Death Match

THIRTY-ONE

Lash glanced up at the clock: a quick, disinterested look. Then he glanced again in disbelief. Quarter to six. It seemed only minutes since Tara, pleading a doctor’s appointment, had excused herself from his office around four.

He leaned back in his chair, surveyed the flood of paperwork covering the table. Had he really complained bitterly, once upon a time, about a lack of information? Now he had information, all right: enough to drown an army.

Discovering the deaths of the Thorpes and the Wilners were precisely timed to their matches was a critical piece of the puzzle — he just had to learn how it fit in. But with this embarrassment of data, he wasn’t likely to learn this afternoon.

His eye returned to the table, falling on a folder labeled Thorpe, Lewis — Process Inventory. He’d already flipped through it briefly: it appeared to be a system-generated list of all Eden systems Thorpe had interacted with. Lash sifted through the other flotsam until he found an identical folder for Lindsay. Then, walking to the far wall of the office, he rummaged through the evidence lockers until he’d located similar inventories for the Wilners, as well.

Maybe Silver was right — nothing would happen that weekend. If there was a murderer out there, maybe Eden’s surveillance teams would catch him before he could kill again. But that didn’t mean Lash was going to twiddle his thumbs. Comparing the data in the folders might turn up more pieces of the puzzle.

He slipped the folders into his leather satchel, stretched wearily. Then he made his way down the hall to the cafeteria. Marguerite had left for the day, but the counter person on duty was more than happy to make him a double espresso. Despite the late hour, the room was bustling, and Lash chose a corner table, grateful Eden maintained a three-shift operation.

Draining his cup, he returned to his office, retrieved his coat and satchel, then headed to the nearest elevator bank. Though most of the building remained a mystery to him, he’d at least learned to navigate his way to the lobby.

As Lash took up position in the queue for Checkpoint III, his thoughts returned to the couples. Before she’d left, Tara Stapleton had pointed out the third supercouple — the Connellys — had been matched on October 6, 2002. If the pattern he’d discovered held true to form, that meant the Connellys would experience their own tragedy — suicide, homicide — this coming Wednesday. That took a little pressure off, gave them some breathing room. But it also meant they had an ironclad deadline.

Wednesday. Any missing pieces of the puzzle had to be found before then.

He reached the front of the queue, waited while the glass doors slid open, then stepped into the circular chamber. Even this had become almost routine. It was an amazing thing, conditioning. You could get used to almost anything, no matter how remarkable. In the lab, he’d seen the effect in dogs, mice, chimps. He used it himself in biofeedback therapy. And here he was, a walking, talking example of its use in a corporate…

He became aware of a distant ringing sound. The light in the chamber, already bright, grew brighter. Ahead, beyond the second set of doors, he could see people running. What was happening — a fire alarm? Some sort of drill?

Suddenly, two guards appeared ahead on the far side of the glass. They planted themselves in his path, feet apart, arms at their sides.

He turned back the way he’d come, not comprehending. Two more guards now stood there. As he watched, more ran up behind them.

There was a brief series of tones, then the doors he’d passed through opened again. Guards advanced in two rows. One of the guards in the rear row, he noticed, held a stun device in one hand.

“What—” he began.

Quickly, and very firmly, the two lead guards hustled him back through the glass doors. The rest formed a security cordon around them. Lash registered a fleeting set of images — the queue falling back, wide-eyed; the walls of a corridor; a quick turn around a corner — and then he found himself inside a stark, windowless room.

He was guided to a wooden chair. For a moment, it seemed nobody paid any further attention to him. There was the sound of radios chattering, a phone being dialed. “Get Sheldrake in here,” somebody said. The door to the room closed. And then one of the guards turned to him.

“Where were you going with these?” he asked. In one hand he held up the four folders from the satchel.

In his confusion, Lash was unaware the satchel had been taken from him. “I was taking them home,” he said. “To read over the weekend.” Christ, how could he have forgotten Mauchly’s warnings? Nothing from inside the Wall ever went out. But how had they…

“You know the rules, Mr. — ?” the guard said, placing the binders inside what looked uncomfortably like an evidence bag.

“Dr. Lash. Christopher Lash.”

Hearing this, one of the security officers walked over to a data terminal and began to type.

“You know the rules, Dr. Lash?”

Lash nodded.

“So you realize the seriousness of this offense.”

Lash nodded again, embarrassed. Tara, stickler for protocol, would never let him live this down. He hoped she wouldn’t get in trouble; after all, Mauchly had put her in charge of—

“We’re going to have to keep you here until we’ve pulled your security history. If you already have a warning on your record, I’m afraid you’ll be brought before the termination review board.”

The security officer at the workstation looked up. “There’s no Christopher Lash in the Human Resources files.”

“Did we get your name right?” the officer with the evidence bag said.

“Yes, but—”

“I’m showing a Christopher S. Lash as a prospective client,” the officer at the terminal said, typing again. “Went through applicant testing last Sunday, September twenty-sixth.” He stopped typing. “The application was rejected.”

“Is that you?” the first officer asked.

“Yes, but—”

Immediately, the atmosphere in the room changed. The first officer stepped toward him quickly. Several others, including the one with the Taser, closed ranks behind him.

Christ, Lash thought, this is getting awkward. “Look,” he began again, “you don’t understand—”

“Sir,” the first officer said, “please keep silent. I’ll ask the questions.”

The door opened and another man stepped in. He was tall, and his shoulders were so broad the blond head atop them seemed too small for its body. As he came forward with an almost military bearing, the others stepped back deferentially. He wore a dark business suit, plainly cut. His eyes were an unusual shade of emerald green. He seemed vaguely familiar, but in his confused state it took Lash a moment to place him. Then he remembered: he’d glimpsed the man briefly, standing in the hallway during Handerling’s interrogation.

“What have you got?” the man said. His voice was clipped, accentless.

“This gentleman tried to slip concealed documents past the checkpoint.”

“What’s his department and rank?”

“He’s not an employee, Mr. Sheldrake. He’s a rejected client.”

The man’s eyebrows shot up. “Indeed?”

“He just admitted to it.”

Sheldrake stepped forward, crossed one massive arm over the other, and regarded Lash with curiosity. There was no look of recognition: it was clear he hadn’t seen Lash at the interrogation. The man uncrossed his arms again and drew back his suit jacket at the waist. Lash saw he was wearing a service belt, complete with automatic weapon, handcuffs, and radio. Plucking the ASP baton from his belt, Sheldrake extended it to full length.

“Crandall,” he muttered. “Look at this.” And he raised Lash’s sleeve with the nubby metal end of the baton, exposing the security bracelet.

The first officer — the one named Crandall — frowned in surprise. “How’d you get that? And what were you doing inside the secure perimeter?”

“I’m a temporary consultant.”

“You just admitted to being a rejected client.”

Lash cursed the secrecy under which he’d been brought in. “Yes, I know. But going through the application process was part of my assignment. Look, just ask Edwin Mauchly. He hired me.”

In the background he could hear more radio chatter. One of the security guards was pawing through his satchel. “Eden doesn’t hire temporary consultants. And they certainly aren’t allowed inside the Wall.” Sheldrake turned toward one of the others. “Alert the security posts, all down the line. We’re going to Condition Beta. Get an analyzer over here, see if the bracelet was tampered with.”

“Right away, Mr. Sheldrake.”

This was ridiculous. Why weren’t his more recent records appearing, the records of his successful match? “Look,” Lash said, standing, “I told you to speak with Mauchly—”

“Sit down!” Crandall pushed him roughly back into the seat. Another guard — the one with the Taser — stepped closer. Yet another opened a metal closet and pulled out a long, rake-like implement with a half-circle bolted to one end. Lash had seen the implement many times in the past: it was used to pin uncooperative psychiatric patients against a wall.

He licked his lips. What had been first embarrassing, then annoying, was quickly becoming something else. “Listen,” he said as calmly as he could. “I’m a consultant, like I said. I’m working with Tara Stapleton.”

“Doing what?” Sheldrake asked.

“That’s confidential.”

“If that’s the way you want to play it.” Sheldrake glanced over his shoulder. “See what doctor’s on call, get him in here. And call the security desk, alert the duty chiefs.”

“I’m telling you the truth,” Lash said. “You can ask Silver if you don’t believe me. He knows all about it.”

Sheldrake’s lips curled into a faint smile. “Richard Silver?”

“He knows all about it,” Crandall added. “Nobody’s seen the guy for a year, and he knows all about it.”

“I’ll go speak with him myself.” And Lash began to stand again.

Crandall shoved him back into the seat again. Another security officer stepped forward, and together they pinned Lash to the chair.

“Get the restraints,” Sheldrake said mildly. “And Stemper, use that Taser. I want this guy pacified.”

The guard with the stun device stepped forward. “Back on my signal,” Crandall muttered to the guard on the far side of the chair.

At that moment, the door opened and Mauchly stepped in.

“What’s going on?” he demanded.

Sheldrake looked around, stopped. “This man says he knows you, Mr. Mauchly.”

“He does.” Mauchly came forward. Lash began to rise, but Mauchly stayed him with a suppressing gesture. “What happened, exactly?” he asked Sheldrake.

“The man attempted to exit the secure perimeter with these in his possession.” Sheldrake nodded at Crandall, who handed the evidence bag to Mauchly.

Mauchly opened it, read the titles on the binders. “I’ll hang on to these,” he said.

“Very good, sir,” said Crandall.

“And I’ll take possession of Dr. Lash, as well.”

“You sure that’s a good idea?” Sheldrake asked.

“Yes, Mr. Sheldrake.”

“Then I release him to your custody.” He turned to Crandall. “Mark that in the duty log.”

Mauchly picked up the satchel, nodded for Lash to stand. “Come on, Dr. Lash,” he said. “This way.” And as they left the room, Lash could hear Sheldrake on the phone, telling the security teams that the alarm was being canceled and they should stand down from Condition Beta.

Out in the hall, Mauchly closed the unmarked door behind them, then turned. “What were you thinking, Dr. Lash?”

“I guess I wasn’t thinking at all, actually. I’m rather tired. Sorry about that.”

Mauchly looked at Lash a moment longer. Then he nodded slowly. “I’ll have these returned to your office,” he said, indicating the binders. “They’ll be waiting for you Monday morning.”

“Thank you. What did that guard mean by Condition Beta?”

“This building employs four status codes: Alpha, Beta, Delta, and Gamma. Condition Alpha is normal operation. Beta is heightened alert. Delta is in case of evacuation, fire and so forth.”

“And Gamma?”

“Catastrophic emergencies only. Never invoked, of course.”

“Of course.” Lash realized he was babbling. He wished Mauchly a pleasant weekend and turned away.

“Dr. Lash,” Mauchly said quietly.

Lash turned back. Mauchly was holding out his satchel.

“You might want to use Checkpoint I, on the third floor,” he said. “The guards here are liable to be a little, ah, excitable for a while.”