I used a computer program we called a 'weasel,' a tailored cyberbot that would search the web for anything that might correlate with things Marquez had told us and what we'd deduced from them. I also tried trolling, posting a request for information about beautiful women who'd suffered a recent psychotic break, another for information about anyone who'd been assaulted by a duplicate set of memories, and a third for women who'd hallucinated being a sex slave.
I hate trolling. It can bring a lot of useless replies, all of them requiring at least a little time.
3
For several days I got nothing worth more than a first look. Ironically, my first real lead was from Ole Sigurdsson, who'd just treated his gorgeous blond countrywoman, Ardis Halldorsdottir, the figure skater. Her experience was remarkably like Elena Marquez's, which of course she knew nothing about,
* * *
The other lead was a lot different: I got a report of a woman who'd had what seemed to be hallucinations of being a sex slave. Nothing was said of any psychotic break. To talk to her, I was to call a certain number. It sounded fishy, but I called—and got a receptionist at a talent agency, who connected me with one of the agents. He sounded unfriendly, suspicious, and gay, but after asking a few questions, he told me to meet him that evening at seven, and gave me an address.
I said I'd be there, then called up the city directory. The occupant wasn't listed, so I used my access to the Data Center. It belonged to Misti Innocenza, Hollywood's most popular porn queen. I suspected some kind of PR hoax. Also I was chicken—I asked Carlos to go with me, and he said sure. I assumed she'd be built, but I was surprised how pretty she was, how sweetly innocent looking. Her real name, it turned out, was Lindi Hall. A girl friend had told her about my bulletin, and she'd had her agent follow up on it. Her story somewhat resembled the others, but her memories were of being held in what seemed to be a lodge, and her captor was someone she'd recognized: the prominent TV evangelist, Buddy Ballenger.
For more than two days there'd been two of her—one in a Simi Valley porn studio, or at home, or restaurants, or with girl friends. While entirely unknown to that Misti, another had awakened naked and handcuffed in an unfamiliar place. After injections, she'd spent two days and nights on a big bed surrounded by mirrors, with Ballenger and his bodyguard, whom Ballenger called 'Billy.' The two men took turns, and with breaks for showers, naps, and snacks, and injecting her repeatedly with aphrodisiacs, they'd gone at her pretty much the whole time! Hard to believe; Harem Smoke is notoriously hard on the heart. On the other hand, the aphrodisiacs effective on women are hard on the nervous system, and she was afraid they were killing her. So after the second day, she begged Ballenger to let her go. He'd excused himself and left the bedroom, 'for just a minute,' to 'arrange transportation.' Then the bodyguard had grabbed her and given her another injection, this time with something that 'burned like fire.'
And that was the end of that persona. The original Misti had just walked into her apartment when the godawful headache hit her, and the torrent of memories 'burst' into her skull.
There were three things she was positive of: one, it had really happened; two, she'd died there, been killed; and three, her captor was Ballenger, 'who didn't have guts enough to kill me himself.' Also, through the bathroom window she'd seen a sandy beach about a hundred yards away, and pine trees with really long needles. And Ballenger had said something about the mainland. I remembered a vacation tour with my dad and mom; Innocenza could have been describing the Sea Islands off the Georgia coast, and Ballenger was from Georgia. Later, checking an atlas, I found Marcellus only a few miles inland.
Then she asked me if I knew someone she could hire to kill him. I told her I hoped she'd cool it long enough for me to get the evidence needed to pull him into court. Actually I didn't see a way in hell we'd ever get that kind of evidence, but there's always a chance.
And now I knew absolutely that somehow, someone had done something really evil to all three women. Someone a lot more dangerous than Buddy Ballenger, or even Rashid ibn Muhammed.
* * *
That night I told Tuuli what I'd learned, hoping she'd have a suggestion. After all, she was 'the Psychic of the Stars.' But this time she didn't.
4
I spent the next morning learning all I could about Buddy Ballenger, the pride and embarrassment of Marcellus, Georgia. There was a lot, even leaving out the tabloid articles. Examples: He'd lost a patrimony suit, been badly beaten by an angry husband with a baseball bat, settled out of court in an embezzlement case. . . . He was big, blond, and apparently not very bright: a sort of caricature, more an over-sexed jerk than a menace. Though judging from Misti Innocenza's story, he could be dangerous. How a million or more born-again Christians could be his dedicated followers—his paying dedicated followers!—had to be a major mystery and a major human commentary.
Tuuli had a two o'clock appointment to exorcise a ghost in Beverly Hills, and the office wasn't far out of her way, so we'd made a luncheon date. And arriving a few minutes early, she waited in my office while I finished reading some stuff I'd called up.
Andy Lopez, from Properties, looked in. 'Martti,' he said, 'any reason I should keep this? Joe wants me to cull the limbo files.' He held an object out for my inspection.
'What is it?' Tuuli asked. Which surprised me. Ordinarily she'd have said nothing while I was working.
'Hi Tuuli,' Andy said. 'It's a torn Life-Tex mask.'
'Who is it of?'
'Probably no one in particular. No one any of us recognized.'
