The Forgotten Room

There was a pause during which a change slowly came over Mykolos. From a friendly, open, even playful young woman, she became visibly distraught. She pushed herself back from the desk. Logan felt her pushing back from him, as well.

“May I take hold of your hand for a moment?” he asked.

She frowned in surprise.

“If you don’t mind. It helps me get a better sense of the person I’m talking with. Sometimes I can understand things on a deeper level than with language alone.”

After a moment, she extended her hand. He took it gently in his.

“I know,” he said after a moment. “I know you’re trying to deal with a terrible thing in the best way you can. One way to do that is to pretend: act and speak lightly, avoid the issue. It’s a valid defense mechanism — for a time, anyway.”

Mykolos’s eyes filled with tears. Logan withdrew his hand. She turned away, reached into a tissue box, dabbed at her eyes. Perhaps a minute passed. Then she took a deep, shuddering breath and turned around to face him again.

“I’m all right,” she said. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be. You’ve been through something awful.”

“It’s just that…” She paused again, and for a moment Logan thought she might begin to weep. But she pulled herself together. “It’s just that Willard was such a kind man, such a gentle man. He loved his work. He loved Lux. And he loved me, too, I think — in a way.”

“So he wasn’t resentful — didn’t see you as someone who wanted his job.”

“No, no, nothing like that. I was a little afraid he might be, at first — it would be a natural enough reaction.” Mykolos sniffed, dabbed at her nose with a fresh tissue. “But he was genuinely interested in retasking Parallax for a broader market. And I think he felt that…well, that he’d done enough. He’d made several breakthroughs in relational database theory, created a very successful RDBMS of his own — that’s more than enough for any career. So while he remained interested in the work, remained dedicated to keeping Parallax the best it could be, he became less actively involved.”

“And what did the work consist of, exactly?”

Mykolos paused again. “It gets technical. Obfuscation, for example.”

“You mentioned that term before. What is it?”

“It’s a subset of reverse engineering. Making software difficult for competitors to decompile and figure out. Lux likes to get paid for Parallax — they don’t want to give it away. But really, much of what I ended up doing was code review. That, and helping him document his theories as they had developed and matured.”

“In other words, playing Boswell to his Johnson.”

Mykolos laughed softly despite the red eyes. “We were both playing his Boswell. Willard was proud of the work he’d done — really proud. So he wanted to chronicle it, not only for himself but for posterity. Or at least what passes for posterity here at Lux.”

“I see.” Logan thought for a moment. “So what about this other work he began a few months back? Overseeing the reconstruction and redesign of the West Wing?”

For a moment, a cloud passed over Mykolos’s face. “He didn’t say anything about it at first. Nothing negative, anyway. But then, that’s not his way — he’d never bad-mouth anyone or anything. But I could tell he wasn’t especially pleased. By that point, all he wanted was to complete his work, maybe reduce the number of weekly hours a bit so he could get in some sailing. But as time went by, he grew more and more interested. It involved a lot of architectural pla

“I understand he was working closely with the firm that originally built this structure.”

“Yes. Flood Associates.”

Logan took a deep breath. Now came the hard part. “Just one more question. Can you please tell me about the events leading up to Dr. Strachey’s attack on you?”

Mykolos remained silent.

“Take your time. Tell me in your own words.”

She plucked a fresh tissue from the box. “It came on so gradually I didn’t notice it right away. I guess it was the irritation first — he’d never acted irritated, ever; he was always the kindest person you can imagine. He’d never once raised his voice in the more than two years I worked for him. But he started to snap at people — secretaries, attendants — even me, once. And he began developing odd ma

“Odd in what way?”

“Waving his hands before his face, as if to push something away. Humming, the way you might if you were a kid, and someone you didn’t like refused to stop talking. And then…then there was the muttering.”

“I heard he was talking to himself. Did you hear any of what he said?”

“Until the last day or two it was pretty much under his breath. I don’t think he was aware of it himself. And what I did catch was nonsense, mostly.”

“Try me.”

Mykolos thought for a moment. “Things like: ‘Stop it. Stop it, I don’t want it. Go away. I won’t, you can’t make me.’ ”

“And then?” Logan prodded gently.

Mykolos licked her lips. “The last couple of days, things got abruptly worse. He closed the door to his office, began yelling, throwing things around. He wouldn’t speak to me. I’d see him walk by, abruptly clapping his hands over his ears. And then, last Thursday…he looked so agitated, so troubled, I came up, put a hand on his shoulder, asked if I could be of help in some way. He turned on me suddenly….” She paused. “Oh, my God, his face — it was so unlike him, purple, enraged, eyes wide and staring…but it wasn’t only rage, it was also despair, maybe helplessness…. He knocked my hand away, grabbed my shoulders, pushed me onto the desk…grabbed my neck, began choking me…. I picked up my keyboard, flung it in his face….”

She stood up. “He let go then. I ran behind my desk, picked up the phone, dialed the front desk, then Dr. Olafson’s office. A minute later, three lab assistants burst in and hauled Willard away. He was yelling and screaming at the top of his voice, kicking violently…and that was the last I ever saw of him.”

She turned back now and sat down again at her desk, breathing heavily.

“Thank you,” Logan said.

She nodded. A brief silence descended over the room.

“Please tell me something,” Mykolos said at last. “They say he committed suicide. But I don’t believe it.”

Logan said nothing.

“Please tell me. How did he die?”

Logan hesitated. The information, he knew, was being kept as quiet as possible. But this woman had helped him, to her own discomfort. “It isn’t supposed to be known.”

“I’m not going to tell anyone.”

Logan looked at her appraisingly. Then he said, “He used the heavy windows of the visitor’s library to decapitate himself.”

“He—” Mykolos’s hand flew to her mouth. “How awful.” Then she balled the hand into a fist. “No,” she said. “No, that couldn’t have been Willard.”

“What do you mean?”

“Something was obviously not right with him. He might have been sick — I don’t know. But he would never, ever have killed himself. He had too much to live for. He was the least rash person I’ve ever known. And…dignity was important to him. He would never have killed himself — especially not in that way.”

This brief speech was remarkably similar to what Olafson had said — and it was delivered with the same passion. “That’s why I’m back here,” Logan told her. “To try to understand what happened.”

Mykolos nodded a little absently. Then she glanced at him. “What do you mean: back here?”

“About ten years ago, I spent six months at Lux, doing research of my own.”

“Really? Six months is an odd length of time. Usually, research terms are measured in years.”

Logan regarded her again. Something about this young woman convinced him he could trust her — and that, in fact, she might be able to help him in ways he could not yet know. “I was asked to leave,” he said.

“Why?”

“You know Lux’s record as the nation’s oldest think tank. The respected position it holds among its peers.”