Killfile

by Christopher Farnsworth

  I consider that for a second. “So now you’re psychic too?”

  “I don’t have to read minds to see that you were badly damaged, and you’re angry. Maybe that’s inevitable, for someone who has your abilities. But that’s why you do this. Someone’s got to pay for what’s been done to you. You do this because you need someone to punish.”

  That sounds like her Psych 101 credit from college to me. I struggle for patience as I reply. “You’re right: I don’t care that much about other people being hurt. I care about you, and more importantly, I care about me. Right now those are my priorities.”

  She looks at me for the longest time. Her thoughts don’t make it to the level of words. There’s just a raw feeling, something that’s hard for me to name.

  “You need to be careful,” she says. “I know you want to think you’re not human. That you’ve crossed some line, or that you were born different. I don’t buy it. You’re still one of us. But if you work really hard at it, you might get what you wish for, John.”

  I’ve got five or six smart-ass replies I could make to that, but even I’m not stupid enough to say them out loud.

  She’s done talking to me anyway. She turns away and starts singing in her head again, a greatest-hits medley designed to shut me out.

  Jesus God. Where does she get these songs?

  I step into the corridor, close the door, and call Preston. If I’m looking for someone to punish, then he’s a pretty good candidate.

  PRESTON SURPRISES ME. There’s no abuse, no foaming at the mouth, no screaming. He doesn’t even raise his voice when I call him.

  “What the hell,” he says. “We’ve been meaning to redecorate anyway.”

  I assume he’s trying to trace the call. Good luck. Thanks to Tidhar, I’m piggybacking on Mossad tech, my cheap mobile riding a signal that’s bounced all over the world through an anonymizing VoIP network. That won’t stall him forever, but it should give us enough time to talk. Preston’s CIA backers could probably identify the source of the call, if they worked at it. But I suspect Preston isn’t running to them with his problems right now. I bet the Agency is asking him a lot of questions he’s reluctant to answer.

  Maybe that’s why he sounds so reasonable.

  “You’re taking this awfully well,” I say.

  “I’ve been doing some Zen sitting with a Buddhist monk lately. Trying to understand my karma, you know. That sort of thing.” Then he laughs. “Ah, you don’t believe that for a second, do you? Of course I’m pissed. But there comes a time when you’ve got to cut your losses and stop chasing a losing strategy. We can still negotiate.”

  “Glad to hear that. You know the terms: call off the hit on me and Kelsey. Restore our property. Throw in two million for my trouble, and you get the hard drive.”

  Slight pause. “You said it would be one million before.”

  “Did I? I meant three million.”

  “Hey, wait a second—”

  “And now it’s four.”

  He makes a noise, almost like a growl. “You know, John, I’m not a complete idiot. I mean, you seem to have this idea that I’m a fraud, that I can’t write my own code. But you must know better. You were in my head, or so you keep telling me. You must know I can rewrite everything we lost. Sure, that’s a pain in the ass—I am not exactly nostalgic for those twenty-hour coding sessions wired up on Red Bull and Adderall. That’s why I became a CEO, so I wouldn’t have to do that crap anymore. But I can do it. I’m the guy who wrote it in the first place and you’re trying to sell me something I already know how to make. That’s fine. I’m willing to pay for that convenience. Still, there’s something you should keep in mind: I don’t need Cutter to keep a price on your head. You’ve proven you can hurt me. Great. You’re very impressive, I get that now. But I can hurt you much worse. Right now I’m being a grown-up. You keep pissing me off, I might just kick over the game board completely.”

  I wait. He doesn’t say anything else. I assume he’s had his badass moment, so I ask him the question.

  “How long do you think you can stall them, Eli?”

  “What? Stall who?”

  “All of them. Your clients. The Agency. All of the people you’re supposed to be monitoring and protecting and analyzing. I bet you’ll get a little slack, because, after all, you just had your offices blown to bits on national television. But sooner or later, they’re going to expect to see your mojo working again. Do you think you’ll be able to rebuild Cutter before they notice you’re completely fucked? You can’t even tell your best programmers, because if they knew how bad it was, they’d run screaming to the competition. So I bet you’re pretending it’s business as usual while you try to re-create everything, all by yourself. How’s that going for you?”

  Silence. I’d swear he’s pouting.

  “I could be wrong, of course. What did your friends at the Agency say? How’d they take it when they found out you’ve lost all the secrets they wanted to steal?”

  He swallows loud enough for me to hear it over the line.

  “You said three million, right?”

  “Four.”

  A bitter laugh. “Right. Four. What was I thinking? So where do you want to meet, John?”

  I give him the details for a public meeting. This could turn into a fairly profitable job after all.

  [22]

  Screaming children and exhausted parents wander around us. Hipsters with multiple piercings sneer at the chain restaurant and the rides, trying hard to kill whatever childlike wonder they’ve got left inside them. There’s a polyglottal soup of languages and accents in the air as tourists compare what’s in front of their eyes with what they’ve seen on TV. Homeless people sift through the trash cans and beg spare change, their hunger and exhaustion numbed a little by drugs. And from all sides, all around me, there’s pressure, like the water in the deep end of the pool, a heavier atmosphere pressing on me, the weight of a few thousand minds, all gathered in one spot, all of them filled with need and want.

  This is where we agreed to meet: the Santa Monica Pier at noon. Broad daylight, big crowds, hundreds of potential witnesses.

  Ordinarily you’d never get me within a thousand yards of a place like this. It’s up there with Disneyland in my nightmares. But this should keep both sides honest.

  Preston agreed a little too fast, with a minimum of bitching. That makes me think either I made a mistake or he really has given up. From my perspective, it’s about as safe here as possible. There’s no good sniper position within a half mile, and too many police and civilians for an ambush. Even if he could get a guy on a roof somewhere, the fixed attention on me would instantly set off my alarm bells. Anyone in the crowd who targets me should wake me up to immediate danger as well.

  I have to have faith in my talent. All the mental noise around me is worth what I’m gaining in safety. This is about as good as I can get.

  The pier starts with a long bridge sloping down from the street to the structure. There are two concrete walkways on either side for pedestrians—never enough room for all of them—and a two-lane road for the cars that are early enough to get a space on the pier’s parking lot.

  I put Kelsey at a spot on the walkway, well above the place where I’m meeting Preston’s men. She can watch the crowd and watch my back from here.

  “Almost done,” I tell her. “Just this last bit, and then it’s over.”

  “Then what happens?” she asks.

  “You can’t be serious. You want to talk about our relationship now?”

  She smiles. “Guys always get so scared when it’s time to talk commitment,” she says. “Don’t be a jerk. When this is over, I’m going to run away from you as fast and as far as I can. No offense.”

  “Some taken.”

  “Well, if you ever get that island, I might come visit. If you think you could use a fr
iend.”

  I look at her. “Might be nice,” I admit.

  I check my watch as an excuse to look away. Almost time for the meet. Now comes the tricky part. I’ve done this only a few times, and it’s never easy.

  I look at her. “Do you trust me?”

  She gives me a look back.

  She’s right. She’s already trusted me more than anyone should.

  I lean close and touch my forehead to hers.

  This isn’t necessary, but it makes things easier. Physical proximity always makes my talent work better. I’m sure there’s a whole theory behind that, but I’ve never been interested in the process much. Just the results.

  I look inside her head. Really look. I push past the surface thoughts and her memories and her buzz of anxiety. I submerge myself inside her physical responses, the sound of the pier and the ocean, the brightness of the sun through her closed eyelids, the slight breeze carrying the scents of fried food and salt water. I’m hearing what she hears. Seeing what she sees.

  It’s as intimate as being in bed together, but out in public, in broad daylight. She shakes, just a little bit, and grips my arms as if to maintain her balance.

  I swim back to the surface and pull out. But I leave a chunk of myself behind.

  When I open my eyes, I have to split-screen my consciousness. On the one side, everything that I see: Kelsey, standing there in the sun, with people streaming around her as they head down for fun and frolic.

  And on the other side, I see myself through her eyes. I look worried. And older than I remember.

  She can feel it, that piece of myself still inside her head. Without my talent, she can’t see it the same way. All she can feel is her end of the link, like a telephone connection left open after one person hangs up. She doesn’t get the visuals or the words or the inside of my mind. But she knows I’m there.

  She could break the link if she wanted. I could claw hard and try to hang on, but there’s really nothing I can do to keep her from shaking me out of her head when she’s had enough. That’s why this requires trust.

  “Oh man,” she says. “That’s weird.”

  “Just take it easy. I’m right here.”

  She nods. She turns her head, and my perspective shifts. The world tilts on one side of the split screen. She looks down and sees the meeting spot, the tables outside the carousel on the pier.

  On my side of the screen, I’m still looking at her. Her perspective jumps around while she checks the crowd.

  I have to fight the urge to try to direct her vision. That just leads to migraines. She looks where she looks. I’m a passive rider. It’s like wearing 3-D glasses or talking on the phone while driving. It takes a little getting used to at first.

  Kelsey is smarter than I am, and tougher than I thought possible, but she’s still basically a civilian. She doesn’t have my training. She doesn’t know what to look for or how to pick an enemy out of the crowd. So I’m going to have to do a ride-along. With her up here, I can look for anyone else working for Preston through her eyes. I can watch my back at the same time she does.

  It might also have occurred to me that this is also the best way to keep her away from Preston’s men and still be with her.

  Before I pull away, I kiss her.

  Again, not necessary, but we need all the luck we can get right now.

  I check my watch. Time to go.

  Half of my mind is filled with the picture of me walking away from her.

  THE CAROUSEL IS just to the left of where the road levels out and meets the pier. There’s a deck outside the entrance with metal tables.

  Preston’s men are there, as arranged, holding down a position at one of the tables. Three of them. Wearing baggy shorts and T-shirts, scowls on their faces as if daring any happy families to try to take their seats. People give them a lot of space. Ice cream melts, uneaten, in little paper cups in front of them.

  Never trust a man who doesn’t like ice cream. If that’s not a saying, it should be.

  On the other side of the split screen, Kelsey watches the crowd as they stream past her, on their way up and down the bridge to the pier.

  Nobody looks hostile. I’m not getting that telltale prickle on the back of my neck that tells me someone is lining up a shot. I’m not a target. We’re good.

  I sit down at the table.

  “Join you?”

  “Free country,” the lead guy—Adkins, his name is Adkins—says.

  “Nice day, huh?”

  “If you like seventy degrees and sunshine,” Adkins says.

  “Beats the hell out of a hundred and twenty in the shade in Fallujah.” I’m trying to be nice. Two vets, talking about the war. What better way to bond?

  “Fuck you. Let’s just get this over with.”

  So much for bonding.

 

  I feel Kelsey’s anxiety growing. Something wrong, out at the periphery of her senses. Nothing conscious. But enough to make her nervous.

  Meanwhile, Iggy and the stooges are already screwing up the deal with me.

  “All right. Nice doing business with you,” I say. I try to take the duffel.

  Adkins won’t give it up. He puts his foot down on the bag. Hard.

  “No way,” he says. “Not until you give us the drive.”

  “That’s not how this is supposed to work,” I say quietly.

  He smirks. “I’m telling you how it works.”

 

  He’s improvising. He actually thinks it’s a good idea. Showing initiative as a way to impress both Preston and the people behind him.

  “Adkins,” I tell him, “the people who hired you are most impressed by men who can follow orders.”

 

  “Adkins,” I say again, as patiently as I can, “this is not the time for you to show me your dick. Follow the rules, we’ll all go home happy.”

  He gets defensive. I’m embarrassing him in front of the other two. Their names pop up as well: and .

  I can feel the weapons they’re carrying, under their baggy shirts, snug against their hips.

  “All right,” I say, trying to project and into their atrophied little frontal lobes. “Let me look inside the bag. See if Preston fulfilled his end of the bargain. Then we can talk about where you can get the drive.”

  “No. You tell us now.”

  Jesus. Even the five-year-olds waiting in line for ice cream display more patience than this guy. I’d have better luck negotiating with them. Why did Preston send the B-team for this meet?

 

  I’m starting to get a headache keeping it all separate.

 

  Wait a second. Who was that?

  I close my eyes and try to focus.

  ts the window so hard the safety glass cracks and stars>

  At the edge of Kelsey’s peripheral vision. She’s not completely conscious of having seen him, that’s why this is hard. She knows him, even if she’s only aware of it as a nagging feeling of unease.

  “Hey,” Adkins snaps. “You taking a nap on me?”

  Oh right, this asshole. “Let me open the bag. Please.”

  Focus. At the edge of the crowd. Dammit, Kelsey, turn your head.

  “Not until you tell us where you’ve stashed the hard drive.”

 

  Oh no.

  I get up from the table so fast that Wylie and Gill both twitch for their weapons. Adkins nearly jumps up with me. “Hey, man, what the hell are you—”

  I’m up and sprinting away from him, toward Kelsey, screaming inside my head.

 

  Because of our link, she hears me.

  comes back at me. But she starts moving. Slowly, but she moves. I try to kick her legs into gear.

  She’s not used to it, not used to trusting the voices in her head. That’s a sign of schizophrenia in the world where she usually lives, but she has to move.

  I push as hard as I can, because I know his body language, even if Kelsey doesn’t. I know the threat.

  In her memory, at the edges of her vision, there he was.

 

  She trusts me. She takes a step, prepares to run.

  And finally sees him again. About six feet away from her.

 

  Snake Eater.

  He’s broken away from the crowd. Everyone is fixated on the Parrot Man reaching through the broken window of the minivan. Cars are stacked up behind, honking. The birds are flapping their wings madly, as if they’re trying to pull their owner into the sky with them.