Richard Powers - The Echo Maker

“The man’s not objecting,” Rupp said. “Are you, buddy?”

Mark stood grasping his controller, one cheek screwed up. “We were just doing what we always do.” He held up the game pad. “What’s with the freaking?”

“Exactly.” Cain looked at Weber, then back at Karin. “See what we’re saying? It’s not like this is real, or anything. We’re not putting anybody through anything.”

“Don’t you two have jobs? Or have you become completely unemployable?”

Rupp stepped toward her, and she backed toward the door. “I took home thirty-one hundred dollars this month. How about you?” Karin crossed her arms under her breasts and looked down. Weber felt some old, unfinished business between them.

“Working?” Duane said. “It’s Sunday, for Christ’s sake.”

A giggle leaked out of Mark. “Even God didn’t bust his balls all the time, Sarge.”

“Go away,” she said. “Go kill some cows.”

Rupp smiled a little lemonade smile and flicked the back of his fingernails up his cheek. “Give it up, Ms. Gandhi. You take a hit out on a cow every time you bite into a burger. You know what I think? Our man here is right. Arab terrorists kidnaped Karin Schluter and replaced her with a foreign agent.”

Duane Cain glanced nervously at Weber. But Mark just laughed like a thudding cowbell. Karin sliced through the men toward her brother. Reaching him, she lifted the controller from his hands and placed it on the console. She popped the disc from the machine and the screen went blue. She crossed to Weber and handed him the platter of offending code. She touched his elbow. “Ask these two what they know about Mark’s accident.”

A cry issued from her brother. “Uh, hello? Are you on crack?”

“They used to play games like this, only out on real country roads.”

Mark leaned close to Weber. He whispered, “This is what I mean about her.”

Tom Rupp sneered. “This is defamation. Do you have the slightest evidence…?”

“Evidence! Don’t talk to me like I’m some dimwit policeman. Who do you think I am? I’m his sister. You hear me? His own flesh and blood. You want evidence? I’ve been out there. Three sets of tracks?”

Mark dropped into the chair next to Weber. “Out where? What tracks?” He curled up, clutching his elbows.

Duane Cain formed a T with his hands. “Deep breathing time. Would it kill anyone if we all just chilled for a second?”

“Maybe you’ve managed to fool the police. But I hold you personally responsible. If things never get better…”

“Hey!” Mark said. “It doesn’t get any better than this.”

Tom Rupp shook his head. “There’s something seriously wrong with you, Karin. You might want to consult with the professional while he’s here.”

“And then to make him play racing games, drag him through all that again, like nothing ever happened? Have you lost your minds?”

Mark sprang from his chair. “Who the hell do you think you are? You’ve got no power here!” He made for her, arms thrust outward. She turned, instinctively, into the arms of Rupp, who opened to protect her. Mark stopped short, hung his hands on his neck, and whimpered. Not what I meant. Not what you think.

Weber watched the free-for-all, already telling Sylvie. She would show him no sympathy. You’re the one who wanted to get out of the lab. Who wanted to see this thing up close, before you died.

Karin pushed herself from Rupp’s arms. “I’m sorry, but you two have to leave.”

“Already gone.” Rupp gave her a dress salute, snappy National Guard issue, which Mark, by reflex, mimicked.

Duane Cain wobbled his extended thumb and pinky at Mark. “Keep it real, bro. We’ll be back.”

When they were gone and calm returned, Weber turned to Karin. “Mark and I should probably work alone for a bit.” Mark pointed two fingers at her and chuckled. Karin’s face fell. She hadn’t thought Weber capable of such betrayal. She spun and fled the room. Weber followed her into the hall, calling her until she stopped. “I’m sorry. I needed to watch Mark with his friends.”

She exhaled and rubbed her cheeks. “With his friends? That part of him hasn’t changed.”

Something occurred to Weber, from reviewing the literature the night before. “How does your brother seem when you talk to him on the phone?”

“I…haven’t called him. I’m just here, every day. I hate phones.”

“Ah! We can bond over that.”

“I haven’t called him since the accident. No point. He’d just hang up on me. At least that’s one thing he can’t do face-to-face.”

“Would you like to try an experiment?”

She was ready to try anything.

Mark Schluter sat toying with a video-game controller, turning it over in his palms as if it were some sealed bivalve he couldn’t open. Something had gone out of the game. He looked up at Weber, imploring. “You making some secret plans with her?”

“Not exactly.”

“You think she’s right?”

“About what?”

“About those guys,” Mark snapped.

“I couldn’t say. What do you think?”

Mark flinched. He sucked in a mouthful of air and held it for fifteen seconds, fingering his tracheotomy scar. “You’re supposed to be Dr. Brainiac. You gotta explain all this crap to me.”

Weber fell back on professional training. “It might help us both figure out what happened if we worked through a few tests.” Not exactly a lie, per se. He’d seen stranger things happen. As hopes went, it was qualified enough.

Mark stroked his scarred face and sighed. “Fine. Whatever you got. Knock yourself out.”

They worked for a long time. Mark hunched over the tests, gripping a pen as doggedly as he’d gripped the controller. His focus was all over the road, but he managed to complete most of the tasks. He showed little cognitive impairment. His emotional maturity tested below average, but not much lower, Weber guessed, than the other parties to the morning’s confrontation. All of America would have tested below average on that, nowadays. Mark showed some features of depression. Weber would have been stunned if he didn’t. Borderline depression was a signal indicator of appropriate response, in the summer of 2002.

Other tests ferreted out paranoia. Until the mid 1970s, many clinicians maintained that Capgras was the by-product of a paranoiac condition. Another quarter-century had reversed cause and effect. Ellis and Young, in the late 1990s, suggested that patients who lose affective response to familiar people would reasonably become paranoid. So it always went, with ideas: go back far enough, and moving clouds caused the wind. Wilder reversals were on their way, should Weber live to witness them. The day would come when the last clean cause and effect would disappear into thickets of tangled networks.

But indisputably, Capgras and paranoia correlated. No surprise, then, when Mark’s scores showed mild paranoid tendencies. Just what horror the flashes of persecution and clowning held at bay, Weber’s tests could not determine.

Mark marveled at Weber’s professional patter. “Man! If I could talk like you, I’d be getting laid on a daily basis.” He launched into imitative psychobabble, almost convincing enough to earn him a comfortable wage somewhere on the West Coast.

Weber said, “I’m going to read you a story, and I want you to repeat it.” He took out the standard text and read at the usual speed. “‘Once upon a time, there was a farmer who fell ill. He went to the town doctor, but the doctor failed to cure him. The doctor told him, “Only a happy look will make you happy again.” So the farmer walked all through town looking for someone happy, but he could find no one. He went home. But just before he reached his farm, he saw a happy-looking deer racing across the hills, and began to feel a little better.’ Now you tell it back to me.”