Текст книги "Death Match"

Автор книги: Lincoln Child

Соавторы: Lincoln Child
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Текущая страница: 21 (всего у книги 26 страниц)

FIFTY-TWO

As they emerged from the stairwell, Lash recognized the sky lobby of the thirtieth floor. He’d been here once. Like the rest of the inner tower, this space was dark, deserted. In one corner sat a lone mop, leaning against the marble wall, abandoned in the general evacuation. Banks of elevators stood on both sides. Halfway down the right wall, one spilled yellow light into the lobby. The sign above it read EXPRESS TO CHECKPOINT II.

Tara looked around guardedly, then motioned Lash to follow.

“Why are we here?” he muttered. It made no sense: they’d just made their stealthy way downnine stories: nine stories that he’d struggled so hard to climb. Blood was drying on his scratched hands and face, and his limbs ached.

“Because this is the only way.” Tara led him to one elevator, set apart from the others. There was a keypad beside it, and she punched in a code.

All at once, Lash understood. He’d been inside this elevator, too; been in it more than once.

He waited, expecting to see a brace of guards burst into the lobby, brandishing guns. The elevator announced its arrival with a loud ding; the doors opened; and they quickly stepped inside.

Tara turned to the panel that held three unmarked buttons. There was a scanner beneath it.

She glanced back at Lash. “You realize that, no matter what happens, I’m going to have some pretty fast talking to do at the end of the day.”

Lash nodded, waiting for her to press the button. But Tara remained motionless. He suddenly feared she was changing her mind; that she would punch the bottom button, hand him over again to Mauchly and his thugs. But then she sighed, cursed, pulled the lead foil from her bracelet, held her wrist beneath the scanner. And pressed the top button.

As the elevator began to rise, Tara began to replace the foil. Then she crumpled it into a ball, and let it drop to the floor. “What’s the point? I’m made.” She looked back at Lash. “There’s something you should know.”

“What’s that?”

“If you’re wrong about this, Mauchly’s the least of your worries. I’ll kill you myself.”

Lash nodded. “Fair enough.”

They fell silent as the elevator climbed. “You’d better grab hold of something,” Tara said at last.

“Why?”

“As a security chief, I’ve got access to the penthouse elevator. Just as a precaution against emergency: fire, earthquake, terrorist attack.”

“You mean, what Mauchly was saying about the tower’s operational modes. Alpha, Beta, and so on.”

“The thing is, we’re not in emergency mode, just an elevated alert. That limits my access.”

“What are you getting at?”

“What I’m getting at is the doors won’t open. The elevator will stop at the penthouse level and sit there.”

As if in response, the elevator slowed, then stopped. There was no chime, no whisper of opening doors: the car simply hung, motionless, at the top of its shaft.

Lash looked at Tara. “What happens now?”

“We sit here for a minute, maybe two, until the request system recycles. Then the elevator will return there.” She pointed to the lowest button. “The private garage in the sub-basement.”

“Where a welcoming committee will be waiting, no doubt,” Lash said bitterly. “If the door won’t open, why did we bother taking this ride in the first place?”

She pointed to a small hatch beneath the control panel. “Stop asking questions and grab hold of something like I told you.” As she pulled open the hatch, Lash saw a telephone, flashlight, long-handled screwdriver. Tara slipped the screwdriver into the waistband of her pants, then straightened, planting her fingers along the seam of the elevator doors. Lash gripped the railing.

The elevator began to sink. Instantly, Tara dug her fingers into the seam and pulled the doors apart. The car lurched violently to a stop. Lash swung hard against the wall, desperately gripping the railing.

A pair of outer elevator doors were now exposed, metal retracting bars at full extension. Propping one foot against the inner door, Tara tugged on the closest bar. As the outer door pulled back, the poured-concrete wall of the elevator shaft came into view. It rose to Lash’s waist; above, he could see the outlines of the penthouse. It looked disquieting from this low perspective, as if he were viewing the vast room through the eyes of an infant.

“Jesus,” Lash said. “Where’d you learn to do that?”

“High-rise dorm my freshman year. Go ahead, climb up.”

Lash pulled himself up, threw a leg over, rolled onto the carpet, then stood.

“Now hold back these doors while I climb out. The outer andthe inner.”

Lash did as instructed. A moment later Tara was standing beside him, wiping her hands on her pants. She plucked the screwdriver from her waistband and – kneeling beside the elevator’s sill plate – jammed it into the space between the floor and the doors. The door froze in place, wedged open.

“To keep unwelcome visitors away?”

Tara nodded.

“Surely the elevator isn’t the only way in.”

“No. There’s also a stairwell leading up from the inner tower, accessible from an access hatchway.”

“So what’s the point of all this?” Lash gestured at the open elevator door.

“The stairwell’s only for emergency evacuation. Opens from above, not below. That’s the way Silver wanted it. You have fifteen minutes, maybe twenty, before they force it.” She regarded him with cool, serious eyes. “Remember, I’m only here to listen to Silver’s side of things. For that, fifteen minutes should be more than enough.”

Beyond the walls of glass, dusk was settling over Manhattan. The rays of the setting sun sent orange shafts of light through the skyscraper canyons. Silver’s mechanical collection draped long shadows across the chairs and tables. Except for the ancient machines, the room appeared to be empty.

“He’s not here,” Tara said.

Lash motioned Tara to follow him to the small door in the wall of bookcases. There was no knob. He ran one hand along the outlines of the door, pressing first here, then there. At last came the faint click of a hidden detent and the door sprang open.

Now it was Tara’s turn to look surprised. But precious seconds were passing and Lash ushered her up the long, narrow staircase to the living quarters.

The corridor that bisected the upper floor was silent. The polished wooden doors lining both sides were closed.

Lash took a step forward. What was he supposed to do now? Clear his throat politely? Knock? The situation had a ridiculous desperation that filled him with despair.

He approached the first door, opened it silently. Beyond was the personal gym he’d seen before, but there was no sign of Silver among the free weights, treadmills, and elliptical machines. He closed the door softly and continued.

Next was a small room that seemed to serve as reference library: the walls were covered in metal shelving full of computing journals and technology periodicals. Next was a spartan kitchen: except for a restaurant-style walk-in refrigerator, there was only a simple oven with a gas stovetop, microwave, cupboards for cookware and dry goods, and a table with a single place setting. He closed the door.

This was useless; he’d only succeeded in delaying the inevitable. For all he knew, Silver had been evacuated along with everyone else. And now it was only a matter of time until the guards arrived. Invading the penthouse of Eden’s founder, he’d probably be shot on sight. He glanced at Tara, feeling despair wash over him.

And then he caught his breath. Over her shoulder, he made out the black door at the end of the hall. It was ajar, its edges framed in yellow light.

Quickly, Lash made his way to it. He paused a moment. And then he slowly pushed it open.

The room was as he remembered: the racks of instrumentation; the whisper of countless fans; the half-dozen terminals lined up along the elongated wooden table. And there, in the lone chair before them, sat Richard Silver.

“Christopher,” he said gravely. “Please come in. I’ve been expecting you.”

FIFTY-THREE

Lash stepped forward. Richard Silver glanced from him to Tara.

“And Ms. Stapleton, too. When Edwin phoned a few minutes ago, he said you might be showing up as well. I don’t understand.”

“She came to hear your side of the story,” Lash replied.

Silver raised his eyebrows. He was wearing another tropical shirt, decorated with palms and scallop shells. His worn black jeans were neatly pressed.

“Dr. Silver—” Lash began again.

“Please, Christopher. It’s Richard. I’ve reminded you.”

“We need to talk.”

Silver nodded.

“Over the last few hours my life has gone completely to hell.”

“Yes, you look terrible. I have a first-aid kit in the bathroom – would you like me to fetch it?”

Lash waved this away. “Why don’t you sound surprised?”

Silver fell silent.

“My medical history has been tampered with. False information about deviant juvenile behavior has been added. My FBI history has been altered in a way that insults dead colleagues. I now have a criminal record. Evidence has been fabricated linking me to the scenes of death at both the Wilners and the Thorpes. Plane tickets, hotel reservations, phone records. I know there’s only one person who could have done this, Richard: you. But Tara isn’t convinced. She wants to hear what you have to say.”

“Actually, Christopher – though I hate to say it – I believe you’re the one on trial here. But tell me more. You imply I’ve fabricated a vast tissue of lies about you. How would I have done that?”

“You’ve got the computing horsepower. Liza has data-sharing access with the major communications companies, travel and lodging industries, health care, banking. And you have the kind of access, unfetteredaccess, to alter their records.”

Silver nodded slowly. “I suppose it’s true. I could do all that, if I had sufficient time. And imagination. But the question is why?”

“To conceal the identity of the real murderer.”

“And that would be—”

“You, Richard.”

For a moment, Silver did not reply.

“Me,” he said at last.

Lash nodded.

Silver shook his head slowly. “Edwin said I was to humor you, but this is really too much.” He glanced at Tara. “Ms. Stapleton, can you really imagine mekilling those women? How would I do it? And why? And then, going to all the trouble of framing Christopher here – Christopher, of all people – for the murders?”

Silver’s tone was calm, reasonable, a little hurt. It washard, even for Lash, to imagine the founder of Eden committing the murders. But if that was true, he had no hope left.

“You’re the killer, Christopher,” Silver said, turning back to him. “Saying that pains me more than I can tell you. I seldom make friends, but I’d begun to think of you as a friend. Yet you’ve jeopardized everything I worked for. And I still can’t understand why.”

Lash took another step forward.

“Hurting me won’t get you anywhere,” Silver said quickly. “I see you’ve disabled the elevator, but even so Edwin and his teams will be here within a few minutes. It would be so much easier for everyone, including you, if you gave yourself up.”

“And get myself shot? Weren’t those your personal orders: shoot to kill?”

At this, Silver’s air of injured surprise fell away.

Looking at him, hearing the line Silver was taking, Lash realized he had only one possible weapon to defend himself: his own expertise. If he could wear Silver down, find the inconsistency of madness in his words or deeds, he had a fighting chance.

“A minute ago, you asked me why you’d commit such murders,” he went on. “I’d hoped you’d be man enough to tell me. But you force me to draw my own conclusions. And that means performing a psychological autopsy. On you.”

Silver looked at him guardedly.

“You’re shy, retiring, uncomfortable in social situations. You’re probably ill at ease with persons of the opposite sex. Perhaps you feel awkward or unattractive. You communicate by email or videophone, or through Mauchly. Little is known of your childhood; it’s quite possible you’ve made an effort to conceal it. You live like a monk up here, closeting yourself with this creation – who, by the way, has a female voice and name – and devoting all your time to refining it. And isn’t it telling – isn’t it extremelytelling – you chose to channel your life’s work into a system that brings lonely people together?”

When there was no reply, he continued.

“Of course, lots of people are shy. Lots of people are awkward socially. For you to have committed these atrocities, there would have to be a hell of a lot more to your story.” He paused, still looking at Silver. “What can you tell us about avatar zero? The avatar that, just by chance, happens to match successfully with the women in all six supercouples.”

Silver did not answer. A terrible pallor came over his face.

“It’s yours, isn’t it? Your own personality construct, left over from when you first alpha-tested the Eden program. Except you never took it out when the application went live. Secretly, you kept comparing yourself to real applicants. The temptation to find a match for yourself was too great. See, you couldn’t live without knowing. And yet, somehow, you couldn’t live withknowing, either.”

Silver had by now mastered his expression, and his face had become unreadable.

Lash turned to Tara. “I see two possible clinical profiles here. The first is that we’re dealing with a simple sociopathic personality, an irresponsible and selfish person with no moral code. A sociopath would be fascinated by the six women who, over time, were matched with himself. He’d both crave and fear them. And he’d be insanely jealous of any other man that dared possess them. There’s plenty of case studies in the literature to that effect.”

He paused again. “Are there problems with this hypothesis? Yes. Sociopaths are rarely so brilliant. Also, they’re rarely troubled by the deeds they’ve committed. Yet I think Richard here feels his actions intensely. Or at least, a part of him does.”

He turned back to Silver. “I know about the Thorpes: about the return medical checkup, about the high dosage of scolipane. But what delivery system did you use on Karen Wilner?”

He question hung in the air. At last, Silver cleared his throat.

“I used no ‘delivery system.’ Because I didn’t kill anybody.” His voice was different now: harsher, more abrupt. “Ms. Stapleton, surely you see this is all just grasping at straws. Dr. Lash is desperate, he’d say anything, do anything, to save himself.”

“Let’s turn to the second, more likely hypothesis,” Lash said. “Richard Silver is suffering from DID. Dissociative identity disorder. What used to be popularly known as split personality.”

“A myth,” Silver scoffed. “Movie fodder.”

“I wish it were. I’ve got a DID patient in my care now. They’re a bitch to treat. The way it usually works is that a person is traumatized when young. Sometimes sexual abuse; other times, physical or simply emotional abuse. My current patient, for example, had an abusive, unforgiving father. For some children, such trauma can be unbearable. They’re not old enough to understand it’s not their fault. Especially when the abuse comes from a so-called loved one. So they shatter into several personalities. Basically, you develop other people to take the abuse for you.” He looked over at Silver. “Why are your childhood years such a secret? Why did you become more comfortable with a computer screen than with other people? Was your own father abusive and unforgiving?”

“Don’t you talk about my family,” Silver said. For the first time ever, Lash detected a clear note of anger in his voice.

“Can such people appear normal?” Tara asked.

“Absolutely. They can function on a very high level.”

“Can they be intelligent?”

Lash nodded. “Extremely.”

“Don’t tell me you’re taken in by any of this,” Silver said to Tara.

“Are such people aware of their other personalities?” Tara asked.

“Usually not. They’re aware of losing time – half a day can go by in a ‘fugue state’ without their knowing where it went. The goal of treatment is to get the patient co-conscious with all his personalities.”

There was a distant thud from below. It was not particularly loud, but the floor of the laboratory shook faintly. The three exchanged glances.

The scene began to take on a surreal cast to Lash. Here he was, spinning out theories, while armed men eager to shoot him would break in any second. But he was almost done now; there was nothing else to do except finish.

“In such cases, one personality is usually dominant,” he went on. “Often it’s the normal, ‘good’ personality. The other personalities house the feelings that are too dangerous for the dominant personality.” He gestured at Silver. “So on the face of it, Richard is what he seems to be: a brilliant, if reclusive, computer engineer. The man who told me he feels almost a surgeon’s responsibility to his clients. But I fear there are other Richard Silvers, too, that we’re not allowed to see. The Richard Silver who was both hopelessly threatened by, yet irresistibly attracted to, the idea of a perfect mate. And, the other, darker, Richard Silver who feels murderous jealousy at the thought of anotherman possessing that perfect woman.”

He fell silent. Silver looked back at him, thin-lipped, eyes hard and glittering. In his expression, Lash read mortification and anger. But guilt? He wasn’t sure. And there was no more time now, no time at all…

As if to punctuate this thought, there came another deep thudding sound from below.

“In another few moments, Edwin will be here,” Silver said. “And this painful charade of yours will be over.”

Lash suddenly felt a great hollowness. “That’s it? You’ve got nothing else to say?”

“What am I supposed to say?”

“You could admit the truth.”

“The truth.” Silver almost spat the words. “The truth is you’ve insulted and humiliated me with this pseudo-psychological tale-spinning. So let’s put an end to this travesty. I’ve humored you long enough. You’re guilty of murder: have the guts to face up to it.”

“So you could livewith yourself? You could sentence an innocent man to death?”

“You’re notinnocent, Dr. Lash. Why not accept the truth? Everybody else has.”

Lash turned to Tara. “Is that true? What flavor of truth do you believe in this evening?”

“Flavor,” Silver said disdainfully. “You’re a serial murderer.”

“Tara?” Lash persisted.

Tara took a deep breath, turned to Silver. “You asked me something earlier. You asked, ‘Can you really imagine mekilling those women?’ ”

For a moment, Silver looked puzzled. “Yes, I asked you that. Why?”

“Why did you single out the women? What about the men?”

“I—” Silver abruptly went silent.

“You hadn’t heard Christopher’s theory that the women alonewere overdosed, given a medication that would guarantee suicidal-homicidal behavior. So why did you single out the women?”

“It was just a figure of speech.”

Tara did not reply.

“Ms. Stapleton,” Silver said in a harder tone. “In a few minutes, Lash will be subdued and restrained by my men. He will no longer pose a threat. Don’t make this any more complicated on anyone else – including yourself – than it need be.”

Still, Tara was silent.

“Silver’s right,” Lash said. He could hear the bitterness in his own voice. “He doesn’t have to admit anything. He can just keep his mouth shut. Nobody’s going to believe me now. There’s nothing more I can do.”

Tara made no indication she had heard. Her eyes remained veiled, far away.

And then, quite suddenly, they widened.

“No,” she said, turning to him. “There’s one more thing.”

FIFTY-FOUR

The room went still. For a moment, all Lash heard was the whispered susurrus of cooling fans.

“What are you talking about?” he asked.

In response, Tara took him aside. Then she nodded almost imperceptibly over her shoulder. Lash followed her gaze to the contoured chair encased behind Plexiglas at the far end of the room.

“Liza?” he asked in a very low voice.

“If you’re right about this, Silver would have accessed the system from here. Maybe there’s some kind of trail you could follow. Even if there isn’t, shewould know.”

“She?”

“Liza would have a record of Silver’s access. He would have made inquiries into a variety of our subsystems: communications, medical, data gathering. A large number of external entities would have been touched to create the false workup on you. There’d be Lindsay Thorpe’s pharmaceutical records. There’d be all kinds of things. You could ask her directly.”

“ Icould ask her?”

“Why not? She’s a computer, she’s programmed to respond to commands.”

“That’s not what I mean. I haven’t any idea how to communicate with her.”

“You’ve seen Silver do it. You told me so, over that drink at Sebastian’s. That’s more than anyone else can say.” She stepped back, looked at him quizzically. You’re the one with everything at stake here, the look said. If you’re telling the truth, wouldn’t you do anything to prove it?

“What are you two talking about?” Silver asked. He had been guardedly watching the exchange.

Lash looked at the chair and the leads that snaked away from it. It was the last desperate gamble of a desperate man. But Tara was right. He had nothing to lose.

He strode across the room, opened the Plexiglas panel, and quickly slid into the sculpted chair.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Silver’s voice was suddenly loud in the cramped room.

Lash did not answer. He looked around, trying to recall just what he’d seen Silver do before. He pulled down the small screen that hung from a telescoping arm, affixed the lavalier microphone to his torn collar.

“You can’t do that!” Silver said. He stood up slowly, as if stunned by Lash’s brazenness.

“Who’s going to stop me? You?” Lash lifted the EEG leads, began fastening them to his temples. He thought back to what Silver had said about Liza: her highly developed intelligence models, her three-dimensional neural network. That he could hope to interact with her, let alone find the information he needed, seemed the height of folly. Yet he could not let Silver see his doubt.

Leads attached, he reached down to the console and snapped the EEG into life. The screen before him cleared; several columns of numbers scrolled rapidly up and out of sight. He glanced at the small keypad and stylus set into one of the arms. He remembered Silver had used the keypad prior to communicating directly with Liza. “Getting her attention,” he’d said. Somehow or other, he’d have to get her attention, too. He reached for the keypad.

“Get out of that chair,” Silver warned. He was pacing now, as if in a quandary over what to do.

“Don’t worry. I won’t break her.”

“You haven’t a clue what you’re doing. This won’t get you anywhere. It’s a waste of time.”

Beneath the indignation, Lash sensed nervousness in Silver’s tone. He noted the man’s pacing with interest. “I wouldn’t be so sure.”

“Nobody else has ever spoken directly with Liza.”

“Don’t you remember what you told me last time I was here? You said others could communicate with her, too, given proper concentration and training.”

“The operative words there are proper concentration and training, Lash.”

“I’m a quick study.”

This was said with a confidence Lash did not feel. He looked from the keypad to the screen, then back again. Get her attention.

What do computers respond to?Commands. Statements in programs.

He placed his hand on the keypad, typed:

the quick brown fox jumped over the lazy dog

There was no response. The screen remained blank.

“Dr. Lash,” Silver said. “Get out of the chair.”

I’ll try a question instead. Lash typed:

why is a raven like a writing desk?

Again, no response. Lash gritted his teeth. Silver’s right. This is just a waste of time. Any minute Mauchly would break into the penthouse. And that would be that.

He glanced past the Plexiglas wall. Silver had stopped pacing and was stepping toward him now, an angry look on his face.

Suddenly, a storm of data ran up the small monitor. And then he heard a voice. It was the voice he remembered: low, feminine, coming from everywhere and nowhere at the same time.

“Why is a raven like a writing desk?” it said.

“Yes,” Lash spoke into the microphone.

“I do not understand the nature of your interrogatory.”

“It’s a riddle.”

“My parsing of ‘itza’ is unsuccessful.”

“It is a riddle,” Lash said, reminding himself to speak slowly and clearly. “A quote from a famous book.”

Silver had stopped, and was listening intently.

“You are not Richard,” the feminine voice said. This was spoken with an utter lack of inflection, leaving Lash unsure whether it was a statement or a question.

“No,” he replied.

“Your image and voice soundprint are known. You are Christopher Lash.”

“Yes.”

The computer said nothing further. Lash felt his pulse begin to race, and he fought to master himself. What could he say? He remembered a question Silver had asked, decided to try repeating it.

“Liza,” he said into the microphone. “What is your current state?”

“Ninety-nine point two two four percent operational. Current processes are at twenty-two point six percent of multithreaded capacity. Banked machine cycle surplus at one hundred percent. Thank you for asking.”

“ Stop it,” Silver said in a fierce whisper.

“I have visual acquisition of Richard,” Liza said. “I have aural acquisition of Richard. Yet it is not Richard speaking with me. Curious.”

Curious. Silver had told him he’d made curiosity one of Liza’s fundamental characteristics. Just maybe he could put that curiosity to good use.

“I, Christopher Lash, am speaking with you,” he said.

“Christopher,” the voice repeated, with the merest ripple of digital artifacting.

Once again, Lash was struck by the way Liza said his name, almost as if tasting it. After years of speaking only to Silver, speaking to another human being would be revelation indeed.

“Why do you, and not Richard, speak with me?” Liza asked.

Lash hesitated. He had to phrase his responses in such a way as to keep Liza interested; it seemed increasingly likely this was the only way to make sure communication would continue. “Because the situation at Eden has become nonstandard.”

“Explain.”

“The best way to explain is by asking you a series of questions. Is that permissible?”

“Permissibility is unknown. This is foreign to my experience. I have run no scenarios that address it. I am currently evaluating.”

“How long will the evaluation take?”

“Five million, two hundred forty-five thousand machine cycles, plus or minus ten percent, assuming successful implementation of a ‘best-fit’ selection tree.”

This told Lash nothing. “May I ask the questions while the evaluation is ongoing?”

“My parsing of ‘ongoing’ is unsuccessful. Preposition and verb are out of context.”

“May I ask the questions during your evaluation process?”

“Christopher.”

This was not the answer Lash expected. He chose to take it as a green light.

“Liza, has Richard used this interface to access records relating to me in the last forty-eight hours?”

Abruptly, Silver lunged at the Plexiglas. Lash straight-armed the door, refusing to give him access.

“Liza,” he repeated, pressing the door closed. “Has Richard Silver used this interface to access records relating to me?”

There was no response.

Is she considering the question?Lash asked himself. Or is she refusing to answer?

“Liza?” he said again. “Did you understand my question?”

Suddenly he remembered something: the weariness with which Silver had removed the EEG sensors when he rose from this seat. Sessions with Liza can be a little draining, he’d said. It requires a great deal of concentration. Think of biofeedback. The frequency and amplitude of beta and theta waves can speak a lot more distinctly than words.

Perhaps, in this unique situation, curiosity alone was not sufficient for Liza. It was her first time communicating directly with anyone other than Silver. Clarity and simplicity of message would be of critical importance.

It requires a great deal of concentration. Think of biofeedback.

Lash did not know what methods Silver used to achieve his concentration. All he could fall back on were the relaxation techniques he himself taught patients for dealing with their anxiety. The self-hypnosis, the state of heightened attention, just might be enough. If he could slow himself down, calmhimself down, free his mind of the extra baggage…

He began just as he would if he’d been in his office, speaking one on one with a patient. Envision yourself in a relaxing scene. The most relaxing scene you can imagine. Picture yourself sitting on a beach. It’s a sunny day.

Once again, Silver threw himself against the door. Lash’s elbow bent slightly under the pressure, then stiffened again. He tried to forget Silver, Mauchly, his own desperate situation, everything.

He shut his eyes. Take a deep breath. Hold it. Now let it out, slowly. Take another. You should feel limp, relaxed.

Liza remained silent.

Slowly, external sound and sensation went away. Lash kept his thoughts focused on the beach, on the creamy sound of the surf.

Feel your head relax. Feel it roll gently to one side. Now feel the muscles of your neck relax. Feel your chest grow less tight, your breathing come easier.

“Christopher.” It was the disembodied voice of Liza.

“Yes.” Feel your arms relax, first the right, then the left. Let them go limp.

“Please repeat your last statement.”

Feel your legs relax, first the right, then the left. “Has Richard Silver used this interface to access records relating to me?”

“Yes, Christopher.”

“Were those records external or internal?”

No response.

Take a slow, deep breath. “Were the records Richard accessed within your dataspace, or were they outside Eden Incorporated?”

“Both.”

Focus on the beach. “Did Richard Silver modify or change these records in any way?”

There was no reply.

“Liza, did Richard Silver modify any of—”

“No.”

No? Was Liza telling him Silver had not modified his records, after all? Or was she refusing to answer? But that was…

Abruptly, his hard-won concentration crumpled. Lash took a deep breath, glanced beyond the Plexiglas partition. Silver had taken several steps back now, and was standing beside Tara. They were looking at him, worried expressions on their faces.

“Christopher,” Silver was saying. “Please step out for a minute. I need to speak with you.”

There was no further response from Liza. There was a new look in Silver’s eyes: a haunted look.