The Consciousness Plague Read online

  THE CONSCIOUSNESS PLAGUE

  PAUL LEVINSON

  This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this novel are either fictitious or are used fictitiously.

  THE CONSCIOUSNESS PLAGUE

  Copyright © 2002 by Paul Levinson

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, or portions thereof, in any form.

  This book is printed on acid-free paper. Edited by David G. Hartwell

  A Tor Book Published by Tom Doherty Associates, LLC

  175 Fifth Avenue New York, NY 10010 www.tor.com

  Tor is a registered trademark of Tom Doherty Associates, LLC.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Levinson, Paul. The consciousness plague / Paul Levinson.—1st ed. p. cm.

  "A Tom Doherty Associates book." ISBN 0-765-30098-2 (acid-free paper) 1. Police—Fiction. 2. Memory disorders—Fiction. I. Title.

  PS3562.E92165C662002 813'.54—dc21

  2001054059

  First Edition: March 2002

  Printed in the United States of America

  0987654321

  TO NEW YORK CITY,

  NOW AND FOREVER

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Thanks to my editor, David G. Hartwell, for his deft editing; my agent, Christopher Lotts of the Ralph Vicinanza Agency, for his savvy selling; Dr. Stanley Schmidt, editor of Analog, where Phil D'Amato (this novel's protagonist) first appeared in a series of novelettes in the 1990s; my wife, Tina, and our children, Simon and Molly, for their wonderful first readings of this manuscript; and the many readers of The Silk Code, my first Phil D'Amato novel, who said they wanted more....

  ONE

  "Phil! Good to see you!"

  Jack Dugan, one of the brass I usually worked with—recently promoted to the commissioner's righthand man down at One Police Plaza—extended his hand. He pulled it back, to contain a wracking cough.

  "You look terrible, Jack. What are you taking for that?"

  "Nothing." He coughed again, then extended his hand again.

  I took it and made a mental note to wash my hands as soon as I left the meeting.

  "I guess I should get some antibiotics for this," Jack continued. "But I hate to use the stuff—they say so much of it is around that bacteria are building up resistance."

  I sat down in the available chair across from his desk. It was cherrywood—big, battered around the edges, unevenly lacquered. Its rosy shine mirrored Jack's rheumy eyes. "Never knew you were so tuned in to public health," I said to him.

  He gave me a pained smile. "Antibiotics give me the runs. I'd rather have the cough." He cleared his throat like a bulldozer.

  "Yeah, well, antibiotics are like dumb cops, aren't they," I said. "They come on the scene and club everyone over the head—the good-guy germs in your system that help you digest your food, as well as the bad guys that make you sick."

  He laughed, then coughed. His eyes teared. Finally he took a deep breath, and let it out slowly. "Let me tell you why I asked you down here."

  I nodded encouragement.

  "You know, you and I have had some differences over the years about your penchant for bizarre cases—"

  Yeah, tell me about it, I thought. He'd removed me from cases at least half a dozen times.

  "—and, even though I've been a sceptic, I was talking to the commissioner the other day, and he thinks that there's no such thing as being over-prepared these days. He'd like you to head up a special strange-cases readiness task force—you know, just to be there, with some possible plans in the waiting, if something really wacky crops up." He bulldozed his throat again, then went into a coughing spasm. He pulled a bottle of Poland Spring water out of his desk and guzzled half of it down. "So, what do you think?" he finally managed to say.

  JENNA SIPPED A glass of plum wine and smiled at me that evening. "I know, you hate committees," she said.

  I leaned back on the sofa in our living room. "I've always accomplished more as a lone wolf," I replied. "I've seen loads of these task forces come and go. Usually all they do is mark time and eat up energy."

  "But you told Dugan you'd think about it," Jenna said.

  "Yeah. I suppose it could be good to finally have some people working under me. And some resources.... That would be an improvement on having to always go the Department on bended knee."

  "You think there's some threat we don't know about that makes them want to do this right now?" Jenna asked. She patted her denim jeans.

  I scowled. "They wouldn't recognize something bizarre if it smiled in their faces—they'd say it was a hoax, and do their best to bury the evidence."

  Jenna coughed. "Well, this damned cold or pseudo-flu or whatever it is certainly seems to be getting out of hand. My sister told me everyone in San Francisco is out sick with it."

  "Let's hope she didn't give it to you over the phone." I reached over and refilled her glass.

  I CALLED DUGAN two days later to accept the offer.

  "He's home sick with that bug," his secretary, Sheila, told me. "Both he and the commissioner," she added. "Got them both. Looks like the Department will be run by the secretaries for the next few days!" She chuckled.

  "No different than usual," I responded in kind.

  Now she laughed out loud. "Shhh, Dr. D'Amato. Don't you give away our secret, now!"

  "It's safe with me, don't worry."

  I WAS DOWN in Chinatown a few days later on a boring case. But it wasn't a total loss—I loved the crush of people and textures and fruit stands. I used the opportunity to replenish my supply of green tea and persimmons.

  "Anything more?" the woman at the stand inquired, in a lilting voice. She was hardly more than a girl, with a very sweet face.

  I shook my head no, and gave her a twenty.

  She gave me two paper bags, my change, and started coughing her head off.

  That reminded me to put in another call to Dugan.

  "Good timing," Sheila's voice crackled through my cell phone, "He came back, fit as a fiddle, just this morning."

  The sun was close to setting on this crisp March afternoon, and I was finished with my business in Chinatown, so I decided to hail a cab and go over to Dugan's office. It could be useful for me to see the expression on his face when I accepted his offer— see if there was any true pleasure there.

  The traffic was worse than usual. I counted two water mains broken, and three potholes the size of basketballs.

  Sheila was gone when I finally arrived. But Jack was still in his office.

  "So, I see you're feeling better," I said, and took Jack's extended hand.

  "I feel like a million bucks now," Jack said. "How you'd know ... Oh, I guess Sheila told you I was sick?"

  "Right—"

  "I tell ya, this was a nasty one. I tried to fight it on my own as best I could—I hate taking antibiotics and those new flu medications—but it got to the point where I was up all night coughing. The commissioner was pretty sick, too—he picked it up from me, I picked it up from him, who knows?—but his doctor told him about some new antibiotic or something, ninety-five percent guaranteed not to upset the stomach. That stuff gives me the runs, you know—"

  "Yeah—"

  "So anyway." Dugan gestured to the available chair. "Have a seat, Phil. What brings you to this exalted office?"

  "Well, I've decided to accept your offer," I replied.

  "My offer?" Dugan looked puzzled.

  "Yeah, you know, what you told me last week, about the task force."

  Dugan looked at me as if I were putting him on, or confusing him with someone else. "I haven't the vaguest idea what you're talking about."

  I HAD LUNCH the following week with a
friend who was up from the Centers for Disease Control in Atlanta. "The thing is, I think Dugan was completely sincere about not remembering our conversation," I said, as I sipped the last of my tea.

  I had told Andy Weinberg what had happened in Dugan's office. Andy was in New York for a conference about the flu or whatever it was that was making everybody cough. Jenna had it full-throttle now. I was beginning to feel a tickle in my own throat—but, who knows, maybe that was just the power of suggestion.

  "You sure?" Andy responded. "You've been telling me for years how the Department supports you one day, acts like they have no faith in you the next—you sure this isn't just more of the same? Hell, I've been telling you for years that a forensic detective with your verve would be much happier down in Atlanta, haven't I?"

  "Yeah, but I like New York, even this cold weather in March."

  Andy shook his head in resignation. "Well, at least you seem to be holding your own against this new bug. Better than I can say—had me sick as a dog last month."

  "Any chance it could cause some kind of memory loss?"

  "Nah, not very likely," Andy answered. "It's some kind of flu—definitely nothing worse. We haven't quite figured out the exact strain. It's popping up all across the country—which means it's almost certainly a natural occurrence, not a biowarfare hit, thank God. But it can open the gate to bronchitis and pneumonia, like any flu—that's what we're concerned about. Of course, antibiotics can take care of the lung and bronchial infections—if they're bacterial, and the drugs are taken in time. But no, I've never heard of any flu-induced amnesia."

  "Strange things, those flu bugs," I mused. "Killed millions in 1917, with no antibiotics for the complications. These days when you get it, you just feel like you're going to die. And not everybody gets it. Some people get it every year, some get it every two or three or four years, and some hardly ever at all. With no rhyme or reason to the pattern."

  "Tell me about it," Andy said. "Even the worst epidemics knock out ten to twenty percent of the population at most. Very destructive to business and social life, obviously—and potentially deadly to old people, anyone with a compromised immune system—but still, how come the other eighty percent get a free pass? And meanwhile, the new meds are apparently effective in stopping or diminishing the flu for eighty to ninety percent of the cases treated. Damn it, I was in that noneffective percentage—I took the inhalant less than a day after I first felt the fever, right in the prescribed time range, and I was still out of commission for a good ten days."

  "It didn't do much for Jenna, either," I said. "She took the pill, made her sick to her stomach, but here it is almost a week later and she's still laid up and coughing." I looked at my watch. "I better get home now and feed her a little chicken soup." I signaled our waiter for the check.

  Andy looked at me with a twinkle in his eye. "Jenna? Who's she?"

  I looked at him.

  "Funny," I said. "But something strange did happen to Dugan's memory. I could see in his face that it was more than just run-of-the-mill forgetfulness."

  JENNA WAS FEELING better by the end of the week. At first her cough had gotten worse. Her doc finally prescribed an antibiotic as a precaution, and, lo and behold, not only did she not contract bronchitis or pneumonia, but her cough had mostly subsided now, too. But if the cough was caused by the flu, and the flu by a virus, then the antibiotic shouldn't have had any effect—antibiotics snuffed bacteria, not viruses. Well, those kinds of things seemed to happen all the time. Maybe it was just coincidence—maybe the cough would have gone away anyway, regardless of the antibiotic. Or maybe it would have gone if all she had taken was a sugar pill....

  "You up for something a little more adventurous for dinner tonight?" I asked. I didn't have the heart to offer her another round of boiled chicken, even though my technique came straight from my late grandmother, the best cook in history.

  Jenna's eyes lit up and she patted her stomach. "Absolutely! This Omnin was as good as advertised." She pointed to the sheet that had contained her antibiotic pills. One a day for five days; under five percent of patients report any stomach disorders, the indications form advised.

  "Should we try that place in Riverdale?" she asked.

  "Buena Vista?"

  She nodded.

  "You sure you can handle Italian?"

  She nodded again.

  The food at Buena Vista's was delicious. I had a mouthwatering concoction of clams, calamari, shrimp, and mussels over linguine, and Jenna had a marvelous penne alla vodka. Our dry wine hit the spot, too.

  We walked slowly back to our car after dinner, and drove back to Manhattan with the windows rolled down. Spring had finally arrived in New York City, with evening temperatures in the low sixties.

  "Let's take advantage of this heat wave and walk by the river," Jenna said.

  We parked near West Ninety-sixth Street, and walked down to the Hudson. Hyacinths were already in bloom, purple and white in the moonlight, and their perfume was intoxicating. I kissed Jenna, with the waves of the river lapping against the shore as accompaniment. I couldn't recall the last time I'd kissed her like this in public.

  "Let's go home," she whispered in my ear.

  We were back in our bedroom in our brownstone on East Eighty-fifth Street in fifteen minutes. Jenna began unbuttoning my shirt, and I her blouse.

  "You sure you're up for this?" I asked. She responded by unbuttoning more....

  AFTERWARD, SHE LAY in my arms, eyes closed but not sleeping.

  I kissed her gently, then said, "Let's get married—have some kids." We'd been living together for three years. It was time.

  She opened her eyes, flecks of green on violet. "You sure you're up for this?" she asked, and smiled.

  JENNA WAS SOUND asleep the next morning. I slipped out of bed, showered, dressed, and ate breakfast as quietly as I could. I poked my head back in the bedroom and considered waking her, but she looked so peaceful asleep.

  I caught the clanking subway down to work. I realized that my throat had progressed from a tickle to an ache, but otherwise I felt great. I popped in a zinc lozenge, and hoped for the best.

  Marriage is no small thing. Neither of us had been married before. I'd come close a few times but ... no one had ever been like Jenna.

  I had trouble concentrating at work. Looking at dead bodies, in pictures or the flesh, was never my favorite part of the job. But today they seemed especially out of synch with my mood. You're a forensic detective, some little voice inside my head chided. Who cares about your mood? Live with it.

  I turned back to the pictures. Blonde, mid-twenties, strangled, stripped naked, found dead near Riverside Drive two days ago. Jeez, just a couple of blocks from where Jenna and I had been last night. Ed Monti, the new medical examiner, wanted me down in his office for a noontime meeting about this today.

  I put on my coat and headed out. I tried Jenna on the cell phone. She had no reason to go across town to the Hudson today, as far as I knew, but I believed in being careful. No answer on the phone. Hmm ... She was probably still sleeping. She'd likely have called to say hello before going out today.

  The blonde was stretched out on the table in Ed's examining room. "You know, there's some tribe in Africa, I forget which, which has the same basic word for sleep and death," he said. "And they distinguish between the two by saying just 'sleep' for 'sleep,' and 'really really asleep' for 'death.' " Ed liked to wax philosophical. "But when you look at someone like this"—her name was Jillian Murphy—"there's really no similarity at all, is there?"

  I'd had the same thought many times myself. I thought of Jenna sound asleep in bed this morning....

  Ed gave me the details of the Murphy case over lunch in his office. I left to tape a panel on Crime in the New Millennium over at Fox News on Sixth Avenue.

  I finally got through to Jenna around four P.M.

  "Hey," I said, grinning from ear to ear. "So how are you doing today?"

  "I think I'm feeling better," she sa
id. "But I'm maxed out on chicken soup. Should we take a chance and eat out tonight? I'd love some Italian—I feel like I've been cooped up inside for weeks."

  "Well, sure...."

  I STARED AT my cell phone for a long time after we got off.

  I knew Jenna wasn't kidding. Could she really have forgotten what had happened last night? I found it hard to believe.

  I thought about taking her again to Buena Vista, to see if that might jog her memory. But on the chance that, who knows, maybe something she'd eaten there had triggered some kind of allergic amnesic reaction, I took her instead to Cafe Sambuca's on Seventy-second Street.

  We lingered over veal scaloppine and salad. "I think I remember waking up yesterday, but I'm not completely sure it was yesterday," Jenna said, taking another shot at the issue we'd been discussing all evening. "I remember coughing like a lunatic, but I'd been doing that all week."

  "Your cough was much better yesterday," I said, "almost gone. No way I'd say you were constantly coughing then."

  "So you're saying, what?" Jenna's voice was hoarse. "I've lost a day out of my life—the very day that you said let's get married?"

  "Could be a little more than a day," I replied. "The last thing we've established you remembering is the initial report on the eleven o'clock news about the Riverside Drive strangling, the day before yesterday. I was in the shower then, I didn't hear it, and it wasn't my case yet, so we wouldn't have talked about it afterward. You sure you remember that report—"

  "Positive," Jenna said.

  "So that's our current baseline for your last memory before the blackout," I said.

  She shook her head slowly, still not completely accepting that a day's worth of memories—hers of yesterday—had apparently vanished. She finally managed a weak smile. "So how did I respond to your proposal?"

  I smiled back.

  "You still want to marry someone who shares this infuriating characteristic with Jack Dugan?" she asked.