SECRET RADIO blog

The address for A.T. Thomson took Carrie out of the heart of Research Triangle Park, closer to Durham. The interstate traffic moved well, considering the usual heavy flow of cars. She turned off to quieter highways and followed the directions through a small and dingy industrial park to a vast storage facility, where the individual bins were lined up next to each other like rows of single-car and double-car garages. They had been painted a faded yellow color, and they had bright orange trim.

It was the kind of place that people used to rent storage space. But the address was clear. What the police had originally taken as an apartment number was a storage locker number. She guided her small, sleek car down the narrow paved lanes between rows and rows of storage garages and bins. She was not altogether at ease among the concrete buildings, which resembled bunkers. A desolate stillness hung over the place like a pall. But when she located the correct number, she saw that the raising door was open. She pulled right up to the opening and saw that the garage-like interior had been furnished with various bits of training equipment, including several hanging bags. A tall, rail slim figure with shoulder length hair and ragged training clothes was poised in front of a heavy bag, turned away from the opening.

Carrie had one impression of a skeletal silhouette, dressed in rags. For one instant, the term "Fighting Dead" came back to her. At the sound of the car engine, this person turned around, and Carrie saw---to her further surprise---a girl far younger than herself, perhaps just a teenager. It was hard to judge, for the young woman was dressed in mere sheets of worn cotton t-shirts layered over each other. She had no jewelry, and her hair was cut in straight and simple fashion. Her huge eyes almost stood out from her stark cheekbones. She was neither beautiful nor homely. Rather, she was ghostly.

Carrie stepped out of the car, closed the door, and hesitantly approached.

This apparition of a human being watched her in silence, and then its expression showed recognition and the eyes at once became gentle, almost gracious. The girl stopped being a ghost and became human. Carrie realized guiltily that she obviously had been wide-eyed and a little frightened. But she saw, as she approached, the emaciated ribs under the sheets of ragged t-shirts expand as the young woman took a breath. That fleshless body hid very little.

"Hello," the young woman said, her voice kind. "Can I help you, Miss? Are you lost?"

"I---I'm looking for an A.T. Thomson," Carrie said. Her voice was too faint to be casual. She suddenly felt very alone in this vast, empty city of silent bunkers. She glanced around and saw the equipment: a heavy bag, a few old tires, a boxing headboard set up on the wall, but no punching bag. "Do you know who he is? Does he own this bin?"

"AT Thomson the martial artist?" the young girl asked.

"Yes. He was a gold medalist."

The girl suddenly smiled with genuine warmth. Her unearthliness almost disappeared in her genuinely good natured sympathy with her guest. She extended an almost spidery hand as she crossed to Carrie. "I'm Anne Thomson. AT Thomson. A pleasure to meet you."

Carrie's mouth dropped open as the unthinkable became a reality. "Dr. Caroline Drake," she said with some wonder. Then she wished she had not added her title. For she suddenly knew that this person was beyond titles and hierarchies.

But Anne Thomson, who was nearly as tall as Rolande, suddenly fixed her direct brown eyes on Carrie and said at once, "Thank you, I don't need a doctor." Her voice was abrupt. She turned away and returned to her bag.

"Most people just call me Carrie, and I'm not here as a medical doctor, Miss Thompson," Carrie said after her.

The head turned. "What kind of a doctor are you?" the girl asked, eyes calm and expressionless.

"Well, I have several degrees, actually. My field of work is forensics and pathology."

The girl relaxed and turned all the way around again, but her voice and eyes were steady and she stayed where she was. "What is forensics and pathology?"

Carrie searched for words "I report on evidence and remains. When some unexpected event happens, I gather information on the measurements taken of the scene, or incident, or person, and I evaluate that information."

Understanding filled the girl's eyes. "You study the dead."

"Sometimes. Sometimes it's far less dramatic than that. Any event that requires payment to be made may require a forensic assessment and evaluation."

"For the police?" Anne Thomson asked.

"If they request my company to act as a consultant. We actually earn most of our income from assisting insurance companies."

"Oh yes." This made sense to her. "But what brought you here?"

"I---I came because of a book. Are you--you're the gold medalist?" She tried to keep doubt out of her voice but failed. This young woman was obviously unusual, but she looked frail, far too frail to be a world-class athlete.

Slowly, the gentle courtesy returned to Anne Thomson's eyes. "Yes, that's me. Uh, my medals are around here someplace." She glanced around and looked thoughtful. She raised a spidery hand and scratched her head. "Oh, maybe I lent them to my former teacher. He likes them." She suddenly paused, and that clear graciousness filled her expression again as she decided to accept Carrie's introduction. And then she asked, "You sound British. I've been there. Would you like to have some tea?"

"Thank you," Carrie said. "Certainly." She followed the girl to a corner of the garage, where an ancient water cooler--apparently salvaged from a curbside---had been set up to hold a water jug. This flimsy and duct-taped contrivance stood next to a stool with an electric teakettle on it.
Suddenly, her midsection twinged. The scraped sensation was almost painful, worse now than it had been earlier. Of course it would be. Czerwinski had merely embarrassed her, but here, in this remote place, she felt alone and puzzled and oddly vulnerable. And yet she felt her hostess was more vulnerable. And very young.

"Here, you take the stool," Anne Thomson said, lifting the teakettle away and filling it with water from the cooler. A long orange extension cord snaked down from the beams overhead, and she set the kettle onto the floor and plugged the kettle into this. The narrow storage room smelled of damp concrete. Occasional cardboard cartons were stacked here and there, some of them with articles of clothing spilling from them. High on the wall, a bedroll, quite tattered, was rolled up, tied together, and hung on a rack. It began to dawn on Carrie that this frail child lived here: alone.

"Your tea will be ready in a minute," the girl said. "I'm afraid there's nothing else." She cocked her head. "Are you all right? Does your stomach hurt?"

"No I'm quite all right." She moved her arm from her midsection. "So, you wrote the book, The Fighting Dead?" Carrie asked.

The young girl nodded. "And you study the dead. Do your findings agree with my book?"

"Well you see, I haven't had a chance to read your book. It was recommended to me."

"Are you studying martial arts?"

"Not really, but I was hoping to look into the theories."

"Because you study the dead." Anne's eyes were expectant. "What do you conclude about death?"

"Death?" The question caught her off guard. "Death is the end," Carrie said after a moment. "A fact of life." But she realized that she had never really thought about death all that much.

"And beyond death?"

"Nothing."

The eyes were unreadable but the voice kind. "I don't think you would benefit from my book."

"I'm quite prepared to have my mind changed. Could I see a copy?"

"No, it's out of print. No more copies." Anne Thomson was not quite as abrupt as she had been at the hint of Carrie being a doctor come to check on her, but there was something of a wall in her words.

Carrie softened her voice. "That's a shame. You must have a lot to teach about martial arts."

Anne Thomson hesitated, her brown eyes fixed on the teakettle. Then she said, "I won't let them reprint it. There were errors in the way the information was presented. I'm afraid there's no sugar, Dr. Drake."

"Please, do call me Carrie."

"Okay. But were you interested in the martial arts?" Anne's huge eyes brightened slightly. "Are you thinking of following the way?"

"Well," Carrie hesitated. This girl had an air of innocence about her that she did not want to disrupt. She did not want to tell her that a gang of efficient and ruthless criminals was exploiting her book. "Is death that much a part of fighting and martial arts?" Carrie asked.

"Death is the solution to fighting. The person who is dead no longer needs to fight." Her voice was light and easy, as though stating an obvious fact.

Carrie tilted her head.

Anne smiled. "At its most basic level, being able to fight dead means a person can fight without fear. It's like this: Everybody is afraid of a lot of things. Except for the dead. The dead don't fear anything. It's an old concept. The samurai of Japan used to practice telling themselves they were dead. That's why they were such good fighters. The dead have nothing to lose and so have nothing to fear."

"And you believe that?"

"Yes. Being dead will make a living person invincible. I have to find a cup for you." She looked around. Raising a long, slender hand to again scratch her head, she walked over to a tiny foot locker to conduct a search.

"Why?" Carrie asked. "Why would death make you invincible?"

The innocent brown eyes swung round to her and fixed on her. "Because I'm dead. I died about eight years ago. And that's how I won in the women's division of the World Games. All the other girls were still alive. Being alive means you want to stay alive, and that means you can be frightened."