F Paul Wilson - Sims 04 Read online

  “That is the real reason the company is offering so much to find this poor, mistreated, pregnant sim.

  “So I say to you, my brothers and sisters, do not listen when you are told that this can’t be true, that it’s just another urban legend. It is not! If you live in the Northeast, live anywhere in or around New York City, I beg you, as soon as I am finished here: Leave your homes and hie into the streets to look for this unfortunate creature.

  “And if you find her, do not call SinGen, no matter how much money it is offering. Do not allow yourselves to be tempted by the devil’s offer. Sell this sim and you are selling your soul. Instead, call the number flashing at the bottom of your screen and I will personally see to it that this sim and its child are protected from Satan’s forces.

  “And when the child is born, I shall bring it to the halls of Congress and display it to the leaders of our nation. And then the scales shall fall from their eyes and they will see that they have allowed an abomination to move into their house; and the shackles shall loosen from their limbs and they will act, casting SinGen into the outer darkness whence it came, where there shall be weeping and gnashing of teeth.

  “Go now, my brothers and sisters. Fill the streets. Waste not another moment. Find—”

  The screen went blank. Another touch on the desktop and the lights came up.

  Luca blinked, momentarily mute with shock. He opened his mouth to speak but Sinclair voiced his thoughts.

  “He knows! How the hell did he find out?”

  “A leak,” Luca said. “I’ve suspected one for some time now.”

  “You think the room is bugged? By someone other than you, I mean.”

  Luca was taken aback by the casualness of the remark.

  “What?” Sinclair said, a tiny smile twisting his lips. “You think I don’t know your people have this office bugged? Probably the whole campus as well, am I right?”

  He was. Offices, labs, even rest rooms—all bugged. Luca shrugged it off.

  “We sweep this office regularly. No listening devices of any sort.” Other than ours.

  “I found out yesterday,” Sinclair said, then pointed to the blank TV screen. “He knows today. How else but a bug?”

  “A person. I’ve long suspected your brother. This confirms it.”

  “It confirms nothing of the sort. Ellis? Ridiculous!”

  “Really? Until yesterday, only a select few of our people knew. Even the men I’ve had combing the city don’t know; they think we want this sim because she’s got a rare immune globulin in her blood. Weeks of searching without a hint of a leak. But yesterday afternoon I tell you and your brother, and today, just twenty-four hours later, the Reverend Eckert is telling the world. If it’s not your brother, then it’s you.”

  Sinclair sat down and drummed his fingers on the desk. “Well, it’s not me. And I can’t believe it’s Ellis, not after the way your people threatened his children.”

  “I’m not aware of any threat.”

  “No? Well, I guess it was before your time.”

  That part was true. But Luca knew perfectly well what the CEO was talking about. A brilliant little op, involving nothing overt, but it had kept Ellis Sinclair in line ever since.

  Sinclair looked at him. “Maybe Eckert did have a revelation.”

  “You don’t really expect—”

  “I don’t mean from God.”

  “Then—”

  “Hear me out. Here’s this guy who’s got a hard-on for SimGen. He hears we’re offering five million to find this lost sim, so he figures out the worst case scenario for us, and broadcasts it. It’s just a coincidence that he happens to hit on the truth.”

  Luca snorted. “You don’t believe that any more than I do.”

  Sinclair sighed. “No. No, I don’t.”

  “However Eckert came to it, we can count on a lot of his people on the streets looking for that sim, trying to find her first.”

  “Does that worry you, Mr. Portero? Don’t let it. The more the merrier. Eckert’s people merely increase our chances. They may believe in God, but when it comes down to five million dollars’ worth of cold hard cash, they’ll believe in that even more.”

  “We’ll see.” Luca wasn’t so sure about that, but saw no point in arguing. He had another point to press. “In the meantime, my people will expect you to do something about your brother.”

  “Very well. From now on, any meetings concerning matters of a sensitive nature will be conducted without him.” His eyes narrowed. “But you don’t have any hard evidence against Ellis, do you. Otherwise you wouldn’t have looked so shocked when I played you that tape. I’d be surprised if you weren’t monitoring his calls. Have you been following him as well?”

  “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.

  3

  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.

  “Duke?” Ponytail said. He placed the inoculator kit on the coffee table next to the recorder and retrieved the pistol from under his suit coat. “Duke, are you okay?”

  No answer from the bedroom.

  Ponytail edged toward the doorway, pointing his pistol at Romy’s head. “I don’t know what kind of shit’s going down here, but if anything untoward happens, you go first.”

  The first thought that ran though Patrick’s mind was, Untoward? Did he really say untoward ?

  Ponytail reached the doorway. He peeked around the molding and suddenly cried out, reeling back as Duke’s limp body came flying out of the room to crash against him. He grunted as he tumbled to the floor, his pistol discharging and sending a bullet over Romy’s head to punch a fist-size chunk of plaster out of the wall above one of the windows.

  He didn’t get a chance for a second shot because Duke’s body wasn’t the only thing flying through the doorway. Something else followed directly behind—a snarling, barrel-chested apparition in a sleeveless b
lack coverall, its furry, black-eyed head split open to reveal yellow teeth and a pair of huge fangs in the upper jaw. But even more frightening was the scarlet coloring that blazed along its upper snout as it flew through the air, long arms outstretched, fingers curved into claws.

  Ponytail let out a panicked bleat at the sight of it, and Patrick caught an odd light in the man’s eyes; shock and terror, yes, but something else: recognition.

  He tried to bring his pistol around but it was knocked from his grasp and sent skittering across the floor.

  He wailed, “Kree—!” but whatever he intended to say was choked off as long fingers wrapped around his throat and squeezed.

  Patrick was just registering that they might be in worse trouble now than a moment ago, when Romy started talking to the thing.

  “Kek! Don’t kill him, Kek! We need him alive!”

  “You know this thing?”

  She didn’t respond but stayed focused on the creature that continued to throttle Ponytail. The man’s mouth worked spasmodically as his eyes bulged and his face purpled.

  “Kek! Let go! Let go now!”

  Finally her words seemed to get through to the thing. It released its stranglehold and leaped up, but it didn’t stay still, didn’t seem able to. It wandered back and forth, growling, flailing at the air, as if working off a rage. On the floor, Ponytail coughed and retched, sucking in air, but it was purely reflexive. He was out cold.

  As for Duke, he wasn’t breathing at all. And the unnatural angle of his head on his shoulders made it clear that he would never breathe again.

  Nipple-twisting bastard, Patrick thought. Good riddance.

  “Good, Kek,” Romy was saying in a soothing voice. “You did good, very good. Zero will be so proud of you.”

  That seemed to calm the beast. It stopped its agitated pacing and cocked its head as its dark eyes peered at Romy from beneath a prominent brow. The crimson coloring atop its snout was fading. Still staring at Romy it made a chirping sound.

  Patrick didn’t know what to think. It looked like some bizarre sort of gorilla, but nothing like Patrick had ever seen in any zoo he’d visited. More like a mutant sim who’d overdosed on steroids. The creature seemed to be on their side, but just barely. Patrick had never sensed so much aggression packed into a single being.