“San Francisco,” Sommer corrected her. “I’ve already run the check; they don’t seem to be related.”
Sands looked at the piles again, shook her head. “You’re really going to wade through all this stuff?”
He shrugged. “Until I find something, or prove to myself that there’s nothing there to find, or collapse. Whichever comes first.”
“I’d vote for collapse, myself,” she said, gazing again at the photos in her hand. “Certainly had that solid-citizen look back in college, didn’t he?” she commented, handing the page back. “I wonder what went wrong.”
“I don’t know,” Sommer sighed, looking at the picture himself. She was right: with his dark hair and thin, intensely earnest face, Cavanaugh should have been a future business or political leader. Not a—
Abruptly, Sommer’s thoughts broke off. There was something about that face …
He looked up. Sands was already at the door— “Hold it, Jessica,” he called.
She paused, her hand on the knob. “You find something?”
“I don’t know,” he frowned, digging carefully through the pile. “Come here a minute, will you?”
He’d found the newspaper photo of Pauley by the time she reached the desk. “Take a look,” he said. “Tell me what you see.”
Frowning, she looked at the two pictures. The frown deepened, and she held them side to side. “They could be brothers,” she agreed. “Almost twin brothers, for that matter. I hope you’re not suggesting Pauley and Cavanaugh are related—Royce would have to be an idiot to have missed something that obvious.”
Sommer swallowed hard. “No, not related. Not exactly.”
She stared into his face … and slowly, her puzzlement dissolved into a look of horror. “Oh, my God,” she whispered, her face turning almost green. “You’re not suggesting that Cavanaugh … ?”
Sommer felt a little sick himself. “Why not?” he asked.
“But it’s—” she floundered. “It’s impossible. Isn’t it?”
“I don’t know,” Sommer said grimly. “But I think we’d better find out.”
Sands hissed between her teeth, her expression of repugnance vanishing into dark determination. “Damn right. Let’s get to it.”
Royce frowned at the photos for what seemed like a long time before finally laying them down on the desk. “Yes, I agree that Pauley looks a lot like Cavanaugh when he was a young man. I hope that’s not all you dragged me over here for.”
“That’s just the starting point,” Sommer said, a mild wave of dizziness shooting through him. Four cups of coffee on top of less than four hours of sleep was already starting to take its toll, and he wished they could have put this off a little longer. But with Pauley’s life hanging in the balance … “The pictures were what got me wondering if maybe Cavanaugh threw a curve none of us were expecting.”
“That being?” Royce asked with clearly forced patience.
“Last night we did a complete examination on the computer autorecord of Cavanaugh’s transfer,” Sands said. “We discovered a couple of anomalies that no one had paid attention to before.”
She leaned over to hand Royce the hard copies. “I’ve combined the event timelines from Seattle and the office here,” she continued. “Note that Cavanaugh entered Soulminder at precisely twelve fifty-one last Monday morning, and was transferred back at three-fourteen.”
“Two hours twenty-three minutes,” Royce shrugged. “So? You’ve kept bodies alive a lot longer than that.”
“With full life-support,” Sommer agreed, “and with the use of neuropreservatives. Without them, the brain cells start to degenerate within a few minutes, and for most people irreversible damage begins well within an hour. For a man Cavanaugh’s age, it would happen even faster.”
“So he had black market neuropreservatives.”
Sommer shook his head. “That’s just the point: he didn’t. No black market neuropreservatives; no neuropreservatives of any sort. The body was brought in, connected to Soulminder, and the soul transferred. A quick in-and-out operation.”
“That’s not just a guess,” Sands added. “The autorecord gives a complete procedural timeline. There was no flushing of neuropreservative residue.”
Royce had a strange, almost pained expression on his face. As if he saw what they were driving at but didn’t want to believe it. “So why isn’t he dead?”
Sommer took a deep breath. “Because he didn’t transfer into his own body. He transferred into Jonathan Pauley’s.”
He’d expected Royce to be amused, angry, or just plain disbelieving. But the other passed up all the obvious reactions. For a long minute he just looked back and forth between them, his eyes seeming to measure them. Then, still silent, he looked back down at the combined timeline Sands had prepared. “I presume you’ve double-checked all these numbers?” he asked at last.
Sands nodded. “Against two independent clocks. Pauley entered the Washington Soulminder at exactly six-eleven. Three-eleven Seattle time. Three minutes before Cavanaugh was transferred.”
Sommer shivered. “He must have died right there on the transfer table.”
Royce’s fingers worried gently at the edge of the paper. “It’s an interesting theory,” he said. “But that’s all it is: a theory.”
“There are other indications,” Sommer told him. “Emerson did the transfer alone, remember—and he had the video cameras off. Why would he do all that if it was Cavanaugh’s own body they were transferring into?”
“To keep us from knowing Cavanaugh had been through Soulminder?” Royce suggested doubtfully.
“Except that the computer autorecord would tell us that,” Sommer reminded him. “Besides, he could easily claim ignorance that he’d done anything wrong—the Seattle system didn’t have your red light on it.”
Royce shook his head. “This is crazy. A soul isn’t just some”—he groped for words—“some interchangeable computer card or something. You can’t just pull one out and plug another one in.”
“Cavanaugh did it,” Sommer said. “Dr. Sands and I are convinced of that.”
“Well, I’m not,” Royce said doggedly. “It’s still just a left-field theory. And with all the witnesses having so conveniently disappeared, that’s what it’s going to stay: a theory.”
Sommer glanced at Sands. “Except,” he told Royce carefully, “that not all of those witnesses have disappeared.”
Royce stared, and Sommer could see in his eyes that he understood. “You’re not serious.”
“Deadly serious, Special Agent Royce.” Sommer braced himself and got to his feet. “If you’ll come with us … we’re going to ask Jonathan Pauley what happened to him.”
The preparations were already complete, and they entered the experimental transfer facility in the lab wing to find five uncomfortable-looking people waiting for them: a doctor, three transfer techs …
And a quiet, dark-haired young man.
“Special Agent Royce, this is George Gerakaris,” Sommer did the introductions. “One of our research people.”
Royce and Gerakaris exchanged nods. “Why him?” Royce asked.
“We did a computer comparison of all our employees’ Mullner traces,” Sands explained. “Mr. Gerakaris’s came out the closest to Pauley’s.”
Royce eyed Gerakaris. “And they asked you to do this?”
Gerakaris smiled, a smile that didn’t wholly relieve the tension around his eyes. “I volunteered, Special Agent Royce,” he said, his voice showing just a trace of an old Greek accent. “I’m a scientist, after all. How could I pass up a chance to take part in such an experiment?”
Royce shifted an uncomfortable frown back to Sommer. “You realize, I hope, that what you’re about to do is technically murder.”
Sommer realized it. Realized it exceedingly well. “Mr. Gerakaris has signed a release,
” he told Royce, keeping his voice even.
“Which may not be worth a damn, legally,” Royce growled. He looked at Gerakaris, then back at Sommer. “Have you discussed this with your legal department?”
“They’re not exactly happy about it,” Sommer said candidly, “but they say the release will cover us reasonably well. They also talked a lot about the right-to-die statutes, but I wasn’t sure exactly how those applied.”
Royce snorted gently. “They don’t apply at all. Not really. This is nuts, Sommer. You’re putting your personal and corporate necks—not to mention mine—on the block here without even a scrap of proof that Cavanaugh tried this. Let alone that it worked.”
“Oh, it worked,” Sands said. “It had to. Otherwise, why did Emerson disappear?”
“Because Cavanaugh didn’t want him to talk, of course.”
“Naturally,” Sands agreed. “So why hasn’t Cavanaugh gone ahead and killed him?”
Royce started to speak … paused. “You tell me,” he challenged.
“Because Cavanaugh knows that souls can be transferred to different bodies,” Sommer said. “With Emerson on file at Soulminder, killing him would just put him back in our reach.”
“By that logic, Pauley was a lousy choice,” Royce argued. “Even if I grant you that Cavanaugh was vain enough to try to get back his youth when he saw Pauley’s picture in the paper, he wasn’t stupid enough to let vanity get in the way of common sense.”
“Except that Pauley seldom wore his Soulminder bracelet,” Sands reminded him. “Cavanaugh probably never knew he was on file here.”
“And what if Emerson disappeared because Cavanaugh died on the operating table and the doctor’s taken his guilty conscience into hiding?” Royce countered.
Sommer opened his mouth. But it was Gerakaris who answered. “It’s a calculated risk, Special Agent Royce,” he said firmly. “But all of us are willing to take that risk.”
“If you want,” Sands offered, “you can wait outside until it’s over.”
Royce sent her a glare. “If it doesn’t work, I’m still accessory to murder,” he said shortly. “It’s not going to matter a damn where I’m standing at the time.” He jerked his head toward Gerakaris. “Get on with it.”
It was as close to assent as they were going to get. Turning, Sommer gave the nod to the others.
And watched as they prepared Gerakaris to die.
It was a simple enough procedure. Gerakaris got onto the transfer table, settling himself as comfortably as possible as the techs wheeled the instrument tray and backup life-support gear into position. Last came the waveguide cable and headband electrodes that would—if all went well—provide the path for Jonathan Pauley’s soul to enter Gerakaris’s body.
“You all set, George?” the supervising doctor asked, leaning over the table to look at Gerakaris.
Gerakaris’s hand lifted from the table, made a surreptitious cross: forehead, heart, right chest, left chest. Eastern Orthodox style, Sommer noted. Pauley, he remembered, had been a solid Catholic. How much of the similarity in their Mullner traces, he wondered distantly, had come from the two men’s religious convictions? “I’m ready,” Gerakaris said, dropping his hand to his side again and closing his eyes.
The doctor looked at Sands, got a confirming nod, and picked up the hypo. With just the slightest hesitation, he gave Gerakaris the injection.
Gerakaris inhaled sharply, and Sommer found himself unable to watch. Turning his head, he found himself staring at the medical readout panel … and even as he watched, the life signs disappeared.
Sommer swallowed against the lump in his throat. It didn’t seem to help. “How long?” he murmured.
“A few minutes,” the doctor said, his own attention on the instruments and his assistants’ work. “I’m going to give him a small dose of neuropreservative, just to be on the safe side, and we’ll have to wait until we can flush out the residue.”
The minutes ticked slowly by, and at last they were ready. “All right,” the doctor said, reaching for the panel. “Here goes.” He touched the switch—
Abruptly, Gerakaris body gave a violent twitch. Sommer felt his heart jump in sympathetic response. “Pauley!” he called, tension putting snap into his voice. “Are you there?”
“Mother of God,” Gerakaris gasped. “I—oh, God in heaven, I can’t see. Where—where am I?”
“You’re in the Soulminder office in Washington, D.C.,” Sands told him. “How do you feel?”
“I’m burning up,” the other managed. His body shivered violently. “I can’t see—everything’s just a blur. Have I gone blind?”
“Don’t worry about it,” the doctor advised, his eyes on his instruments. “This sometimes happens, and it’s always temporary.”
Off hand, Sommer couldn’t remember such a side effect ever happening before. But the assurances seemed to help, and Gerakaris calmed down a little.
No. Not Gerakaris.
Pauley.
An icy shiver ran up Sommer’s back. It had worked. It really had worked. A man’s soul had been transferred into another man’s body …
He turned to find Royce gazing rigidly at the man on the table. “Royce?” he prompted quietly.
Royce threw him a sharp look, took a careful breath. “Mr. Pauley,” he said, the name coming out with noticeable difficulty. “Are you—I mean, you are Jonathan Pauley?”
“Yes,” the other said. “Why do you … ? I feel strange, Doctor. Is this how it’s supposed to feel?”
“What happened to you, Mr. Pauley?” Royce put in before the doctor could reply. “You disappeared last Friday morning. What happened to you?”
Gerakaris’s head turned, eyes squinting in Royce’s direction. “They came to my house—right into my house—and pulled me out of bed. I don’t know why—they never told me. Can I have something to drink?”
Sands gestured, and one of the techs hurried off toward the prep room. “What did they do to you, Mr. Pauley?” she asked.
“Uh … ” Pauley frowned in thought. “I really don’t know. They put something over my mouth. When I woke up I was in the back of a van.” He shook his head, blinking his eyes as if to clear them. “But they kept giving me stuff, and I kept falling asleep. But then—”
The tech returned with a paper cup of water. The doctor got a hand under Pauley’s head, raising it enough to let him take a few sips. “Go on,” Royce prompted.
Pauley’s eyes suddenly looked haunted. “There was a man,” he whispered. “An old man. Very—” He swallowed. “He came up and looked at me. Asked me some questions.”
“What sort of questions?” Royce asked, keying his tablet.
“He asked … whether I had any health problems,” Pauley said, his voice vaguely confused. “It didn’t make any sense.”
“Is this the man?” Royce asked, stepping close to Pauley and holding up the tablet.
Pauley squinted. “Yes. Oh, Mother of God, yes.” His hand came up, crossed himself shakily. Forehead, heart, right chest, left chest. “He was … evil. I could feel it. He said … he said I would do just fine. And then they took me back to the van and drove me around—”
Abruptly, Gerakaris’s face twisted with emotion. “And then they—they killed me!”
The words seemed to ring in the room. Pauley groped for the doctor’s arm, found it and gripped it tightly. “Soulminder,” he breathed. “It’s just like purgatory. You’re dead, but you can’t get into heaven.”
The doctor looked at Sommer. “Dr. Sommer?”
Sommer glanced at Royce, got a confirming nod. “Mr. Pauley,” he said, trying desperately to find the right way to say this, “I’m afraid we’re going to have to put you back into Soulminder for a little while. There’s—” He looked at Sands helplessly.
“There’s a problem with your body,” she said. “A medical
problem. Nothing serious—probably why you’re feeling so strange. Okay? You’ll be out again soon, I promise.”
Pauley’s face stiffened. “You’re going to kill me again?” Again, the quick up-down, right-left swipe of hand across chest. “Oh, please. Please, Doctor—”
“I’m afraid it’s necessary,” the doctor said firmly. “Don’t worry, it’ll be all right.” He picked up the hypo, set it against the arm—
And Pauley raised his hand in front of his eyes, eyes that were suddenly filled with confusion and horror. “My hand—” he gasped.
Sommer braced himself for the reaction.
A reaction that never came. Without a sound, Pauley’s eyes closed, the hand fell back onto the table.
And for the second time in ten minutes, the instruments registered death.
The doctor reached for a second neuropreservative hypo, injected Pauley’s body with it as the hum of the life-support equipment started up again. “It’ll be another couple of minutes, Dr. Sommer.”
Sommer nodded and took a shuddering breath, feeling his sweat-soaked shirt clinging to him as he did so. It had worked. It had actually worked.
And he’d been right. Cavanaugh had indeed stolen another man’s body.
The thought made Sommer’s stomach want to be sick.
A subtle breeze brushed over his skin as Royce moved up beside him. “Congratulations, Dr. Sommer,” he said quietly, a sour tinge to his voice. “You and Soulminder have just created a brand-new crime. Body theft.”
“I hope you’re not going to try and blame us for this perversion of Soulminder’s capabilities,” Sands growled.
“Why not?” Royce countered. “It’s your machine, isn’t it?”
“It doesn’t matter whose fault it is,” Sommer verbally stepped between them. “The question is how we’re going to keep it from happening again.”
“Dr. Sommer?” the physician at the table spoke up. “We’re ready to transfer Gerakaris back.”
“Go ahead,” Sommer told him, turning back to Royce. “It seems to me that what we’re talking about is a stronger security arrangement for both the initial Mullner tracings and the transfer rooms themselves. We’ll get Frank Everly looking into what would be appropr—”