Placebo

by Steven James

  “So,” Fionna says, “have the charter plane swing by and pick me up.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Pick me up. Here in Chicago.”

  “Are you serious?”

  “Sure. I’m already up to my neck in this with you, Jevin, and it’ll be easier if I can work things from the inside.”

  “From the inside of what?”

  “With RixoTray. It looks like I have some rather troubling news to give them—their cybersecurity isn’t nearly as good as it needs to be. In fact, the CEO’s personal computer is at high risk of a security breach.”

  There was no arguing with that.

  She goes on, “That’s something I should discuss with him in person. If I’m with you, I can guarantee you a meeting with Arlington. Besides, you’re flying from Oregon to Pennsylvania. You’ll practically go right over my house. I’m not sure, but I’d guess a charter plane will need to refuel on a flight across the country.”

  “Actually, these planes are equipped to—”

  “You know as well as I do”—she refuses to give up—“that you’ll make more progress if I’m there. I can do a few things from here to try and access that iPad, but from what I’ve seen, the security on it is reasonably good. It might take me awhile remotely, but I guarantee that if I had it in front of me, I could hash that password in two minutes or less.”

  Even though I have complete confidence in her ability to work something like this from an off-site location, I have to admit that it would be good to have her there with us in Philadelphia, especially when it came to getting us an audience with Dr. Arlington.

  Stopping by Chicago won’t really add that much time to the trip. You could still make it to Philadelphia by morning.

  “Okay, you’ve convinced me. I’ll set it up and let you know the details about when and where to meet us.”

  “And my kids come too.”

  “What? No, that’s not—”

  “This might take a couple days. I can’t leave them alone that long, and it’s too late to find someone who’d be able to take in four children.”

  Lonnie is seventeen and very responsible, but I couldn’t help but agree with Fionna that it wouldn’t be a good idea to leave him alone to watch his three younger siblings. Fionna doesn’t have family in the area, and while she could farm the kids out to their friends’ houses, that might be awkward. She was also right that this would likely involve a couple days of work. Still, even taking all that into account, I’m hesitant to say yes.

  “I don’t know, I’m—”

  “They’ll be safe in the hotel rooms you’re going to get us, if that’s what you’re worried about. They’ll have plenty of security. After all, we’re staying at a nice hotel, right? Because it’ll really be a lot easier if there’s room service.”

  “This isn’t exactly—”

  “My kids like to swim, so let’s make sure there’s an indoor pool.”

  I wish I could tell her that there wouldn’t be enough room on the plane for her and her kids, but the Gulfstream 550 that’s on its way to Portland would actually have just enough seats.

  I rub my head. “Really? You want me to fly your kids to Philly?”

  “You’re already paying for the flight, why not get your money’s worth? Besides, they’re due for a field trip, and they’ve never been to the City of Brotherly Love.”

  “You told me earlier today that you took them on a field trip this morning?”

  “That doesn’t really count. It was in the same state.”

  Oh. Is that how it works.

  “I see.”

  “You won’t regret having them along. Trust me. They can help me out, and from what I’ve seen, you could use it. I mean, this project is about as confusing as when you have two dozen gerbils running around a pet store and you’re trying to catch the one with the little white tuft on his left ear, and you can’t seem to find him because all the other ones are just too dang frisky.”

  I knew a simile would sneak in here eventually. Or an analogy. Or metaphor. I’m not really sure what that one was.

  “Where do you get these from, Fionna?”

  “Sometimes they just come to me. So?”

  I hold back a sigh. “Okay, they can come. But I’m not guaranteeing you a pool.”

  “Hot tubs in the suites will be fine.” She turns from the phone and I hear her calling to her family, “Kids, pack up your things. We’re going to Pennsylvania!”

  Part II

  MEANS of DISPOSAL

  Critical Condition

  Cyrus slipped into his Jag and took a deep breath.

  Had Helen really invited Riah out for coffee? Or was that a lie? If Helen had asked her to meet, did she know about the affair?

  He felt his temperature rising.

  Who was the wasp here and who was the cockroach? Who was the helpless one? Riah was not the one calling the shots in this, he was. And he was not about to have her try to control him, try to seal him in a corner.

  Her mention of Helen annoyed him, really annoyed him. And then, of course, there was this whole botched job with Tanbyrn.

  The assassin was dead and the doctor was not.

  Cyrus pounded the steering wheel.

  How could you have been so stupid to hire an inept goon like him!

  Frustrated, he drove toward the drop-off point at First Central Bank, the place Akinsanya had told him to leave the DVD of the footage in Kabul.

  Earlier, while they were waiting for Oriana to show up, Cyrus had decided that if the police came knocking, he would tell them the truth: yes, he had been in touch with Banner, had spoken with him on several occasions.

  And he would also tell them a lie—Banner had been blackmailing him from the beginning, threatening to expose his affair with Riah.

  The conversation played out in his head:

  “How did he find out about you and Dr. Colette?” the cops would ask him.

  A lie: “He told me he had a tip. That’s all he said. He had photographs. Compromising ones.”

  “What did you pay him?”

  The truth: “So far, $12,500. He wanted more. Another twelve five.”

  “Then why would he burn down the building where they were doing research related to RixoTray?”

  A lie: “I have no idea. Dr. Colette is in charge of the research project. She might be able to help you with that.”

  The blackmail angle worked. It explained the money, the fact that Banner had been in touch with him, and the reason Cyrus had kept it all a secret. Admitting to the affair might not help his marriage, but he could work through all that, play the repentant husband, reconcile, move on. Or maybe go back to Caitlyn. She really was a fine little office helper.

  But for now there was still the issue of Tanbyrn.

  Put quite simply, he knew too much.

  You never know—he might already be dead.

  Cyrus put the DVD in the mail slot of First Central Bank. The bank was, of course, closed. He had no idea who Akinsanya was, had never met him, only spoken with him on the phone.

  He didn’t know why Akinsanya had chosen this location, but he was not going to question him, not after the photos Akinsanya had sent him of what he’d done to the people who’d betrayed him or failed him in the past. All using a needle and thick, black thread.

  Back in the car, before starting the engine, Cyrus considered his course of action.

  He had a meeting tomorrow morning at nine with the vice president at the White House. Papers to verify, a myriad of details to arrange.

  Cyrus took out his cell phone, surfed to a dozen news sites, one after another, to see what details had emerged about the fire at the Lawson Research Center.

  He found out that the famous Nobel laureate Dr. Tanbyrn wasn’t dead yet. Some guy had gotten him out of the building just in time. But the doctor was in critical condition with carbon monoxide poisoning and had slipped into a coma within the last twenty minutes or so.

  Well, that was a bit of g
ood news.

  The circumstances surrounding Banner’s death were still sketchy, but apparently he was killed while fighting one of the people at the center.

  Some professional he turned out to be.

  Tanbyrn’s in a coma. Nonresponsive. If he ever does recover, he’ll probably have brain damage. Just get through until tomorrow night. There’ll be time to deal with Tanbyrn later, once things have settled down.

  After thinking things through, Cyrus decided to go home, get everything ready for tomorrow, and keep an eye on the situation with Tanbyrn. Yesterday he’d briefly considered contacting Atabei. Maybe, with Tanbyrn in a weakened condition like this, that would be the best route to take after all.

  Yes, keep tabs on his condition and make a decision in the next couple hours regarding Tanbyrn.

  After contacting the charter flight service again and making arrangements for us to stop by to pick up Fionna and her children in Chicago, I put in a call to make our hotel reservations. With people streaming to central Philly to hear the president’s speech in the morning, there aren’t many vacancies, so it takes a little time to find some rooms, but finally I do.

  Because of our early morning arrival, I book the rooms for both tonight and tomorrow so we’ll be able to check in immediately when we get there and not have to wait for the normal check-in time later in the day. It’s only a couple thousand dollars more for an extra night for the four rooms, and it would save us the hassle of stowing our luggage until the afternoon. I figure it’s worth it.

  I return to Charlene and Xavier and ask him if he can give us a ride back to the Lawson Center so we can get our car and our things from the cabin.

  “What about your X-rays?” he asks.

  “Only if they can get me in quickly. Our flight leaves from Portland in less than four hours, and with the drive back to the center, it’s going to be cutting it close.” I watch Xavier carefully to see how he responds to the next bit of information. “We’ll be meeting up with Fionna and her kids in Chicago on the way. They’re coming with us.”

  “Fionna?”

  “That’s right.”

  “And her kids?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  He’s quiet for a moment. Despite his unwavering support for people living off the grid and his suspicion of the federal government’s role in just about every evil of modern society, he’s surprisingly never been a big fan of homeschooling and has made the mistake of mentioning to Fionna that he thought she should’ve sent her kids to a charter school or a private academy of some type.

  Families who homeschool usually have pretty strong convictions for why they do it, and Fionna was no exception. I’d seen her and Xavier really get into it a few times.

  All good-naturedly, of course.

  I think.

  I pat him on the shoulder. “Just don’t bring up the homeschooling thing and you guys will do fine.”

  “Uh-huh,” he mutters. “As long as she doesn’t try out any of her similes on me, we’ll do even better.”

  I’m tempted to tell him about the gerbils-on-the-floor analogy but hold back. “Let me get those X-rays, and then I want to check on Dr. Tanbyrn again before we leave.”

  Malik’s Daughter

  Two cracked ribs. Neither serious.

  The ER doctor and the radiologist both interpret the X-rays the same way. It’s a welcome piece of good news in the sea of an otherwise dark and turbulent day.

  Rest and time would help me heal. And that sounded a lot better to me than dealing with a pierced lung.

  We proceed quickly to Tanbyrn’s room.

  Even though Pine Lake is a small town, with the news of a Nobel laureate nearly dying in a purposely set fire, it’s no surprise that the national media is already camped outside the hospital doing live feeds. Thankfully, the sheriff’s department has kept them from getting through the doors.

  At the room, Deputy Jacobs, the mustached cop who’d gone through Banner’s pockets when I led him and two of his fellow officers to Banner’s body, is standing sentry outside the door.

  At first I’m a little surprised to see him stationed here, but considering the fact that this crime spree involved arson, at least one homicide, and possibly eleven others by the same person or team of people, the extra security made perfect sense.

  Deputy Jacobs gives us a nod as we approach and anticipates what we came for. “He slipped into a coma.”

  What? Charlene mouths.

  A silent nod.

  “Is it possible we could see him?” she asks.

  “I’m afraid not. They don’t want him disturbed.”

  “How would we disturb him if he’s in a coma?”

  Jacobs has no answer for that.

  “It’s possible that he’s aware of what’s going on, that he needs to have someone reassure him—”

  “I’m sorry, that’s—”

  Charlene folds her arms. “Can you imagine what it would be like if you were lying there and part of your brain was aware of how alone you were, how hopeless your situation was, and no one was there to comfort you? How do we know for sure that’s not the case?”

  Deputy Jacobs isn’t up for a fight tonight. “I suppose it can’t hurt. I’ll go in with you. But just for a couple minutes; I don’t want the docs walking in on us.”

  “I’ll stay here in the hall,” Xavier offers, “and knock if I see any doctors coming.”

  Inside the room, we find Tanbyrn lying motionless on the bed, the blankets tucked neatly around him, leaving the outline of his slight frame sketched beneath the covers. Only his head and arms are visible. He’s on a ventilator and has tubes running into his arms, and all of this makes him look vulnerable, frail, and smaller than he really is. The subtle hum of hospital machinery and the lemony scent of antiseptic fill the air.

  The room has only dimmed lights and the generic, nondescript feel of hospital rooms everywhere.

  I think of how many people die in these generic rooms and how tragic that is. A whole life of uniqueness and individuality funneled down into a room that’s interchangeable with a hundred thousand others just like it all around the country.

  Feel-good movies will tell you, “Pursue your dreams,” or “Follow your heart and everything will work out in the end,” or “Love conquers all,” or some other cliché that sounds good at first but doesn’t stand up to reality, to the way things really are.

  Because dreams don’t always come true.

  And following your heart sometimes only leads you deeper into despair.

  And love doesn’t conquer all. Death does. Like it did with Rachel and the boys. Death won. Death always wins in the end.

  We approach the bed.

  I have no idea if Dr. Tanbyrn can hear me or not, but I tell him, “We got the man who started the fire.” I doubt that talking about anyone dying is the best thing to do at the moment, so I leave out the news about Banner’s death and Abina’s murder.

  Charlene sits beside the bed and takes Dr. Tanbyrn’s hand. “You’re going to be okay.”

  Considering his condition, I’m not sure she should be telling him that, but truthfully, when she does the words sound so heartfelt and confident that I almost believe they’ll come true.

  Positive thoughts. Remember, they make a difference.

  And prayers.

  Thoughts and prayers.

  Even though I wish we could ask him about Project Alpha, I’m at least reassured that we have a plan, that we’re on our way to—

  A series of knuckle raps on the door from Xavier tells us that there’s a doctor on his way to the room.

  “We should go,” Deputy Jacobs tells us quietly.

  I assure Tanbyrn that we’re going to find out who was behind everything. Charlene gives him a light kiss on the forehead and tells him she’ll be praying for him, then we slip out of the room, meet up with Xavier, and leave to retrieve our things from the center so we can make it to Portland by the time our plane lands to pick us up.

  Riah did not find
herself sad that the three men in the video had been killed in the explosion, but she did find their deaths to be unfortunate and untimely in the sense that the men probably had more things they would’ve liked to accomplish before they died.

  Possibly, but they were planning a suicide attack, after all.

  In either case, other than acknowledging that a premature death might not have been on their agenda for the day, Riah felt no sorrow or pity or grief.

  It was her condition, her curse.

  Her reality.

  However, she couldn’t help but remain curious about Malik’s wife, the woman who would now be forced to fend for herself in a male-dominated, patriarchal society, and Malik’s daughter, the fourteen-year-old girl who would now have to grow up without her father. Riah guessed that the girl had loved him and wondered what she was going through.

  What would that be like? To grieve the death of a loved one?

  Would the Afghan girl see her father as a hero who’d died for his beliefs, or as a coward who chose to escape a harsh life and slip into paradise, leaving his wife and daughter living on the hellish outskirts of a war zone?

  Riah thought back to when she was that girl’s age, to the days when her father first started tying her to the bed and having his way with her. What if she’d loved him and then he had died? How would that’ve felt? Or what if she’d hated him instead? Would she have celebrated?

  But he had not died.

  Instead he was living in a decrepit farmhouse in the middle of Louisiana. Riah’s little sister, Katie, was still alive too, was on her third marriage, rented a squalid little apartment in San Diego, had three kids, and hadn’t spoken with her since their mother’s funeral.

  Their mother had fallen down the basement stairs six months ago and broken her neck when her head hit the concrete floor.

  The coroner labeled her death “accidental.” Riah’s father had been home at the time, and Riah thought that it was at least as likely that after decades of physically abusing his wife, he’d pushed her down the stairs or smashed her head in and then shoved her body down the steps to make it look like an accident, but there was no way to prove his involvement one way or the other.