Placebo

by Steven James

  “Jevin, you’ve told me you have nightmares. About your boys. About Rachel in the van.”

  “Yes.”

  “Have you ever had one when you were awake?”

  “You mean a hallucination?”

  “A nightmare, but only you have it during the day.”

  “No.” But there’s something in her tone, something beneath the words. Then I catch on. “But you have? Is that what you’re saying?”

  “When I was a girl, a man killed three people in my neighborhood. Stabbed them. His wife, his daughter, then the woman who lived next door.”

  I’d never heard this before. “That’s terrible.”

  “I was eight at the time and I heard the sirens outside—you know, from the police. Someone from the neighborhood had called them. I was standing at our front window; I saw the man walking toward our house, right down the middle of the street, holding that knife in his left hand. It was still dripping blood.”

  The plane banks and we slope down into the final descent.

  “My parents had gone over to a neighbor’s house just down the block when it happened. I don’t remember exactly what they were doing or why they’d left me alone, but they didn’t make it home until it was over. The first police car came racing around the corner, but the man, Mr. Dailey, didn’t stop. He just kept walking directly up the driveway to my house. He must have seen me inside the window because he smiled and tipped the knife in my direction. I should have run, I suppose, or hidden in the closet or something, but I didn’t. I was just too terrified to move.”

  I hear a palpable chill in her words from the dark memories that haunt her.

  The ground draws closer. My ears pop from the pressure, refuse to equalize.

  “Right as he was walking up our steps, they shot him. The police did. He wouldn’t put down the knife. I was watching through the window, just a few feet away. He died right there on our porch, his blood splattered across the glass right in front of me. That’s when I ran to hide. I’ve never told anyone I saw him die. Not even my parents or the police knew I was there when he was shot. They thought I was downstairs watching TV.”

  When she pauses, I sense that it’s just to regroup, not to give me a chance to respond, so I wait and at last she goes on, “Since that day, I sometimes see Mr. Dailey. I’ll look up from reading and he’ll come around the corner in my bedroom and hold that knife up and smile and just stare at me. I’ve seen him in restaurants and at bus stops. Sometimes I’ll be sitting talking with my friends and he’ll walk into the room, just like you or me, and I can’t tell if he’s real or not. And then he pulls out a knife. Sometimes he’ll walk up to me and swipe it toward me, toward my stomach.”

  I’m reminded of what happened in the chamber last night when Banner tried to kill her by swiping the blade toward her abdomen.

  Apparently she’s thinking the same thing because I notice her gazing at the arm where she got her stitches. “I guess it’s a hallucination, but I’ve always thought of it as a nightmare that I have while I’m awake. A daymare. I know it’s not real, but everything inside of me tells me that it is. That’s how powerful our thoughts can be. They really do change things, Jev, our thoughts do.”

  There’s not a whole lot of difference between her daymares and my observer memories. In both cases our minds were filling in details, forcing us to see what wasn’t real.

  Why don’t we just call observer memories what they are: retrograde hallucinations?

  The saying about our eyes playing tricks on us comes to mind. But the saying isn’t true, I’ve known that since my early days of magic. Our eyes don’t play tricks on us, our minds do. Our eyes only gather information; our minds interpret it. We perceive the world not so much by what we actually see but by how our minds expect it to look, by what construct we use to make sense of the data.

  Observer memories.

  Fictionalized truth.

  Hallucinations.

  Perspective.

  Our wheels touch down. The landing is a little rocky, as if the plane is unsure of itself as it settles onto the runway.

  Clearly, Charlene is deeply moved and upset from sharing the story about Mr. Dailey. I reach across the aisle, put my hand gently on her shoulder. “You okay?”

  “Yeah.”

  It’s not true what they say about things being “only in your head.” If it’s in your head, it’s in you, and you can’t escape your thoughts, can’t flee their effect on you. Call it psychosomatic if you want, but when thoughts affect your physiology, the problem is never just in your head.

  Misdirection.

  Seeing what you expect to see.

  Why did the suicide bomber put the shirt on over his vest? If the video was simply of a malfunction in the vest, what did it have to do with RixoTray? With Dr. Cyrus Arlington?

  I consider that for a moment. The implications for what we’re trying to do here.

  Eyes playing tricks on you.

  A different perspective.

  Captain Fontaine stops our taxiing beside the charter jet terminal.

  Charlene folds up the blanket. “I hope Dr. Tanbyrn will be alright.”

  “So do I.” But my thoughts are still on the video, on the behavior of the suicide bomber, the ways perspective and expectations affect what our minds tell us is real.

  I’m not sure what any of it means and I make a decision to look into it later, but it’ll have to wait. For now Fionna McClury and her four children are already waiting for us just outside the nearest hangar.

  Socialization

  I put a call through to the hospital in Oregon and find that there’s been no change in Dr. Tanbyrn’s condition, and by the time I’m done the door is open and Fionna and her kids are lining up to board the plane.

  Fionna has a shock of red hair that she always seems to have a hard time taming and endearing green eyes that beg you to look deeply into them, but it’s not easy to. One of her eyes wanders, and when we first met, I found it difficult to guess which of her eyes to look into when I spoke to her. For a while I kept switching my focus from one eye to the other until she abruptly told me to just choose one because going back and forth like that was making her dizzy.

  She has two girls and two boys, all four years apart, almost like clockwork. Mandie is five, Maddie nine, Donnie thirteen, and Lonnie is seventeen. I’m not sure why she gave her boys and girls names that sounded so much alike, and I have no idea how she keeps the names apart, but from the first time I’d met her, I’ve never heard her call any of the children by the wrong name.

  After two marriages that didn’t work out, she’s sworn off men, but she’s also mentioned to me how important it is for her kids to have a good male role model, and I could tell she was conflicted about the whole issue.

  Amil stows the McClurys’ luggage in the back of the plane, and Fionna lets the kids troop aboard first, their eyes wide, mouths gaping.

  “Sweet.” It’s Donnie, the ponytailed thirteen-year-old who has looked up from his cell phone just long enough to take a quick glance around before texting someone again. Last year he’d somehow convinced his mom that he needed an earring, and in his tattered jeans and long hair, he looks more like an aspiring rock star than your typical Midwestern homeschooled kid.

  Lonnie strolls aboard, confident, perceptive, lean, and already handsome at seventeen. Mandie, the youngest, has both arms wrapped around a stuffed dog that’s nearly as big as she is. Nine-year-old Maddie wears stylish glasses and is toting a well-worn copy of The Count of Monte Cristo.

  Fionna ascends the plane’s steps just behind them. She’s wearing two buttons on her jacket: “Moms against Guns” and “NRA Member.”

  She is not an easy woman to figure out.

  She offers me a nod and a smile. “Jevin.”

  “Hey, Fionna.”

  Because of how often we use videoconferencing, it’s been a few months since we’ve all been together face-to-face. She leans in for a peck-on-the-cheek greeting.

 
As the kids pass by Xavier, they all greet him as “Uncle Xav.” Then they settle into their seats.

  “It’s great to see you, Fionna,” Charlene tells her.

  “You too.”

  Xavier shakes her hand. “Hello, Ms. McClury.” He lends a degree of respect to her name.

  She regards him lightly. “Hello, Mr. Wray.”

  “And how is the homeschooling going these days?”

  “Quite well, thank you. How’s the search for the Loch Ness Monster?”

  “It’s coming along.”

  It doesn’t take long before we’re in the air again. Fionna asks for an update and I quickly brief her on what’s going on, what we’ve found out.

  When she hears about the documented negative effects of mind-to-mind communication and the idea of using a thought-borne virus to stop someone’s heart, she shakes her head. “That’s about as unnerving as a warm toilet seat at a highway rest stop.”

  “Ooh . . .” Charlene cringes. “That one’s just troubling.”

  “And memorable,” Xav mutters. “I don’t think I’ll ever look at rest areas the same way again.”

  Fionna smiles. “Thanks.” Then she turns to me. “So, you have Tanbyrn’s iPad?”

  Charlene retrieves it and hands it to her.

  Earlier, Fionna had said that she could hash the password in two minutes or less. I decide to time her. A password prompt appears on the tablet’s screen. She begins to tap at the virtual keyboard. I start my watch.

  From behind us I hear Xavier talking with Maddie, the nine-year-old, who’s staring out the window at the receding lights of Chicago.

  “So, a field trip, huh?” he remarks offhandedly.

  “Yes.”

  “Should be fun.”

  “Yes.”

  “A chance to get out of the house.”

  Oh, don’t do this, Xavier. You’re going to regret it if you—

  “Uh-huh.”

  My watch tells me Fionna has one minute fifty seconds left. Without looking up, she calls back, “What makes the biggest difference in a child’s education, Mr. Wray? According to the latest research, what’s more important than the teacher’s educational background, the school district, technology available in the classroom, socioeconomic and racial demographics, even parental involvement?”

  She’s still working on the iPad.

  One minute thirty-five seconds left.

  “Let’s see . . . the culture of the school? At some inner-city schools, no one even takes books home because of peer pressure. Because it’s not considered cool.”

  “Yes, that’s a factor,” Fionna admits—her fingers are flying across the virtual keys—“but I’m talking about the most important factor: class size. The smaller the class, the better kids learn. Until you get down to twelve students, where it levels off. And what educational alternative offers that the most readily?”

  “But what about socialization?” he counters.

  Oh, bad move, Xav.

  This was going to be brutal.

  I look his way and notice Maddie staring at him questioningly. “Socialization?”

  One minute left.

  “Yes,” he tells her. “It’s how you make friends.” He directs the next part of his answer toward Fionna. “Some people call it preparing for the real world.” It’s not sarcasm, not even criticism in his voice, but there’s definitely a challenge there.

  Fionna stops typing. Gazes at him.

  Forty-five seconds left.

  Here we go.

  “Yes, that’s right,” she agrees, “socialization. It means preparing for life beyond school and learning to get along with people of all ages in a healthy manner. Maddie, why don’t you go ahead and answer Uncle Xavier. Does homeschooling do that?”

  Back to the iPad’s keyboard.

  Thirty seconds.

  The socialization objection is such a typical one leveled against homeschooling that I wonder if Fionna has coached her children on how to respond to it. But Maddie doesn’t look like she’s trying to recall what her mother might’ve told her, she looks like she’s really thinking about it.

  Xavier waits.

  We all watch Maddie to see what she’ll say.

  After a bit she replies, “So do you think the best way to prepare kids for the real world is to bus them to a government institution where they’re forced to spend all day isolated with children of their own age and adults who are paid to be with them, placed in classes that are too big to allow for more than a few minutes of personal interaction with the teacher—”

  Twelve seconds left.

  “—then spend probably an hour or more every day waiting in lunch lines, car lines, bathroom lines, recess lines, classroom lines, and are forced to progress at the speed of the slowest child in class?”

  Two seco—

  Fionna punches one final key. “Done,” she announces, looking up from the iPad.

  Man, she really was worth her pay.

  It’s quiet in the back of the jet for a moment, and Charlene whispers to me, “Not too many times you find Xavier speechless.”

  “I heard that,” he calls to her, then clears his throat slightly, addresses Maddie. “Your mom taught you to say all that, didn’t she?”

  “No.” She pauses, thinks about that. “But if she had, wouldn’t it show that she prepared me for the real world?”

  Silence. Then Xavier’s voice. “Amil, do you have any more of that cheese?”

  Fionna smiles faintly: Gotcha.

  The password prompt clears away, revealing the desktop screen. “Now, let’s see what Project Alpha is all about.”

  Fionna is fast, but most of the files require her to type in another unique password. I have no idea how Tanbyrn could have kept them all straight, but it’s taking Fionna awhile to work through them.

  Finally she gets discouraged and sighs. “I think I need a break from this.”

  “You probably need some sleep,” Charlene tells her. “Rest. Get back at it when we reach Philadelphia.”

  The truth is, we probably all need some sleep.

  So that’s what we do until the sun begins to glow on the eastern horizon and the City of Brotherly Love lies beneath us, its bridges straddling the Delaware and Schuylkill rivers, its skyscrapers rising into the cobalt-blue, unfolding day. Strands of high and lonely clouds stretch across the lower part of the sky.

  And we land at the Philadelphia International Airport.

  Philly

  Wednesday, October 28

  7:21 a.m.

  I’ve been to Philadelphia at this time of year before, and the temperature is usually in the midfifties. Today the temps are lower, the day is clear, and the wind bites fiercely at my face as I step onto the tarmac.

  Everyone is quiet as we head to the terminal; no doubt they, like me, are still half-asleep, still transitioning back to the waking world.

  Memories of the path that led us here, the events of the last thirty-six hours, pass through my mind, bringing with them a hailstorm of harsh emotions.

  Fury.

  Grief.

  Curiosity.

  Confusion.

  Abruptly, my thoughts are interrupted by Fionna. “Did you get the hotel rooms all figured out?”

  “Should be all set. Sorry, no pool, but the suites do have whirlpools.”

  “How many rooms did you get?”

  “Four. I figured I could share with Xavier and you and Charlene could stay in the same room, as could your boys and your girls—don’t worry, the girls’ room adjoins yours so you can leave the door between them open.”

  “Actually, I’m more concerned about my boys. It might be best if you could room with Lonnie and Xavier could room with Donnie. Keep an eye on them.”

  “Um . . .”

  She smiles. “Just kidding. I appreciate everything.”

  “No problem. Anyway, their room is beside ours. We’ll make sure they don’t party too late.”

  “Much appreciated.”

  We�
��re almost to the terminal. Amil has his cell phone out and asks me how many taxis we’ll be needing.

  I’m about to tell him two when Xavier leans close to me and whispers, “Get a limo for Fionna’s kids. They’ll love it.”

  Nice.

  Good thought, Uncle Xav.

  “One taxi,” I tell Amil. “And one limousine.”

  On the helipad on top of RixoTray’s corporate headquarters, Dr. Cyrus Arlington boarded one of his company’s three Sikorsky S76A executive helicopters.

  The drive to DC would have taken nearly three hours—more if traffic was bad—and he didn’t have that kind of time today. Too much to do before this afternoon.

  As the pilot completed the last-minute safety checks, Cyrus wondered what Mambo Atabei had accomplished for him last night and how it might affect his agenda for the day. Already he found himself thinking of her as a loose end. One that might need to be tied off permanently, just like Tanbyrn.

  As the largest individual shareholder in the company, Cyrus stood to lose tens of millions of dollars if the legislation went through. He knew that name-brand drugs are safer and more effective than their generic counterparts. But also, yes, of course, more expensive.

  For good reason.

  If you were a novelist and spent a decade writing a book, and then someone came along and copied 95 percent of your words, packaged the book similarly to yours, and sold it at a fifth of the price, that person would be guilty of copyright infringement. It’s the same as the Chinese and Russians producing designer handbags or watch knockoffs that sell for a fraction of the price of the original products.

  Yet generic pharmaceuticals are enthusiastically welcomed by the general public.

  Because they’re cheap, not because they’re ethical.

  But still, incomprehensibly, they are legal.

  There were two factors at play in the pharmaceutical industry regarding protection from generic drug infringement: data protection and patents.

  According to the 1984 Hatch-Waxman Act, generic drug companies can release drugs to the marketplace without clinical trials as long as the companies can prove that their drug is equivalent to the name-brand drug. This allows them to earn income off the millions or billions of dollars of research and development that they don’t have to pay for. There’s only a five-year span of time after the release of data related to the drug’s research before the equivalent generic drug can be released to the public.