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
By 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.