Lash rose from his bed and went to the door, opened it, and walked toward the living room. The curtains of the picture window were thrown wide. Beyond, moonlight daubed the creamy breakers with a pale blue phosphorescence. The furniture was illuminated with the half-light of a Magritte painting. He sat down on the leather couch and hunched forward, arms resting on his knees, gaze still on the sea.
Earlier, as Vogel had directed him through a series of nondescript hallways and out a side door onto Fifty-fifth Street, he had been aware primarily of rage. He had walked in a red fog to his parking garage, conducting gel still drying on his scalp, throwing away the exit literature Vogel apologetically pressed into his hands. But as the evening wore on — as he’d eaten a light supper; checked his phone messages; conferred with Kline, the psychologist who was covering his practice — the anger ebbed, leaving an emptiness in its place. And when at last he could put off going to bed no longer, the emptiness began to give way to something else again.
And as he sat staring out at the sea, Dr. Alicto’s words came back yet again. You saw some terrible things. But they ran off your back. They didn’t affect your work or yourself.
Lash closed his eyes, unable to shake the lingering sense of disbelief. Going into Eden that morning, he had anticipated a great many things. But the one thing he had not anticipated was rejection. True, he’d gone through it simply as an exercise: the monochromatic Vogel; the annoying, faintly alarming Dr. Alicto — they had not known the real reason he was there. But that didn’t ease his failure. And now he’d come away from the process, not with clearer insight into the Wilners or the Thorpes, but with Dr. Alicto’s low, mellifluous voice buzzing in his head.
Sometimes, people don’t address the terrible things they see. They bury them in a deep place. And they come to live in a constant state of darkness…
During his years of analyzing and treating others, Lash had carefully abstained from directing that same searching light upon himself: from thinking about what drove him forward or held him back; about his motivations, good or bad. And yet now, here in the dark, those were the only thoughts coming into his head.
Was there any particular assignment in your prior job that precipitated your decision to leave? Some error or lapse of judgment on your part? Something that spilled over into your private life?
Lash stood up and made his way down the hall to his bathroom. He flicked on the light, opened the cupboard beneath the sink, and knelt down. There, under the extra bottles of shampoo and the blister-packs of razor blades, was a child’s shoe box. He reached for it, removed the cover. The little box was half full of small white tablets: Seconal, appropriated for him by a sympathetic fellow-agent years before, during a raid on a money launderer’s townhouse. When he’d moved to this house, he’d meant to flush them down the toilet. Somehow, he never had. And the sleeping pills had sat there, inhabiting the dark space beneath the sink, almost forgotten. They were three years old, but Lash was fairly certain they hadn’t expired. He grabbed a handful, held them in his palm, stared at them.
And then he dropped them back into the box and replaced it inside the cupboard. That would return him to the bad days, to the months just before — and just after — he left the Bureau. It was a place he did not ever want to revisit.
He rose and washed his hands, raising his face to the mirror as he did so.
Since he’d moved here, gone into private practice, sleep had returned. He could give up this case tomorrow, get back to his regular round of consultations. He could sleep well again.
And yet, somehow, he knew he could not do that. Because even now, as he looked in the mirror, he could see the ghostly outline of Lewis Thorpe, looking back at him through the wash of videotape: always, always, asking the same question…
… Why?
Lash dried his hands. Then he went back to his bedroom, lay down again, and waited — not for sleep, because sleep would not be coming — but simply for the morning.
FIFTEEN
The next morning, when Lash stepped out of the elevator onto the thirty-second floor, Mauchly was waiting for him.
“This way, please,” he said. “What have you learned about the Wilner couple?”
Not one for small talk, thought Lash. “Over the weekend, I managed to speak to their doctor, Karen Wilner’s brother, John Wilner’s mother, and a college friend who’d spent a week with them last month. It’s the same story as the Thorpes. The couple was almost too happy, if such a thing is possible. The friend said the one disagreement she’d witnessed had been minor — about which movie they should see that night — and it dissolved into laughter within a minute.”
“No indications for suicide?”
“None.”
“Hmm.” Mauchly steered Lash through an open door and into a room where a worker in a white coat waited behind a counter. Mauchly reached for a stapled document on the counter, handed it to Lash. “Sign this, please.”
Lash leafed through the long document. “Don’t tell me this is another confidentiality agreement. I’ve signed more than one of these already.”
“That was when you were privy only to general knowledge. Things have changed. This document just spells out in greater detail the extent of the punitive damages, civil and criminal liabilities, and the like.”
Lash dropped the document onto the counter. “Not very reassuring.”
“You must understand, Mr. Lash. You are the first non-employee to be given access to the most sensitive details of our operation.”
Lash sighed, took the proffered pen, and signed his name in two places indicated by yellow flags. “I’d hate to see the kind of screening your employees have to go through.”
“It’s much more stringent than the CIA’s. But our pay scales and benefits are uniquely high.”
Lash handed the document to Mauchly, who passed it to the man behind the desk. “What wrist do you wear your watch on, Dr. Lash?”
“What? Oh, the left one.”
“Then would you please extend your right arm?”
Lash did so, and was surprised when the worker behind the desk slipped a silver band around his right wrist, tightening it with what looked like a miniature band wrench.
“What the hell?” Lash jerked his arm away.
“Strictly a security precaution.” Mauchly raised his own right wrist, displaying an identical bracelet. “It’s coded with your unique identifier. While you wear that, scanners can track your movements anywhere inside the building.”
Lash rotated the thing around his wrist. It was tight, but not uncomfortably so.
“Don’t worry, it will be cut off when your work here is complete.”
“Cut off?”
Mauchly, who so rarely smiled, smiled faintly now. “If it was easy to remove, what would be the point? We’ve tried to make it as unobjectionable as possible.”
Lash glanced again at the smooth, narrow bracelet. Although he disliked jewelry — he’d even refused to wear a ring during his marriage — he had to admit the discreet-looking silver band was vaguely attractive. Especially for a manacle.
“Shall we?” Mauchly said, ushering Lash back into the hall and leading him to a different bank of elevators.
“Where are we going?” Lash said as the elevator began to descend.
“Where you requested. Following the Thorpes and the Wilners. We’re going inside the Wall.”