by James Knapp
Taking a deep breath, I marched up the steps and right up to the doors. I grabbed the right one and pulled, but it didn’t budge. I pulled again and it still didn’t open, so I tried the other one, but it was stuck too.
“Name, please?” a woman’s voice said, making me jump. It took me a second, but I realized it was coming from a speaker mounted in the glass. Someone was watching me from inside.
“Zoe,” I said. “Zoe Ott.”
There was a pause; then the woman spoke again.
“Identification?”
“Sure . . .”
I dug around inside my bag until I found the black laminated card with my picture and the worn gold emblem on it.
“It’s kind of old—”
“Hold it up to the reader please,” the voice snipped.
I found the scanner mounted near the speaker and held the card up to it. A little yellow light blinked on the front of the reader and began to flash.
“Ott, Zoe,” the computer interrupted, loud enough to hear on the sidewalk. “Third class. Violations including public drunkenness place you as security risk: low.”
“Thank you,” the voice chimed back in. “You’re expected. You may enter.”
“Great.”
I stuffed the card back into my purse and pulled the door handle again. It opened smoothly, and I stepped through into a small area where there were another set of doors leading in. I pushed those open and found myself in the lobby.
“Wow.”
The lobby wasn’t huge, but it looked impressive. The floors were polished marble inside too, with a big round seal etched into the center of it and ringed with brass. There were big potted plants and flags, and everything looked very clean and expensive. As soon as I stepped inside, there was a guard station with a metal detector, where a stern-looking bald man in uniform sat.
“Step through, please,” he said.
I passed through and immediately a bell went off. Everyone who was milling through the lobby turned to look as the guard stood up and stopped me.
“I’m sorry—”
“It’s okay, ma’am.”
He took my purse and jacket as I set it off two more times before I made it through. The guard scanned my things, the contents displayed on a screen as he passed his wand over them. He paused for a moment when he saw the flask, but he didn’t say anything and he didn’t hold me up any longer. Instead he picked up a phone and spoke into it.
“Sir? Yes, your visitor is here. I will, sir.”
He hung up and handed me my things.
“Take that elevator,” he said, pointing across the lobby. “Head on up to the fifth floor, then take a left. You want conference room B. Someone will be with you shortly.”
“Thanks . . .”
I shrugged back into my coat and took my purse. The guard had already turned his attention to something else, so I walked away and headed to the elevator, pushed the button, and waited.
When the car came, I got in and stood between two tall men in suits who looked at me like I was a bag lady. The inside of the elevator was polished brass or something, and I could see my reflection in it as well as those of the two men. Neither of them said hello. The car moved so smoothly I didn’t even notice it had started up at first, and it didn’t make any of the noises the one at my apartment made. By the time we reached the fifth floor, I was so uncomfortable my heart was beating fast and my face was red and blotchy. Fortunately, neither of the men got off when I did, and I quickly left the car, turned left, and walked until I saw the room marked B.
I slipped in and leaned back against the big conference table inside, trying to get control. I took the resume I’d printed up out of my pocket and smoothed it out. I was still self-conscious about the wording, and I wasn’t sure if “clairvoyant” was misspelled. I started to crumple it up, then smoothed it out again.
“Get a grip,” I told myself, fanning my face with my shaking hands. What was I doing there? From the second I walked up to the place, it was obvious I didn’t belong there. These people, in their suits and uniforms, thought I was a complete loser. Next to them, I looked ridiculous.
Before I let myself go any further down that road, I decided to risk using the flask. I took it out of my purse, uncapped it, and tipped it back, filling my mouth once, twice, then a third time before I heard someone in the hallway and almost dropped it. Clenching my mouth closed, I screwed the cap back on and stowed it back in my purse a second before he walked in.
“Ms. Ott?” he asked. It was him. I swallowed the fiery liquid down in one gulp, bringing tears to the corners of my eyes.
“Yes?”
He was going to smell it—there was no way he wasn’t going to smell it—but it did make me feel better, calmer. I fumbled a stick of old gum out of the pack in my purse and stuck it in my mouth.
“You can take your coat off if you like,” he said. “Just put it on the chair there.”
I took the parka off and propped it on the chair. It was weird actually being in front of him. He seemed a lot bigger in real life, and having him looming over me was kind of intimidating. He wore a dark suit and white shirt and tie like the other men I’d seen, but his knuckles on both hands were covered with stick-on bandages, several of which had a dark spot seeping through. He had a cut on one cheek, and his face was bruised. He looked tired.
“I’m Nico Wachalowski. It’s nice to meet you,” he said, holding out his hand. I shook it, and he gestured for me to sit down, so I did. He sat down across from me.
“So,” he said, “your card said you could help me. Help me how?”
The card. I tried to remember what was on it, but as far as I could remember it was just my name. It wasn’t even a real business card; it was just some stupid thing I made. All I could think about was how I’d just seen him on the news, and how he must have been in the middle of something important. I was totally wasting his time.
“Why did you really call me down here?” I asked, and immediately kicked myself.
“Sorry?”
“It can’t just be the card,” I said, my mouth moving on its own. “You don’t even know who I am. . . . Did it say anything else?”
As soon as I said that, I wished I hadn’t. He raised his eyebrows a little.
“You wrote it,” he said. “Didn’t you?”
Booze or no booze, my face got hot again and I knew it was obvious. My mind went blank and I couldn’t think of anything to say. The longer I went without saying anything, the worse it got, and I started feeling panicky. All of a sudden, I thought I was actually going to start crying.
Don’t you dare . . . don’t you dare . . .
“It was the doodle,” he said. I looked back up at him and he was looking at me, but not like some of the others did. He wasn’t looking at me like I was a piece of dirt, or like he was sorry for me or embarrassed for me; he was just smiling a little. His blue eyes were on me as I nodded, but I still wasn’t sure what he meant.
He slid the card across the table with the back facing up, and tapped the corner where I had scribbled some kind of little pattern.
“Do you know what that is?” he asked.
“A doodle?”
“Well, if it is, it’s a doodle of the waveform that’s generated when a revivor’s systems reanimate and come online. It’s called a revivor heart signature. Does that sound familiar?”
I shook my head.
“What’s really interesting,” he continued, “is that your doodle is even more than that. Every signature is unique, and your doodle matches, for all intents and purposes, the signature I pulled off a revivor found at the Palm Harbor docks yesterday.”
He was looking at me more intensely now, orange flickering in the pupils surrounded by that cold blue. The booze had finally started working its magic and was hitting me all at once, making it harder to concentrate. My anxiety was melting away, and I started to relax.
“Can you explain that?” he asked.
I couldn’t explain it, b
ecause I had no idea what he was talking about. He was kind of cute in person, I decided. He was nice, too. He didn’t treat me like a lot of the others.
His phone rang. He reached into his suit jacket and checked it, but didn’t answer. It looked like maybe he was reading a text. When he put the phone away, I could tell something was bothering him.
“Who was that?” I asked. He raised his eyebrows.
“An old friend. She wants to meet for lunch.”
“Are you going to?”
“Look, Ms. Ott—”
“I can help you,” I said.
“How?” he asked. His attitude was different, and I thought I was losing him. I remembered the resume I held in my lap. It shook a little as I put it on the table and slid it across to him, just like he had done with the card.
He took the paper and looked at it. He read it for a couple seconds; then his face started to change.
“I’m serious,” I told him.
“You know,” he said, folding the paper and putting it on the table in front of him, “I can see that you are.”
I had blown it. All at once, the anxiety was back and I sat up straight. Damn it, I knew the resume was a mistake; I shouldn’t have given it to him.
“Wait,” I said.
In a few seconds, he was going to send me home. I didn’t know what else to do.
The room got brighter as I stared at him, until it was so bright that the only colors I could see were the ones that hung above his head. They were complicated, but shifting toward red. I pushed them back, soothing them until I saw his face relax.
“You need to give me a chance,” I said. “If you could know one thing right now that you don’t, what would it be?”
He paused for a couple seconds, considering.
“Did she love me?” he asked.
“Something to do with your case,” I said.
“We have a suspect in custody. I need him to talk.”
“Good,” I said. That was perfect, actually. That was something I should be able to do. “I can make him do that. Don’t think about it. Just trust your instincts and take me to him. When we get there, do what I say and I’ll prove it to you. Do you understand?”
“Yes.”
I let go of the patterns above him and let them resume their flow as the brightness subsided and they faded from view. The room returned to normal, leaving us sitting there facing each other. Agent Nico was looking at me now differently from before, but it was hard to say exactly what he was thinking. The seconds ticked by, but I didn’t want to jinx it by saying anything.
“Follow me,” he said finally.
“Really?”
“Really.”
It had worked. He stood up and waited for me to come around the table; then he walked down the hall and I followed him to a door with a little glass window that was blocked from the other side. He opened the door, and I could see there was a man inside.
“Is that him?” I asked, trying to get a peek through the doorway. Nico seemed to be deliberately standing in front of me, trying to block my view.
“Yes,” he said, “Ms. Ott—”
“I’m listening,” I said. I caught a look at the man through the doorway; he was big like Nico, and dressed in an orange prison uniform. He was sitting in a wheelchair, and from the look of him, he’d been in some kind of accident. He was staring at the floor, and all around his eyes his face was swollen and bruised black and blue. He had cuts on his cheeks and a square piece of gauze was tented over his nose with a strip of adhesive tape. His lips were split, with a couple of stitches in the top one.
“No, you’re not,” Nico said, and stopped talking. I looked up to see him looking down at me, waiting.
“Not what?”
“You’re not listening,” he said. “Pay attention.”
“Okay, okay.”
“Stay on the other side of the table from him,” he said. “He’s in bad shape and he’s restrained, but he’s had extensive body modification, so he’s tougher than he looks. He’s on painkillers that will keep him calm and also keep his motor skills fuzzy, but play it safe.”
“I will.”
“What are you going to do?” he asked. “Do you need anything?”
“Just let me talk,” I said, “and don’t say anything.”
He pushed the door open and went inside. He reached up over the door and did something, then motioned for me to follow. As we approached the guy in the wheelchair, he was looking at his leg. I couldn’t see it before behind the table, but one leg was held out straight in a metal brace. The pant leg was rolled up, and I could see two metal rings around his shin, one under the knee and one above the ankle. Metal pins were stuck into his skin and the whole middle portion was wrapped in gauze. His foot was swollen and black, the toes sticking out like fat little sausages.
I focused on him and saw a violet light prickling above his head, red spikes jumping out. Even with the painkillers, he was in pain, but he was also experiencing some turmoil. He didn’t know what to do.
“Hey,” Nico said to him. “You’ve got a visitor.”
The man looked over at me like he hadn’t noticed me before.
“No shit,” the man said. He was hoarse and his nose was plugged up. His front teeth were missing so his t’s came out like d’s.
“Answer her questions.”
Nico turned to me. I was on.
“Are you okay?” I asked. It was the first thing I could think to say, seeing him like that.
“I hope you’re not my conjugal visit.”
He smiled slightly and winced. His remaining teeth were bloody. I thought about the bandages on Nico’s knuckles. Had he done this? I wasn’t expecting the man to look like that. One part of me was saying that he must have done something to deserve what he got, but another part of me wasn’t so sure.
“I’m helping Agent Wachalowski,” I said weakly.
“You’re wasting your time.”
I was going to have to try it soon, before he got too riled up. I was hugely aware of Nico’s eyes on me.
“Relax,” I told him.
“Screw you, you ugly little bitch!” he yelled; then, before I could react, he leaned forward and spit at me. I saw a red glob shoot out of the gap in his front teeth and felt something wet land on my face, above my eye and down across the bridge of my nose to my cheek. I felt a big surge of anger from Nico, who stood up so fast he knocked his chair back. I held up one hand, easing him back.
“Calm down,” I said. “Both of you, calm down.”
The man in the wheelchair had been glaring at me with a kind of satisfaction, but now his face relaxed as I eased back the light around him, shifting the violets and reds to orange, then blue. Nico put his chair back and sat back down.
“Sleep,” I said. The man’s eyelids fluttered.
His eyes didn’t close but they looked unfocused, staring into nothing. The pain was gone from his face.
I glanced over at Nico, who looked surprised. He handed me a paper towel.
“Is this for real?” he asked.
“Shh.”
I took the paper towel and wiped my face, then folded it in half, covering the smeared blood. I looked back to the man.
“Can you hear me?” I asked.
“Yes.”
Nico had pulled a pad of paper out of his jacket and was scribbling on it. He put it down on the table between us, facing me.
His name.
“What’s your name?” I asked.
“Alek Katebi.”
Nico pushed the pad toward me and tapped it with his pen.
Who is he working for?
“Who are you working for?” I asked.
“I don’t know who he is.”
“You don’t even know who you are working for?”
“That’s how it’s supposed to be.”
Nico turned the pad to me again.
What was the revivor for?
“What was the revivor for?”
�
�I don’t know,” he said. “All I did was pick them up when they came in, and drop them off. The buyer had a deal with some local trafficker to piggyback the units through his regular routes. I don’t know who the trafficker is. The trafficker doesn’t know who I am, or who I work for. I doubt he ever even saw the units himself.”
Where did you drop off the revivors?
“Where did you drop them off once you had them?” I asked. “The revivors, I mean.”
He paused, and the far-off look left his face. His sudden change worried me. Was he coming out of it? He turned and looked at Nico.
“He knows who you are,” he said.
Nico didn’t respond, and the man smiled, showing the gap in his teeth.
“He doesn’t care that you know. You can’t stop it now.”
“Can’t stop what?”
“Maybe before this is over,” the man said, “we’ll let them eat the rest of you.”
Another surge of emotion came from Nico, but he clamped down on it, leaning across the table to face the man.
“Were you there to pick up the revivor? Or were you there to destroy it?”
“If—” the man said, but that’s all that came out. He jerked in his wheelchair so violently that I jumped in surprise. His eyes bugged out, and I heard a muted popping sound as the mellow blue light around his head expanded into an orb and burst like a soap bubble. A spurt of blood shot out of one of his ears and spattered across the table, leaving red dots on Nico’s pad; then the man’s body went limp in the wheelchair.
“Shit!” I said.“Holy shit! What the hell was that?”
Nico didn’t answer; he was already up and checking the guy. He put his fingers to the man’s neck.
Shit. The light above him was gone. Blood was dripping steadily from his ear.
Nico took a step back; then, after a few seconds, he made a call on his cell phone.
“Get a medic up here,” he said. “Interrogation room 5-C. I’ve got a suspect down; he’s dead.”
