ALSO BY ERIC BERNT
The Speed of Sound
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 © 2019 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: 9781503904545
ISBN-10: 1503904547
Cover design by Mike Heath | Magnus Creative
For my wife, Laurel, the light of my life.
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 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
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Autistic children have the ability to see things and events around them from a new point of view, which often shows surprising maturity . . . This ability, which remains throughout life, can in favorable cases lead to exceptional achievements which others may never attain.
—Hans Asperger, 1944
Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo.
Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo. 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
I-76 WEST
NEW JERSEY/PENNSYLVANIA BORDER
June 1, 11:47 a.m.
As she drove across the Delaware River on the Walt Whitman Bridge, Skylar took in the Philadelphia skyline. It was reasonably impressive, she thought. The longer she admired the view, the more comfortable she became with the idea of calling this place home.
Skylar had made up her mind, on one of her recent drives home from Harmony House, that she needed to move out of Jacob’s apartment as soon as possible. Everything about his place reminded her of him. The closetful of his slightly wrinkled dress shirts, which she had started sleeping in. The art made by friends, works he had collected over the years, which she suddenly found herself appreciating after having loathed them for ages. The scent of his Nautica cologne, which she’d taken from the medicine cabinet and had been spraying onto her pillow at night to help her fall asleep. She had even started drinking the cold-brew espresso he had made just before his murder in the New York subway system. Skylar had started to imagine this as “drinking of him” and wanted it to last as long as possible, so she would only sip a little at a time. But it was his toothbrush—which she had started using instead of her own, along with his Colgate instead of her usual Crest—that made her realize she had to get out of there.
She hated Colgate.
There was also the practical reality that the commute from Greenwich Village to Harmony House was too long. She had moved in with Jacob only recently, just before interviewing with Dr. Marcus Fenton, the now-deceased founder of the government facility. The evil bastard. She was glad he had killed himself, as uncomfortable as this was to admit.
Even before the tragedy had befallen Jacob, Skylar had known she was
going to have to move closer to work. It was a conversation she’d been trying to avoid. She realized how much she would give to be able to have any conversation with him now. How were your classes today? Want me to pick something up for dinner? Do we really have to go to this thing? Which dress do you think looks better on me, the red one with the skinny shoulder straps or the frilly lace black one? Are you sure I can’t convince you to blow it off?
Skylar had considered remaining in the city, specifically the Village, for a host of reasons. One was that she simply liked the area. It was vibrant. It was alive. And the thought of the occasional meal at Shu Han Ju, Jacob’s favorite Chinese restaurant, was a comforting one. The smell of chow mein would probably remind her of Jacob for the rest of her life. But she also recognized what a bad idea staying in the city was. Given the hours she intended to spend at Harmony House for at least the next several years, there was no way she could sustain a two-hour commute. She had to find a place within reasonable proximity to Woodbury, New Jersey.
As she saw it, that left her with only one choice: Philadelphia, just across the Delaware River. She had several friends from the University of Virginia and Harvard Medical School who had settled there and seemed to like it well enough. None of them raved about living there like her friends in New York or Boston, but she knew it was her best option, at least for now. The distance to Woodbury would make the commute less than thirty minutes long, which was ideal, as far as Skylar was concerned.
Skylar continued following the Google Maps directions as she continued north along I-76. The pleasant female voice told her: Use the left lane to take exit 346A for South Street. From there, it took her less than five minutes to reach her destination in the 1700 block of Locust Street, two blocks from Rittenhouse Square. The location was less than three miles from the childhood home of Eddie Parks, Skylar’s uniquely gifted autistic patient who had recently become the focus of her professional life. They had visited the site only four days earlier. That had not gone so well.
She managed to find street parking right in front of the building. Skylar decided her good fortune must be a sign from God. Today was her lucky day.
She entered the small but bustling offices of Fox & Roach Realtors, which was apparently a regional division of Berkshire Hathaway. The windows and walls featured photos of available properties, several with Sold! handwritten in red Sharpie across them. A young receptionist, answering an incoming call, motioned to Skylar that she’d be right with her, and to have a seat in the waiting area. She pointed to the Keurig machine in case Skylar wanted a coffee.
Before she could even sit down, she heard a familiar voice say, “Skylar?”
She recognized the voice as the one she had spoken to on the phone the night before. He looked exactly like the photo on his web page. “You must be Jared.”
He shook her hand warmly. “I am. So nice to meet you. How was your drive into town?”
“Nice. I never realized what an impressive skyline the city has.”
He nodded as if that was something he heard frequently. “Before we head back to my office, did you want anything to drink? Coffee? Water?”
“No, thanks, I’m good.”
“Well, get ready to be great, because I have some wonderful units to show you.” He led her down the hallway to his office, the second door on the left. As they entered, she was surprised to find it empty except for a video camera connected to a laptop computer, which sat atop a folding table. There was no desk; there were only two stackable plastic chairs. There was nothing on the walls. The only decoration was on the table next to the laptop: a rubber Albert Einstein mask, the kind a child might wear on Halloween. Strange, she thought.
Before Skylar had time to register the danger she was in, Jared turned toward her and jabbed a syringe into her neck. “What the hell?!” She tried to shove him away, but to no avail.
The man calling himself Jared was incredibly muscular. After removing the syringe from her neck, he grabbed her by the throat and started choking her. “Not another word. Do you understand?” His voice was now completely different. It was cold and utterly emotionless.
She couldn’t breathe. His hands were strong and much too rough for a real estate agent. Terrified, she nodded yes, she understood, just before she attempted to knee him in the groin as hard as she could. Her thrust would have landed squarely, doing considerable damage, had Jared not anticipated it. He twisted his torso, raising his thigh to block her knee before it could land. He squeezed her neck even tighter, practically crushing her larynx. She felt the muscles in her body start to go limp. The drug was taking effect.
Her hands dropped, and her knees felt weak. Her panic began to subside, as did the pain in her neck from being choked. He loosened his grip, allowing her to breathe. She sucked in as much air as her lungs would tolerate. “Why . . . are you doing this?”
“You’ll find out soon enough.”
Skylar’s legs gave out and she lost consciousness.
Jared positioned her in one of the chairs and started duct-taping her arms and legs to it. He checked her pulse, which was steady. She would be out for as long as he wanted her to be. He left her alone in the office to join the young woman who had played the role of dutiful receptionist in the front area. Her name was Carla. He had worked with her several times previously, always in the service of the American Heritage Foundation. She had already removed the realty company signs from the door and windows. The property photos had also been taken down, and she was about to unplug the Keurig machine.
“Hang on, I want a cup.”
She held up two choices. “French roast or Sumatra?”
He took the French roast single serving and popped it into the machine. “You want one?”
“No, thanks.” Carla held up a Starbucks cup, which had been hidden behind her receptionist’s desk. “You update Stenson yet?”
“Just about to.” Jared took out his phone and speed-dialed the only number he was ever to call with that device.
CHAPTER 2
AMERICAN HERITAGE FOUNDATION
ALEXANDRIA, VIRGINIA
May 31, 5:58 p.m.
Skylar had Googled Philadelphia apartments for rent several days ago, not thinking too seriously about it—and that was what had tipped off those assigned to keep tabs on her from within the American Heritage Foundation, which had recently come oh-so-close to acquiring the echo box. Their only problem was that they had acquired a nonworking version of the device. Unbeknownst to them at the time, Eddie had reverted his prototype to a previous version that included faulty algorithms. And only he knew what he had changed. Whatever was wrong with the code could be fixed only by the device’s inventor. This had utterly infuriated the director of the AHF, Bob Stenson. He had been outplayed by not only a civilian, but one whose neurological profile placed him on the autism spectrum. It was humiliating, he thought.
This time, Stenson and his foundation were going to be even more resolute in their efforts. They intended to make certain that absolutely nothing interfered with their goal of acquiring this game-changing intelligence technology. Outside of Harmony House, only they knew that the device worked. Or, more accurately, that it was capable of working. They had heard the evidence.
No matter what they had to do, the AHF was going to become the only entity in the world with the ability to utilize the science of acoustic archeology and re-create any conversation ever held. No one else in the intelligence world would have any idea how they got their information. They were going to have a superpower, but nobody outside their inner sanctum would know its source.
By the time Skylar had decided to get more serious about finding a new place to live and emailed several friends for Realtor recommendations, her watchers within the American Heritage Foundation had intercepted the queries and replied on behalf of the friends, who never received the requests. The fabricated responses, each written in the individual’s particular style, recommended several firms and names, but only one name appeared in each ema
il: Jared Himmelstein.
In less time than it takes most people to make a turkey sandwich, the technical team at the AHF had created the fictional Philadelphia Realtor’s website, which made him appear both impressive and approachable. He looked like somebody Skylar would be comfortable with. She dialed the number on his website, which was routed to the phone of a man who was not a Realtor. He was an independent contractor who performed a unique service for a very select clientele that included the American Heritage Foundation. He had been told to expect Skylar’s call, but to let the call go to voicemail so she could hear a friendly recording of his voice to go along with the welcoming face on his website.
His voicemail recording ended, I’ll get right back to you just as soon as I can. Skylar left a rambling message that included who she was, who had recommended him to her, and the best number at which to reach her.
“Jared” called her back within fifteen minutes. “Hey, Skylar, this is Jared. I got your message and would love to help you. I checked current inventory and happened to find a couple places that just became available, that I think you might really like. How soon are you interested in relocating?”
“Immediately. I need to get out of my present situation as soon as possible.”
“Then time is of the essence. Got it. Unfortunately, things have gotten crazy busy for me and I’m booked solid through the following week, but I just had a cancellation tomorrow at twelve thirty, and I was wondering if there’s any way you could—”
“I can make twelve thirty work. Text me the address and I’ll be there.” The address arrived seconds later.
“Terrific. I’ll see you tomorrow.” As she clicked off the call, she felt good about beginning to move on with her life.
How short-lived that feeling would be.
CHAPTER 3
HARMONY HOUSE
WOODBURY, NEW JERSEY
June 1, 12:39 p.m.
Eddie walked briskly down the hallway toward his room with Nurse Gloria. His pace was much faster than usual, because he was scared. So scared that he had forgotten to count his steps, which was something that always soothed him. That and slapping himself—but while every doctor he had ever seen had discouraged self-slapping as a coping mechanism, none had ever suggested that he stop counting. Eddie correctly assumed this was because his slapping sometimes left marks, but counting never did.