Omphalos

by Gerald Lynch

  As sometimes happened to Kevin with Dr. Randome, the psychiatrist began to appear just a little bit comical. Then more so, like a poorly coached clown in his ballooning costume, acting so sad as to make you laugh. It usually began with the excitability that crept into Dr. Randome’s manner when he thought he was getting his way. Then came the capping mad emphasis that made his voice quaver when he wanted it firmest, even a hint of hysteria. Kevin always struggled to be generous, but such performances would make him begin to suspect that he’d been buying into some really laughable crap. And then of course Randome’s spell was broken.

  He smiled wryly. “Maybe I’m just too Catholic.”

  “Catholic? You? I could have sworn you’d said you too were a Jew.”

  “No, just my father. My mother raised me Catholic. Anyway, I think my far-lapsed self did better with Kelly.”

  Randome replaced his shades and turned away, retrieved his green plastic watering can. “I am sure you did better with Kelly. The lovely Kelly brought us together, and for that alone we must be forever grateful. But there is no call for comparisons in such matters of the heart. You did as well as you possibly could for those you loved, Kevin. Your children made their own choices too, within parameters in whose design they had no choice. As did Cynthia make her bad choice under unbearable stresses. We have to accept that we cannot control everything, Kevin. Or solve everything. We are born into a pre-existing world, and I’ll take Heidegger over Nietzsche any day.”

  Freed from Randome’s compassionate gaze, Kevin remembered his reason for allowing himself to be bullied into keeping the appointment.

  “Whatever that means — no, don’t tell me. But will you tell me now what you know about the early days of Omphalos? I mean, in this crisis moment and all?”

  Dr. Randome was watering away to a jazzed-up countrified rendition of “Please Please Me,” which sounded ridiculous. Kevin believed he could sense him smile when the psychiatrist said,

  “It’s common knowledge at Omphalos that Eugene’s executive assistant, Don McNicol, is writing his quote-unquote autobiography, somewhat under my direction, in fact.” Randome glanced and raised his brow. “Knowing McNicol as I do (a drudge), the MS likely has a chapter poetically titled ‘Omphalos: The Early Years.’”

  “I need to know what you know, Ewan.”

  Randome shook his head. “Kevin, I explained the rule of doctor-patient confidentiality at our first meeting when you made the same request. You were reassured by the promise with respect to yourself, as I recall. Eugene DeLint was my patient too, as you must know by now. You may even discover that lately we were not getting along: a difference of opinion over just what role Psychiatric Wellness should play in the Omphalos family going forward. Eugene wanted to limit me to massaging whatever bigwig he needed to influence. I wanted greater global outreach. We have a duty to meet the psychological and spiritual needs of traumatized children, and their parents, everywhere. But I don’t mean to portray myself as some kind of Saint Mother Teresa. In my own way I was as ambitious as Eugene to test some of my new mass techniques. Regardless, as I stipulated at our first session: in this office, you and I will talk only Beldon business.”

  Without actually touching it, Dr. Randome cupped the one blooming cactus flower and whispered to its small purple heart: “We can of course meet elsewhere and talk more freely; I mean, given this recent development.” Without straightening up, he twisted his face to Kevin, pointed two fingers at his own eyes, tapped his right ear with forefinger, then swirled a loop in the air.

  He believed his office was bugged. Dr. Randome had succumbed to the epidemic of cryptovidaphobia?

  “I do have to go, Ewan, and right now. My new partner will be having conniptions. May I call your receptionist at Psychiatric Wellness and set up another meeting then?” He winked obviously.

  Dr. Randome straightened and was all business again. “Very well, Kevin. We must meet again, and the sooner the better.” Then he, too, winked like a man who’d never done so before, like a painful facial tic. He moved to a three-cacti arrangement in the farthest corner. “God bless you, my son.” The usual benediction signalled the end of the truncated session.

  In the foyer Kevin halted when Dr. Randome called, “And Kevin, don’t be anxious: I do know that I have to be one of the prime suspects in this, that’s only as it should be.”

  “You are, Ewan.”

  “Good.”

  Kevin left trying to feel better about himself but nagged by the roused guilt that was doing all those nasty things Dr. Randome had described. Regardless, guilt might not be such a bad thing. Guilt reminded him daily that he was a sinner. Good could come of that. Guilt made him recognize, regret, and accept the impossibility of his own innocence ever again. Guilt’s renewed insistence even made him feel a little bit better, a touch more hopeful, strange to say. Explain that, Mr. Shrink? Was it because guilt, not irrationally presumed innocence, made possible not guilty? That legal distinction, Doctor, is at least believable. I could live with a not-guilty judgment.

  Guilt aside, there was no disputing that Dr. Randome had helped him immensely. Nor any denying that he was learning with Ewan’s encouragement to express the love that was indeed Cyn’s enduring gift to him, for Kelly especially, but for Bill, too, of course, eventually. And Ewan was right again: Kevin knew that Cynthia lived inside him still. She sometimes talked to him.

  Kelly first, though. Brigid Ertelle would have to wait a while longer. Back in the elevator at Omphalos, he punched SUBAS, hoping to find the rumoured tunnel to the Rideau Centre Mall and a public communicator.

  Chapter 9

  “Where are you now, Kevin?”

  “Lost, to be cute about it, but truth to say too.”

  “Don’t be cute. Where are you calling from?”

  “A public communicator in the Rideau Centre. But seriously in need of your help, dear. And would you call me —”

  “You’ve been a cop for how long, Kevin? For Christ’s sake, public communicator? You may as well be skywriting!”

  He smiled, always having enjoyed being scolded for foolishness by the women he loved. “Did you ever meet the old guy in the sub-basement who runs the power plant for Omphalos? Short, hairy, like some pale-skinned hobbit? I just had the strangest encounter with him, purely by accident. I went too far down, to the sub-basement instead of the basement. The tunnels way down there are a maze, and before I realized my mistake I had turned down one that led to these metal-clad double doors. And there he was standing in front of them, almost like he knew I was coming. He shooed me off with both brushing hands, grinning like what your granny used to call a born eejit, pointing back the way I should go, and…well, I’m almost sure he mouthed the word later as he waved bye-bye like Stan Laurel. Does anyone know —”

  “Who? Stan who? Forget it. Look, Kevin: everyone at Omphalos knows Jake Shercock, or knows of him, because he’s more a rumour than a real presence. Never had the dubious pleasure myself.”

  “That’s him then? The one who found DeLint’s body. I must go back —”

  “Forget your gnome in the sub-basement power plant, Kevin. Where exactly are you?”

  “I’m staring at the store where you say you bought that lovely silk blouse you were wearing yesterday.”

  “Say I bought?”

  “It’s closed. Gone out of business. Only the ghost of its name’s letters are left. What was it called again?”

  “Don’t play games with me, Kevin. As I said: that’s why I got such a great deal on the blouse. Your point?”

  “Nothing, no point. Only you never said that, Madame Prosecutor. And it looks like it’s been closed for a while.”

  “…that bastard. It was Bill, Dad. I gave him my PIN and instructions to buy the blouse at Clio’s. I told him to transfer some money to his own account till he could pay me back, and as usual he’s taken advantage. It’s probably a che
ap knock-off and Bill pocketed the difference.”

  “Slow down, dear, please. Bill bought the blouse? And he’s hard up? Yesterday you said you’d only heard he might be back.”

  “I didn’t want him dominating our lunch. Stupid, I know, sorry.”

  “So where’s Bill now?”

  “In a minute. First, I’ve heard the scene at Omphalos was a scene to end all scenes. That the murderer got right into DeLint’s office, which must rate as the break-in of the century. That he used some fibre-laser weapon and turned DeLint into chopped liver. Is that true? Any suspects?”

  “Where did you hear all that?”

  “Hackers, Dad. Why do you still pretend to know so little tech? I’m only going to say this one more time: nothing is secure any more. And you’re on a public communicator.”

  With a ragged thumbnail he picked at a poster advertising a charity event, beach volleyball (indoors). But there it was again — cryptovidaphobia — his own cool Kelly. He said, “I know one place that’s secure: the dome of Omphalos, DeLint’s Button.”

  “What’s Frank say about that?”

  “Funny you should ask. He says not even to think about it. We’d need Privy Council clearance or something, and they’d have to be willing to go against the Yanks and Euros.”

  “You don’t sound hopeful.”

  “You know what happens to Omphalos evidence, and quickly.”

  “You could break in.”

  “I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that, Madame Prosecutor — on this unsecured communicator. Anyway, easier said than done. The SWISS guards are probably set to Swiss-cheese intruders. What can you tell me about DeLint’s relations with his employees?”

  “Not on a public communicator.”

  “Look, I’ll encrypt.”

  “What level?”

  “Uh…scram-nine?”

  “I’m impressed, Detective Luddite.”

  “Done. In strictest confidence now, Kelly. I had a meeting with Dr. Randome this morning, and I think he’s ready to talk about Omphalos.”

  “He is? Good, great. Because I can tell you one thing with certainty: Ewan Randome is the only trustworthy person at Omphalos.”

  “I know that.”

  “You should know that, Kevin. Ewan shows it’s only by giving of oneself to others that one can really give to oneself. And he does so by example.”

  “Your mother was that way.”

  Silence. Kevin had scratched through to the hardened adhesive binding poster to booth before Kelly spoke again.

  “You want me to tell you something about DeLint and his special boys, am I right?”

  “Was Don McNicol his head secretary when you were there?”

  “Yes, as I mentioned at our lunch yesterday.” Her voice had lost some of its tension. “Don’s been there forever, almost as long as Ewan.”

  “Were DeLint and McNicol romantically involved?”

  “How quaint of you, Father. But no. The way I read Eugene DeLint, he was a Vesuvius of repressed homosexual desire. And Don McNicol would be your best source of such DeLint trivia — how fast you work, Kevin!”

  “Was McNicol pimping for DeLint?”

  “How would I know?”

  “You did defend them on that sexual interference charge seven years ago.”

  Nothing.

  “You got to know DeLint, McNicol, and Dr. Randome pretty well when you were there?”

  “Did Ewan talk about me at your meeting? Oh, I get it. Listen, Dad: knowing Eugene and Ewan did not influence my prosecution of your Omphalos search warrant last year.”

  “No-no, I would never think that. Did Dr. Randome have a relationship with this McNicol too?”

  “A relationship? Are we speaking euphemistically again, Kevin?”

  “A therapeutic relationship, okay?”

  “This case is already making you testy, Kevin. I don’t like what that signals.”

  And they’re at it again.

  “I apologize, Kelly. But you actually sound like you enjoy my irritation.”

  “Enjoy is not the word. But I suppose finally getting into Omphalos can’t help but bring back memories of the Widower.”

  Jesus! He struggled to steadiness. “What about DeLint and Anna Kynder, his executive assistant?”

  “Mostly after my time there, Kevin. I’ve heard, though, that Anna Kynder called the shots in administration and Don McNicol, her titular superior, was more her flunky, much like Eugene and Mother, now that I think of it. There was always something sick in Mrs. Kynder’s relations with DeLint, and McNicol was like the symptom, a real creepy triangle. All this would have got only worse after Mother DeLint died.”

  “Give me more.”

  “Such paternal consideration.”

  Kevin reminded himself again of his promise. He drew breath. “Let’s not be like this, dear. I’m foundering here. It’s the very worst time in an investigation, so many possibilities to hold in mind. I really am lost.”

  A settling silence.

  “And only the one solution. I apologize, Dad. Anna Kynder, Auntie Anna as she’s called, and Don McNicol would be my leading suspects too. They’d have had access, which is a huge consideration when it comes to Omphalos. Though I’d never have thought them capable of murder… Unless they were used by someone else, someone from outside Omphalos. Why don’t you come home for a visit, Dad, especially now that Bill’s back? We can talk privately in comfort.”

  Home.

  “I’m not leaving the scene, dear. It was a risk going out at all today and then coming over here to make this call. Frank is deeply conflicted about my being on the case. I think I trust my new partner, but she could be spying for Frank too. Apart from you, there’s no one I can trust. Maybe Dr. Randome.”

  “Yes, as said, you can trust Ewan, Dad. But is Kevin Beldon coming down with a bad case of cryptovidaphobia?”

  He snorted lightly. “I need your help, dear.”

  “I was at Omphalos for only a year, Dad, and that was seven years ago.”

  “My brilliant daughter needs a lot less than a year to case an organization, Omphalos included. Can you give me some ancient history?”

  “But what could I tell you that MYCROFT doesn’t know?”

  “What do you know about DeLint’s mother?”

  He heard her exhale in an exasperated flutter of the lips.

  “Okay, but a lot of this is hearsay, and from before my time there. Right from the start, Mother DeLint wanted to make sure that everyone coming into Omphalos was properly oriented to assist her Gene in his, really her, life’s mission with Omphalos, whatever that was. Power, money, most likely of course. It was she, supposedly, who had DeLint pick up Ewan Randome in Haiti just before the last coup there. Psychiatric Wellness keeps all personnel records in MIST lockup more impenetrable than the Brussels’ Bullion Bank. Anyone even thinking about hacking Omphalos gets zoned from the Macro for life. Meaning: your productive work life is over, virtually speaking.”

  “Ah yes, alienated from the Macro’s almighty presence.”

  “Pardon?”

  “Another old-fashioned definition, dear, this time of hell, of being cast out from the presence of God: alienated. Meaning, God doesn’t know you, because you wouldn’t let Him love you.”

  “But that’s not what alienated means. It means not being in touch with your true feelings. I thought Ewan Randome was teaching you? Your definition sounds typically patriarchal to me. As in: only Big Daddy can make us whole.”

  “Patriarchal? It is the Bible, Kelly.”

  “That’s not what I meant, Kevin.”

  Leave her alone. Love her.

  “What about the Dome, DeLint’s Button? Know anything there, dear?”

  “Since the Korean renovators left — and I mean the country — no one but Eugene and Mother
has ever set foot in the Dome. Even the cleaning’s done by DeLint himself, or probably not done. Its floor is made of that new bellium steel. It’d be like hacking the Macro itself, getting into the Dome.”

  “Keep going, please. Tell me more about the case that made your name at Omphalos.”

  “There’s nothing to tell, Kevin.”

  “What happened to the boy who brought the charge? Did he know about your involvement?”

  “Don’t know, good possible suspect in this though. Some boy, a real douche. He —”

  Kevin laughed his question: “A what?”

  “A pitiable young offender, Detective Inspector Beldon, a victim himself in the whole sordid business of Pepper versus Omphalos. Okay?”

  “I preferred douche. Proceed, please, Madame Prosecutor.”

  “He broke from Omphalos right in the middle of Dr. Randome’s orientation program for DeLint’s specially anointed. It was still possible then, seven years ago, to find a legal firm to take on Omphalos. The boy — the young man, el douche, brought the charges against Omphalos, DeLint, McNicol, and even Dr. Randome, who’d been trying to help him. Pas moi, too menial. McNicol was the fall guy, uncomplainingly so. It wasn’t the first or last time, if the most serious. Unless Don’s really the pussy he appears, he would have to bear a grudge against DeLint. So the prime suspect still, I would think. Anyway, the legal team was shown only what DeLint thought we needed to see. It was a closer call than anyone but insiders knew, and came closest to toppling the whole show.”

  “But didn’t, thanks to my brilliant daughter.”

  “We got DeLint-Omphalos off on that long-forgotten, gender-biased, date-rape technicality, like I said yesterday. And like my daddy dearest, I off-loaded the credit to my superior.”

  “You never could take a compliment from me.”

  “I had so little practice.”

  Kevin pinched his mouth, closed his eyes, shook his head. “What about more on the relationship between Omphalos and Haiti?”