Death Match

“So you realize the seriousness of this offense.”

Lash nodded again, embarrassed. Tara, stickler for protocol, would never let him live this down. He hoped she wouldn’t get in trouble; after all, Mauchly had put her in charge of—

“We’re going to have to keep you here until we’ve pulled your security history. If you already have a warning on your record, I’m afraid you’ll be brought before the termination review board.”

The security officer at the workstation looked up. “There’s no Christopher Lash in the Human Resources files.”

“Did we get your name right?” the officer with the evidence bag said.

“Yes, but—”

“I’m showing a Christopher S. Lash as a prospective client,” the officer at the terminal said, typing again. “Went through applicant testing last Sunday, September twenty-sixth.” He stopped typing. “The application was rejected.”

“Is that you?” the first officer asked.

“Yes, but—”

Immediately, the atmosphere in the room changed. The first officer stepped toward him quickly. Several others, including the one with the Taser, closed ranks behind him.

Christ, Lash thought, this is getting awkward. “Look,” he began again, “you don’t understand—”

“Sir,” the first officer said, “please keep silent. I’ll ask the questions.”

The door opened and another man stepped in. He was tall, and his shoulders were so broad the blond head atop them seemed too small for its body. As he came forward with an almost military bearing, the others stepped back deferentially. He wore a dark business suit, plainly cut. His eyes were an unusual shade of emerald green. He seemed vaguely familiar, but in his confused state it took Lash a moment to place him. Then he remembered: he’d glimpsed the man briefly, standing in the hallway during Handerling’s interrogation.

“What have you got?” the man said. His voice was clipped, accentless.

“This gentleman tried to slip concealed documents past the checkpoint.”

“What’s his department and rank?”

“He’s not an employee, Mr. Sheldrake. He’s a rejected client.”

The man’s eyebrows shot up. “Indeed?”

“He just admitted to it.”

Sheldrake stepped forward, crossed one massive arm over the other, and regarded Lash with curiosity. There was no look of recognition: it was clear he hadn’t seen Lash at the interrogation. The man uncrossed his arms again and drew back his suit jacket at the waist. Lash saw he was wearing a service belt, complete with automatic weapon, handcuffs, and radio. Plucking the ASP baton from his belt, Sheldrake extended it to full length.

“Crandall,” he muttered. “Look at this.” And he raised Lash’s sleeve with the nubby metal end of the baton, exposing the security bracelet.

The first officer — the one named Crandall — frowned in surprise. “How’d you get that? And what were you doing inside the secure perimeter?”

“I’m a temporary consultant.”

“You just admitted to being a rejected client.”

Lash cursed the secrecy under which he’d been brought in. “Yes, I know. But going through the application process was part of my assignment. Look, just ask Edwin Mauchly. He hired me.”

In the background he could hear more radio chatter. One of the security guards was pawing through his satchel. “Eden doesn’t hire temporary consultants. And they certainly aren’t allowed inside the Wall.” Sheldrake turned toward one of the others. “Alert the security posts, all down the line. We’re going to Condition Beta. Get an analyzer over here, see if the bracelet was tampered with.”

“Right away, Mr. Sheldrake.”

This was ridiculous. Why weren’t his more recent records appearing, the records of his successful match? “Look,” Lash said, standing, “I told you to speak with Mauchly—”

“Sit down!” Crandall pushed him roughly back into the seat. Another guard — the one with the Taser — stepped closer. Yet another opened a metal closet and pulled out a long, rake-like implement with a half-circle bolted to one end. Lash had seen the implement many times in the past: it was used to pin uncooperative psychiatric patients against a wall.

He licked his lips. What had been first embarrassing, then a

“Doing what?” Sheldrake asked.

“That’s confidential.”

“If that’s the way you want to play it.” Sheldrake glanced over his shoulder. “See what doctor’s on call, get him in here. And call the security desk, alert the duty chiefs.”

“I’m telling you the truth,” Lash said. “You can ask Silver if you don’t believe me. He knows all about it.”

Sheldrake’s lips curled into a faint smile. “Richard Silver?”

“He knows all about it,” Crandall added. “Nobody’s seen the guy for a year, and he knows all about it.”

“I’ll go speak with him myself.” And Lash began to stand again.

Crandall shoved him back into the seat again. Another security officer stepped forward, and together they pi

“Get the restraints,” Sheldrake said mildly. “And Stemper, use that Taser. I want this guy pacified.”

The guard with the stun device stepped forward. “Back on my signal,” Crandall muttered to the guard on the far side of the chair.

At that moment, the door opened and Mauchly stepped in.

“What’s going on?” he demanded.

Sheldrake looked around, stopped. “This man says he knows you, Mr. Mauchly.”

“He does.” Mauchly came forward. Lash began to rise, but Mauchly stayed him with a suppressing gesture. “What happened, exactly?” he asked Sheldrake.

“The man attempted to exit the secure perimeter with these in his possession.” Sheldrake nodded at Crandall, who handed the evidence bag to Mauchly.

Mauchly opened it, read the titles on the binders. “I’ll hang on to these,” he said.

“Very good, sir,” said Crandall.

“And I’ll take possession of Dr. Lash, as well.”

“You sure that’s a good idea?” Sheldrake asked.

“Yes, Mr. Sheldrake.”

“Then I release him to your custody.” He turned to Crandall. “Mark that in the duty log.”

Mauchly picked up the satchel, nodded for Lash to stand. “Come on, Dr. Lash,” he said. “This way.” And as they left the room, Lash could hear Sheldrake on the phone, telling the security teams that the alarm was being canceled and they should stand down from Condition Beta.

Out in the hall, Mauchly closed the unmarked door behind them, then turned. “What were you thinking, Dr. Lash?”

“I guess I wasn’t thinking at all, actually. I’m rather tired. Sorry about that.”

Mauchly looked at Lash a moment longer. Then he nodded slowly. “I’ll have these returned to your office,” he said, indicating the binders. “They’ll be waiting for you Monday morning.”

“Thank you. What did that guard mean by Condition Beta?”

“This building employs four status codes: Alpha, Beta, Delta, and Gamma. Condition Alpha is normal operation. Beta is heightened alert. Delta is in case of evacuation, fire and so forth.”

“And Gamma?”

“Catastrophic emergencies only. Never invoked, of course.”

“Of course.” Lash realized he was babbling. He wished Mauchly a pleasant weekend and turned away.

“Dr. Lash,” Mauchly said quietly.

Lash turned back. Mauchly was holding out his satchel.

“You might want to use Checkpoint I, on the third floor,” he said. “The guards here are liable to be a little, ah, excitable for a while.”

THIRTY-TWO

Assistant district attorney Frank Piston shifted morosely in the wooden chair. He’d have given just about anything, he decided, to get his hands on the sadist who purchased the furniture for the Sullivan County Superior Court. Just ten minutes — even five — in a dark alley would suffice to make his feelings on the matter clear. He’d been in dozens of courtrooms, judges’ chambers, law offices in the five-story building. Each one had the same bony chairs with flat institutional seats, backs sporting little knobs in all the wrong places. Here in the hearing room of the Board of Pardons and Paroles, it was no different.