by Steven James
He tried to shift his focus to the task he needed to accomplish today.
Killing the doctor.
Honestly, he had no idea why the old man needed to die, but he doubted it was revenge, which left the most common reason you would hire someone like Glenn—the guy knew something he was not supposed to know.
Perhaps something to do with Akinsanya, the man who seemed to be behind everything? The one who’d connected his employer with him in the first place?
Glenn wasn’t sure.
It was too much to think about.
He closed his eyes and disappeared into the swirl of euphoria and irritation and adrenaline that the wound and the OxyContin gave him.
Dancing pain.
After a long moment he drew in a breath that seemed to be made of liquid air, opened his eyes, collected himself, and pulled out the manila folder his employer had given him, then flipped through the sheaf of papers until he came to the doctor’s schedule.
Personally, he would’ve preferred taking care of the old geezer this morning while he was asleep in his cabin, get the photo of the body, and get out, but for whatever reason the man who’d hired him wanted it done this afternoon at three, during the doctor’s office hours.
Just another odd demand in a series of odd demands. This guy was obviously used to micromanaging his people, and Glenn did not like being micromanaged.
He was tempted to leave a message that he was going to take care of this assignment on his own time frame, in his own way. But admittedly that might not be the most prudent way to get paid, so although it was tempting, Glenn decided to stick to the original plan.
Three o’clock this afternoon.
Tanbyrn’s schedule: the doc would begin the day at his cabin, get breakfast at the dining hall, head to the Prana building for a meeting with the people in his research study, then spend the rest of the morning and the early afternoon working with them before heading to his office from two to six.
Where he would die.
At three.
Yes, there might be other people in the building, but the place had a state-of-the-art design, and considering the method Glenn was leaning toward in regards to taking out the doctor, he was sure that collateral damage wouldn’t be a problem.
Well, okay, not sure, but at least reasonably sure.
Glenn tried the guy’s number again.
Still nothing.
Alright. Enough.
He’d gotten a pretty good look at the couple in the chamber, and he didn’t figure it would be that hard to hack into the LRC’s computer files, see if they showed up on any surveillance footage, see if—
So then why’d you even go there last night, Einstein? If you could’ve just hacked in? Why did—?
The anger he was feeling at himself was eclipsed by the subtle shift in the way he was experiencing his limbs, his legs, his hands, the stab wound in his thigh.
It felt like the drugs were beginning to wear off. He was tempted to take more OxyContin but was hesitant to do so. He needed to be on top of his game today.
Focus.
See if you can find the files, then find out who those two people are.
Start with the staff and current retreatants—that shouldn’t take too long—then move out from there.
Focus.
He went to find his laptop to see if he could hack into the Lawson Research Center’s video surveillance archives. To find this couple he’d decided to kill for free.
A little pro bono work.
Two photos to add to his collection.
The Cane
The interview and pretest procedures take longer than I expect and end up chewing up most of the morning.
As time passes, three more couples come and meet with other research assistants, but Philip stays with us.
I’m getting frustrated that things aren’t moving along more quickly, and by 11:30 I’m seriously annoyed and wondering why all of this couldn’t have been taken care of before we came to the center.
A few minutes later, Serenity enters the room, pushing a cart containing our lunch—coffee, a platter of fresh fruit and veggies that I imagine were probably grown here at the center, and vegetarian subs on gluten-free bread.
I eat quickly.
Just as I’m finishing, Dr. Tanbyrn arrives.
He looks like he’s in his early eighties and walks with an elaborately carved cane. He’s bald with a grizzled beard, wears thick, out-of-style trifocals and thrift-store clothes, and has a dusty, professorial look about him.
At first I catch myself thinking that he doesn’t dress anything like a Nobel laureate should dress, but then I’m struck with the thought that he’s wearing exactly what I would expect an eighty-year-old physics genius to wear.
After a cordial greeting and some genteel small talk with all four couples, Tanbyrn spends some time reviewing the study’s procedures, most of which Charlene and I are already familiar with. And, frustratingly, some of which Philip had already gone through earlier.
I want to ask Dr. Tanbyrn about the center’s connection to RixoTray, who the assailant from last night might have been, or what he might’ve been looking for, but I know that if I bring up these issues with him at all, it’ll need to wait until we’re alone sometime after the test. After all, I’d have to admit that Charlene and I were sneaking around the Lawson building after hours, and after hearing something like that, it would be reasonable for him to demand that we leave the center.
When my wandering attention shifts back to him, he’s in the middle of a sentence. “. . . so quantum waves are not elementally trapped in space and time as we are—or at least as we appear to be. Because of this, because of their entanglement with each other, even though they might be separated by time or distance . . .”
“They really aren’t separated at all,” one of the men interjects.
A nod. “Quite right. One thing is certain in quantum physics: the more we learn, the more we realize how little we know; and subsequently, the less sure we are of ‘knowledge,’ the blurrier the lines become between our understanding of animate and inanimate objects, our definition of life, our understanding of what it means to be alive. And the more mysterious the universe seems.”
The woman next to me looks reverently at Dr. Tanbyrn. “It’s so mystical, so spiritual.”
“Beneath the veneer of the visible is an entirely different sphere, a fabric of dimensions and reality that holds this physical, observable one together. I am not by any means the first to explore this inexplicable quantum entanglement—this nonlocal connection between subatomic particles—but my research does lean in a slightly unique direction. Here at the Lawson Research Center, we are looking at the matter that those particles make up. In this case, organic matter.”
“People.” It’s the woman beside me again. “To see if they’re entangled.” She giggles lightly, then corrects herself: “If we are.”
“Yes,” Tanbyrn replies. “Although I perhaps misstated myself. I’m not just looking at how people might be entangled or connected, but how their awareness of reality might be. In other words, how one person’s individual consciousness might nonlocally affect another person’s awareness, thoughts, or physiology.”
There it is. The crux of the whole matter.
He announces that Charlene and I will be the first couple to do the test, then takes us to a side room and meets with us privately. “Have you decided who’ll be the first sender and who’ll be the first receiver?” His voice is aged and faltering but also kind, and he reminds me of my grandfather, who died when I was still in my teens.
“I’ll be the sender,” I tell him. “Jennie’s better at deciphering my thoughts than I am at deciphering hers.”
Charlene gives me a playful jab. “What? You can’t read my mind?”
I shrug. “What can I say? I’m a guy.”
“I knew you were going to say that.”
“See what I mean?” But then, suddenly, the doctor’s words sink in.
He’d said
first sender. First receiver.
“But,” I explain, “Jennie will be the only receiver. I’m not going to be in the chamber.”
Dr. Tanbyrn taps a finger against his chin. “We like to repeat the procedure, reversing the roles so that we can test the receptivity of both participants.”
“I think we’ll just keep it to Jennie. The truth is . . . I don’t do so well in small places.”
“Aha, well. Yes, of course.” There’s no judgment in his voice, and I get the impression that he’s dealt with claustrophobic participants before.
He rises unsteadily, leaning on his cane for support. “Well, come along then. It’s not far. Just two buildings over.”
But as he takes his first step, the cane slips on the pinewood floor. He flails his hands out to regain his balance and ends up grabbing Charlene’s wounded arm. Despite herself, she cries out and pulls back, causing him to plummet toward the floor, and I’m barely able to drop down fast enough to catch him.
For a moment the air in the room seems to hold its breath.
Then eases.
Gently, I help him to his feet. “Are you alright, Doctor?”
“Yes, yes, quite.” I’m still holding his shoulders, steadying him. “Oh my.” He’s shaken, breathing hard, gazing at Charlene. “But are you alright, my dear?”
She’s grimacing, and I can’t imagine how much it must’ve hurt to have him squeeze her arm like that. “Yes, I’m okay.”
“I am so sorry.” He sounds deeply distressed. “I just lost my balance. I—that’s never happened to me before.”
Once he’s standing on his own, I hand him back his cane.
He gestures toward Charlene’s arm. “Are you sure you’re alright?”
Only then do I notice the blood that’s seeping through her sleeve.
He has a curious, perceptive look in his eyes, and I wonder if perhaps earlier this morning he might’ve seen the blood on the third floor of the Lawson building and is now somehow piecing things together.
Charlene presses her hand tenderly over the wound to quell the bleeding, and when she replies to Tanbyrn, she avoids explaining how the blood got there. “I better go get this cleaned up.”
I offer to go with her but she declines.
“No. I’ll meet you two there.” Then she excuses herself to return to the cabin, leaving Dr. Tanbyrn and me alone.
He waits for me to speak, as if it’s my responsibility to absolve him of the guilt of harming her. “Don’t worry, it wasn’t you. She hurt her arm last night. The scab must’ve just broken open. It’s not serious.” The only thing I’m not really sure about is that last part. Because the cut might be serious. “Are you sure you’re okay?”
“Yes, Brent. I am. Thank you for arresting my fall.”
“Glad I was close enough to help.” I gesture toward his cane. “Do you need a hand?”
“I believe I’ll be fine. Thank you.”
After a slight pause, he leads me to the lobby. I slow my pace to remain next to him just in case he loses his balance again. His cane taps heavily on the floor beside me as we walk past the reception desk, out the door, and into the gray morning mist.
Kindling
Pine Lake, Oregon
12:31 p.m.
Glenn Banner was able to connect the dots.
On his hacking attempts, even though he hadn’t uncovered the incriminating information he’d been searching for last night, he had found his way into the Lawson Research Center’s video surveillance archives and had been able to pull up the footage of the two people he’d seen in the chamber as they registered at the front desk late yesterday afternoon.
He paused the video.
Zoomed in on the screen of the computer on the registration desk.
Saw the names: Brent Berlin and Jennie Reynolds.
And the name of the cabin they’d reserved.
Hmm.
So, whether it was RixoTray who’d sent them or another firm altogether, by staying on campus the pair would be close enough to poke around in the evenings. Perhaps trying to dig up information on the military’s involvement—that is, if they were aware of it.
Of course, it was always possible they were looking for something else.
Additionally, if they were participating in the study rather than attending the yoga retreat, they would have the chance to speak with the doctor, perhaps squeeze information from him.
Glenn googled their names, but they were both so common it was like looking for a needle in a haystack. He couldn’t help but think they were quite possibly aliases anyway.
It was possible that the couple would’ve left the center last night after the altercation, but the cut on the woman’s arm hadn’t been life-threatening, and if the secrets buried in the computer files at the center were as important as Glenn thought they might be, he wasn’t convinced that the two intruders would’ve left the center yet.
He really needed to talk to the man who’d hired him.
Glenn tried the phone number once again.
And this time, at last, the guy picked up. “What is it?” The voice was as blunt and impatient as always.
Glenn filled him in on what’d happened last night at the research facility, leaving out the part about being too slow to stop the guy from swinging the knife down and plunging it into his thigh. And of course, leaving out the fact that he himself had been there trying to find information that he could use in his blackmail attempts.
“What were you looking for?”
“I was doing research on Tanbyrn.”
“I provided you with all the information you need. I even gave you the passcode for—”
“Listen to me, there are things you’re not telling me, and I don’t like being kept in the dark.”
Rather than respond directly to that, his employer returned to the topic of what had happened in the chamber. “You say there were two of them there? A man and a woman?”
“Yes.” Glenn gave him a description of the couple. “Who are they?”
“I don’t know.”
“The guy said you sent them.”
“I did not send them.”
Glenn considered that, didn’t reply.
Only two possibilities: either this guy was lying or the man in the chamber had been.
Glenn had the sense that a man whose life was being threatened would be a bit more likely to tell the truth than someone who’d hired an assassin to kill an old man.
“I want some answers here,” Glenn said. “This whole thing is—”
“The way it is.” A tense, hard tone. “I tell you what you need to know. Don’t get demanding with me. You wouldn’t want me to start considering you a liability.”
Glenn felt his grip on the phone tightening. “I’m not the only one in this conversation who’s at risk of becoming a liability.”
For a moment neither man spoke. Both held their ground, both retained their status, until Glenn decided he was ready to move past his threat and get on with business. “I’m set to take care of Tanbyrn at three.”
“I’ll have your money waiting.”
“What about the couple from the research facility?”
“Forget ’em. I didn’t send them. Just take care of your job, the one you were hired to do.”
He didn’t send them? Did someone else from RixoTray? Another firm?
Glenn was surprised that his contact didn’t seem concerned that a competitor may have sent the couple. Was he faking it? Or maybe the guy didn’t have anything to hide after all. Maybe the whole blackmail idea had been a mistake.
“I’m going to take care of them.”
“No you’re not. You’re—”
“They might’ve seen my face.”
“I don’t care about that. I just want you to do the job you were hired to do and then get out of there without leaving any evidence behind.”
Glenn responded by hanging up.
Abruptly.
He shut off his phone.
Pissed
off now.
Not happy.
No.
No, he was not.
He placed his hands palms-down on the table. Took a breath.
Alright. He would do what he’d been hired to do. The transaction with the doctor was a done deal. That was professional. That was business. The matter of the couple from the chamber was personal. A loose end he could not risk leaving unattended.
He thought about how to kill Dr. Tanbyrn.
Though he’d obviously deliberated on it earlier, he preferred not rushing into a decision as important as how to murder someone without thinking through all the options. It was better to make your decision closer to the actual event and adapt as necessary.
For the most part, Glenn avoided guns. Because of that, he’d used wire in the past, plastic bags (twice), and once—on a unique and rather memorable assignment—a blowtorch. But all in all, he preferred his knives, and they’d served him well the six times he’d used them for their intended purpose.
When you use a knife, almost always, even if someone knows what he’s doing when he’s fighting you, he will get cut. A Kevlar vest will stop a bullet, but because of the amount of force generated at the tip of a blade when you thrust it forward, even a vest won’t stop a knife.
Yeah, well, what about the guy last night? He didn’t get cut. He did pretty—
Irritation.
Anger at himself.
Save the knife for the couple.
Wound for wound.
Something else for the old man; what you were thinking of before.
So after a short internal debate, Glenn decided to go ahead with his original idea.
Fire.
Tanbyrn’s office was located at the end of the hallway on the lower level. There was a reception area just outside his office that would serve Glenn’s purposes well. More accurately, it was a waiting room. There was no receptionist there. No secretary. All of which made it ideal.
The building was constructed of logs, and with its central air system, it would circulate the smoke even as the wooden structure burned. The smoke and the alarms would clear the building of other people.
But Glenn would seal Tanbyrn in the office so he couldn’t escape—easily enough done.
