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Given that the assassination of Gabriel King had not been aimed at the MegaMall he must now be regretting that he had ever become involved in the investigation at all.
“You haven’t picked her up yet,” Charlotte said, slowly realizing that it wasn’t over yet. “You don’t even know where she is.” “We think we know where she’s going,” Hal replied. “She’s headed for Walter Czastka’s island.” “Not directly!” Charlotte said, her voice suddenly insistent. “Look at the tape, Hal! There’s a fifth intended victim—one she’s set out to hit before she gets to Czastka. His face is on the tape!” “If the tape has any significance,” Hal replied with reflexive skepticism. “It looks to me like a shoddy version of the dance of the seven veils!” He obviously had it set up on one of his screens, and he was playing it through.
Charlotte didn’t bother to congratulate him on his perspicacity. “Fast-forward to the severed head!” she said urgently. “Track the changes!” “I don’t think he’ll be able to reach her before we do,” Oscar Wilde said softly. “As slow as this glorified giant hoverfly is, I suspect that we’ve been given the fastest available track to the climax of the psychodrama. That’s the way it’s been pla
“I’ll try to get through to McCandless again,” Hal said. “I’ll alert the local police as well—and I’ll picture-search everyone who’s arrived on the island since our busy murderess left San Francisco.” Charlotte’s fingers were still resting on the rim of the keyboard, claiming it for her own, but Oscar Wilde put his hand on top of hers, gently insistent “I have to call Walter,” he said. “Hal will take care of McCandless.” Charlotte let Wilde take control of the comcon, although she felt, uncomfortably, that she should not be allowing her authority to slip away so easily. She, after all, was still the investigating officer. Oscar Wilde was only a witness. She no longer thought he was a murderer, but that didn’t affect the fact that he was the one who should only be along for the ride, if he had any entitlement to be here at all.
Wilde’s call was fielded by a sim, which looked considerably healthier than the real Walter Czastka.
“This is Oscar Wilde,” said the geneticist. “I need to talk to Walter. It’s extremely urgent.” “I’m not taking any calls at present,” said the simulacrum flatly.
“Don’t be ridiculous, Walter,” said Wilde impatiently. “I know you’re listening in. I know that the police have told you exactly what’s going on, even if you haven’t had the courtesy to acknowledge it. This is no time to go into a sulk.
We have to talk.” The sim flickered, and its image was replaced by Czastka’s actual face. “What do you want, Oscar?” he said, his voice taut with aggravation. “This is nothing to do with you.” “I’m afraid that you’re a player in this game whether you like it or not, Walter,” Wilde said soothingly. “I know it’s a nuisance, but we really do have to try to figure out why your natural son and next-door neighbor intends to kill you.” “I’m not in any danger and I don’t need protection,” said Walter in a monotone that was as replete with stubbor
“I don’t think Rappaccini’s motive is conventional, Walter,” said Wilde, “but the six intended victims of his murderous sequence certainly weren’t chosen at random. There must be some kind of co
“As I told your friends, Oscar,” Czastka said in a voice devoid of all emotion, “I don’t remember. Nobody remembers what they were doing a hundred and seventy years ago. Nobody. I have no memory of ever having met Maria Inacio. None.” Lies, thought Charlotte. He knows everything—but he’s determined not to let us in on the secret. It won’t work. Everything will come out, and everyone will know. Now that Rappaccini has recruited the vidveg as well as Wilde, everyone will be interested. That’s what Rappaccini intended.
“I’m not sure that I can believe that, Walter,” said Wilde, treading very softly indeed. “We forget almost everything, but we can always remember the things which matter most, if we try hard enough. This is something which matters, Walter. It matters now, and it mattered then. Are you certain that you don’t know the woman whose picture they showed you—the Inacio clone? The others all seemed to know her—perhaps you’ve met her too? She seems to have been born and raised on the island next to yours—perhaps you met her in Kauai.” “I can’t.” The word was delivered with such sudden bitterness and flaring anguish that Charlotte flinched.
Wilde didn’t react to the unexpected outburst. “What about you and Gustave Moreau, Walter?” he asked soothingly. “You obviously didn’t know that Moreau was Rappaccini, let alone that he was your son, but how did you get on with him as a neighbor? Was there some special hostility between you? Why did you describe him as a lunatic just now?” “I’ve hardly ever seen Moreau,” said Czastka, his a
“His island may be nearer to mine than any other, but it’s still way over the horizon. I may have bumped into him on Kauai a couple of times, but I never said more than half a dozen words to him. He has a reputation for eccentricity among the islanders, but so does every Creationist. I shouldn’t have echoed the opinion of the ignorant by calling him a lunatic just because I’ve got sick of hearing the jokes—you’d probably appreciate the humor in them, but I never have.
The Island of Dr. Moreau—get it? You’ve probably even read the damn thing. We all keep ourselves to ourselves out here—surely you understand that. All I want to do is to keep myself to myself. Do you get the message, Oscar? I don’t want protection from the UN police and I certainly don’t want you interfering in my business. I just want to be left alone.” There was a brief silence while Oscar Wilde paused for thought.