Free Orpheus Lost by Janette Turner Hospital

rational.Do you mean why aren’t I scared of you ?” She pondered the question, taking it seriously. “I think I might be now, as a matter of fact. At least a bit. I think you are scary, and that makes you interesting, because when weird things happen, I get curious. I can’t help myself. The unexpected turns me on, the way scaring people does you. Why is that? I mean, why do you enjoy trying to make other people frightened? Is it just the power?”
    “No,” he said. He could see a wall of high-school lockers behind her. She was extremely interested in his answer. She was waiting. “I want to know what happens when other people believe they’ve done nothing wrong, but sense they’ll be penalized anyway. When they realize deep down they are powerless.” He had not meant to say this. He had not meant to say anything at all.
    “Fascinating. But we are never without power,” Leela said. “Especially when we know we’ve done no wrong.”
    Agitated, he raked the gloved fingers of his left hand over his head, a reflex, expecting to feel the soft stubble of his hair. He had forgotten the mask. He fumbled with the photographs in the folder—they were all eight by ten, black and white, with a matte finish—and extracted one. “Do you know this person?” he asked.
    Leela was surprised. “That’s Berg. He was my PhD supervisor and now he’s supervising my post-doc. What’s he got to do with anything?”
    “You meet with him regularly.”
    “Of course I meet with him regularly. We’re working on a grant proposal together.”
    “Are you aware of the nature of his work?”
    “I just told you. We’re working on a joint project. We’re in the same field: the mathematics of sound, vibration patterns,harmonics. It’s not exactly rocket science. It’s not exactly national security either, for that matter, unless you happen to think Bach or the history of violin construction is of interest to the CIA.”
    “The mathematics of vibration patterns is of considerable interest to the CIA.”
    “Come again?”
    “Don’t be disingenuous, Dr. Moore. It doesn’t wash. Intelligence agencies employ mathematicians for codes and code-breaking.”
    “So professors and post-docs in math are a security threat?”
    “The following recruiters have approached you—”
    “Okay, okay,” Leela admitted. “They trawl all the Ivy League schools. Like most of my colleagues I’ve been approached, and I’m sure you know I turned them down. So did Berg, I happen to know. Turn them down, I mean. Is that why I’ve been brought in?”
    “Why does Berg stalk you?”
    “Don’t be ridiculous.”
    Cobb placed another photograph on the table: an urban street scene. In the foreground, at a table in a sidewalk coffee shop, Leela was lifting a tiny cup of Turkish coffee to her lips. Across from her, his back to the camera, was a man.
    “That’s Café Marrakesh,” she said. “So? And speaking of stalking, who’s taking pictures of me?”
    Cobb extracted a magnifying glass from the drawer on his side of the table. He handed it to her. “Examine the reflection in the coffee-shop window at the extreme right edge of the photograph,” he said.
    Leela focused through the curved lens. She could see a shadowy doorway: the entrance to a small shoe-repair store onthe other side of the street. In the doorway, half-hidden, was a man. She squinted. She moved the lens closer to the image then further away. The man was Berg.
    “This means absolutely nothing,” she said. “This is Central Square, for God’s sake. Hundreds of MIT students and faculty are there every day. So Berg took his shoes to be repaired while I happened to be across the street. He probably never even saw me. And what if he did?”
    Cobb put another photograph on the table.
    The shot was an aerial one. It appeared to have been taken at dusk: a deserted street, store fronts, huddled three-decker houses, an empty lot. There were only two figures in the street. One was walking