How We Found You: A Cyberpunk Kidnapping Thriller (When Tomorrow Calls Book 2)

by JT Lawrence

  Later, once the twins are safely in bed, Kate collapses on the couch in front of the homescreen. She’s about to turn it on, but Seth catches her wrist and takes the remote from her.

  “We need to talk.” Seth sits on the couch next to her.

  “Uh oh,” says Kate. “You can’t break up with me, you know. I’m your sister.”

  “I don’t want to break up with you.”

  Betty/Barbara the beagle snores from the other side of the lounge.

  “I know what you’re going to say.”

  “No, you don’t.”

  “You’ve had enough of the kids. Of me. You want us to move out.”

  “No, Kate. No.”

  A warm wave of relief brings more tears.

  “I couldn’t love those kids any more if they were my own. You know that.”

  “You’re so good. You’re so good with them.”

  The children love Seth as surely as they love each other.

  “I’d say that they love you like a father, but we both know that means nothing.”

  Kate and Seth’s adoptive fathers had both been cold. When they finally met their biological father they were in their mid-thirties and too grown up to experience that all-encompassing love a small child receives from a tender-hearted parent. It was part of their twin tragedy.

  “I need to go on a trip,” says Seth.

  “You’re leaving us?”

  “Just for a little while.”

  Kate’s inside is dyed with dread.

  “I won’t cope without you.”

  “You’ll be fine.”

  “I won’t.”

  “Kirsten – ”

  Her desperation mounts.

  “Don’t call me that!”

  “Sorry.”

  “I hate it when you call me that.”

  “I didn’t do it on purpose.”

  “I left that all behind.”

  They both know it’s not true.

  “Kate. You’re the strongest woman I know. You’re the strongest person I know.”

  “I’m not. I’m a mess. I’m a fucking disaster,” she plucks at her pyjamas. “Can’t you see it?”

  “You know I wouldn’t go if it wasn’t important. I won’t be gone for long.”

  “Please don’t leave. I have a bad feeling.”

  “You’ll have Sebongile. I’ve already asked her if she can work more hours. She’ll dress the twins in the morning, take them to school. She can work evenings, too. Cook the kids’ dinner. She said it’s fine. It might even free you up a bit. You can have some time to yourself.”

  The last thing Kate wants is time to herself. Being left alone with her thoughts is a dangerous thing.

  “Maybe you could – I don’t know – take your old camera out for a day. Or you can take up your shooting practice again. You were saying the other day that you wanted to -”

  “What if you’re not here when I need your help?”

  “I told you, the nanny will be here.”

  “No, I mean -”

  “What?”

  “What if someone comes to take the children?”

  Seth moves closer to her, takes her hands.

  “Kate,” he says, looking into her eyes. “No one is going to take the children.”

  She starts crying again. She can’t help it. The tears embarrass her, make her feel weak.

  “It’s over,” he says. “What happened to us was terrible but now it’s over. It was four years ago. You need to move on.”

  “I know,” she cries. “I mean, I know. But I have this … feeling.”

  “They’re dead, Kate. Van der Heever. Mouton – ”

  “They never found the bodies,” she says, without meaning to. The thought goes around and around in her head when she has a panic attack. A black whisper in her brain.

  “Of course they never found the bodies. They were blown to pieces.”

  “We can’t be certain,” says Kate.

  “Of course we can. We were there. They were dead before the building blew up.”

  Chapter 4

  Bitter Caramel Skin

  Kekeletso shifts in her seat. Taps her feet. She’s not used to sitting for long periods. Most days, her job as a freelance journalist keeps her running. She thinks of all the stories she’s missing and her mouth goes dry. Keke motions for a glass of water from the banker sitting next to her.

  At least she thinks he’s a banker. He could be a trader. A businessman. A pimp of any kind. He’s successful: She can pretty much smell the money on him. What is his story? That sharp suit could be hiding anything.

  He pours her a glass out of the sweating S/LAKE bottle on the counter in front of them, and their fingers touch when he hands it over. After a curt nod in thanks, she lifts her mask and takes a gulp without inspecting the drink, which is a good sign. It means she’s becoming less paranoid about The Water Thing. The Fontus Thing. Genesis: the story that almost killed her. The story that’s made her so famous she hasn’t been able to go anywhere for years without a face mask.

  The face masks were at first a burden, a grudge accessory, but she’s become so used to wearing them they’ve joined her trademark antique leather jacket as part of her look. Like tinted windows and sunglasses, face masks allow her a degree of separation from the frenetic place her world has become.

  Since American scientists finally discovered how to defeat the SuperBug – using a compound found in an Antarctic sea sponge – people binned their masks with glee, but Keke kept hers on. The designer face mask business moved to China and she’s been able to buy scores of remaindered stock for next to nothing. Add to that her intricate cornrows, white lace shoulder tattoo and ice-blue eye contacts – arresting in their contrast to her bitter-caramel skin – it’s no wonder strange bankers stare. She takes off the mask, crumples it into her pocket.

  “What?” she silently mouths to the man.

  He shakes his head in apology. He hadn’t even realised he was looking.

  “Pay attention,” she whispers, pretending to scold him, pointing to the front of the court house.

  The suit gives her a wry smile. Keke spends a moment looking at his hands – he has nice hands; is he good with them? – then tunes back into the court proceedings.

  This isn’t the first time she’s been in court – as a journalist, she’s followed a slew of cases – but it’s the first time she’s ever been on the juror’s bench. She’s considered trying to dodge jury duty, but something told her to go through with it. Maybe it’s a sense of civil responsibility, or maybe it’ll make a good story. Either way, she doesn’t regret the decision.

  The accused – the father of the victim – is told to take the stand. He stumbles as he reaches the bench and almost trips, and the woman beside Keke gasps and jumps involuntarily, as if to catch him before he falls. Keke doesn’t blame her for wanting to help him. He’s a husk of a man. Whatever will he had to live has been stripped from him like skin. A terrible thing, to lose your child, especially one so young. There’s nothing worse, she’s sure, apart from this – being charged with his murder.

  The defendant eventually sits. He rubs the bridge of his nose, an old habit from when he used to wear glasses, Keke guesses. Not many people wear specs anymore, now that bio lens technology has become so affordable. Her own BLs cost a fortune, but that’s because they’re medicated. They monitor her blood sugar levels via her tears and dispense insulin as needed. The blue tint is just for fun.

  The man on the stand is shaking. He doesn’t look nervous; his face is waxen and loose. Keke glances at his wife, who is trying to catch his eye, maybe to reassure him, but his gaze is downcast. The wife looks just as desperate in her ivory suit, matching face and freshly shampooed hair. She was told to wash it, Keke’s sure. She’s watched the woman’s hair get greasier and greasier as the trial wore on. Who can blame her? In her position, hair-washing must seem utterly insignificant, but they’re reaching the end of proceedings now, and it’s important to keep up appe
arances. The expensive clothes, the powdered face: maybe if she acts the part of good wife and mother instead of the mess she has become, the jury will be influenced in her husband’s favour. Think of them as a respectable family. Or maybe not. Maybe dirty hair might have won her more sympathy.

  Impossible to say which way it’ll go – clean hair or not – impossible to know what Keke’s fellow jurors are thinking. The suit thinks he’s guilty, the woman on her right is sure he’s innocent. Keke can’t be sure. She has to know more. The prosecutor begins his last examination.

  Chapter 5

  'D' for Dickweasel

  Seth swings his backpack into the cab and climbs in after it, careful to not spill his street-bought coffeeberry freezo.

  “Hello Cabbie,” he says. The car takes a few seconds to read Seth’s Patch.

  “Good morning, Mister Denicker.” The engine ignites with a purr, and the system adjusts the air-conditioning and window-tint to Seth’s preferred settings. “Please choose a destination.”

  This particular cab’s voice reminds him of the one he used to have in his apartment before Kate moved in. Urbane, sexy, almost devoid of accent. Her name was Sandy and she’d known him so well. She’d remind him to drink electrolytes before going to bed after a late night out at Tommyknockers then stall his artificial sunrise the morning after.

  “The airport,” he says. “Lanseria.”

  He checks his hair in the mirror. It’s blue black, freshly dyed, and it matches the smudge on his eyes.

  “Calculating route to Lenasia.”

  “Not Lenasia. Lanseria. The airport.”

  “Calculating route to Lenasia.”

  “Oh, for fuck’s sake,” says Seth, leaning forwards and flicking the rear-view mirror into smartscreen mode. He types ‘LANSERIA AIRPORT’ and smacks the ‘enter’ button.

  “Calculating route to Lanseria.”

  “Thank you,” mutters Seth under his breath.

  “You are most welcome,” says the car and takes off a little more quickly than usual, pushing Seth back into his seat.

  “You’re a feisty one,” he says.

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t get that. Could you please repeat it?”

  “Never mind,” says Seth, mopping coffee frost off his jeans. Luckily they’re dirt-repellant or he’d be walking into his new job with stained pants.

  The solarplane’s hull is made of seamless superglass, allowing the passengers an almost 360-degree view while they’re up in the air. There’s a special cabin at the back for people who are afraid of flying, replete with white noise, liquid-weighted jumpsuits and virtual reality sets that allow them to believe they’re safely on the ground. They can choose between options of virtual Tropical, Urban or Alpine settings and even get breakfast to match, if they’ve booked ahead. Tranquili-tea comes standard.

  Seth’s eating a buttermilk waffle snackwich with morellos and chia cream. He was going to choose the healthy option – scrambled tofu with allium micro-greens – but he’s feeling in need of some comfort. Either that or Kate’s junk-eating habits have been rubbing off on him.

  Life used to be a lot easier before they were reunited. He had his high-tech apartment to himself, an interesting nightlife, and as many women as he wanted. Sure, it was a kind of shallow, superficial existence, but it was one that he had carefully created for himself. It was neat, and it had suited him. Fast forward four years, and his routine is unrecognisable. His days of recreational drugs, ShadowShots and unprotected sex are far behind him, replaced by loud 4D cartoons and edible wax crayons. Scrawls of beginner alphabets on his climachange walls: A is for apple, app-app-apple. Peanut butter stains on white pine-leather designer couches, animated stickers on his Punani sneakers, stray cereal crunching underfoot.

  His place, previously a handsome and sophisticated bachelor pad, now resembles a toddler zoo.

  Of course, he wouldn’t choose to go back to how it was. His current life, in all its chaos, is more rewarding now than it’s ever been. He’s found some kind of meaning – a deep connection he never had before. The kids teach him a lot. In some ways, ankle-biters know a lot more than adults do. Still, a break from them is great, he thinks, as he stretches out his legs. He had made sure to choose a kid-free flight.

  The stewardbot cycles noiselessly down the aisle, collecting empty trays and handing out steaming hotwipes. He’s sure the robot is more efficient than a human counterpart but he misses the eye candy, the days of red-lipped beauties breathing over you as they served pink gin and tonics. Lean arms and pert tits. As if, as a precursor to being hired as a stewardess, you had to be at least a runner-up in those strange competitions they used to have. What were they called? Beauty pageants. Before the world realised what a fucked-up thing it was to parade women around in bikinis and high heels for satin sashes. Pipe dreams of ‘world peace’: what a crock of shit. Still, he considers as he downs his vitadrink, it’s nice to be in the presence of beauty, no matter how shallow. There’s not enough of it in the world. Not enough to counteract the dark stuff.

  He rubs his face, leans back into the reclining chair. They’ll be touching down soon.

  This trip will be good for him. Sure, it’s for grind, but it’s exciting work, and any time he’s away from Mally and Silver it feels like a holiday. He closes his eyes; maybe he’ll have a nano-nap. He tries to empty his mind, but there’s a nagging thought that won’t go away, no matter how much he ignores it. He takes a deep breath then imagines he’s sitting in the back section, VR set on, lying on the beach and listening to the waves lapping. Wind rustling the leaves of palm trees. Still the thought is there.

  It’s not the twins he needs a break from; the kids are not the problem.

  A young man in row D takes a hotwipe and smacks the stewardbot with it. It’s the same creep who tried to trip the robot while it was handing out breadrolls earlier. ‘D’ for dick. Dickweasel. Douchebag.

  “I don’t want it,” the creep says. The wipe hangs onto the side of the bot’s head for a moment then drops to the floor. The man laughs, and his cohorts around him laugh too. Students. Seth takes in their athleisure wear and lazy body language. Too much testosterone and too many beers. The robot, confused, picks up the cloth and drops it into the cache on his back. He produces a new wipe and tries again to hand it to the jock.

  “I said I don’t want it,” says the creep, this time with anger.

  The robot’s code obviously doesn’t allow for dick passengers. Seth shakes his head. This is a glaring mistake. When the stewardbot doesn’t move away, the jock kicks it. The robot’s head spins around in alarm. The gang laughs again. Seth unfastens his safety harness.

  Some of the passengers frown at the student, and make clicking sounds with their tongues to show their disapproval, as if he had kicked a puppy. He’s about to kick it again when Seth stands up and walks over. Bot or not, he won’t stand for bullying.

  “Leave it alone,” he says.

  The jock is still smiling. He looks around at his friends for support, but they look away, so his cockiness fades. Seth can read his thought process through his facial expressions. He’s wondering if it’s worth the fight. He thinks he might be able to beat Seth, but will it be worth being arrested at the airport? Missing his bro-moon with his mates? Being drafted into a Crim Colony?

  The robot whirrs away down the aisle.

  “Okay, man,” the jock says, throwing his hands up in jokey surrender. “Chill.”

  The overhead icons light up, showing a Quinbot buckling up. Seth returns to his seat just in time for the plane to descend.

  Chapter 6

  Four Fingers

  Kate’s walking down an alley that smells of urine and ash. The sun is just setting and it coats the grimy city walls with shades of candied blood orange. A drone buzzes overhead and she wants to swat it away. She wants to be like that giant woman in the 1950s movie posters. Attack of the Fifty Foot Woman. She wants to swat that drone away like a fly and crunch cars and smash buildings. And she wa
nts to roar while she’s doing it.

  But she’s not a giant. She’s the small one. The ant underfoot. The skyscrapers loom over her as if to assert their phallic concrete-metal-glass. The buildings – palisade spikes and buzzing neon lights – crowd around her like schoolyard bullies.

  She’s hurrying now. She can smell the danger in the dusk. She doesn’t know what she’s running from. No matter how many times she tries to change direction, the littered street seems to snake its way further and further into the black heart of the city.

  She has no option but to follow it. There’s someone chasing her. He thinks he’s well hidden but she can hear his footsteps behind her, feel his eyes on her body. She imagines his breath on her neck. When she looks back all she sees is a dirty, deserted lane. Is the threat in her mind? She knows how paranoid she’s become but it doesn’t stop the red flags shooting up in her brain. Imaginary or not, she has to keep moving. The sky is completely dark now. Algae street lights flicker on and off. She has to get somewhere before it’s too late. Is it Keke? Is she sick? Kate’s not sure. She hears hyenas growling and yipping. Then she remembers why she’s hurrying. The twins. She left them somewhere. How could she leave them alone in this terrible place? They’d be so scared. They’d be beside themselves. Crying for her. What has she done? The guilt hacks at her like a panga, splitting her back open, letting her blood run and mix with the ink of the midnight air.

  She runs, her soles hit the tarmac, she passes graffitti’d walls, but she doesn’t get anywhere. It’s like she’s stuck in some kind of monochrome Möbius strip. An animated Escher painting. Her breath is barbed, and the energy drains out of her. She stops for a moment, gasping, hands on knees.