“C’mon,” Liam said. “You know it’s not that. I just gave you the stats. If it was one? Maybe. Two? Doubtful. But four? And my niece? That just doesn’t make sense at all. It can’t be natural causes.”
“Not sure I agree,” Kyle said. “But even if you’re right, even if it is something other than natural causes, what makes you think it was an energy disruption?”
“Because it has to be something undetectable. And what else is there that’s completely undetectable other than the energy our consciousness creates?”
“But who says the energy from our consciousness, assuming it even exists as anything more than random matter, can do this?”
“Well,” Liam said, squirming a bit uneasily for the first time in his chair, “who says it can’t? Look at all of Sheldrake’s studies with morphic fields.”
Kyle leaned back in his chair. “Have you actually studied Sheldrake?”
“A bit.”
“Then I take it you know his theories have been widely rejected, right?”
“Rejected? The guy’s a rock star in the field of consciousness. Whose theories are more accepted than his in the field?”
“I’m referring to the science field. Sheldrake’s followers tend to concentrate more in the area of philosophy.”
“First of all,” Liam said. “He is a scientist. He’s a biochemist. Secondly, the quantum physics field has embraced his theories and has provided the rationale for them. They’ve seen the results of his experiments. Like the one where he proved we can tell if we’re being stared at just by the sensation alone. That’s been proven over ten thousand times.”
“I’m not sure embraced is the right word,” Kyle said, holding back on the fact that he had conducted Sheldrake’s experiment in his own class and agreed that the results showed something was definitely felt or sensed when being stared at from behind—like when someone read a paper over your shoulder. But whether the feeling was due to an ‘energy’ or not, Kyle had no idea.
“Just look at where the quantum physics field has taken his theories,” Liam argued. “They’ve proven that cells have nonlocal interactions with other cells. They’ve even shown that when holistic healing works, whether it’s Deeksha, Reiki or whatever, it’s not just coincidental, it’s because the energy created by the morphic fields impacts the targeted cells and adjusts them so they re-conform to the body’s blueprint rather than continue to follow the deviant signals being received by the disease. They actually friggin’ reteach the cells and override the disease.”
Liam had definitely done his homework. Everything he was saying was a published fact or theory by known authorities in the field. “Yes,” Kyle said, “some quantum physicists have tried to further develop or prove Sheldrake’s theories, but they are far from conclusive, and although mainstream medicine no longer discounts holistic approaches when all else fails, it is also far from an accepted practice in the medical community. Not to mention, quantum mathematics itself is riddled with unproven assumptions.”
“But that’s what scientists do, right? They doubt each other and try to prove each other wrong. They spend their whole lives doing that. But studying the consciousness and its energy fields is one of the hottest areas in neuroscience right now. Heck, everyone knows the military’s been in it for decades. That’s a known fact.”
“You’re referring to Jon Ronson’s book? The Men Who Stare at Goats?”
“Among others, yeah.”
“And you do realize they turned his book into a comedy with George Clooney poking fun at the entire notion.”
“Right. They turned it into a movie.”
“A comedy.”
Liam stared at him blankly.
“Liam,” Kyle said, “it was a comedy that made fun of the military and the people who took these theories, like Sheldrake’s morphic fields, seriously.”
“So what? Spinal Tap was a comedy about a band. Does that mean bands don’t exist? Office Space was a comedy about layoffs. Does that mean people don’t get laid off?”
Kyle squeezed his brow. “It’s not the same thing.”
“Sure it is. The movie made fun of the interaction between straight-laced military guys and hippies. Easy to do. But that doesn’t mean the underlying premise isn’t real. And it is real, right? Isn’t it true that the military has spent millions on experiments, and who knows what else, based on these theories?”
“Yes, but—”
“See? There you go.”
“Okay,” Kyle said, rubbing the back of his neck to relieve some of the growing tension. “I don’t think we’re going to see things the same way on this. But even if someone could disrupt someone else’s energy, why would they do it?”
Liam took a deep breath. “And that’s the fifty million dollar question, right? Why is someone out there attacking these people? Is there some real intention there? Is it a serial killer?”
Kyle didn’t know what to say. All he could do was stare back at the puffy eyes behind Liam’s thick glasses, wondering what the hell the man’s angle was? Was he actually delusional, or merely a stubborn adherent to Sheldrake’s theories? Or, was it all some kind of elaborate ploy because he knew about the flirtatious texts?
And then Liam gave Kyle his answer. With a sly grin, he pulled out an iPhone in a pink case—Allie’s iPhone.
“This,” Liam said, “is the key.”
Kyle swallowed, but didn’t say anything.
“If the killer knew Allie, or was connected to her in some way, he or she has to show up on her phone, right? They always say that something like ninety percent of murder victims knew their murderer.”
Kyle didn’t say anything. He was sick of the set-up and just wanted Liam to get to the point already. He wanted him to say that he knew Kyle was meeting his niece that night. That he’d been flirting with her. That he wanted to sleep with her.
“But so far I’ve come up with nothing on the phone,” Liam said, his grin turning into a frustrated scowl. “So I thought about it. The killer was obviously there that night. He attacked her. That’s how the aneurysm burst. So that means he probably got his hands on her phone. And if he did that, he definitely must’ve erased the emails or messages he sent.”
“Have you checked?”
Liam nodded.
“And?”
“Nothing,” he said. “But I think that’s because the software I used requires syncing to her iTunes account. And if the texts were sent that night, and also deleted that night, they wouldn’t have synced with the account. So I found this company downtown that says they’ll be able to find any deleted messages, even if they weren’t synced with iTunes. So I’m going to bring it to them and see what they come up with.”
Kyle wiped the perspiration from above his lip. “And why are you telling all of this to me and not the police?”
“I’ve already told the police.”
Kyle narrowed his eyes. “And?”
“And they aren’t listening to me. So I need someone else to help me out.”
“But why me?”
“You’re a professor,” he said. “And you know about this stuff.”
“But I don’t know that much about it. And what I do know says that what you’re saying can’t be true. So how am I going to be of any help?”
“Because I know you’ll come around once you think about it. So just do that for now. Think about it,” Liam said. “Then once I find out which messages were deleted, if I’m right, I think then you’ll change your mind. And so will the police.”
Kyle didn’t know what to say. Once Liam found the messages it wasn’t Kyle who was going to change his mind, it’d be Liam.
And Kyle could kiss his job and career goodbye, while flushing the remaining respect and integrity he had straight down the toilet with the rest of his life.
It was only a matter of time.
CHAPTER TEN
“Are you out of your fucking mind?”
“What was I supposed to say?” Kyle said into the phone
, having just relayed the entire conversation to Eddie.
“How about—‘Yeah, I wanted to fuck your niece, but I didn’t kill her, you psycho,’” Eddie yelled into the phone. “I mean, there’s only two things going on here. One, the guy knows what you were up to. Or two, he’s a fucking nut. And either way, I have no idea why you would tell him to give you a call after he finds out about the deleted texts. I mean, Jesus, Ky, you gotta grow a pair at some point and say enough is a fucking nuff. You tried to screw a hot chick. That’s it. You didn’t try to kill her, man. So she was a couple of decades younger than you and was your student. Big fucking deal. You know how many guys would’ve jumped at that opportunity?”
“What if he’s on to something though,” Kyle said.
“Are you kidding me? There’s no way someone’s going around Manhattan blowing up people’s brains with just their thoughts.”
“But if Liam’s right about the statistics,” Kyle said, “it is extraordinarily strange.”
“You can’t be serious.”
“I’m not saying I think it’s happening the way he thinks it is, but maybe something else is going on.”
“C’mon, Ky. Really?”
Kyle sighed and rubbed the back of his head, feeling the dull pain beginning to grow into a full-on headache. “I don’t know,” he said. “Maybe I’ll find out if the statistics Liam’s citing are even real first.”
“Good idea. Do that. And then promise me one thing?”
“What’s that?”
“You think back to what happened the last time you played Good Samaritan.”
“I have the mediation in a few days, so trust me, I can’t not think about it.”
“Good.”
After they hung up, Kyle scrolled down his BlackBerry contact list to Tom’s phone number, knowing the man could quickly access the information he needed since NYU’s forensics department also housed the city’s Chief Medical Examiner’s Office—the OCME. Tom could just access the OCME’s intranet to find out how many ruptured aneurysm victims there’d been in the past few months. He’d also be able to see if Liam was right about them being so young and symptom-free.
Tom picked up after the second ring. “I haven’t checked on her since we last spoke,” he said, not waiting for Kyle to say hello.
“I actually need a different favor.”
The line went quiet.
“I know,” Kyle said. “I know I said I wouldn’t bother you again with anything else, but something strange is going on with what happened to Allie.”
“How so?”
“Her uncle told me—”
“Her uncle? You talked to her uncle?”
“He called me.”
“Does he know the real reason why you were there?”
“He doesn’t even know I was there.”
“So why did he call you?”
Kyle didn’t want to delve into the whole situation, so he simply said, “I’m not quite sure, but when we were talking he told me there have been four ruptured aneurysms in the past two months to people in their twenties. Their early twenties.”
“That’s odd.”
“That’s what he says. He thinks something’s going on.”
“Like what?”
“He’s not sure,” Kyle said. “But I wanted to confirm his statistics.”
“Which, I presume, is where I come in.”
“Right,” Kyle said. “Do you think you could quickly check and see if the numbers match up? I mean, it’s all public information right? I could get it through a Freedom of Information request.”
“If you wanted to wait a few months.”
“Which I don’t.”
Tom sighed. “I’ll see what I can do.”
“Thanks, Tom,” Kyle said. “If it’s easier, you can just shoot me an email. And I definitely owe you a few.”
After they hung up, Kyle leaned back in his chair and thought about what it would mean if Tom came back with confirmation that Liam’s numbers were accurate. Would that mean someone was behind the hemorrhage deaths? That someone was causing them? He thought back to the man in the alley, trying to think of anything out of the ordinary. But there was nothing. From the little Kyle saw, the man could’ve been anyone, and could’ve been doing anything in the alley. The only thing odd about him was that he was there to begin with, and hadn’t stuck around.
But maybe he’d already been leaving. Or maybe he’d just been taking a leak and was embarrassed. Maybe he hadn’t even noticed Allie.
Still, Kyle knew he should tell the police. But once that happened, the questions about why he was there would open up the can of worms he desperately wanted to keep shut. And when he thought about how the conversation would go, he wondered how helpful the information would even be. He’d say there was someone in the alley when Allie collapsed. That’s it. Big deal. The hospital had to already have assumed that possibility anyway when they ruled out any trauma or drugs in her blood system.
So what on earth could the man have done?
Kyle didn’t know. Couldn’t think of anything.
But he also couldn’t get that nagging feeling out of his mind. Couldn’t shrug away the sense that there was definitely more to the man in the alley, that there was some kind of connection.
He just had no idea what the hell it was.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Kyle received a text from Tom the following day while he was on his way to meet Bree for dinner. He hadn’t been sure what Tom was going to come back with, didn’t know if the actual number of aneurysm ruptures would match Liam’s count or not. But what he didn’t expect was what Tom sent him.
Liam was wrong.
There hadn’t been four deaths of people in their twenties over the last few months.
There’d been six.
Kyle stared at the BlackBerry’s tiny screen, wondering what that meant. Was there actually merit to what Liam was saying? Could something completely undetectable have been used to cause the strokes? And if so, what? It couldn’t really be an energy transfer … or could it?
It just didn’t seem possible. But something was going on, Liam was right on that account. It had to be more than a coincidence. But Kyle still had absolutely no clue what it was.
He slipped the BlackBerry into his pocket and continued to cut his way through the thick humidity that’d been hovering over the city all day, the clammy mess having him wondering if the city had reached that defining day when the weather seemed to change for good, that moment in the summer when the sporadic bouts of cool weather disappeared and the stifling cloud of humidity descended and remained well into September. The stench of garbage filtering its way throughout the streets, the subway stations heating up like ovens, the sidewalks and concrete starting to melt as sweat-soaked T-shirts clung to backs everywhere—the Manhattan that those with the means and opportunity sought to flee each weekend. It was June and still seemed too early for the change, but the thick air gave off that feeling that the change had indeed arrived, that summer had descended upon New York. It simply had that feel.
As he made his way over to Amsterdam, it wasn’t lost on him that the neighborhood still felt like home, like he should be walking a few blocks over to Riverside to the apartment he had shared with Sheila and Bree for almost a decade before the divorce. Stores and restaurants he used to take for granted—the diner where he and Bree would eat breakfast every Sunday morning, the bookstore where they’d spend hours browsing through the aisles, the pizzeria where she graduated from having Kyle cut her slice into pieces to being her hangout after school—now brought back a wide array of emotions. It was the neighborhood where he saw Bree grow up.
He often wondered what her childhood would have been like if they’d moved to the suburbs, concerned that perhaps her life in the city was too urban and structured. It was just so different than his own childhood, where there was little supervision and he and his friends would bike to each other’s houses in the sprawling town without anything more than a “see
you later” to their parents. Bree’s childhood was nothing like that. Everything was scheduled—school, sports, theater. They were all organized events. And every parent knew exactly where their child was at all times. Not that Bree seemed to mind, perhaps because she had the summers away at camp. He didn’t know.
He spotted Bree immediately when he crossed over to Eighty-third Street. She was already waiting at one of Fred’s outside tables. The place was one of their mainstays, and this dinner would be their last before Bree left for sleepaway camp.
She hadn’t seen him yet as he neared. She was too engrossed with something on her iPhone. Probably texting her friends.
He was about to call out, but stopped and just looked at her, at the young woman she was becoming, at his thirteen-year-old daughter sitting there at a restaurant table by herself. It seemed like just yesterday he and Sheila were there with her in the baby stroller as she slept through the entire meal. He remembered how he felt she was getting so big just when she was able to sit at the table without a highchair. Then the conversations started to become less one-sided, less of him asking questions and more questions from her. Real questions. Tough questions. And she had his demeanor, his pensive, reflective process of analyzing answers internally before just accepting them as fact. Each year he enjoyed spending time with her more and more. He knew that was one of the reasons he and Sheila had drifted. Bree had become the center of his life, and raising her became his top priority. He was concerned about the curse of being a therapist’s child, about the neuroses and problems they developed. Psychologists and psychiatrists too often seemed to treat their children either too clinically, coldly handling them as if they were another patient, or went the other way and completely failed to recognize the signs that they treated each and every day themselves. He didn’t want to make that mistake. And he hadn’t. Not with Bree.
But he did with Sheila.
She became Bree’s mother, not his wife. Their conversations centered around two things, and only two things: work and Bree. And he admittedly tuned her out when it was work. Not that Sheila was completely innocent in the whole thing. Not at all. But he hadn’t helped. He hadn’t recognized what was happening. Not until it did happen. Not until it was too late and Sheila was gone. Maybe if he had done something about it earlier, recognized it or acknowledged it, they’d still be together. They’d at least have had a shot. Or maybe not, he thought. Maybe it was what she wanted more than he realized. Maybe it wasn’t just their drifting apart. Maybe she truly just didn’t want to be with him anymore, and no amount of attention on his end could have altered that.
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