Pamela Flood. She had called not an hour before, using the cell number on the card he’d given her, apologized for her curtness that morning, and asked whether she could buy him a drink.
They shook hands and sat down. A barmaid came over, with a weathered face and arms muscular enough to have spent a decade or two before the mast. “What’ll it be?” she asked him.
Logan glanced over at what Ms. Flood was drinking. “Another Sam Adams, please.”
“You got it.” And the woman walked off into the gloom.
“Thanks for coming,” Pamela Flood said. The smile had not left her face.
“Thanks for inviting me, Ms. Flood.”
“Please. Call me Pam. And I want to apologize again for the way I practically threw you out this morning.”
“It’s all right. I’ve been thrown out of better places.” And they both laughed.
His beer arrived and Logan raised the glass. “So architecture runs in the family.”
“My great-grandfather and grandfather were architects. My father was a lawyer.”
“Don’t tell me—the family pariah.”
“Something like that.” She laughed again. “I was building houses out of Legos at age two. Spent my entire childhood growing up around building plans and plats and construction sites. It never entered my head to do anything else.” She took a sip of her beer. “Look. Almost as soon as you left this morning, I began feeling like a complete idiot. And then a few minutes later I realized where I’d seen your face before—on the cover of People magazine—and felt even worse. So I thought the very least I could do was buy you a drink, tell you why I acted the way I did, and find out what it was you came to see me about.”
Logan sipped his beer. “I’m all ears.”
“It’s just that…” She hesitated. “Well, you aren’t the first person to come around, wanting to see those blueprints.”
“Really?” Logan sat up. “Tell me about it.”
“It was about six months ago. The doorbell rang and I answered it. There was a man standing outside. I knew right away he wasn’t a potential client.”
“How?”
“When you’ve done as many building projects as I have, you just know. Anyway, he started in asking about the original plans for Lux. Said he would pay money, quite a lot of money, for a look at them. Something about him gave me a bad vibe. I said the plans weren’t available anymore. But he wouldn’t leave, wouldn’t take no for an answer. Just stayed on my doorstep, asking where they were, how he could get them, demanding to know who he needed to pay. For a minute I thought he was going to force his way in and search the house. Finally, I closed the door in his face.”
“Did he say who he represented?” Logan asked.
“He gave me a business card. Some firm I’d never heard of, Iron Fist or something. I think I threw it into the trash first thing.”
“What did the man look like?”
She thought for a moment. “I can’t give you many specifics. It was late winter, he wore sunglasses and a hat, and he kept the collar of his coat up around his neck. About your height, but beefier.” She paused to take another sip of her beer. “But it was his behavior more than his appearance that gave me the creeps. He was just short of threatening. I almost called the cops—but what hard evidence did I have? And then, for a couple of weeks afterward, I had this strange sensation I was being followed. Nothing I could be sure about—just a feeling.”
“And that’s why you gave me the bum’s rush. Can’t say I blame you.”
“But everything’s been normal for months now. He never came back. I had no reason to act that way.”
The nearby panes of glass shivered under the blast of an approaching boat horn. “Why don’t you tell me why you want to see the building plans for Dark Gables?” she asked. “I mean, they have copies of the plans at Lux. They’re the ones we worked from in refitting the West Wing.”
Logan rolled the glass between his hands, stalling for a little extra time.
“Does it have to do with Will Strachey’s death?” she prompted.
Logan looked at her quizzically.
“You must know that I worked with him on the plans for the West Wing revision.”
“Yes.”
“A tragedy. He was such a nice man.”
“How was he to work with?”
“Great. Except that he became something of an enthusiast. He wanted to understand every last architectural detail.”
“How did he seem to you over the last several weeks?”
“I couldn’t say. I haven’t seen him in almost three months.”
“Isn’t that unusual? I mean, you worked with him on the refitting of the wing.”
She shrugged. “Once the major structural work was complete, he brought in a general contractor to oversee the day-to-day details. So, anyway: what does this have to do with poor Willard’s death?”
“I can’t comment on that, except to say that my interest in the plans is only tangentially related.” He paused. He could make something up, of course. But, though he barely knew Pamela Flood, instinct told him that the truth—or at least a subset of the truth—would probably yield better results. “It’s rather sensitive,” he said. “Lux is a very private outfit.”
“Oh, I’m good at keeping my mouth shut. You’d be surprised how many secrets people want built into their houses.”
“As it happens, that’s exactly what I’m looking into—a secret. You see, we’ve stumbled upon a very unusual architectural detail inside the mansion.”
Now it was her turn to look quizzical. “A detail?”
“One that’s remained hidden for years. It isn’t shown on any of the blueprints in the Lux files. So naturally I was curious as to whether your great-grandfather—who probably kept a more complete set of plans—could shed any more light on things.”
“A detail,” she said again. “How mysterious.” She finished her beer. “Tell you what. Fact is, I do have my great-grandfather’s files—including the original plans and specifications for Dark Gables. If you can come by the office sometime—say, the day after tomorrow—we can look them over together. How about it?”
Logan drained his own glass. “Just name the time,” he said.
20
“Yes, I saw him,” Roger Carbon said. “It’s no secret.”
“When was this, exactly?” Logan asked. The two men were sitting around a table in the capacious lab suite that Dr. Carbon shared with another scientist.
“Perhaps ten minutes before he died, as near as I can make out. It was in the first-floor corridor, not far from the central staircase. Under escort, as I recall.”
“Being taken to the visitor’s library,” Logan said, more to himself than Carbon. He’d already spoken to the guards who’d undertaken this—they knew nothing of value. He glanced at the evolutionary psychologist. “Did he say anything?”
“He was too busy frothing at the mouth.”
This was in exceedingly bad taste, but Logan didn’t rise to the bait. He was near the end of the list of Lux employees and Fellows whom he’d planned to interview about Strachey, and—knowing it wouldn’t be pleasant—had put Carbon off to the end. “That made you one of the last to see him alive.”
“I suppose so.”
“Roger, I wonder. You’re a psychologist. Do you have any theories about what might have happened to Dr. Strachey?”
“I’m an evolutionary psychologist. I’m not a diagnostician.”
“So you refuse to even hazard a guess as to the underlying cause?”
Carbon expelled a put-upon sigh. “Very well. To put it in the most technical of terms: Willard went barmy.”
Logan frowned. “In the most technical of terms.”
“It happens, you know. Perhaps more frequently to brilliant scientists than to others. Even brilliant scientists who are—shall we say—past their prime.”
“Speaking of that, Perry Maynard told me it was you who advocated for Dr. Strachey to be put i
n charge of the West Wing renovation.”
Carbon did not reply to this. He merely rubbed his Freud-like beard.
“You seem to enjoy meddling in the affairs of Lux residents,” Logan said.
“If you’re referring to my efforts to get you ousted, that was nothing personal. Your work was pseudoscience, smoke and mirrors, below Lux’s standards. In the case of Willard, I saw a piece of slowly vegetating human matériel that could be put to better use.”
“Why the West Wing?”
“Why not? It was a job that needed doing. Although, had I known he was about to crack, I wouldn’t have suggested it.” He shook his head. “All that nattering about ‘voices in the dark.’ ”
Logan glanced up. “When was this?”
“When he went past me, of course.”
“I thought you told me he didn’t say anything.”
“He didn’t say anything to me. He was just raving.”
Logan looked at him speculatively.
“You don’t think I’m responsible, somehow? What—you think Willard blamed me for putting him in charge of the West Wing…a resentment that eventually pushed him over the edge? Ludicrous.”
“I didn’t say that,” Logan replied.
“If you’re looking for a scalp to collect, go chat up that Grecian assistant of his. She’s had her eye on his chair from her first bloody day in the place.”
“I already have.” Logan stood up. “Good day, Roger.”
“Close the door on your way out,” Carbon said, rising as well, turning his back, and heading for his desk. “And don’t slip on any ectoplasm.”
As Logan was leaving, a woman appeared in the other doorway of the suite. “Dr. Logan? Do you have a minute?”
“Of course.” Logan stepped into a lab on whose large desk sat no less than three computers and four flat-panel monitors. A nearby rack contained at least half a dozen blade servers. “Good lord. Do you work with them, or repair them?”
The woman smiled. Then she closed the door and gestured Logan to a seat. “I work with them. I’m an electrical engineer, with a specialty in quantum computing.”
Logan nodded. The woman—whom he had seen once or twice at dinner—was young, very thin, with arresting raven hair and deep-set eyes. Her movements were sharp and abrupt, like a bird’s. Although she was still smiling pleasantly, she seemed to be cloaked in an invisible veil of melancholy.
She sat down in a nearby chair. “I’m sorry. My name is Laura Benedict. I asked you in because I couldn’t help overhearing your conversation with Roger. I wanted to apologize for his behavior.”
“Thanks, but that really wasn’t necessary.”
“Roger is an exceptional scientist, but he’s also like the schoolyard bully who never grew up. He still likes to pull the wings off flies.
“It sounds like he didn’t get along with Willard Strachey.”
“They certainly weren’t the best of friends. But then, Roger rubs a lot of people the wrong way.” She looked at him with her penetrating eyes. “Nobody’s actually made an announcement, but I can guess why you’re here. You’re looking into Will’s death, right?”
“Yes.” Logan paused. “Did you say your name was Laura Benedict?”
The woman nodded.
“As it happens, you and Dr. Carbon were the last on my list of people to interview.”
Laura Benedict looked at him inquiringly.
“Forgive me, but I have to ask. On the afternoon following Willard Strachey’s death, you were seen on a bench overlooking the ocean, hugging yourself, rocking back and forth. The person who logged the incident said that at one point you stood up and walked toward the cliffs at the edge of the ocean. You seemed so…well, so distraught that they were about to call security. But then you returned to the bench, and…”
As Logan spoke, the woman’s eyes filled with tears. She began sobbing, quietly at first, and then more loudly. It didn’t take a sensitive such as Logan to see that the woman was grief stricken. Uncomfortable at the reaction he’d precipitated, Logan fell silent.
After a minute or two, the woman collected herself. “I’m sorry,” she said, wiping her eyes with a tissue. “I thought I was over the worst of it.”
“It’s my fault,” Logan said. “Had I known, I wouldn’t have—”
“No,” the woman said, sniffling. “No, I have to learn to deal with it.” She got a fresh tissue, blew her nose with shaking hands. “There’s no mystery. I was beside myself with grief. Will was…he took me under his wing when I first came to Lux. It can be a pretty intimidating place, you know; the brainpower here is almost incandescent.” She smiled through her tears. “Will was so patient, so helpful. He was my mentor. No, more than that. He was like a father to me.” Her hands began trembling again and she reached for another tissue.
“I didn’t know him well myself, during my own brief tenure here a decade ago, but he always struck me as a kind and gentle person.” Logan paused. “Do you have any idea what could have caused such a change in him?”
Laura Benedict shook her head, wiped her eyes again. “I hadn’t seen much of him these past few weeks. I’ve been preparing a paper I’m presenting at the next meeting of the Society of Quantum Engineering, and it’s been consuming all my time. But he always had time for me—I should have found time for him. I keep thinking that if only I’d spoken with him, heard him out, that maybe…maybe…”
“That’s survivor guilt talking. You mustn’t think like that.” Logan did not want to intrude on this woman’s grief any longer. It was clearly still too raw. “One last question—and, again, I hope you’ll forgive my asking. When you were seen walking toward the cliffs, were you…?” Finding himself unable to frame the words, he fell silent again.
“Was I going to fling myself in? No. That’s not me. Besides, I have a paper to present—remember?” Another smile, but it was a wan smile, as before.
“Thank you for being honest at a difficult time, Dr. Benedict.” And Logan rose. “And thanks also for the words about Carbon.”
Laura Benedict rose as well. Her eyes looked a little bruised and red, but at least they were now dry. “If he gives you any more trouble, let me know. For some reason, he’s a pussycat around me.”
—
Back in his rooms, Logan entered some notes on these two interviews into an encrypted file on his computer—a paragraph on Laura Benedict, several on Roger Carbon. Now that he had spoken to everybody on his initial list, he read over their brief dossiers one more time. Then he created a spreadsheet, also encrypted, and entered each name and a small comment on why they had been chosen for questioning. Then he sorted the names into various groups. One group, including people like Ian Albright and Kim Mykolos, comprised those who had worked with Strachey. Another group, which included Roger Carbon, consisted of people who had witnessed Strachey’s strange behavior in the days leading up to his suicide. And then there was the final group: those, such as Terence McCarty, the linguist, whom Carbon had labeled “the others.” There were five names in this last group. One was Laura Benedict, and Logan put an asterisk beside her name—her behavior had stemmed from simple grief.
The remaining four were interesting. Three were scientists in residence; one was an administrator. None had been eager to talk about their experiences, some less so than others. Two had reported seeing or smelling things that turned out either to be not there at all, or to be grossly different from reality. Three of the four said that they had briefly felt compelled to do unusual or uncharacteristic things. All four had heard music or voices, or a combination of the two.
Logan knew that paracusia, or auditory hallucinations, could be a side effect of many things: sleep disorders, psychoses, epilepsy, encephalitis. But the chances of four people in such a small sampling, all suffering such mental or physical illness, was vanishingly small. Besides, people with musical hallucinations almost invariably heard tunes they were familiar with, which was not the case here—Logan had made it a point to ask. Nor we
re the voices of the standard types: argumentative or narrative or the loud noises common with exploding head syndrome. Instead, the voices all four had heard were whispered.
“Visions” and “strange compulsions” were terms that had come up frequently. All the incidents had begun six to eight weeks earlier. In all four cases, the people were aware that the phenomena, the aberrant behaviors, were not normal; and in all of the cases, the phenomena had ceased abruptly—usually, weeks before Strachey’s death—and not returned.
There was one other commonality—one that was of particular interest. Cross-checking his notes on the four individuals, a pattern emerged. All four who’d been affected either lived or worked in the vicinity of the West Wing.
The West Wing. It was, Logan sensed, bound up inextricably with the circumstances of Strachey’s death. And now, he thought he was beginning to understand why.
21
Late that same afternoon, Logan steered his Lotus Elan coupe from Carroll Avenue right onto Ocean, downshifting smoothly as he made the turn. What had started out as a foggy, drizzly day had turned at least temporarily bright and warm, and Logan had the hardtop’s windows down: the breeze coming in from Hazard’s Beach on the left filled the car with a deliciously salty smell.
While Lux could provide just about everything in the way of edibles—their meals were first-rate, and a small café was open from 10 a.m. to 8 p.m. if anyone grew hungry in off hours—they did not serve PG Tips tea, a habit he’d developed while doing graduate work in England and never been able to shake. So he’d driven into town to pick up a box, and a few toiletries, from a gourmet food market on Pelham Street.
Now, as he drove back toward Lux, his thoughts returned to what Carbon had said about Kim Mykolos. If you’re looking for a scalp to collect, go chat up that Grecian assistant of his. She’s had her eye on his chair from her first bloody day in the place. This directly contradicted what Kim herself had told him about her relationship with Strachey. Odd…