The Placebo Effect by David Rotenberg Read Free Book Online Page B

and sang a pure note up into the dome. Nothing happened for a second, then a cascading ring of echoes one after the other came down toward him. Before the first reached him he sang a second note, this one a third higher than the first, followed quickly by a third note a fifth higher than the first. Then heopened his arms and whole chords of music—in echo—wrapped around him.
    Decker stood, amazed, because he thought, just for a moment, that the young monk, bathed in the chords of the oddly familiar liturgical music, rose off the floor and floated in midair.
    Decker looked around. One strange creature had turned toward him, then shrugged and returned to his screen.
    Decker sat and punched in his tertiary code, which led him to what he thought of as a small side room off the main chat room, what Eddie called their “blocked” room. He signed in again and sent the electronic tone that would summon his friend.
    In under a minute Eddie’s unique script bibbled across the bottom of the blank page: If you’re asking why your son needs the money, don’t! I’ve already told you that Seth swore me to secrecy. And I won’t betray that trust and you know I won’t, so don’t ask me to. How was Orlando?
    Decker was tempted to walk away but typed: Fine.
    Pittsburgh, Cleveland then home—piece of a cakewalk.
    Decker could sense Eddie smiling as he unapologetically mixed metaphors. Yeah , he wrote.
    You’re not using your own computer. Why?
    Cause.
    With all you have to say you should write a blog.
    True , Decker typed, then hit the disconnect button, paid for his time and left the café.
    His second truth-telling session was in a nondescript office tower downtown. He scouted the back of the building and found a side exit through the ground floor’s janitorial station. Then he established that there were U.S. Mail slots on every fourth floor.
    He took the elevator up to the forty-second floor, identified himself as David Rose to the attractive older woman there. She handed him a file and indicated that he should follow her.
    They entered a small room with an industrial table, a monitor and a set of headphones.
    â€œI need to be able to see,” he said.
    She parted the curtain on the wall and there was a clear glass pane.
    â€œOne-way mirror?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œRussian?” he asked her.
    â€œKazakhstani, but my Russian is very good—I’ll translate for you if it’s necessary.”
    Soon the light in the next room came on, and a young pale-faced man entered and took a seat at a long table. He fidgeted.
    â€œSergei Lomotov. He plays for the Penguins,” the woman beside him said.
    Okay, Decker thought. Russian hockey player, a left-winger if his memory served him. He looked to her. “What’s your name?” Decker asked.
    â€œLuska.”
    â€œOkay. Luska, who else is—” But before he could finish his question the door of the other room opened and two men in grey suits entered. They were followed by a guy Decker recognized as the Pittsburgh Penguins general manager—a classic Canadian prairie-hardened man. Then in came an older man who sat beside the hockey player and patted his hand. European, Decker thought. “His translator?” he asked Luska.
    She nodded.
    â€œAnd them?” Decker asked indicating the two guys in grey suits.
    â€œInvestigators.”
    Okay, Decker thought.
    The opening set of questions to the young Russian hockey player were just basic data: place of birth, schooling, early hockey experience, and his time with Moscow Dynamo. He answered all of them truthfully.
    Luska’s fingers flew across her computer keyboard, transcribing the dialogue word for word.
    Decker looked out the window to clear his head. Below themwas the confluence of the Allegheny, Monongahela, and Ohio rivers. Three Rivers Stadium used to be there—now there’s PNC Park. What’s a PNC anyways?
    Then one of