The Void Protocol

by F. Paul Wilson

  “Very simple,” Montero said. “Your strokes tend to break the laws of physics.” He worked the remote in his hand. “Easier if I show you.”

  An overhead shot of a pool table filled the TV screen on the wall. A stick struck the white cue ball, which then struck the red three ball, sending it flying toward a corner pocket. The screen froze after the red had traveled two feet. A dotted line appeared, connecting the ball to the cushion just to the left of a corner pocket.

  “Here’s a stroke by one of your opponents,” Montero said. “Computer analysis of the speed, direction, and rotation of the ball predicts that this shot will miss.”

  The screen came to life again and, sure enough, the ball bounced off the cushion exactly where predicted.

  Another stick appeared, struck the cue ball, which in turn struck the striped twelve ball. Again action was stopped and another dotted line appeared, showing this shot would miss too.

  “This is your shot, Ellis. The computer says you’re going to narrowly miss too, but watch what happens.”

  The ball began rolling again, following the projected path for another foot or so, and then deviating just enough to land in the pocket.

  “Proves nothing,” Reise said. “Except maybe your software needs fixing.”

  Montero sighed. “I understand how you’re in denial. But I can stand here all night and show you example after example of how your opponents’ shots follow the predicted path to the millimeter and yours do not. You’re unconsciously influencing the path of the balls, Ellis.”

  “Come on,” he said with a tremulous attempt at a smile. “That’s Harry Potter stuff.”

  “How are you at cards, Ellis?”

  A shrug. “Pretty good. Better than average.”

  “How come you’ve never played roulette before?”

  “It’s a sucker’s game.”

  “And yet you won four hundred grand your first try.”

  “Four hundred twenty-eight-plus.”

  “So, you’re unbeatable in pool and you broke the bank your first time out in roulette. What do those two games have in common?”

  Reise averted his gaze. “Balls.”

  Rick was convinced, and he could see Reise’s resistance crumbling.

  “Right. Moving objects that can be influenced by someone with telekinesis.”

  Reise shook his head, his voice barely a whisper. “Jesus.”

  Stahlman slapped Rick’s shoulder. “Let’s repair to my office, shall we?”

  The office turned out to be a windowless box with bare walls, a scarred desk, and two chairs. Rick didn’t know Clayton Stahlman’s exact net worth, but if it didn’t sport nine zeroes, it didn’t miss by much. At the end of the nineties he’d cashed out of the dot-com revolution before it imploded and invested elsewhere. He’d told Rick once that, no matter how he tried, he couldn’t spend even the interest on his holdings, let alone dent the principal, and so his net worth kept growing.

  What Rick liked was how unimpressed Stahlman was with his wealth. This office was a perfect example. Function took precedence over form. No bells and whistles, just a private place to set his ass down and open his laptop and make calls on his cell.

  “Was I right sending you along with the doc?” he said, indicating the office’s second chair. “Did you need to intervene?”

  “A little. Nothing that won’t heal.”

  “Good.” He pulled a bottle of booze and a couple of glasses from one of his desk drawers. “That calls for a celebration.”

  “What are we celebrating?”

  Stahlman poured two fingers of amber fluid into each glass. “Locating another nadaný.”

  “Reise?” Rick said, accepting the glass. “I’d say he’s more of a ninny. What’s a nadaný?”

  “A Slovak word I picked up from my grandmother. It means ‘gifted.’ ” He reached his glass toward Rick. “Cheers.”

  They clinked, Rick sipped, and flavors exploded in his mouth.

  “Holy crap, what is this? I mean, I know it’s Scotch, but … wow.”

  “It’s from the Isle of Arran, finished in a wine cask—Amarone, to be specific.”

  Rick sipped again. Man, he could get used to this stuff. He leaned back and stared at Stahlman.

  “So what’s the deal here? You said ‘another nadaný.’ You’ve got more people who can make pool balls roll the wrong way?”

  Stahlman smiled. “As a matter of fact, yes. One other telekinetic. I’ve also found a guy who can levitate, one who can make things disappear, another who can generate heat with his hands, a—”

  Rick had to laugh. “So what do we call you now? Professor X?”

  Stahlman’s lips gave a wry twist. “If only!”

  “What other … gifts?”

  “The most impressive is a gal who can teleport.”

  Rick straightened in his chair. “Bullshit.”

  Stahlman raised a hand. “I swear.”

  “But that’s … that’s amazing.” He pushed his empty glass across the desktop. “So amazing I think it calls for more celebrating.”

  Stahlman grinned and added a generous pour to both glasses.

  “I’ll drink to that. But this teleporter … she hates her gift. Convincing her to use it is like pulling teeth.”

  “It’s painful?”

  “No. Let’s just say she’s a teenager and she has issues and leave it at that for the moment.”

  “Okay, but …” Rick spread his hands. “What’s the point?”

  Stahlman smiled. “You mean, what’s in it for me?”

  “Well, commercial applications are your thing. Where’s the profit?”

  “I don’t know yet. Probably none. Be nice to learn if these gifts can be taught. Wouldn’t that be something? But in the end I expect this will turn out to be just a fascinating way to waste my excess cash.”

  “You can always throw some my way. Less complicated.”

  Stahlman leaned forward. “Are you short? Just say the word and—”

  Rick waved him off. Stahlman paid him plenty. “Just kidding. Really.”

  “Okay. But any time …”

  “Thank you.”

  “Anyway, right now we’re at the basic research stage. I’m paying the nadaný—even housing some of them in apartments I built on the second floor. In return they allow Doctor Montero to test the limits of each gift and see if there’s some way they can enhance it. And as I said, hopefully find a way it can be learned by others.”

  Rick had known Clayton Stahlman long enough to sense something else at work here.

  “There’s more, isn’t there?”

  Stahlman nodded. “For me, the real question isn’t the nature of their gifts, but how they obtained them. I mean, why them and not you or me? Is there a common thread that connects them?”

  Rick figured he’d like to know that too. For his own reasons.

  “Well, if Montero comes up empty, you can always fall back on alien abductions.”

  Stahlman laughed. “If anyone else said that, I’d be sure he was joking. But with you …”

  Rick spread his hands. “Hey, you know I’m not into aliens. ICE, on the other hand …”

  “Ah, yes. Your Intrusive Cosmic Entities.”

  “Yep. And they’ve earned the I in Intrusive.”

  “Well, I suppose bestowing these gifts on random people would certainly qualify as intrusive.”

  Rick was still having trouble wrapping his mind around the nadaný. Really, a girl who could teleport?

  “So these gifts are for real?”

  Stahlman held up a hand, oath-taking style. “For real.”

  “And it involves their brains?”

  A nod. “Most certainly. Doctor Montero says their abilities are associated with some sort of brain-wave activity that I don’t pretend to understand.”

  “You’ve got to let Laura get involved,” Rick said.

  “Doctor Fanning? I’d love to see her again. If she’s interested, she’s welcome, of course, bu
t …” He smiled. “These folks aren’t dead yet.”

  “She’s quitting the ME’s office and applying for a neurology residency. This would be right up her alley.”

  Stahlman spread his hands. “I owe her my health … my life. She can be in as deep and for as long as she wants to be. Are you seeing her tonight?”

  “Um, no.”

  “Talking to her?”

  “Hadn’t planned on it, but I guess—”

  “I thought you two had a thing going,” he said with a frown.

  Was it that obvious the “thing” had died?

  “We’ve kind of drifted apart.” Rick didn’t want to talk about it. “But I’ll call her on this. Call her tonight.”

  “Just make sure she knows this whole project is sub rosa.”

  “Will do.”

  But first she had to take his call. Sometimes she did, sometimes she didn’t.

  3

  SHIRLEY, NEW YORK

  Laura checked the caller ID.

  Rick.

  His first call in a while. And that made sense. They’d run out of things to say. Not his fault. She’d been the one to pull back, not him.

  The Düsseldorf atrocity … those children. Her mind understood, sympathized, even agreed to some extent, but her heart, the emotional side of her, couldn’t tuck it away and keep it out of sight. It kept slithering free.

  Would he ever do something like that again? She couldn’t imagine him or anyone else being faced with a choice like that twice. But just knowing what he’d been capable of in the past had tainted her feelings and their relationship.

  Oh, hell.

  She hit TALK.

  “Rick?”

  “Hey, Laura.”

  “Hey, Rick.”

  “What’s up?”

  Awkward, awkward, awkward.

  “Not much. Oh, as of yesterday I’m officially in the residency matching program.”

  When she’d decided to change the focus of her career from dead people to the living, this year’s residency match had been over and done. She’d have to wait for the match for next year.

  All medical school seniors—and doctors already in practice, like her—looking for post-graduate residencies in specialty training had to go through the National Resident Matching Program. She’d had to wait till now to enter her name for a neurology residency. Rick had called it the “residency Sorting Hat,” and in a way that was true. Now that she was in, she could set up interviews with the neurology departments of area medical centers like Columbia, Mount Sinai, Stony Brook, and NYU/North Shore. She needed a place within an easy commute.

  “Great. Still neurology?”

  “Of course.”

  “Good. ’Cause that’s why I’m calling.”

  “About my residency?”

  “No, about neurology. Stahlman’s into something very strange that might interest you. In fact I know it will interest you.”

  “Stahlman?”

  “Look, I know you’ve got issues with him, but he’s a stand-up guy and this is right up your alley.”

  Clayton Stahlman … yes, Laura had issues with him. She’d found the cure for his terminal illness—all illnesses, for that matter—and in return he’d made her rich enough to quit the Suffolk County Medical Examiner’s office and retrain for another field. But he’d played fast and loose with her during her travels for him, withholding critical information. In the end his tactic had wound up saving his own life as well as her daughter Marissa’s, so she couldn’t hold it against him. But the matter of trust remained.

  “I don’t know …”

  “Hear me out. This is confidential, so you’ve gotta keep it to yourself, okay?”

  Easy enough, since she couldn’t imagine talking about Clayton Stahlman to anyone.

  “He’s got these people with … powers.”

  Uh-oh. “Powers?”

  He laughed. God, she missed that laugh.

  “Hey, I know that tone. And I know it sounds whacked out, but I met this guy tonight who can change the course of a pool ball just by wishing it into the pocket.”

  “ ‘Wishing’?”

  “I should have said ‘guiding.’ He guides it into the pocket with his mind.”

  “You’re talking telekinesis.”

  “Yeah. I am. Exactly.”

  She felt disappointed. Rick was not the gullible type.

  “It’s a trick, Rick.”

  “No, Stahlman has computer analysis and—”

  “A trick. There’s no such thing as telekinesis.”

  “He’s got this neuroscience guy working for him and he sure seems convinced.”

  “Every field has its share of kooks.”

  “I checked him out for Stahlman and Doc Montero is legit.”

  “He might look good on the surface but—wait. Did you say Montero?”

  “Yeah. Luis Montero. He’s got a Ph.D. in—”

  “Neurobiology. Right-right-right. I’ve read some of his papers. And you’re telling me Stahlman has got Luis Montero on retainer?”

  “No retainer. Full-time.”

  Well, this was interesting.

  Rick added, “The doc thinks these powers are related to some sort of brain waves and—”

  “Okay. I’ll check it out.”

  “You will? Great. When’s good for you?”

  “Tomorrow morning. Marissa will be in school and—”

  “How’s she doing?”

  “Great. I just put her to bed.”

  She misses you terribly bubbled to her lips. A sad truth, but no way could she say it.

  Rick had hit it off with her nine-year-old Mets fanatic who insisted on using their proper name, the New York Metropolitans. Not a baseball fan—Rick claimed it put him to sleep—he’d nevertheless studied up on the team and had been able to trade stats with Marissa like a SportsCenter groupie.

  “Her Metropolitans have a chance for a wild-card slot again.”

  “So I’ve been told—endlessly.”

  “Hey, any chance I can drop in sometime and catch a game with her?”

  Marissa would love that.

  “Well, she’s pretty busy, what with the new school year and all.”

  A pause, then, “Yeah, I can see that. Some other time.”

  “Yeah. That would be great.”

  “Want me to pick you up tomorrow?”

  Alone in a car together with nothing to talk about but us?

  “Better if I drive.”

  A quick, soft sigh. “Okay. It’s in Long-I City. I’ll text you the address and the time when it’s set up.”

  “Great.”

  “See you tomorrow.”

  She thumbed OFF and somehow managed to keep from throwing the phone across the room.

  What’s the matter with me? Selfish bitch! Marissa would have loved to watch a game with Rick, but no, I’d be uncomfortable, and we couldn’t have that, could we?

  Get over yourself, dammit!

  She laid the phone—gently—on the counter and stalked to the sliding glass doors leading to the rear deck. With her arms folded across her chest she stared out at the backyard and saw nothing.

  She and Rick had been thrown together by Stahlman and started out with a tense, almost adversarial relationship. They’d journeyed through nine or ten countries on five continents, witnessed destruction and death, nearly died themselves a couple of times. They’d bonded, become friends—close friends—before they became lovers. The sex had been good—no, great—but then, as the two of them were sailing across the Mozambique Channel, he’d felt he had to come clean before they committed.

  Düsseldorf. Goddamn Düsseldorf.

  That had been the start of their unraveling. The affair carried on awhile longer, but then what he’d told her started to creep into bed with them, and soon she was finding excuses to put off seeing him, and eventually they stopped getting together at all.

  They’d been friends before they’d become intimate. Could they ever be just friends again a
fter sharing each other like that?

  She was friends with Steven these days. Her ex had betrayed her numerous times during their marriage, leaving her no choice but to call it quits. But now they shared Marissa without rancor or bitterness. Actually got along better than during the marriage.

  Rick had been totally honest and up front with her from the get-go and … she’d called it quits.

  What the hell’s the matter with me? Is anyone going to work out? What am I, some starry-eyed teen who thinks she’s going to find the perfect man? There is no perfect man. Not at my age. Not at any age!

  She felt her throat tighten and took a deep breath to ward off the threat of tears.

  Okay. She’d put on her big-girl panties and go to Stahlman’s place tomorrow. No more of this avoidance bullshit. Rick was a brave, tough, decent man. They’d walked through fires together. They’d been friends before. That bond hadn’t dissolved. No reason they couldn’t be friends again.

  Right?

  Right?

  THEN

  FORT DETRICK

  FREDERICK, MARYLAND

  SEPTEMBER 29, 1984

  “I must say, Doctor LaVelle, I am impressed.”

  Benjamin Greve of the DIA had called her lab and told her to meet him in the same back corner of the USAMRMC offices as before. And as before, he sat behind the rickety desk, looking as pale and thin as ever, with the same embalmed expression. But no waiting this time.

  “Impressed by what?”

  “By the amazing amount of data you’ve compiled in seven weeks.”

  “Not so amazing. You’re impressed only because you underestimated me.”

  Everybody underestimated her. She was used to it.

  That smilelike grimace appeared. “Are you always this blunt?”

  “I simply did what was asked of me.”

  “Yes, you did, but … let me tell you something. You were one of four researchers at four different facilities given a sample of Substance A to investigate. Not one of them has compiled anywhere near the data you have.”

  “Melis proved something of a challenge.”

  Probably the understatement of the year, she thought.

  “ ‘Melis’ … ah, yes. Your term for Substance A. Where did you come up with that, may I ask? I’m guessing it’s an acronym of a list of its properties.”

  Greve watched her with an expectant expression, as if waiting for a nugget of brilliance.