LITMIR.BIZ

      chapter 9

      Neo-Nonsense

      Portland, Oregon

      October 26, 2002

      It was just after 9:30 on Saturday evening when Blood, Buzz, and Big Bear finished loading the trunk of Buzz’s ’92 black Ford Mustang, piled in, and headed west on the Sunset Highway toward Beaverton. It was a typical October evening in Portland, overcast and about 55 degrees. The lights from the fancy homes on the hill twinkled above them as they approached the tunnel that passed through the mountain and on to the western suburbs. It was only about nine miles to their destination, but at the moment, they all wished it were farther. No one in the car was a stranger to petty crime, but this time Damien’s orders were far more serious, and they were all a bit edgy.

      “Hey man, pass me a beer,” Big Bear, who was sitting shotgun, called back to Blood, the sole occupant of the rear seat.

      “Better all have a round,” added Buzz from behind the wheel. “I think we need to lighten up here, it’s not good to be nervous.” Buzz knew that showing any sign of weakness was not cool, but he rather doubted that there would be any accusers in the car tonight. His own heart was racing, his knuckles white as they tightly gripped the wheel. “Cornell exit?” he asked his copilot.

      “Yeah, exit right, then left over the freeway.” Looking down at his map, he added, “You’re gonna make another quick left onto NW 158th, then your second right onto NW Blueridge. Got that?”

      “I think so,” Buzz replied nervously. “Ok, I’m on 158th, where do I turn after Blueridge?”

      “Second left is the target street, NW Foxborough. It’s a U, which comes back out onto Blueridge. Their house will be on the left, set back in the trees, just as you start to bend back toward Blueridge. Cut the lights when you see the mailbox and park on the street. House number is 114.”

      “Almost there. Gimme another beer. I’m gonna need it tonight for sure,” he added as Blood passed another forward. “Ok, see the mailbox? Lights-out, guys.”

      It was about 9:50 as Buzz parked the car at the curb and started on his second beer. “Blood, you got the video cam?” he asked, looking back over his right shoulder.

      “Yeah, man, no problem. Right here in my pocket,” he smiled, patting his right coat pocket.

      “And the girl…you sure she’ll be there?”

      Blood smiled again. “Yeah, pretty sure. My friend that knows her says she doesn’t go out much. Just studies a lot. No dog either, in case you’re worried. Dr. Q left earlier for some weeklong seminar in San Diego, so coast should be clear.”

      “Ok,” Buzz assented, still a bit nervously. “Bear, you bring the gasoline and the matches. I got the clothes and the ties. Five more minutes till ten, then it’s party time! You guys drink up!”

      *****

      Mariah Quitan shifted her position on the couch and adjusted the reading light over her right shoulder. She had been lying on the couch reading for the last two hours, struggling with Rupert Sheldrake’s “A New Science of Life,” a book that her father, Mazen, had recommended that she peruse. It seemed rather complex to her, but her father, now achieving considerable renown as a quantum physicist, touted it as germinal thinking and yet another peg in the coffin of reductionistic scientism. Mariah absolutely adored Mazen and stood in total awe of his remarkable grasp of the emerging and very exciting field of quantum physics. In fact, just this afternoon he had left for San Diego to deliver a paper on some esoteric subject even more confusing to her than her current struggle with Sheldrake’s “morphic resonance.”

      Mariah was always a bit uncomfortable when her father was not at home, especially in the evenings. Even at nineteen and a freshman in college, she still felt uneasy and somewhat vulnerable in his absence, especially now with the US-Iraq hostilities going on and the overall anti-Muslim sentiment that was escalating throughout the US. Mazen assured her that their neighborhood was perfectly safe and that she had nothing to fear, but he did suggest, just for her peace of mind, that she be certain to lock all the doors and windows before going to bed. He always said that when he had to be out of town, but even so, she was still a little edgy, especially the first night he was gone.

      It was times like this that caused her to miss her mother, Anya, more than ever. Even though she had been gone almost eight years now, both Mariah and her father still longed for Anya’s company. She had been a gentle, kind woman with a strong spiritual sense about her. She loved her family and was a very devoted wife to Mazen. Fortunately for them both, she was a great cook, so there were always delicious meals for family and friends, of which there were many. Life had been good for them in Iraq, right up until the day of her mother’s tragic death while attending a religious service at their neighborhood mosque. Some sort of dissenting rebel group detonated a bomb just as the congregation had assembled for prayers, and over forty people died, including Ayna. It was a complete and senseless shock to Mazen and young Mariah, only eleven years old at the time. Even to this day, they both still pondered what it is that reduces humans to killing and maiming others. Her father’s view as a quantum physicist was that people fail to realize their own connectedness to all of creation. Falsely, they perceive others with different cultures, beliefs, and religions as somehow inferior and misguided, thus creating a sort of adversarial relationship often resulting in disdain, hatred, and even killing.

      Not long after losing his wife, and no doubt to get away from all that reminded him of her brutal demise, Mazen sold their home, left Iraq, moved to America, and took a teaching position at Portland State University. His PhD in physics and germinal research in quantum physics had brought him some international recognition, making it relatively easy for him to find a position in the United States. He purchased their present home in Beaverton several years later, and Mariah had spent her high school years, and now her first year at PSU, living there.

      She was a pretty girl, rather petite in stature, with long black hair and soft brown eyes. It had been hard for her to adapt to the American culture, and she had remained rather quiet and somewhat introverted. She was extremely close to her father, as he seemed the only secure presence in her life. When she graduated from high school, it only made sense for her to continue her education at Portland State, where her father was and where it was easy for her to continue to live at home. Her father’s zeal for the “new physics,” as he called it, excited her and heralded a new era where the antagonism between science and religion might now begin to heal. The primacy of “consciousness” as a unifying creative force inspired her, and the connectedness of all life in the “zero-point field” brought further encouragement.

      It had been extremely difficult for her to come to terms with the events of 9/11 and the current escalating tension with her homeland. The talk of possible

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