Neuropath (8 page)

Samantha yanked her hands out in a warding gesture, shook her head. 'Come on, professor, this is just too crazy.'

'Oh, it goes deeper, trust me. Everything falls apart, Agent Logan. Absolutely everything.'

Sam watched the streamers of bubbles in her beer. 'So it has to be wrong, doesn't it?'

Thomas simply watched her.

'Doesn't it?' she repeated, her tone somewhere between wonder and irritation.

He shrugged for what seemed the hundredth time. 'Free will is an illusion, that much is certain. As for other psychological staples like the now, selfhood, purpose, and so on, the evidence that they are all fundamentally deceptive continues to pile up. And if you think about it, perhaps this is what we should expect. Consciousness is young in evolutionary terms, a jury-rigged response to a perfect storm of environmental circumstances. We're stuck with the beta-version. Less even. It only seems slick because it's all we know.'

'You mean,' Sam said drily, 'as far as
science
is.concerned.'

Thomas took a long drink, exhaled heavily out his nose. In his freshman classes, attacking science was hands down the most common response to the threat posed by the Argument—as well as the weakest.

'And science is a mess, sure. But it's the only mess in recorded history that has had any success at generating and deciding between theoretical claims—not to mention making everything around us possible as a result. In historical terms, it is absolutely unprecedented. What are you going to believe? A four-thousand-year-old document bent on tribal self-glorification? Your own flattering intuitions on the fundamental nature of things? Some hothouse philosophical interpretation that takes years of specialized training just to understand? Or an institution that makes things like computers, thermonuclear explosions, and cures for small-pox possible?'

Samantha Logan stared at him for a long and lovely moment. Someone jacked up the volume on the flat-screen above the bar. A silky whisper fanned across the tables, extolling the wonders of Head & Shoulders.

'
Because when your hair shines
, you
shine…
'

'But there're truths outside of science.'

'Are there? I mean, there's a lot of non-scientific
claims
floating around, that's for sure. But
truths?
Is the Bible more true than the Quran? Is Plato more true than Buddha? Maybe, maybe not. The fact is we have no way of knowing, even though billions of us jump up and down screaming otherwise. And the more science teaches us, the more it seems we're just duping ourselves altogether. Our internal yardstick is bent, Agent, we know that for a fact. Why should we trust any of our old measurements?'

Most people simply nodded and dismissed the Argument. Most people found their fables too flattering to seriously challenge. A thousand sects, cults, religions, and philosophers agreeing on nothing, and yet each thought their ticket held the winning number of beliefs. Why? Because
they
held it. Somehow their personal experience of speaking in tongues, of remembering past lives, of having this prayer answered or that premonition come true was the
only
experience that mattered, the only one that made true…

So few could crawl into the Argument's belly and truly comprehend. The trick was crawling back out again.

Thomas watched as various expressions struggled for mastery of Sam's face. A dismissive scowl, a sarcastic retort, a plea for reassurance. It seemed he could glimpse all of them.

'I have to say, professor, that this, without a doubt, is one of the most depressing conversations I've ever had. I feel like drowning myself in a tub.'

Despite the sorrow that welled through him, Thomas smiled a mock winning smile. 'Welcome to the semantic apocalypse.'

Sam breathed deeply, enough to blow aside the odd strands of hair that had fallen across her face. 'So you think this is what Cassidy is up to? You think he's simply making the Argument in the most dramatic way he can?'

Thomas paused, troubled by the hollow in his stomach. 'For the ancient Greeks, puppets were
neurospastos
, "drawn by strings". I think this might be what Neil is up to.'

'You mean showing us the strings?'

'Exactly. He wants the whole world to share his revelation.'

Even as he said it, Thomas somehow knew that it couldn't be true, that something far more terrifying was at stake. But as so often happens in the course of making arguments, it didn't seem such a bad thing cutting corners here and there, allowing what was convenient to trump what was true. What mattered was that she
believed
.

'Think about Cynthia Powski,' he continued. 'Think of that BD as the first premise in an argument. What does it say? What conclusion does it point to?'

Sam nodded appreciatively. 'That he's in charge. That he can force her to do, and more importantly, to
feel
, anything he wants.'

'Is it? Then why does he surrender the controls to her?'

'I dunno. To show that he can make her
want
to be raped? Isn't that the rapist's credo? That all women secretly want it?'

Frowning, Thomas let his gaze wander the bar. The number of people now hunched over drinks and tables surprised him. He glanced at a waitress marching with a steaming plate of fries. 'Maybe. But remember what Atta said? What we witnessed wasn't rape. Neil—supposing it was Neil—forced a woman to experience something akin to multiple orgasms. Be he didn't
touch
her—not sexually, anyway. No. I think he's pointing to something more abstract. From his standpoint, I think he thinks his position is incidental to the BD, not at all important.'

'And why's that?'

'Why? Ask yourself: if you were in that chair, if you were Cynthia Powski, would you want it?'

'What kind of question is that?'

'An important one. Would you
want
it?'

'Fuck, no.'

'If Cynthia Powski were here right now, what do you think
she
would say?'

Samantha looked at him angrily. 'The same.'

'Exactly. Perhaps that's Neil's point. We all think we're free, that no matter what the circumstances, we can freely decide to do things differently. Neil's arguing otherwise. He's simply showing us what the brain is: a machine that generates behaviors which are either repeated or not depending on how the resulting environmental feedback stimulates its pleasure or pain systems. How can he do something against her will when there's no such thing?'

Samantha's eyes fell to her empty beer glass.

'Strike that,' Thomas said. 'He's going one better. He's
demonstrating
otherwise. He's committing a crime that proves that there's no such thing.'

'No such thing as what?'

Thomas raised his brows. 'Crime.'

'So what's wrong with him then? I mean in psychological terms, what's wrong with him?'

Staring at her, Thomas found himself wondering what it would be like to
be
her. Studies had shown that beautiful people lived happier, longer, and more successful lives. 'The halo effect', researchers called it. Because beauty generated positive social feedback, beautiful people tended to develop the positive attitudes that everyone from sales gurus to Baptist preachers associated with health, happiness, and success.

How many doors had Samantha Logan's beauty opened?

'But that's what I've been saying,' Thomas replied. 'It's conceivable there's
nothing
wrong with him.'

A thoughtful frown. 'Sure, but only because you know about this semantic apocalypse thing. Just pretend you're an average psychologist, someone unscarred by Skeat. What would you think?'

It was a good question. Thomas breathed deeply, glanced across the dim interior. More and more people were arriving, filling the silence that lurked at the bottom of all busy places.

'Well,' he began, 'obviously, I'd suppose Neil was suffering from some kind of antisocial personality disorder—I mean, only a psychopath could do what we saw this morning, right? After building a case history, though, I'd be troubled by the fact that Neil doesn't fit the standard profile for severe antisocials.'

'There's your wife,' Samantha said abruptly. 'That certainly fits the profile.'

'Just because all antisocials are bastards, doesn't mean all bastards are antisocials. No. As much as I would like to chalk this betrayal up to some kind of neurophysiological deficit, there has to be a pattern of some kind…'

He trailed, found himself blinking back the heat in his eyes. For a moment, he'd almost forgotten.

Neil and Nora.

'Sorry,' Samantha said.

Thomas pulled his hands into his lap, pretended to cough. He knew that he had to be careful. He could feel it, lurking like a scarcely suppressed alter-ego behind his words, his thoughts—the need to prove himself to this beautiful woman. But there was more to be wary of—far, far more. People chronically attributed emotions generated by their circumstances to the people they happened to find themselves with. Couples meeting for the first time on high suspension bridges reliably ranked their opposites as more exciting and attractive than couples meeting for the first time on a footpath. And this situation with Neil was nothing if not precarious.

'I'd also suppose he was suffering from some kind of extreme depersonalization disorder, either something—'

'What do you mean?' Samantha asked.

Thomas stared, tried to will away the buzz of excitement that seemed to hover around her. There was something about Samantha Logan. Klutzy and ambitious. Crude-talking and intelligent. Earnest and urbane. He tried to blink the shine from his eyes, to remind himself of the madness that encircled him. But there she was, front and center, humming with promise and focused entirely on him.

But then there was what Neil would say—and what Thomas-the-professor knew. Thanks to a potent blend of hardwiring and socialization, men were far more likely to read sexual cues where none were to be found. They constantly confused female attention for sexual interest. The sad truth was that false positives paid better reproductive dividends. Assuming that every woman wanted to jump your bones was just another way of covering your odds at the evolutionary craps table.

'I don't think,' Thomas finally said, 'Neil sees himself as a person anymore.'

Samantha crinkled her nose in disbelief. 'Not a person? Then what does he see himself as?'

'A brain. A brain among brains.'

'I'm having difficulty wrapping my head around this one.'

'I'm a philosopher, remember? It's all bullshit.'

'It's gotta be.'

Thomas looked down to his thumbs. 'If you think of a way out, be sure and let me know. I mean, I
love
my kids. I really
love
them. I don't think I knew what love meant until Ripley was born. And Frankie was double trouble. That simply
has
to mean something, doesn't it?'

Or is it just another lie? Like my marriage.

Samantha stared at him.

'What's wrong?' Thomas asked.

'Ah, nothing. It just didn't hit me until now.'

'What didn't hit you?'

'When you were going through the Argument and all that… I guess I just assumed there had to be some kind of catch. Some kind of trapdoor you weren't letting me in on. But there isn't, is there? I mean when you asked for… for a
way out
a couple of seconds ago, you really were asking, weren't you?'

'I suppose I was.'

Long silence. 'So what if he's right, Tom?'

'Neil?'

'Yeah, Neil. What if he wins his argument?'

Thomas shrugged. She looked like Nora, he thought. She looked like Nora when she was frightened.

'We should go,' Samantha said, rooting through her purse. She looked up and smiled girlishly. 'I'm barely fit to drive as it is. How about you? You okay?'

'I'll just take a cab home.'

'Home? The day's just beginning, professor. You're coming with me.'

Thomas smiled, more relieved than annoyed. The thought of returning home made him feel hollow. 'You think so, do you?'

'I know so,' she said to her purse. 'You need to tell Shelley all this.'

She stood abruptly and Thomas found himself following. There was something about her manner, a breezy certainty, that demanded he acquiesce. 'Tell me,' she said as they walked to her white Mustang, 'when was the last time you saw Neil Cassidy?'

And like that, the spell was broken. He was just another tool in her investigative kit, he realized, a way of nailing his best friend.

'About six months ago,' he inexplicably replied.

CHAPTER FIVE

August 17th, 1.54 p.m.

The lie nagged him so much the most he could do was stare out the windshield at the flash and glare of passing vehicles. Why hadn't he just told her the truth?

They think he's a serial killer, for Christ's sake!

And Nora was making love to him.

'Where are we going?' he asked numbly.

'Back into the city. To the Field Office.'

'Things will be crazy, I imagine,' he said lamely.

She cocked her head. 'Crazy?'

'You know, with the Chiropractor and all.' In these days of broadband it was rare for anything non-political to rise above the disjointed din of millions pursuing millions of different interests. The niche had become all-powerful. The Chiropractor story was a throwback in a sense, a flashback to the day when sitcoms or murders could provide people a common frame of reference, or at least something to talk about when polite questions gave out.

'Actually things will be quiet,' Sam replied. 'The NYPD's hosting the Chiropractor Task Force.'

Thomas said nothing, stared at two kids in SUNY sweatshirts waiting at a bus stop.

Tell her the truth! Neil's gone off his fucking rocker! You sensed it last night. You just knew something was wrong
. He could see them, Neil and Nora making love. He thought of her little 'yoga trick', the one they would laugh about on Sunday mornings. She had always been so hot, so frank with her lust. He could almost hear her whisper in his ear…

'So goooood… So good, Neil…'

His hands were shaking. He took a deep breath.

Tell her!

Sam was turning right on a street he didn't recognize. 'Are you sure you're okay, professor?'

'Call me Tom,' he replied, ignoring her question. 'Someone, either you or Agent Atta, said you were
certain
that Neil was responsible for what we saw on that BD. How? How do you know?'

His tone had been sharper than he'd intended.

Agent Logan glanced at him apprehensively. 'Ten weeks ago the NSA informed us that a low-level researcher of theirs, a neurologist, had gone AWOL. They gave us his name, his biometric data, and just asked us to keep an eye out, which we did as best we could.'

'Neil? But—'

'You thought he worked at Bethesda.' Sam shook her head.

Thomas
had
been about to say that Neil was far more than a low-level researcher. 'Bethesda was just his cover?'

'Bingo. So anyway, since the matter had been pitched as a potential espionage problem—and a low priority one at that, the case was given to the Counterintelligence Division. A week afterward, the Criminal Investigative Division caught a break in the Theodoros Gyges abduction… Did you ever hear about that?'

'Not much.' Thomas did know about Gyges—everyone did. In his short-lived activist days, Thomas had actually organized a boycott of one of the guy's New Jersey Target stores. 'Just the
Post
headline,' he said. '"Brain-damaged Billionaire," or something like that.'

'Exactly. Missing for two weeks, then he just pops up in Jersey, his head wrapped in bandages. Aside from some disorientation, he seems perfectly fine, until, that is, he's reunited with his wife.'

'What happened?'

'He doesn't recognize her. He remembers her, and everything else, perfectly, but he can't recognize her. According to the report, he demands that she stop impersonating his wife's voice, and when she continues pleading—she
is
his wife, after all—he freaks out and hospitalizes her. Big mess. The media would have loved it if their plates weren't already so full.

'So they run some tests, and it turns out that Gyges can't recognize any faces, not even his own. Creepy stuff.'

'Sounds like some kind of prosopagnosia,' Thomas said. Face blindness had been known since antiquity, but it wasn't until the nineties that damage to the fusiform face area in the visual cortex was identified as the culprit. In his classes, Thomas regularly used it as an example of how the brain was a grab-bag of special purpose devices, not the monolithic soul machine that so many undergraduates assumed it to be. 'I'd like to see the file.'

She flashed him a triumphant grin. 'Welcome to the good guys, professor.' As though unable to repress herself, she reached out to bop her fist against his.

'Anyway,' Sam continued, 'a couple of weeks ago someone in the Counterintelligence Division—I have no idea who—reads about this in the
New York Times
, and immediately draws the connection to their missing neurologist, Neil Cassidy. They send someone up from Washington with Cassidy's picture—'

'Which was useless, of course.'

Sam smiled and wagged a finger. 'Not at all. Like everyone else, the Bureau's up to its elbows in the Great Wetware Revolution. Haven't you read
Time
magazine? It's revolutionized forensics.'

Thomas nodded. 'Lemme guess. You showed Gyges Neil's picture while scanning him with a low-field MRI. The neuronal circuits dealing with facial recognition lit up.'

'Exactly. Gyges's
brain
recognized Cassidy just fine, and in a manner consistent with a traumatic encounter. Just the circuitry relaying this information to his consciousness had been damaged. It turns out that Cassidy isn't quite so clever after all.'

Thomas said nothing. They had no idea whom they were dealing with, he realized.

It is you, isn't it, Neil?

'And that,' Sam continued, 'was when the gears started turning. The Chiropractor investigation was gobbling up resources at every jurisdictional level, so the NYPD brass were only too happy to turn over their ongoing investigation to the Bureau—especially now that it carried a National Security stigma. Shelley, who was the NCAVC coordinator for the ongoing NYPD circus, was made Investigator-in-Charge of our meager Task Force. As it stands now, everything is pretty much ad hoc. Our Department of Justice and State's Attorney advisors are little more than interns, and as far as I know, our public affairs officer is a moonlighter from the Chiropractor Task Force. Our organizational flowchart looks like tossed spaghetti.'

She paused, as though troubled by her own cynicism. 'But we have a suspect, a known subject. Things tend to straighten themselves out when you have a SUB.'

Thomas listened to the
hum-ker-chunk
of wheels over pavement, wondering how it could sound so ancient, so this-is-the-way-it's-always-been. The world beyond the tinted windshields seemed autumn sunny and surreal. Oblivious.

None of this could be happening.
Nora and Neil
.

'It's him, professor,' Sam said softly. 'Neil Cassidy is our man.'

They swept off the entry ramp and merged into traffic. The first I-87 sign that Thomas glimpsed sported a rust-rimmed bullet-hole.

'I just need to check up on the kids,' Thomas said, fishing through his blazer for his palmtop.

He let Mia's phone ring five times. He hung up rather than leave a message.

They're probably out back.

'No luck?' Sam asked, her eyes fixed on the road.

'I seem to be batting a thousand.'

She spared him a mischievous glance. 'Me too.'

Thomas could think of nothing further to say, so he stared at his thumbs for several pointless moments, studied the bruised nail he'd earned playing squash the week before.
Gotta work on those sidewall shots
, he thought inanely.

If Sam found the silence awkward, she didn't show it. She whisked them down the freeway, bobbing in and out of traffic. Thomas found his eyes darting between the digital speedometer and the encapsulated drivers surrounding them. She drove like a veteran commuter, playing slim margins of error in order to slowly advance. She leaned on those slowing her down by riding their ass, and punished those riding her ass by slowing down. She also—intentionally it seemed to Thomas—lingered in others' blindspots.

'You drive like my ex-wife,' Thomas finally remarked.

Sam grinned wickedly. 'She was that good, was she?'

'She was an asshole,' he heard himself snap. 'Could you ease up a bit, you think?'

Sam shot him a blank look. Without warning, she yanked the Mustang behind a rust-laced U-Haul in the right lane, then braked so hard that Thomas's belt locked. For a moment, she seemed to study the van's giant $79.95 decal reflected across the hood of her car. 'You know, professor,' she finally said, 'I've been holding back because I knew you were upset.'

Thomas tried not to look at her. 'No need to pull your punches, Agent Logan. I'm a big boy.'

'There's several things that have me puzzled.'

Thomas's stomach lurched. 'Such as?'

Why did you lie?

'Why did you rush home immediately after speaking with us this morning?'

'I wanted to call Neil. No, I
needed
to call him. To confront him. I thought I had his number at home.'

'Did you?'

Thomas shrugged. 'I couldn't find it.'

'Some close friend.'

'He moved about three months ago,' Thomas explained. 'When he called to give me his new number I wrote it on a scrap of paper. What can I say? I guess I am a bad friend.'

The part about the move was true. At least, Neil had
said
as much. Who knew what was true anymore?

'So why did you rush over to your ex-wife's house immediately after that?'

'Because when I tried calling her for the number, she hung up.'

Stupid thing to say, he realized. They no longer needed warrants for phone records. Ever since the drought, when a cadre of homegrown Islamic extremists had criss-crossed the Southwest setting wildfires, the American public had enthusiastically surrendered their constitutional scruples. Thomas had been all for it back then, watching the parade of hellish landscapes night after night, not to mention the satellite photos, where it seemed the very map of America was being burned. The smoke had reached the high atmosphere, turning several days into crimson nights, even as far away as New York. He had been too young to fully appreciate 9/11, but Burning Hills… It had rattled something deep.

'Hung up, huh?'

Thomas stared hard at her beautiful profile, understanding that she had become Agent Logan again. People were like polarized glass, transparent and opaque by turns. Cooperators one minute, competitors the next.

'Nora thought I was making it up. Your visit. The Blue-ray. She accused me of playing another sadistic head game.'

Sam frowned. 'Why would she think that? Neil's
your
best friend, isn't he? Why would she think you'd make something like that up?'

'My question exactly. I was dumbfounded. Which is why I drove to her place.'

How could it be so easy? How could he just look into her eyes and make shit up? With a kind of numb wonder, he realized that he was actually good at it. The dead look, as though simply reading the script of his memory. The tilt of the head, as though to say,
It sounds strange I know, but what can I do
? For his entire life Thomas had always pegged himself as someone who would choke in clutch situations.

Choke for the truth.

Sam glanced at him apologetically.
Just doing my job
, her eyes said.
Business
…

'When I arrived,' he continued, 'she was more frightened than furious. She thought I was making it up because I'd found out the two of them had… had been… When she told me as much, the shit well and truly hit the fan.'

He knew he sounded convincing. Even so, his chest tightened, his thoughts buzzed. Sooner or later they would interview Nora. After all, she was banging their perp.
I'm fucking myself
.

'Sorry, professor,' Sam said. She looked at him searchingly, as though afraid she had lost something. 'I mean, Tom.'

He nodded as though to reassure her.

When had he developed such a facility for lies?

Everybody's fucking everybody.

Sam spent the rest of the drive into Manhattan briefing Thomas on the details of the Gyges and Powski abductions. Gyges, a retail magnate, had simply never returned from an early morning jog in Central Park. Witnesses reported seeing him chatting to someone in a silver BMW, nothing more. When Thomas asked how it was a billionaire like Gyges would do anything without some kind of security, she replied, 'He was one of
those
guys.'

'What kind of guy is that?'

'You know, the kind of guy who pisses two paces back from the urinal.'

Thomas laughed. 'Because he's got a big dick?'

'No. The exact opposite. Because his dick is small.'

'I'm not sure I understand.'

Sam's smile was dazzling in the sunlight. 'Having a small dick is one thing. Not giving a damn about it is something different altogether. Broadcast your weaknesses, and people think you strong.'

'Or,' Thomas added, 'that you suffer delusions of penile grandeur.'

Sam cackled. 'That describes most men I know.'

Cynthia Powski, 'Cream' of Vivid Digital fame, had disappeared in the parking lot of her luxury condominium complex after visiting 'friends'. No witnesses. The lot security cameras had been knocked out by supposed vandals the previous night. They knew she made it to the parking lot—or at least they thought they knew—because her Porsche was parked the way she always parked it, kitty-corner across two spots. They knew she never made it to her condo because of her boyfriend, whom the Escondido authorities had considered their prime suspect until the BD arrived in Quantico.

Though Thomas listened patiently, and even asked several pointed questions, dozens of worries and recriminations bubbled through his thoughts. After teaching for so many years, he'd found he could listen to, even answer, his students' questions while remaining entirely distracted. He never realized just how functionally distracted he could be until his divorce. How many anti-Nora zingers had he hatched while explaining this or that staple psychological concept to his class?

Special Agent Samantha Logan talked and he listened, all the while wracking his brains.