The Tree of Knowledge, Daniel Miller [unputdownable books txt] 📗

little, and there were times when he reminded Eva of an animated skeleton, like some sort of grim reaper.

He removed a handkerchief from his coat pocket and wiped the blood from her face. “You’re probably wondering why I killed that poor excuse for a human being. It wasn’t in today’s tree, was it? Well, if there is one thing I know, it is people. And that was a person who would have been a problem for us. You see, he believed that we needed him. And when someone thinks you need him, that’s when he starts walking all over you. One thing I can’t have—I won’t have—in my unit is people walking all over me. You understand?”

Eva nodded, not trusting herself to speak. She had disliked Belial intensely, but his death was hardly a comfort. She hadn’t quite admitted to herself before that the general was a psychopath. He was just logical, she had thought. But it was not logic that drove the general to shoot Belial. It was something far less predictable. Would she be next?

“Now, what’s the status on your boy Puddles and that Professor Turner? Have the police got them yet?”

Eva shook her head and swallowed, attempting to regain her voice. “Um, no—no, they haven’t. Apparently, they’ve gone missing.”

The general pivoted and grabbed Eva by both shoulders. She could smell the stale nicotine on his breath. “I find that extremely disappointing, Fix. Until this boy Puddles is in jail or dead, he’s a threat to us. I want you to call one of your buddies down at the FBI and get this wrapped up.” He released his grip and turned to walk away. “I don’t want to kill that professor of yours, Fix, but if he remains a threat, I’ll be forced to. Understood?”

Eva whispered, “Yes, sir.”

Chapter 8

The Travis Farm rolled and tumbled across the Vermont countryside in bucolic splendor. The term “farm” was a bit of a misnomer since the land yielded no crops and was overgrown with woods. The white-and-gray farmhouse stood atop the hill like a watchtower.

As Turner’s Buick pulled up the dirt road to the weathered wood gate, Albert immediately sensed the powerful loneliness of the country. It was now three o’clock in the morning and the rain had stopped, but the trees slowly, quietly dripped rainwater like blood from a wound. Through his cracked window, he could hear the aching moan of crickets and other unknown creatures in the woods. The gate stood hauntingly under a single light in the darkness, a light that was steadily and constantly being devoured by the maples above. The call box outside the gate looked as though it were hovering in a trap that would snap shut, consumed by the darkness and forest.

Turner pushed the intercom button, setting off a loud buzz. Silence. He tried a second and third time.

“Who is it?” barked a voice over the intercom.

“Sergeant Travis, I’m so sorry to disturb you at this ungodly hour, but I’m in a bit of a pickle.”

“Turner?”

“Yes, dear friend. Do you mind letting us in?”

“Ha, this is a first. Of course, sir. Come on in.” The gravel voice paused and chuckled.

“But first, as punishment for waking me up so damn late, you have to pass a little test. The main house is down one of three roads, but you have to guess the right road. One road leads to the main house and the other two lead to maintenance sheds.”

“Ah, the shoe is on the other foot now,” said the professor with a grin.

Albert did nothing to disguise his irritation. “Angus, it’s three in the morning. Are we seriously playing a guessing game right now?”

Turner put a conspiratorial hand on Albert’s shoulder. “Don’t worry, my boy, it’s merely payback for my teaching him about the Monty Hall game.”

“What’s the Monty Hall game?” asked Ying.

“It’s a probability puzzle based on the game show Let’s Make a Deal,” said Albert.

“Oh, you mean the show with Wayne Brady? That’s good television.”

“Who’s Wayne Brady?”

“I think we’re getting off point here,” interjected Turner. “The point is that there is a game show called Let’s Make a Deal that was originally hosted by Monty Hall, and is now apparently hosted by Wayne Brady. In the show, contestants are given different opportunities to select prizes or trade those prizes for a potentially better prize. One particular version of the game is a wonderful veridical paradox.”

Albert added, “That’s a situation in which the result of a problem seems to go against common sense—”

“But is mathematically true. Yes, I’m aware,” said Ying.

Turner resumed. “In this particular game, you as the contestant are asked to choose between one of three doors. Behind one door is a brand-new Mercedes; behind each of the other doors are goats. You first pick a door—say it’s door number one—but the door is not opened, and the host, who knows what’s behind the doors, opens another door, say door number three, which has a goat. He then says to you, ‘Would you like to switch to door number two or keep your original choice?’ Is it to your advantage to switch your choice?”

Ying thought back to her days in undergraduate statistics. She was a little rusty. “Ahhh, yes, I remember this one . . . it seems like it’s a fifty-fifty choice, because there’re two doors left. But it’s not.”

“Once again, Ms. Koh is at the head of the class,” said Turner with a glint in his eye. He pivoted to the speaker box and said, “We’ll take road number one.”

“Road number three leads to the maintenance shed and shooting range. Would you like to stick with your original choice or choose road number two?” squawked the box.

Albert shook his head. He was tired, and the last thing he wanted to do at three in the morning was go through an old math puzzle that he barely remembered.

Ying plowed ahead unfazed. “I got this one, Professor. Let me talk this out. When you first pick door number one,