Mortal Fear. Greg Iles

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СКАЧАТЬ know a lot of people,” he says in a voice that makes it clear he does not like talking this way. “In a lot of places.”

      “I’m sure you do. And if there was real trouble, you’d be the first person I’d call.”

      Bob waits some more, then says, “Well, I guess you know best,” in a tone that says he guesses anything but that. “You keep me posted, son.”

      “I’ll do that.”

      “And you take care of my little girl.”

      “Yes, sir.”

      I hang up.

      “Your dad,” I tell Drewe.

      “What is it?”

      “He’s worried. The Yazoo County sheriff called him. Buckner’s been getting calls from the FBI, asking about me.”

      Drewe shakes her head, her eyes locked on mine. “God. Harper, do they actually think you’re involved in these murders?”

      “I don’t know. Miles and I are two of only nine people who have access to the real identities of EROS subscribers. Anybody who has that access is a suspect until they can prove they’re innocent.”

      “That shouldn’t be hard for you.”

      “For three of the murders, no. And with your help, I hope I can prove it for all of them.”

      “What do you mean? You’re always here with me. When did these murders happen?”

      “I don’t know exactly. They started about a year ago. Most happened within the last nine months. The problem is that for the past few months you and I haven’t been spending that much time together.”

      Drewe looks away quickly. She is an intensely private person, and I know she is wondering what I told the police about our relationship. “Harper, damn you.” She closes her hand around my wrist. “No matter what’s going on between us, I’m your alibi. Don’t you know that?”

      “Thank you. But the cops won’t necessarily believe you.”

      “I’ll make them believe me.”

      This from a woman who has told women her mother’s age that they have less than a year to live, friends that their newborn babies are deformed or dying. The certainty in her voice is powerful enough to resuscitate my flagging confidence, possibly even enough to sway a jury, if not the FBI.

      “Thank you,” I say again, trying to distance my mind from the idea of police questioning Drewe. “Your dad offered to use his connections if we need them.”

      “He must really be upset.”

      “He’s just worried about you. Does he really have connections high enough to help in something like this?”

      She shrugs. “He knows the governor. Can a state governor influence the FBI?”

      I shake my head. “I don’t know. Let’s hope we never have to find out.”

      She goes to the refrigerator and pulls out a lemon pie that a churchy Baptist neighbor brought over yesterday. Drewe was raised Methodist, but since she rarely attends church, her Baptist patients never cease trying to pull her into their fold. They know I’m a hopeless case. Drewe and I attack the pie for a couple of minutes in silence, more than making up for the calories we burned in the truck.

      “This is sinful,” she mumbles through a huge bite of pale yellow filling. She always scoops out the filling and leaves the crust.

      “Praise God,” I manage to reply in a mocking mushmouth.

      She flicks her fork at me, plopping a piece of meringue onto my cheek. When she laughs, her eyes sparkle like stars, and in that moment I feel the weight of my secret lift from my shoulders just long enough to sense the lightness of peace.

      Then something closes around my heart with suffocating power. It’s like a Chinese torture: the better things are, the worse they are.

      “What’s the matter?” Drewe is studying me as she might a patient having a sudden stroke.

      “Nothing. I just remembered something I need to take care of. A couple of long positions in Singapore. Boring but necessary.”

      “Oh.”

      The realization that tomorrow is a workday instantly manifests itself throughout her frame. Her shoulders hunch slightly, her eyelids fall, she sighs with resignation. But more dispiriting than work is the realization that our unusual moment of closeness is over.

      “I’m whipped,” she says. “You coming to bed?”

      I shake my head, averting my eyes. “I’d better check the Singapore Exchange.”

      She looks long enough to let me know she knows I am at least partially lying. Then she turns and walks toward the bedroom.

      I move quickly toward my office.

      I’ve got to talk to Miles.

       TEN

      When I check my email, I find two messages from Miles. I click the mouse and open the first. Seeing the length of the text, I push ALT-V to activate the most unique feature on my EROS computer—its voice.

      The first time I heard EROS speak I felt strange. Then I realized it was not the first time I had heard a computer talk. The telephone company’s computers had been talking to me for years. I had toyed with digital sampling keyboards that could exactly reproduce anything from a thundering bass to a contralto soprano. The voice chip inside the EROS computer is similar. However, it is not voice-recognition technology. Getting a computer to verbalize text displayed on its screen is relatively simple. Getting one to recognize millions of different voices speaking with hundreds of different accents—even in one language—is currently taxing the best brains in the R and D departments of the world’s top high-tech firms.

      EROS cannot hear.

      But it does talk. Its voice can take on any pitch between twenty and twenty thousand hertz, which is slightly superfluous since my multimedia speakers bottom out at around one hundred, and my rock-and-roll-damaged eardrums probably top out at ten thousand. Also, the pitch versatility is misleading. EROS’s voice is not unlike Drewe’s when she is dictating charts. Whether I select a baritone or tenor frequency, the words will be repeated at that single pitch—a perfect monotone—until the listener believes he is trapped inside the tin-can robot from Lost in Space. And vocal monotony is not conducive to sexual fantasy unless your idea of hot sex is having an interspecies relationship with a machine.

      EROS’s voice program does have what’s called a “lexical stress” feature, but it sucks. It makes the voice sound like a saxophone played by a drunk who accents all the wrong notes. A couple of months ago Miles sent me a package containing circuit boards he claimed would give my computer not only a better voice, but also the Holy Grail: voice-recognition capability. Naturally, those СКАЧАТЬ