The Eyes of Darkness

alone, Tina said, "Let's see the papers you took off that guy."
    Elliot fished the pages out of his hip pocket, unfolded them, and put them on the table. There were three sheets of paper, each containing ten or twelve typewritten questions. They leaned in from opposite sides of the booth and read the material silently:
     
    1.    How long have you known Christina Evans?
    2.    Why did Christina Evans ask you, rather than another attorney, to handle the exhumation of her son's body?
    3.    What reason does she have to doubt the official story of her son's death?
    4.    Does she have any proof that the official story of her son's death is false?
    5.    If she has such proof, what is it?
    6.    Where did she obtain this evidence?
    7.    Have you ever heard of "Project Pandora"?
    8.    Have you been given, or has Mrs. Evans been given, any material relating to military research installations in the Sierra Nevada Mountains?
     
    Elliot looked up from the page. "Have you ever heard of Project Pandora?"
    "No."
    "Secret labs in the High Sierras?"
    "Oh, sure. Mrs. Neddler told me all about them."
    "Mrs. Neddler?"
    "My cleaning woman."
    "Jokes again."
    "At a time like this."
    "Balm for the afflicted, medicine for melancholy."
    "Groucho Marx," she said.
    "Evidently they think someone from Project Pandora has decided to rat on them."
    "Is that who's been in Danny's room? Did someone from Project Pandora write on the chalkboard . . . and then fiddle with the computer at work?"
    "Maybe," Elliot said.
    "But you don't think so."
    "Well, if someone had a guilty conscience, why wouldn't he approach you directly?"
    "He could be afraid. Probably has good reason to be."
    "Maybe," Elliot said again. "But I think it's more complicated than that. Just a hunch."
    They read quickly through the remaining material, but none of it was enlightening. Most of the questions were concerned with how much Tina knew about the true nature of the Sierra accident, how much she had told Elliot, how much she had told Michael, and with how many people she had discussed it. There were no more intriguing tidbits like Project Pandora, no more clues or leads.
    Elvira brought two frosted glasses and icy bottles of Coors.
    The jukebox began to play a mournful Alan Jackson song.
    Elliot sipped his beer and paged through the horror-comics magazine that had belonged to Danny. "Amazing," he said when he finished skimming The Boy Who Was Not Dead.
    "You'd think it was even more amazing if you'd suffered those nightmares," she said. "So now what do we do?"
    "Danny's was a closed-coffin funeral. Was it the same with the other thirteen scouts?"
    "About half the others were buried without viewings," Tina said.
    "Their parents never saw the bodies?"
    "Oh, yes. All the other parents were asked to identify their kids, even though some of the corpses were in such a horrible state they couldn't be cosmetically restored for viewing at a funeral. Michael and I were the only ones who were strongly advised not to look at the remains. Danny was the only one who was too badly . . . mangled."
    Even after all this time, when she thought about Danny's last moments on earth—the terror he must have known, the excruciating pain he must have endured, even if it was of brief duration—she began to choke with sorrow and pity. She blinked back tears and took a swallow of beer.
    "Damn," Elliot said.
    "What?"
    "I thought we might make some quick allies out of those other parents. If they hadn't seen their kids' bodies, they might have just gone through a year of doubt like you did, might be easily persuaded to join us in a call for the reopening of all the graves. If that many voices were raised, then Vince's bosses couldn't risk silencing all of them, and we'd be safe. But if the other people had a chance to view the bodies, if none of them has had any reason to entertain doubts like yours, then they're all just finally learning to cope with the tragedy. If we go to them now with a wild story about a mysterious conspiracy, they aren't going to be anxious to listen."
    "So we're still alone."
    "Yeah."
    "You said we could go to a reporter, try to get media interest brewing. Do you have anyone in mind?"
    "I know a couple of local guys," Elliot said. "But maybe it's not wise to go to the local press. That might be just what Vince's bosses are expecting us to do. If they're waiting, watching—we'll be dead before we can tell a reporter more than a sentence or two. I think we'll