“Did they say anything else?” Sunny repeated the question while spying on the empty hallway. She thought the old woman might have fallen asleep.
“Find me.”
Sunny turned. “What?”
“That’s what they said. Find me.”
Ice water flooded her legs. She made it to the empty couch before collapsing on a heap of knitted scarves. She would wait a few minutes on the couch. Maybe the person would call back. The dregs of third shift caught up with her. The room entered a cycle that spun her into a dead sleep.
SHE DREAMED OF NEEDLES.
Big dull needles prodded her to run on legs too fat, too numb. If she could reach up and pull the needle from her head, the one that pierced the frontal lobe, she could wake up.
Or maybe leave the needle in. Because that’s where he is. He’s inside the needle. And I need to find him.
Sunny rolled into the pain and stared at fatigued green fabric, breathing through a coarse blanket filled with dust mites and a layer of shed fur. Knitting needles were driving into her side. They clattered on the carpet.
The lamps were off.
A nightlight drove shadows across the littered floor. The pale light of early morning slipped past the thick drapes, the patter of rain against the window. Sleep still dusted her mind, blotting out the past and sun-bleached memories. She was steeped in dullness as cats stirred somewhere. There was a distant memory of the digital watch beeping in the middle of the night, the masking tape pulling at the hairs on her wrist.
As the pale light faded around the window to become fully gray, the details of the cramped apartment reminded her where she was.
And why.
A clock sat on a bookshelf loaded with DVDs and empty picture frames. It was three o’clock, but the diffuse light looked more like early morning. She’d slept through the night.
She’d missed her shift.
Her supervisor would have called her phone, which was in her apartment. And dead. His message would go straight to voicemail, where it would wait for eternity. Maybe he would ask Donny what happened and he would tell him and they would forgive her.
But Donny won’t be there, either.
Hopelessness smothered her. Mrs. Jones would find her corpse when digging for her needles. She would call the police and they would bury her without a tear.
“What do you want from me?” she said.
She didn’t believe in an all-seeing entity, not Greek or Roman or Christian, because if there was a God, then she had no reason to bend a knee to his cruel sense of humor. She didn’t deserve this. Still, she was talking.
So she must believe in something.
She could call Henk, find Grey’s girlfriend or try the police again. But none of that would explain the phone calls, the prescient demand to come to Mrs. Jones’s apartment when someone came looking for her.
She dug into her pocket and opened a wadded piece of paper. Micah wasn’t available and the South African woman wasn’t about to speak with her again. But Sunny knew where she could get more answers. With the right amount of prodding, someone could tell her who Micah was and why she needed to find him.
She peeked through the spyhole before opening the door. She walked through her apartment, where everything was exactly the same, the hopeful glimmer this was all a dream going to its final resting place. Sunny left nothing behind that mattered. Grey was out there.
A short, little man was going to help find him.
4
Hunter
After the Punch
A WHITE-HAIRED WOMAN sat in the office.
The detective was typing, taking her statement or just flat out ignoring her.
Hunter shook his umbrella and tucked it into his leather bag. He checked the time, ignored the unread emails and scrolled through the weather back home, where it wasn’t raining.
The plane ride had been bumpy; the seat wouldn’t recline. He felt he’d been away from home too long, even though he’d just arrived in this sad city. His phone buzzed.
Who is this? was the text.
The number seemed familiar, but there was no texting history. He was about to respond (You texted me. Who are you?) but then decided to block it. Spammers knew how to bait a conversation.
“Help you?” an officer asked.
“Waiting for the, uh... for him.” Hunter gestured at the office. The old woman was gone. She’d slipped out without notice.
“He expecting you?”
“Probably.”
Hunter hiked the leather bag on his shoulder and made his way to the open door. He lightly knocked.
“Yes?” the detective answered.
“Hunter Montebank. FBI, cybercrime.” He cleared his throat. He’d been doing this job forever, but sometimes he just didn’t know how to start or what he was doing. Like it was day one. “We, uh, spoke this morning.”
The sign on the desk said Fred Billingsly, but he liked to go by Freddy. Hunter wasn’t sure how he knew that, must’ve overheard a conversation when he arrived, one of those details he absorbed and couldn’t remember.
Freddy pointed at a chair while he cleared a space on his desk. A yellow envelope fell on the floor, one that appeared to be a birthday card. It was addressed to Fredrick Kaleb Billingsly in big loopy cursive. The same handwriting was in the upper left corner. It was from Mom.
Hunter was about to wish him happy birthday, but instead he said, “Lovely city. Does it ever stop raining?”
An awkward minute passed. “Do you know where you are, Mr. Hunter?”
“The saddest city in the world?”
It wasn’t clear what Freddy meant by that. Hunter assumed it was a veiled reference to his race. His birth parents were Asian, but his adoptive parents were Caucasian. Both had abandoned him. The only good thing his adoptive parents did for him—the word parents a very loose description—was establish his citizenship. Other than that, he was twice abandoned.
Oddly enough, not the worst thing about his youth.
“What can I do for the federal government?” Freddy said.
Hunter dropped the leather bag and looked through the pockets. He was cold when he arrived. Now he was breaking a sweat. He took off his ball cap and dabbed his forehead.
“Formal attire?” Freddy asked.
Hunter put the salty cap back on. “Travel wear.”
Freddy leaned back, hands laced behind his head. Boredom lay in his eyes. Hunter found his pad of paper, but the pen must’ve fallen out. He patted his pockets and pointed at a cup of pens on the desk.
“A bit old-fashioned for a technology cop,” Freddy said. “Can I see your ID?”
“I’m not a cop. I’m just here to gather intel and send it up the ladder.”
“The government really does care.”
Hunter wasn’t that old, he just looked it. An honest mistake. One that Hunter had stopped correcting years ago. Time was relative in matters of maturity. Hunter’s closest friends knew a lot of living could get done in a short amount of time. Time was a human invention. Like all inventions, it could be manipulated.
He didn’t have a lot of friends, though. Not anymore.
“We follow all matters concerning the Maze,” Hunter said.
“So Mr. Pen and Paper to the rescue.” Freddy flipped a pen at him.
“Something like that.”
Hunter settled back. The pen worked. His reading glasses were in the first pocket he searched. Freddy sighed.
“This is redundant, Mr. Montebank. I already submitted the report. There’s nothing new to tell you.”
“Understood. But we’re the federal government. Redundancy is our middle name.”
“Right.”
“Ms. Sunny Grimm walked into the police station three days ago at about noon.” Hunter consulted his notes. “She made a statement that her son was in her apartment, using a punch with the Maze logo stamped on it. He was unresponsive to physical stimuli—”
“Mrs.”
“I’m sorry?”
“Says here she’s divorced.”
“She called herself Mrs.”
“Okay.” Hunter made a point of writing it down. Not because he gave a shit, but it would make Freddy Kaleb Billingsly hard if he won the little battles. “Before coming here she visited a place called 511 South—”
“That’s the address.”
“It looks like the name of the business.”
“Doesn’t have a name. That’s how they do it uptown.”
“It’s located on the south side. Isn’t that downtown?”
“Uptown around here, Mr. Montebank. Do you know where you are?”
Crankiest city in the world? It didn’t sound rhetorical, though. Freddy sounded like he was really asking, like Hunter didn’t have a clue. He was sort of right. Hunter didn’t know much because, quite frankly, he barely gave a shit about these cases. They always ended the same, no surprises.
It felt like he’d been doing the same thing for a thousand years.
“Duly noted.” Hunter scratched the back of his head. “She goes uptown because someone named Ax told her they could help. The people at 511 suggested she come to you.”
“That’s what the report says.”
“What’s at 511?”
“Body augments, sensory inputs. That sort of thing.”
“Submersion technology?”
Freddy drummed his fingers. “Probably.”
“You don’t know?”
“They’re licensed and bonded, Mr. Montebank. They’re in compliance with federal regulations. I don’t read the inventory of every business in the city.”
“Okay.”
Hunter scribbled on the notepad. Freddy is a shitty detective and very annoyed with me right now, he wrote. He would like me to go away, so I am looking busy writing.
Almost everyone Hunter investigated was fearfully compliant. Freddy was putting up a fight.
This is actually fun.
“So, you took Miss... excuse me, Mrs. Grimm’s statement and escorted her to the apartment and found...”
“It’s in the report.”
“It says here you found nothing.”
“That’s what it says.”
“The apartment was empty, bed was made. No son. No punch. No Maze. No nothing.”
Freddy nodded along.
“You gave her a ride back to the station and put out a missing persons alert. She left somewhat distraught, I imagine. It says here that she hasn’t been back to work since the incident.”
“Goddamn it.” Freddy dropped his feet. “She didn’t come back to the station or file a missing persons alert. Where do you get your intel, gossip feeds?”
“Your office forwarded it.”
“Bullshit.”
“So her coworkers say that’s unusual for her to be missing work?”
Freddy was staring at the ceiling. He threw his weight forward and leaned on his desk. “Put down the pen, Mr. Montebank.”
Hunter stopped doodling.
“Let’s be honest. Mrs. Grimm is emotionally unstable. None of her story could be corroborated. There was no evidence of anything she said. And now she and a coworker have disappeared. A lot of stranger things happen in the city than a woman and her coworker running off together.”
“She and—” Hunter held out his notes “—Donny were a couple?”
“None of my business. I’m sorry to waste the taxpayers’ money flying you down here to read me my report. So if that’s all?”
“Maze incidents are very low in your city.”
“Damn right they are.”
“I mean really low. Like, unbelievably low for your demographic.”
Freddy fell back in his chair. His eyes went up to Hunter’s forehead then stared through him. Hunter resisted scratching his head.
“What do you want from me, Mr. Montebank? Crime is down in our city. Citizens are happy. You can write that down if you want. We’re compliant with all the government’s requests, file all the reports. But if someone wants to run off with a coworker, they’re going to do it. If someone wants to commit suicide, we can’t stop them.
“If some rich asshole wants to sacrifice himself to the Maze and make his family wealthy, he’s going to do it. Perhaps it’s a selfless act that saves her son or a selfish one to make money. I don’t care. The money these people make while going insane is probably more than their life is worth. Who am I to judge?”
He jabbed at Hunter’s forehead. “I don’t know where you come from, but over here we have individual rights, Mr. Montebank. If someone wants to punch a hole in their head, that’s their business.”
“I’m a citizen, Freddy.”
“You don’t look it.”
And he’s racist, Hunter scribbled. “Did you know he was gay?”
“What?”
“Mrs. Grimm’s coworker Donny. He was a homosexual. Or is. No one knows anymore because he’s missing, but it does sort of shit on your romantic angle a bit.”
Freddy sniffed. He knew the man was gay. It wasn’t in his report because he stopped caring. A lot of stranger shit happened in the city than a missing queer.
“Are we done?” he said.
“I’d like to see her apartment.”
“Help yourself. You’re the government.”
“You work for the government, too.”
“I work for the people.”
Hunter wrote that down. Freddy the racist homophobe works for the people. He finished it with an emphatic period and underlined it with a smiley face and got up to leave. If this was the only exchange he had, the entire trip was worth it.
Hunter’s hand was starting to quiver.
“You understand what I’m talking about, Mr. Montebank. Don’t you?”
Hunter turned in the doorway. Freddy was smiling. It was grim and knowing, spreading up to his eyes. He pointed at Hunter, then thumped his forehead twice.
“You mean this?”
Hunter pulled off his cap and pushed his hair back. A small scar was centered on his forehead, the lump of a dormant stent sealed beneath it, an old-fashioned brand left behind when the needles were large and needed a sleeve to be inserted.
“Folly of youth,” Hunter said. “In fact, I only survived the punch because someone took it out of my hand and made me quit. Sort of what I do for people now. You should understand that, Freddy.”
“Ever jones for another taste? The lick of the silver tongue?”
“You sound like a man that’s been there.”
Freddy massaged a tiny circle on his forehead, clean and smooth. No lump where a stent would be. No scar where the needle would kiss. It didn’t mean he hadn’t tasted newer technology. Punches like Sunny Grimm reported on her son had micro-needles.
“Plastic surgery can work wonders,” Hunter said.
“Then why do you still have a scar?”
“A badge of honor. I’ve been down the rabbit hole and back. Who better to help those still down there?”
“Addicts helping addicts.”
“Something like that.” Hunter shoved his quivering hand in his pocket. “Good luck with your city.”
“Enjoy your stay. You’re going to get wet.”
Get wet? Hunter didn’t know if that was a threat or if that was what the kids called punching the needle. Or maybe Hunter wasn’t up on his racial slurs.
“By the way.” Hunter dialed through his phone and lit up a photo. “Do you have any more pics of the mother and son? Maybe something a little more current?”
Freddy squinted over his desk. “Where’d you get that?”
“Came with the report.”
Freddy stared a few seconds longer then shook his head. Obviously, he’d never seen the photo. He’d stopped caring way before Hunter got there.
He was halfway across the station, counting his steps, thinking of food and checking into a hotel, when he realized he was still carrying Freddy’s pen. When he looked back, the office door was still
open, but the old woman was sitting in the chair again.
He decided to keep it.
5
Hunter
After the Punch
“EVER STOP RAINING AROUND here?”
“It did once,” the driver said without turning.
The emotional impact of weather was well documented. Suicide rates increased under the long-term assault of dreary skies and bleak forecasts. A place like this should have suicide rates spiked to the ceiling. Either that, or emotional augment technology cured the blues.
Legal or not, if there was anywhere in the world that deserved a free pass to ride the Maze, this was the place. Anything to escape the hopelessness hanging over this city was an act of compassion.
Hunter unfurled the umbrella as he stepped into a puddle. His socks were already soaked, so it mattered little. Everything aside from his underwear was wet.
The building manager met him on the third floor. “ID?” the middle-aged woman asked.
Hunter gave it to her. She examined the photo sans the ball cap, looked back and forth, tried to read the small print, but who was she kidding. Anyone with a false identification would make it past her.
“You know where you’re at?” she asked.
“I just need to look around.”
She unlocked apartment number 300. He thanked her. She waved her hand and wobbled down the hall.
The apartment smelled odd.
It was moldy and pungent. Like something spoiled in the back of a cave. The entire city smelled like that, like a forgotten basement with open containers of bleach. But the apartment especially did. The air was turned off and there was the hint of rotten food. The trash was probably due.
Hunter unfolded his notebook. The pages were damp. He ripped Freddy’s interview off the pad. The notes were fun, but useless. Before going any further, he captured a few shots with the holo lens in his right eye. Freddy didn’t know he was being recorded.
The notepad diversion almost always worked.
His hands were still shaking, but now his legs were, too. A dull ache had joined the itch in his head. His stomach insisted on investigating the kitchen first. The refrigerator had milk and orange juice inside, pickles and lunchmeat. He snatched a loaf of bread and took the heel. No one cared about the heel.
Maze: The Waking of Grey Grimm Page 4
