Placebo (5 page)

I hear the shower running in the bathroom.

Charlene had asked me to fill her in, so now I look over a two-sentence summary of quantum physics: “The observer's intentions and expectations about reality actually affect the outcome of reality. Without the observer the quantum wave function never collapses.” Admittedly, the collapsing quantum wave was a concept I needed a little more time to really grasp.

As far as I could understand it, quantum physicists claimed that since possibilities do not become reality without conscious observation, matter could not exist without consciousness. So, according to Dr. Tanbyrn, philosophers ask, “If a tree falls in the forest and there's no one to hear it, does it make any sound?” but physicists are forced to ask, “If there's no one there to observe the tree fall, does it even exist?”

As he writes:

Our universe is both a puzzle and an answer, both a mystery and an adventure. From the earliest explorations of the human mind to probing the mysteries of existence, we as a species have always been question-askers. And now, with the advancement of quantum physics, the answers we find only produce more profound questions about what is happening on the subatomic level of the universe.

Remarkably, none of the explanations used to explain the activity of subatomic particles has been proven. Not M-theory, superstring theory, the multiverse. Basically, in understanding quantum physics, you need to remember that scientists still don't understand the nature of life, that although they can test how energy reacts under different circumstances, they still don't really understand what it is.

In some quarters it's even debated whether quantum physics should be considered science or a field of metaphysics.

My mind is spinning, not only because of the mystical-sounding quantum theories I'm reading, but also, admittedly, at the thought of Charlene showering in the next room over. I try to concentrate on the intricate concepts of the book, but the sound of the running water and the knowledge of who it's washing over is a little too distracting.

Hoping to divert my thoughts, I step outside.

Clouds have rolled in. The evening is cool. Jacket weather.

A light mist touches the air.

Almost dark.

I read for a few more minutes but can still hear the water running inside the cabin, so I take out my cell and go on a walk to check if I can get a signal and to see if the files Fionna was going to send me have arrived.

Two miles away

Glenn Banner did not think of himself as an assassin.

Yes, he had killed people, eleven so far, and always in the name of money, but still, when he thought of assassins, he pictured slick, highly paid professionals who hide on rooftops, snap ten-thousand-dollar rifles together, take out opposition-party political figures, and then, fake passport in hand, melt into the crowd on their way to another country to lie low for a couple weeks before their next hit.

When Glenn thought of an assassin, he didn't think of a guy who
worked most days as a mechanic, a guy who was just trying to make ends meet, a divorced dad who was doing the best he knew to put food on the table and have enough cash left over to spend some time with his daughter on weekends. Mary Beth was six and lived with her mother and her stepfather two miles from Glenn's mobile home that lay on the outskirts of Seattle.

No, he didn't think of himself as an assassin.

But none of that changed what he was.

Lots of people had unsavory jobs they needed done, and that's where Glenn came in. Sometimes it meant getting compromising photos of someone, or scaring off an ex-spouse, or beating some sense into a young punk who wouldn't leave a guy's daughter alone. Small jobs really, but they were the sort of thing Glenn was good at, and they helped pay the bills.

But two years ago he'd moved up the food chain.

Toward more permanent solutions.

Yes, he looked more like the guy who lives down the block than he did a professional problem solver, but his low visibility was part of what made him so good at what he did. He was truly gifted at playing the role of a neighbor who enjoyed a few smokes with his friends, drank a few Buds on the weekends, and always bought his little six-year-old princess a toy from a truck stop on the way back from his assignments.

But truthfully, to him she wasn't a little princess. The kid was just a set piece in the life he was acting out. In the bigger game he was playing. But she served his purpose of creating sympathy among the people he knew, and that was reason enough to put up with spending time with her.

He parked the car at the edge of the county road that made a circuit around the center's sprawling campus.

He didn't want to drive onto the property, so he'd decided earlier to access it by hiking through the surrounding old-growth forest.

Tonight—collect the information that he could use against his
employers. Tomorrow—solve the problem, pick up his paycheck, then blackmail the people who'd hired him.

No, he didn't think of himself as an assassin. He was just a guy heading off to work in a job that happened to be somewhat messy.

He made sure he had his knife—a 170 mm blade, Nieto Olivo series—with him just in case. After all, as the saying goes, “Chance favors the prepared mind.” Then Glenn began picking his way through the dying daylight that was filtering through the forest around him.

Though he was trying to keep his voice low, Riah heard Cyrus wrapping up his phone call: “Yes, we have a man in the area . . . He's good, he'll take care of everything . . . No, of course . . . Alright. I'll be there within the hour . . . Yes. By tomorrow afternoon it won't be a problem . . . And the video is on its way. You'll be impressed with the results.”

An intriguing end to the conversation.

He said goodbye, hung up, and turned toward Riah. His eyes landed on the cloth doll she was still holding. “We've come a long way since then.” He gestured toward it. “Shamanism, witchcraft, sorcery. Voodoo.”

She turned it over in her hands. Studied the punctured eyes. “Some people still believe in those things. How was London?”

“Wet. Dreary. Tedious. And yes, I know.”

“You know?”

“That some people still believe in those things. I saw a voodoo ceremony myself while I was in Haiti. A bit troubling, if you ask me. The whole goal is for the participants to get possessed.”

“By a Loa.”

He seemed surprised that she knew. “Yes.”

“They call it being ‘ridden,' as if the spirit was the rider and the person was the horse.”

“You've done your homework.”

Riah considered what type of response to give him, what a normal woman might say, then asked, “Why do you keep this thing around anyway? It's kind of creepy.”

“To remember the trip, of course, but also to remind myself that superstition is erased by science. The more we advance in medicine, the less we need to believe in the supernatural. I didn't expect you tonight.”

She strolled toward the bookshelf. “Is it a problem that I'm here?”

“No, I . . . No.” But his body language told her that perhaps it was.

She placed the voodoo doll back on the shelf and considered how he thought, how she could play off that to get what she wanted. “I can leave. If that's what you'd like.”

He seemed to consider that, then said, “No. Stay.”

He came toward her, kissed her. She kept her eyes open while he did, studying his face as he pressed his lips against hers. Though she'd learned over the years to kiss in a way that turned men on, and did so now, she felt nothing—no attraction, no repulsion, no excitement. It was as if he were an object to her, a lab specimen. She knew that thinking about him in this way would not have been considered by most people to be healthy, but although she desperately wanted to, she didn't know how to think about her lovers in any other way.

At last, as he pulled away, she decided to try something that might convince him that he would want to spend the night with her. She lifted his right hand, kissed his index finger, then trailed it across her cheek down her neck, around the fringed neckline of her dress, and brought it back, touched it lightly to her tongue. She let her lips pucker to greet the moist tip of his finger. A light kiss, yes, but she had the feeling it would be terribly seductive and exciting to him.

She let go of his hand, and Cyrus let it linger beside her lips for a moment, then lowered it slowly to his side.

He took a deep breath to collect himself, then looked at his watch. “I do have a meeting in forty-five minutes.”

“Forty-five minutes? That's plenty of time.”

“Well, actually, I need to leave now to get there. It's at the R&D facility.”

When she'd first applied for her job, she hadn't understood why RixoTray had built its research and development complex thirty minutes away, just outside of Bridgeport, but the more she'd thought about it, the more it made sense: keep the facility isolated, at least a little ways, from any terrorist threats to the country's fifth largest city, the one that held more symbols of freedom and independence than any other, the city that was known as the birthplace of modern democracy.

After all, if you were an Islamic terrorist group trying to strike at the heart of the Great Satan, you might choose New York City, the financial capital of the West, or Washington DC, the political capital of America, or LA, the home of the entertainment industry that spreads all those corrupt Western ideas around the world. Or you might choose Philly, the historical symbol of democracy. And since your people had already dramatically attacked NY and DC and targeted LAX, that left Philadelphia as a primary target. It was just a matter of time.

She looked at Cyrus, responded to his comment about the meeting by asking the natural question: “At this time of night?”

“It's with Daniel and Darren.”

Well, that made sense. The twins didn't exactly keep normal office hours. “I thought they were in Oregon?”

“We flew them in earlier today.”

Earlier today. She hadn't heard. “I'll come.”

“No, that won't be necessary.”

“I'm the principal investigator on the project. I'm the one who implanted the electrodes. I should have been told the two of them were back.”

He was quiet.

She put a hand lovingly on the side of his neck. “I'll join you, then you can join me at my place. Actually, that's why I came here, to invite you to a sleepover.”

He considered that. “A sleepover.”

“Mm-hmm. It'll be fun.” She sat on his desk and crossed her legs, making the most of the slit in her dress. “I have some new outfits to wear. A few sleepover games I thought we could play.” She could tell he was definitely interested now.

Riah handed him the phone receiver from his desk. “Call your wife. Tell her you just got sent out of town on an urgent business trip. Something pressing that can't wait.” In his position as CEO, it wasn't an unusual occurrence, and they'd used this excuse to their advantage before.

She waited for him to finish lying to his wife, then led him out of the building to the parking garage. She knew where his Jaguar would be and figured she could pick up her car tomorrow morning when they returned to his office.

They slipped into the Jag.

And took off to see the twins.

No phone reception, not even one bar, not even enough of a signal to send a text.

Since the sun has dipped below the tree line, I click on the porch light and take a seat on the swing that overlooks the sweeping valley of tall, long-shadowed Douglas firs to wait for Charlene. The main research building lies somewhere across campus on the border of these trees.

After taking a little time to study the map Serenity had given us of the grounds, I scan the chapter on quantum entanglement that I read yesterday, jotting a few notes so I can summarize it for Charlene.

When I look up, I see that all the light has drained from the forest, and I can feel a growing twitch of excitement about our little foray into the research center. However, despite my anticipation, I can also feel myself getting uneasy about the thought of entering, even for a few moments, the Faraday cage.

When Charlene joins me on the porch, she has changed clothes but is still toweling off her hair.

She gestures toward the book I'm holding. “Learn anything new?”

“A couple things, yeah. I'll tell you on the way.”

“I've been wondering . . . You don't think there'll be security?”

“It's possible. We'll use the back entrance on the lower level, the one by the woods. According to the info Fionna pulled up last week, it should be clear, but if we see any guards or security cameras, we'll bail.”

I take the key card that I'd lifted from the front desk, a flashlight, and my friendly neighborhood lock-pick set just in case I'll need it, secretly hoping that I will. After all these years of practice, I can get through most locks in less than fifteen seconds. Most handcuffs in less than nine. It's a private game I play—always going for the record.

Charlene grabs the RF jammer and heart rate monitor and we leave for the research facility.

Glenn came to the edge of the property. He'd been prudent with the use of his flashlight and was confident no one had seen him moving through the forest.

There was no fence to scale, so after getting his bearings, he turned his flashlight off, quietly walked through a dark channel in the woods, and emerged on one of the walking trails that led down the mountain toward the main campus.

The night is cool and damp, a mountain night.

With the cloud cover, there's no moonlight, no stars to guide us. However, pools of hazy light escape from the windows of some of the buildings, and there are enough outdoor lamps mounted on the posts that parallel the walking paths for us to easily follow the meandering trail.

Charlene is close beside me, and I summarize the information I'd read at the cabin about the basics of quantum theory. “According to the Copenhagen interpretation, without measurement—that is, observation—a quantum system remains in an undetermined state of existence.”

“An undetermined state of existence . . .” She mulls that over. “So, you're saying that reality isn't determined yet, so—what? Objective reality doesn't exist?”

“Quantum physicists would say that's right, at least not in the way we normally think of it. Unobserved reality exists, just in a fuzzy state of flux that they call a state of quantum uncertainty.”

“A fuzzy state of flux?”

“Well, yes, but they say ‘quantum uncertainty.' Sounds more scientific. Anyway, it doesn't stop there. The Copenhagen interpretation also states that upon observation, the quantum system collapses. In other words, it's forced into becoming one of its possible states—which basically refers to how it manifests itself. It's a little confusing.”

“But how does it know which state to manifest into?”

“The intentions and expectations of the observer determine it.”

While she chews on that, I mentally review the map of the grounds. There are more than two dozen buildings, including cabins, a retreat building, conference and dining facilities, a prayer garden, and a meditation chalet. It seems that whoever designed this place did his best to include everything a New Age devotee could want. One-stop shopping for spiritual seekers.

And of course, there was the research facility on the west side of the campus, the one founded by Thomas Lawson and now run by Dr. Tanbyrn.

The one we were heading to.

We pass the prayer garden and Charlene rubs her chin. “We're talking about subatomic particles, though, right? So how can a photon know the thoughts or intentions of the scientist observing it?”

“That's a good question. Physicists don't really have an answer to that.”

“So, according to quantum physics, reality as we know it doesn't exist, and somehow subatomic particles can figure out when you're looking at them and form into what you anticipate you're going to see.”

“Pretty much.”

“And no one knows why or how any of this works.”

“Exactly.”

“Science sure has come a long way since Democritus.”

Her hint of sarcasm isn't lost on me. Actually, I'm on the same page. “And here's something else: if you don't know where a particle is, you need to understand that it could be in any of its possible states or locations and treat it that way.”

“Okay.”

We come to a looming stand of trees, dark pillars on the fringe of light from one of the ornate streetlights sporadically positioned along the path.

“But,” I go on, “you have to treat the particle as if it's in every one of those—at the same time.”

“But it's not.”

“It might be. Actually, it is.”

“You're confusing me.”

“Welcome to the club. And then you've got time and gravity and they basically muck everything up. With quantum states, there really is no past, present, or future. Physicists can't understand why we're not able to remember the future.”

“Are you serious?”

“Yeah, and if you use quantum mechanics to do the calculations, gravity shouldn't exist in the weak state that it does.”

“How's gravity weak?”

I pick up a stick. “See? Gravity should hold this down. I'm able to overcome the gravitational force of the entire planet.”

“Huh. I never thought of it like that.”

“Gravity is the least understood force in nature and seems to be incompatible with quantum measurement, which has really bugged scientists for the last eighty years. And that brings us to superstring theory and the search for the grand unified theory—”

“Okay, okay.” She's beginning to sound exasperated. “But what does any of this have to do with the research they're doing here?”

“Well, from what I can tell, it's related to how particles act when you separate them. They're somehow connected, or entangled, in a way physicists can't really explain.”

“Surprise, surprise.”

“Right, well, if you split a particle and do something to one of the halves—say, change the orientation of an electron—the other half will instantaneously respond the same way.”

A pause. “Go on.”

“And they do this even if they're in different parts of the laboratory, or the planet, or the universe.”

“That doesn't even make sense.”

“Not when you think in terms of three or four dimensions, but the math of quantum mechanics leads physicists to postulate that there have to be at least nine or ten dimensions, probably eleven. As well as an infinite number of parallel universes.”

“Of course. Parallel universes. Why not. And why stop at a few? An infinite number is so much more reasonable.”

“My thoughts exactly.”

We pass the dining hall. The research facility isn't far.

Rather than have the sterile, institutional appearance of a hospital or university research center, the building is constructed of beautiful pine logs and, in the trail's lights, has the look and feel of an Alaskan lodge.

Charlene looks at me. “So if I'm hearing you right, the particles might be separated by space—could be light-years apart—but somehow they're still interconnected?”

“Physicists typically call it nonlocality, or quantum entanglement.”

“And that's what the study tomorrow is about. Only this time involving people.”

“It looks like it. Yes.”

“To see if people who are in love are somehow entangled?”

As we continue down the path, one confound I'd only briefly considered earlier comes to mind: in these studies, the results depend on the subjects being in love, or at least having a deep emotional connection with each other, but Charlene and I were only pretending to be lovers. If there really was anything to the test, that relational dynamic would inevitably affect the results.

I contemplate how the relationship of the participants to each other could possibly alter the outcome, and decide I'll try my best tomorrow to follow the test procedures in order to find out.

We leave the trail, skirt along the edge of the woods, and meet up with the path to the lower level of the research facility's exit door.

There are no visible video surveillance cameras, but to be prudent, as we approach the door we keep our heads down, faces hidden.

The key card reader has a number pad beside it. Serenity hadn't written down a password, and I'm not sure what I'll do if there is one.

I slip the card into the reader, and thankfully, the indicator light immediately switches from red to green. I hear a soft buzz and the door clicks open.

Nice.

“Here we go,” I tell Charlene.

Then, snapping on my flashlight, I lead her into the building.