by Brad Parks
But, no, it was more than that. Because the tingling quickly progressed to an itch.
They were waiting to see Matt Bronik, who had been admitted a few hours earlier in what Plottner thought was an overabundance of caution. Bronik had apparently walked out of that MAI Holdings house under his own power: bruised, scratched, and stiff, but otherwise fine.
He was certainly faring better than his sister-in-law, who had been shot and was now in surgery.
But Plottner was having his own issues. Because now the itch was more like a burn. All he wanted to do was talk to his newest employee—and prove what a compassionate boss he was—before jetting off to somewhere that wasn’t New Hampshire in March. Yet this odd, uncomfortable sensation wouldn’t leave him alone.
He was being called upon by a strange visitor, one that normally kept its distance, never bothering him when he was trying to get something important accomplished. And as much as he tried to ignore it, it didn’t seem to want to leave him alone this time, until finally Plottner had to acknowledge the presence of this infrequent and unwanted companion:
His conscience.
It was telling him this deal he had struck with Brigid Bronik wasn’t right. She didn’t really want her husband working for Plottner Investments. And Matt Bronik had already made it clear he didn’t want it either. Yet Plottner, blinded by his typical single-mindedness, had used circumstances to his advantage anyway, because that’s what he always did.
And it simply wasn’t right.
Oh, Plottner tried to argue with his conscience. He had given Brigid what amounted to a five-million-dollar signing bonus. And he would be paying Matt a million dollars a year. It wasn’t exactly indentured servitude.
Nevertheless, his conscience was insistent. This was coercion. There were some things money shouldn’t be able to buy, and a human being was one of them. Even if it meant a return to the stultifying boredom of his billions, he couldn’t force himself on Matt Bronik.
“I’ve been thinking,” Plottner said slowly, “that maybe I won’t hold Brigid Bronik to our contract. She signed it under duress. I’ll leave it up to them. If her husband wants to come work for me, great. If not, so be it.”
Theresa, brightening, shoved her round glasses farther up on her face.
“Sir, I’ve been thinking too,” she said. “What if you just funded Dr. Bronik’s research another way? The right way?”
“What do you mean?”
“You could do it through Dartmouth. Endow an institute and have Bronik installed as director. That way, Dr. Bronik would get to be an academic, freely sharing his research with the world, and you’d still get to be associated with whatever contributions he and his colleagues were able to make to the advancement of knowledge. It would be a win-win. We could call it the Plottner Institute.”
“The Plottner Institute,” he repeated. “That’s a fine idea.”
“Thank you, sir,” Theresa said.
And then Lee cleared his throat.
And spoke in a fathomless voice.
“I like it,” he said.
Plottner’s eyes widened for a moment before he recovered from his shock.
“Well, okay,” Plottner said. “It’s settled then.”
Plottner turned to Lee.
“Nice speech, by the way. Really won the day.”
Lee just nodded back.
CHAPTER 69
Two millimeters.
Matt did the math on the back of a napkin, using a formula he had probably mastered in the second grade—and the magnificent calculator in his head—and told me that, assuming Johnny Chang’s aim had originally been true, the impact of Emmett’s bullet, which must have struck some incalculable number of nanoseconds before Chang had finished squeezing his trigger, had lifted the barrel of Chang’s rifle by two millimeters.
Well, 2.176, to be Matt-exact.
That had the corresponding effect of sending the bullet fifteen centimeters—sorry, 15.24 centimeters, or about six inches—high and to the right of the middle of Amy’s sternum.
Which, in turn, meant the difference between Amy sustaining a mortal, center-mass wound and what she was dealing with instead. According to the doctors, it was a “through-and-through” wound. The bullet had entered just beneath her collarbone on the right side and exited out her back.
Even if Chang had missed high left instead, she probably would have bled out: the left side of the chest has many more major veins and arteries, and if the bullet had nicked any of them, she never would have survived.
The right side is less complicated. So while she had lost a lot of blood, she would live.
Still, she was facing a long, painful rehabilitation. The knowledge of that—and our awe over the sacrifice she had made for our family—had muted my reunion with Matt. For as much as it was a relief and a joy to be back in each other’s arms, our emotions were tempered by what it had cost my sister.
And also what it had nearly cost her, but for the gift of those two millimeters.
We were in Matt’s room, awaiting word that she was out of surgery. His medical issues amounted to some superficial wounds and a bit of dehydration. He was expecting to be discharged soon.
In the meantime, he filled the time by reading Harry Potter to Morgan, who had crawled up into bed with him.
It was one of the parts with Grawp. Matt did do a good Grawp.
Eventually, Morgan had to depart. He would be spending the night at a friend’s house.
Shortly after he left, we were informed Aimee had made it through surgery “beautifully.” After some time to make sure there were no further complications, she was ready to be brought into her recovery room.
I wanted to be there when she woke up. Matt insisted on coming along and simply unhooked himself from his IV, leaving behind what would undoubtedly be a mystified medical staff.
When we entered Aimee’s room, she wasn’t there yet.
But Emmett Webster was.
“What are you doing here?” I said. “Shouldn’t you be, I don’t know—”
“Standing guard over Sheena?” he asked, amused. “We don’t have to worry about her anymore. She was taken into custody right after the Bomb Squad got her out.”
“What’s going to happen to her?”
“That remains to be seen. It certainly helps that she’s confessed to everything. And at least so far her story is lining up. We found the burner phone she had been using to communicate with Johnny Chang. We found his phone in the RV. The history of calls between them starts two months ago. There were also a number of texts that make it clear she knew everything that was happening and was calling the shots—right up until Chang turned on her. From there, it seems like it really was Chang, acting on his own. It’ll be up to the prosecutor how to charge her exactly. The three-and-a-half-years scenario I floated for her may have been a little optimistic. It might end up being closer to ten. But that will ultimately be up to the courts.”
I bowed my head. Now that Matt was safe, I was mostly just saddened by Sheena.
Such a waste.
“So I’m worried about your sister instead,” Emmett continued. “Any word?”
“The surgery went well, I’m told. Should be anytime now.”
“Do you mind if I stay for a little bit?”
“Not at all,” I said.
He nodded. “I talked to David Dafashy a short time ago. I owed him an apology, and then we got talking. He and Mariangela are going to try and patch things up. He told me he came clean to her about Leonie Descheun and begged Mariangela for forgiveness.”
“That’s a start,” I said.
“I may give Mariangela a call myself a little later, because I also spoke with Sheena. Among the other things she confessed, she confirmed that she invented her allegations against David. She had gotten the details about David’s advances—the conference in Montreal, the trip to Les Jardins—from Leonie. Sheena then added her own embellishments about the compliments and whatnot. They took on the air of
truth because of all the specifics supplied by Leonie.”
“Why did Sheena feel the need to frame David in the first place?” I asked.
“You know, I didn’t ask,” Emmett said. “But David and I talked about that. He thought perhaps it was because if the department lost two tenured professors, it would create more opportunity for Sheena to get hired at Dartmouth, which is what she wanted. To me, it was just another false trail. If we didn’t bite on the Chinese guys as suspects, we were supposed to bite on David Dafashy. It was more diversion.”
“Well, I hope David and Mariangela will give it another try. He’s not perfect but—”
I was interrupted by an orderly calling out, “Knock, knock. Patient coming.”
The orderly wheeled Aimee in, then parked her in the middle of the room. Her right side was heavily bandaged. An IV bag hung on her bed.
“Aim?” I said. “Aim, can you hear me?”
Her eyes were closed.
But it didn’t matter. Her ears were open, right?
“I love you, Aimee,” I said. “Thank you for saving Matt’s life. That was incredibly brave, even if it was incredibly stupid. Thank you. Thank you. I love you so much.”
I wasn’t sure if there was more to say. Aimee didn’t appear to have heard any of it. I just stood there, clutching her left hand, overcome by the gift of her life.
Then she weakly croaked, “Brig?”
“Yes?” I said, leaning close.
A dreamy, narcotized smile spread across her face as she said, “Always told you I’d take a bullet for you.”
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
This is my tenth published novel, a number that astonishes me even as I type it.
If I had been told, when I was a struggling young newspaper reporter, that someday I would have ten books with my name on them, I would have said I could die happily.
Since I’m now only forty-five—and still have kids to put through college—I’m going to backtrack on the dying thing. But even ten books in, I can assure you: authoring doesn’t get old. I’m thrilled to be able to share this story with you and for you to make the characters a part of your life, just as they have become part of mine. And I’m deeply grateful to the real-life people who helped make this work possible.
That starts with the physicists whose research on quantum mechanics I borrowed and twisted for my storytelling purposes, in particular David Kaiser, the Germeshausen Professor of the History of Science and Physics at Massachusetts Institute of Technology. Dave was endlessly patient explaining the heady concepts that appear in these pages to this social science guy. If there are any technical mistakes, it’s only because I decided to ignore his brilliant counsel.
I’d also like to thank:
Audiologist Leah Ball and my delightful neighbor Melissa Schutt for their insights about hearing loss.
Dr. Randy Ferrance (whose caller ID inexplicably shows up as “Reiner,” hence that character name) for help with the medical stuff.
Kara Williams, who made a generous donation to the Virginia Institute of Autism so that I might give Scott Sugden a glorious death.
My fellow author Daniel Palmer, who spitballed ideas with me (and helped inspire a certain scene in the book when he said, “The only thing I know about physics is Schrödinger’s cat”).
The outstanding team at Thomas & Mercer, including the wonderful Jessica Tribble Wells, who is such a joy to work with it has me rethinking certain long-held writerly prejudices against editors; developmental editor Charlotte Herscher, who stepped in with a critical eye and helped sharpen the final manuscript; author relations manager Sarah Shaw, who ensures the author never lacks for swag; cover designer Anna Laytham, who may be the only reason you picked up this book (cool cover!); production editor Laura Barrett; copyeditor Susan Stokes; marketing wiz Lindsey Bragg; and the boss, Gracie Doyle, who has assembled a fantastic group of professionals and made me feel so welcome at Amazon Publishing.
On a personal level, I also need to acknowledge the people who keep me sane on a daily basis—no easy task with any writer.
That begins with my beloved agent, Alice Martell, even though she told me I needed to blow up the first draft of this manuscript (alas, she was right—as she always is). I am lucky to have her as an advocate, sounding board, and friend.
I’m also grateful to the breakfast crew at Hardee’s, where I continue to write my novels during the morning; and Chili’s, for when the work spills into the afternoon. Both establishments keep me supplied with inspiration and Coke Zero.
Then there are my writer buddies, who I should know better than to list—because I will surely kick myself for leaving people out. But just to name-drop a few who have been through the wars with me for a long time now, a big shout-out to Lou Berney, Carla Buckley, Hilary Davidson, Peggy Finck, Chris and Katrina Holm, Jamie Mason, Erica Ruth Neubauer, Daniel Palmer, and Chris Pavone.
My parents, Marilyn and Bob Parks, are still my backbone in this world (and, not for nothing, they’re also the most aggressive members of my book sales force). I feel blessed that they remain a vibrant part of my life.
Lastly, there’s my reason for being: my wife, Melissa, and our two children. With every laugh, every hug, every kiss blown at me from the other side of a car window, I am reminded that my extraordinary good fortune in this world goes far beyond merely having authored ten books.
Thanks, family. I love every day with you.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Photo © 2016 Sarah Harris
International bestselling author Brad Parks is the only writer to have won the Shamus, Nero, and Lefty Awards, three of American crime fiction’s most prestigious prizes. His novels have been published in fifteen languages and have won critical acclaim across the globe, including stars from every major prepublication review outlet. A graduate of Dartmouth College, Parks is a former journalist with the Washington Post and the Star-Ledger (Newark, New Jersey). He is now a full-time novelist living in Virginia with his wife and two school-age children. A former college a cappella singer and community-theater enthusiast, Brad has been known to burst into song whenever no one was thoughtful enough to muzzle him. His favored writing haunt is a Hardee’s restaurant, where good-natured staff members suffer his presence for many hours a day, and where he can often be found working on his next novel.