Placebo (23 page)

Two cracked ribs. Neither serious.

The ER doctor and the radiologist both interpret the X-rays the same way. It's a welcome piece of good news in the sea of an otherwise dark and turbulent day.

Rest and time would help me heal. And that sounded a lot better to me than dealing with a pierced lung.

We proceed quickly to Tanbyrn's room.

Even though Pine Lake is a small town, with the news of a Nobel laureate nearly dying in a purposely set fire, it's no surprise that the national media is already camped outside the hospital doing live feeds. Thankfully, the sheriff's department has kept them from getting through the doors.

At the room, Deputy Jacobs, the mustached cop who'd gone through Banner's pockets when I led him and two of his fellow officers to Banner's body, is standing sentry outside the door.

At first I'm a little surprised to see him stationed here, but considering the fact that this crime spree involved arson, at least one homicide, and possibly eleven others by the same person or team of people, the extra security made perfect sense.

Deputy Jacobs gives us a nod as we approach and anticipates what we came for. “He slipped into a coma.”

What?
Charlene mouths.

A silent nod.

“Is it possible we could see him?” she asks.

“I'm afraid not. They don't want him disturbed.”

“How would we disturb him if he's in a coma?”

Jacobs has no answer for that.

“It's possible that he's aware of what's going on, that he needs to have someone reassure him—”

“I'm sorry, that's—”

Charlene folds her arms. “Can you imagine what it would be like if you were lying there and part of your brain was aware of how alone you were, how hopeless your situation was, and no one was there to comfort you? How do we know for sure that's not the case?”

Deputy Jacobs isn't up for a fight tonight. “I suppose it can't hurt. I'll go in with you. But just for a couple minutes; I don't want the docs walking in on us.”

“I'll stay here in the hall,” Xavier offers, “and knock if I see any doctors coming.”

Inside the room, we find Tanbyrn lying motionless on the bed, the blankets tucked neatly around him, leaving the outline of his slight frame sketched beneath the covers. Only his head and arms are visible. He's on a ventilator and has tubes running into his arms, and all of this makes him look vulnerable, frail, and smaller than he really is. The subtle hum of hospital machinery and the lemony scent of antiseptic fill the air.

The room has only dimmed lights and the generic, nondescript feel of hospital rooms everywhere.

I think of how many people die in these generic rooms and how tragic that is. A whole life of uniqueness and individuality funneled down into a room that's interchangeable with a hundred thousand others just like it all around the country.

Feel-good movies will tell you, “Pursue your dreams,” or “Follow
your heart and everything will work out in the end,” or “Love conquers all,” or some other cliché that sounds good at first but doesn't stand up to reality, to the way things really are.

Because dreams don't always come true.

And following your heart sometimes only leads you deeper into despair.

And love doesn't conquer all. Death does. Like it did with Rachel and the boys. Death won. Death always wins in the end.

We approach the bed.

I have no idea if Dr. Tanbyrn can hear me or not, but I tell him, “We got the man who started the fire.” I doubt that talking about anyone dying is the best thing to do at the moment, so I leave out the news about Banner's death and Abina's murder.

Charlene sits beside the bed and takes Dr. Tanbyrn's hand. “You're going to be okay.”

Considering his condition, I'm not sure she should be telling him that, but truthfully, when she does the words sound so heartfelt and confident that I almost believe they'll come true.

Positive thoughts. Remember, they make a difference.

And prayers.

Thoughts and prayers.

Even though I wish we could ask him about Project Alpha, I'm at least reassured that we have a plan, that we're on our way to—

A series of knuckle raps on the door from Xavier tells us that there's a doctor on his way to the room.

“We should go,” Deputy Jacobs tells us quietly.

I assure Tanbyrn that we're going to find out who was behind everything. Charlene gives him a light kiss on the forehead and tells him she'll be praying for him, then we slip out of the room, meet up with Xavier, and leave to retrieve our things from the center so we can make it to Portland by the time our plane lands to pick us up.

Riah did not find herself sad that the three men in the video had been killed in the explosion, but she did find their deaths to be unfortunate and untimely in the sense that the men probably had more things they would've liked to accomplish before they died.

Possibly, but they were planning a suicide attack, after all.

In either case, other than acknowledging that a premature death might not have been on their agenda for the day, Riah felt no sorrow or pity or grief.

It was her condition, her curse.

Her reality.

However, she couldn't help but remain curious about Malik's wife, the woman who would now be forced to fend for herself in a male-dominated, patriarchal society, and Malik's daughter, the fourteen-year-old girl who would now have to grow up without her father. Riah guessed that the girl had loved him and wondered what she was going through.

What would that be like? To grieve the death of a loved one?

Would the Afghan girl see her father as a hero who'd died for his beliefs, or as a coward who chose to escape a harsh life and slip into paradise, leaving his wife and daughter living on the hellish outskirts of a war zone?

Riah thought back to when she was that girl's age, to the days when her father first started tying her to the bed and having his way with her. What if she'd loved him and then he had died? How would that've felt? Or what if she'd hated him instead? Would she have celebrated?

But he had not died.

Instead he was living in a decrepit farmhouse in the middle of Louisiana. Riah's little sister, Katie, was still alive too, was on her third marriage, rented a squalid little apartment in San Diego, had three kids, and hadn't spoken with her since their mother's funeral.

Their mother had fallen down the basement stairs six months ago and broken her neck when her head hit the concrete floor.

The coroner labeled her death “accidental.” Riah's father had been
home at the time, and Riah thought that it was at least as likely that after decades of physically abusing his wife, he'd pushed her down the stairs or smashed her head in and then shoved her body down the steps to make it look like an accident, but there was no way to prove his involvement one way or the other.

But regardless of the circumstances regarding her mother's death, Riah knew that her father was a guilty man, guilty for what he had done to his daughter.

Or daughters.

She had her suspicions, but never could get Katie to tell her if their father had done the same things to her.

Riah knew that someday she would visit him and discuss the fact that he had not treated his children in an honorable manner, discuss it in a way that he would understand.

She was confident she could come up with something unforgettable.

But now, tonight, she went to bed thinking about Malik's daughter, about watching that fourteen-year-old girl's father explode.

Tomorrow morning she would be meeting with the twins to find out what role her research had played in that man's death, in that fourteen-year-old girl's loss.

And, presumably, based on what Darren had said to her in the conference room, what her role might be in killing even more fathers just like him.

The drive to Portland goes surprisingly quickly, and Xavier, Charlene, and I find the Gulfstream 550 waiting for us on the tarmac.

The pilot, a fortyish woman with golden retriever eyes and an enigmatic pair of pigtails, introduces herself as Captain Amy Fontaine. The copilot is a quiet, slightly overweight man named Jason Sherill.

Our flight attendant, a young Indian gentleman who speaks with only a faint Indian accent, tells us he is Amil and is at our service.

We shake hands, give them our names, and take our seats in the jet's cabin.

Though the price tag for this flight isn't cheap, I've used this company before, and as I look around the jet, I'm reminded that I'm getting my money's worth. The cabin is ultra high-end, elegant—swiveling, reclining captain's chair seats, four flat-screen televisions, not to mention the individual monitors for each seat. A couch sits at the back of the plane near the galley and restroom.

Xavier stows a duffle bag full of his toys. He winks at me. “You never know what tricks you're going to need up your sleeve.”

“No, you don't.”

“I have a few things here I've been working on.”

“What are those?”

“Oh, well, you see, that's a surprise, Petunia.”

I stare at him.

“Charlene filled me in.”

“Great.”

As Captain Fontaine pulls the plane onto the runway, Amil informally gives us the required preflight information—apart from the senseless instructions about powering down your phones and electronic devices. “If it were even remotely possible that your electronic devices could affect the navigation of an airplane during takeoff or landing, do you really think the FAA would allow you to bring the items on board?” He almost slips into a stand-up routine. “Can you imagine a jet crashing and they find out that the cause was someone forgetting to turn off his noise-canceling headphones? My friends, you could run a cell phone kiosk next to the cockpit and have an MRI machine stationed in the back of this cabin, and it wouldn't affect the navigation of a plane one bit.”

I liked Amil already.

We take off, and as we break through the clouds, I see the final glimpse of sunlight fading along the edge of the sky. I can't help but think of all that has happened since the sun went down yesterday evening: the fight in the chamber, the test this morning, escaping the fire, seeing Abina's body, watching Glenn Banner die at my feet.

It feels like a lifetime has passed since the last sunset.

Like a dream.

But it's real.

The pain and death and questions, all real.

My thoughts float back to my nightmare last night about seeing my wife and sons drown. How I felt. How helpless. How terrified.

Needless to say, I'm not too excited about going to sleep now, on the plane.

In the waking world, when you're haunted by the past or troubled by the present or nervous about the future, you can distract yourself—go for a run, watch a movie, check your email—but when you're asleep
and you're facing something terrifying, you can't turn away, can't even close your eyes and pretend it's not happening.

In a sense, I guess, we're powerless to escape our dreams. We're forced to live them out, forced to watch whatever our haunted past wants to throw in front of us. Even though we may know it's not real.

Cyrus made his decision.

He slipped quietly to the garage, careful not to wake his faithful, innocent, and rather oblivious wife.

The more he'd thought about it, the more he'd realized it would be best not to wait until morning to deal with the situation with Tanbyrn.

He backed the Jag out of the driveway, pulled onto the silent, deserted street.

Over the last nine months, Cyrus had explored every avenue available to him for clearing the way for his research concerning the release of the new telomere cap. During that time he'd considered the broad-reaching implications of Dr. Tanbyrn's research on quantum entanglement and its connection to human relationships, its connection both in positive ways and in negative ones.

Cyrus was a man of science, but if there was one thing quantum physics was teaching us, it was this: there is not always a scientific explanation for what happens in the world. Logic evaporates when you reach the subatomic level. Reality is much more malleable than it seems.

He wasn't sure he believed in Mambo Atabei's practices, but he had seen some things in her ceremonies that he couldn't reasonably explain. Based on Tanbyrn's research, there were scientific reasons, matters of quantum entanglement, that might have been able to explain some of the effects, but that seemed to Cyrus to be a bit of a stretch.

Admittedly, he was somewhat embarrassed by his forays into this field, but when tens of billions of dollars were at stake, it was worth a little unorthodox dabbling.

He had a relatively good relationship with the Haitian woman, and he speculated that she might just be able to help if he gave her a big enough donation.

Guiding the Jag down the street, he aimed it toward South Philly. Toward the high priestess's house.

After we level off, Amil offers us caviar hors d'oeuvres and wine in tall, fluted glasses.

Xavier takes out his button camera and puts it on. When he sees me looking at him curiously, he explains, “We were supposed to be filming a documentary. You never know what kind of footage we're going to need. We may end up with a film yet. Don't worry, I'll be unobtrusive.” Then he asks Amil if he has any cheese, crescenza if possible, and Amil looks at him blankly.

“We have some cheddar in the back, sir.”

“That'll do.”

Amil passes us to get to the refrigerator in the back of the cabin.

I suggest to Xavier and Charlene that we review what we know, make a game plan for the rest of the night, and they swivel their chairs toward me.

Charlene flips open her computer, positions it on her tray table. I ready my iPad. Xavier produces his pen and journal.

“So,” I begin, “here's what we know. Fact: RixoTray Pharmaceuticals funded a research program that focused on the quantum entanglement of people's consciousness and its effect on the physiology of partners who have a deep emotional relationship.”

Xavier summarizes the research of Tanbyrn in one simple, succinct phrase: “The entanglement of love.” He looks at me slyly. Then at Charlene.

Uh-uh. We are not even going to go there.

“Fact,” I go on, “a pair of men, twins known only to us as ‘L' and ‘N' who are special in some way, would fly in, meet with Tanbyrn,
and fly out. We still don't know what the tests consisted of, only that they had to do with the negative effects of something.”

“And with alpha waves,” Xavier adds, then graciously accepts an elegant platter of sliced cheddar from Amil. “Directing them. Focusing them.”

“Yes.”

“Fact”—he takes a bite of his cheese—“Glenn Banner killed the young woman at the center and started the place on fire. Motive still unclear.”

Charlene is typing as she tracks along.

“Fact,” he continues, “Banner's cell phone was used to contact Cyrus Arlington, the CEO of RixoTray Pharmaceuticals. Also, Banner had a passcode with him that led Fionna to get past the firewall and into Arlington's personal computer.”

At that, Charlene pauses, lets her fingers hover over the keyboard. “Which brings us to the video. One of the people from a terrorist cell was recording and transmitting footage of another cell member putting on a suicide vest. The vest—by the way, Xavier, you knew what language they were speaking. Do you know Arabic?”

“I can identify it, can't speak it. I once worked for a Middle Eastern singer in Las Vegas.”

“Well, the vest detonates . . . where does that leave us?”

I sigh. “Square one.”

She glances at me. “Square one?”

“We have a collection of facts and interrelationships but no
why
behind them. No motive. Why was RixoTray funding Tanbyrn's research? Why have Banner burn down the Lawson research building? Why was one of the terrorists filming and transmitting the video? Why was Banner in touch with Arlington? Why was Arlington watching the video? Why is the Pentagon interested in any of this?”

Xavier adds, “And how does Dr. Riah Colette fit into the mix?”

“And who is Akinsanya?” Charlene chimes in.

“Right. A pile of whys, one big how, and one big who.”

A moment passes. Xavier takes another bite of cheese. Chews. Swallows. “By the way,” he asks me, “did you ever review the footage you got when you were taking the test at the center?”

“No. Do you think that still matters?”

“Probably wouldn't hurt to have a look at it. Stick it on a jump drive and I'll glance it over.”

I'm reminded of Banner's watch and I retrieve it from my carry-on bag, explain to Xavier how I got it.

“I don't think we need prints anymore. Looks like you got yourself a new watch, bro.”

“Looks like I do.” I slip it on. It looks good.

“So . . .” I type in a few notes myself. “I know we all need some sleep, but let's see if we can make a little progress before we reach Chicago. Xavier, could you follow up with your friends about Project Alpha and Star Gate?”

“Sure.”

“Banner warned me about someone named Akinsanya, that he would find me. Let's see if anything about Akinsanya or this video has been leaked to the internet or to any of the conspiracy theorist circles.”

“Gotcha.”

I glance at Charlene. “You still have the notes that Fionna dug up earlier, right?”

“Sure.”

“Why don't you go through them and see if you can find out more about the telomerase research or the EEG research. If you have time, go online and pull up what you can on Drs. Riah Colette and Cyrus Arlington.”

“Check.”

“I'm going to study Tanbyrn's books and look for anything related to the negative effects of mind-to-mind communication.”

Then we turn our chairs from each other and get started with our work as we head east, toward a new day.