CHAPTER 7
Harmony House, Woodbury, New Jersey, May 20, 5:30 a.m.
Eddie’s eyes opened bright and early, as they did most mornings. This was his favorite time of day, these very first moments. Because the day would never be more quiet, more peaceful, or more beautiful than it was right now. He just lay there, head resting upon his Batman pillowcase, listening to the magnificent SILENCE. There wasn’t another living soul moving anywhere in Harmony House. But Eddie knew that outside his window, it was a different story. He cracked open the window—no more than an inch, because an inch was all that was needed to let the glorious chorus come pouring in.
This morning it was a black-capped chickadee and a hermit thrush. Other mornings, it was a common tern and a green-winged teal. And if he was really lucky, a blue-winged warbler joined the ornithological chorus, but that was only on rare occasions. The chirps of each bird were distinct. And Eddie could mimic each just about perfectly. Puckering his lips, pulling his cheeks tightly against his teeth, and exhaling ever so slightly in quick bursts, he turned the duo into a trio.
Eddie could talk to the birds.
The three birds seemed to have a lot to say. CHIRP, CHIRP, WHISTLE, WHISTLE. CA-CAW, BRRRIP. It lasted for one minute. Then two. But seemed more like days. By his count, thirty-seven different varieties of birds had made early morning music with him, and he hoped for more. Like a belted kingfisher or a swallow-tailed kite. He hoped that if there was a heaven, one day he would get to sing with a chorus of every kind of bird in existence. How truly glorious that would be.
The only thing Eddie could imagine sounding more beautiful was the sound of his mother’s voice, which was the one voice he most wanted to hear, but was also the one he never could. She had died giving birth to him. One of the few kind aspects to Asperger’s was that it kept Eddie from being burdened with the sense of guilt over her death that many in his situation might suffer. That kind of emotion just didn’t compute. Not for most people diagnosed within the autism spectrum. All he knew was that he wanted to hear his mother.
Many of those who had known Michelle Parks during her short life had told Eddie that her voice was like nothing they had ever heard. That she sang like an angel. That on more than one occasion, she had brought people to tears. Eddie found this confusing, even when it was explained to him that they cried in a good way. He would nod, pretending to understand, while thinking it was not nice of his mother to have made people cry. The only times he cried were when he was hurt or confused, and neither felt very good. And since he was certain that his mother had been a nice person, he was equally confident that she would have never intentionally brought anyone to tears.
Many who’d known her believed that Eddie’s mother had been on her way to a recording career when she met her untimely demise. Unfortunately, no one had ever bothered to properly record her voice before the tragic event occurred. Sure, there had once been the usual collection of home videos, but those didn’t count for two reasons: the audio quality of the VHS tapes was so poor that it was almost impossible to hear her to begin with, and her parents had watched them so many times in the years following Michelle’s death that the tapes had become unplayable. Which was why her parents had tossed out the recordings when they decided to sell their home. It was just too frustrating to hang on to them.
Eddie remained undeterred. For as long as he could remember, his only goal in life was to hear his mother’s voice. He wanted to hear the angel. His angel. And he knew he could find a way to do it. That was what he’d told himself every day since his arrival at Harmony House.
One day, he would hear his mother sing.
Eddie supposed the reason she had never been properly recorded was because angels weren’t supposed to be. Never mind that she was trailer trash from a small eastern-Pennsylvania town called Saylan Hills with a population of 811. Or that Eddie wasn’t altogether sure what angels were, even though he had memorized numerous definitions from multiple sources. He did know that people nodded with approval whenever he made the statement that angels weren’t supposed to be recorded, so he made sure to say it whenever talking about his mother. He liked it when people thought he knew what he was talking about. Because then they didn’t look so strangely at him, and he wouldn’t feel so uncomfortable.
Most of the time, however, they knew he didn’t have a clue.
Eddie glanced over at the hard-shell camera case sitting on his simple wooden desk. At least, it looked like a camera case. But it was not. It was a device. A prototype. Which was the primary reason Eddie had been brought to Harmony House. The echo box. To date, the government had invested over $27,358,916 into its development, but still had nothing to show for it. Nothing tangible, anyway. All they had were Eddie’s theories, theorems, algorithms, and mathematical equations, literally thousands of them, which filled over thirty of the binders stacked neatly along his wall. And none of the scientists at the government’s disposal, including the nation’s very best and brightest, had been able to make heads or tails of his work. In fact, many of them were now convinced that Eddie’s Theorems, as they were known, were utter nonsense. A pipe dream.
The scientists were tired of seeing such a vast amount of research funds being directed to this nonsense when they had far better uses for the money. Feasible uses. Practical, even. How dare they have to take a back seat to a deficient! A showdown was brewing. High noon would be at the annual closed-door budget meeting, which was to occur in three days. The only question was whether one of these brainiacs was finally willing to stand up to a force of nature. They needed a dragon slayer.
What none of them could possibly know was that one would arise from the least likely of places.
CHAPTER 8
Jacob Hendrix’s Apartment, Greenwich Village, New York City, May 20, 11:22 a.m.
Jacob and Skylar slept as long as they could. Neither was in any sort of a hurry. They hadn’t gotten into bed until after three, and tumbled out of it sometime after four. They didn’t fall asleep until close to five.
Skylar opened her eyes slowly. Her head hurt. Of course it did. It took her a moment to remember why, which made her smile. She stared at the man staring back at her. “How long have you been awake?”
“Only a couple minutes.”
“How long have you been staring at me?”
“Only a couple minutes.”
She never broke eye contact. “If I asked nicely, would you get me three Advil?”
He paused to make her think it was an imposition. “Look behind you.”
She rolled over to see three Advil and a glass of water sitting on her nightstand. She gulped down the pills with the entire glass, then turned back to him. “Well, that was fun.”
“It wasn’t bad.” She hit him with a pillow. “Tell me about your job again, so that this time, I’ll remember.”
She shook her aching head. “There’s really not much I can tell.”
“Because you haven’t started work there yet, or because you’re not supposed to?”
“Both.”
He grinned slyly. “You know, the less you tell me, the more I want to know.”
“That’s true of everything, isn’t it?”
“Touché.”
She paused briefly, surprised that she actually did want to talk about her new job. “My boss is a legend. Dr. Marcus Fenton. Probably the most famous name in autism research since Hans Asperger.”
“Asperger was a Nazi, wasn’t he?”
“He acquiesced like every other Austrian during the war. It was the only way he could keep seeing patients.”
“I thought Hitler was busy exterminating anyone who didn’t have a perfect blond genetic disposition.”