Dr. Fenton was reminded of Eddie’s influence on him every time he went to Washington, DC, because the first thing he would notice walking the hallways of any government building was their echoes. They were louder than those in Harmony House, and this was for two reasons. One was sheer size. These corridors were practically canyons. The second reason was the hardness of the surfaces. The glistening floors were polished every night as if our democracy depended on it.
The old man still had a few fans left within the exclusive club of intelligence research, but most had left public service during previous administrations. Bush Sr. had been a fan because he was not about to mess with a Reagan legacy, and Clinton loved people he considered almost as smart as he was. George W. knew that Fenton still had his father’s ear, so the doctor’s position was secure during his terms, and Obama’s wife, Michelle, had a cousin on the high-functioning end of the spectrum, so given the failures of the Affordable Care Act for families raising autistic children, continuing to fund Harmony House was the least he could do. But now was a different deal. The new president was too much of a wild card. Non-Defense budgets were being obliterated. Members of the Senate Select Committee on Intelligence had been instructed to take hard looks at every program, particularly fringe projects like Harmony House.
Waiting to be ushered in, Dr. Fenton sat on a black bench, the same bench he sat on every time he made this godforsaken trek. He even sat in exactly the same spot on the bench, because when you come down to it, every human being is a creature of habit, not just those with autism. And therein lay one of the good doctor’s ultimate fascinations with the condition: people who had it weren’t so different from the rest of the world. They were merely an extension of what all humans were, and were capable of. It was the same reason people had always been fascinated by spoon benders, mind readers, seers, and others with unusual abilities. The same potential lay within all of us.
Researchers, Fenton reflected, had spent years studying every aspect of the exceptionally gifted to learn what triggered universal potential, awakening it from something dormant to an active ability that could be revealed, heightened, honed, and put into useful practice. How did such gifts get unleashed? Answering this question was Fenton’s mission. Ultimately, the key to releasing the genius in all humanity was the Holy Grail of Harmony House. Something about autism allowed some people to think in ways that others could not. While no one might want the limitations, every human being on the planet could benefit from the discovery of that genius mechanism.
Dr. Marcus Fenton was ushered into the mahogany-paneled room where the fifteen-member committee was already seated around a large conference table. Fenton made sure to glance at each of them before taking a seat. It was as if he was lining them up in his sights, should this not go as planned.
The committee was chaired by Senator Corbin Davis, who was twenty years younger than Fenton. Marcus had disliked him on the spot when they first met, eight years ago. How this pretty boy had maneuvered himself into chairing the committee was beyond Fenton, but at least he wasn’t president. Not yet, anyway.
“I have a great deal of respect and admiration for you, Dr. Fenton,” the Indiana senator lied. “The same can be said for most everyone in this room.” He glanced around the committee, confirming his majority support. There were only three dissenters. His new benefactors at the American Heritage Foundation had asked him to give Fenton a pass on the budget cuts, and Corbin Davis had secured one, but not without much heated discussion. The camera-ready senator certainly wasn’t about to fail this first little test of theirs. “While funds are increasingly tight these days, you can rest assured that our faith in your mission has not wavered. Your funding has been approved.”
Fenton struggled to hide his surprise. This was the last thing he was expecting. The newest member of the committee, Denise Claybourne, a proud tree-hugging Democrat from Maine who also happened to be one of the committee’s two females and one of the three dissenters, quickly chimed in. “Doctor, if you don’t mind, I have a few questions.” She flipped through some of the classified Harmony House research materials. “What, for example, is acoustic archeology?”
Fenton smiled. “Think back to some of the most sensitive conversations you’ve ever had. Now imagine that someone could walk into the space where you had one of those conversations, and use a device to re-create the exact dialogue from the degenerated, but still identifiable, waves of energy that were first created when you were having that private dialogue.” He used the analogy of paleontologists re-creating an entire dinosaur from a fossilized bone fragment.
Claybourne’s expression was a mixture of amazement and concern, just like that of every politician who first heard about the possibility. “I would say it’s a good thing my divorce is final.” It got a good laugh—nervous, but good. “Are you telling me that it’s possible?”
“Not only is it possible, it’s on the verge of becoming reality.” The others around the room knew that this had been true for over a decade, but no one made comment. There were clearly bigger agendas at work, and if you didn’t know who you were fighting, it was best not to fight.
Fenton continued. “A more academic variety of acoustic archeology has already been featured in several investigative television shows.”
“What do you mean, ‘more academic’?”
“If this room were being painted as we had this conversation, our words would be etched into the wet paint the same way music was originally recorded onto vinyl records. Once the paint dries, it’s fairly easy to use lasers to measure the microscopic scratches in the paint, which could then be translated back into sound.
“It’s useful if you want to hear what Michelangelo was saying as he painted the Sistine Chapel, or what Anasazi were saying to each other while decorating their caves, but its contemporary relevance is limited.” Dr. Fenton leaned forward. “Senator, what would you like to hear?”
“Everything that happened on the fifth floor of the School Book Depository next to the grassy knoll on November 22, 1963.”
The doctor smiled. “I would go to the Oval Office and listen to every word ever spoken for the last seventy-five years.”
Senator Claybourne now realized the true potential of the science. “It would change law enforcement as we know it. And intelligence.”
Fenton put it simply. “There would be no more secrets.”
The Democratic senator’s mind was racing. “Any lie ever told . . . any crime ever committed . . . my God.”
“Exactly.” Fenton’s eyes were penetrating.
The chairman gritted his teeth like a prizefighter taking a dive. It was only now that it dawned on him why Bob Stenson and the American Heritage Foundation had asked him to approve funding for Harmony House: They know something. They have to. Jesus Christ, what if the echo box finally works?
Dr. Marcus Fenton smiled ever so slightly. “Now imagine another government got it first.”
Denise Claybourne’s voice was low and steady. “We can never let that happen.”
Senator Davis took a moment to congratulate himself. “Thanks to this committee, it won’t.”
Watching the capital disappear from view as he rode an Amtrak Acela Express out of Union Station, Fenton had no idea how hollow and predetermined his victory was. He knew something seemed off about the whole thing, but after getting his entire operating budget approved, he was not about to start asking questions now.
He checked emails, including the daily security report from Michael Barnes, then went to the café car to see what kind of scotch they were serving. He settled for twelve-year-old Dewar’s. It would have to do. Those around him had no idea they were in the presence of a legend whose reputation remained securely intact.
At least, for another year.
CHAPTER 17