The Devil's Eye

by Jack McDevitt

  “I know.”

  “I mean, Chase, you’re gone all the time.”

  “I’m sorry, Ben. I can’t help that. It’s my job.”

  He took me into his arms. It was a bear hug, delicious because he meant it, disconcerting because I didn’t want it to go any further. He hung on to me, squeezed tight, his cheek against mine. “It’s not the only job in the world, you know. There are others.”

  “Ben, I like this job. I mean, I really like it.”

  “I know. But we don’t get to see each other for weeks at a time. Is that really what you want?” He released me, and I stepped back and looked into those puppy-dog brown eyes. All right, I know how this sounds. But the truth is my heart picked up, and I was damned if I knew what I wanted.

  When he was gone, I looked up Vicki Greene. Carmen, my AI, gave me the basic information. She was thirty-three years old, born on the other side of the continent, currently based in Andiquar. She’d written six wildly successful novels, of which three had won the coveted Tasker Award, given each year for the most outrageous horror novel. She had master’s degrees in history and mathematics, which struck me as an odd combination, and had been awarded an honorary doctorate the previous year by Tai Peng University.

  “What else, Carmen?”

  “Her most recent novel is Midnight and Roses, about a young woman who lives in a house where the attic opens out into different dimensions. But only after midnight.”

  “Okay.”

  “She’s prolific. Six novels in six years. Three of her novels have been converted into holocasts, and one, Love You to Death, into a musical.”

  “What do we have on her family?”

  “Her mother left her husband and ran off with a philosophy professor when Vicki was three. She has an older brother. The philosophy professor brought the family east to take a faculty position at Benneval College.” Benneval was two kilometers up the coast from Andiquar. “He died a few years ago. Apparently suffered from poor health his whole life.”

  “So does she have an avatar I could speak with?”

  “Wouldn’t Alex take offense if you got involved?”

  “I’d just be another reader. Talking to her about vampires.”

  “I see. Well, it doesn’t look as if it matters. She doesn’t maintain an avatar.”

  “You’re kidding. She’s a major-league writer, and she’s not in the program?

  “Apparently not.”

  That’s one of the odd things about avatars. You can go online, and you can talk to people across the ages who are effectively lost, people who were born, got married, had kids, provided a living, and did all the usual stuff. Their avatars are there, ready to talk to you about the time they cut down the elm, or the day Aunt Jenny fell into the creek. But a lot of the movers and shakers, you can’t find. (I should admit here that there’s a Chase Kolpath avatar. She looks pretty good, and she’s ready to discuss antiquities and some of the stuff I’ve done with Alex. But hardly anybody ever talks to it. I stopped checking the hit count years ago.)

  I also looked up Hassan Goldman, the name emblazoned on Greene’s shirt. I’d assumed it was a corporate logo, but it matched no company anywhere on Rimway. There were some individuals with the name, but none who seemed a likely candidate for putting it on a blouse. “So,” I asked, “what has she been doing recently?”

  “Ah, that’s what’s interesting. According to information put out by her publisher, she’s been on Salud Afar.”

  “Salud Afar?”

  “Yes.”

  Salud Afar was appropriately named. It was easily the most remote human world, thirty-one thousand light-years beyond Rimway. Out in the galactic boondocks. People generally thought about Rimway as being far out, the place on the edge of the Milky Way. But Salud Afar was the real outpost, located in empty-skies country, out there all by itself. For most of its history it had been months away from the closest human worlds. It had never joined the Confederacy.

  “Why was she on Salud Afar?” I asked.

  “Gathering material for a book, according to my best information. Or possibly just vacationing. The data is contradictory.”

  “Her next book is set on Salud Afar?”

  “The data is incomplete.”

  “What’s it about?”

  “No information there either. Only that she’s off chasing werewolves.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “That’s what it says. Chase, that’s a phrase used by people in the horror industry. It simply means somebody’s out taking time off.”

  Alex always insisted I take a few days to chase werewolves myself after an off-world mission. That was the official stance. In reality, when we got home after a flight, there was invariably a lot to do. So I’d show up as usual and take my vacation time at leisure.

  Rainbow Enterprises, as I’ve mentioned elsewhere, operated out of the country house in which Alex grew up. The area had been mostly forest then, along the banks of the Melony. A cemetery lay off the western perimeter. In fact, the house had been a retreat for hunters when Alex’s uncle Gabe lived there. Now, it’s surrounded by private homes and parks. There’s a church at the foot of Amity Avenue, two blocks away, and a sports complex a half mile east.

  It snowed the first night home. I’ve always liked snowstorms. Don’t get enough of them at our latitude, maybe one or two a year. Almost never anything heavy. This one was an exception. The neighborhood was buried. The cemetery had vanished, and the river was frozen.

  Because winter storms happen so seldom, nobody here has any kind of clearing device. Including Rainbow Enterprises. So I descended into my usual parking spot and climbed out into snowbanks up to my knees. I struggled through them to the front door. It was just after nine, and I could hear Alex upstairs in his office.

  Our usual routine was that Jacob, the AI, would inform him I’d arrived, and he’d say hello through the system. Then, an hour or so later, he’d wander down to greet me in person and give me the day’s assignments. This time he didn’t bother to call. A few minutes later, he started down the stairs. And stopped halfway. “Got a minute?” he asked.

  “Sure, Alex. Anything wrong?”

  “Yes.”

  Scary way to start a conversation. “What happened?”

  He came the rest of the way down, walked slowly into the main room, where we entertain, and lowered himself into a chair. “While we were gone, Rainbow picked up an unexpected deposit.”

  “Somebody gave us some money?”

  “Not some. A lot.”

  “And that’s bad? Who did it?”

  “Vicki Greene.”

  “What? Why?”

  “The statement doesn’t say. She just had it credited to our account. Four days ago.”

  Okay. She was going to hire us for something. “How much?”

  “Two million.”

  That took my breath away. It would have taken Ilena Crane’s Statement of Human Rights, the original document, to produce that kind of cash. “And she didn’t tell us why?”

  “No.”

  “Well, I guess we ought to call her again.”

  “I’ve tried.”

  “And—?”

  “Her AI says she’s relocated. Permanently.”

  “Where?”

  “‘That information is not presently available.’”

  “So she gave us a pile of money and took a walk?”

  “Apparently.”

  “Well, I’m sure we’ll hear from her.”

  “No doubt.”

  “Alex—”

  “Yes? I’m listening.”

  “She can’t be that hard to find.”

  “That’s what I thought. But you’re welcome to try.”

  “Jacob did a general search?”

  “He did.”

  Well, there is a privacy provision. If you don’t want to be listed in the register, you’re not listed. “Look, she’s certainly going to contact us. I suggest we just wait for her to make the next move.”


  He wasn’t happy. Alex likes to make money as much as the next guy, but he doesn’t like things hanging over his head.

  “You know,” I said, “what was that line about they’re all dead? Maybe we should check for accidents. Maybe she was involved in something that might have produced a few casualties?”

  “If that were the case, why contact us? She’d need a lawyer.”

  “That’s the best I can do.”

  “Anyhow, I looked into that possibility. There’s nothing, Chase. She’s not linked to anything I can find.”

  I sat looking around at the display cases. We had Markey Close’s reading lamp, and an early version of The Moravian Chronicles, and the gun Ivor Kaska had used to kill himself as the Kastians closed in. “She’s a pretty big name,” I said finally. “If she were involved in anything, she’d have had a hard time keeping it quiet.”

  “I agree.”

  “So”—I adopted my most reassuring manner—“nothing bad has happened. Except possibly in her mind.”

  “She has a brother in Carmahla. But he’s shut down, too. Doesn’t answer.”

  “That might mean she contacted him, and he’s keeping out of sight.”

  “It’s a possibility.”

  “Did you know she was on Salud Afar recently?”

  “I saw that. But the message she sent us on Belle originated in Andiquar. So she’s back home.”

  “Maybe the problem, whatever it is, happened on Salud Afar.”

  “It’s possible. We don’t get much news coverage from there.”

  “You want me to look for the brother? Or do you want to let it go until she contacts us?”

  He pushed back in his chair. “Let’s find the brother. Exactly what I was going to suggest.”

  “I’m on it,” I said. “Jacob.”

  “Yes, Chase?”

  “You heard the man. Contact every major hotel in the city. We’re trying to locate—What’s his name, Alex?”

  “Cory Greene.”

  “Let me know when you have something, Jacob.” I looked across at Alex. “Okay?”

  “Very good.”

  The AI needed about three seconds. “He’s in the Townsend.”

  “Ah.” Alex glowed. “Give us a channel.”

  “Open,” said Jacob.

  A young woman appeared in front of the Kaska gun case. She looked artificial. A construct. But these days you can never be sure. “How may I help you, sir?”

  “Would you put me through to Cory Greene, please? He’s a guest.”

  “One moment.” She vanished.

  I pushed my chair back so I wouldn’t be visible during the exchange.

  The construct reappeared. “Mr. Greene wishes to know who you are and why you wish to speak with him.”

  “Alex Benedict,” he said. “Please tell him it concerns his sister.”

  Cory Greene had the same dazed look Vicki had worn. He was a young, good-looking guy, except maybe his ears were a bit large. He wore a green pullover with a white collar. His hair was as black as hers, and he had the same intelligent deep-set eyes. Vicki gave nothing away to other women, but she looked tough-minded and not the sort of person you’d want for an enemy. The same was true of Cory.

  “I got a call from Vicki a few days ago,” Alex said. “I was away and couldn’t respond. Is she okay?”

  “Not really,” he said. “She’s gone.”

  “What do you mean gone?” Alex leaned forward. “Where is she?”

  “She’s had a mnemonic extraction.”

  A mind wipe. All conscious memory removed. Permanently.

  I heard the wind whispering in the trees. “When?”

  “Several days ago.” Cory bit his lip and looked off into the distance. “What did she say when she called you?”

  “Just that she needed help. She said, ‘They’re all dead.’ Do you have any idea what she might have been talking about?”

  “No. None. There’s nobody dead that I know of. Except her.” He was right about that. A mind wipe took you away and left the body alive. “Do you have any idea why she did it?”

  Alex frowned. “None. I was hoping you could tell me.”

  Cory’s eyes slid shut. “It makes no sense. She was having a wildly successful career. She had all the money she’d ever need. She had an army of guys to pick from.” His eyes opened and grew wide as if he’d just become aware of Alex. “Who are you exactly?” He sounded resentful.

  “I’m an antiquities dealer.”

  “An antiquities dealer.”

  “I’ve no idea why she contacted me.”

  “Did she tell you anything at all? Give you any idea what the problem was?”

  “No,” he said.

  They sat there, looking helplessly at each other. Finally, Cory threw up his hands. “Well, Mr. Benedict, I don’t know why she involved you, or what she expected you to do. And I don’t guess we’re going to get to ask her.”

  “Mr. Greene, I take it you didn’t know in advance she was going to do this?”

  “Of course not. I’d never have allowed it.” His voice trembled. “I didn’t even know anything was wrong.”

  “Had you seen her since she got back from Salud Afar?”

  “You know about that?”

  “It’s public knowledge.”

  “She called to let me know she was home. That was all.”

  “How’d she seem?”

  “I didn’t notice anything out of the ordinary.”

  Alex fell silent. He was staring out the window at a sky that was threatening more snow. “How did you find out?” he asked at last. “About the mind wipe?”

  “I got a message from her. Recorded before—”

  “What did she say? She must have offered some kind of explanation.”

  “I already told you I don’t know why. She said that her situation had become intolerable. But that was all. She said she couldn’t live with it.”

  “Was she in any kind of trouble that you know of?”

  “No. Not that I know about.”

  I was wondering whether her publisher had been informed. They weren’t going to be happy.

  “Have they let you see her?” asked Alex. “Since the procedure?”

  “No. They won’t let anyone near her.”

  I was trying to remember what they did with people after a mind wipe. She’d be given a new identity and a new set of memories. And she’d be cared for until she reacquired basic skills. Learned the language. Learned to walk. Her estate would be liquidated and the funds made available to her. And when she was ready, she’d be moved to a distant location. Nobody would be told where, and she’d start a whole new life.

  “She must have told someone why.”

  “If so, he hasn’t come forward.”

  It was a radical treatment, reserved for habitual criminals, for psychopaths beyond the reach of therapy, and for those who wanted to leave their lives behind and start fresh. It was an expensive last resort, still opposed by a sizable portion of the population on moral, ethical, and religious grounds. I was inclined to agree. It’s hard to see how it’s any different from suicide. Vicki Greene had ceased to exist.

  “Where is she now?”

  “At St. Thomas Psychiatric. Why do you ask?”

  “Would it be okay with you if I went over?”

  “Why? What’s the point? They won’t let you see her.”

  “I’d like to talk to her doctors.”

  His eyes took on a hostile glint. But he nodded. “Do as you like. I couldn’t get anything out of them.”

  “Thank you. By the way, is there any kind of memorial planned?”

  “Yes. Day after tomorrow.”

  “May I come?”

  “Why? What’s your interest in this?”

  “Mr. Greene, she called me. And I should inform you she transferred a substantial sum of money to me. With no explanation.”

  “That’s crazy. How much?”

  “I think she wanted me to do som
ething for her. I’d like you to help me find out what that might be.”

  THREE

  The mind is a private room, fully furnished with a brain, that may or may not be functional; with passions, ideology, superstitions, and delusions. And a given level of decency. It is a point of view, a perspective, a coming together of everything that makes us human. It is who we are. Once let someone else in, and we are never the same.

  —Love You to Death

  St. Thomas was a care center for people with psychiatric disorders. It was located twenty kilometers north of Andiquar, in a small suburb at the foot of a mountain. It consisted of a drab, square, two-story building wrapped around a domed courtyard. We arrived at midmorning. People were out on the grounds as we descended, some walking, others playing board games. One or two were reading.

  We descended onto a pad, between snowbanks, and I shut off the engine. Alex sat staring out at the front entrance, at the large white sign marked ST. THOMAS PSYCHIATRIC, and sighed.

  We climbed out, got onto a cleared walkway, and went inside. The interior was more like a private home than a medical facility. The reception area seemed to open out onto a tranquil ocean scene. In place of desks and counters, there were sofas and armchairs and coffee tables. Windows looked out onto the grounds and the courtyard, and lines of shelves were filled with vases and lamps and flowers and pitchers, anything that might have added to the general serenity.

  A young man in light blue medical garb came out of an adjoining office. “Mr. Benedict?” he said.

  “Yes.”

  The man said Dr. Hemsley knew we were there. “He’s with a patient at the moment,” he said. “Please make yourselves comfortable.”

  Hemsley joined us a few minutes later. He was small, overweight, and looked tired. Without waiting for introductions, he led us into another room. “Please sit,” he said. He dropped into a large purple leather chair, propped his feet up on a footstool, and smiled at us. “Mr. Benedict,” he said, “you understand she’s not my patient.”