Paul frowned. It was a good thing for her, he reflected, that he loved her…
His phone had no redial button (it was barely a touch-tone), and he had a mental block against remembering her cell phone number. So it was necessary to go consult the tackboard in the kitchen, again. Along the way he stopped in his bedroom and threw casual clothes on, chiefly to give him time to deal with his irritation.
Even for God, this seemed low comedy.
He didn’t have the slightest idea what the hell June had stumbled onto—any more than she seemed to. But it never entered his mind to doubt for an instant that whatever it was, was of greater and more lasting significance than ninety-eight large in small bills. Or even maybe the first new con of the century. That much was obvious. This was his punishment for being a male chauvinist pig—penance, for the sin of Pride.
Most infuriating of all, the mystery fascinated him.
It seemed clear that her mook had triggered some kind of security system light-years beyond anything Paul had ever heard of—and security was a field he had given diligent study. Whoever had designed the system possessed technology the RCMP or American NSA would unquestionably kill, maim and/or torture for. Paul’s most plausible first-hypothesis was aliens, and he emphatically did not believe in flying saucers.
What that system was meant to protect, he could not even begin to guess. He did not waste time trying. It would be more efficient to just go find out. He was already scheming ways to beat the system as he returned to the kitchen.
There he made and drank Ghimbi coffee while he replayed the relevant tape, twice. At the third mention of Rosco’s name, he went to the bedroom and got him. Then he sat in the kitchen again and thought hard for several minutes, occupying his hands and eyes by cleaning and oiling Rosco and practicing with the speed-loader.
Maybe he was looking at this the wrong way. Just backwards, even. Maybe he was going to become twice as immortal as he had thought. How many players had ever hit two world-class jackpots on the same day?
He read June’s number off the wall and dialed it.
She answered at once. “Hi, hon.”
She sounded depressed—more accurately, chipper: the way she sounded when she didn’t want you to know she was depressed. June said depression was like farting: that all humans are subject to it, but it is not done in polite company. He knew it ran deeper than that, for they had long since reached that point of intimacy at which they could fart unself-consciously in each other’s presence. But he respected her need to suffer in silence, and tried not to be insulted by it. “After considerable reflection, I’ve decided to let you live,” he said.
“That’s nice.”
“I will, of course, do my best to ensure that your every moment is infinite agony—but it just seems to me Hell doesn’t deserve you.”
“It never will. What’d I do?”
“What did you do? Only you could have done this to me, bitch. I pull off the triumph of my career, dead bang perfect the first time—and you top me before I can even tell you the news. It’s fucking typical, I tell you. You’re a menace.”
“Paul, what the hell are you talking about?”
At once he inferred that she was not alone. Something had gone horribly wrong since she’d left her message. It was now imperative to know whether the third party could hear Paul’s end of the conversation too, or only June’s. “I see. Good as a nod, is it?” he said, hoping to hear an “Uh huh,” that would mean they could communicate safely as long as he could phrase his questions to require yes/no or similarly cryptic answers.
Instead she said, “What?”
Confused, he tried, “You’re alone?”
“Yeah, I’m out for a walk, over in the Endowment Lands. Why?”
He had to nail it down. “Where did we first meet?”
This should do it. If someone were listening, she would answer with the Official Version: the one they gave to strangers, straight acquaintances, and casual friends.
But she answered accurately. “Fogerty’s. I’m really me, okay? So what’s going on? Did something go sour with your thing, or what?”
Now he was baffled. “No. No, it went just great…right up until I got home heavy and found your message.”
“What message?”
“—,” Paul said, and then repeated it for emphasis.
“I just got out of Customs three—no, four…that’s funny—four hours ago. It didn’t go real great down in San Francisco, so I dropped my stuff at my place and came out here to think. Did this message actually sound like me? What did I say?”
The one thing he was certain of was that the phone message was from June. Not an impressionist, not a computer-assembled matchup of voice recordings: June. In speech pattern, emotional nuance, it was unmistakably his lover. He knew he might be wrong, but he was positive.
She was an amnesiac or a zombie. There was no third choice.
“Look,” he said slowly, “I think it would be best if we discussed this in person. I really really do.”
Brief pause. “Okay. My place or yours?”
Paul thought quickly. They had long since agreed and arranged that, for reasons of professional risk hygiene, neither should be able to enter the others home in its owner’s absence—the stated theory being that what you do not know, you cannot babble if drugged or otherwise coerced. Paul had never quite been certain that security was the only reason for this arrangement, but had never pushed to find out. June was the senior partner of the team; it was enough that she always let him in when he knocked, and usually came when he called. But now he was seeing things through new eyes. If someone else were operating her now, the tactical advantage for him lay on his own turf.
“Come in the front way, okay?”
Longer pause than before. “Paul?”
“Yeah, love.”
“What time did we meet at Fogerty’s?”
He blinked. Okay, fair enough. “Twenty minutes after closing.”
Her relief was audible. “I’ll be there in about fifteen minutes.”
He hung up the phone and glowered at Rosco, so frightened and angry that holding him did not make Paul feel as ridiculous as it usually did. Dammit, he had not expected to have to be this paranoid again for months, yet! A man deserved a break after a big job.
Mess with my woman’s head, will you? I’m coming for you, pal. I don’t care who you are: I’m bringing it to you. You just bought the whole package. Batteries are included.
The living room projected out four feet from the rest of the house, with a big bay window facing north that wrapped at east and west ends. Someone sitting in the rocker by the window could see a pedestrian or motorist approaching the house, from either direction, from at least a block away. So could someone crouching beneath the window with a toy periscope in one hand and Rosco in the other.
She came from the right direction. It was for sure her. She was alone. She did not appear to be under any kind of duress or constraint, did not look drugged or at gunpoint. She looked totally serene, in fact, until she was within a few feet of the door, at which time she allowed an expression of mingled curiosity and weariness to cross her face. It was still there as she let herself in the unlocked door and locked it behind her. Then it was gone, for you cannot look curious and weary and hoot with helpless laughter at the same time.
“I’m sorry,” she said when she could. “I know you told me, but I guess I didn’t—I hadn’t—” She lost it again, and sat in a nearby chair.
Under other circumstances he might have been irritated—but he was too relieved. So far as he understood, zombies did not giggle. Or break their lover’s balls. “Issss,” he said in a hokey baritone, and rubbed his free hand across his bald scalp, “a pozzlement!” The hand she could not see put the safety back on and put Rosco away in his small-of-the-back holster.
She got the King and I reference, and giggled even harder. “Thanks,” she said when she was done. “I needed that. You look like that guy from Star Trek, t
he one without the wrinkles. ‘Make it so!’—that one.”
“It’ll grow back,” he said in his own voice. “And it was worth it, believe me.” He got up from his crouch, went to the door and rearmed the security system.
“The scam worked? Oh, that’s great, honey—you’re a genius! A bald genius. How big?”
“Ninety-eight kay,” he said smugly, buffing his nails on his chest. “Perfect blowoff. They won’t even know they’ve been stung for hours yet.” He admired his manicure. “I’m so smart I make myself sick.”
Suddenly she was serious. “You’re not wrong. I take my hat off. Do you have any idea how many people spent their whole lives trying to think up a new bit?”
He had not meant to be sidetracked by this, but he couldn’t help himself. “Aw hell,” he said, “it’s really just a refinement of the Horse Wire.”
By this he referred to the classic con outlined in the film The Sting, in which the mark is led to believe the player has secret advance access to telegraphed racing results. It is indeed the historical grandfather of most “insider-information” cons, and a case could be made that Paul’s creation was merely another, admittedly highly refined, variant.
But June answered as if he had primed her. “The hell it is. It looks a little like a Horse Wire, but it’s fundamentally different. It’s about the only con I ever heard of that doesn’t require the mark to be corrupt. Your sting works on altruists. You’ve broken new ground!”
For some reason her praise made him flinch. Okay, he thought, you’ve had your minimum daily requirement of stroking. Back to business!
“So have you, love,” he said.
She frowned, shifting gears at once. “Oh yeah. What’s this about a message?”
“You better listen to it yourself.”
“I guess so.” She got up.
He pushed away from the door, and just in time remembered to say, and just in time had the wit not to preface it with By the way, “How’s Laura?”
She winced, and came to him, and they hugged. “Later, okay?” she murmured into his neck.
Sure. Maybe in their golden years. “Yeah.”
They held each other for a long moment, each relishing the physical comfort, each wishing it could be prolonged. Then they went to the kitchen, and he started a pot of coffee while the tape played back.
She played the whole message twice, and after she shut the machine off, for several minutes the only sound in the room was the merry bubbling of water. Just as he was about to set out cups and spoons, she shook her head as if coming out of a trance.
“You said there’s a priest’s hole in this dump,” she stated, fiddling with the machine.
“Yeah. Down cellar.” His blood began to pound: she was using command voice.
“Now. Bring Rosco!”
“I’ll get a jacket—”
“Fuck the jacket. Let’s go.” She was already heading for the door to the basement.
He caught up with her at the foot of the stairs: she did not know which way to go from there. But she was right on his heels as he led them to the emergency exit, one hand in her purse, looking back over her shoulder. He had caught her urgency now, and didn’t bother to conceal the code he punched into what looked like a broken calculator. A slab of paneling became a door, which opened to reveal the unlit tunnel. As he reached to turn the tunnel light on, they both heard the horrid sound of an alarm echoing through the house, and probably the neighborhood.
“Son of a bitch,” he said. “Somebody just came through the front door.” A different tocsin. “The fire alarm too! Damn—I liked this place.” Suddenly his eyes widened. “Oh, shit—cover me! The ninety-eight large—” He began to turn back…and found that June was pointing her own gun at him.
“Did the brain fairy leave you a quarter last night?” she snarled. “Fuck the money.”
She was right. He knew she was right. “But—”
She took the safety off. “Move move move move move—”
He moved.
The best car in the underground garage was a ’94 Honda Accord. June was better with cars, they’d settled that long ago, so Paul guarded her back while she got in and got it running, a matter of seconds. She had it on the street and accelerating before he could get his seat belt buckled. “Where are we going?” he asked.
“How the hell do I know? Downtown, for now: try and maximize witnesses, disappear in the crowd. After that, who knows?”
He nodded and watched out the window for cops. A few blocks later, he said, “You don’t remember it at all?”
She took her eyes off the rearview mirror long enough to throw him an agonized look. “No! Not any part of it. If it wasn’t my voice, I wouldn’t believe it. Except for one other thing.”
He nodded. “Our visitors.”
“No, they only confirmed it. I believed it before we ran—that’s why we ran.”
“Okay: what’s the one thing that convinced you?”
“The part about Angel Gerhardt having an orgasm.”
“I don’t get you. That part almost convinced me you were hallucinating.”
“When I left Dad’s house this morning, I was wearing panties. I’m not, now.”
Paul turned pale, and then ruddy. “Jesus.”
Suddenly she started to laugh. “You want to hear something stupid?”
“Sure.”
“I actually feel better now than I did when you called. And I’m scared shitless.”
Chapter 4
Strike One
As they came through the door they knew they were too late.
They did what they could—hurled orgasms after both their targets, hard—but were unsurprised to miss. Too much distance, too much building and wiring in the way…and almost at once, the targets were enclosed in something that insulated them from the tasp.
Knowledge of the certainty of failure slowed them no more than the door had—that is, not at all: they burned the living room floor away beneath their pounding feet and hit the basement running. Walls received no more respect. But the door they finally came to was made of sterner stuff, fighting a heroic fifteen-second rear guard action before it too succumbed. So did the one at the far end of the tunnel. By the time they emerged into the underground parking garage its robot door had fully closed again.
They let it live. To go quickly through so public a door would court attention; to trick it into opening normally would take too long. Without hesitation they backed out of the garage and retraced their steps toward the single-family home they had just renovated.
Once they were back in the tunnel, and its door to the world was fused shut again behind them, she put away a weapon widget and took out a scanning widget. “Lead lining,” she announced. “Not just this tunnel: half the basement. Positively Murphian.”
“This whole set-up has to be a Cold War relic,” he said. “Basement bomb shelter with a secret way in and out.”
“Thanks,” she said. “I didn’t quite have enough irony to choke on. Somewhere, Joe Stalin is chuckling. I don’t like this.”
“We’ll reacquire,” he said as they reentered the house proper and sealed the tunnel behind them.
“Of course we will. But meanwhile we have two active leaks—and the second target we know nothing about.”
“We know everything June knows about him,” he said soothingly.
“Yes, and she thinks he’s an endearingly helpless boob. Do you think a boob outfitted this house?”
The house’s security measures had been impressive, for this ficton. Impressive enough to keep their preliminary site surveillance shallow, for fear of being spotted. For that reason, the priest’s hole had come as a rude surprise. And the speed—no, the quickness—with which it had been used was certainly unsettling. “No,” he admitted.
“This is ungood,” she said. “Two competent paranoids, in a fairly sophisticated ficton, on the loose with a Time bomb in their heads.”
“So let’s learn all we can about target numb
er two,” he said. He waved his hand like Peter Pan scattering fairy dust, and multicolored sparkles dispersed in all directions.
Upstairs in the den, Paul’s hard drive powered up. Elsewhere in the building, photos of him were identified and scanned; samples of his DNA were collected and analyzed; his belongings were inventoried. In the basement, in the room where they stood, a barely visible trail of red sparkles began to form in midair, denoting where a heat-source of human temperature had recently passed. The brighter the sparkles, the more recent the passage. The redder the sparkles, the longer the human had tarried there. She traced it down a hallway to a place faint but carmine, and used her scanning widget. “There’s something good here,” she said, deactivating an excellent booby-trap.
“Be careful,” he said, approaching.
“Don’t b—” she said, and the second booby-trap blew her through a wall. He was barely able to cancel most of the sound. A lot of upstairs came downstairs onto both of them. He fought through smoking rubble to reach her side.
She lay on her back, blinking up at him. “I am finding it very hard not to dislike Paul Throtmanian,” she said, her voice gentle in the sudden silence.
“Are you all right?”
She scanned herself—and winced. “I came through fine—but love…I’m afraid that was the Last Straw.”
He turned to stone, and it did not help enough. “You’re sure.”
“My whole defensive system overloaded. For good. I’m an ordinary mortal.”
He flinched, but said nothing. He owned no words equal to the occasion. He dropped to his knees beside her and took her in his arms.
This was a body blow, for her and for him and for their marriage and for their mission. They had both known this day might come, for either or both of them—had spent centuries preparing themselves for it, knowing that preparation would be no help. Sure enough, it was not. Suddenly it was a very sad day…and nowhere near over, with utter disaster on the horizon.
Lifehouse Page 6
