The Fifth Harmonic by F. Paul Wilson Read Free Book Online Page B

days later. He was sweating, wheezing, and smelled like an ashtray. Will wondered about the man's blood pressure and the state of his coronary arteries, but said nothing. He'd learned the hard way that some people don't appreciate unsolicited medical advice.
    He listened to Terziski's initial report.
    “Don't have much,” he said, “and most of what I've got is from secondary sources.”
    “Meaning?”
    “From applications to open her business, stuff like that. I mean, I know where she says she got a degree, but I haven't checked with the school itself yet. Anyway, your gal's full name's Maya Quennell, which made my job a helluva lot easier since there aren't a whole lot of people with either name. She was born thirtyfour years ago in Oran, Algeria, of a French father and a Mayan mother. Grew up in Paris, attended the Sorbonne—don't know if she ever graduated—and supposedly has a philosophy degree from Berkeley.”
    Berkeley, Will thought. Why am I not surprised?
    “She's got a checking account with roughly eighteen thousand on deposit, but no other tangible assets, not even a car. She lives in the apartment above her storefront. No arrest record for fraud or anything else; and not a single consumer complaint against her.”
    So far, so good, Will thought.
    “That's all?”
    “So far, yeah. I did find a Maya Quennell who was arrested during a logging site protest back in 1972, but that can't be the same girl—she's not old enough. Like I said before, I'll be checking out the schools and such for confirmation, but all in all I'd say your gal looks pretty clean right now. Wouldn't mind having a set of her fingerprints, though. Any chance—?
    “I don't think so,” Will said quickly.
    Scenes from old movies about pocketing a cocktail glass to secure a set of prints flashed behind his eyes.
    “She didn't happen to give you a crystal or anything like that, did she?”
    And then Will remembered: “She did give me a business card.”
    He went to his bedroom and found it on the dresser. He picked it up by the corner and brought it to the detective.
    “That might do it,” Terziski said, inspecting the glossy surface as he held it by the edges. “Now give me something with a set of your prints on it so I'll know which is which.”
    Although he told Terziski to go ahead with the next phase, Will was fairly satisfied that Maya wasn't a bunco artist. He stopped by her storefront that afternoon.
    “Dr. Burleigh,” she said, her tone cautious, her expression hopeful. “You are back so soon from your trip?”
    “France wasn't what I needed,” he said, and left it at that. No way was he going to tell her about the eclipse. “I decided I wanted something a little more exotic. Like Mexico, maybe?”
    “This is true?” she said, her eyes widening. Was that elation in her voice? “This is what you wish?”
    “I think so . . . if your offer is still open.”
    “Yes, it is. Yes, it most certainly is. What happened? How did the Mother change your mind?”
    “This has nothing to do with your All-Mother. This is my own decision.”
    “Yes,” she said. “Yes, of course.”
    But Will didn't think she believed him.
    “How soon can we leave?” he said.
    “As soon as I make arrangements for other people I am caring for, and you liquidate your assets, as we discussed.”
    “You still think that's necessary?”
    “Absolutely.”

    Will began liquidating. He'd already sold his practice; he sold off his collection of old sixties rock to a collector's store in Manhattan called Fynyl Vynyl, and donated all his western videotapes to the Mt. Kisco branch of the public library.
    As for his rented townhouse, the complex had a waiting list of prospective tenants and Will had no problem finding someone to take over the balance of his lease.
    The rest wasn't so easy, mainly because Max Eppinger became convinced that Will had lost his mind. Max was almost seventy now and refused to retire; his body was wizened, his back stooped,