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to say on a condolence call. She was less sure of herself when her visit had an ulterior motive. I meant
what I said at the memorial service about taking Josh and Scott for a weekend. Whenever you'd like.
Thanks, but none of us are ready for separation yet.
The room fell silent, except for overflow from the children's play. Doug found his tongue first. Mrs.
Feinman, I appreciate your seeing us.
Fran, please. Any friend of Cheryl's is always welcome.
He forced out the words. I don't know how to approach this tangentially. Please understand that I
don't ask this question lightly. Was anything-unusual-about your husband's death?
The women exchanged a look; Cheryl broke eye contact first. I had to tell him, Fran. I had to tell
him what little I knew. After that extraordinary dinner at Jim Schulz's place, that was exactly true.
Mrs. Feinman shifted in her chair. The motion was slight, but it was an obvious turning away from
Cheryl. All right, Doug, the look on his face, that was unusual. Oh, it was far worse than that. It was
horrible. Ben died with an expression of absolute terror.
Doug squirmed in his own chair, but he had to continue. He and Cheryl could be next. Fran, have
you any idea what could have frightened him?
The widow twisted a handkerchief so fiercely that several stitches of embroidery gave way with
audible pops. Ben? My Ben wasn't afraid of anything. He had all of the fear burnt out of him in the Gulf
War.
Cheryl gently laid a hand on her friend's arm. Then what, Fran? Why that look on him? It must've
been bad-I don't believe you scare easily either.
Mrs. Feinman just shook her head.
Doug began to pace. You're sure Ben was alone when he had the stroke? The kids and I were at
a Saturday matinee, some harmless cartoon. Memory of the twins delight made her smile briefly. Ben
was alone in the den when we left. He said he'd brought home too much work to join us. I closed the den
door on my way out. He was dead in his chair when we returned.
Because of the look, the police examined the house. My fingerprints were the top set on the inside
and outside knobs of the den door. She hugged and rocked herself as she sat. The twins play sounded
especially noisy in the suddenly silent room.
Did you notice anything unusual about Ben before this? That day? That week? No thought underlay
Cheryl's questions, but there had to be some meaning to this strange death.
He'd had a physical maybe a month earlier. He was in fine health, the doctor said, perfect health.
Ben was full of energy, full of life.
Nothing. Doug racked his brains. Is the den like it was?
Yes. Fran's eyes brimmed with tears. I haven't been able to face it yet.
When Doug and Cheryl examined Ben Feinman's home office, the tidy room seemed somehow to
mock them. The neatly arranged desktop told them nothing; neither did the neural-interface helmet that
had apparently dropped to the floor when Ben had slumped in his chair. Doug traced his finger over a
doodle on the desk blotter-a meaningless bunch of deeply inscribed intersecting ovals, all nearly
obliterated by a dark scribble-then wordlessly led the way from the den.
* * *
Inch-tall green words floated on an otherwise darkened screen: A man's reach should exceed his
grasp, else what's a backscratcher for?
Must we have that? Cheryl asked Doug. They were cloistered in his office, regrouping from
yesterday's unenlightening visit with Fran Feinman.
What?
That screen saver. Can't it show something a little less distracting? She had unadulterated black in
mind.
I share the wisdom of the ages. You'd pay good money to read that from a fortune cookie.
That's not where I generally go for wisdom.
Doug shrugged in resignation, swiveled toward his desk, and reset his screen saver to a boring clock
display. After a moment's thought, he suppressed its synthesized ticking sound. Better? To her nod he
added, Thought it would be. Time heals all wounds.
Not Ben's.
Doug sobered up instantly. Death was a real downer, a lesson he'd learned the hard way once
before. Sorry. You've got to understand this is my way of dealing with stress. That, and sitting in the
dark, brooding. He'd tried not to do that at work, though-and anyway, the office drapes admitted too
much light. I made a call last night. The doctor handling Cherner's case will see us. We've got an
appointment in Philly after work.
She stood and looked out the window. The clusters of people on the plaza, chatting and smoking and
sipping coffee, seemed foreign to her.
Cheryl wondered when she'd return to their world. Or if.
* * *
Doug had made the appointment at Shady Acres Sanitarium, but it took Cheryl's charm to get them
past the doctor overseeing the case to visit with Bob Cherner. They weren't all that sure now that it had
been such a good idea.
At first, the sanitarium belied Doug's preconceptions. The grounds were immaculately groomed and,
true to the name, dappled by the shade of old oak trees. The front lobby was light and airy. Sunlight
streamed through windows into a marbled foyer. Cheery paintings decorated the walls and extended up
the curved staircase.
Cherner's room was a different story. The only furniture was a small bed bolted to the floor, devoid
of head- or footboard. Its single window was small, high, and barred. The door had no inside knob.
And, oh yes, the walls and door were padded.
Doug? began Cheryl. The tremor in her voice suggested the same misgivings that he felt. Does he
even see us?
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