Death Match

Obsoletes, Lash thought to himself. Eden-speak for disqualified candidates. Guess that makes me an obsolete, too.

“Dr. Lash, we should have the results back by midmorning tomorrow. We’ll meet then, run them by your profile.” Mauchly checked his watch. “It’s almost five. Why don’t you two head home. We’ve got a long day tomorrow. Tara, if you wouldn’t mind taking Dr. Lash through the checkpoint, make sure he doesn’t get lost on the way out?”

By the time they pushed through the revolving doors onto the street, it was quarter past five. Lash stopped at the fountain to button his coat. The clamor of Manhattan, almost forgotten in the hushed spaces of the Eden tower, reasserted itself with a vengeance.

“I don’t see how anyone could get used to that,” Lash said. “Going through those checkpoints, I mean.”

“You can get used to anything,” Tara replied, slinging a satchel over one shoulder. “See you tomorrow.”

“Hold on a minute!” Lash trotted to keep up with her. “Where are you going?”

“Grand Central. I live in New Rochelle.”

“Really? I live in Westport. Let me drop you off.”

“That’s okay, thanks.”

“Then let me buy you a drink before you head home.”

Tara stopped and looked at him. “Why?”

“Why not? It’s a thing coworkers do sometimes. In civilized countries, I mean.”

Tara hesitated.

“Humor me.”

She nodded. “Okay. But let’s go to Sebastian’s. I don’t want to catch anything later than the 6:02.”

Sebastian’s was a sprawl of white-covered tables on the upper level of Grand Central, overlooking the main passenger terminal. The cavernous space had been completely restored in recent years, and was more beautiful than Lash ever remembered seeing it: creamy walls rising to a ceiling of groined vaults, green spandrels, and constellations of glittering mosaic. The voices of countless commuters, the squawk of the dispatch loudspeaker calling out arrivals and departures, mingled together in an oddly pleasing patchwork of background noise.

The two were shown to a small table perched directly in front of the railing. Within moments, a waiter bustled up. “What can I get you?” he asked.

“I’ll have a Bombay martini, very dry, with a twist,” Tara said.

“A vodka Gibson, please.” Lash watched the waiter thread his way back through the tables, then turned to Tara. “Thanks.”

“For what?”

“For not ordering one of those horrible martinis du jour. Somebody I was dining with the other week ordered an apple martini. Apple. What an abomination.”

Tara shrugged. “I don’t know.”

Lash looked over the railing at the streams of commuters. Tara was silent, twisting a cocktail napkin between the fingers of one hand. He looked back at her. Hazy light slanted down, catching the gentle curve of her auburn hair. Her eyes, framed by perfect high cheekbones, looked serious.

“Want to tell me what’s up?” he asked.

“Up with what?”

“With you.”

She wrapped the napkin around one finger, twisted it tight. “I agreed to a drink, not a psychiatric session.”

“I’m not a psychiatrist. Just a guy trying to get a job done, with your help. Only you don’t seem too eager to help.”

She glanced up at him for a minute, then returned her attention to the napkin.

“You seem preoccupied. Disinterested. That doesn’t bode well for our working relationship.”

“Our temporary working relationship.”

“Exactly. And the better we work together, the more temporary it will be.”

She dropped the napkin on the table. “You’re wrong. I’m not disinterested. It’s been — a rough couple of days for me.”

“Then why don’t you tell me about it?”

Tara sighed, her gaze wandering toward the soaring vault overhead.

“I’m buying. It’s the least you can do.”

Their drinks arrived, and they sipped a moment in silence.

“Okay,” Tara said. “No reason you shouldn’t know, I guess.” She took another sip. “I didn’t learn about any of this until yesterday, when Mauchly called to tell me I’d be your liaison while you were inside the Wall. That’s when he told me about the problem.”

Lash remained silent, listening.

“The only thing is, just this Saturday, I got the nod from Eden.”

“The nod?”

“That’s what we call getting notification your match has been found.”

“Your match? You mean that you…” He stopped.

“Yeah. I’d been a candidate.”

Lash stared at her. “I thought Eden employees weren’t allowed to be candidates.”

“That’s always been the policy. But a few months ago they started a pilot program to phase in employee applicants, based on merit and seniority. In a pool with other Eden employees, not the general pool.”

Lash sipped his drink. “I’m not sure I see why the policy was needed in the first place.”

“The staff shrinks recommended it from day one. They called it the ‘Oz effect.’”

“As in, pay no attention to the man behind the curtain?”

“Exactly. They thought employees wouldn’t make desirable candidates. See, we know too much of what goes on, how things go on, behind the scenes. They thought we’d be cynical.” Then she leaned toward him suddenly, an intensity in her face he hadn’t seen before. “But you have no idea what it’s like, day after day. Bringing people together. Sitting in the dark behind one-way glass, watching couples at class reunions talk about how wonderful everything had become. How Eden changed their lives, completed their lives. I mean, if you’ve already got someone and you’re happy, maybe you can rationalize. But if you don’t…” She let the sentence hang in the air, unfinished.

“You’re right,” Lash said. “I don’t have any idea what it’s like.”

“I carried that letter around with me all weekend. I must have read it a hundred times. Matt Bolan, in our biochemistry section, was the match. I’ve never met him, but I’d heard the name. They’d made a di

“In the Village. Beautiful place.”

“Especially this time of year.” For a moment, Tara’s expression brightened. Then it clouded again. “Then, first thing yesterday, I get the call from Mauchly. He tells me about the supercouples, the double suicides. Would I be kind enough to shepherd you around.”

“And?”

“And right before I meet you, I send an email to the Applications Committee withdrawing my name as a candidate.”

“What?”

Tara’s eyes blazed. “How was I supposed to go ahead, knowing what I know? And worse, what I don’t know?”

“What are you saying? That the application process is flawed?”

“I don’t know what I’m saying!” she cried. Frustration brought an edge to her voice. “Can’t you see? The process can’t be flawed, I work with it every day, I see it perform miracles over and over. But then, what happened to those two couples?”

As quickly as it came, the violent emotion dissipated. Tara sank back. “Anyway, how can I go forward now? If Eden is about anything, it’s about lifetime commitment to a relationship. Can I begin such a relationship with a secret I can never reveal?”

The question hung in the air. Tara lifted her drink.

“There you have it,” she said with a dry laugh. “I’ve had a lot on my mind. Happy now?”

“I feel anything but happy.”

“Just please don’t bring it up again. I’ll be fine.”

The waiter reappeared. “Another round?”

“Not for me,” Lash said. The cocktail might have been a mistake: tired as he was, he’d probably fall asleep at the wheel halfway home.

“Me neither,” Tara said. “I’ve got to catch my train.”

“Just the check, please,” Lash told the waiter.

Tara watched the man recede toward the bar, then looked back at Lash. “All right. Your turn. I heard you tell Dr. Silver that your orientation was cognitive behavioral.”