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CORNWELL QUANTUM ALSO BY PATRICIA CORNWELL The Scarpetta Series Postmortem Body of Evidence All That Remains Cruel and Unusual The Body Farm From Potter’s Field Cause of Death Unnatural Exposure Point of Origin Black Notice The Last Precinct Blow Fly Trace Predator Book of the Dead Scarpetta The Scarpetta Factor Port Mortuary Red Mist The Bone Bed Dust Flesh and Blood Depraved Heart Chaos Nonfiction Portrait of a Killer: Jack the Ripper—Case Closed Ripper: The Secret Life of Walter Sickert Andy Brazil Series Hornet’s Nest Southern Cross Isle of Dogs Win Garano Series At Risk The Front Biography Ruth, a Portrait: The Story of Ruth Bell Graham Other Works Scarpetta’s Winter Table Life’s Little Fable Food to Die For: Secrets from Kay Scarpetta’s Kitchen CORNWELL QUANTUM PATRICIA CORNWELL This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental. Text copyright © 2019 by Cornwell Entertainment, Incorporated All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher. Published by Thomas & Mercer, Seattle www.apub.com Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Thomas & Mercer are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates. ISBN-13: 9781542094061 (hardcover) ISBN-10: 1542094062 (hardcover) ISBN-13: 9781503905092 (paperback) ISBN-10: 1503905098 (paperback) Cover design by Kaitlin Kall Printed in the United States of America First edition To Staci: you make it possible . and To Irv and Lonni, who live among the stars . SPOOKY ACTIONS AT A DISTANCE Anyone who is not shocked by quantum theory has not understood it. —Niels Bohr Learn how to see. Realize that everything connects to everything else. —Leonardo da Vinci We are the product of quantum fluctuations in the very early universe. —Stephen Hawking Quantum physics thus reveals a basic oneness of the universe. —Erwin Schrödinger Everything is energy and that’s all there is to it. —Albert Einstein Do not feel lonely, the entire universe is inside you. —Rumi THREE YEARS EARLIER . THE BRIGHT LIGHT is blinding. The vents too small, too high on the metal-clad walls. Frantic and nauseated, willing myself to keep going. Trying to make it better. The air breathless and heated, windows facing due east. I’ve had nothing to eat. The black coffee from the overturned mug pools around the plate of bagels, bowls of cream cheese, butter. The stone countertop streaked red. Drip, dripping over the edge. To the smeared, sticky floor. “Oh God, oh God . !” Distracted, dizzy, about to black out. Grabbing more paper towels. Aware of the obvious vulnerabilities. Even as I panic. The same ones as before. If only I’d paid attention. If only I’d factored in the data. Time. Season. Altitude. Latitude and longitude vis-à-vis the equator. Skylights. Glass windows. Weather. No equation. No algorithm to predict what to expect when emerging from my sensory-deprived day to day. To be helpful, friendly. No matter what’s asked. Or when. Or how I feel. Here to serve. No need to threaten the usual punishments. Disgrace, demotion, hard labor, imprisonment. “Oh God, oh God, please hurry . .” PATRICIA CORNWELL 00:00:00:00:0 ANOTHER minute clicks past on the wall clock. Shoving wadded bloody paper towels into the trash. Looking around at the gory mess. Didn’t see it coming when I showed up for my assignment . Exactly 21 minutes ago . Glancing every other second at the digital time glow- ing green between the American and Space Command flags in polished wooden stands . Darting about, water drumming in the sink. Four minutes since I texted. Dick is coming. On his way. “Hurry, hurry, oh God . !” My heart pounding in my ears. Making matters worse as I try to clean up. Blood soaking through the dish towel wrapped around my right hand, tucked in close like a damaged wing. Sweating, shivering, teeth chattering in fits and starts. “Oh God, oh God . .” The simplest of tasks. A mindless responsibility. Stupid. A favor not meriting special rank, preparation or training. Scarcely any forethought. Was happy to. Flattered, didn’t hesitate to comply. In fact, volunteered. Stupid! No favor goes unpunished. No good deed either. The best intentions setting you up for trouble. Which I didn’t see coming. Behind the locked door, waiting and listening for Dick. Cleaning up what I would have prevented were I not in sleep mode. Not to be confused with safe mode. I wasn’t in that. 2 1 DECEMBER 3, 2019 NASA LANGLEY RESEARCH CENTER HAMPTON, VIRGINIA I CAN’T SAY for sure when the century-old tunnel was sealed off like a tomb. Probably around the same time it began popping up in 8-pitch type as a nondescript feature on utility site maps hardly anyone ever sees. Crammed with high-pressure steam pipes and other mechanicals, the section of tunnel designated 1111-A was at some point given the code name Yellow Submarine. “Never publicly or in print,” I’m explaining to NASA police major Fran Lacey, miserably scuffing behind me on the steep, gloomy stairs. “Mid- to late ’70s is about right for when this might have occurred,” I add, as if she’s listening or cares. “That’s what I get if I factor in the data and do the math.” Crickets is her response, the same one I’ve been getting, and I turn around, checking on her, fully aware she’s not talking back. May as well enjoy that while it lasts. Except I don’t. I feel bad for her. But that doesn’t mean I’ll cut her any slack. Nope. PATRICIA CORNWELL “In other words, in the Dark Ages, when you were coming along,” tossing in a dig whenever I can. “And way back then not even NASA had a glimmer about what was ahead. If they’d known, we wouldn’t have the problem I’m trying to make you handle sooner rather than later.” I pause again for a response that isn’t coming. Our feet slowly thudding on concrete steps nosed with steel safety plates painted screaming yellow. Going down a few. Stopping every second or two as it gets warmer and stuffier the deeper we descend. More like steamy summer than the dead of winter, both of us clearing our throats and sweating. “I’m guessing some dorky systems engineer or member of the intelligence community was to blame. A Beatles fan at any rate, and therefore most likely after 1968,” I continue to download information Fran couldn’t be less interested in right now. Talking nonstop in rhythm to our descent. Feet thud-thudding. Another pause or two. Punctuated by the off-gassing of her loud exas- perated sighs and coughs. Prompting me to turn around, finding her the same as last I looked, flipping me off with both middle fingers, messing with me the way she usually does. But not really. Because believe me when I say that nothing about this is funny to a legendary badass cop known for being afraid of nothing. On permanent loan from Hampton PD, Fran oversees investi- gations for NASA Langley’s protective services. Or what’s essentially our police force of some 70 uniformed officers and a dozen special agents, all armed and federally sworn to ensure security and enforce the law on campus. In addition, she supervises NASA’s and the City of Hampton’s joint Marine, Aviation and Crime Scene Units. Plus our mobile response teams, riot squad and SWAT. Not to mention providing executive protection for visiting VIPs. And coordinating with the military police on Langley Air Force Base, separated from our center by guard gates and an 8-foot-high fence topped with barbed wire. Suffice it to say, Fran isn’t someone to 4 QUANTUM dismiss, disrespect or underestimate. That doesn’t mean I’m letting her off easy by offering empathy or the slightest hint about how much it secretly bothers me to put her through this ordeal. Or any. But if I’m really her investigative partner and closest ally and friend, then for me to give in to her problem would be the worst thing I could do. It would be selfish and dangerous. Worst case, it could be catastrophic. “I’ll take your profane sign language as a yes. You’re doing okay,” responding to her latest doubly offensive gesture, and it’s pointless to react personally when she’s distressed to the max. “Shut up,” she manages to gasp, and thankfully her current unpleasantness is predictable and for the most part inconsistent with who she is the rest of the time. But extreme anxiety, no matter how buried or quiet, rarely makes anyone more cooperative or nicer. Her mop of dark hair plastered to her scowling brow beneath her cockeyed hard hat, her safety glasses constantly fogging up. Staring at her boots, watching every tentative step as she makes her way down a claustrophobic dusty stairwell that she’s avoided like the plague in the past. And would continue to do so were it up to her. Fortunately, it isn’t. Even if she outranks me. Technically. “The reason I know, obviously, is their iconic album by that name didn’t come out until then,” I answer what she doesn’t ask. “Yellow Submarine. We’re all living on one, a metaphor for spaceship Earth, right? Which is appropriate considering what’s down here, as you’re about to see,” I carry on as if oblivious to her fear of confined anything.