Placebo

by Steven James

  “Perfect.” President Hoult folded his hands in his lap, looked reflectively out the window at the concrete walls passing by. “Yes. Very nice. Now, the rest. The part about cutting frivolous military spending on dead-end programs to reinvest in our country’s treasured public school system: construction paper for kindergartners instead of ESP programs that’ll never produce results—but don’t put it quite like that.”

  “Of course not, sir.”

  Their driver parked the limo.

  “Come on. I want you to help me make sure we have that last section nailed down.”

  “Yes, sir, Mr. President.”

  Then Brennan Sacco, the president, and his entourage went to the preparation room in the Independence Visitor Center to finalize the speech.

  A Distraction

  10:38 a.m.

  17 minutes left

  Lonnie deciphered Dr. Tanbyrn’s equations.

  Fionna and Xavier were back at the Franklin Grand Hotel in Xavier’s room, reviewing the footage of the suicide bombers, when he knocked on the door. Fionna had been able to enhance the image enough for Xavier to verify that it really was a rifle’s scope in the window across the street. They were about to contact Jevin when Lonnie appeared.

  “What did you find?” Fionna asked him.

  Lonnie explained that the notations had to do with differences in quantum entanglement related to the amount of alpha wave activity in the brain during various mental states. “Apparently, a relaxed state of mind is necessary for both the sender and receiver during mind-to-mind communication.”

  “Both?” Xavier said. “Both the sender and the receiver?”

  “Yes. Mom, I was wondering, these algorithms, are they for real or was it just an assignment?”

  Both.

  “It was an assignment.”

  The truth, but not quite the whole truth.

  Grown-ups making grown-up decisions.

  “Nice work, Lonnie. It’s possible that Mr. Wray and I will have to step out for a bit, so I may need you to watch your siblings again.”

  “We’ll be fine. The girls are reading, Donnie’s playing video games.”

  As soon as he’d exited the room, Fionna speed-dialed Jevin, put the call on speakerphone, but before she could tell her friend anything about what they’d found, Jevin detailed his and Charlene’s deductions regarding the possible attempt on President Hoult’s life. “Dr. Colette told us that the twins are military assassins.”

  “Of course.” Xavier nodded soberly. “I knew black ops would fit in here somewhere. It all makes perfect sense.”

  Fionna relayed to Jevin what Lonnie had found regarding the necessity of both the sender and receiver being relaxed at the time of the connection.

  “I don’t know for certain the kind of time frame we’re looking at here,” Jevin said. “The reference to the eagle at the park, the eleven o’clock time mentioned by Tanbyrn—”

  Xavier cut in, “Means it’s going down this morning.”

  “Yes. I think we need to assume that. Dr. Colette thinks the twins will wait for her, but they’ll want to move on it as soon as we get there. We’re on our way to find them now.”

  “What can we do to help?” Xavier asked. “Do you want us to meet you there?”

  “No. If Lonnie is right and the relaxed state of mind is vital for both the sender and the receiver, we need to make sure the president isn’t going to be able to relax until the twins are stopped.”

  “You’re thinking a distraction.”

  “Yeah. A big one.”

  He looked at his duffle bag and Fionna saw his eyes light up. “I have just the thing.”

  They ended the call.

  Fionna asked him, “You’re not thinking of blowing something up, are you?”

  “Oh, something even better than that.”

  “Hmm . . . would it be safe for the kids to see?”

  “Oh yeah. This’ll be a great educational experience. In fact, I think I’m gonna need their help.”

  Dr. Cyrus Arlington met Detective Rothstein and Sergeant Adams as he departed the helicopter at the landing pad on top of RixoTray’s corporate headquarters.

  He told the two Philadelphia Police Department officers the story about Banner blackmailing him, and he was surprised at how readily they seemed to believe him. They informed him they would be contacting him later to follow up on a few things, then left him alone. Just like that.

  Problem solved.

  Or at least postponed.

  It was time to contact the twins. Make sure everything was in place.

  And then let Akinsanya know things were a go.

  10:43

  12 minutes left

  Just as we reach exit 338, Dr. Colette gets the call from Darren with the address—the Faulkner-Kernel Funeral Home on River Road, beside the Schuylkill River.

  A funeral home? Why a funeral home?

  “It’s not far,” Riah tells us. “Should be less than ten minutes.”

  Charlene suggests we try the Secret Service again, but Riah is against the idea. “Believe me, if law enforcement shows up, the twins will think nothing of slaughtering everyone there. These two are specialists, but they won’t move on the president without me.”

  But in the end I decide there’s too much at stake.

  I call the Secret Service and tell them the address on River Road, however, just like before, it doesn’t sound like they’re taking me seriously. They insist that I not hang up, but I do. They know as much as we do now and it’s up to them to take action.

  I keep the cell on.

  Let them track my GPS. We’ll take them right to the twins.

  For the president’s visit, the Secret Service had stationed agents throughout the greater Philadelphia area and had two on the north side of the city near the Schuylkill River.

  Policy dictated that they follow up on every threat, no matter how preposterous, so the district command center immediately dispatched agents to the funeral home.

  President Hoult straightened his suit coat, checked his tie, then looked over the final notes and revisions he’d made to the speech.

  His press secretary leaned into the room. “They’re almost ready for you outside, Mr. President.”

  “Fine.”

  “Is there anything you need?”

  “No. How does my hair look?”

  “It looks perfect, sir.”

  Then she left and President Hoult took a moment to calm himself, as was his custom, before addressing the nation.

  Collateral Damage

  Special Agents Wendy McAuley and Tyron Harris approached the funeral home’s front door.

  It was a routine check, one of dozens they’d been assigned to do in the last two weeks. Yes, you try to take every call seriously, but after a while it’s hard. Especially when 99.99 percent of them turn out to be crank calls.

  Just like a paramedic who’s no longer affected by seeing severe trauma, or a homicide detective who gets numb after viewing corpses day after day, Secret Service agents eventually get so used to investigating death threats against the president that it becomes run-of-the-mill.

  Agent McAuley gave the door a knock. “Unbelievable,” she muttered. “Psychic assassins.”

  “What are you going to do?” Agent Harris yawned. “So, remember the last time we were in Philly?”

  “Cheesesteaks.”

  “Get this call over with, go grab some lunch?”

  “Geno’s or Pat’s?” McAuley asked him.

  “You know I’m a Pat’s fan.”

  “No, it’s gotta be Geno’s all the way—with the onions well-done. They’re so much—”

  A nondescript man in his late twenties opened the door and greeted them cordially. “Yes?” He wore a name badge that told them he was the funeral director. “May I help you?”

  They showed him their Secret Service creds. “We have a few questions for you,” Harris said. “May we come inside?”

  “Of course.” The man steppe
d back, ushered them in. And swung the door shut behind them.

  Three Cars

  10:51 a.m.

  4 minutes left

  Dr. Colette draws her car to a stop along the side of the road leading past the Faulkner-Kernel Funeral Home.

  A hearse, a sedan, and an SUV with shaded windows and government tags are in the cramped parking area. Charlene gestures toward the SUV. “What do you know, the Secret Service beat us here.”

  Riah identifies the sedan as that of the twins.

  The morning is quiet, just the sound of the river flowing by and a few geese honking as they settle onto a small boat landing just north of us. The sunlight is warm, but the wind funneling down the river valley feels crisp and wintry.

  There’s no sign of the twins or the agents.

  “So?” Charlene asks. “Plan of attack?”

  Riah retrieves the bag of medical instruments she’d brought with her from the research facility. I’m not certain why she brought them along, unless it was somehow to convince the twins she was going to help them after all, to buy time. She turns toward the front door. “I need to talk with them.”

  But something’s not right. It’s too quiet. “Hang on.”

  “What?”

  “If the agents have the twins in custody, why haven’t they brought them back to their car?”

  She stops.

  The twins got to them already.

  “Wait here,” I tell the women. “I’ll go.”

  “They’ll be expecting me,” Dr. Colette reiterates. “Even if they’ve done something to the agents, they won’t harm you if you’re with me.”

  “She has a good point,” Charlene agrees.

  A quick internal debate. “Alright. But I go first.”

  I lead the way to the door. When I knock, no one responds. I try the doorknob and find it locked.

  “If the twins are expecting you, Riah,” I’m thinking aloud, “why don’t they open the door, and if the agents are safe, they’d answer the door too, wouldn’t they? To see if we might be coconspirators?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  I stare at the keyed lock. It looks manageable. I don’t have my lock-pick set with me or the belt buckle prong of the belt Banner severed yesterday, but I can use something else.

  “Charlene, can I borrow one of your earrings.” She hands it to me and I kneel to work at the lock. “This’ll only take a second.”

  The Empty Holster

  “Dr. Arlington.”

  Cyrus immediately recognized the voice. Akinsanya. His heart almost stopped.

  He turned and saw a dark-haired, stocky man close the office door behind him.

  “How did you get in here?”

  “Your receptionist was kind enough to grant me entrance. I convinced her that I was an old friend. Cyrus, you’ve been compromised.”

  “No, I—”

  “Those who’ve been compromised”—Akinsanya approached him—“have become liabilities. And you know what I do with those who’ve become liabilities.”

  “No.” Cyrus was backing toward the window. “You have to listen to me, there’s nothing to—”

  But then Akinsanya was on him, a choke hold to knock him out so the young redheaded receptionist in the next room wouldn’t hear what was going on.

  Then Akinsanya began to do to him what he did best, working quickly and proficiently with the needle and thick thread he had brought along. Today he tried something unique, something he’d never done to anyone else before, but he was a creative man and always ready to expand his horizons. Especially when it came to utilizing the items that his immediate environment provided him.

  In this case, the contents of two aquariums.

  A crowd of more than a thousand people had gathered in Independence Park. At first they were focused on the stage and the much-anticipated arrival of the president, but then a woman and her four children pointed to the top of the Franklin Grand Hotel. “There’s a man!” they cried. “He’s gonna jump!”

  The attention of the crowd immediately shifted to the man standing on the edge of the hotel’s roof.

  I ease the door open. I think about calling out for the agents or the twins but then think better of it.

  The lights in the foyer are off, but a shaft of light escapes from the cracked-open chapel doors on our left and from a hallway twenty feet beyond them. Before us, elegant cushioned chairs sit next to a guest book on a lectern. Thick carpet. Heavy shades keep out the sunlight. A quiet, reverent mood.

  No movement.

  No sounds.

  I hand Charlene her earring, and she edges closer to me as she puts it back in. “Jevin, I don’t think—”

  I hold up my hand: “Wait.” I hear footsteps, then a voice somewhere in the hallway or just beyond. It’s indistinct and I can’t make out the words.

  Riah hears it too. “It’s the twins.” Her voice is low. “I can’t tell which one.”

  So, not the Secret Service agents, and even though I can’t discern the muffled words from the other room, there doesn’t seem to be any fear in them, no urgency, no intimidation.

  I don’t take that as a good sign.

  They’re assassins. This is stupid. Get out of—

  “I don’t like this, Jevin,” Charlene whispers.

  Riah hasn’t moved. “I should go ahead. Talk to them.”

  “Just a sec.” If the twins had done something to the Secret Service agents, I doubted they were going to take kindly to Riah’s arrival. They would surmise that someone had leaked their location, and I doubted they would have shared it with too many other people besides her.

  I don’t like the idea of putting either of the women in danger, but I don’t like the idea of backing away either, not when we’re this close. Even without Riah’s help, the twins still pose a threat to the president.

  Glancing around, I look for a weapon. A hall tree for hats and jackets and a small coat area with empty hangers sit to my right. A decorative bin holding half a dozen umbrellas rests beside it.

  No, not an umbrella. That won’t do anything. Not if a couple Secret Service agents had been overpowered by these assassins.

  All in. Remember? No turning back, no backing down. Just like your escapes. It’s what you were made to do.

  I indicate for the women to stay where they are. “I’ll be right back.” I sense that they’re about to protest but move forward before they can.

  Edging closer to the chapel, I press the door open a little more.

  Two rows of wooden pews, ten in each row. A closed coffin sits in the gentle light at the front of the room. Paintings of serene meadows on the walls. Other than that the room is empty.

  I take a few more steps to get a better view of what lies down the hallway—

  That’s when I see the legs of someone on the floor in a room partway down the hall. Trousers. Men’s loafers. The person isn’t moving.

  From where Charlene and Riah are waiting by the front door, I can’t imagine they can see the body and I don’t want them to.

  He might still be alive.

  Quietly returning to Riah and Charlene, I hush my voice. “Get to the car. Drive away. And call 911. I think someone’s hurt. I have to check; don’t argue with me. Go. Call 911. Get out of here.” I eye Riah. “Both of you.” I make it clear by my tone that there’s no room for debate. I’m not sure how she’s going to respond, but after a small moment she nods. I hand them my phone.

  A voice inside of me tells me that I really should go with them.

  No, Jevin.

  That person might be alive.

  Stop the twins.

  All in.

  No, I wasn’t about to leave the building and wait for who knows how long for cops or more agents to show up, only to find out later that I’d left someone dying on the floor when I could’ve saved him.

  Besides, I really doubted that the Secret Service would’ve sent only one agent here. That meant there might be another victim.

  Or someone else
to help you. Someone’s who’s armed.

  Finally, the women step silently toward the door.

  I decide that an umbrella’s better than nothing and go for one after all. The end is tipped with metal, and I figure I can use it like a bayonet if I need to. It might not be lethal, but it would sure slow someone down.

  Cautiously, I creep past the chapel again and make my way toward the hallway. As I get closer, I see more of the man’s legs. For the moment, no other sounds.

  I tighten my grip on the shaft of the umbrella and realize I haven’t heard the front door opening. I glance back, see the women still in the foyer. Charlene is talking softly, urgently, on the phone. Dr. Colette is standing stoically beside her, watching me. I gesture again for them to go, and Charlene holds up a finger to indicate that they will in just a moment.

  At last they ease out the door.

  Good.

  Okay.

  Heart hammering, I round the corner.

  The man on the floor has an earpiece attached to a white coiling cord that disappears into his suit coat. His head is twisted gruesomely to the side at an angle a head was never meant to turn. Eyes open. Staring.

  Quickly, I scan the room. More elegant furniture. A prayer stool in the corner. A cross hanging from the wall. Heavy floor-length drapes pulled across unseen windows. No one else is present.

  No sounds.

  Two other doors are propped open. One leads to the crematorium. Through the other doorway, I can see a tiled floor. Old metal gurneys and countertops of chemicals and medical instruments.

  The embalming room.

  I make a decision: See if this guy is alive, then go. Get out of here.

  Silently, I crouch and press two fingers against the agent’s neck. No pulse. Nothing.

  But then I hear movement in the embalming room, someone walking across the tiled floor.

  See if he has a gun. Move!

  I’m no marksman, but I am a practiced shot. Mostly I’ve fired guns at Charlene while I’m blindfolded. That was for part of our show.

  This was for real.