“They wouldn’t say. But reading between the lines, it would appear the condition, barring some miracle, could be irreversible.”
Logan took this in for a moment. “And the third?”
“ ‘Severe catatonic disorder, marked by stupor and rigidity.’ Again, the doctors are at a loss for an explanation, because CT scans show none of the damage to the limbic system, basal ganglia, or frontal cortex that would normally explain catatonic schizophrenia.”
Logan let out a deep sigh. Slowly, he returned his gaze to the window.
“Fortunes of war, Jeremy,” Olafson said in a low voice. “These were bad, bad men. They were responsible — directly or indirectly — for Will Strachey’s death.”
“And Pam Flood’s,” Logan added grimly.
“Yes. If you hadn’t acted, thousands — tens of thousands, perhaps — might soon be living under threat of similar fates.”
“I know.” After a moment, Logan turned his gaze back toward the director. “And what of that? Has the threat been neutralized?”
“In the aftermath of the storm, I had a few well-picked men, under the direction of Albright, remove everything from the room. They also dismantled the central machine — although you’d already done a pretty good job on it — and had it destroyed in the ovens of a foundry in Wakefield.”
“What about Benedict’s work?”
“Again with Albright’s help, our security staff performed an interdiction. We cleaned out her office, her basement lab, her private quarters. Burned everything. With the help of the local authorities, we also emptied her family home in Providence, which she’d inherited — that was where we found most of the notes and files, actually.”
“Local authorities?” Logan repeated.
“There aren’t many large cities up and down the New England coast that don’t owe Lux at least one favor.” Olafson paused. “We’ve also taken the precaution of destroying all other paperwork in our own archives relating to Project Sin. And I’m not speaking merely of those files in my safe — I’m talking about the early work that led up to the project’s formation in the late 1920s. Anything and everything, no matter how indirect or remotely linked.” He glanced at Logan. “I hope you agree.”
“Enthusiastically. But what about Ironhand?”
Olafson’s expression clouded again. “We’re in discreet conversation with the Feds. We’ve destroyed all evidence we can get our hands on, done all we can to put a protective bubble around anything Benedict might have accomplished.” He paused. “What do you think?”
“I think that if she had enough material to continue her work off campus, say in the Ironhand labs, she wouldn’t have acted with such desperation — neutralized Strachey, tried to kill me, done her utmost to buy the time necessary to reduce the footprint of the weapon, get it off premises.” He shook his head slowly. “No — if you’ve destroyed all the equipment and burned all the paperwork, Ironhand won’t have enough to restart her work.”
“Not on their own, perhaps,” Olafson replied. “But that won’t stop them from trying. I’d be lying if I said they’ll go away easily.”
This observation hung in the air for a moment. At last, Logan rose to his feet. Olafson did the same.
“Can I walk you to your car?” the director asked.
“Thanks, but I’ve got one final errand to take care of before I leave.”
“In that case, I’ll say good-bye.” Olafson shook his hand warmly. “We owe you more than we can repay. If I can ever do anything personally, as director of Lux, just let me know.”
Logan thought for a moment. “There is one thing.”
“Name it.”
“The next time I come here to undertake some open-ended research project, make sure Roger Carbon is on extended sabbatical, far away from Lux.”
Olafson smiled. “As good as done.”
Leaving the director’s office, Logan made his way slowly down the elegantly appointed corridors and sweeping staircases. In the three days since the storm, the think tank had returned to normal — scientists speaking in hushed tones as they passed by, wide-eyed clients waiting for an audience in the Edwardian splendor of the main library. Passing the dining hall — the clanking of silverware and porcelain beyond its closed doors indicating that lunch would soon be served — he turned down a side corridor, went through a set of double doors, and stepped out onto the rear lawn.
The bright sunshine, and the unmistakable undercurrent of chill in the air, hit him immediately. He made his way past the small knots of strolling scientists and technicians, the painter at her easel, until he reached the long scatter of rocks that marked high tide, flung carelessly along the coast as if by a giant’s whim. Kim Mykolos sat on one of the larger rocks, hands in the pockets of a gray trenchcoat, staring out to sea. An ugly yellow bruise, just now beginning to fade, stood out on one temple.
“Hello,” Logan said, taking a seat beside her.
“Hello yourself.”
“I hear this sea air is great for convalescing.”
“It’s not the sea air I have to thank, Dr. Logan. It’s you.”
“Please — Jeremy.”
“Jeremy, then.”
“Why should you thank me?”
“You came to my rescue. Called nine one one. Practically drove me to the hospital yourself.”
“If anything, I should be apologizing for getting you involved in the first place.”
“Most excitement I’ve had in years.” Then, quite abruptly, the jocular tone faded. “Honestly, Jeremy. After what happened to Will Strachey…well, I needed to see this through, see things right. And that’s what you gave me. I wish I could do something in return.”
“You can. Did you bring them?”
Kim nodded. Then she pulled her hands out of the pockets of her trenchcoat. Cradled in each hand were two items, wrapped in tissue paper.
Logan took the two from her left hand. They were the small transmitting devices they’d discovered hidden in the flanks of the Machine, in Strachey’s radio, and behind a bookcase in Logan’s office.
“You remembered. Thanks.”
She looked at him. “Is everything good? I mean, has Lux swept all this crap away?”
“As well as they could, yes.”
“Then there’s just one thing left to do.”
As if with a single mind, the two rose. Tearing away the tissue paper and wadding it into his pocket, Logan hefted the devices, and then tossed them — one, then the other — into the sea. Kim followed his lead.
They remained silent a moment, watching, as the sea swallowed them greedily, the small plashes quickly covered over by creamy breakers, one after another after another, until even the memory of their sinking was gone.
“ ‘O spirit of love,’ ” Logan said almost under his breath,
They stood together in silence for a long moment, staring out over the blue ocean.
“So it’s over, then,” Kim murmured.
“Walk me to my car,” Logan replied.
Within five minutes they were standing in the parking lot in the shadow of the East Wing. As the wind stirred the lapels of Kim’s shirt, Logan saw the lines of the ghost catcher pendant beneath. “I’ll take that off your hands, if you like,” he said.
She shook her head. “I’ve kind of gotten used to it.”
There was a pause. “What’s next for you?” Logan asked.
“It’s like I told you when we first met. I’m going to finish up Strachey’s work, secure his legacy. And then I’m going to continue my own work on strategic software design. Perry Maynard, the vice director, tells me that’s a discipline totally in line with Lux’s future plans.”