Sooner or later someone would try to flog the parts, if nothing else. Sooner or later the cops or the waste disposal people would find a leg in a dumpster.
She took some convincing, but Scott could be persuasive, and he had a good mind when he focused on a problem.
***
The time had come and they were ready, with darkness falling and the weekday commuter traffic at its peak.
Scott would be lost in the crowd within two minutes, unless someone professional already had them under surveillance—in which case why would they watch and wait?
Why not just march in and grab her?
They had the right, as Scott put it.
She ruffled his hair and then smoothed it down again. She put his hat on for him.
“All right. Off you go. I love you, Scott.”
They stood in the centre of the living room.
Scott was all outfitted, with his long cane and his dark glasses. He was wearing a white trench-coat to make him more visible. Scott was going to stand out like a sore thumb. He had his three shopping bags, two empty ones inside of the other. He had a small day-pack on his back. He had his bus pass, a sixty-dollar a month value as the government was fond of saying when asked why the disabled must live sixty-five percent below the poverty line.
Criminals lived better, and that was okay with Scott Nettles.
That’s because he was about to become one.
We’re moving on up in the world.
It’s about fucking time, too.
Damn, but this felt good.
She had some money, but they had decided it was better if she avoided crowds and cameras altogether. This would not be easy but they had disguised her to some extent with different clothing, an old pea jacket, and a big red bandanna for a head scarf.
He could only imagine the effect.
Damn them all.
“I love you too, Betty.”
He smiled. It was a beautiful thing to see, or so he had been told.
“Don’t you worry about me, Baby. I’ve been doing this for a long time.”
She did up the buttons on his jacket.
“I know, Scott.”
“I’ll be there.” His smile was gone. “Just make sure you show.”
A hard lump of concrete or something obstructed his throat, and while swallowing was hard enough, getting the words out was something else.
“Promise, Betty. Please promise me. Please.”
She kissed him lightly on the lips and gave him one last hug.
“Don’t you worry, Scott. I promise. I will never lie to you, Scott.”
Her face was moist.
“You’re wet—what is that?” In wonder, he reached up and touched her cheek.
He nodded, face pulling downwards, grim with the thought of separation.
The odds were worse than fifty-fifty, he thought.
There’s no way she’s going to show. It’s a just a way of getting me out of the way while she bolts for freedom.
To start crying now would be too much for him. That would be it and it would be over.
He steeled himself with false hope and fake courage.
“All righty then.” His head swiveled and then his body followed his decision. “Let’s do this.”
She held the door and carefully closed and locked it after his departure.
She had everything they might reasonably need or could possibly carry, packed in two pieces, mismatched as to colour and size, of hard-sided plastic luggage.
Scott had all the cash he could find in the house, including a fistful of change. Scott had a backpack. He had his bank debit card. He had his credit card, passport, birth certificate, anything they could think of. Betty’s raw physical strength meant that poor Scottie would have clothes, socks, underwear, and they had a supply of food. Upon her recital of the items included, Scott figured it was good for four or five days, or enough to get them out of the city and most probably the state. Short and erratic steps all the way.
***
He was surprisingly cheerful, having made the decision.
Scott was buoyed up by the sheer novelty of it.
For whatever reason it felt right, and Scott had been plenty fed up with his lot in life for a very long time.
Maybe now we can get someone to kill me.
Scott laughed out loud at that one.
He liked the feeling of being bad. It was a ray of hope.
Is this guts? I always thought I already had them.
This is something new.
This was the chance to do something different, for Scott to reassert his manhood, although he would hardly put it in those terms. The sounds from directly ahead indicated that he had made it to the street, but then Scott wasn’t the subject of the manhunt.
He paused, hand on the latch.
Off in the building, some people next door, to the west of Scott’s place, were having an argument. They were one floor up.
There were eight million stories in the naked city. Betty and Scott’s was merely one of them.
Scott opened the door, and stepped out into bustling pedestrian traffic. He turned right and began to walk.
***
Her internal clock counted off the seconds, the minutes and the hours and then it was time to go.
She made a quick review of the situation.
Mrs. Jarvis snored safely in her armchair and other people moved about in their units. There was nothing else happening. All she had to do was leave quietly.
Betty made sure to turn off the light and lock the door behind her.
Picking up the suitcases, she made her way down the stairs, the only sound of her passing the creak of oaken steps and the click of the latch in the vestibule.
Chapter Five
Olympia Cartier reminded herself that frowning gave one age lines.
“Darryl.”
The servant inclined its head.
“Yes, Madame?”
“Get that policeman on the phone.”
“Inspector MacBride?”
She nodded.
“That’s the one.”
“One moment please.”
Olympia stood uncertainly in front of the panoramic view, the entire floor ringed by glass. It was one of the better views of downtown Union City, New Jersey, part of the Metropolitan New York area.
“Hello. Gene MacBride here.”
“Inspector.”
“Yes, Mrs. Cartier?” The fellow was desperately trying not to sound impatient.
She understood that.
She was desperately trying not to appear impatient with him and the police in general.
If only someone could tell her, for sure, what had happened. She was a bit surprised to get through so fast. People always complained about the service. Of course, those people weren’t the Cartiers.
“I was just wondering if we had any new information. On Betty.”
“Ah, no, not really, Missus Cartier. These things have a way of resolving themselves, one way or another.” He paused. “If the thing fell in the river or something like that, it would float. It has a transponder and emergency beacons. But the opinions we’re getting from the company and other experts is that it looks like some kind of malfunction.”
They had told her, and her husband, the same thing. This was all based on her statements. What she knew—all she knew, really, was that Betty had been there a few minutes before, and then when next she thought of her, Betty was gone.
But why?
And how?
The hallway cameras showed her opening up the door and walking out as if it was the most natural thing in the world. Which it was, as all of their servants came and went on a routine basis.
The only problem was that Betty didn't come back.
“The insurance company is going to be a problem.”
“Ah, yes. Why do you say that?” The Inspector was sympathetic.
The Cartiers were important people.
“All you can do is to file the report,
I mean the claim, and if necessary, get a lawyer. But they’re just looking to cover their—ah, you know, backsides, Ma’am.”
It struck him just what the problem really was.
“It’s okay, Olympia. I understand. You’re worried about her, of course. They're very human in appearance. It’s no wonder people take a shine to them. Am I right?” The caller was very quiet, and her eyes were on the virtual floor between them. “You’re sort of worrying rather needlessly about Betty, don’t you think? And of course there’s all this pressure, right?”
Pressure to settle with the insurance company, pressure to prove a warranty issue with the manufacturer, pressure to sue, pressure to make a complaint, provide information, talk it over with the husband, pick out the new model, maybe with a few upgrades or a new colour or hair-do or something. He understood the situation well enough.
She felt violated. There was something in this world beyond her immediate control and it could be very humbling, an unfamiliar mental state to one of her class.
She didn't know what to do about it, but time healed all wounds.
Put a little spit on there and walk it off, lady.
Inspector MacBride had seen a few little old ladies and their lost-doggy issues, she realized.
There was the hint of humour in her voice when she responded.
“Well, Inspector. It really is kind of a mystery.” Olympia took a deep breath and then made up her mind as to whether to say it or not.
He would think her quite mad.
“ButI mean, why? Why in the blue blazes would she just up and walk off like that?” She was positively fuming over it.
The fact was that she had been hurt by Betty’s leaving.
“Well. That really is the question, isn’t it?”
The manufacturers would be asking themselves the same sort of questions, and probably not liking the answers too much. Too much at stake—too much market share, too much liability, too much that could go wrong in a hyper-paranoid world that was nevertheless addicted to what people called tech as if they knew how it worked or could actually grind out the smallest and simplest component in their backyard machine shop.
There were millions of lesser robots out there, and there had been recalls in the past. There were the inevitable horror stories making the rounds.
The Inspector’s calm visage nodded thoughtfully in her panorama screen, as other detectives milled around in the background of the shot.
“That’s definitely one of the questions we’re asking, Olympia. But we’re, ah, you know, a little bit out of our depth, and that’s why we’re talking to all the experts.” When we get a minute, it would be better not to say.
Hopefully she got it in the diplomatic sense.
“I keep wondering if it was something I said…” There was a tone of wonder there.
She really was wounded.
He suppressed any quick changes in expression as best he could.
Lord, love a duck—and that time, he was afraid he wasn’t quite fast enough in the controlling of his demeanor.
***
“Call from Mister Cartier.”
Olympia looked up from the settee, overstuffed and upholstered in lush red velvet. It carefully replicated a piece that could have graced Versailles at the time of Marie Antoinette.
“Thank you, Darryl.”
“I’m Stephen.”
“Ah. Sorry.”
“That’s quite all right, Madame.”
The screen flickered and lit up again.
Her husband, looking long and lean and all of his fifty-seven years at that moment in time, was in the back of his car. It looked to be somewhere on the Turnpike. Any turnpike. In any city of the world, and it probably was.
Quite frankly, she had forgotten where he was supposed to be, today.
“How are you, dearest?”
“Oh, fine. And how are you, lover?”
“Shit. The usual, honey. Gump’s flying in from Rio. He says he has to see me straight away and that it’s, and I quote: important and confidential.”
“I wonder what that means.”
“I wish he wouldn’t call it a loan—it grates on me. That’s all I’m saying. Charity I can understand. Gump just pisses me off with all of his gyrations. So how was your day?”
“It’s still early here. But so-so.” Olympia waved over a servant, pausing theatrically at the archway, the luncheon trolley all poised to strike.
“It’s still early there? In other words one of those kind of days. Okay, listen up, Honey. I doubt very much if we’ll get back tonight.” Her husband was on a trade delegation to Sumatra or something, she recalled.
Somewhere like that, but she had her own interests and so she never had to be bored if she didn't want to. Doyle was a good husband, a good provider, and more importantly, as she was independently wealthy in her own right, he had never embarrassed Olympia. While he might have had the odd fling over the years, above all, Doyle would be discreet.
“Yes, not unexpectedly. We’ll just have to do without you.” Her favourite dwarf Sylphie crawled into her lap.
The young robot had a fetal-alcohol syndrome look about the eyes and forehead, and Olympia stroked her hair as the child looked up in a kind of cheerful worship which she would never outgrow or tire of.
Olympia was allergic to dogs and cats, and for some reason the artificial ones had never appealed to her.
The robotic boys and girls were different, so much more satisfying.
They were like dolls that could talk. And you could switch them off if they became insufferable.
***
Danvers was on the line again. He was pressing them to accept a replacement for Betty and sign off on the claim.
Robots and other chattels were covered under the household policy unless otherwise specified. The Cartiers had top-of-the-line coverage, as he kept reminding her.
“Well, then. Why can’t we let the police have a little more time?” Olympia had always liked Betty Blue.
She was one of her favourites, if not the favourite, among her household servants. That one had always had a kind of personality, not like some of the others. Admittedly, the kitchen staff and maids were less expensive models. They weren’t designed to interact in anything other than the simplest of ways. But Betty was a personal companion, designed and programmed as such.
And she really had been special, Olympia had to admit. Darryl, Stephen, Missy, they were all well enough in their own way. It was true they were very much individuals. Olympia wondered if any of them had ever thought of walking off, but she doubted it very much.
There was that ineffable something about Betty.
Betty asked a question once in a while, and while the others did that too, Betty’s seemed a little deeper.
Betty was looking for meaning sometimes. Betty had asked why once or twice, giving the impression the answers were unsatisfying.
Betty was more of an intellectual challenge.
Some of the others were just looking for answers and instructions, or the simplest acknowledgement. It was a kind of artificial neediness. The robots were looking for feedback of an infantile nature.
They were looking for reassurance, so that they would be better able to anticipate—and to serve.
Poor Betty Blue.
Was it something I said?
She really couldn’t think of anything, damn it.
***
Devon entered the room with a bright and cheerful look on his face.
“Devon! Have you seen James?”
“Ah, yes, Auntie. James is on the kitchen level, polishing silverware.” He stopped there, looking puzzled. “Oh, yes. Scissors.”
“Ah.”
“He should be all right on his own for a while, Ma'am.” Devon went to a side-table and pulled out a drawer.
“Hmn.”
“What?”
“It’s funny how you can never find things when you need them.”
“Ask one of the servants, dear.” De
von was a nephew, and a perennial visitor to the lair, especially when he wasn’t in good odor at the Ivy-League school he had attended off and off over the last eight years.
Some day her nephew was going to be a doctor. As for Olympia and Doyle, they were childless by mutual choice. Pregnancy gave you stretch marks, sagging breasts and there was the whole diaper thing. All that was years ago.
***
Night or day meant nothing to Scott of course, and yet it was ironic.
All that technology. They could give a robot eyes and sell them to anyone with the price of admission.
“Women, eh—”
But you could not teach a blind man to see, and there were none so blind as those who would not look.
“Well. I really got to hand it to you, Buddy.” The security guy was apologetic. "I admire you, I really do."
What a fantastic sense of humour.
Funny as fucking hell.
The guy really was priceless.
Fucking unbelievable.
This little side-branch station closed at eleven p.m. and the man had been sitting there patiently waiting for his girl for how long the guard didn’t know. It hadn’t escaped his notice that the man had a white cane and a rather forlorn look on his face.
“Well, what are you going to do, anyways?” There was a catch in Scott’s voice, when he realized that this meant the station was closed and they were kicking him out.
Betty had specified this exact place. Hours had gone by. She wasn’t there. Sooner or later, he had to move on.
It was a simple equation. Just a few symbols, all in a row inside of your head. It was a language that anyone could understand.
“I’m real sorry, man. There’s a park just across the street. You can sit and watch the entrance and maybe she’ll show.” The guard’s voice trailed off. “Sorry.”
“It’s okay. I’ll be fine. At least it’s not raining.”
The Mysterious Case of Betty Blue Page 4
