Mauchly folded his arms, listening.
“I wanted to know. I wanted to understand. You see, the files just didn’t explain. They didn’t explain how somebody could be so happy. So I thought maybe, if I just saw them — if I could just watch them, just for a bit, from a safe distance — I could learn… You’ve got to believe me, I never killed anybody! I just wanted to — I just want to be happy, like them… oh, Jesus…” And Handerling dropped forward, his head hitting the desk with an ugly sound, sobs racking his frame.
“No need for dramatics,” Mauchly said. “We can do this with your cooperation, or without. You’ll find the former far less of an inconvenience.” When Handerling did not respond, Mauchly bent toward the physician, whispered in his ear.
But for Lash, the scene had suddenly changed, and changed utterly. The cries of Handerling, the murmuring of Mauchly, drained away to silence in his head. A chill passed through him. Eden could interrogate, could examine, this man as much as they wanted. But in his gut, Lash sensed Handerling was innocent. Not of stalking — he was clearly guilty of abusing sensitive information. And he’d spied on the Eden supercouples. But he was no killer. Lash had seen enough suspects sweated to know when someone was lying, or when someone was capable of murder.
The worst thing was he should have known before. The suspect chart he’d worked up on his whiteboard, the theoretical profile he’d written and Mauchly had just delivered to the room, suddenly seemed as thin as the rice paper woodcuts in Lewis Thorpe’s study. They were full of inconsistencies, false assumptions. He’d been too eager to solve this terrible puzzle before more people died. And this was the result.
He sank deeper into the shadows. A haiku of Bash — o’s kept repeating in his head, eclipsing the wails of Handerling:
It was close to midnight by the time he pulled his car into Ship Bottom Road. He killed the engine, got out of the car, and walked slowly, deliberately toward the mailbox. Something had been tugging at the back of his mind since he’d left the Eden building; something that had nothing to do with Handerling. But Lash steadfastly refused to pay attention. He felt more tired than he’d ever felt in his life.
When he opened the mailbox, his first sense was relief: there was mail today, it hadn’t been pilfered. If anything, he realized, there was too much maiclass="underline" at least a dozen magazines lay scattered among the circulars and catalogues. There was a gay lifestyles magazine, another devoted to S&M and bondage fetishists; many others. All had subscription labels bearing his name and address. Among the envelopes were another dozen subscription notices with demands for payment.
Somebody had been filling out subscription requests under his name.
He walked toward the house, pausing to dump everything but a utility bill into a garbage can. It seemed Mary English had switched tactics. It was regrettable, but a call to the Westport police might be necessary after all.
He stepped up to the door, put his key in the lock, then stopped. A courier package marked BY EXPRESS — HAND DELIVER and bearing Eden’s logo lay against it. Probably more confidentiality agreements for my signature, he thought bleakly. He stooped to pick it up, tore away one end. Moonlight revealed a single sheet of paper inside, to which a small pin had been attached. He pulled out the sheet.
Christopher Lash
17 Ship Bottom Road
Westport, Connecticut 06880
Dear Dr. Lash:
We at Eden are in the business of providing miracles. Yet I never tire of having the honor to announce each of them in turn. So it is with the greatest pleasure I’m writing to inform you that the selection interval, which followed your successful application and evaluation process, has now concluded in a match. Her name is Diana Mirren. It will be your own delightful duty to learn more than that, and you will soon have an opportunity to do so. A dinner reservation has been made in your joint names at Tavern on the Green for this coming Saturday evening, at eight o’clock. You will be able to identify each other by the enclosed pins, which we ask you to wear on your lapels on first entering the restaurant. They may be disposed of after that, though most of our clients treasure them as mementos.
Once again, our congratulations on completing this journey, and our best wishes as you embark on another. And in the months and years to come, I feel certain you will find that bringing the two of you together is the beginning, rather than the end, of our service.
Kind regards,
John Lelyveld
Chairmain, Eden Inc.
TWENTY-EIGHT
When the elevator doors opened onto the penthouse perched atop Eden’s inner tower the next morning, Richard Silver was there, waiting.
“Christopher,” he said. “How are you faring?”
“Thanks for seeing me on such short notice.” Lash shook the proffered hand.
“Not at all. I’ve been looking forward to speaking with you again.”
Silver guided Lash to a seat. Sunlight slanted through the windows, throwing the still parade of ancient thinking machines into sharp relief, gilding the polished surfaces of the vast room.
“I’m also glad to have the chance to apologize in person,” Silver said as they sat down. “Mauchly told me about the letter, your getting the nod. Such a mistake has never happened before, and we’re still looking into what went wrong. Not that a mere explanation could make it less humiliating for you. Or for us.”
Lash glanced over as Silver fell silent. Again, he was struck by the man’s lack of artifice. Silver seemed genuinely concerned about how Lash would feeclass="underline" rejected as an applicant, only to later learn a match had been mistakenly found for him. Perhaps, up here in his aerie, consumed with his ongoing research, Silver had remained free of the dehumanizing corporate taint.
Silver looked up, caught Lash’s eye. “Of course, I’ve instructed Mauchly to roll back the match, and to contact this woman — sorry, I don’t know her name — and inform her another match will be found.”
“Her name’s Diana Mirren,” Lash said. “But that’s not what I wanted to see you about.”
Silver looked surprised. “Really? Then forgive my assumption. Tell me why you’re here.”
Lash paused. The conviction he’d felt the night before now seemed blurred by weariness and the remaining traces of more Seconal. “I wanted to tell you personally. I don’t think I can do this anymore.”
“Do what, exactly?”
“Stay on this investigation.”
Silver frowned. “If it’s a question of money, we’d be happy to—”
“It’s not that. I’ve been paid too much already.”
Silver sat back again, listening carefully.
“I’ve been away from my patients two weeks now. That’s a geologic age in psychiatry. But it’s more than that.”
He hesitated again. This was the kind of thing that normally he’d never admit to himself, let alone discuss with anybody else. But there was something about Silver — an unstudied frankness, a complete lack of arrogance — that seemed to invite confidence.
“I don’t think I can be of any more help to you,” Lash continued. “Early on, I thought all I needed was access to your files. I thought I’d find some magic answer in your evaluations of the Thorpes. And after the death of the Wilners, I grew certain it was homicide, not suicide. I’d hunted serial killers before, I was sure I could hunt this one as well. But I’ve come up blank. The profile I’ve drawn up is self-contradictory. Useless. With your help, we’ve now examined all the likely suspects: Eden rejects or employees, the people who could have known both couples. There’s no place else to go. At least, no place I can help with.”