Rapture in Death

"You did good today. I won't have to think twice about going through the door with you."

As Eve walked away, Peabody gaped after her. It had been simply, even casually said, but it was the finest professional compliment she'd ever been given.

Socializing wasn't Eve's favorite pastime, but she did her best. She even resigned herself to dancing when she couldn't slide her way out of it. So she found herself being steered – it was the way she thought about dancing – around the floor by Jess.

"Your pal William?" Jess began.

"More Roarke's pal. I don't know him well."

"Anyhow, he had some interesting input on designing an interactive to go with this disc. Bring the audience into the music – into Mavis."

Brow lifted, Eve glanced back to the screen. Mavis was swiveling her barely covered hips and shrieking about burning up in the fire of love while red and gold flames spurted around her.

"You actually think people would want to go in there?"

He chuckled, let his voice cruise deeper south. "Sugar, they'll trample each other to get in. And pay big for the chance."

"And if they do," she said, turning back to him, "you get a nice fat percentage."

"That's standard on development deals like this. Check with your man. He'll tell you."

"Mavis made her choice." She softened, noting that several guests were absorbed in the screen show. "I'd say she made a good one."

"We both did. I think we've got a hit," he told her. "And when we give them a taste of the show live and in the flesh – well, if the roof wasn't already off, we'd blow it off."

"You're not nervous?" She looked at him: confident eyes, cocky mouth. "No, you're not nervous."

"I've been playing for my supper for too many years. It's a job." He smiled at her, walked his fingers casually up her back. "You don't get nervous tracking killers. Revved, right? Psyched, but not nervous."

"Depends." She thought of what she was tracking now, and her stomach fluttered.

"No, you're steel. I could see that the first time I looked at you. You don't give, you don't back off. You don't flinch. It makes your brain, well your makeup, so to speak, a fascination. What drives Eve Dallas? Justice, revenge, duty, morality? I'd say it's a very unique combination of all of those, fueled by a conflict of confidence and self-doubt. You've got a strong sense of what's right, and you're constantly questioning who you are."

She wasn't sure she liked the turn of the conversation. "What are you, a musician or a shrink?"

"Creative people study other people; and music is a science as much as an art, an emotion as much as a science." His silvery eyes stayed on hers as he guided her smoothly around other couples. "When I design a series of notes, I want it to affect people. I have to understand, even study human nature if I'm to get the right reaction. How will this make them behave, make them think, make them feel?"

Eve spared an absent smile as William and Reea

"That's the surface. Just the surface." His eyes were excited, gleaming with it as he spoke. "Any music hack can run a theme through a computer and come out with a competent tune. The music business has gotten more and more ordinary and predictable because of technology."

Brows lifted, Eve glanced toward the screen, and Mavis. "I'd have to say I don't hear anything ordinary or predictable here."

"Exactly. I've put in time studying how tones, notes, and rhythms affect people, and I know what buttons to push. Mavis is a treasure. She's so open, so malleable." He smiled when Eve's eyes hardened. "I meant that as a compliment, not that she's weak. But she's a risk taker, a woman who's willing to strip herself down and become a vessel for the message."

"The message is?"

"Depends on the mind of the audience. The hopes and dreams. I wonder about your dreams, Dallas."

So do I, she thought, but she met his gaze blandly. "I'd rather stick with reality. Dreams are deceptive."

"No, no, they're revealing. The mind, and the unconscious mind in particular, is a canvas. We paint on it constantly. Art and music can add such colors, such style. Medical science has understood that for decades and uses it to treat and study certain conditions, both psychological and physiological."

She angled her head. Was there another message here? "You sound more like a scientist than a musician now."

"I've blended. One day, you'll be able to pick a song personally designed for your own brain waves. The mood enhancement capabilities will be endless and intimate. That's the key. Intimacy."

She sensed he was making a pitch and stopped dancing. "I wouldn't think it would be cost effective. And research into technology designed to analyze and coordinate with individual brain waves is illegal. For good reason. It's dangerous."

"Not at all," he disagreed. "It's liberating. New processes, any sort of real progress usually starts out as illegal. As for the cost, it would be high initially, then come down as the design was adjusted for mass production. What's a brain but a computer, after all? You have a computer analyze a computer. What could be simpler?"

He glanced over at the screen. "That's the intro for the last number. I've got to check my equipment before my cue." He leaned in, kissed her cheek lightly. "Wish us luck."

"Yeah, luck," she murmured, but her stomach was knotted.

What was a brain but a computer? Computers analyzing computers. Individualized programs designed for personal brain wave patterns. If it was possible, would it be possible to add suggestive programs linked directly with the user's brain? She shook her head. Roarke would never have approved it. He wouldn't have taken such a foolish risk. But she made her way through the crowd to him, laid a hand on his arm.

"I need to ask you a question," she said quietly. "Have any of your companies been doing under-the-table research on designing VR for personal brain wave patterns?"

"That's illegal, Lieutenant."

"Roarke."

"No. There was a time when I would have ventured into any number of not essentially legal areas in business. That wouldn't have been one of them. And no," he added, anticipating her. "That VR model is universally, not individually designed. Only the programs can be personalized by the user. What you're talking about is cost prohibitive, logistically tangled, and simply too damn much trouble."

"Okay, that's what I figured." Her muscles relaxed. "But can it be done?"

He paused a moment, then lifted his shoulder. "I have no idea. You'd have to have the individual's cooperation or access to a brain scan. That also involves personal approval and consent. And then… I have no idea," he repeated.

"If I can get Feeney alone – " She swiveled her head, trying to find the electronics detective in the whirling crowd.

"Take the evening off, Lieutenant." Roarke slipped an arm around her. "Mavis is about to get her spotlight."

"Okay." She forced herself to push the worry to the back of her mind as Jess settled at his console and gave an introductory riff. Tomorrow, she promised herself and led the applause as Mavis spun onto the floor.

Then the worry was gone, melted away by the blast of Mavis's energy and her own wild pleasure as lights, music, and showmanship combined in a dizzy kaleidoscope.

"She's good, isn't she?" She was unaware she'd gripped Roarke's arm like a mother with a child in the school play. "Different, weird, but good."

"She's all of that." The clashing edge of notes, sound effects, and vocals would never be his music of choice, but he found himself gri