Free Placebo by Steven James Page A

it’ll be in place for tomorrow’s test, but I don’t want to take any chance it’ll be discovered or removed before the test begins. “Palm it,” I tell her, “and then place it when the research assistant turns her back.” Over the years I’ve spent hundreds of hours rehearsing magic routines with Charlene, and although she isn’t quite as good at sleight of hand as I am, she can certainly hold her own.
    â€œOkay.”
    Thinking about the chair, I look for any ways of running low-voltage current through metallic threads to trigger the test subject’s physiological responses, but find nothing. Charlene agrees to check it tomorrow again before the test.
    We’re gathering our things when I hear footsteps in the hall.
    Charlene and I freeze.
    I click off my light.
    A flashlight beam dances across the crack at the bottom of the doorway.
    Okay, maybe they do have security guards here after all.
    â€œInto the chamber,” Charlene whispers, but I shake my head.
    The intensity of the light skimming beneath the door is getting stronger. The person is definitely coming our way.
    â€œWe have to.” Her voice is urgent. “Now.”
    She’s right and I know it. There’s nowhere else to hide. I take adeep breath and step into the Faraday cage with her. I try to tell myself that I’m really still simply in the room, not in an enclosed metal cube, but it doesn’t work.
    She swings the door nearly all the way closed so that no one would be able to see us—as long as they don’t decide to open the door and have a peek inside.
    Probably for my sake she leaves it open just a couple inches.
    But already I can feel the walls pressing in on me. I shut my eyes and try to relax, yet immediately I feel like I’m no longer in the chamber but in the minivan with my family. It’s filling with water and there’s no way out. The doors won’t open—I try them, the water is rising, the boys are begging me to—
    The hallway door creaks open.
    I open my eyes.
    Through the crack in the chamber door, I see the flashlight beam cut through the thick blackness of the room. A person enters, and the abrupt heaviness of the footsteps leads me to think it’s a man. Possibly quite large. He sweeps the beam through the room, and it slices momentarily into the crack of the chamber’s slightly open door.
    Charlene and I edge backward. Thankfully, the footsteps don’t approach us but rather head toward the computer desk positioned against the south wall.
    As the man passes by, it’s hard to see what he’s wearing, but it appears to be all black. No insignia, no uniform. So, not a security guard, not a custodian. I half-expect a ski mask, and though I catch only the briefest glimpse of his face, I can see that it’s not covered. He’s Caucasian. That’s all I can tell.
    My heart is racing; it feels like a meaty fist opening and closing inside my chest, but I realize that the nervousness is just as much from being in the chamber as it is from the presence of the intruder.
    The office chair at the workstation by the wall turns, and a moment later the bluish light of the computer screen glows on, faintly illuminating the room.
    Though I want to focus on this man and what he might be doing, my curiosity is overshadowed by my strangled breathing from being inside the chamber.
    I lean closer, edge the door open slightly, then draw in a breath of air from the thin opening leading to the room. It seems to help.
    From this angle I can’t see what might be on the screen, but I do see that the man has placed a combat knife with a long, wicked blade beside the keyboard, and I find myself thinking of how I might defend Charlene if things turn ugly, if the man opens the chamber door. She’s a tough and independent woman, in great shape from lap swimming and yoga, but she’s slim and small-boned and she’s not a