Robert Sawyer - The Terminal Experiment

“He’s a doctor, apparently. His account may have been used to access my father’s medical records.”

“What could Stroke possibly have against your father? I mean, heck, presumably they’d never even met.”

“The detective thinks someone else was using Desalle’s account.”

“Oh.”

“And,” said Cathy, “that detective knows about me and Hans.”

“You told her?”

“No, of course not. It’s none of her business. But somebody did.”

Peter exhaled noisily. “I knew everyone at your company must have known about it.” He slapped his palm against the couch’s armrest. “Damn!”

“Believe me,” said Cathy, “I’m as embarrassed as you are.”

Peter nodded. “I know. I’m sorry.”

Cathy’s voice was cautious, as if testing the waters. “I keep trying to think about who might have had it in for both Hans and dad.”

“Any ideas?”

She looked at him for a long moment. Finally, simply, she said, “Did you do it, Peter?”

“What?”

Cathy swallowed hard. “Did you arrange for Hans and my father to be killed?”

“I don’t fucking believe this,” said Peter.

Cathy looked at him, saying nothing.

“How can you ask me something like that?”

She shook her head slightly. Emotions played across her face — trepidation at having to ask the question, more fear about what the answer might be, a touch of shame over even contemplating the issue, anger simmering. “I don’t know,” she said, her tone not quite under control. “It’s just that — well, you do have a motive, sort of.”

“Maybe for Hans, but for your father?” Peter spread his arms. “If I killed everyone I thought was an idiot, we’d have bodies stacked up to the rafters.”

Cathy said nothing.

“Besides,” said Peter, feeling a need to fill the silence, “there were probably lots of angry husbands who would have liked to have seen Hans killed.”

Cathy looked directly at him. “But even if what you say about other angry husbands is true, none of them would also want my father dead.”

“That stupid detective is making you paranoid. I swear to you, I didn’t kill your father or” — he spoke the name through clenched jaws — “Hans.”

“But, if the detective is right, these were arranged deaths…”

“I didn’t arrange for them, either. Jesus Christ, what do you think I am?”

She shook her head. “I’m sorry. I know you wouldn’t do anything like that. It’s just that, well, it seems like something that someone in your position might have done … if that someone hadn’t been you, that is.”

“And I tell you — oh, Christ!”

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“No, something’s wrong. Tell me.”

Peter was already on his feet. “Later. I’ve got to talk to Sarkar.”

“Sarkar? You don’t think he’s responsible?”

“Christ, no. It’s not like Hans wrote The Satanic Verses .”

“But—”

“I’ve got to go. I’ll be back late.” Peter grabbed his coat and headed out the front door.

Peter was driving along Post Road toward Bayview. He activated the car phone and hit the speed-dial key for Sarkar’s house. His wife answered. “Hello?”

“Hi, Raheema. It’s Peter.”

“Peter! How good to hear from you!”

“Thanks. Is Sarkar home?”

“He’s downstairs watching the hockey game.”

“Can I talk to him, please? It’s very important.”

“Gee,” said Raheema, wistfully, “ I never get to speak to him during a game. Just a sec.”

At last, Sarkar’s voice came on the line. “It’s six-all, in sudden-death overtime, Peter. This better be very important."’

“I’m sorry,” said Peter. “But, look, did you read about that murder victim in the paper whose body was mutilated? Several weeks ago?”

“I think so, yeah.”

“That was one of Cathy’s coworkers.”

“Oh.”

“And — ” said Peter, then he stopped.

“Yes?”

He’s your best friend , Peter thought. Your best friend. He felt slightly nauseous. All those dinners together, face-to-face, and now he was going to have to spill it over the phone? “Cathy had an affair with him.”

Sarkar sounded shocked. “Really?”

Peter forced out the word. “Yes.”

“Wow,” said Sarkar. “Wow.”

“And you know that Cathy’s father died recently.”

“Of course. I was very sorry to hear that.”

“I’m not sure I can say the same thing,” said Peter, pausing briefly at a red light.

“What do you mean?”

“They’re suggesting now that his death was murder.”

“Murder!”

“Yes. Both him and Cathy’s coworker.”

“ A’udhu billah .”

“I didn’t do it,” said Peter.

“Of course not.”

“But I did want them dead, in a way. And—”

“You’re a suspect?”

“I suppose.”

“But you didn’t do it?”

“No, at least not this version of me.”

“This ver — oh, my goodness.”

“Exactly.”

“Meet me at Mirror Image,” said Sarkar. He clicked off.

Peter moved into the passing lane.

Peter lived closer to Mirror Image than Sarkar himself did. Add to that Peter’s head start and he ended up waiting a good thirty minutes for Sarkar, parked in a lot with only one other car in it.

Sarkar’s Toyota pulled up next to Peter’s Mercedes. Peter was outside his car, leaning against the passenger door.

“The Leafs won,” said Sarkar. “I heard it on the way over.”

An irrelevancy. Sarkar was looking for some stability in the madness. Peter nodded, accepting the comment.

“So you think … you think one of the sims… ?” Sarkar was afraid to speak the thought out loud.

Peter nodded. “Maybe.” They began walking toward the glassed-in entrance to the Mirror Image offices. Sarkar pressed his thumb against the FILE scanner. “There’s proof, apparently, that my father-in-law’s medical records were examined, using an account that belonged to a man I knew at university.”

“Oh.” They were heading down a long corridor. “Still, you would need his password and such.”

“At U of T, they assign account names by adding your first initial to your last name. And for passwords, the default on the first day of classes is always your own last name spelled backward. They tell you to change it, but there’s always some idiot who never does. If a simulation of me was looking for a way into the medical database, it might have tried names at random of med students I’d known back then and seen if any of them still used their old account names and passwords.”

They’d come to Sarkar’s computer lab. He touched his thumb against another FILE scanner. Bolts popped aside and the heavy door slid noisily open. “So now we must turn off the sims,” said Sarkar.

Peter frowned.

“What’s wrong?” said Sarkar.

“I — guess I’m just a bit reluctant to do that,” Peter said. “First, of course, likely only one sim is guilty; the others don’t have to suffer.”

“We don’t have time to play detective. We have to stop this before the guilty sim kills again.”

“But will he kill again? I know why Hans was murdered, and, although I wouldn’t have done the same thing, I can’t honestly say I’m sorry he’s dead. And I even understand why my father-in-law was killed. But there’s no one else I want to see dead. Oh, there are others who have wronged me or ripped me off or made parts of my life miserable, but I honestly don’t wish that any of them were dead.”

Sarkar pantomimed slapping Peter’s face. “Wake up, Peter. It’d be criminal not to shut them off.”