The Speed of Sound (Speed of Sound Thrillers #1)
Eric Bernt
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.