A Murder of Crows Read online

  Praise for The Placebo Effect

  “This novel heats up and never stops.”

  —The Globe and Mail

  “The success of his epic novel Shanghai, which was published in 2008, demonstrated that Rotenberg could break away from convention without loosening his hold on the imagination of his readers. Rotenberg blends the best of [his previous] books in his latest effort, The Placebo Effect.”

  —National Post

  “The Placebo Effect . . . is a thoughtful, challenging novel masquerading as a . . . thriller.”

  —Quill & Quire

  “A moody speculative-fiction thriller.”

  —The Winnipeg Free Press

  Praise for Shanghai

  “Shanghai is heart pounding and brutal. It puts you right into the thick of the city, its people, its passions.”

  —Jurgen Gothe, NUVO magazine

  “Rotenberg’s Shanghai . . . is a place full of effective, unexpected entertainment.

  —Publishers Weekly

  “Shanghai is jam-packed with story and adventure.”

  —Maclean’s

  Praise for the Zhong Fong series

  “Rotenberg has a real talent for characterization and place, taking readers right into the urban heart of Shanghai, with its eighteen million people and conflicts between tradition and modernization.”

  —The Globe and Mail

  “Rotenberg’s take on the street life, bureaucracy, and sheer mass of Shanghai cleverly captures a wonderful, baffling city.”

  —Toronto Star

  “This delightful series . . . gets better with each new novel.”

  —The Chronicle Herald, Halifax

  “A fascinating journey into a remarkable culture.”

  —Ottawa Citizen

  “Readers will be clamouring for more Rotenberg.”

  —Booklist

  Thank you for purchasing this Touchstone eBook.

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  Contents

  Epigraph

  Chapter 1: Thoughts at T Minus 12 Days, 4 Hours and 16 Seconds

  Chapter 2: A Bounty of Gifts—Before

  Chapter 3: A Vagary of Vegas—T Equals 1 Month Plus

  Chapter 4: An Island of Hicks—T Equals 1 Month Plus

  Chapter 5: More Vagaries of Vegas—T Equals 1 Month Plus

  Chapter 6: A Dream of Seth’s—T Equals 1 Month Plus

  Chapter 7: An Approach of Graduations—T Equals 1 Month Plus

  Chapter 8: A Beginning of Betrayals—Eighteen Months Earlier

  Chapter 9: A Friendship of Eddie’s—T Equals 1 Month Plus

  Chapter 10: A Book of Acting—T Equals 1 Month Plus

  Chapter 11: A Searching of Decker—T Equals 1 Month Plus

  Chapter 12: An Advance of African Trips—T Equals 1 Month Plus

  Chapter 13: A Murder of Crows—T Minus 12 Days, 4 Hours and 8 Seconds

  Chapter 14: A Singularity of Turd—T Equals 1 Month Plus

  Chapter 15: A Differential of Town and Gown—T Equals 1 Month Plus

  Chapter 16: An Extremis of Professors—T Equals 1 Month Plus

  Chapter 17: A Void of Caring—T Equals 1 Month Plus

  Chapter 18: A Dream of South Africa and Namibia—T Equals 1 Month Plus to T Minus 21 Days

  Chapter 19: A Crossing of Borders—T Minus 16 Days

  Chapter 20: A Drunkenness of Cops: Garreth Senior—T Minus 16 Days

  Chapter 21: A Plotting of Crazy Eddies—T Minus 16 Days

  Chapter 22: A Tentativeness of Approach—T Minus 14 Days

  Chapter 23: A Crash of Rhinos—T Minus 12 Days

  Chapter 24: A Fury of Blasts—T Minus 12 Days

  Chapter 25: A Collection of Clues—T Minus 12 Days

  Chapter 26: An Interview of a Janitor—T Minus 12 Days

  Chapter 27: A Mass of Media—T Minus 12 Days to T Minus 8 Days

  Chapter 28: A Mélange of Thoughts and Actions—T Minus 8 Days

  Chapter 29: A Glory of Travels in Namibia—T Minus 21 Days to T Minus 7 Days

  Chapter 30: A Solitaire of Moose—T Minus 7 Days

  Chapter 31: A Hill of Ants—T Minus 7 Days

  Chapter 32: A Snippet of an Airplane Conversation—T Minus 7 Days

  Chapter 33: A Privacy of Thoughts—T Minus 6 Days

  Chapter 34: A Confusion of Riddles—T Minus 6 Days

  Chapter 35: A Reading of Minds—T Minus 6 Days

  Chapter 36: A Folder of Files—T Minus 6 Days

  Chapter 37: A Pile of Junk—T Minus 6 Days

  Chapter 38: A Statue of Scrap—T Minus 6 Days

  Chapter 39: A Student Affair—T Minus 6 Days

  Chapter 40: A Smugness of Small Minds—T Minus 6 Days to T Minus 5 Days

  Chapter 41: A Joust of Journals—T Minus 5 Days

  Chapter 42: The Sanctity of Chapel House—T Minus 5 Days

  Chapter 43: A Voyage of Dreams—T Minus 5 Days

  Chapter 44: A Celebration of Ground One Thousand—T Minus 5 Days

  Chapter 45: A World of Wonders—T Minus 4 Days

  Chapter 46: A Tale of Two Pads—T Minus 4 Days

  Chapter 47: A Tale of Two Men—Before

  Chapter 48: A Reality of TV Shows—T Minus 4 Days

  Chapter 49: A Leverage of Promptor—T Minus 3 Days

  Chapter 50: A Bibble of Eddie—T Minus 3 Days

  Chapter 51: A Collision of Library Books and Red Mud—T Minus 3 Days

  Chapter 52: A Mixing of The Grey-Haired Man and Funerals—T Minus 2 Days

  Chapter 53: A Killing of a Supervisor—T Minus 2 Days

  Chapter 54: A Cacophony of Outsiders—T Minus 2 Days

  Chapter 55: A Calling to Order—T Minus 2 Days

  Chapter 56: Scorpions and the Southern Sky—T Minus 2 Days

  Chapter 57: An Agreement of Trade—T Minus 1 Day

  Chapter 58: A Vision from on High—T Minus 1 Day

  Chapter 59: An Arrival of a Lonely Man—T Minus 1 Day

  Chapter 60: Another Agreement of Trade—T Minus 1 Day

  Chapter 61: A Scream of Violas—T Minus 1 Day

  Chapter 62: An Ocean of Grief—T Minus 1 Day

  Chapter 63: A Response to Press—After

  Chapter 64: An Object out of Place—After

  Chapter 65: The Leaving of a Dreamer—After

  Chapter 66: A Paucity of Good-Byes—After

  Chapter 67: A Scheming of Crazy Eddie—After

  Chapter 68: A Meeting of Old Acquaintances—After

  Chapter 69: A Stifle of Mr. Ira Charendoff—After

  Chapter 70: A Mother of Manhunts—After

  Chapter 71: A Reverie of Mr. Walter Jones—After

  Chapter 72: A Solitaire of Ms. Yslan Hicks—After

  Chapter 73: A Wakening of a Leavenworth Convict: Yslan’s Third Gifted Synaesthete—After

  Chapter 74: A Spinning of Ms. Viola Tripping—After

  Chapter 75: A Conspiracy of Mr. Leonard Harrison—After

  Chapter 76: A Dream of Seth Roberts—Beneath

  Chapter 77: A Solitude of Mr. Decker Roberts—Beyond

  Acknowledgments

  About David Rotenberg

  I’d like to thank three doctors who are helping me through some pretty trying times:

  Dr. Laurence Klotz, who goes the extra yard for me

  Dr. Kasra Khorasani, who helps me keep my mind from going into overdrive

  Dr. Ken Lipinski, who offers consultation and words of wisdom whenever I ask

  To the three of you, this one
’s here because of your help.

  And as always there would be no books without Susan, Joey and Beth.

  The gods themselves cannot recall their gifts.

  —ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON

  For fear of nightmares

  Humanity will abandon dreaming.

  Just watch ’em.

  —GRAFFITI ON CANAL STREET SUBWAY WALL CIRCA 1979

  1

  THOUGHTS AT T MINUS 12 DAYS, 4 HOURS AND 16 SECONDS

  This is a foolish country. And this town with its obsessively symmetrical old church is ridiculous.

  These people believe they will live forever. They hide death behind walls and bury it in places with names like Pleasant Valley and Peaceful Rest. We in the East know that death is neither pleasant nor restful.

  Perhaps we spend too much time thinking about our deaths—but death is real. It is the only certainty. And to refuse to confront a certainty is a foolishness. A foolishness that all these Americans will be forced to abandon when we force them to understand that Judgement awaits everyone—everyone.

  Look at all these kids and their parents. Look at them. So self-satisfied. So convinced they are special—the chosen ones. And they all love America. Well, why not? America is going to make most of these privileged kids rich. While backed by their military might this horror of a country makes the rest of the world its slaves. And these science profs up there on the stage invented much of the military prowess of this country while these students all around me are preparing to take their places.

  All are soldiers of the oppressor.

  But there will be justice—even here, on this pampered campus in upper New York State there will be justice. It will come. As surely as putting potassium permanganate together with glycerin will cause a massive explosion—it will come.

  2

  A BOUNTY OF GIFTS—BEFORE

  LEONARD HARRISON, HEAD OF THE NSA, A TOMMY LEE JONES without the snark—or the smile—was hiding something.

  He’s always hiding something, Special Agent Yslan Hicks thought, but she wasn’t going to be drawn into guessing what the hell it was. So she leaned back in her chair—and waited.

  Finally he reached into his briefcase and pulled out her latest report and dropped it on her desk.

  “Something wrong with it?” she asked.

  “No. It’s perfect—like all your work—perfect . . . as far as it goes.”

  “Meaning what?” Then she quickly added, “sir.”

  “Meaning that you’ve accurately stated what we know about the synaesthetes we’ve been tracking.”

  She nodded for him to complete his thought.

  He didn’t.

  So she prompted, “Yes?”

  “But we don’t know very much do we, Special Agent Hicks? After six years of tracking and investigating and spending millions of dollars, what do we really know?”

  “Names, addresses, abilities—”

  “And which ones are of no use to us.”

  “Yes. Silly synaesthetes.”

  “Knowing the smell of colours hardly helps us keep the homeland safe.”

  “We agreed on that long ago and removed them from our database.”

  “Leaving us with . . . our special synaesthetes.”

  Yslan thought about that for a second, then said, “If they actually are synaesthetes.”

  “Agreed. But we had to call them something.”

  “Why not just call them what they are—gifted. Call them the Gifted.”

  “Semantics.” He was suddenly angry. He was bright, diligent and incredibly detailed in his analysis, but when those qualities failed to solve a problem he seemed to somehow fall and his anger bloomed. As it did now. “Go through them one at a time for me,” he said, pointing at the file.

  “It’s all—”

  “I know it’s all in there, but I want to hear it in your own words.”

  He leaned against the window, the Lincoln Memorial over his shoulder, and Special Agent Yslan Hicks began to speak about what had become her life’s work—her special synaesthetes—the Gifted.

  3

  A VAGARY OF VEGAS—T EQUALS 1 MONTH PLUS

  DECKER ROBERTS WAS NOT A HAPPY CAMPER.

  If his son, Seth, wasn’t sick and might need extra cash he’d never have taken this job. This was not the final vetting of an executive for a high-ranking position or the interviewing of a potential buyer for a company. No.

  This was clearly personal.

  Personal to the creepy, middle-aged casino exec with the polio limp who had hired him—and besides, Las Vegas wasn’t his favourite American town.

  He took off the headphones and looked at the exec, then looked at the svelte Eastern European woman being questioned on the other side of the one-way mirror.

  “Put them headphones back on,” the man ordered.

  “I’m not some cheap detective for hire—unlike Jake Geddes, I don’t do divorce work.”

  “Who?”

  “Never mind.”

  “Hey, this is business. Besides, she ain’t my wife.”

  No, Decker thought, she’s more important to you than most wives are to their husbands. She’s your heart’s desire—the one. The one you were willing to give up everything for. Or at least so you thought.

  Decker glanced at the printout that was slowly scrolling onto the table. Somewhere in the vast casino complex someone else was listening to the interrogation and committing it to paper. “Do me a favour.”

  “Wha’s that?”

  “Flip the printout to the front page.”

  The casino exec did.

  “See where she says her name and when and where she was born?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Underline where she was born.”

  “Why?”

  Decker put the headphones back on their hook and said, “Because it’s the only truth she’s told in the entire interview.”

  “You kidding!”

  “No. Where she’s born—that’s it.”

  “And all the rest?”

  “Equivocation, prevarication, paltering or just plain old-fashion lying—I can’t tell you which.”

  “Why?”

  Decker heard it. The man wasn’t asking why he couldn’t tell the difference; he’d leapt all the way to “why” his love had deceived him. But Decker sidestepped the man’s real question and answered, “Because I only know when someone’s telling the truth or at least the truth as she believes it. That’s what you pay me for.”

  The casino exec ran his hand through the few strands of hair that he’d carefully manoeuvred to cover his liver-spotted scalp, then moved to the console and flipped a toggle. For a moment Decker wondered why a casino would have a room set up like this—then he stopped his mind from going there. It was none of his business.

  The casino exec flicked the toggle a second time.

  Decker saw the interrogator on the other side of the one-way mirror put his hand to his left ear.

  After a pause the exec leaned into the console and said, “Ask her directly if she met with that reporter guy.”

  Decker put the headphones back on, felt the cold approach and something metal in his hand—then the slime of blood between his fingers.

  The interrogator asked, “Have you ever met with Charles Lipinski?”

  “No. Never,” the woman answered.

  Squiggles crossed Decker’s retinal screen.

  The exec shot Decker a look.

  Decker shook his head.

  The exec leaned in and flipped the toggle twice then said, “Ask her what the fucking day of the week is.”

  The interrogator gave a quizzical look then asked, “What day of the week is it?”

  “What kind of dumb—”

  “What day of the week is it?”

  “Wednesday, March sixteenth, 2011.”

  The exec looked at Decker.

  Perfect squares crossed his retinal screen. He nodded.

  “Now ask her what she had for breakfast.”

/>   “Coffee—I only have coffee in the morning.”

  Squiggles. Decker shook his head.

  “Fuck!” the exec shouted.

  “Ask her to give the interrogator her name in her native language,” Decker said.

  “Why?”

  “Maybe her accent is confusing me.”

  Leaning into the mic on the console the exec said, “Have her say her name in Romanian.”

  Question, answer, squiggles—not the truth.

  Decker looked more closely at the man at the console—fortyish, a sedentary man’s gut, that pronounced limp, probably never was handsome even as a child, and that would put him in some way outside, alone, ostracized. The man was pacing now, clearly not just hurt, frightened. It occurred to Decker that this man ran the casino but didn’t own it. Money—big money—owned it. “Did she have access to a lot of the casino’s secrets?” he asked. He wanted to add “and your secrets” but didn’t.

  “All of them,” the man said and seemed to deflate as if his bones had turned to mush. Decker thought he might fall and smash his head on the edge of the console.

  “Then I’m afraid you’re going to have to consider that those secrets are not secrets any longer.”

  The man was staring through the one-way mirror—at his love.

  “Everything she said was a lie?”

  “Except where she was born.”

  “Not even when she was born was the truth?”

  “I wouldn’t hold that against her,” Decker said, putting aside the headphones again. “Do you have my money? My work’s done here.”

  Without taking his eyes from the woman the exec pointed to a thick envelope on the table.

  Decker picked it up, quickly riffled through the bills and took one last look at the casino exec. He wanted to ask, “What’s going to happen to her?” then thought the better of it. After all, this was Las Vegas. As Hunter S. Thompson so accurately put it, it’s the kind of place that “the whole hep world would be doing on Saturday night if the Nazis had won the war.”

  4

  AN ISLAND OF HICKS—T EQUALS 1 MONTH PLUS

  AS NSA SPECIAL AGENT YSLAN HICKS PUT ASIDE THE FILE FOLDER with the information on Martin Armistaad, who was still in Leavenworth Penitentiary, she allowed her fingers to trace Decker Roberts’ name on the thick file on her desk. She felt her eyes drawn to the wall of her office where a print of a black on black Rothko painting hung. She stared at it. The colours began to pulse and she recalled where she’d first seen the painting: in the Rothko Chapel, in Houston, thirteen months ago.