The Devil's Eye

'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 something 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.' 'Oh. I'm sorry. I was directed to you.' 'May I ask, what's your connection with Ms. Greene? Are you a relative?' 'No, I'm not.' He looked in my direction. 'Is she ?' 'You may talk directly to me, Dr. Hemsley,' I said. 'And no, I'm not a relative.' He looked puzzled. 'A friend? Is there a legal connection here somewhere?'

'No.' Alex sat back, crossed one leg over the other. 'Ms. Greene contacted us for assistance. Several days ago.' 'I see.' He took on the demeanor of a man about to deliver bad news. 'Well, in any case, she seems to have negated all that. You're aware of the procedure she's undergone?' 'Yes.' 'It severs her old world. She's-' He hesitated. But I got the impression he was only pretending to search for the proper phrase. 'She's no longer with us. What kind of assistance did she request?' 'She didn't specify, Doctor. She merely asked for our help.' 'And what kind of help would you have been able to provide, Mr. Benedict?' 'We're fairly flexible, Doctor. Is it possible to speak to whoever was charged with her care?' 'I think there may have been a misunderstanding. Her psychiatrist is prohibited by ethical considerations from discussing her case with anyone except family members. Or her lawyer. And there are even strict prohibitions on that. It would therefore be pointless to proceed further.' He got up. 'I'm sorry you wasted your time.'

We called Cory again. Would he be willing to see her doctor and ask some questions? No. 'It's over,' he said. 'She's past help now. Let's just let it go.' 'But somebody may be in danger.' 'Look, Benedict, ' Cory said, ' if something unusual had been happening in her life, I'd have known about it. Nobody's in danger.'

'You didn't know the mind wipe was coming.'

'Just go away. Please.'

Naturally they wouldn't give us Greene's new name. Nobody gets that. Not even a spouse or a mother. It wouldn't have mattered, of course. There was nothing to be gained even if we could speak with her. Cory was right. She was gone. Alex sat in the big living room at the country house, staring at logs burning in the fireplace. 'After the procedure,' he said, 'St. Thomas provides her with a couple of people who masquerade as family. I checked before we went out there. They create the illusion of a whole new life.' Alex had discovered years before that a close friend had gone through the process. Had lived an earlier life of which he was completely unaware. 'Time to walk away,' I said. 'Sure.' He smiled at me. 'Take the money and run.'

I couldn't see any point in attending the memorial service. It's basically a funeral, and I hate funerals. But Alex insisted on going, so I accompanied him. Vicki had lived in a spacious double-tier early-Valaska manor, surrounded by broad lawns, clusters of trees, and a high fence. Two sculpted fountains flanked the front of the house, made to look like demons and wolves. They were shut down the day of the memorial, maybe because of the continuing cold, maybe because someone thought a functioning fountain would be improper. I wondered who would be getting the property. 'They've put it up for sale,' Alex said. We were in the skimmer, beginning our descent. 'The proceeds will be put into a sealed fund and made available to Vicki's new persona on a periodic basis. She won't know where it's coming from.' 'Has anybody ever gone through this procedure and later recovered her memory?' 'It's happened. But not very often.' We got clearance from the AI and came down in a parking area a mile or so away. There, along with a dozen other people, all appropriately subdued, we boarded a limo, which flew us to a pad at the side of the house. We got out and were directed across the frozen ground by two valets. The front doors opened, and we climbed stone steps onto the portico and went inside. A somber young woman greeted us and thanked us for coming. There was a substantial crowd, maybe two hundred people wandering through a cluster of sitting rooms

and spilling out onto a heated side deck. Cory showed up and managed a frigid hello. We tracked down Vicki's editor, an older woman with tired eyes and a clenched jaw that never seemed to relax. Her name was Marjorie Quick. Alex expressed his sympathy and engaged her in a few minutes of small talk, how he was an avid reader of Vicki's work, and what a loss this was. Was there by any chance another book coming? 'Not that I know of,' she said. 'Unfortunately, she took the last year off. Vacationed. Enjoyed herself. Just let it go.' 'But she'd been producing a book every year, hadn't she?' 'Yes,' she said. 'But that can wear on you.' 'I'm sure it would.' Quick had recognized his name. 'Aren't you the Alex Benedict-?' He admitted that yes, he was, and steered the conversation back to Vicki: 'I read that she'd gone to Salud Afar,' he said. 'Yes. She wanted to get away.' 'It's a long way out. Even with the new drive, it's a month. One way.' 'I know. But she wanted to