Quantum

by Patricia Cornwell

  Brava! Because I’m not going to look. Not beyond what I’ve done. Not now that I’m clear on who and what I’m dealing with. Let’s just hope I’m right.

  Who else could it be?

  I can keep asking myself that and come up with the same answer every time. But I’m not going to invade my sister’s suite on the other side of the barn. I have no intention of so much as stepping foot in there. Carme has found me. I don’t want to find her, and as long as she’s not inside my quarters, that’s all I can control. Technically. That’s what I’m going to say to Dick if and when the day comes.

  I don’t want to think about how unhappy he’ll be, can hear him now, chiding me for trusting my sister when I shouldn’t. He would be right about that. Without any basis in provable fact, I trust her with my life at this moment. But that doesn’t mean I want her within reach.

  −01:18:12:0 . . .

  “What now?” I ask my autonomous tagalong, realizing that unflattering label suits her a lot better than me right about now. “Because I’ve really got to go.”

  The PONG floats to the star pine tree, hovers over a branch, lining up the landing zone, electromagnetically attaching itself.

  00:00:00:00:0

  “NO WAY! Oh no . . . !”

  Hurrying past Otto in his wheelchair, and from across the room I can see that my truck key is where I left it on the table by the door. But my badge is gone.

  “No, no, no, no, no . . . !” Stepping around my pile of wet gear on the floor.

  Already late, and I’m not going to tear back upstairs to look because I know my badge and lanyard aren’t there. I have a good idea where they might be. Or better yet, who has them.

  Carme.

  She could go anywhere at Langley and pass for me without the slightest question, and I grab my backpack, making sure to bring my wallet and police creds. A picture ID won’t get me through a guard gate or open any doors, but it’s better than nothing. I’d best have something with me. Armed and dangerous with no driver’s license, and it wouldn’t be good if I got pulled over by the state police.

  Resetting the security system, heading out into a blowing snow that whips my hair and stings my face. At least the temperature is warmer, more like in the 20s instead of 0 and below. About two inches of accumulation so far, and I don’t see footprints. Only mine. No tire tracks, either, the driveway and yard as smooth as vanilla icing on a cookie. If Carme took my badge and left the property, then it was before the snow began.

  −00:40:22:0 . . .

  I remotely unlock the truck and start it from a safe distance, another Secret Service trick I’ve picked up along the way. In case someone decides to leave an unpleasant surprise like a bomb, and if my sister has been here, how is she getting around? I can only figure she has access to a car, and as I drive past the house, I notice the Christmas tree lights glowing through the living room curtains.

  Smoke drifts from the brick chimney, and my mom sitting in front of the fire strikes me as rather cozy considering all that’s going on. Including the odd power hiccup earlier and Dad getting mysteriously called out. She might be lonely and jumpy. But not seriously worried that someone dangerous could be lurking about, and I think back to when I got here several hours ago. Wondering if Dad’s white Prius was parked under the live oak tree near the back door.

  Because now that I’m thinking about it, I don’t remember seeing it. Pondering how Carme might have gotten into the barn to take my badge. How could she do that without my knowing? I would have heard the security system beeping if she disarmed and reset it as I just did. Unless she was already inside the house, and I remember sensing something overhead in the dark when I first entered the side door.

  Possibly the mirror ball.

  Who knows what Carme might have been up to all day with nobody home. But after I came in and reset the alarm, she must have changed the chime alert, turning it off. She would know how to do that from her phone, has her own personal code, piece of cake. She could have exited the barn without making a peep. Then covered up what she’d done by changing the setting back to chime again as it did when I reset the alarm a few minutes ago.

  I call Mom to let her know what I’m doing, making sure she’s okay, not feeling scared or too lonely.

  “I can hear you driving past,” she says, and now that I’m looking, I can see the empty snowy area where Dad parks his car.

  Gone. And has been for hours. Probably leaving around the time Mom decided to call me about delivering supper to the barn. Cutting me off at the pass soon after I got home. Making sure I didn’t head over there while my sister was in the area.

  “Heading back to Langley and running behind,” I let Mom know. “Is everything good with you?”

  “Except you never ate anything.” Her voice inside my truck as I drive through a Milky Way of tiny blue lights.

  “I’m already late. Save me something for later. If I don’t die of hunger first.”

  “I’m sitting in front of the Christmas tree, watching the NASA live feeds on my laptop,” she says. “And it’s quite the exciting doubleheader, students watching from all over . . .”

  −00:38:11:0 . . .

  “Especially those kids from Iowa,” she adds. “Such an inspiring story . . .”

  “Mom?”

  “I’m watching Peggy Whitson as we speak in the airlock getting suited up with Jack Fischer . . .”

  “Where is Dad’s car?” I ask, and it’s never a good sign when my mother acts like she doesn’t hear me.

  “. . . They have to get her tethered to the arm and the LEAR on its pallet, which seems awfully dangerous if you ask me . . . ,” chattering away about the EVA, and I already know the answer to my question.

  “Mom? I just drove past the back of the house, and Dad’s car wasn’t there,” I bring it up anyway, passing through her miniblue space-themed topiary. “I thought you said he was picked up.”

  Silence.

  “Mom? Please stop ducking and dodging,” rounding the bend in the driveway. “Where is Dad’s car?” Even though I know. “I’m not getting off the phone until you tell me. Please. You know, I care about her too. Whatever it is, we’re in this together. Just like always . . .”

  “I think it best we don’t talk about this,” my mom says, and Carme is around somewhere, and nothing I’ve sensed about her has been imagined or made up.

  If she’s away from her deployment and acting like a fugitive, I have no doubt our parents know. There’s probably nothing they wouldn’t do for us, never been a doubt about whose side they’ll take. Ours. Not so different from how I’m behaving right about now, giving my sister the benefit of the doubt until I can’t anymore. Should that bad hour come.

  It can’t. It won’t.

  “Mom?” Taking a right at the end of the driveway, the headlights illuminating the sign Dad painted. Penny Lane. “How lonely are you?”

  My way of asking if Carme is with her, and by now I’m assuming our home phone has been tapped.

  “Oh, I’ll be fine,” Mom’s voice. “I believe you said you didn’t see George’s car in its usual spot? He probably moved it in advance of the storm.” Baloney, and her way of letting me know that Carme isn’t there and has Dad’s Toyota.

  And I think of what MP Crockett said to me earlier:

  “Playing musical cars, are we, ma’am?”

  No doubt my twin sister has driven through the air force base’s Durand Gate before. Perhaps regularly, but not with my ID. Because I would know if she borrowed it after hours. While I was dead asleep. Or off somewhere, leaving my badge safely at home, and I hold my phone in one hand, typing with my thumb as I keep my eyes on the road.

  Entering my own personal ID number in a search field for NASA Langley’s security system. Inte
rrogating not just today but the past week, including the Durand Gate connecting us to the air force base. Hoping I’m wrong . . .

  11 records found.

  “Shhhh . . . ! Shhhh . . . ! Shhhh . . . !” Getting really close to cussing now.

  Over the past three days, it would appear I’ve accessed the Durand Gate almost a dozen times at hours when I wasn’t at work. Including less than 90 minutes ago. Or about the time the PONG began calling out my nickname, rapping on my bathroom door as I was getting out of the shower.

  Holy crap. Right under my nose.

  Imagining my sister confronted by MP Crockett, and knowing her, she gives as good as she takes from the jerk. Explaining why he said what he did to me about musical cars, and perhaps why he’s been ruder than usual of late.

  −00:36:32:0 . . .

  Tiny snowflakes click against the windshield, dancing and swarming in the headlights as I drive my truck back to work. Wherever Carme is now, I’m assuming she’s in range to control the PONG remotely, but that could cover a lot of territory. We designed the drones to be controlled from miles away.

  I imagine my sister parked somewhere, watching me on a video display earlier when I was getting ready in the barn. Talking to empty rooms, storming around with my gun drawn, doing my little twirls with the antenna. But if Carme’s on the Langley campus now, I have no idea where.

  My badge number doesn’t come up again anywhere. Not in the buildings or facilities, and this could imply she’s still somewhere on the air force side except for one thing. We grew up here, and if there’s one thing we know, it’s how easy it is to access NASA from the AFB if you simply follow Runway 8 to the taxiway that leads directly to our huge hangar.

  From there you’re home free, and I’m about to alert Fran that we have a security breach. And that I can’t get through the guard gate, when my cell phone rings. I don’t recognize the number. But the area code is 757, the exchange the same as NASA’s flight facility at Wallops, and I can’t believe it.

  Who would try to videophone me from there, introvert that I am? Nobody I know. Certainly, none of the scientists and special agents I deal with routinely. Definitely none of the antenna cowboys. They would just get hold of me invisibly, the way nerdy folks like us prefer things, not having to care what you look like.

  Touching the display, I accept the call.

  “Captain Chase,” and a face I’ve never seen before stares at me from my phone.

  “Clearly, I’ve interrupted.” The woman is handsome in a severe way.

  Maybe mid- to late 50s, I estimate, with short white hair, looking at me from the small display with unwaveringly hazel eyes behind black-framed designer glasses that I’ve seen before. When I interviewed Vera Young yesterday.

  You’ve got to be kidding me.

  “Obviously, you’re driving. I hope carefully in the weather you’re having,” the woman says from my phone.

  “Excuse me, but who are you, and how did you get this number?” and I already know she’s extreme trouble.

  The directness of her unblinking gaze, and how unperturbed she is by interrupting a perfect stranger at 1:32 in the morning. And of course, the glasses. If she’s who I darn well think she is, I mean, is she freakin’ taunting me?

  “The weather has cleared nicely here at Wallops, not snowing anymore,” she doesn’t answer my question.

  So, I repeat it, holding my phone in my left hand, clicking back and forth between her cold beauty and the countdown.

  −00:28:00:0 . . .

  As she’s saying, “I’m looking at the data all around, and you’ve got a storm cell right over Hampton, must be snowing to beat the band . . .”

  “If you don’t tell me who you are and what you’re calling about . . . ?” Careful not to overshoot my headlights, and the roads are getting slippery as I barely go the speed limit. “I’m going to hang up,” and then she tells me her name, not that I’m the slightest bit surprised:

  Neva (rhymes with Eva) Rong.

  −00:27:56:1 . . .

  As in the CEO of Pandora Space Systems, the sister of the woman whose body is currently at the Tidewater medical examiner’s office. Not all that far from Wallops, and what is Neva Rong doing at our Mid-Atlantic Regional Spaceport, MARS? I try to think what might be going up in this morning’s resupply or EVA that relates to Pandora, and can’t come up with anything.

  But I suppose in light of the company’s cryptic relationship with DARPA, there could be projects I don’t know about. It goes without saying, my security clearance doesn’t entitle me to every secret.

  “A long way to come for a launch,” I point out, and she’s quick to remind me that Pandora is in the business of building its own rockets.

  “As you no doubt know,” and I don’t like the familiarity of her words or tone, “we’re very much into satellites, lunar missions and beyond the beyond. I’ve had my eye on the spaceport at Wallops for a while as an excellent East Coast presence for us,” she feels some need to share with me.

  Smiling, adjusting her fancy glasses just enough for me to notice scratches on her hand. As I envision the furrows and contusions around Vera Young’s neck.

  −00:25:44:1 . . .

  “Was invited to visit as a prospective client,” Neva Rong is saying, “a guest at the launch in the event I should decide to get a contract with NASA and put a pad out here . . .”

  “Let me confirm,” I interrupt her firmly. “Dr. Vera Young was your sister?”

  “Sadly, that’s correct. But it’s just Vera or Mrs. Young,” she’s quick to insist, disavowing me of any foolish notion that her deceased sister had more than a few measly master’s degrees to her name.

  “Not a physician, although I did encourage her to go to med school,” Neva Rong says, and she’s not a physician either but does have her doctorate.

  Actually, more than one, she makes sure I know, “In neuroscience and quantum physics . . .”

  Passing the 7-Eleven again, lit up in the snow, and I can see the same clerk reading a magazine at the counter. Not a single customer inside or at the gas pumps.

  34

  “I TRIED many times to get Vera to write her dissertation, to just get on with it,” her sister says without a trace of warmth from my phone’s display. “But she was one of these savant-esque researchers who can’t quite finish what she starts. I’ve no doubt you’re familiar with the type. Procrastinators. Such an awful word.”

  −00:23:52:1 . . .

  “Was she unhappy at work?” Passing Hardee’s, nobody home, the snow swirling around light poles in the parking lot.

  Not letting on that Vera Young told me yesterday she wasn’t pleased about being relocated to Hampton. She even used the word boonies. Now I’m wondering what Neva’s real motive was with dispatching her procrastinating sister here. Maybe to help her hack into the Yellow Submarine tunnel, and I think of the blood spatter on the asbestos-covered steam pipe near FOD-1.

  Let’s see who the DNA comes back to, because I’m betting on Vera Young. I’m betting this is what she was really up to when she supposedly went home with a migraine yesterday. Hacking, playing swift tricks with badges, my sister not the only one who can do stuff like that.

  “Frustrated. Always frustrated. That’s Vera,” her cold-blooded CEO sister goes on. “No matter how many times I’d remind her that education is just an invitation to learn, Captain Chase. Or do most people call you Calli? And I’m glad you went ahead and finished your doctoral program, by the way. I looked you up as soon as I was given your name.”

  “I’d appreciate it if you’d tell me who did that and how you got this phone number.”

  “Why? Is it the wrong one?” she asks, and I can’t tell if she’s being funny. “Excuse the pun,” she actually say
s that next. “And I’m sure you realize that when people are traumatized, they can be inappropriate,” she continues her inappropriate comments and seems about as traumatized as a rock.

  “Why are you calling?” I don’t sound sympathetic, don’t bother trying.

  “Well,” she says, “it would seem Vera took her own life. As you might expect, I need to know what’s going to happen next.”

  “Maybe you could answer a few questions of mine. Was she acting unusually of late? Did she give any indication that she might be thinking suicidal thoughts?”

  No way in hell-o I’m telling Neva Rong that it’s looking like her sister was murdered, and I sure hope nobody else has filled her in. In the first place, I have no doubt she already knows. And knows all too well. But she doesn’t know that I do, and I don’t want her to. Nor can I imagine why she would, I decide as her face flashes back and forth on my phone while I switch between her and the NASA feed.

  Give her nothing.

  “I’ll tell you the same thing I told Mason Dixon just a very few minutes ago . . .” she starts to say, and I cut her off a second time.

  “Did he give you my number?” Furious with myself all over again for ever letting him have it.

  But the director of the Langley Center in addition to Fran and the police chief have been clear since I was hired three years ago that I have to be reasonably competent at dealing with the media. Especially if the journalist in question is the nephew of the governor and has ties to the White House. Last summer, Mason wanted my number for a NASA-related story about drones, and here we are.

  What makes no sense to me is why he would know Neva Rong. Why did he think to contact her about an alleged suicide at Fort Monroe? Nothing about her calling is making sense, not in a good way, and every circuit in my body is lit up with warnings.