The Placebo Effect Read Free

means—unless.”
    â€œUnless what?”
    â€œUnless we know the ratio, Dr. Kreger—unless we know the ratio.”
    â€œThe ratio of what to what?”
    Of placebo to real , Henry-Clay thought; of placebo to real. “Patch me through to Evelyn.”
    His secretary’s sultry voice came on instantly. “Sir?”
    â€œI need someone to find someone for me. Do we have someone who can do that?”
    â€œSure. Who’re you trying to find?”
    Henry-Clay told her. He already thought of Mike Shedloski as Ratio-Man.
    Henry-Clay moved to his condo balcony. A parasurfer was taking off from the beach, the ratio of uplift to gravity clearly in uplift’s favour, so he soared, as did Henry-Clay’s hopes for the future.
    And within six weeks of hiring Michael Shedloski, aka Ratio-Man, and treating him like a prized St. Bernard—clumsy but beautiful—he had the knowledge that allowed him to float a few strategically placed rumours about his new—and now not soexpensive—antidepressant drug that sent his stock roaring back to new highs. He and his business were in flight, aiming for the stars.
    Ratio-Man had, for a few belly scratches and a dozen Aren’t you a fine doggy, aren’t you ’s not only stocked Yolles Pharmaceuticals’ coffers with gold but supplied something even more valuable: a way for Henry-Clay to find other freaks like Mike—one of whom claimed he could tell when people were telling the truth.
    Then of course he’d fired the fat moron. Mac had suggested a more permanent solution, but Henry-Clay was not a murderer—he was a businessman jettisoning a used-up asset.
    Easy to do now that he had a new asset on the horizon. One whose gift I’ll have to test , Henry-Clay thought as he poured himself a drink. We’ll see the reach and breadth of this new freak’s gift. You never know when such a skill could be of great value to Yolles Pharmaceuticals—and, of course, to me.
    He raised the crystal glass and saluted the Treloar Building across the Ohio River. Then he downed two fingers of the most expensive scotch whiskey that money could buy—and wished that he could tell the difference between it and five-dollar hooch.
    Then he looked down and across the street. Mike Shedloski, aka Ratio-Man, was gone.

3
MIKE GETS THE URGE FOR GOING
    MIKE WAS HIDING BEHIND THE RETAINING WALL ACROSS from Yolles Pharma, trying to watch the Enemy standing way up there in his castle window. All around him was the detritus of the statues he’d so painstakingly balanced from nothing into things of beauty. He started to rebuild the stone building, but the voices in his head were confusing him—teetering him dangerously out of balance. And the store didn’t have dill pickle chips and that had upset him so he’d thrown over the whole rack—what kind of store doesn’t have dill pickle chips? And the store owner had gotten angry and called the police so he’d run, and the voices in his head were confusing him. So many voices. He thought about taking his meds, but they just made it worse—made the voices soft and silky, female, but still there. And even if he couldn’t hear them accurately, he knew they made fun of his small penis—and besides, he wasn’t sure if the meds came from friend or foe. General Tso’s chicken worked better than meds. But where could he find an open Chinese restaurant in Cincinnati at this hour of the night? And he needed to stop the voices, ’cause they were screaming at him now: “You’re just a fat idiot. An obese cluck. A tiny-dicked moron in bell-bottoms!”
    â€œShut up, shut up, shut up, shut up! Natasha didn’t think that—didn’t!”
    He knew he was screaming, and that the teenagers across the street were watching—smiling—ready to jump him. And suddenly he found himself in front of the weird building on Plum Street. The