Superposition (11 page)

“What's a Higgs field?” Marek asked.

“It's an invisible field, uniform throughout the universe, that gives our universe its physical qualities, including the idea of matter itself,” I said. “The theory is that the big bang produced not just one universe, but countless, frothing up out of the early expansion like so many bubbles. Each universe could have a different Higgs field, stronger or weaker than ours, and thus have a different set of basic constants. That means it could have a different set of fundamental particles, and thus a different periodic table, and, obviously, an entirely different structure,” I said.

“So, the varcolac told you all this?” Marek asked.

“The quantum intelligences,” Brian said. “I think maybe they
are
the Higgs field, or it's part of them somehow. They . . .” He trailed off, his eyes wide, staring at something behind me.

I turned. Through the windshield, I could see it coming. The varcolac strode through the trees as if they weren't there, heading right toward us.

I yanked the gearshift into reverse and hit the accelerator. The car lunged backward and smashed into a tree. I turned the wheel and shifted into drive, but the rear wheels just spun, throwing up loose dirt. I revved the engine frantically, but it was no good. “Out of the car!” I shouted. Marek was already out his side and running. I pushed my door open and ran the other way, not much caring if Brian followed or not.

I was fast and in shape; Brian was not. I heard him scream, and, despite my desire to put as much distance between myself and the varcolac as possible, I turned around. He was frantically doing something on the smartpaper as the varcolac bore down on him.

I heard a deep thrum, like a bass woofer turned up loud, and the varcolac disintegrated. Brian dropped to his knees, breathing hard. “That was close.”

“What did you do?” I asked.

“It's tied to the collider,” Brian said. “It feeds off the exotic particles the collider produces, and it draws a tremendous amount of power from it to maintain its physical manifestation. I altered the Higgs field locally to eliminate those particles.”

Brian touched a few spots on the paper. The thrum stopped and the tugging sensation in my chest subsided.

“Shouldn't you leave that on?” I asked.

“It's gone now,” Brian said. “It won't come back unless . . .” He stopped with a strangled choke as the varcolac reappeared less than a foot in front of him. Brian shrieked and dropped to his knees. He held the letter out in a shaking hand. “Take it!” he said. “Just take it!”

The varcolac bent and touched Brian. Brian's eyes unfocused, and his body glowed. Tiny particles lifted from his body, like sand in a windstorm, flowing from him into the varcolac. As we watched, Brian disintegrated completely and flowed into the varcolac itself. Horribly, the varcolac's jumbled features took on a little of Brian's appearance. The varcolac now held the smartpaper in its hand. A moment later, the paper burst into violent flame and was gone.

The varcolac turned toward us. We stood frozen, watching it. It took a step forward, then turned on its heel and disappeared. It didn't just vanish: it
turned
, like it was walking around a corner, only into some other dimension of space that I couldn't see. It might still have been quite close, for all I knew, invisible, watching us and getting ready to pounce, but if so, there was nothing I could do about it. For now, as far as I could tell, the varcolac was gone.

Marek ran up to me. “You all right?”

“Yeah.”

“Let's get out of here,” I said. I ran to the car and climbed in.

Marek climbed in next to me, but I had the car in gear and was pulling out before he had the door closed.

“Where are we going?” he asked.

I stomped on the accelerator, pulling us into a tight U-turn. “There are two of those letters,” I said.

“What?”

“There were two Brians,” I said. I squealed the tires pulling onto the road and did a U-turn, heading away from the NJSC, back toward home. “Two Brians, two letters. I don't know exactly how, but it's true. The Brian we found dead was the one who visited my house and left the letter in his jacket pocket. The Brian we just saw sent the same letter to me via FedEx.”

“Which means . . . ?” Marek asked.

“It looked to me like the varcolac was after that letter,” I said. “It killed Brian for it. The other version of the letter, however—the one that went out via FedEx was probably delivered today.”

I heard Marek's quick intake of breath. “So if it wants the other letter, too, and knows how to find it, that would lead the varcolac . . .”

I leaned my weight on the accelerator, rocketing the car through a red light. “. . . straight to my house.”

CHAPTER 12

DOWN-SPIN

David Haviland was apparently a morning person. He greeted the judge and the jury with a cheerful smile. I had barely slept, and, next to me, Terry didn't look much better. He was clutching a paper cup of coffee like it was a life raft.

“The People call Officer Brandon McBride to the stand,” Haviland said.

McBride was a big man gone to fat, with thinning gray hair and the hint of jowls forming in his cheeks. He was wearing a tie that seemed too tight for the folds of his neck.

“Officer McBride,” Haviland said. “How long have you been with the Media police force?”

“Thirty-seven years.” McBride emphasized each word, apparently proud of his length of service.

“And what is your current title?”

“I'm a senior evidence technician.”

“And what does that role entail?”

“We receive thousands of items ranging in size from hair samples to vehicles, and we track and store the items and release them as appropriate. Mostly my job is to ensure that the integrity of the chain of evidence is preserved. We store the items and make sure that nothing is tampered with and there is a clear chain of custody for any item from the place where it was confiscated to its appearance in trial.”

“On December third, did your office receive into custody a weapon taken from Jacob Kelley when he was arrested?”

“Yes, we did,” McBride said.

“How can you be sure?” Haviland asked.

“I reviewed the record this morning in preparation for this trial.”

Haviland looked at the judge. “Permission to approach the witness, Your Honor?”

“Granted.”

Haviland handed McBride a paper-clipped sheaf of papers. “This document is presented to the record as Exhibit A1. Officer, can you identify the document for the court?”

“This is the evidence register for December third.”

“Is this the same record you reviewed in preparation for the trial?”

“Yes.”

“Could you please summarize the entry for the court?”

“It says that a Glock 46 nine millimeter with black polymer grips and a scratched barrel was confiscated from the Kelley residence at three PM.” McBride flipped through the pages. “There are photographs of both sides of the weapon.”

“Do you receive many weapons?”

“Quite a few,” McBride said.

“How could you be sure that a particular weapon was the one received from the Kelley residence?”

“The weapon is tagged with the evidence ID number and stored in a secure compartment. Anyone removing or returning it must sign in and out under the supervision of an evidence clerk, who also signs his or her name.”

“Is that record part of the documentation in front of you?” Haviland asked.

“It is.”

“Did anyone sign this weapon in or out on December third or fourth?”

“I signed the weapon in for the first time on December third, once I received it from Officer Carter, then I signed it out again on December fourth.”

“And why did you sign it out?”

“Our office received a bulletin that the New Jersey State Police wanted Jacob Kelley in relation to a gunshot murder.”

“And when you signed it out, what did you do?”

“I called Jersey to let them know, and then I personally walked the weapon over to ballistics to get it test-fired.”

“Why did you do that?”

McBride smiled ruefully. “Well, I walked it over myself because I wanted to get some credit for making the connection. They can compare the bullet they test-fire to the slug they retrieve from the crime scene, see, and they can tell if it was fired by the same weapon.”

Haviland lifted a plastic-wrapped handgun, and I recognized the Glock. “The prosecution would like to enter Exhibit A2 into evidence. Permission to approach?”

The judge nodded.

“Officer McBride,” Haviland continued, “is this the firearm you brought to ballistics?”

McBride examined it carefully. “Yes, it is.”

“And did you establish that it was the murder weapon?”

“Yes, sir. We test-fired it in our forensics lab, and we were able to match the rifling marks under a comparison microscope.” He turned toward the jury. “Rifling marks on a bullet are left by the barrel of the firearm. Each one is unique, like a fingerprint. Two bullets fired from the same firearm will leave the same marks.”

“So the gun that the police found in Jacob Kelley's possession on December third at Mr. Kelley's house was the same gun that was used to kill Brian Vanderhall?”

“Absolutely.”

“Could there have been a mistake? Could this gun have gotten mixed up with a different one?”

McBride looked affronted. “This is my job,” he said. “This is what I do every day. The chain of evidence is properly documented, and the firearm was under the proper security from the moment it was received. There is no doubt whatsoever.”

Haviland produced another plastic bag, entered it into the record, and showed it to McBride. “Can you tell us what this is, Officer?”

“Those are Mr. Kelley's shoes, recovered by Officer Carter when he arrested Mr. Kelley and submitted to me at the same time as the firearm.”

“Can you tell us what you found on the shoes?” Haviland asked.

“The soles of the shoes were covered in human blood,” McBride said.

“And did you work with the New Jersey State Police in relation to this evidence as well?”

“Yes. They sent us images of the footprints they found at the murder scene, which we were able to match with these shoes. Also, DNA analysis of the blood confirmed that it was Brian Vanderhall's.”

“Was there any other analysis performed on evidence taken when Mr. Kelley was arrested?” Haviland asked.

“Yes, we did a GSR test on Mr. Kelley's hands,” McBride said. He turned toward the jury again, and it was clear that he had explained this to juries many times in thirty-seven years. “GSR stands for gunshot residue, the small, burnt particulates which fly out of a firearm when it's discharged and stick to surrounding objects within three to five feet away. The closer an object is to the firearm, the greater the residue. A shooter will have a high concentration on his hand and sleeve, as well as smaller amounts on his face and clothing.

“When a suspected shooter is arrested, the arresting officer uses a kit with small adhesive-coated metal discs. He presses one of the discs to each of the suspect's hands and seals the discs in a labeled plastic tube that comes in the kit. Back at the lab, we remove the discs and examine the particulates under a scanning electron microscope.”

“And when you examined the discs collected from Mr. Kelley?” Haviland asked.

“We discovered large concentrations of lead, barium, and antimony on both hands, consistent with firearm discharge,” McBride said.

“Could those particulates have gotten on his hands just by standing in the room when the gun was fired?”

“No. The concentrations were too large. Mr. Kelley held and discharged a firearm, probably several times.”

Haviland bowed his head slightly. “No further questions, Your Honor.”

CHAPTER 13

UP-SPIN

We tore across the bridge into Pennsylvania. I blew a dozen street lights getting to Media, with one hand on the wheel and the other calling Elena's number over and over again, but getting no answer. I swerved into my driveway, hardly slowing down. The front door was standing open. Heart hammering, I tumbled out of the car and raced inside, knowing before I got there that we were too late.

I saw Elena immediately. She lay crumpled just inside the door, eyes staring at the ceiling. She wore her brown suede coat, as if she had been about to leave the house. Her purse was still over her shoulder, and her keys lay on the floor not far from her outstretched hand.

I bellowed and threw myself on her and clutched at her hair. She had beautiful hair, full and black and slightly curled. A scream was sounding in my head, a long, drawn-out, high-pitched noise like boiling water, that drove away thought and reason. I started to shake her. I had to wake her up. I had her by the shoulders, and I realized that the high-pitched noise was actually coming out of my mouth while I yanked her up and down.

Strong hands closed around my wrists. I tried to fight, but Marek pulled me up away from her, and I let him do it.

“She was coming to see me,” I said. “She was coming to New Jersey to be with me.” The realization that Elena was not the only person who lived here suddenly penetrated the fog of my brain. Where were my children?

We searched the house, the choking dread thick in my throat. I thought I might throw up. It felt wrong to just leave Elena lying in the entryway. My brain started manufacturing reasons why I needed to stay downstairs, or even leave the house, rather than search from room to room for my kids.

I found Claire in our bedroom, sitting up against a pile of pillows. The stream was still projecting, a show about the real-life exploits of a famous actress, but I barely noticed it. Her face was a twisted into an expression of terror, as if she had seen her death coming just before it arrived.