Sims (47 page)

Zero had been tempted to wait until the cops were gone and then try to find Meerm on his own. But as much as his heart went out to that poor, frightened creature hiding somewhere in the dark, searching alone seemed like courting disaster.

All this gave Zero much to think about on the long ride back to Long Island.

By the time he arrived home he had a semblance of a plan, one that had been inspired by Portero himself when he'd conscripted Meerm's fellow sims to find her. The murdering bastard was clever, no getting around that.

But Zero could play that game too, and play it better.

He removed his knit watch cap and tinted lenses, then unwrapped the scarf from his lower face. The air felt good against his skin.

His answering machine carried a message from Patrick saying they still hadn't nailed down “surge” but had a lead or two they'd follow up tomorrow.

Ellis's warnings about digging into “surge” still haunted him, especially his comment that Zero would not come through “unscathed” if he persisted. And his description of some of the secrets behind SimGen as “unspeakable” . . . a word he found deeply disturbing.

But there was no turning back now. Events were gathering momentum, and he had to find a way to control them, or at least steer them in the right direction.

One thing he knew he must control was Meerm. For her own sake, and the sake of all sims, he had to keep her out of SimGen's hands. And to that end, Zero knew of a very bright sim named Tome who would be more than willing to help. If he could find a way to sneak Tome into the Newark crib, the sims there might trust him enough to let him know where Meerm was hiding.

If
they knew.

But assuming they did, Zero and Tome could then seek her out and bring her to safety.

Another if:
If
she'd come along.

Meerm probably had been so terrified by Portero and his thugs that she wouldn't trust any human now. Another instance where Tome again might come in handy.

But Zero had reservations about the old sim's powers of persuasion. And that was why Zero had to accompany him. Because if Tome couldn't coax Meerm out of hiding, Zero would have to step in.

He moved to the dusty mirror over the sofa and looked at himself. He did that often. Too often, perhaps, he thought. But that's what you do when you wished you looked like someone else, like some
thing
else.

He looked at his forehead and wished for less of a slope and a less prominent brow ridge; he wished his nose were longer, and his lips thinner.

This was not a face Romy could love, but it might be a face Zero would have to let her see. Because Meerm was that important. He'd risk anything to keep her away from SimGen, even if it meant revealing what he was.

For when Zero took off his mask, Meerm would have to trust him. Because she would know she was talking to another sim.

 

 

 

MANHATTAN
DECEMBER 21

“You're sure we've got the right address?” Patrick said.

He and Romy stood before a dilapidated five-story Alphabet City tenement that leaned on its neighbor like a drunk against a lamppost; a rusty fire escape laced its sooty bricks and sootier windows.

He'd figured Alice Fredericks was poor, but not this poor.

“Let's see.” Romy checked the number on the door atop the crumbling front stoop against the paper in her hand. “Yes. This is what she wrote down. She's in apartment 2D. I hope she's in.”

Patrick had called Alice's number three times this morning to make sure she was home before they made the trip. Whoever had answered the hall phone told him—with growing annoyance because he said he was waiting for another call—that “the crazy bitch ain't answerin her door.”

Patrick rubbed his cold hands together and envied Romy's cleathre coat. The weather wasn't going to let anyone forget that today was the first day of winter. Near noon now but the sun hung low as a cold wind knifed down the nearly empty street.

Cold as the knot of tension in his chest. He looked around. Parked cars
lined the curb; if anyone was lurking in one of them, watching, readying to spring, he couldn't tell. Only an occasional driver passing on the street glanced their way—Romy tended to draw looks—but no one seemed unduly interested. He'd kept watch during the cab ride over and hadn't noticed anyone following.

“This is all a waste of time, you know,” he told her. “She may have had a child at one time, and she may even have sold it, but—”

“Not just a child, according to her,” Romy corrected him. “A sim.”

“Oh, right. How did I leave that out? A baby sim she says was the result of fertilization by aliens.” He shook his head. “Who's crazier—her, or us for coming here?”

“We've come this far, let's finish it.”

“Whatever she gave birth to, we know she didn't sell it to Mercer Sinclair, and we know she doesn't have a SimGen check signed by him.”

“That's just it: We
don't
know. We assume, but we don't
know
.”

“I do. Why are you so gung ho to call her bluff?”

“Because it will nag at me if I don't check it out. That's why I'm here on my lunch hour. I don't want to keep wondering if maybe she's only ninety percent crazy and ten percent of what she's telling us is true. And what if that ten percent puts us on a path to ‘surge'? The Idaho license plate on that truck led to Manassas, didn't it?”

“Point taken.” But Patrick doubted very much they'd score anything useful here. “Okay, let's get this over with.”

He took the front steps two at a time, pushed on the front door, but it was locked. She'd said she was in 2D; he found the 2D bell button, but it was unlabeled. He pressed it anyway. No buzzer sounded to unlock the door. Tried again, but still no response.

He turned to Romy. “Are you getting a bad feeling about this?”

“She may not be in.”

“Or she may not be well. Or worse.”

“You mean that we might not be her first visitors since she left last night?”

“Yeah.”

Just then the door swung open and an anemic-looking splicer goth, twentysomething and all in black, stepped out. She hissed at him, revealing a pair of long, sharp vampire fangs—the real thing, he was sure—then flowed down the steps, trailing black lace.

Patrick caught the door before it latched closed again, and held it for Romy. “After you.”

“In this case,” Romy said, “gentlemen first.”

Feeling his neck muscles bunch, Patrick took one last look at the street, then led the way up the worn stairs to the second floor where they found a narrow hallway lit by low-watt bulbs in steel cages and smelling vaguely of urine.

“Wait here,” he told Romy.

She shook her head. “You might need me.”

He noticed that she had her hand inside her bag. “What've you got in there?”

“Something I hope I don't have to use.”

Listening for a click, a creak, anything that might herald an opening door, he led her to the right, past the hall phone framed by scribbled names and numbers. Finally they reached 2D. Patrick took a breath and knocked on the peeling surface. No answer. He tried again, louder.

“Alice? It's Patrick Sullivan.”

He pressed his ear to the door and thought he heard a rustling sound within, but couldn't be sure. Tried to look through the peephole but couldn't see a thing, not even light.

“I don't like this,” Romy whispered. “I told her we'd be here today. What if . . .” Her voice trailed off as she frowned.

Patrick knew what she was thinking. He'd been thinking it too. “You mean, what if she's been talking too much about this check and someone finally decided to shut her up for good?”

“Which would mean she wasn't crazy after all.”

“We've got to get in there.” He lowered his voice further. “What if it's all a set up?”

Romy chewed her upper lip. “Maybe we should call the cops. Report her as a missing—”

The door suddenly swung inward, a hand darted out, grabbed the lapel of Patrick's overcoat, and pulled him inward. He stifled a terrified cry when he recognized Alice Fredericks.

“Come in!” she hissed. “Quick!”

Patrick stepped through, Romy right behind him. Alice slammed the door as soon as they were inside, plunging them into darkness. He could make out glints of light from what seemed to be a window, but she must have left her shades down.

“Alice,” he said as his pounding heart slowed. “What's going on? Can we have some light?”

Rustling clothing, shuffling feet accompanied by a strange crinkling noise, and then a lamp came to life. Patrick barely recognized Alice. Her gray hair
was in wild disarray, her feet bare, her frayed housecoat haphazardly buttoned. And her eyes—red, swollen, wet . . .

“Alice,” he said. “You've been crying. What—?”

The words dried up as his brain began to register his surroundings.

“Oh, my,” Romy said softly at his side. She'd seen it too.

Patrick did a slow turn, his feet crinkling on the aluminum foil that lined the floor. And the walls. And the ceiling. And the two windows on the outer wall, which was why the one-room apartment was so dark. In some areas, the ceiling especially, the foil looked as if it had been collected from trash cans—minutely crinkled, in odd-sized squares, some with fast-food logos showing; other areas were covered in long smooth strips, obviously tacked up right off the roll.

“Alice?” he said. “What is all this?”

“What? Oh, you mean the foil. That's for protection.”

“From . . . ?”

“From having my mind read. The aliens working for Mercer Sinclair can read thoughts, you know. This protects me from them. At least . . .” Her voice faltered as her face twisted into a mask of grief. She sobbed. “At least I thought it did!”

Romy stepped closer and slipped an arm around the woman's quaking shoulders. “What's the matter, Alice? What happened?”

“The check!” Alice wailed. “They stole it!”

Knew it! Patrick thought. Complete waste of time.

“You mean,” Romy said, “someone broke in here and took it?”

“Yes! They knew my secret hiding place and they switched it with another check, a worthless one!”

Romy glanced up at Patrick and shrugged.

“Let's go,” Patrick said. He wanted to be angry at this flaky lady for wasting his time, but she was too genuinely distressed. Her bizarro apartment, though, was giving him a grand case of the creeps.

“We can't leave her like this. She's terrified.” Romy turned back to Alice. “When did you last see the check?”

“Oh, I haven't taken it out for years. But after talking to you last night, I pulled it out of my secret hiding place, to have it ready for Mr. Sullivan, and it had changed!” Another sob, louder this time. “The date's the same and the money's the same, but it's not a SimGen check anymore and someone else's signature is there instead of Mercer Sinclair's!” She fumbled in her housecoat pocket. “Here. I'll show you.”

“Romy . . . ,” Patrick began but her quick sharp look cut him off.

“Let me calm her down a little,” she said, “then we can be on our way.”

Alice produced a slip of paper and shoved it into Romy's hand. “There. See for yourself!”

Patrick saw Romy glance at the check, then take a closer look.

“What?” Patrick said.

Romy angled the paper back and forth in the dim light. “Well, it's for five thousand dollars and it's made out to Alice Fredericks. And she's right about the signature: I don't know whose it is, but it's not Mercer Sinclair's.”

“I'll bet she's also right about it not being from SimGen too.”

Romy nodded, still staring at the check. “Uh-huh. It was drawn on the First Federal Bank of Arlington, Virginia.” She looked up at him, her eyes so bright they fairly glowed. “From the account of something called Manassas Ventures.”

“I don't get it,” Patrick said. His stomach lurched as one of the Federal Plaza elevators lifted them toward OPRR's offices.

They'd held off talking about Alice during the ride over from Alphabet City. The odds that one of New York's current crop of cabbies would know enough English to follow their discussion were astronomical, but still they hadn't wanted to risk it. Now they had an elevator car to themselves.

“I think I do,” Romy said. “I think she did perform some service for SimGen in its early years, maybe even before it started calling itself SimGen. And it may well have had something to do with a baby.”

“What about the space alien angle? You're not buying into—”

“Of course not. I'm no psychologist, but I can see how she may have felt very guilty about what she did. Combine that with not being too tightly wrapped in the first place, and you can understand someone unraveling. She structured a fantastic scenario that blended fact and fiction.”