This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Text copyright © 2018 by Eric Bernt
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
Published by Thomas & Mercer, Seattle
www.apub.com
Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Thomas & Mercer are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.
ISBN-13: 9781503950153 (hardcover)
ISBN-10: 1503950158 (hardcover)
ISBN-13: 9781503949317 (paperback)
ISBN-10: 1503949311 (paperback)
Cover design by Damon Freeman
First edition
For my mother and father, Connie and Benno Bernt.
CONTENTS
START READING
Echo. Echo. Echo…
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 25
CHAPTER 26
CHAPTER 27
CHAPTER 28
CHAPTER 29
CHAPTER 30
CHAPTER 31
CHAPTER 32
CHAPTER 33
CHAPTER 34
CHAPTER 35
CHAPTER 36
CHAPTER 37
CHAPTER 38
CHAPTER 39
CHAPTER 40
CHAPTER 41
CHAPTER 42
CHAPTER 43
CHAPTER 44
CHAPTER 45
CHAPTER 46
CHAPTER 47
CHAPTER 48
CHAPTER 49
CHAPTER 50
CHAPTER 51
CHAPTER 52
CHAPTER 53
CHAPTER 54
CHAPTER 55
CHAPTER 56
CHAPTER 57
CHAPTER 58
CHAPTER 59
CHAPTER 60
CHAPTER 61
CHAPTER 62
CHAPTER 63
CHAPTER 64
CHAPTER 65
CHAPTER 66
CHAPTER 67
CHAPTER 68
CHAPTER 69
CHAPTER 70
CHAPTER 71
CHAPTER 72
CHAPTER 73
CHAPTER 74
CHAPTER 75
CHAPTER 76
CHAPTER 77
CHAPTER 78
CHAPTER 79
CHAPTER 80
CHAPTER 81
CHAPTER 82
CHAPTER 83
CHAPTER 84
CHAPTER 85
CHAPTER 86
CHAPTER 87
CHAPTER 88
CHAPTER 89
CHAPTER 90
CHAPTER 91
CHAPTER 92
CHAPTER 93
CHAPTER 94
CHAPTER 95
CHAPTER 96
CHAPTER 97
CHAPTER 98
CHAPTER 99
CHAPTER 100
CHAPTER 101
CHAPTER 102
CHAPTER 103
CHAPTER 104
CHAPTER 105
CHAPTER 106
CHAPTER 107
CHAPTER 108
CHAPTER 109
CHAPTER 110
CHAPTER 111
CHAPTER 112
CHAPTER 113
CHAPTER 114
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
It seems that for success in science and art, a dash of autism is essential. For success, the necessary ingredient may be an ability to turn away from the everyday world, from the simply practical, an ability to rethink a subject with originality so as to create in new untrodden ways.
—Hans Asperger, 1944
Richard Woodbridge III coined the phrase “acoustic archeology” in the August, 1969, issue of Proceedings of the I.E.E.E., the engineering journal.
“We speak, and the sound waves vibrate the molecules in the air, bounce off the walls, and vibrate the molecules some more . . . ,” [sound expert] St. Croix said. “It wouldn’t be hard these days to reconstruct a conversation you thought you were having privately.”
—“Audio Archaeology; Eavesdropping On History,” The New York Times Magazine, December 3, 2000
Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo.
Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo.
CHAPTER 1
Harmony House, Woodbury, New Jersey, May 19, 4:09 p.m.
Dr. Marcus Fenton, the senior and most respected doctor on the grounds of the government-funded facility, studied the applicant closely. Skylar Drummond. The young lady’s résumé was impeccable, but that was only the beginning of what he knew about her. Humble background in Richmond, Virginia. Parents divorced when she was young. Raised by her father, who was a professor, but not much of one, at some forgettable state school. She played lacrosse well enough to get a full ride to the University of Virginia. Started all four years, and did even better in the classroom, which was why she didn’t have to pay a dime to attend Harvard Medical School.
“You have a lot of other options. Duke. UPMC. Why Harmony House?”
“I believe your patients could change the world.”
“That’s quite a statement.”
“I’m quoting you.”
Of course, she was. He appreciated the flattery. Fenton’s expression then turned serious. “Would you mind if I ask about your brother?”
She stiffened almost imperceptibly in her chair. “Not at all.”
He admired her bravery. Her drive to help others because of the one she couldn’t. And whatever else had brought her into the cold metal chair across from him. “Could he have changed the world?”
“Theoretically, yes. But it was a long way from Christopher’s ideas to meaningful translation in the real world.” A hint of sadness crept across her face. There was a long, uncomfortable pause, but she continued to hold his gaze.
“What was his area of interest?”
“Quantum physics.”
“Specifically?”
She paused for just a slight moment because she knew how ridiculous it sounded. “Black-hole travel. Christopher was convinced he was on the verge of revolutionizing the travel industry by being able to bend time and space.”
The old man didn’t bat an eye, both out of deference to her deceased brother and in testament to some of the seemingly preposterous theories Fenton had encountered over decades of research with patients at the highest-functioning end of the autism spectrum. Because some of their far-out thinking turned out to have validity, which was exactly why Harmony House had been brought into existence. It was Dr. Fenton’s genius to recognize the potential lurking within his patients long before anyone else did. Special thinking in special people. The kind of research no one in the cognitive mainstream would pursue, which every so often turned out to have meaning—of a magnitude even the most acclaimed scientists in the world could only dream of.
Few people knew that some of the most startling scientific advances in the last twenty years had come from people who couldn’t wipe themselves.
“It’s quite possible Christopher was merely ahead of his time.”
“If you had seen the crayon drawings he insisted were technical-design documents, you would appreciate how generous a statement that is.”
“That’s the battle—to translate from their realm into ours.” He paused, reflecting on just how many of these battles he had fought over the years. Most had been losing campaigns, but he was the rarity who had more than a few notations in the win column.
Fenton, and all that he had accomplished, was why Skylar had picked this facility when she could have picked from any number of more obviously prestigious and lucrative positions. She genuinely believed in Fenton and his work, and that a patient here just might change the world. That one of their radical ideas just might actually translate.
Little did she know how many already had.
After making one final notation, which Skylar could not see, Dr. Fenton closed her file. This was it. The moment of truth. He watched as she took a long, deep breath, like someone who had practiced it. Inhale through the nose. Exhale through the mouth. Slowly, deliberately. Control the breathing; control the mind.
He stood slowly, relishing the moment. Dr. Marcus Fenton was confident in his decision. He extended his hand across the modern desk. “Congratulations. You got the job.”
CHAPTER 2
Eddie’s Room, Harmony House, May 19, 4:13 p.m.
Eddie sat quietly on the bed in his room, which was exactly the same size as all the other patient rooms in Harmony House. Twelve feet by eighteen feet, or, as Edward Maxwell Parks preferred to think of it, 3 x 22 by 2 x 32. There was a symmetry to the dimensions that made Eddie feel comfortable, and feeling comfortable was important to him. Because he couldn’t think if he wasn’t comfortable. And if he couldn’t think, panic could set in. And if panic set in, well, that was not something Eddie liked to think about. But that didn’t stop him from occasionally dwelling on the matter, so he utilized a technique he had developed as a child to stop himself abruptly when thinking such things. And that was to SLAP himself as hard as he could.
The slap left his cheek bright red, except for the areas covered in scar tissue—a number of small, haphazardly crisscrossing scars pockmarking his right cheek. There were no scars on his left cheek because Eddie was right-handed. When he self-mutilated, the right side bore the brunt. The scars were reminders of just how bad his outbursts could get.
Eddie glanced in the mirror, inspecting his cheek. No blood. That was good. He checked his watch to record the exact time of the slap in a binder labeled #101 sitting next to him. It was his third slap of the day, which put today’s count over his daily average of 2.7. Eddie was certain that Dr. Fenton would have something to say about this at their next therapy session, because Eddie was supposed to be slapping himself less, not more, but at least there hadn’t been any picture frames or kitchen utensils involved. Those were among the items that drew blood and left scars. Hearing footsteps down the hall, he quickly put down the binder.
Eddie’s room was unique in Harmony House in that it was the only patient room with acoustic tiles affixed to the walls and ceiling. He had been so excruciatingly sensitive to sound, upon arrival at the facility, that the staff couldn’t imagine how he’d survived in the outside world for as long as he had. Heightened sensitivities were nothing new among patients on the autism spectrum, but Eddie brought the matter to an entirely new level. Even the slightest noise could send him wailing. His agonal screams had been so unsettling to the other patients when Eddie first arrived that they almost caused an uprising of sorts. And no matter how valuable this particular patient and his gifts might be, he wasn’t worth more than the entire lot.
At least, not yet.
The acoustic tiles in Eddie’s room were not like those affixed around the interior of most recording studios. They were fabricated to Eddie’s exact specifications, at an initial cost of $91 per tile. There were 335 tiles in the room. With labor, the project ended up costing American taxpayers close to $35,000. Eddie brought the cost down slightly by developing his own epoxy-based resin to affix the tiles, but the money factor had nothing to do with it. Eddie didn’t grasp the concepts of commerce or currency. Money had never played a part in his life. His concern was that the installers had intended to use glue with an unacceptably low adhesion factor. The wrong glue could have ruined the acoustics of the room and, therefore, Eddie’s life. And Dr. Fenton wasn’t about to allow that.
The tiles weren’t much to look at. In fact, they were downright ugly, but only because Eddie had given absolutely no consideration to their appearance. (The aesthetics would later be improved by the engineers tasked with fabricating them for commercial use. Total revenue to date had exceeded $17 million, making the initial outlay of $35,000 look like quite a prudent investment.) He cared about only one thing, and that was how the tiles made the space sound.
The result was amazing. The very air in this room seemed to be quieter than anywhere else in the entire facility. And, in fact, it was. Measurably. Dr. Fenton had demonstrated it on numerous occasions for high-profile visitors. Any sound anywhere else in the facility seemed magnified in comparison. Like the FOOTSTEPS of the young woman walking briskly down the hall, away from Dr. Fenton’s office, which could be heard through the crack beneath his door.
Eddie stopped moving as he listened intently. He even stopped blinking. The footsteps ECHOED lightly but clearly. The strange thing was that Eddie didn’t recognize these particular footsteps. He could identify everyone who worked at Harmony House—the doctors, nurses, cooks, janitors, security guards, deliverymen, repairmen, and even the regular visitors of certain patients, none of whom ever came to see him—by the sounds of their footsteps. He also knew most of their names, where they were from, and other odd tidbits he picked up from the snippets of conversation he’d hear from inside his room.
But he’d spoken directly with very few of them. Eddie didn’t feel comfortable around most people, but particularly not around strangers. They made him nervous, because he never knew what they would do next. Eddie didn’t like surprises. To make matters worse, most strangers stared at him like he was some kind of oddity, remindin
g him just how different he was from most people. And how alone. In all his twenty-seven years, Eddie had never had a real friend. He often wondered what that would feel like, but knew that he would probably never have a friend, so he contented himself with listening to the comings and goings of others, learning as much as he could about each of them.
The one person he knew nothing about was the muscular man Eddie sometimes saw sitting in a beige Chevrolet Impala in the parking lot. The man clearly worked at Harmony House, because he was there almost every day, but Eddie had no idea what he did. He had asked Dr. Fenton about this mystery man on several occasions, but each time Dr. Fenton insisted that the man was none of Eddie’s concern.
Whoever the stranger in the hallway was, she’d been in Dr. Fenton’s office for one hour and thirteen minutes, which was an unusually long visit. The old doctor rarely met with anyone for more than thirty minutes, much less an hour. Eddie made a note of it in a binder labeled #37, where he kept a log of every meeting Dr. Fenton had had in the last six months. Logs of the doctor’s meetings from prior to six months ago were contained in binders labeled #1 through #36. Each contained approximately six months’ worth of meetings. The first date in binder #1 was April 14, 2001, the day Eddie had arrived at Harmony House at age eleven. The nursing staff referred to Eddie’s binders, at least #1 through #37, as “The Old Man’s Minutes.” They called #101 “The Book of Slaps,” but never to Eddie’s face. They were all too fond of him—and of their jobs.
Other numbered binders, such as #121 through #125, contained logs of temperature readings; the ones beginning with #131 listed what kinds of food had been served in the cafeteria, and whether or not they were prepared to Eddie’s liking. The #150 series listed the number of people who’d walked past his door during certain hours. The clear winner was always 5:00 p.m.–6:00 p.m., because that was when the daytime staff left.
The binders were all carefully arranged in numerical order along five evenly spaced wooden shelves. Eddie didn’t mind if any of the staff used his logs for reference, as long as they returned the binders to their original locations. He was surprised at how few of the doctors and nurses ever utilized his data. There was so much to be gleaned from it.
One day, he would show them.