treatment. He took a gulp of his drink.
"I could get used to this," he commented happily.
"What are you talking about? You've always had the best of everything. You were driving a Porsche in your university days. Not too many students doing that."
"Yeah," Stan admitted, "but that was on my Dad's dime. I'm going it alone now."
"And how is it going?"
"It's good. Things are on schedule, you know?"
He detailed for Al his early forays into the film business after graduating from USC. He had started by assisting on other directors' film sets, learning as he went. Then he had started taking on small projects of his own, becoming more ambitious each time out. His documentaries and short films had generated some buzz; he was considered someone to watch. He finished by telling Al about the grant money he had qualified for.
"I think I'm ready to do a feature," he enthused.
Al nodded. "Big step," he commented.
"Yeah, but it's time."
"That's great, Stan. You have to show me some of your work some time, I'd like to see it." He raised his glass to him in a friendly salute and winked. "I'm going to be able to say I knew you when."
"Hey, look who's talking," Stan laughed. "Cyberdyne's 'golden boy'…they couldn't wait to get their hands on you. You climbed straight up through their ranks, and you're already supervising on some of their top projects! That, my friend, is success," he averred, lifting his own glass in a toast.
"We're just a regular mutual admiration society," Al deadpanned.
"Right," Stan laughed. He drained the last of his beer, then sat silent for awhile, watching the game and looking thoughtful.
"What?" Al prodded him. He knew that look; it meant the wheels were turning.
"I was thinking…" Stan began.
"Uh oh."
"No, seriously, I have an idea. What if we could work on a project together, you and me?"
"How could we do that?"
"I was thinking that Cyberdyne Systems would be a great subject for a documentary. I mean, Cyberdyne just kind of came out of nowhere and shot straight to the top of the corporate world. In the four years you've worked there, actually."
Al's cheery mood seemed to have been dampened somewhat. "It had nothing to do with me," he said quietly.
But Stan was warming to his subject now. He hoped to infect Al with his enthusiasm. "Yeah, but you were there during that rise to the top, you were part of it. You'd have some insight into some of the reasons why it happened." He detailed his angle.
"Cyberdyne – the little company that could. That type of thing. Suddenly, the company's stock is skyrocketing, and it's moving into a brand new high-tech building. What's the secret? What did they do right? A lot of people would like to know the story behind Cyberdyne's sudden rise in the computer industry. That's where you come in."
A touch of alarm flared in Al's eyes. "Me?"
Stan nodded an affirmative. "You. Remember back in '84 when you were interviewing for the job with them? You passed up two or three big-ticket companies to go with Cyberdyne. I thought you were crazy, by the way."
He grinned, and Al offered a weak smile back.
"But you said you just had a feeling about them, that they had a bright future. And you were right. How did you know?"
Al shrugged. "I just played a hunch…a strong one."
"Come on, you didn't stake your whole future career on a hunch. There had to be more to it."
"What can I tell you? They just seemed to be well organized and forward thinking. The company was heading in a new direction, more high tech. But it was just a feeling I had; I didn't know all of this was going to happen. I can't tell the future. No one can, can they?"
"You came damn close."
"Educated guess."
Stan waved a hand. "Okay, it doesn't matter. Anyhow, you'd be our guide – so to speak – in the documentary."
"Guide," Al repeated, as if he were trying the word on for size. "In the documentary?"
"You're not camera shy, are you? You'd be the main interview subject. You'd guide the camera crew around the building, give some company history, and explain the various divisions and what goes on in each one. Things like that."
"I can't really give the okay for something like that. I'm not authorized." Al looked down, studying his hands. He seemed to be trying to still his nervously fidgeting fingers.
"You could take the idea to the partners, though, right? They might love it; it'd be great publicity. What do you say?"
Al remained evasive. "I'm not sure it's really a good time for it."
He had kept his voice low since the subject had turned to Cyberdyne, and he had periodically cast quick, nervous glances around the box and over his shoulder. Stan was starting to realize that Alex was less than comfortable with this line of conversation. He took a look around himself, but didn't see anything unusual. The other Cyberdyne employees and their guests were involved in the game. To their left, Dyson was engrossed in his files.
He took only a brief look over his shoulder because he knew that no one had taken the seats behind them. But something caught his eye and he looked back again. A man in a suit – not dressed for a ball game – was sitting behind the box seats, just inside the entrance to the suite. Al hadn't seen him around before the game; he hadn't been introduced to him. He had one hand held to his ear, and -- rather than watching the game -- he seemed to be watching Al and Stan. Having been caught in the act when Stan looked around, he now pointedly scratched behind his ear, and then dropped his hand casually back to his side. He nodded to Stan, giving him a pleasant smile that nevertheless looked a bit stiff and forced. He nodded to the man in return, then turned around again feeling vaguely uneasy.
It seemed Cyberdyne must keep a close eye on their employees. Maybe they didn't want them saying much about their work there. Particularly not to a filmmaker, Stan mused. He tried to dismiss the thought as unfounded paranoia, but it persisted. He shifted uncomfortably in his seat, wondering if the whole box was wired. He was sure the man up behind them was wearing an earpiece. Trying to glance around inconspicuously, he looked for signs of listening devices.
Stan concluded that Cyberdyne must be into some extremely sensitive and secret projects. Were they working for the military, maybe? At Al's level in the company, he would know a lot of the specifics about their various projects. But having achieved that level in the company, did he really need to be watched? Didn't Cyberdyne trust their employees? Stan accepted, though, that the inner workings of the company were off limits as a topic of conversation. He decided to ease the pressure on Al by changing the subject. He tried a little nostalgia.
"You know, the last time we took in a Dodgers game together was that night I cancelled the date with Sarah Connor. Back in '84, remember? Then she was in the news all that weekend."
Al didn't answer; he was squinting into the distance, as if he was trying to remember.
"Sarah Connor," he said slowly. "Right."
There was no recognition in his voice. Stan started to wonder if Al really didn't remember; he found that hard to believe. But then Al continued.
"Yeah, that was one strange weekend." He paused. "Crazy, really."
Stan nodded in agreement. "I sometimes wonder what would have happened if I hadn't – "
A sudden explosion of cheers drew their attention back to the field. Stan noticed that even Dyson looked up momentarily. The Dodgers had scored, and they were now down by only one run. It was 4-3 with three innings remaining.
"Think a miracle's brewing?" Al joked.
"Let's hope."
They let the conversation lapse for awhile, turning their full attention to the game. A few minutes later, when the seventh inning stretch arrived, Stan headed out to the concourse to stretch his legs a bit, and to hunt down some souvenirs. As he passed through the suite, he saw no sign of the man who had been watching them. By the time he returned, Al's good mood seemed to be fully restored. He had ordered fresh drinks for them. It seemed to Stan that the previous drinks were having an effect, too. As the game headed into the late innings, Al opened up and became talkative. He picked up their conversation from where they had left off.
"Did you ever see Sarah again – I mean, get to talk to her, that is – after all of that happened?"
Stan shook his head emphatically. "Not once. I think I knew it would be that way, too."
"It must have been a nightmare for her."
"Yeah." Stan was staring into his beer, re-visiting some of the guilt he had sometimes felt about his treatment of Sarah all those years ago.
"She ended up in the hospital by the end of that weekend."
Stan looked up. "I heard that. The news didn't say much about it, but it did mention that. I think it was mostly precautionary, though, wasn't it?"
"Actually, she had to have surgery."
Stan's surprise showed. "You're kidding! What kind?"
"She had a pretty serious leg injury," Al said, unconsciously tapping his own leg in demonstration. "Her left one."
"I didn't hear anything about that."
"It involved shattered bone. They even had to put a metal pin in her leg to stabilize it."
Stan was staring wide-eyed at Al, all curiosity. "How do you know this? Have you talked to Sarah since it happened?"
It seemed like an invisible curtain suddenly dropped over Al's features, leaving his expression totally blank. "No," he said, shaking his head. He snuck a look back over his shoulder toward the suite. "I read it in the paper, I think…the week after. Yeah, I'm sure that's where I saw it."
"Wow," was all Stan could manage.
He wasn't sure what more he could say, and he was preoccupied by the distinct feeling of unease that was slowly uncoiling inside him. He had bought every single L.A. newspaper each day for a month after that weekend, scouring them carefully for follow-up news stories that would shed some light on the bizarre events. But he had come up almost empty; few details had been released. So how did Alex know such specific details about what had happened to Sarah?
Inwardly, he gave himself a firm shake. Did it matter? If he said he had read about it in the paper, then he probably had. Maybe some more details had come out later. Why was he feeling so paranoid?
He returned his attention to the game, watching reliever Alejandro Pena hold the A's at bay in the top of the ninth. But his heart sank as Oakland's all-but-invincible closer took to the mound for the bottom half of the inning.
"Eckersly," Stan groaned.
"Hey, we still have three outs," Al countered. "Have faith, buddy, remember? Your own words."
Stan gave him a grim smile. "Right."
The Dodgers, however, seemed determined to squander those outs quickly and fruitlessly. But they kept hope alive by getting a man on base with a walk. As they waited for the next batter to come to the plate, Al finished off his final beer, then commented casually to Stan: "Sarah has a son now."
Stan blinked, wondering if he had heard him right, and knowing that he had. This was also something he had heard nothing about. It galled him that Al knew these kinds of details when he didn't; Al hadn't even really known Sarah.
"Really," he said flatly, almost more of a statement than a question.
"Sometime early in '85, it was. February, I think. So he's about three and a half years old."
Now Stan was genuinely dumbfounded. The math didn't lie. If Al was right, that meant Sarah had conceived in May of 1984. He found the implications of that more than a little disturbing.
"Do you know his name?" he asked numbly.
"John."
"John…" Stan's inflection left the name hanging in mid-air, waiting for a surname to be added. Al supplied it.
"Connor."
Stan's brows raised slightly. "The father's not on the scene?"
"No, I don't think he was around for too long."
Paranoia was creeping up on Stan once more. "You didn't read that in the paper," he mumbled under his breath.
Al turned to him. "What?!"
"I thought you said you hadn't seen her."
"I haven't!"
"How do you know about all of this?"
Al turned away quickly, focusing his eyes intently on the field again. "I just heard it around, you know? It was a couple of years ago."
Stan was persistent. "But who told you?"
"Who told me?" Al paused, making a show of thinking hard. "Who was it that told me," he said, seemingly more to himself than to Stan, "I should remember…"
But Al had the look of a drowning man, desperate, looking for something – anything – to latch onto to save himself. And he found something.
"Gibson's going to bat?!" he gasped incredulously, changing the subject entirely.
Stan was staring at Al, waiting for an answer to his question. For a moment he didn't comprehend the sharp turn in the conversation; he was too intent on finding out where Al had gotten his information. He now heard the PA announcer, as if from a great distance:
"Now batting for the Dodgers…number 23…Kirk…Gibson."
He quickly re-focused his attention down to the field. He was as surprised as Al was by this development. The injured Gibson could barely stand upright, much less walk, or bat…or beat a throw to first base. But sure enough, he was hobbling to the plate – with two out in the bottom of the ninth – to pinch-hit for the pitcher.
"He's going to have to hit a home run just to not get thrown out at first base," one Cyberdyne employee groaned.
"Maybe," Al retorted, "but if he hits that home run he can take all night to crawl around the bases, if he has to. The next game doesn't start until eight o'clock tomorrow night."
Laughter ensued, temporarily breaking the nervous tension that was rising among them. The entire crowd was now on its feet. Stan hung on every pitch, watching Gibson work the count. It became clear that Eckersly wouldn't be able to dispense with him quickly or easily. Ultimately, the count went to three balls and two strikes; everything hung in the balance.
Stan looked down and realized he was gripping the back of the chair in front of him tightly, with both hands. He forced himself to let go. Whether his tension was coming from his disturbing conversation with Al or from this key moment in the game, he didn't know. It was probably a bit of both.
A sharp crack suddenly resonated through the stadium. It was the sound of a bat connecting perfectly and solidly with a 93 mile per hour fastball. In the Cyberdyne box, someone immediately called out, "Oh man, he got all of that!"
He sure did, Stan thought. He watched the trajectory of the ball as it arced through the night sky. When it cleared the fence and landed in the right field bleachers, he leaped in the air, letting out a loud whoop. A joyous pandemonium broke out in the stadium. The two run homer had won it for the Dodgers; the miracle comeback was complete. Stan continued cheering, as he watched Gibson round the bases while pumping a fist in celebrationThen he exchanged enthusiastic high fives with everyone around him, the tension between himself and Al temporarily forgotten. He clapped his friend on the shoulder and winked.
"I never had a doubt!" he yelled over the noise.
Eventually, the hyped-up crowd started to file out of the stadium. Stan and Al lingered for a few minutes, talking with Miles Dyson, as they waited for the crowd to thin a bit. Then they said their goodnights, and headed toward the concourse.
ooOOoo
They walked to a nearby fast food joint. As they settled into a booth with their food, they were feeling drained but happy.
"What a ride," Stan exclaimed. "That was great!"
"Incredible," Al agreed. "Hey, I'm glad you came."
"Well, thanks for asking me. I owe you one."
They dug into their food. Stan didn't want to sour the mood again, but he felt he had to say something about their earlier conversation. He chased a mouthful of burger with some coffee, then fixed Al with an earnest look.
"Awhile ago, back there at the stadium… I was getting kind of confrontational…" He paused, trying to organize his thoughts. "I just wanted to say that I was out of line. I'm sorry about that. You invite me out to the game and I give you a hard time."
The truth was his curiosity about Al's information source was still burning a hole through him. But he didn't want to seem ungrateful to his friend; it was best to back off a bit. Al was happy to let the subject be dropped.
"Forget it," he said. But Stan continued.
"It's just that whenever I get thinking about that weekend, I get pretty agitated. There were so many crazy things going on, and Sarah was caught up in it, and there was never much explanation for any of it."
"Maybe you're just reading too much into it."
This hadn't occurred to Stan. "What do you mean?"
"I mean that you don't know exactly what happened, so maybe you've given too much credence to the things you've heard. There were all kinds of rumours and tall tales after that weekend; I heard a lot of them myself. Some strange things happened, definitely, but not everything that people say happened actually happened. It's all Friday the 13th stuff, and urban myth. It was a Friday the 13th weekend, remember? Take that, and add in the maniac that was on the loose at the time, and you'll end up with some great stories. People just started to make up all kinds of things."
Stan could sense that Al was watching him carefully, trying to gauge his reaction. He must have still looked doubtful, because Al pressed on, appealing to his sense of reason.
"One of the most common stories that made the rounds was that some guy got run over by a transport truck, and was then dragged along under it. Not only did it not kill him, but then he got up and stole the rig!" Al slapped a thigh, laughing. "Oh man, I love that one! But you don't really believe that happened, do you?"
Stan hesitated, not wanting to appear foolish. He wasn't sure what he believed, but it was clear what his friend wanted him to believe.
"But those two truckers were left at the side of the road," he countered. "One of them said that guy climbed into the cab looking like something from 'Night Of the Living Dead', and ordered him to get out."
"Listen to yourself!" Al exclaimed. "Did you see the truckers being interviewed on the news?"
"No, I heard – "
"Right, you heard, that's all. You didn't hear it on the news because there were no truckers. There was no truck."
Stan sighed. "I don't know. Maybe."
Al continued: "But then the next person has to enhance the story, and make it even better. So before you know it, we're hearing that the rig exploded, and that someone saw a guy climbing calmly from the cab and walking through the flames. Not to be outdone, someone else embellishes the story by saying that shortly before all this, another man was seen tossing pipe bombs on the freeway, and maybe that's how the rig exploded. People just kept layering on whatever detail they wanted to add, you know?"
"If you had looked him in the eye," Stan interjected quietly, "you just might believe every one of those stories."
Al peered at him quizzically. "Who?"
"The stalker. We both know that's who all the stories are about. I saw the guy."
"We all did…those photo stills from the police security camera, on the news."
"No. I mean I came face to face with him."
Al was momentarily stunned speechless. "When? Wher -- You never told me this!"
Stan spread his hands, a bemused expression on his face. "I had no idea how to explain it. I went to Sarah's apartment after hearing the news report about all the Sarah Connors. When I arrived, he was on his way out. When he pushed the door open, it hit me, and nearly knocked me over. I broke my arm," he said, unconsciously massaging his right arm as he spoke, "and got a concussion when my head hit the outer door. So I confronted him, but I wish I hadn't. Looking into his eyes…" Shaking his head, he trailed off, at a loss for words.
"Yeah? What?" Al encouraged him.
Stan was finding it hard to look directly at Alex for the next part. "This will sound strange, but it was the scariest thing I've ever seen. I don't even know why. Those eyes…flat, dead. Just nothing there at all. Almost inhuman. But I had this awful sense that they could see right down into me. It gave me nightmares."
He braced himself for the ridicule he knew was coming. But Al's look, far from being skeptical or outright disbelieving, was one of pure fascination.
"I didn't know you had actually seen him in person."
"If you want to call it that. I'm not sure I'd call him a 'person', considering what he had just done in Sarah's apartment."
"What did he say to you?"
"Nothing."
Oddly, Al seemed a bit disappointed by this. "Nothing at all?"
"Not a thing," Stan reiterated.
"Did you contact the police?"
"No, I decided not to get involved."
"Tell anyone else?"
"No."
"You probably shouldn't," he advised.
"Why not?" Stan had no intention of telling anyone – it was a bit late now – but he wanted to hear the reason. Al was fidgeting again, tracing his finger along a crack in the table top. He didn't look up.
"Well, you know…the guy's still out there somewhere, right?"
Stan nearly shivered at the idea. "Yeah. He was never found." He took a sip of his now tepid coffee. "Do you suppose Sarah worries that he might ever come back?"
Al shrugged noncommittally. "It's possible."
"Possible that she worries, or possible that he might come back?"
Al was staring into his empty coffee cup. "Both," he said quietly.
"What could he have wanted her for that he was willing to go through that many people to get to her?"
"I guess we'll never know," Al replied, with finality. He glanced at his watch. "I should get going."
ooOOoo
Half an hour later, Al dropped Stan off in front of the modest suburban bungalow that he now called home. It was late, but he knew he wouldn't sleep; he had been left with far too much to think about. A lot of the disturbing memories that had haunted him these past few years had been stirred up and brought to the surface once again. And now the mystery had deepened even more. Al inexplicably seemed to know a lot of details about the aftermath of the strange events of May 1984…and about Sarah Connor, in particular.
He paced restlessly, brooding, then wandered into the den. He turned on a single lamp, leaving much of the room cast in shadow, and settled onto the couch. Sprawled along the back of the couch, Dewey rumbled contentedly in his ear. "Hey, we won," he said conversationally. He leaned his head back far enough to use the cat's soft stomach for a pillow. Then he snuck a look out of the corner of his eye. Sure enough, Dewey was glaring at him indignantly. Laughing, Stan lifted his head again, then reached back and scratched gently under the cat's chin. Looking blissful now, Dewey leaned into it, and resumed his purring. For his part, Stan resumed his brooding.
He had often thought about Sarah over the last few years. Even though they had never actually dated, he felt a sense of connection to her that even he found puzzling. Maybe it was because of his attempts to make amends that fateful night. Or perhaps it was because he had experienced, if only fleetingly, a bit of what she had experienced that weekend.
He had wondered how she was doing and where she was living. Most of all, he had wondered whether she had fully recovered from what had happened to her. He didn't know if full recovery was possible. Surely something like that had to change a person in some way. Would she be the same Sarah he had known?
He had also often wondered what the outcome would have been if she had been with him that Friday night. Would he have been willing to stand protectively in front of Sarah and face down the gunman? His own encounter with the man that night suggested that it wasn't likely. It probably wouldn't have made a difference, he thought. If I had, it only would have added me to the body count. But that didn't make him feel any better about it.
A key date had been seared into Stan's mind tonight, burning bright as neon.
"February 1985," he said out loud. At the sound of his voice, Dewey made a small chirp of acknowledgment from deep in his throat, without ever really waking up.
He figured Sarah couldn't have been too broken up about their cancelled date. He considered the possibilities. It seemed unlikely that she would have been pregnant before their would-be date, because she hadn't been seeing anyone. It was even less likely that she would have conceived in the days or weeks immediately after her traumatic experience. That seemed to leave only one possibility. Stan taxed his memory, trying to remember the name. It came to him surprisingly quickly: Reese. Right. Kyle Reese.
Was Reese the father of Sarah's son? He appeared to be the most likely candidate. Unless the stalker had – He shut the thought down before it could fully form. No. The stalker had never actually gotten to Sarah; if he had, she'd be dead.
But Reese's motives were still unknown to him. Had he simply used Sarah as a hostage, to aid in his own escape from the police station? Or was he actively protecting her from the rampaging gunman? Did she go with him willingly? Sarah might have gone with anyone in order to get out of the station while it was being shot up. Still, he had a gut feeling that she had chosen to go with him for a reason, that she was relying on him.
Whatever his intentions were, Reese had died that night in trying to carry them out. Stan was reminded now of some conversation from earlier that night. "The father's not on the scene?" he had asked Al. "No, I don't think he was around for too long." This lent further support to the Reese-as-father theory. Reese hadn't been around Sarah for long…because he had met an untimely end. But like everything else connected to these events, the news reports had been vague about Reese's cause of death. It had been some kind of trauma to the head. Kind of like Matt Buchanan, Stan thought grimly. It might have involved some kind of machinery, there might have been an explosion; nothing seemed to be definite. He and Sarah had been found in an industrial park factory, but the police had never specified whose factory. And Stan had never pieced together exactly what had happened over those two days; there just wasn't enough information.
On impulse, he now stood up and went to the front hall closet. He dug deep into the back of it and re-emerged holding a leather jacket. It was the one he had been wearing that night in 1984. He had never worn it again, but for some reason he had been reluctant to throw it out. It stood as a testament to his own experience that night. The jacket hadn't been cleaned before being retired, and parts of the collar were stiff and cracked from dried blood.
He fished in the pockets and pulled out a few scraps of paper and cardboard. One was his ticket stub from the Dodgers-Mets game that night. Another was his parking stub for the stadium lot. The third item he studied closely – almost as if for the first time – while walking slowly back to the den.
He sank back onto the couch, still examining the tattered scrap of paper. There was nothing noteworthy about it. He had written a phone number on it in bold, black marker, Sarah's phone number. Beneath that was her address, penned in blue ink by Sarah herself. It was an address that Stan could now only associate with bad – and gruesome – memories. He wondered who lived there now, and whether or not they knew what had happened there.
But running his finger over Sarah's printing, it seemed like he could still feel something of her essence in this simple item that she had once held. And he remembered with absolute clarity when that had been. His memory instantly transported him back to that time now:
He was sitting in a booth at Big Jeff's, waiting to order and hoping that Sarah would be his waitress. As luck would have it, he looked up to see her standing by his table, notepad in hand.
"Hi, I'm -- "
"Sarah, and you'll be my waitress today," he finished cheekily. He had heard the spiel often enough.
"Right," Sarah replied slowly, with a wry smile.
"I see they didn't fire you."
"No, I'm still here."
"No thanks to Gravy Man."
"Well, you know, the customer is always right."
"Oh…sure," Stan replied, with a touch of sarcasm. Then he brightened again. "So, are you going to tell me what the specials of the day are?"
"Hmmm." Sarah appeared to think it over. "No, I don't think so."
Stan looked surprised. "No? Why not?"
"Because," she teased, getting her own good-natured jab in, "you always have the same thing. We don't even need to come out here to take your order. You walk in the door, and we say 'burger platter with the works'."
Stan showed mock dismay at this revelation. "Oh no, I'm predictable!"
"Don't worry, there are worse things to be."
Another waitress squeezed by Sarah in the aisle, and called back over her shoulder, "I'm back from my break if you want to take yours."
"Okay."
Stan seized the moment. "Would you like to join me?"
Sarah looked a bit surprised, but replied, "Sure."
She brought his order to him, then sat down across the table from him. For the first time they really talked, instead of just exchanging banter. He found out that she was studying Linguistics and Psychology at university. "Interesting combination," he commented. He described to her his film studies program at USC. After talking for a few more minutes, he knew her break would be over soon. He had to do it now.
"I have a couple of tickets to the Lennon show at the Hollywood Bowl next Friday," he said. "Would you care to come along with me?"
Sarah hesitated, not having expected the invitation.
"Maybe you already have plans for – "
"No," Sarah assured him, "I don't. That sounds fun; I'd like to go."
He beamed a smile at her. "Great!" Digging in his pockets, he pulled out a small piece of paper and a marker. "Can I get your phone number so I can call you about the details?"
He wrote it down as she recited it to him, then he happily dug into his burger platter again. As an afterthought, he added, "Oh, I should get your address, too. So I'll know where to pick you up."
With the burger still clutched in his right hand, he awkwardly attempted to write with his left. Sarah watched him struggle for a moment or two, a smile stealing across her face, then she said, "Here, let me." She slid the paper across the table toward her, picked up her order pen, and scribbled the address onto the paper.
"Thanks," he said, while noticing her looking at the clock. "Your break's over, isn't it?"
"Afraid so."
"I'll give you a call, okay?"
In the shadows of the den, Stan looked down at the paper, now crumpled under his curled fingers. He flattened it out again. Yeah, I gave her a call all right, he thought miserably. The kind of call every girl just loves to get.
He tucked the items back into the jacket's pocket. In the morning, it would be returned to the back of the closet. For now, he put his feet up and his head back, and allowed himself to doze off.
ooOOoo
Stan and Al had parted that night promising each other that they'd get together for another night out. But with their busy schedules and different social circles, Stan didn't think it would happen. In the months following, nothing happened that caused him to think differently. Then, in mid-summer of the next year, he received a call from Al inviting him to be a guest in the Cyberdyne box for a Dodgers game again. Thereafter, it became a yearly ritual for them, one that they both enjoyed and looked forward to. The outings allowed them to catch up on each other's news and activities, and reminisce about old times…all while enjoying a ball game.
When Al didn't call in 1994, Stan was unsure of what to do. He didn't want to call him, giving the impression that he expected a complementary game every year. But Al had called five years running now, and Stan just wanted to be sure everything was okay with his friend. He reluctantly made the call, and was surprised to find that Al's phone line was out of service. Pursuing the matter further, he then discovered that Al also no longer resided at his address of many years. There didn't seem to be any way to contact him, or even to know where he was. Stan started to suspect that there was something wrong.
xxx (End Chapter 4) xxx
Chapter Notes:
1. The Dodgers – Athletics 1988 World Series Game 1 (including the famous Gibson home run) is factual.