The Tree of Knowledge

by Daniel G. Miller

  “Touché,” said Turner. “We have almost no evidence to show the police, and even if we did, they tend not to look kindly on conspiracy theories offered up by suspected criminals. I think our best bet at this point is to hunker down on the Travis Farm and make a plan.”

  “Hunker down?” asked Albert. “Angus, I have to teach. I can’t just hunker down.”

  “And I have homework to do and classes to attend . . . and a couple of dates to go on,” added Ying.

  Albert looked sideways toward Ying at this new piece of information.

  Turner looked into the rearview mirror, searching for everything they were leaving behind.

  “I’m afraid you both are going to have to put your lives on hold for a bit. I’ll cover for you with the school, tell them you’re working with me on something top secret for the Defense Department and need to take a sabbatical or something of that nature. What you tell your friends and family is your business. But tell them now, because I need those cell phones out the window in fifteen minutes.”

  Albert imagined what he would tell his friends and family. Truth was, he hadn’t talked to his mom and dad for years. He had a few colleagues on the Princeton faculty, but were they friends? Would they even notice he was gone?

  “That was my next question, Angus,” said Albert. “Who are these ‘friends’ of yours that you’re taking us to? You’re not getting us involved with criminals, are you?”

  Turner laughed. “Heavens no. This is a group I affectionately call the Book Club. They are the few people in the world that I have taken into my confidence in developing the Tree. With each of them, I have shared one aspect of the Tree, so together they represent the full potential of what it can do.”

  “Exactly what can the Tree do, Professor? I have to admit, I’m a little skeptical of this theory,” said Ying.

  “I understand,” replied Turner calmly. “I was skeptical at first as well, and it was my theory. The most important thing for you to understand is that life is nothing but a series of goals and actions, and so if you can understand those goals and anticipate the actions of individuals, then you can manipulate them. Unfortunately, in the case of Eva, we’ve seen how this concept can be applied with hand-to-hand combat.”

  “What do you mean?” asked Albert.

  “Well, if a person does not have a weapon, they have a finite set of possible options for harming you. Punching, kicking, headbutting, biting, grabbing, and tackling.”

  “Just like chess,” exclaimed Ying, seeing where Turner was going with this.

  “Yes, similar to chess, in which you are limited to twenty possible opening moves. Also, like chess, the likelihood of each of these methods of attack can be calculated and predicted. In chess, eighty-nine percent of the time, a competent player will use one of three moves to begin the game. So it is with hand-to-hand combat. Predicting human behavior in combat becomes even easier when we consider the demographics of the person and then adjust our strategy based on their body position at any given moment. Eva knew the security guard was an overweight man over the age of sixty.”

  “So, she could assume with a high level of certainty that the man would not kick, headbutt, or bite,” said Ying.

  “Exactly. Because at that age and in that physical condition, he was unlikely to have the flexibility or the creativity to attempt any of those methods. And even if he did, he’d almost certainly injure himself. It follows, then, that in combating the security guard, all Eva had to watch were the man’s hands, which drastically reduced the complexity of fighting him and enabled her to subdue him in probably less than a minute. No more difficult than beating a beginner in chess. Of course, the Tree gives you the power to subdue much fiercer foes than an overweight security guard.”

  Albert thought back to the comic books that he used to read and couldn’t help daydreaming of himself as some type of masked superhero using the Tree of Knowledge to fight against ruthless enemies. The idea of using his brain to win against physically more powerful men excited him. For a moment, he forgot his fear.

  “So, you’re going to use the Tree to clear Albert’s name and bring down Eva,” said Ying incredulously.

  “Yes,” said the professor with a smirk. “But that’s the easy part.”

  Chapter 3

  Detective Weatherspoon’s eyes opened. He let out a whimper. He strained through the fog to see what lay in front of him, but his pupils were not yet adjusted to the light. As the blur of sleep faded from his vision, he made out what looked to be the cheap square tile of a hospital ceiling. He rubbed his face and looked around. His mouth and throat ached. He rolled over on his left side to see if he could locate a glass of water, but before he could get any further, he was interrupted by a voice behind him.

  “The sleeping bear comes out of hibernation,” said a gravelly baritone.

  Even in his dazed state, Weatherspoon knew the gruff voice of his captain, Pete Willard. While Willard had always been Weatherspoon’s superior, the two had been good friends for over two decades.

  “What happened?” asked Weatherspoon, struggling to find enough liquid in his mouth to make sound. The cool hospital air trickled up the open back of his hospital gown.

  The smile of relief that had first greeted Weatherspoon immediately faded from Willard’s face. “You mean, you don’t remember?”

  Weatherspoon searched the files of his mind to remember how he had arrived at the hospital. “No, I don’t,” he said, surprised by his own words.

  The captain bit his lip and assessed his confused patient. He broke the news slowly. “Mike, our police station came under attack.”

  The detective rubbed his face to make sure he wasn’t still sleeping. “What?”

  “I know. It’s unbelievable. We’re still piecing together what happened, but what we do know is that a white male, tall, slim build, entered the station at five p.m. He then attacked multiple officers and jammed enough Rohypnol in you to take down an elephant. You’ve been out for seventy-two hours.”

  “What? Why?”

  “We don’t know that yet. He took out Peggy as well, so we think it has something to do with the property room.”

  Weatherspoon leaned back in his bed, exhausted.

  The captain grabbed Weatherspoon’s shoulder and gave it a friendly pat.

  “One last question, and then I should let you get back to sleep.” Willard pulled out a printout of a blurred black-and-white photo. “This is a still from the video recording of the perp who assaulted the station. Ever seen him before?”

  The detective squinted at the picture. The man looked familiar, but through the pounding in his jaw and the cloud in his brain, he just couldn’t make a connection.

  “I’ve seen the face before, but I can’t quite place it.” He paused and closed his eyes. “Give me some time. It will come to me.”

  “Great. I’ll let you rest. If you remember who it is, let me know. In the meantime, I snuck in a few of your files on the chair here next to your bed in case you get bored. Oh, and while you were out, we ran the hair and fiber sample evidence for the McCutcheon case. Info’s in the file.”

  The captain gave Weatherspoon a kind pat on the back of the hand and strolled out the door of the hospital room.

  After fifteen minutes of staring at the ceiling and failing to find sleep, Weatherspoon grabbed the McCutcheon file. He opened the manila folder and was stunned to see the name of the man from the video.

  DNA Match: Albert Puddles.

  Chapter 4

  Turner, Puddles, and Ying crossed the Vermont state line around midnight. Albert had reclined his seat and was now listening to Professor Turner explain how to bring the Tree of Knowledge to life. The combination of darkness, motion, and the steady approach and departure of headlights had lulled Albert into a sort of automotive hypnosis, which he wished he could escape.

  “You see, in order to eff
ectively use the Tree, you must abandon the assumptions and habits that we grow up with and embrace the rational laws that are the foundation of modern mathematics and logic,” said Turner.

  “But don’t we do that in class every day?” asked Ying eagerly, wanting to explore the powers of the Tree.

  “Yes, but dedicating your mind to reason when faced with a math problem is one thing. Focusing it when faced with the emotion, assumption, and distraction of the real world is an entirely different animal.”

  “Is this why you spent all that time on syllogisms in your logic class, Angus?” said Albert. He was beginning to see that there might be more to what the professor was saying.

  Turner’s smile broadened. “A magician never reveals his secrets.”

  “Syllogisms?” asked Ying. “I’m not exactly sure I see how logic puzzles are going to help me navigate the real world, Professor.”

  “Well, why don’t we try a few right now and we’ll find out.”

  Turner glanced at Albert and chortled with a knowing grin. Ying looked around at the chuckling, older white men and suddenly felt distinctly outside of the club. It was a feeling she had felt before, and she dealt with it as she had in the past . . . with bulldog-like persistence.

  “Alright, bring it on, old man!”

  Turner’s smile dropped at the slight, but he pressed on. “OK. Here are the rules, Ms. Koh. I am going to describe a situation that is not quite what it seems. The more logical you are in your approach to asking questions, the more expeditiously you will be able to derive the answer. You will then be allowed to ask me—”

  “Yes or no questions in order to find the answer,” interrupted Ying. “Yes, I know how this works. Give me your best shot.” She cracked her knuckles like a brawler before a fight.

  “Perfect. Then let’s commence. Here is your first puzzle. Seven people are found dead in a cabin in the woods. They all died at the same time, but there are no footprints in or out. How did they die?”

  Ying looked out the window, attempting to picture this cabin. “Is this cabin a house?”

  “I’ll take the Q and A part, Angus,” said Albert. “No.”

  Ying sat up in her chair. “Aha. So, this is not a typical cabin. Is it made of wood?”

  “No.”

  “Is it made out of metal?”

  “Yes.” Albert smiled, knowing the end was nigh.

  “It’s an airplane cabin! The people died in an airplane crash.”

  “Well done, Ms. Koh,” exclaimed Turner.

  “Thank you, thank you,” said Ying, mock bowing from the back seat.

  “But, tell me this . . . when I first told you about the cabin, what did you picture?”

  Ying thought back to the horrifying scene she had visualized. “I pictured a log cabin full of dead bodies.”

  “Exactly. And that is the challenge of using the Tree of Knowledge in everyday life. Our brains are so filled with assumptions and images, emotions and fears, that it clouds our ability to focus on the pure information that we have been given. The second we picture that cabin as a log cabin and imagine those dead bodies, we have begun to let emotion overwhelm the logical process. The pure logical process would tell us that the word ‘cabin’ is ambiguous and so our first step must be to clarify what the meaning of the word ‘cabin’ is.”

  “Aristotle’s law of identity,” added Ying.

  “Precisely,” said Turner.

  “Let’s do another. I’m on a roll now.”

  Turner thought back to some of his favorite puzzles. “Ah, this is a doozy. A man pushes his car up to a hotel. The hotel owner says to him, ‘You owe me five hundred dollars,’ at which point the man announces that he is now bankrupt. Your charge, Ms. Koh, is to determine why.”

  Ying took a long look out the car window at the dark forest speeding by and gathered her thoughts.

  “Did the man owe the hotel owner money for staying at the hotel?”

  Turner smiled as he observed Ying’s intellect grinding away.

  “No, it’s not money for staying at the hotel,” replied Albert.

  “Is it for some other past debt?” asked Ying.

  “Nope.”

  “So, it’s because he parked the car at the hotel?”

  “Yes,” said Albert with a smirk.

  “This guy is paying five hundred dollars for parking?”

  “No.”

  “But you said it’s because he parked the car at the hotel.”

  “Yes.”

  At this piece of information, Ying’s brow furrowed and she began to hum. She often hummed when she was thinking, a habit that Albert thought quite odd.

  After a few minutes of steady humming, Ying resumed her questioning. “OK, let me focus on the car. He’s pushing it, right?”

  “Correct.”

  “Is the car broken?”

  “Nope,” said Albert, as pleased with himself as though he had invented the riddle.

  “Is this a large car? I mean, I’m not sure I could push a car even with these guns,” said Ying, flexing her practically nonexistent muscles and chuckling.

  “No.”

  “Is the car smaller than a Mini?”

  “Yes.”

  “Is the car a real, functioning automobile?”

  “No.”

  “So, it’s a toy car. Aha,” shouted Ying, shaking Albert’s shoulders from the back seat.

  As his shoulders shook, Albert looked at Turner, who seemed to be enjoying Ying’s progress.

  “Yes, it is,” said Albert.

  “OK, let me get this straight. A man pushes a toy car up to a hotel, and the owner tells him he owes him five hundred dollars?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why would a guy push a toy car up to a hotel? Was there a convention and he was selling the toy car?”

  Albert laughed. “No.”

  “Aaaargh! What the heck? Why would a man push a toy car up to a hotel? It makes no sense.”

  After another pause and quiet round of humming, Ying resumed her questioning.

  “Was the man outside when he pushed the car?”

  “No, and you’ve got two minutes.”

  “So he was inside the hotel?”

  “No.”

  “But I thought you said he pushed his car up to a hotel?”

  “Yes,” Albert said, fondly remembering his past efforts to solve this riddle.

  “How can you push a car up to a hotel and not be either inside or outside?” said Ying, visibly flushed.

  “Yes or no questions, please,” said Albert sarcastically.

  “Professor Turner, this feels rigged. Is this a joke?”

  Turner shook his head. “No, Ms. Koh. This isn’t a joke. Keep going. You’re on the right track, but remember . . . to be successful, you have to disregard assumption and pursue logic.”

  “I am a logical machine right now.”

  “Regardless, you’re going to have to put your riddle-solving on hold for a moment because we need to make a quick stop at this little pub.” And with that, Turner pulled off the country road they’d been navigating down and onto the unpaved parking lot of a bar with a large neon sign that read “Tim’s Toolbox.”

  Tim’s Toolbox was little more than a shed covered in neon beer signs of brands long since deceased. The parking lot consisted of a unique combination of pebbles and dirt that caused the rear end of Turner’s Buick to slip and slide as it entered.

  Turner pulled the car in between two large pickup trucks sitting on even larger wheels, and Ying popped up to the edge of the back middle seat and began nodding her head.

  “Yes! This is amazing. We’re going to a good old-fashioned country roadhouse right now. Where’s Patrick Swayze when you need him?”

  Ying’s enthusiasm was matched by Albert’s apprehensi
on. “Professor Turner, why exactly are we stopping here?”

  “Well, we need directions to get to my friend’s farm, and since we can’t use any electronic device, I thought we’d do it the old-fashioned way and just ask someone.”

  Albert frowned. “OK, but isn’t the creepy roadhouse on the side of the road the worst possible place to stop? How about a gas station or motel? It just doesn’t seem like a very safe place to pull over.”

  Turner opened the car door and leaned back through the open window to talk to Puddles.

  “Albert, shame on you. These are just people. Yes, they may not be academics, but I’m sure they’ll be more than happy to help y—”

  Just as Turner was about to finish his sentence, he was interrupted by Ying shouting, “Whoa!” and pointing out the windshield.

  Turner rotated his head to find two large men stumbling from the bar amid what looked like a full-blown brawl. The bigger man, who sported a beard reminiscent of ZZ Top, quickly gained the advantage and pounced on the smaller man as a crowd spilled out of the bar to root for their favorites.

  Albert let out a loud snort and sat back in the front seat, crossing his arms like a toddler refusing to eat his broccoli.

  Turner leaned his head back in the window and with a sheepish grin continued, “OK, I may have soft-pedaled the demeanor of the esteemed patrons of Tim’s Toolbox, but trust me, we’ll be just fine. I assure you we won’t be on the premises for more than five minutes. We’ll walk in, I’ll find someone who can give us directions, and we’ll walk out. No harm done. Ms. Koh, wouldn’t you like a little adventure in your life?”

  Ying and Albert exchanged a long glance with each other and against their better judgment exited the car. As the group approached the entrance of the bar, the crowd around the two pugilists let out a loud cheer and clanked glasses in celebration of the bearded victor.

  Turner, Ying, and Albert followed the elated mob into the establishment and sidled up to the bar. Upon entering Tim’s Toolbox, Albert realized that he had found the one place on earth that was everything he wasn’t. Tim’s Toolbox was loud, dirty, intimidating, smelly, disorganized, rugged, and raw. He sat at the bar and understood the meaning of the word “alienation.” If there had been an operating jukebox in the establishment, it would have stopped upon Albert Puddles’s arrival. Fortunately, Tim’s jukebox had been out of order since late 1987.