Death Match (15 page)

Lash listened to this exchange in surprise.
She’s the chief security tech. But she’s never met him before
.

Silver turned back to Lash. “Your name rings a bell, Christopher, but I can’t quite place it.”

Lash said nothing, and after a moment, Silver shrugged. “Ah, well. Perhaps it will return to me. In any case, I’m curious about your theoretical orientation. Given your prior job, I’d guess you belong to the cognitive behavioral school?”

This was the last thing Lash expected to hear. “More or less. I’m eclectic, I like to pick and choose from other schools as well.”

“I see. Such as behavioral? Humanist?”

“More the former than the latter, Dr. Silver.”

“It’s Richard, please.” Silver smiled again. “You’re right to pick and choose. Cognitive behavioral psychology has always been fascinating to me because it lends itself to information processing. But on the other hand, strict behaviorists feel all behavior is learned. Right?”

Lash nodded, surprised. Silver did not fit his image of what a brilliant recluse should look like.

“You’ve got a remarkable collection here,” he said.

“My little museum. These devices are my one weakness. Such as that beauty you were just examining: Kelvin’s Tide Predictor. It could predict the high and low tides for any future date. And note the paper drums at its base: perhaps the first instance of hardcopy output. Or how about the device on the stand beside it? Built more than three hundred and fifty years ago, but it can still do all the arithmetic, subtraction, multiplication, division of today’s calculators. It’s fashioned around something called the Leibniz Wheel, which went on to jumpstart the adding machine industry.”

Silver walked along the wall of glass, pointing out various machines and explaining their historical importance with relish. He asked Tara to walk with him, and as they proceeded he praised her work, asked if she was happy with her position at the company. Despite the short acquaintance, Lash found himself warming to the man: he seemed friendly, free of arrogance.

Silver stopped before the huge device Lash first noticed. “This,” he said almost reverently, “is Babbage’s Analytical Engine. His most ambitious work, left incomplete at his death. It’s the precursor to the Mark I, Colossus, ENIAC, all the really important computers.” And he stroked its steel sides with something like affection.

All of the ancient artifacts, perched as they were before staggering vistas of midtown Manhattan, were still remarkably out of place in this elegant room. Then abruptly, Lash understood. “They’re all thinking machines,” he said. “Attempts at creating devices to do the mental computations of humans.”

Silver nodded. “Exactly. Some of them—” he waved at the Analytical Engine “—keep me humble. Others—” he gestured across the room, where a much more modern 128K Macintosh sat on a marble plinth “—give me hope. And still others keep me honest.” And he pointed toward a large wooden box with a chessboard set into its front.

“What’s that?” Tara asked.

“That’s a chess-playing computer, built in France during the late Renaissance. Turned out the ‘computer’ was really just a pint-sized chess whiz who squeezed himself inside the machine and directed its movements. But come, let’s sit down.” And he led the way to a low table surrounded by leather chairs. It was littered with periodicals: the
Times
, the
Wall Street Journal
, issues of
Computerworld
and the
Journal of Advanced Psychocomputing
.

As they sat, Silver’s smile seemed to falter. “It’s great to make your acquaintance, Christopher. But I wish the circumstances were more pleasant.”

He sat forward, head slightly bowed, hands clasped together. “This has come as an awful shock. To the board, and to me personally.” And when Silver looked up, Lash saw anguish in his eyes.
It’s rough
, he thought.
The company this man formed, its good works, put into mortal danger
.

“When I think of those couples, the Thorpes, the Wilners . . . well, words fail me. It’s incomprehensible.”

Then Lash realized he’d been wrong. Silver wasn’t thinking about the company: he was thinking about the four dead people, and the cruel irony that had suddenly ended their lives.

“You have to understand, Christopher,” Silver said, looking down again at the table. “What we do here goes beyond a service. It’s a responsibility, like the responsibility a surgeon feels when he approaches a patient on the operating table. Except for us, the responsibility goes on
the rest of their lives
. They’ve entrusted their future happiness to us. That’s something that never occurred to me when I first had the idea-germ for Eden. So now it’s our duty to learn what happened, whether . . . whether or not we had any role in the tragedy.”

Once again, Lash felt surprise. This was a frankness he had not seen from anybody on the Eden board save perhaps the chairman, Lelyveld.

“I realize the Wilner deaths took place just days ago. But have you learned anything useful?” Silver looked up with an almost pleading expression in his eyes.

“It’s as I told Mauchly. There are absolutely no indications for suicide in the months leading up to their deaths.”

Silver held his gaze briefly, then looked away. For a ridiculous moment, Lash feared the computer genius would burst into tears.

“I hope to be going over Eden’s own psych evaluations of the couples shortly,” Lash said quickly, as if to reassure Silver. “Perhaps I’ll know more then.”

“I want all of the resources of Eden put behind this,” Silver replied. “Tell Edwin I said so. If there’s anything I or Liza can do, please let me know.”

Liza?
Lash thought a little vaguely.
You mean, Tara? Tara Stapleton?

“Do you have any theories?” Silver asked in a quiet voice.

Lash hesitated. He didn’t want to bring up any more bad news. “They’re only theories at this point. But unless there’s some unknown emotional or physiological agent at work here, the signs are pointing increasingly at homicide.”

“Homicide?” Silver echoed sharply. “How is that possible?”

“As I said, so far I’m only working the theories. There’s a small chance somebody on the inside is involved: one of your employees, or ex-employees. But it’s far more likely the suspect is somebody rejected by your selection process.”

An odd look came over Silver’s face: the look of a child who has just been rebuked for something he didn’t do. It was a look of hurt innocence.

“I can’t believe it,” he murmured. “Our security protocols are so stringent. Tara here can verify that. I’ve been assured—” He broke off.

“Like I said, so far it’s just a theory.”

Another silence settled over the table; this one longer than the first. Then Silver stood up.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I guess I’ve been keeping you from more important things.” And as he extended his hand, some of his smile’s warmth returned.

From out of nowhere, Mauchly reappeared. He ushered both Tara and Lash toward the elevator.

“Christopher?” came Silver’s voice. And Lash turned to see Silver standing by the Analytical Engine.

“Yes, sir?”

“Thank you for coming up. It’s reassuring, knowing you’re assisting us. I’m sure we’ll be meeting again, soon.”

And as the elevator door slid open, Silver turned away, his face thoughtful, his hand once again stroking, almost absently, the metal flank of the ancient computer.

EIGHTEEN

B
y the time Lash pulled into his driveway it was almost seven-thirty, and the curtain of night was dropping over the Connecticut coastline. He turned off the engine and sat for a moment, listening to the tick of cooling metal. Then he stepped out and walked wearily to the house. He felt drained, as if the sheer volume of technological marvels he’d seen today had temporarily dulled his capacity for wonder.

The house smelled of the lingering smoke from a Sunday fire. Lash turned on the lights and made his way back to the small office that adjoined his bedroom, the weight of the bracelet on his wrist still strange. He picked up the phone and dialed; discovered there were fifteen waiting messages; then sat down, steeling himself for the task of plowing through them.

It took surprisingly little time. Four had been telemarketers and six others were simply hang-ups. There was, in fact, only one message that had to be dealt with right away. He reached for his address book, then dialed the home number of Oscar Kline, the covering psychologist.

“It’s Kline,” came the clipped voice.

“Oscar, this is Christopher.”

“Hey, Chris. How’s it going?”

“It’s going.”

“Everything all right? You sound tired.”

“I am tired.”

“I’ll bet you were up all night, working on this research project you’re being so secretive about.”

“Something like that.”

“Why bother? I mean, you don’t need the fame—not after that book of yours. And you don’t need the money, God knows you live like a monk in that Westport cloister.”

“It’s hard to drop something like this once you’ve gotten involved. You know how these things are.”

“Well, there’s one good reason I can think of. Your practice. After all, this isn’t August, patients expect us to be around. You miss one session, fine. But two? People get restless. There were a couple of loudmouths in group today, troublemakers.”

“Let me guess. Stinson.”

“Yes, Stinson. And Brahms, too. You miss another, it’s going to get serious.”

“I know. I’m trying hard to get this wrapped up before that happens.”

“Good. Because otherwise I’m going to have to off-load some of them onto Cooper. And that wouldn’t be a pretty sight.”

“You’re right, it wouldn’t. I’ll be in touch, Oscar. Thanks for everything.”

As Lash hung up and began to walk away, the phone rang again. He turned back, picked it up. “Hello?”

With a sharp
click
, the line went dead.

Lash turned away again, yawning, forcing himself to think about dinner. He walked into the kitchen and opened the refrigerator, in hope some meal might put itself together. Nothing did. And with his brain shutting down, Lash opted for the easiest solution: he’d phone the Chinese place on the Post Road.

As he reached for the phone, it rang again.

He picked it up. “Hello?”

This time, there was a listening silence on the line.

“Hello?”

Another click as the line went dead.

Lash slowly replaced the phone, then stared at it, thinking. He’d been so wrapped up in the events at Eden he hadn’t noticed all the little annoyances that were once again creeping back into his life. Or perhaps he
had
noticed them, but simply hadn’t wanted to address them. His newspaper, missing three days out of four. The mail, missing from his mailbox. The repeated hang-ups, eight today alone.

He knew exactly what this meant, and he knew what had to be done to stop it.

The prospect filled him with gloom.

The drive to East Norwalk took less than ten minutes. Lash had made it only once before, but he knew Norwalk well, and the landmarks were familiar. The area he found himself in was what civic leaders euphemistically called a neighborhood in transition: close by the new Maritime Center, but also near enough to the poorest sections to require bars on the doors and windows.

Lash pulled over to the curb and double-checked the address: 9148 Jefferson. The house looked like all those that surrounded it: Craftsman-style; small, just two rooms over two; stucco front with a detached garage in the rear. This particular lawn might be less tended than those around it, but all the houses shared a certain shabbiness under the pitiless glare of the streetlight.

He stared at the house. This could be handled in one of two ways: with compassion, or with firmness. Mary English had not responded well to compassion. He’d been compassionate with her last year, during the marital therapy sessions with her husband. Mary had seized upon that compassion, fixated upon him. She had developed an infatuation, an obsession, that ironically led to her divorce: the very thing Lash had been trying to forestall. It had also led to a protracted stalking—telephone hang-ups, mail missing or thumbed through, tearful late-night ambushes outside his office—that had taken a restraining order to stop.

Lash sat a moment longer, preparing himself. Then he opened the door, came around the car, and walked toward the house.

The sound of the doorbell echoed hollowly through the rooms beyond. As the chimes died away, silence briefly returned. Then, the tread of feet descending stairs. The outside light came on, and the eyehole cover was scraped away. A moment later, the thud of the deadbolt; the barred door pulled back; and there was Mary English, blinking out into the glow of the streetlight.

She was still wearing her work clothes, but she had clearly been interrupted in washing up: her lipstick was gone, but the mascara remained. Although it had been only a year since the last therapy session with her husband, she now looked far older than her forty years—there were hollows beneath her eyes the makeup couldn’t hide, and a tracery of fine lines ran away from the corners of her mouth. Her eyes went wide with recognition, and in them Lash read a complex mix of emotions: surprise, pleasure, hope, fear.

“Dr. Lash!” she said a little breathlessly. “I—I can’t believe you’re here. What is it?”

Lash took a deep breath. “I think you know what it is, Mary.”

“No, I don’t know. What’s happened? Do you want to come in? Have a cup of coffee?” And she held the door open for him.

Lash remained in the doorway, trying to keep his voice cool, his face expressionless. “Mary, please. This will only make it worse.”

She looked at him, uncomprehending.

For a moment, Lash hesitated. Then he remembered how it had been the first time he’d confronted her, on this same stoop, and he forced himself on.

“Denial won’t help, Mary. You’ve been harassing me again—phoning my house, tampering with my mail. I want you to stop it, please, and stop it now.”

Mary did not speak. But as she looked at him, she seemed to age even more. Her eyes slowly fell away from his, and her shoulders slumped.