Interference Page 5

  “Matt did his postdoc at Delft,” I added quietly.

  “Now, so far, we’ve only been talking about inanimate objects. But the smallest life-form, a virus, is ten to the negative seven meters. And some bacteria aren’t much larger. We’ve already surpassed that sizewise. Could we actually interfere a living thing? Or is life, in fact, the dividing line between the quantum world and the classical one? Is there something about a living thing—about consciousness, perhaps—that simply won’t comply with those weird quantum rules? Or can life go quantum too?

  “It’s one of the biggest questions in physics, in all of science for that matter, and there’s a guaranteed Nobel Prize in it for whoever gets the answer. Because if life can go quantum, it literally changes existence as we know it. What if we can have viruses or bacteria or even microanimals like tardigrades making quantum leaps or traveling through solid walls? We literally may never look at the world the same way again. So that’s been the goal of my research. To see if I can get a virus to demonstrate quantum interference.”

  Interference. It was actually the perfect word to describe what this virus had done to our lives.

  “How come you didn’t tell me about this?” I asked quietly.

  He looked at me apologetically. “I don’t know. I feel like I got my PhD and then tenure by playing it safe, just doing the kind of predictable, incremental science you need to move your career ahead. Once I got tenure, I was ready to take a moon shot. But at the same time it’s so audacious, I felt almost silly talking about it. To some people, saying you’re trying to interfere a virus is like saying you want to bike to Mars.”

  “No, I mean why didn’t you tell me after the first fit?” I asked. “Seriously, medical science is powerless to explain what’s happening to you, and you didn’t think that maybe spending half your day with a quantum virus had anything to do with it?”

  “But the tobacco mosaic virus doesn’t infect humans,” he said. “At least it shouldn’t.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, this is the part, I admit, I’m a little unsure about. I keep mutating it by accident.”

  He said this simply, like he was referring to spilling a cup of water in a bathtub. I was gripping his bed rail so hard I was sure I was breaking blood vessels.

  “A mutated quantum virus,” I said, and even I could hear that I was now yelling. “Even better. I guess now I understand why you never told me the details about your research, because I would have asked if you had lost your damn mind. It seriously never occurred to you this was why you were freaking out?”

  Matt just sat on his bed, shrinking quietly.

  “Oh my God,” I said. “You basically have no idea what this thing is or might be capable of, do you?”

  “I wouldn’t say no idea,” he muttered.

  “Well, then, what? What have you created? We don’t even know whether it’s the mutation that’s doing this or if it’s because you’re taking these mutated creations and trying to send them into quantum orbit. How do you know you haven’t done something that made a plant virus capable of infecting humans? Or that you haven’t enabled this one particular virus to make some kind of quantum leap into your brain? You’re basically playing God here. Well, congratulations, Prometheus, you’ve stolen fire and now it’s burning you.”

  I pointed to Reiner. “He ought to order a psychiatric evaluation not because of conversion disorder, but because you really are crazy.”

  “This virus definitely sounds like something we need to look into,” Dr. Reiner said, as if this profound understatement might make Professor Bronik’s hysterical wife calm down.

  I let go of the bed and grabbed Matt’s hands.

  “Matty, please, please tell me you’re going to stop messing with this thing.”

  “But it’s my work,” Matt said quietly. “I’ve spent years building toward this. This is . . . it’s everything. It’s my whole career.”

  “Yeah? And I’m your wife. And somewhere out there is your son. We’re your family. And we need you. We need you more than a Nobel Prize. I’m worried that if you keep doing this, next time it won’t be six hours. Or eight hours. It’ll be forever. Or no one will get to you in time with a shot of norepinephrine and we’ll find you dead on the laboratory floor. You have to ask yourself: What’s more important, your work or your life?”

  He didn’t answer, just kept gazing down at his bedsheets.

  “I’m serious, Matt,” I said. “And I need an answer. Right here, right now. What’s it going to be?”

  He looked up.

  “You guys, of course,” he said.

  “You promise?”

  “Yes.”

  “Thank you,” I said, releasing his hands, though his performance was less than entirely convincing.

  Then he added: “At least until we figure out what’s going on.”

  And that’s when I began to suspect this was a promise he never intended to keep.

  CHAPTER 8

  There were those who called Sean Plottner a narcissist.

  But, seriously, if you had enough money to buy a plane—not lease it, not enter into one of those chintzy time-sharing arrangements, actually buy it—you’d name it after yourself too.

  Especially a plane like this. The Gulfstream G550 had a range of 6,750 miles, which meant it could go from New York to Tokyo without refueling. Its engines could push a top speed of Mach .885, with a cruising altitude up to 51,000 feet, and it could practically land on a piece of chewing gum, which enabled it to avoid the more crowded airports.

  And so, yes, he had christened this magnificent vessel the Plottner One. And whether you called him a narcissist or an egomaniac or simply vainglorious, the truth was he had been called worse. When he was in college, he was the guy everyone hated—the slacker who skipped class all semester but still got straight As. He withstood three accusations of academic dishonesty from incredulous professors, none of whom could believe the burnout had aced the final exam without cheating.

  Then there was the Securities and Exchange Commission, which had equal trouble believing Plottner’s investing success was solely the product of hard work and insight.

  Plottner had received four separate target letters, informing him the SEC was looking into allegedly suspicious trading activity. None of the investigations had gone anywhere. He had yet to be indicted or even charged.

  And, in fact, there had been a few flops, some near misses. Maybe just enough that those investigators could convince themselves Plottner was legit.

  But there hadn’t been many.

  He was on his way to another potentially big score now. Having spent a few days spearfishing (ostensibly) and paying to get laid (primarily) in the Florida Keys, he was on his way to Houston to meet with a group of researchers.

  And, sure, he could have just Skyped in. A lot of rich guys did. But Plottner had learned long ago that if something was important, there was no substitute for being there in person. You discovered so much about whoever you were dealing with, most of it nuanced and unspoken.

  As the plane ascended and angled west, he was seated in the main cabin along with two other passengers, two people who went more or less everywhere with Plottner.

  One was Plottner Investments’ director of security, Laestrygones “Lee” Michaelides, a thirtysomething former officer from the First Infantry Division of the Hellenic Army—Greece’s famed special forces unit—with an inscrutable face and a phlegmatic demeanor.

  He didn’t talk much. Or at all. People who had been around him a fair amount and still had never heard him speak wondered if he suffered from selective mutism. Then again, given his measurables—six feet six, 260 pounds, 6 percent body fat—a stern glance was usually sufficient to get his point across.

  The other was Plottner’s personal assistant, Theresa D’Orsi, who was battle tested in her own way, having handled Plottner’s most inane requests for twenty years. Now in her midfifties, she wore small round glasses and modeled both efficiency
and discretion. At least part of this was legally mandated: her employment contract included a nuclear-powered nondisclosure agreement.

  Plottner One had just cleared ten thousand feet when the plane’s satellite phone rang.

  Theresa answered it and was soon approaching Plottner, cupping the phone.

  “It’s Matt Bronik from Dartmouth,” she said.

  Plottner nodded, accepted the phone. “Matt,” he said. “So nice to hear from you. Have you been thinking about my offer?”

  “I have. A lot,” Bronik said. “It’s very, very generous. I’m sure I would have enjoyed working for you, and believe me, this was an exceedingly difficult decision. But I think, in my heart, I’m just not made for the business world. I’m an academic. And this isn’t the right time for me or my family to be leaving Dartmouth.”

  “I see,” Plottner said.

  And then, because he was never one to give up easily, he said, “Is there some way I might be able to make it the right time?”

  “I appreciate that, but I really don’t think so. To be honest, I’ve been having a little bit of a health issue that’s forced me to step back from my research. So I’m not sure how much good I would be to you anyway.”

  A health issue? Was that actually true, or was it just an excuse? Plottner was tempted to ask for details, but he wasn’t going to pry.

  He could make the college-development people pry for him.

  “I understand,” Plottner said.

  He was tempted to double the offer, right there. Two million bucks a year. That could surely clear up a lot of health issues. Everyone had a price, right?

  But, no. That wasn’t how he wanted to do this.

  “Well, obviously, I’m disappointed. I think your research is very exciting, and I wanted to have the Plottner name be a part of it in some way.”

  “I appreciate that. I really do.”

  “And as far as I’m concerned, the offer remains open,” Plottner said. “Perhaps you’ll change your mind.”

  “That’s very generous of you. Thank you.”

  “All right then. I hope we part as friends?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Very good, very good,” Plottner said.

  And then, like an idea was already forming in his head, he added: “Perhaps we’ll talk again someday.”

  Plottner hung up. For perhaps ten seconds, he sat with the phone clutched to his chest. For Plottner, this passed as crippling indecision.

  Then he called out, “Theresa.”

  She appeared at his side without a word.

  “Tell Houston we have to cancel. We’re going to New Hampshire.”

  Because there was no substitute for being there in person.

  A few minutes later, as long as it took to file a new flight plan, Plottner One began gently banking north.

  Maybe other people would have given up more easily.

  They weren’t the sort of people who had planes named after them.

  CHAPTER 9

  As the end of February gave way to the beginning of March, I allowed myself a few degrees of cautious optimism about Matt, even as I continued to worry about a relapse.

  There were certain viruses that, once they got inside you, never truly left. They could lie dormant and then strike at any time, couldn’t they?

  We had established protocols that if he didn’t show up in certain places at certain times, people knew to start looking for him, because it meant he was slumped over somewhere. His Where’s My Phone app was activated, and he wasn’t allowed to go out of range. He had also started wearing a medical alert bracelet.

  But I really hoped that as long as he stayed away from that virus, he’d be okay.

  Which was why I remained vigilant for any sign he was weakening in his resolve. I felt like a jealous wife, except instead of searching for lipstick smears on Matt’s collar, I was finding excuses to touch his hands when he came home. The latex gloves he wore at the lab were dusted with cornstarch, and they sometimes left residue behind.

  I had also secretly enlisted a spy: Sheena Aiyagari, Matt’s postdoc. She and I had always been closer than Matt’s other postdocs, if only because she was more socially skilled than the rest—even if that was, admittedly, a low bar when it came to physics PhDs. At department gatherings, which were mostly a bunch of men talking about Higgs bosons, she had always gone out of her way to ask about Morgan or the latest at the library.

  Otherwise, she was fairly typical of the breed of physics postdocs: smart, serious, and focused. She was of South Asian ancestry and had grown up in India, though she finished high school at an American boarding school. She had gone to Cornell as an undergrad, then Berkeley for her PhD. And now she was a postdoc, working as a teaching assistant for undergrad classes and doing research under Matt’s tutelage, sharing lab space with him.

  Which meant she was around him a lot. And she had promised me that if she saw him working with his laser—or if she was aware of any other sign he was dipping back into his research—she would notify me immediately.

  Otherwise, we were slipping along without incident.

  Then came the first Tuesday of the month.

  And another one of those phone calls from the Dartmouth College Department of Physics and Astronomy.

  “Brigid,” Beppe began. “I’m so sorry, but—”

  “Where is he now?”

  “The ambulance just left.”

  It was a few minutes before two.

  “Did you find him in the lab again?” I asked.

  I could already feel the anger building in me. If Matt had gone behind my back with the virus, I was going to be truly and righteously pissed.

  “I’m not sure,” Beppe said. “All I saw was the EMTs carrying him down the stairs. There was a group of us gathered at the landing and I asked, ‘Has anyone called Brigid?’ No one had, so—”

  “I appreciate it. Thank you, Beppe.”

  “I’m sorry,” he said again. “Let me know if there’s anything I can do.”

  I assured him I would, then started grimly going through a routine I now felt like I could do by rote. I texted Aimee. I told my boss what had happened. I drove to Dartmouth-Hitchcock.

  When I reached the information desk, it was staffed by the same gray-faced woman as last time.

  “I’m Brigid Bronik, here to see my husband, Matthew Bronik,” I said, digging out my ID and handing it to her before she could ask.

  She accepted it and started typing.

  And frowning.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “We don’t have a record of a Matthew Bronik being admitted today.”

  I stood there, stumped. “Well, is he . . . I mean, if he came here in an ambulance, he’d be taken to the ER, right?”

  “All I can tell you is we don’t have a record of a Matthew Bronik being admitted today,” she repeated robotically.

  “But how—”

  “Maybe he hasn’t been admitted yet. You can have a seat if you like,” the woman said. “Next, please.”

  “But he has to be—”

  “I’m sorry, ma’am,” the woman said firmly, “I don’t have any information. Have a seat, please. Next.”

  Her eyes had moved to the person in line, a man who had already advanced to the desk.

  I walked away, muttering an insincere “Thank you,” managing to muzzle the more choice words I may have preferred.

  But, really, I didn’t need some icy health care bureaucrat to tell me where my husband was. It was either the ER or the ICU.

  Start with the ER. I followed a series of signs until I arrived. The woman staffing the desk there was younger, friendlier.

  “Can I help you?” she asked.

  “Yes, I’m looking for my husband, Matthew Bronik. He was just brought here in an ambulance.”

  I held out my license.

  She accepted it. But then the same scene repeated itself: typing, followed by frowning.

  And no Matthew Bronik.

  “Are you sure t
hey brought him here?” the woman asked.

  “Well, no, but . . . where else would they take him?”

  “It’s possible they went to Alice Peck Day. We’ve been very busy this afternoon. Every now and then the EMTs decide a patient will be seen faster over there.”

  I tamped down the brief spurt of panic that accompanied this news. Alice Peck Day was a small community hospital in nearby Lebanon that had been swallowed up years earlier by the ever-expanding Dartmouth-Hitchcock medical colossus. They didn’t have nearly the facilities that Dartmouth-Hitchcock did.

  But they would still have the ability to check his medical alert bracelet and then could administer the drugs and fluids he needed to get his blood pressure up, right?

  “Aren’t they affiliated with you?” I asked. “Wouldn’t he still show up in your system if he was there?”

  “Sometimes they’re a little slower to get people entered,” the woman said apologetically. “Hang on.”

  She picked up her phone, dialed. A short exchange ensued, during which it was firmly established that, no, Alice Peck Day didn’t have Matthew Bronik either; and no one matching Matt’s description had been brought in.

  I thanked the woman for her time, then immediately began the trek toward the ICU.

  Maybe the EMTs had taken him straight there. On account of the bracelet. He just hadn’t been entered into the computer yet because in the ICU they had more pressing things to worry about than paperwork.

  But when I arrived, a woman in scrubs told me they had no patients named Matthew Bronik.

  Without bothering to do my incredulous double-checking, I just thanked her and went straight to what was always our end destination: Neurology.

  I hadn’t bothered to remove my winter jacket, which was filled with down and quite toasty, so I was sweating by that point. I didn’t have a tie to pull back my hair, which was probably going in eight different directions. I’m sure I looked a little deranged. I’m also sure I didn’t care.