F Paul Wilson - Sims 04 (3 page)

 
          
“No.
But we will.”

 
          
Truth
was, he’d set tails on Sinclair-2 a number of times but they always lost him.
Looked like he’d have to tail him personally.

 
          
I
can spread myself only so thin, damn it.

 
          
“Starting
when?
Tonight?”

 
          
“No, not tonight.
But soon.”

 
          
He
had a more pressing matter to attend to. He and Lister had spent much of the
day setting up an op for tonight. The target,
Romy
Cadman, knew Luca’s face so he could not be directly involved, but he’d be on
standby, eagerly awaiting the results. By the end of the night he’d have
established a solid link of money and information between Cadman and Ellis
Sinclair.

 
          
And
then there’d be no need to follow anyone anywhere.

 
          
MANHATTAN

 
          
“Really,”
Romy
said as their cab climbed the on-ramp to the
Brooklyn Bridge, “this is unnecessary. I’m more than capable of finding my own
way home.”

 
          
“You
heard what our friend said this afternoon,” Patrick replied. “‘Be careful.’ And
that’s what we’re doing.”

 
          
Beside
him, in the darkness of the rear seat, he saw her shake her head.
“An awfully long trip.”

 
          
“Not
if I’m with you.”

 
          
Light
from a passing car reflected off her smile. “What a nice thing to say. But
perhaps I should have phrased it a little differently: This is going to be an
awfully long round trip.”

 
          
As
the bejeweled towers of Lower Manhattan dwindled behind them, Patrick thought
about the day.
A good day.
Any day with more ups than
downs was a good day. After the shock of learning who was behind the SLA and
the globulin farm murders had worn off, and Patrick had settled down from his
initial elation over the news of the pregnant
sim
,
they’d brainstormed ways to find
Meerm
. Reverend
Eckert’s exhortation to his followers to track her down for him instead of for
SimGen
—a message he’d be hammering into his viewers day
after day—would help, but they still hadn’t figured out a way to fit Tome into
the equation.

 
          
As
darkness fell they’d called it a day, Zero taking off in the van, and
Romy
accepting Patrick’s invitation to dinner. They’d
walked downtown and found a bistro in Chelsea that looked inviting. A pair of
Rob
Roys
before and a shared bottle of pinot noir
during a meal of various pastas and sauces had left Patrick in a genial mood.
He figured
Romy
, who’d matched his Rob
Roys
with Cosmopolitans, had to be feeling mellow herself.

 
          
“Am
I that bad?”

 
          
“No,”
she said. “Not bad at all.” He felt her take his hand, interlace her fingers
with his, and give it a little squeeze. “In fact, you’re good. Taking Tome in
like you did is, well, I don’t think I’ve ever heard of anyone doing that for a
sim
.”

 
          
She
rested her head on his shoulder. The scent of her hair and the wave of warmth
seeping up from where their hands coupled enveloped Patrick, making him feel as
if he were riding a cloud.

 
          
What
is it with this woman?
he
wondered. We’re only holding
hands but it feels like we’re having sex.

 
          
He
rode that cloud all the way to Brooklyn, and too soon they were stopped in
front of a neat, four-story brick-faced building.

 
          
“I’ll
walk you to your door,” he said.

 
          
Romy
shook her head. “No, you won’t.”

 
          
“We’ve
got to be careful,
Romy
…”

 
          
She
leaned forward and kissed him lightly on the lips. “You’re not walking me to my
door. You’re coming up.”

 
          
“For a nightcap?”

 
          
“A
drink, coffee, anything you want.”

 
          
Patrick
couldn’t see
Romy’s
face in the dimness, couldn’t
read her eyes. His first impulse was to ask her to repeat her last statement,
but he feared she might take it as a wisecrack. Some sort of spell had been
woven here tonight and he wasn’t about to risk breaking it.

 
          
“Let’s
go,” he said, and fumbled his wallet out of his pocket to pay the cabby.

 
          
The
stairway within was too narrow to ascend abreast so he had to follow
Romy
, which positioned her hips at eye level before him.
Their rhythmic sway within her
cleathre
coat only
exacerbated the electric ache in his groin.

 
          
They
stopped climbing at the third floor.
Romy
keyed open
a door marked 3A. She stepped through, turned, and pulled Patrick inside.
Without turning on the lights she slammed the door and slipped her arms around
his neck. Patrick responded instinctively, pulling her close. His lips found
hers,
he felt her left leg sliding up the outside of his
thigh as he slipped his right hand along her ribs toward her left breast—

 
          
—and
then the lights came on.

 
          
Romy
spun, ending up beside him, hands out, ready to fight.

 
          
But
the blond-haired guy with one hand on the lamp switch held a silenced automatic
in the other. A second man, his dark hair tied back in a neat little ponytail,
sat in an easy chair and held an identical silenced pistol. Both wore dark
suits and white shirts buttoned to the top.

 
          
The
seated man smiled as he spoke. “Well, well. Look at this, won’t you.
A two-for-one special.”
He had a faint Texas accent.

 
          
Amazing
how fast lust can fade—Patrick’s insides had already turned to ice.

 
          
“What
do you want?”
Romy
said.

 
          
“You,
Ms. Cadman,” Ponytail said. “Not for anything carnal, I’m sorry to say,
although I’m sure that would prove to be a mutual pleasure. We simply wish to
ask you some questions. And as long as your lawyer friend is here, we have
questions for him as well.”

 
          
“Forget
about it,” she said, turning and reaching for the doorknob.

 
          
“Please
don’t,” Ponytail said. “These silencers aren’t in place for show. We will shoot
if necessary. Not a kill shot—a knee, a thigh, just to get across the point
that we have questions that we intend to have answered. We can do this
friendly, where no one gets hurt and you
both walk away
wound-free, or
we can do it messy. I prefer the friendly path, don’t
you?”

 
          
“Friendly
sounds good,
Romy
,” Patrick whispered, nudging her
with his elbow.
“Especially when we’re outgunned two to zip.”

 
          
She
didn’t look at him. All he heard was a soft, “Shit!”

 
          
Patrick
raised his hands, hearing the words to that old blues song about being a lover,
not a fighter. “Let’s do friendly.”

 
          
“A
practical man,” said Ponytail. He rose and moved toward two ladder-back chairs
sitting side by side on the carpet. “We took the liberty of moving these in
from the kitchen.” He did a mocking, maitre d’-type flourish. “Both of you
remove your coats and be seated,
s’il
vous
plait.” It sounded weird with that Texas accent.

 
          
Patrick
tossed his herringbone overcoat onto the couch and guided
Romy
to one of the chairs.

 
          
“
Portero
sent you, didn’t he?” she said as he helped her out
of her coat.

 
          
“
Portero
…
Portero
…,” Ponytail said
slowly. “No, I don’t believe we’ve met. Is she as pretty as you?”

 
          
Blondy
guffawed.

 
          
That
laugh says it all, Patrick thought as he seated
Romy
,
threw her coat on the couch,
then
dropped into the
other chair. He tried to relax but quailed as he felt the muzzle of Ponytail’s
silencer suddenly press against his temple.

 
          
“Ms.
Cadman,” the man said, “my associate will put down his weapon while he affixes
you to the chair. You will allow him to do so without resistance. If you resist
you will end up with a very messy carpet and we will be faced with the
unfortunate circumstance of having only one person to interrogate.”

 
          
Patrick’s
bladder clenched. He wasn’t cut out for this. He’d been trained to pose logical
arguments based on law and precedent in an arena overseen by a supposedly
impartial magistrate. If he won, great; if he lost, at least he could walk away
knowing—hopefully—that he’d acquitted
himself
well in
the contest. But this…the loser here didn’t walk anywhere.

 
          
The
blond guy laid his pistol on the carpet far from
Romy
.
He produced a roll of aluminum duct tape and began taping her arms and legs to
the chair. When he finished he bent over her and cupped one of her breasts in
his hand.

 
          
“Nice,”
he said, grinning.

 
          
Romy
jerked her head forward, ramming it into his face. He
staggered back, clutching his nose. When he recovered he bared his teeth,
cocked his fist, and started toward her.

 
          
“Uh-uh-uh!” said Ponytail in a schoolmarm tone.
“Mustn’t mar the merchandise.
Tape up Mr. Sullivan, please.”

 
          
Scowling,
Blondy
taped Patrick to his chair, winding it blood-
stoppingly
tight. When he finished, he retrieved his weapon
from the floor and holstered it inside his jacket.

 
          
But
he wasn’t quite finished. He stepped over to
Romy
and
grabbed the tip of her breast through her sweater. He gave the nipple a vicious
twist and said, “That won’t mar the merchandise.”

 
          
Romy
winced but didn’t give him an iota more.

 
          
Patrick
twisted against his bonds. “You shit!” He didn’t kid himself about being a
tough guy but the way he felt at that moment left no doubt he could kill the
bastard.

 
          
“All
right now,” Ponytail said, holstering his own weapon under his left arm and
pulling a leather case from under his right.
“Enough fun and
games.
Let’s play Who Wants
To Spill The
Beans?
”

 
          
He
snapped open the case, revealing an
inoculator
and
two vials of amber fluid. He loaded one of the vials into the chamber of the
inoculator
, then pulled a recorder out of his pocket and
set it on the coffee table.

 
          
“Now,”
he said, smiling. “Who wants to be first? Let’s see…
eenie
,
meenie
—”

 
          
A
soft thump sounded from an adjoining room.

 
          
“What
was that?” Ponytail said.

 
          
Blondy
shook his head. “Don’t know. I checked it out when
we got here. It was empty.”

 
          
“Probably
just my cat,”
Romy
said.

 
          
Ponytail
snarled, “You don’t have a cat!” He jerked his head toward the doorway and told
Blondy
, “That could have been the window. Check
again.”

 
          
Blondy
pulled his gun and edged into the dark doorway. He
poked his head inside, looked around,
then
reached his
free hand inside for the light switch.

 
          
And
then—Patrick couldn’t be sure—it looked like he
either
tripped and
fell into the room or something pulled him in. Whatever the
cause, one second
Blondy
was there, leaning through
the doorway, the next he wasn’t. A faint sound, something like a strangled
grunt came from within, followed by a thump—it didn’t sound heavy enough for a
falling-body thump; maybe just a dropped-gun thump.