Dark Matter. Greg Iles

he reached for the telephone to call 911, then remembered that the world’s preeminent neurologist was working in the office four doors down from his own.

       The telephone would be faster than walking. He reached for the receiver, but the event taking place within his cranium suddenly bloomed to its full destructive power. The clot lodged, or the blood vessel burst, and his left eye went black. Then a knifelike pain pierced the base of his brain, the center of life support functions. Falling toward the floor, Fielding thought again of that elusive particle that had traveled faster than the speed of light, that had proved Einstein wrong by traversing space as though it did not exist. He posed a thought experiment: If Andrew Fielding could move as fast as that particle, could he reach Ravi Nara in time to be saved?

       Answer: No. Nothing could save him now.

       His last coherent thought was a prayer, a silent hope that in the unmapped world of the quantum, consciousness existed beyond what humans called death. For Fielding, religion was an illusion, but at the dawn of the twenty-first century, Project Trinity had uncovered hope of a new immortality. And it wasn’t the Rube Goldberg monstrosity they were pretending to build a hundred meters from his office door.

       The impact of the floor was like water.

      I jerked awake and grabbed my gun. Someone was banging the front door taut against the security chain. I tried to get to my feet, but the dream had disoriented me. Its lucidity far surpassed anything I’d experienced to date. I actually felt that I had died, that I was Andrew Fielding at the moment of his death—

      “Dr. Tennant?” shouted a woman’s voice. “David! Are you in there?”

      My psychiatrist? I put my hand to my forehead and tried to fight my way back to reality. “Dr. Weiss? Rachel? Is that you?”

      “Yes! Unlatch the chain!”

      “I’m coming,” I muttered. “Are you alone?”

      “Yes! Open the door.”

      I stuffed my gun between the couch cushions and stumbled toward the door. As I reached for the chain latch, it struck me that I had never told my psychiatrist where I lived.

       TWO

      Rachel Weiss had jet-black hair, olive skin, and onyx eyes. Eleven weeks ago, when I’d arrived at her office for my first session, I’d thought of Rebecca from Sir Walter Scott’s Ivanhoe. Only in the novel Rebecca had a wild, unrestrained sort of beauty. Rachel Weiss projected a focused severity that made her physical appearance and clothing irrelevant, as though she went out of her way to hide attributes that would cause people to see her as anything other than the remarkable clinician she was.

      “What was that?” she asked, pointing to the sofa cushion where I’d stashed the gun. “Are you self-prescribing again?”

      “No. How did you find my house?”

      “I know a woman in Personnel at UVA. You missed two consecutive sessions, but at least you called ahead to cancel. Today you leave me sitting there and you don’t even call? Considering your state of mind lately, what do you expect me to do?” Rachel’s eyes went to the video camera. “Oh, David … you’re not back to this again? I thought you stopped years ago.”

      “It’s not what you think.”

      She didn’t look convinced. Five years ago, a drunk driver flipped my wife’s car into a roadside pond. The water wasn’t deep, but both Karen and my daughter Zooey drowned before help arrived. I was working at the hospital they were brought to after the accident. Watching the ER staff try in vain to resuscitate my four-year-old daughter shattered me. I spent hours at home in front of the television, endlessly replaying videotapes of Zooey learning to walk, laughing in Karen’s arms, hugging me at her third birthday party. My medical practice withered, then died, and I sank into clinical depression. This was the only fact of my personal life I had discussed in detail with my psychiatrist, and this only because after three sessions she had told me that she’d lost her only child to leukemia the year before.

      She confided this because she believed my disturbing dreams were caused by the tragic loss of my family, and she wanted me to know she had felt the same kind of pain. Rachel, too, had lost more than her child. Unable to handle the devastating effects of his son’s illness, her lawyer husband had left her and returned to New York. Like me, Rachel had descended into a pit of depression from which she was lucky to emerge. Therapy and medication had been her salvation. But like my father, I’ve always been fiercely private, and I fought my way back to the land of the living alone. Not a day went by that I didn’t miss my wife and daughter, but my days of weeping as I replayed old videotapes were over.

      “This isn’t about Karen and Zooey,” I told Rachel. “Please close the door.”

      She remained in the open doorway, car keys in hand, clearly wanting to believe me but just as clearly skeptical. “What is it, then?”

      “Work. Please close the door.”

      Rachel hesitated, then shut the door and stared into my eyes. “Maybe it’s time you told me about your work.”

      This had long been a point of contention between us. Rachel considered doctor/patient confidentiality as sacred as the confessional, and my lack of trust offended her. She believed my demands for secrecy and warnings of danger hinted at a delusional reality I had constructed to protect my psyche from scrutiny. I didn’t blame her. At the request of the NSA, I’d made my first appointment with her under a false name. But ten seconds after we shook hands, she recognized my face from the jacket photo of my book. She assumed my ruse was the paranoia of a medical celebrity, and I did nothing to disabuse her of that notion. But after a few weeks, my refusal to divulge anything about my work—and my obsession with “protecting” her—had pushed her to suspect that I might be schizophrenic.

      What Rachel didn’t know was that I had only been allowed to see her after winning a brutal argument with John Skow, the director of Project Trinity. My narcolepsy had developed as a result of my work at Trinity, and I wanted professional help to try to understand the accompanying dreams.

      First the NSA flew in a shrink from Fort Meade, a pharmacological psychiatrist whose main patient base was technicians trying to cope with chronic stress or depression. He wanted to fill me up with happy pills and find out how to become an internationally published physician like me. Next they brought in a woman, an expert in dealing with the neuroses that develop when people are forced to work for long periods in secrecy. Her knowledge of dream symbolism was limited to “a little historical reading” during her residency. Like her colleague, she wanted to start me on a regimen of antidepressants and antipsychotics. What I needed was a psychoanalyst experienced in dream analysis, and the NSA didn’t have one.

      I called some friends at the UVA Medical School and discovered that Rachel Weiss, the country’s preeminent Jungian analyst, was based at the Duke University Medical School, less than fifteen miles from the Trinity building. Skow tried to stop me from seeing her, but in the end I told him he’d have to arrest me to do it, and before he tried that, he’d better call the president, who had appointed me to the project.

      “Something’s happened,” Rachel said. “What is it? Have the hallucinations changed again?”

      Hallucinations, I thought bitterly. Never dreams.

      “Have they intensified? Become more personal? Are you afraid?”

      “Andrew Fielding is dead,” I said in a flat voice.

      Rachel blinked. “Who’s Andrew Fielding?”

      “He was a physicist.”

      Her eyes widened. “Andrew Fielding the physicist is dead?”

      It was a measure of Fielding’s reputation that a medical doctor who knew little about quantum