Quantum

by Patricia Cornwell

  Choosing not to share this with Dick yet, I’m obsessed with sending Fran a text, clueing her in that the alleged suicide is growing more disturbing by leaps and bounds. But it will have to wait. I don’t dare touch my phone right now, giving my former commander my complete attention as he explains that Noah Bishop was at Woody’s Halloween night. And for some reason Carme decided to get in his face in the parking lot.

  “This isn’t what I heard,” I reluctantly reply, and a part of me doesn’t want to know the truth. “I’m not aware she started it, and that the confrontation was with the guy and not his girlfriend. The way I heard it, he kept hitting on Carme until she put him in his place verbally. Telling him to back off . . . Only knowing my sister, those weren’t her words . . . At which point the girlfriend walked up . . . Well, I think you know the rest.”

  But Dick isn’t about to indicate what he knows or doesn’t.

  “Supposedly the girlfriend then lit into Carme, never a smart thing to do . . .” I don’t bother finishing what I’m saying, already knowing that’s not how events unfolded.

  It sounds contrived as I hear myself repeat what Carme told me when I eventually asked. In fact, it sounds so poorly scripted that I halfway wonder if my sister was pulling my leg or mocking me with such a confabulation. I say nothing more, waiting for Dick’s response, and not getting one. We sit quietly, just the sound of the gusting wind.

  Staring out at the bare branches of pecan trees and crape myrtles lining the sidewalk, thrashing and grabbing at the air like claws. The black sky thick with fog and clouds.

  “I get it. That’s not how it went down,” I break the silence.

  “It wouldn’t appear so,” he answers. “Not that we know much except witnesses saw Noah drive away after the confrontation.”

  “And Carme?”

  “For a while she was inside drinking beer with her team,” he says. “But she didn’t leave with them, apparently called a ride-sharing service, was seen being driven away in the front seat of a white Jeep Cherokee.”

  “Someone driving his personal car for hire, and I’m always telling her I wish she wouldn’t do that. She shouldn’t be sitting in front either. But you know how she is.”

  “I’m not sure what you’re saying,” Dick replies, and he’s fishing again.

  “I’m saying she’s never been the worrier I am, and I’m not telling you anything new. Carme’s afraid of nothing. And nothing’s going to hurt her, isn’t that the way she is? And that’s only gotten worse.”

  “Since when?”

  “Last spring, I started noticing things were getting a little more out of bounds with her.” I find discussing all this acutely uncomfortable, and I look away from him, out my side window. “Everything at a higher pitch, a higher volume, at times more ramped up than I’ve seen her.”

  I lower the fan at the distant sound of a dog barking and baying somewhere in the dark, and I open my window a crack, listening.

  “Did you ask her about it?” Dick says, and I can feel his eyes on me, watching carefully.

  “You know how that goes. Everyone notices a change except the person involved.” I’m aware of the redwood paling around the back of the guest house next door, and nearby, the big boxy shape of a backup generator.

  No lights on, dark as pitch all around, and I listen to the dog going at it frantically. Could be a beagle or some kind of hound, and I hope it’s simply outside on a quick potty break. No domesticated pet would fare well in these temperatures.

  As Dick is saying, “Then she was unaware her behavior seemed different.”

  “When I’ve brought it up, she’s defensive about it. As indelicate as it is to say, I even wondered if something’s going on with her hormones. Or her thyroid. Or something else chemical.”

  “When people are defensive,” Dick says, “usually that indicates some degree of awareness. What the hell is that dog barking about?”

  “And why is it outside in this weather . . . ?” The words no sooner are out of my mouth than the barking stops. “There, thank goodness,” waiting, listening.

  Not a peep, and I roll up my window.

  “Has the driver in the white Cherokee been questioned?” I get back to that. “And what about a plate number and security cameras? When Noah Bishop left earlier, are we sure he was alone? We sure he wasn’t followed? Or surveilled?”

  “This isn’t something we’ll get into now, but he definitely drove off alone,” Dick says. “There was no girlfriend with him that night or probably any night. I don’t believe he’s into girls. Or was. Security cameras at the hotel show he didn’t return, and he hasn’t been heard from since.”

  “And that was a little more than a month ago.”

  “Affirmative.”

  “How is it something like this hasn’t been in the news?” I’m not sure I believe it.

  Most upsetting and inexplicable is why my sister felt she couldn’t tell the truth. Why would she hide that the so-called redneck dude hitting on her was gay and has since vanished in thin air? I don’t understand why she would misrepresent the facts. As close as we’ve always been, finishing each other’s sentences, thinking the other’s thoughts, sensing moods and events no matter how far apart. Since when does she feel a need to deceive me?

  “It’s not been in the news because it would be most unhelpful,” Dick says as if it’s that simple. “Noah is someone of interest for a number of reasons, and was before this happened. Before he disappeared.”

  The way Dick says it makes me feel he’s personally acquainted with this man. And I find myself picking up one of those sotto voce vibes that I get all the time, another quirk that’s best left unexplained to almost everyone. But I sense a powerful undercurrent of truth that will reveal itself in time if I’m patient and pay close attention. If I use my head and focus. If I refuse to feel what I feel. Which is mostly pain and pure dread.

  “Whatever’s happened to Noah Bishop,” I decide, “well, I certainly hope he’s all right. And what I can’t help but wonder is if it might be possible he chose to disappear?”

  “Anything’s possible,” Dick gives me another non-answer.

  “Where is he from originally besides the UK?”

  “London, a graduate of Oxford, dual US and UK citizenship, living in Los Angeles for the past 15 years. That’s where he was visiting from when he encountered Carme at the restaurant. Worked out of Pandora’s facility on the West Coast. But the headquarters is in Houston, and they also have offices in DC, London, Buenos Aires, Singapore, and so on.”

  “I know they’re extremely competitive,” I reply. “Well on their way to being a serious contender with behemoths like SpaceX, Blue Origin, Virgin Galactic.”

  “Noah was working out of the West Coast plant, where much of the autonomous vehicle research and assemblage is done. They’re also completing a launch complex north of Santa Barbara, in addition to exploring the use of Wallops Island for East Coast launches, which you may have heard about.”

  “I’ve not heard much,” I reply. “They do a good job of staying out of the news, their big target the military. Especially the high-risk bench-test technologies that can be pretty out there. Like DARPA stuff. What exactly did Noah do for Pandora?” I ask.

  “Sensors, robotics, that sort of thing. Much of the work classified, obviously.”

  “If it’s DARPA, yes. Top secret and then some,” and I’m about to come out of my skin.

  Even if one believes in coincidences, which I don’t, it’s a stretch for me to assume that the disappearance of one Pandora researcher and now the sudden death of another within a month of each other are normal or random.

  12

  “AND you think Carme did something to Noah Bishop,” I go ahead and say it. “You think she ‘disappeared’
this guy.”

  “She’s capable.” Dick stares straight ahead at the back of Dodd Hall in the glare of my truck’s headlights.

  “So are you. So am I. So are a lot of people we know. That doesn’t mean anything.”

  “I think there are way too many questions and not enough answers.”

  “Have you asked her?” I push harder. “Why don’t you just ask Carme what happened on Halloween night?”

  He reaches down for his backpack, setting it in his lap, signaling it’s time for him to head to his dinner.

  “Is she a suspect?” I don’t quit. “I mean, seriously, Dick. What are we talking about here?”

  “There’s no evidence she did anything to him,” he finally gives me something helpful. “But I need to talk to her.”

  If he hasn’t, there’s a reason, all of it adding up to something much worse than it sounds. A major problem that he’s not about to spell out to me. He’s concerned enough that he might have come here from Colorado simply to have this moment. To catch me off guard, making sure I have no time to mount a defense for myself or my other half.

  “Look, she’s definitely been hotheaded, aggressive, I’m not going to deny it even if it would make her most unhappy that I said anything. Carme’s always expected unwavering loyalty no matter the cost.”

  “Even if she’s in the wrong.”

  “Her being wrong has never been a big part of any equation unless it’s something silly. Like a bet, a question on Jeopardy! . . . Nothing remotely similar to what we’re talking about now, Dick.” And I feel utterly dejected, hollowed out. “I’ve been assuming her moods are related to the stress of her deployment. Mom, Dad, all of us have been aware that she’s not herself, is inconsistent. You know, something seeming off.”

  “Give me an example.” He digs in a pocket for his room key.

  “What comes to mind is after our interviews and right before she flew out to return to her deployment, she started an argument. Was pretty nasty, swearing a blue streak about one thing or another, and that’s not like her. Didn’t used to be like her. She knows I’m not a fan of crudeness and cursing. Then next thing I know, she shows up with a 6-pack of my favorite beer as if nothing happened.”

  “To control and manipulate you,” he states it as a fact.

  “I figured she felt guilty. Because she’d been so unpleasant. It was like someone turned on a switch. And then turned it off.”

  “How long ago was this? When you had the argument.”

  “Mid-November.”

  “Overall you’re saying her behavior has seemed more extreme.” He settles back in his seat, and what I’m saying seems to be of keen interest to him.

  But it’s not making him happy, and I feel his gravity.

  “At times, yes. Vacillations in her behavior that I began to notice last spring, as I’ve said. Subtle at first.” I do my best to be objective.

  “For example?”

  “For example and in general, one minute she’s worried she’s hurt your feelings or thinks you don’t love her anymore. Then suddenly she couldn’t care less, is ramped up like she’s on steroids. Which she isn’t.”

  “And you know that for sure?”

  “I can’t say what I know for sure. But it’s been my belief that she’s not into drugs of any kind. And hardly drinks, at least she didn’t used to.”

  “And now?” he persists. “What have you witnessed?”

  “It’s not fair to say, having not seen much of her this year,” I falter. “But over recent months she’s gotten a shorter fuse and doesn’t back down when maybe she should.”

  “Including with you?” Staring intensely at me, my heart pricked by a cold needle of fear.

  “Well, she can be tough sometimes.” I’m speaking very quietly and with difficulty. “I almost never hear from her.”

  “How has your fuse been? Shorter than usual or the same?” It seems an odd thing for him to ask, and immediately I feel on guard.

  “My fuse?” I reply. “I don’t believe I’m the one getting into scraps in parking lots.”

  “I’m asking how you’re feeling, Calli.”

  “Pretty much status quo except for worrying about my future, if I’m being completely honest,” and there I go saying that again.

  “And we know how much we value complete honesty. Tell me what you’ve noticed about your sister’s drinking.” Dick won’t let it go. “Since you brought it up.”

  “Only that it’s more than it was. But erratic. When we were together last, she would go several nights and be her old self. Then suddenly want to party, and you know, get plastered.”

  “Did she tell you she was plastered the night of the confrontation with Noah Bishop?”

  “She didn’t say . . .” As I catch something out of the corner of my eye, a light blinking on inside one of the second-floor suites. “It would seem that someone else is staying here after all.”

  I direct Dick’s attention up to the east wing, to the light around the edges of the drapes drawn across three windows facing us. He barely looks, isn’t interested, and I think of the dog barking and baying a little while ago.

  “I’m pretty sure I was the only person here this morning,” Dick then comments.

  “You’re definitely not alone now.” I also have no doubt that his air force security detail would be aware of anybody else staying in the same lodging house as him.

  There’s no military police presence back here, scarcely eyes or ears. No alarm system or cameras, no motion sensors on the grounds or dead bolt locks on the doors. The commander of Space Force can’t possibly be left unattended and at the mercy of whoever might decide to check in. I don’t care if Dick is armed to the teeth.

  “Your room number?” I ask him.

  “608.”

  “Someone is upstairs on the opposite end of the floor from you.” As I stare up at the lighted room, watching for any sign of movement, a shadow moving behind the drapes. “Someone who came in off Dodd Boulevard, through the front entrance, was dropped off, I’m assuming, since there’s no parking in front. And it wouldn’t be housekeeping at this hour. Possibly a guest who doesn’t have a car. Not everybody does. You don’t, for example.”

  But Dick isn’t interested in other guests or where they might park, and I can’t imagine how awkward it is for him to interrogate me about someone both of us have put on a pedestal and care deeply about. Now here he is quizzing, prodding and probing to get the answer he needs. And desperately doesn’t want. Which is if it’s possible Carme is connected with the disappearance of a Pandora Space Systems engineer who happened to be in Houston while she was there last month.

  Perhaps even more pressing is where she is now. Difficult as it is for me to fathom, I sense that Dick may not know. He may not be aware of anybody who does. If that’s true, then things have gone from troubling to bad beyond belief. He fumbles to release his seat belt, and I don’t help him this time.

  “If you think of anything, get in touch.” He opens his door. “Should you hear from Carme, I must be informed immediately. Please. As I’m sure you’ve gathered, Calli, it’s very important.”

  “Is she AWOL from the air force?” I grip his arm, and he hesitates but doesn’t answer.

  But if he doesn’t know where she is, then the air force doesn’t. Maybe nobody does, and my sister has vanished without a trace like Noah Bishop did.

  “Without knowing anything more,” I hear myself saying as frigid air blows inside my truck, “as things stand right this moment, how damaging is what you’ve told me in terms of Houston? Or more bluntly, in terms of Carme’s chances of ever becoming an astronaut. And if she’s messed up somehow, what might that mean about me?” Not an easy thing to ask, but I have a right to know.

>   “I don’t want the committee making a final decision until I can bring her in to talk,” as Dick climbs out of my truck. “I hope you’ll let her know she needs to do that,” he says as if assuming I’ll be communicating with her before he does.

  I lean toward the open door, looking up at him, trying to read his face. But he won’t give me his eyes.

  “That works both ways,” I try to make him look at me. “I know you’re not obligated to pass along any information. I respect that. But it’s Carme. She’s my twin sister.”

  Nothing from him as he stands in the cold next to the open door. Staring off at everything except me.

  “Is she going to be all right?” I’m starting to feel shaky inside. “I mean, you’d tell me if . . .”

  “You’re going to have to trust me a little bit, and I’ve gotta go. My dinner date will be here to pick me up in 20 minutes,” he says with a stiff smile that chills my soul. “Well, not the secretary of state himself, but close enough. Stay safe. I know you know how.” As he closes the door.

  00:00:00:00:0

  I WATCH him cut through my headlights, headed to the deep-set back entrance, thick oak, arched and bordered in brick. Still carrying his parka draped over an arm, his knapsack slung over a shoulder, and inserting his keycard, he disappears inside. I wait until his upstairs light flicks on, always careful not to leave guests until I’m certain they’re safely in their suites.

  Lodgings like these have no doorman, security, front desk or other services, nothing more than housekeeping if requested. You’d better hope you don’t find yourself locked out with no car or phone, especially if not properly dressed. The only options are hoofing it to the nearest guard gate or a mile to the Langley Inn for another key. Even that won’t save you if you’ve locked yourself out with no badge or ID.

  I stare up at the lighted window, wondering who else is staying on the second floor. Opening files in my memory, I can see the exact location of the suite after climbing the two and a half flights of stairs. Counting the carpeted wooden steps as I see them in my mind, as if I’m climbing them one at a time. Starting at the back door landing, 24 steps leading to the second floor. Then three doors down to the left in the corner, suite 600, the numbers stainless steel against dark stained oak.