Sims F Paul Wilson

by Sims (lit)

  She groaned. “That feelsgood .”

  You’re telling me, he thought.

  “SIRG appears to be defunct,” she said as he continued to knead. “But it could be operating under a different name. Either way, just to be sure we’ve turned over every rock before we move on, I think we should know where its money came from, don’t you?”

  “But how?”

  Patrick stretched his fingers forward, working his massage down to her collar bones.

  “My…office.” Romy groaned again. “You’re making it hard to concentrate.”

  “Just soothing those tight muscles. Relax.” Patrick himself was anything but as a rapturous pressure built within.

  She cleared her throat. “What was I saying?”

  “Something about your office.” He slipped his fingers over her collar bones onto the upper edges of her pectorals.

  “Oh, right. OPRR’s computers are linked to the government. And my boss, Milton Ware, is an absolute master at weaving through bureaucratese. I need to find a way to put Uncle Miltie onto the scent without knowing why. Maybe if I—”

  “Excuse me?”

  They both jumped and turned at the sound of a woman’s voice. Relief flooded Patrick as he recognized the figure standing in the doorway.

  “Miss Fredericks! How did you get in here?” He could have sworn he’d locked the door.

  Alice Fredericks smiled. “I’m sorry if I startled you, Mr. Sullivan. But I was walking by and just happened to look up and see the lights, so I thought I’d stop in and inquire as to why you haven’t called me.”

  Walking by? Patrick thought. Probably watching the place with a telescope.

  He leaned closer to Romy and whispered, “She’s the one I told you about.” Romy gave him a puzzled look, but before he could elaborate—

  “Oh, no!” Alice cried, pointing to Tome who had stepped out of the filing room. “It’s one of them! One of my long lost great-grandchildren! Please take him away! The sight of him tears at my heart!”

  “Now I remember,” Romy whispered. “Dramatic, isn’t she.”

  “Just a bit.”

  He motioned the baffled Tome back into the file room where he’d be out of sight, then turned to Alice. Though he was still rattled by the way she’d strolled in here off the street, he didn’t want to take it out on her. But it was time to put a stop to these intrusions.

  “Miss Fredericks, I’m sorry, but I don’t think I’ll be able to spare the time to take your case. And even if I did, in the long run it will come down to your word against SimGen’s, and I don’t think—”

  “Even if I have proof?”

  “What sort of proof can you have?”

  “A check made out to me from Mercer Sinclair.”

  Yeah, right, he thought. “How would you happen to have that? Once you cash a check it goes back to the one who issued it.”

  “But I didn’t cash it,” Alice said, eyes wide. “It was the last payment for letting them use my body to incubate the alien child. I didn’t know they’d steal him from me. How could I take money from the man who stole my child?” Her eye filled with tears. “That would be like…like selling my baby!”

  “So why didn’t you burn it or tear it up?”

  “I kept it as a reminder to stay the course, and because I knew someday I’d have a chance to confront Mercer Sinclair again, and when I did I wanted to be able to throw it back in his face!”

  “We’d love to see that check,” Romy said. When Patrick gave her an are you-nuts? look she nudged him with her elbow and whispered, “No stone unturned, right?” Then she raised her voice: “Can you bring it here?”

  “Oh no,” Alice said. “I never take it out of my room. But if you want to come visit me, I’ll be very happy to show it to you.”

  Patrick regarded Alice Fredericks. Was she completely bonkers and dreaming all this up? Just a lonely lady who’d say anything to have company? Or could there be a kernel of truth at the heart of her crazy story?

  Patrick sighed. “Leave me your address and I’ll see if I can get over tomorrow.”

  “Hewill get over tomorrow,” Romy said, giving him a wry smile. “Even if I have to drag him.”

  16

  NEWARK, NJ

  Meerm shiver in dark. Ver wet and cold. Ver scare. And hurt. Hand bleed, foot bleed, leg bleed. Not bleed lot but still bleed. Blood wash off in rain but come more blood.

  Meerm inside now. Clothes all wet and drip. But where? Meerm not know. Meerm run-run-run from sim home. Slip in water. Fall down, get up, fall down. Many fall. Meerm so dizzy and weak. No run no more. See old metal door in brick wall. Pull-pull-pull on handle. Door open loud and Meerm go in. Close door behind.

  Not warm here. Ver dark. Meerm feel big metal wire. Go up-up-up. Ver bad oil smell.

  Meerm shiver more. Meerm cry. So cold-wet. So lonely. Sim friend gone forever. Meerm no go back. Bad mans wait for Meerm. Want hurt her. Poor Meerm. Nev see Beece friend again.

  What sound? Outside. Some call Meerm name. Meerm listen hard. Yes. Some call, “Meerm! Meerm, where you?” Not man voice. Sound like sim. Sound like Beece!

  Beece-Beece-Beece! Meerm so happy to hear Beece. Want see. Meerm push door open little. Ver ver little. Just enough see.

  Yes! There! There Beece! Meerm go open wider—

  No-no-no! Beece bring mans! Bad mans who hurt!

  17

  Beece walk down dark alley with other sim. Beece cold and hungry-tired, not know where is. Too many turn. Beece pretend search Meerm but not want find. Beece not like these mans. Ver mean mans. But meanest is red-hair city man who hurt Beece. Other mans call him Grimes. Grimes ver bad man. All these mans bad. Want hurt Meerm. Why? Meerm not bad. Meerm just sick. Get big-big belly.

  Beece hear run-steps. Crouch down fraid when see red-hair city man run up. But not hit Beece. Stop and talk other man.

  “Hey, Alessi! Somebody called the cops. Lowery heard it on the scanner.”

  “Shit!”

  “Yeah, well, had to expect it. Somebody sees a bunch of men and monkeys poking through their neighborhood, they want to know what’s going on.”

  “Don’t suppose we’ve got any suck with these locals.”

  “Naw. Who’d ever figure we’d have to operate in Newark? Anyway, Portero doesn’t want anyone to know why we’re here. That’s why I’m moving the car around to the main drag out there. I’ll be in the McDonald’s lot. When the boys in blue arrive, we fade.”

  “I’ll bet he’s royally pissed.”

  “Count on it.”

  “All right. See you at McDonald’s. Hey, while you’re there, get some burgers and fries for the trip home. I missed dinner.”

  “You got it.”

  Grimes go. Other man look Beece. “Keep looking, monkey. We’re not through yet. You go over there.” Point other sim. “You come over here with me. Find her, damn it!”

  Beece go where told. Lots trash here. Big puddle. Shoe all wet. Beece lost. See top Mickey-D sign between building. Golden arches. Yum. Beece love Mickey-D. Yes-yes. Sometime—

  What sound? Beece hear squeak-squeak. Turn see black metal door in brick wall. Look hard see red letter.

  ELEVATOR SHAFT

  DANGER!

  AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL

  ONLY!

  Beece no read but Beece see blood on door. See eye look out from door crack.

  Meerm! Meerm here!

  Beece look round quick. Mans not near. Man not look. Beece fraid talk. Wave Meerm to make stay. No speak, no move! Beece bend, get water in hand. Wash blood off door. Get more. Blood all gone now.

  Man yell, say, “Find anything over there?”

  “No, sir. Many puddle. No see Meerm.”

  “All right then, keep moving! Time’s a-wasting!”

  Beece bend and whisper to door, “Beece not tell. Not tell no one.”

  18

  SUFFOLK COUNTY, NY

  So…Meerm is in Newark.

  Zero couldn’t be absolutely sure, but
it was evident that Portero believed so. Zero had hired a private detective to keep an eye on him. Often the man reported back that Portero had given him the shake, but tonight he’d called and said that Portero and three others had made a beeline from the SimGen campus to a battered neighborhood in Newark.

  Zero had driven his van from the West Side garage, through the Holland Tunnel, into Newark. Although only a few miles, the trip had taken nearly an hour. But well worth it. Arriving, he’d been treated to the spectacle of Luca Portero and his men herding dozens of sims through the streets, all calling “Meerm! Meerm!”

  His heart had sunk. The swine had found her—or damn near. Only a matter of time before all those men and sims tracked Meerm down.

  And then…a reprieve. He’d pounded his steering wheel with glee as he watched Portero and company make a slapdash retreat just before the Newark Police arrived with their lights flashing. They’d left empty-handed, which meant that Meerm—if she were here at all—was still somewhere in the vicinity. It also meant that Portero and his men would be back.

  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.

  Ifthey 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 something 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.

  FIVE

  Thy Brother’s Keeper

  1

  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: Wedon’t know. We assume, but we don’tknow .”

  “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, twenty something 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.