“Me neither.”
“The physician in attendance was a Dr. Moffett. Could you contact him, ask the reason for the follow-up exam and prescription?”
“Sure.” Tara rose and walked to the phone.
Lash watched her. This was another clue, he felt certain; another piece of the puzzle.
“Dr. Moffett’s hours don’t begin until noon,” Tara said as she replaced the phone. “I’ll contact him then.”
“Would you do something else? Pull the medical records of Lewis Thorpe, the Wilners, and—and the third couple, the Connellys. See if they had any follow-up examinations.”
Lash waited as the office filled with the sound of keystrokes.
“Nothing,” Tara said. “None of the others had any follow-ups beyond the normal class reunions.”
“Nothing?”
Tara shook her head.
“Wouldn’t Lewis Thorpe think it strange his wife had a follow-up exam when he didn’t?”
“You know how secretive we are about procedures. Our clients come to accept them without question.”
Lash slumped in his chair. Despite everything, he found his thoughts returning to Diana Mirren, what she’d said about haiku.
They hint at things. They imply more than they say. Don’t search for an answer. Think instead of opening doors.
So what was implied here? What coincidences had taken place recently? And what did they hint at?
Edmund Wyre, the cop-hating assassin, granted parole. Wyre killed three women, two cops, and Lash’s brother-in-law. Lash’s wife then left him, and Lash himself—full of doubt and self-blame—had abruptly left the FBI, searching for an end to the sleepless nights.
By rights, Wyre should never have been paroled. Lash had no illusions: no matter what the parole board thought, Wyre would be gunning for him. Lash was the one he’d missed.
Was this coincidence?
Then there was his avatar being sent into the Tank. Tara had said such a mistake was impossible. If so, somebody had done it deliberately: It would have to be somebody very highly placed, somebody with world-class access. Me, for example. Or a grunt who’d somehow hacked the system.
His gaze fixed on Tara, who had returned to the table and was sorting papers.
Think of opening doors . . .
And, suddenly, the door opened.
Lash gasped, almost as if he’d been dealt a blow. He covered the sound with a yawn.
It seemed impossible. But there was no other answer.
There were two things he still needed to know before he was sure. Tara could answer one of them. But he had to appear calm—at least, until he had proof.
“Tara,” he said with exaggerated weariness. “Could you do something else for me?”
She nodded.
“Could you bring up a list of all the avatars in the Tank when the Thorpes were matched?”
“Why?”
“Just humor me.”
She walked once again toward the computer. Lash followed.
“Show me how it’s done,” he said.
“First, you have to access the avatar database.” She entered a transaction code at the menu screen and an explosion of nine-digit numbers appeared. “These are all the avatars.”
“All?”
“All clients to date. Almost two million.” She typed some additional commands. “Okay. I’ve created an SQL query you can run against this dataset. Type in the avatar’s identity code, and it will bring up all the others that were in the tank at the time of its match.”
“Show me, please.”
She lifted the piece of paper. “Here’s that sheet we printed out Friday, showing the dates the Thorpes and Wilners first submitted their applications.”
“Lewis Thorpe’s identity code is 000451823. You enter that into the query field.”
She typed it in and the screen refreshed again.
“Here are all the avatars in the Tank when Lewis was matched to Lindsay, indexed by their identity codes.” She scrolled quickly down to the bottom of the list:
000481032
000481883
000481907
000482035
000482110
000482722
000483814
000483992
000484398
000485006
QUERY COMPLETED AT 11:05:42:82 10/04/04
DISCRETE UNIT COUNT: 52,812
>?
Tara pointed at the bottom line. “In that time-slice, there were almost twenty-three thousand Avatars in the tank.”
“But it’s just a bunch of numbers.”
“This function key lets you toggle between names and identity codes.” Tara pressed a key and the numbers were replaced by names:
Fallon, Eugene
White, Jerome
Wanderely, Helen
Garcia, Constanze
Lu, Wen
Gelbman, Mark
Yoshida, Aiko
Horst, Marcus
Green-Carson, Margo
Banieri, Antonio
Shit, Lash thought. It’s still sorted by identity code, not last name. He considered asking Tara for an alphabetical sort, but decided against it: he wasn’t ready to explain. He began paging back through the names, one screen after another.
“What are you looking for?” Tara asked, gazing curiously over his shoulder.
“Just looking. Listen, would you do one more thing?”
“Just one more thing. Just one more thing. I wish I got paid by the errand.”
“I think we made a mistake, looking just at the records of supercouples.”
“Why?”
“Look at what we found out about Lindsay Thorpe and her surprise medical exam. Who knows what else we might find if we cross-check against a random sample of regular couples?”
“Makes sense.” Tara hesitated. “I’ll go requisition the records.”
“Hurry back.”
He watched her go. Although he was genuinely curious about the comparison he’d suggested, right now he was most interested in examining the screen without another pair of eyes beside him. He began once again scrolling up the names.
It took longer than he thought to go through them all, and it was almost eleven-thirty by the time he reached the top of the list. He slumped back, disappointed. But then again it would have been too easy: finding the name he was hoping for, just like that. Maybe it was a crazy idea. He cringed at the idea of plodding through another huge set of names. Still, he’d come this far: he might as well try the Wilners. Just in case.
He hit the function key Tara had pointed out. Instantly, the screen refreshed, showing the avatars in numerical order.
START OF QUERY
==========
000000000
000448401
000448916
000448954
000449010
000449029
000449174
000449204
000449248
000449286
He straightened. What was that first code, 000000000, doing there?
He toggled the function key, but there was no corresponding name for the identity code: the field was blank.
He shrugged, reached for the paper Tara had left on the desk, and typed John Wilner’s code—000491003—in the query field.
When the screen refreshed, 000000000 was again at the top of the list. And once again, there was no name associated with the number.
Lash scratched his head. What was it? A start-of-array marker?
One more test. Rising from the chair and coming quickly around the desk, he rooted through the paper strewn across the table until he found a sheet with Kevin Connelly’s identity code. He returned to the computer, typed it in, stared at the fresh list of numbers.
“Jesus Christ,” he breathed.
The door opened and Tara stepped in, carrying a stack of reports. “I plucked out a dozen names at random,” she said. “I thought the evaluations would be enough to—”
L
ash cut her off. “Come over here. Please.”
She dropped the folders on the table and approached the monitor.
Lash looked at her, no longer trying to conceal his rising excitement. “I want you to pull up one more list. Show me who’s in the Tank, now.”
She frowned. “What’s going on? What are you doing?”
“Tara, please. Just do this.”
She stared at him, hard, another moment. Then she bent over the keyboard and typed in a new query.
The screen cleared, and Lash looked at it eagerly. He nodded to himself, as if confirming some private suspicion.
Then, suddenly, he snapped off the power. The screen went dark.
“What the hell?” Tara said.
Without answering, Lash grabbed the phone, snugged it beneath his chin, dialed a long-distance number.
“Captain Tsosie’s desk, please,” he said. There was a brief wait. “Joe? It’s Chris Lash. Joe, is the Thorpe house still technically under police investigation? Thank God. Listen, I want you to send a field agent over there right away. You still have my cell number? Give it to the agent, have them call me the moment they’re on the premises. Yes, it’s that important. Thanks.”
He replaced the phone, looked at Tara. “There’s something I have to do. I can’t explain right now. I’ll be back soon.”
He grabbed his coat, made for the door. Then he turned back. Tara remained at the desk, staring after him, a strange expression on her face.
“Follow up with that doctor,” he said. “Dr. Moffett. Understand?”
Tara nodded. And Lash turned, tugged open the door, and was gone.
THIRTY-SEVEN
I n the still gallery far above Madison Avenue, a laser printer came to life: first with the purr of a fan, then the green blink of a light. Its motor chugged briefly and a single sheet slid into the tray.
Richard Silver, who was seated at a small satinwood table in the middle of the vast room, looked up at the sound. A terrycloth towel was draped over his shoulders. He’d been working for nearly twenty hours straight, sketching out the pseudo-code of an immense new program: a program refining interaction with Liza to a point where an EEG hookup would no longer be necessary. Lash had been right: it was time.
Besides, it kept his mind from distressing events—events that, more than anything, he did not want to dwell on.
He glanced in the direction of the printer, like a sleeper roused from a trance. Hardcore computer coding is a state of mind: it can take a lot of time to get “in the zone.” Silver was now deep in the zone and would normally be reluctant to relinquish it. But the paper waiting in the printer’s tray meant only one thing: Liza had completed her task, and completed it early.
He rose, glanced at the clock. Twenty-five minutes after eleven. He walked toward the printer, hesitatingly removed the sheet.
Then he froze.
For a long moment he stood motionless, staring at it. The sunlit gallery was absolutely silent. At last, Silver lowered the paper. His hand shook as he did so.
He stuffed the sheet into a pocket of his sweatpants. Then he crossed the room, opened the hidden door, and ascended the stairs to the next level.
When the black door at the end of the hall sprang open, Silver stepped immediately toward the contoured chair, pinned the microphone to his sweatshirt, and began fixing the electrodes to his temple. Normally, this process was enjoyable, almost meditative: preparation for contacting a more perfect version of himself than he could ever hope to achieve.
Today he felt simply numb.
“Richard,” the low, uninflected voice said from all corners of the room.
“Liza. What is your current state?”
“Ninety-nine point one seven six two percent operational. Current processes are at eighty-six point two percent of multithreaded capacity. Standard operations can now again access one hundred percent of bandwidth. Thank you for asking.”
“You’re welcome.”
“I had not expected to speak with you at the present time. Do you wish to run a scenario? I have completed a variant of the Rift Valley threat-response game that you might find entertaining. Or do you wish to discuss my thoughts on our current book? I have finished analysis of chapter twenty.”
“Not at present. I have the results of your interrogatory. It came in early.”
“Yes. My estimate was off by seventy-one billion machine cycles.”
“Liza, I have just one question. How sure are you of the result?”
With humans, one could always count on a pause when digesting an unexpected comment. With Liza, there was no such pause. “I do not understand your question.”
“Are you sure the result of the interrogatory is not in error?”
“The result shows no statistical deviation. It is what remains when all unsatisfactory results have been discarded.”
“I am not doubting you, Liza. I simply wanted to make sure.”
“Your concern is understandable. Before initiating the process, you stated it was critical to find the solution. I have found the solution. I hope it proves satisfactory.”
“Thank you, Liza.”
“You are welcome, Richard. Shall we talk further?”
“Soon. There’s something I must do first.”
“Thank you for speaking with me.”
Silver punched the shutdown sequence into the keypad, plucked the electrodes from his temples, and got out of the chair. He waited a minute, listening to the sound of his own breathing. Then he wiped his brow with the towel and headed for the door, reaching for his cell phone and dialing as he stepped into the corridor.
“Mauchly here,” came the voice.
“Edwin, it’s Richard.”
“Yes, Dr. Silver.”
“Edwin, I need you up here. Right away.”
THIRTY-EIGHT
T he Norman J. Weisenbaum Center for Biochemical Research stood on a point of land jutting into the Hudson south of Cold Spring. Lash pulled into visitors’ parking, hoisted himself out onto the macadam, and glanced up at the long, low structure of glass and stone that climbed the hillside. It was not at all the way he’d pictured it when he called the center the week before, on the flight back from Phoenix. It was unrelievedly modern. And yet somehow it did not seem out of place in this haven of Dutch gables. The rich tones of polished marble blended nicely with the backdrop of oak and sycamore. Waterbirds wheeled and cried overhead.
Inside, the receptionist’s station was manned by three women. Lash approached the closest, presented his card. “Dr. Lash to see Dr. Goodkind.”
“Just a moment, please.” The woman peered into a monitor recessed into her work surface, held a manicured finger to one ear, listened to an invisible earpiece. Then she looked up at him again. “If you’d kindly take a seat, he’ll be right with you.”
Lash had barely settled into one of the chrome-and-leather chairs when he saw Roger Goodkind approaching. Goodkind was carrying a few more pounds since they’d last met, and the sandy hair was receding dramatically from his temples. But the man still had the same sly half-smile, the same loping walk, of their undergraduate days.
“Chris!” Goodkind clasped Lash’s hand in his. “Punctual as ever.”
“Anxiety disorder. Presenting as compulsive timeliness.”
The biochemist laughed. “If only your diagnosis were that simple.” He led Lash toward an elevator. “Can this really be? Hearing from you like this, twice in two weeks? I’m almost prostrate with gratitude.”
“I wish I could say it was a social call,” Lash replied as the elevator opened, “but the fact is I need your help.”
Goodkind nodded. “Anything.”
Goodkind’s lab was even larger than Lash had anticipated. There were the obligatory lab tables and chemical apparatus, but there were also deep leather chairs, a handsome desk, bookcases full of journals, a stunning view of the river. Lash whistled appreciatively.
“The center’s been kind to me,” Goodkind said with a chuckle
. He’d developed a new mannerism since Lash last saw him: he ran his fingers through his thinning hair, then grasped a few strands and tugged on them, as if encouraging growth.
“So I see.”
“Have a seat. You want a diet soda or something?”
Lash let himself be shown to one of the armchairs. “No, thanks.”
Goodkind took a seat opposite. “So what’s up?”
“Remember why I called you last week?”
“Sure. All those crazy questions about suicide among perfectly happy people.”
“Yes. I’m working on something, Roger, something I can’t tell you much about. Can I rely on you to keep it confidential?”
“What is this, Chris? Is it a Bureau matter?”
“In a way.” Lash watched the man’s eyes widen. If Goodkind thought the Feds were involved, he’d be more likely to cooperate.
Goodkind shifted. “I’ll do whatever I can.”
“You do a lot of work with toxicology, right? Drug side effects, interactions, that sort of thing?”
“It’s not my field of expertise, but, yes, we’re all involved with toxicology to some degree at the center.”
“So tell me. What steps would a biochemist go through in developing a new drug?”
Goodkind ran a hand through his thinning hair. “A new drug? From scratch, you mean?” He paused to tug on a lock. “Historically, drug development’s always been kind of hit or miss. You screen molecules and compounds, looking for a ‘hit,’ something that seems beneficial to people. Of course, now with computational chemistry, you can simulate the effects of reactions that—”
“No, I don’t mean that early in the process. Say you’ve already developed a drug, or something you think might be a drug. What’s the next step?”
Goodkind thought a moment. “Well, you do stability testing. See what delivery vehicle it likes best: tablet, capsule, solution. Then you expose the drug molecule to a variety of conditions—relative humidity, UV light, oxygen, heat—make sure it doesn’t degrade, break down into harmful byproducts.” He grinned. “People always keep drugs in their bathroom cabinets, you know, which is probably the worst thing you can do. Heat and moisture can cause all sorts of nasty chemical reactions.”
Death Match Page 23
