by Julie Hyzy
The door closed with a vacuum-like whoosh. Stewart didn’t sit. He paced, alternating his gaze between her and the far window overlooking the machinery. He stopped. Brought a fist to his lips. Began pacing again.
Unable to endure the tension any longer, Kenna crossed to grab Stewart by the shoulders. “What is it?” she demanded. When he hesitated still, she gripped tighter. “With everything that’s happened lately, it can’t be that bad.”
But from the hollow expression on his face, she immediately doubted her words.
Stewart covered his eyes. “Vanessa,” he said. “She’s dead.”
FORTY-THREE
Jason drove her home. They kept silent for the entire ride. Kenna stared out the passenger window, seeing nothing.
The moment she made it through her front door, she bolted to the bathroom to vomit violently, not caring that the door was open and Jason was still there. Not caring about anything. The world had become a constant swirl of emotion and uncertainty. With both hands on the cold ceramic bowl and tears commingling with the sweat of exertion, she heaved again and again.
She sat on the floor, weak and heavy, unable to move.
“You okay?” Jason asked from the doorway.
She would never be okay again.
“Yeah.”
He leaned in, flushed the toilet, and then ran his hand over her forehead, pushing damp hair out of her eyes. She sat back, like a sick child staring up at a concerned parent.
“I’m staying here tonight,” he said.
Kenna’s throat burned. She started to say, “The hell you are,” but the words wouldn’t come. She nodded.
Jason pulled her up from the floor with great care. He wet a washcloth, sat her on the edge of her bathtub, and wiped her face.
He ministered to her with no commentary whatsoever, keeping busy as he made her rinse, spit, and then gargle with mouthwash. He was amazingly efficient.
“You do this a lot?” she asked.
The crooked grin made a flash appearance.
“Usually I’m swearing up a blue streak at whoever got themselves plastered.” He draped the wet washcloth over the bath faucet and crouched so that he and Kenna were eye level. There was no mistaking the emotion she saw there. Sympathy. He felt sorry for her. And for the first time in her life, she didn’t want to push away from it. For the first time in her life, she didn’t care if she appeared weak. Maybe it was because she didn’t know this Jason well enough to care.
Kenna sighed. She didn’t want to think about it tonight.
“I need to go to bed,” she said.
Jason nodded and stood, pulling her up with both hands until she was standing, too. “You going to be able to make it?”
Kenna nodded.
“I’ll sack out on the couch,” he said. “You need anything, just call. I’ll hear you.”
Kenna tried to manage a smile, but the effort was too great. “Thanks,” she said.
FORTY-FOUR
Mallory stopped brushing her teeth when the doorbell rang. “Who could it be at this hour?” she asked with a mouthful of foam. “It’s after ten.”
Patrick wasn’t expecting anyone. “No idea,” he said.
He padded to the front door. “Tate?” he said in surprise at the sight of the guy on his front porch. “What are you doing here?”
“Celia called a meeting. I’m bringing you in.”
“You’re taking me to DC? Now?”
“Taking you to headquarters here.”
Patrick wanted this man as far away from his home and his family as possible. “Celia is in Chicago?”
“On her way.”
“What happened?”
Tate blinked, as though considering how to answer. “There’s a problem. With Werner Trutenko.”
“What kind of problem?”
“He went missing,” Tate said. “Get dressed.”
FORTY-FIVE
When Kenna awoke, she didn’t know why she had. Sitting upright in bed, she blinked away the stock-still feeling one gets when startled out of a deep sleep. Furniture shadows faded in and out as clouds slid past the moon. A glance at her nightstand told her that it was a little past four in the morning.
Had a dream awakened her? It felt more as though she’d been nagged by something she’d been trying to forget.
In an instant, the recollection of all that had happened recently came rushing back. She blew out a breath and closed her eyes. Vanessa. Dear God, she’d spoken with her only the day before.
And Jason here in the next room. Sleeping on the sofa.
Kenna started to lie back when an out-of-place sound broke the room’s silence. In that moment she realized that was what had woken her up.
Scraping.
Kenna’s heart skipped a beat. “Jason?” she called to her door. “What are you doing out there?”
The scraping came again. But not from her door. From her window. The right-hand one. Closest to where she slept.
Fury rose in her chest, propelling her off the bed. She yanked open the top drawer of her nightstand and wrapped her fingers around the comforting grip of her Beretta. Years of practice at the range made her methodical checks rote and reassuring. Safety off, she scrambled to crouch along the side of her bed. She focused on the right-hand window.
She decided against calling out to Jason again. Having just awakened, she’d have a hard enough time defending herself. If she had to shoot, she didn’t want to have to worry about hitting him.
For a long moment there was not another sound. Kenna modulated her breath, trying in vain to relax her tight nerves. Just as she began to wonder if she’d imagined the noise, it came again. A shadow crossed the moonlit window.
She wanted to take out the intruder before he got inside, but her pale curtains distorted his shape. She may only get one shot. She didn’t intend to waste it.
Sharp metallic sounds accompanied the movement. The window sash began to inch upward. Long feminine fingers wrapped around its base, squeezing, as though the hands that pushed it were trying to keep quiet. A second set of hands appeared. Dark hands. Male.
“I have a gun,” Kenna shouted, speaking clearly—taking care to enunciate each syllable. “I know how to use it.” Both pairs of hands froze in place. “Leave. Now. I’m calling the police.”
“Wait, Kenna,” The strained voice was female—and urgent. “We need to talk with you.”
Kenna’s finger instinctively moved off the trigger. “Identify yourself,” she said. “Now. Don’t come any closer.”
Kenna’s door flew open, banging against the back wall. Jason stood in the open area, his eyes wild as he scanned the room. Silhouetted in the pale doorway, he made a perfect target.
“You all right? I thought I heard—”
“Get down,” Kenna whisper-shouted. She raised her voice to the window, trying to keep their attention on her. “I told you to identify yourself.”
The voice that answered her was deep, male. Black. “Patrick Danaher—”
“The hell you are,” she called out. Jason took up position next to her.
“—Danaher needs your help,” the voice continued.
“Please.” The female voice again. “We need to talk with you.”
“Ever hear of a phone? A front door?”
“Couldn’t risk being seen,” the female voice said. “I’m coming in. Shoot me if you have to, but we don’t have time to waste arguing.”
As a blue-jeaned leg came over the sill, Jason crept across the room, taking up a position in the far-left corner. Kenna nodded. Once the intruders were inside, he’d be behind them. A tactical advantage they might not expect.
“Keep your hands where I can see them,” Kenna shouted.
“We’re not armed,” the male said.
“Well, I am.” Kenna said. “Don’
t forget it.” She focused her attention on the space in front of her window. All the way in now, the girl held her hands up, her gaze flicking between Kenna’s aim and her companion outside the window, who’d begun to work his way in behind her. The girl was slim, with shoulder-length dark hair and Polynesian features. She wore a backpack and an anxious expression.
The guy, when he finally made it through the opening, stood over six feet tall. He was black, muscular, and even from here, with his hands held in a supplicating way, Kenna could feel tension radiating from his taut form.
“Two steps forward,” Kenna said. “Both of you.”
They complied.
Out of the corner of her eye she was aware of Jason rounding behind them.
“And don’t move,” she added. “Now, identify yourselves.”
“We don’t have time for this shit,” the man said, wagging his head from side to side. He started to move toward Kenna. “Listen, Patrick told us—”
Arms wide, Jason lunged, effectively blanketing the other man. The two grappled, elbows and knees hitting the wooden floor amid thuds and grunts of exertion. They rolled, knocking into Kenna’s dresser, making the pictures atop it wobble and fall. The young woman moved into action—she grabbed at her companion’s arm. “Aaron,” she shouted. “Stop.”
Just as Jason got all four of the other man’s extremities against the floor in a wrestling hold, Kenna jammed the gun into his temple. He froze. She addressed the young woman. “Sit,” she said, then turned her attention back to Aaron. “And you, don’t move.”
“Get this lunatic off me and I won’t,” he said.
Jason had just begun to release his grip, when Aaron attempted to shove him off. With a grunt of fury, Jason pounded his fist into the other man’s side, causing him to double up.
“I told you not to move,” Kenna said. She backed away, gesturing for Jason to join her as Aaron sat up and the woman joined him on the floor. “Okay,” she said. “Now, I’m ready to talk.”
Aaron ran the back of his hand against his lip. Even in the shadowed light, Kenna could see the venomous stare he shot at Jason. “I knew this was a mistake.”
The young woman placed a restraining hand on his arm. “I’ll handle this,” she said. With her mouth set into a line, she took a deep breath then began. “Can we talk”—she tilted her head toward Jason, as if to dismiss him—“alone?”
Kenna bristled. “You break into my home and you want to set conditions?”
“We don’t know him,” she said. “We don’t know if he can be trusted.”
“Talk to both of us or get the hell out of here,” Kenna said. “And talk fast.”
The girl nodded, her expression grim. “My name is Maya,” she said. She reached for her backpack.
“Hold it!” Kenna said.
The girl froze. “There’s something in my bag you’ve got to see.”
“Hand the backpack to him,” Kenna said, indicating Jason.
She passed him the bag. Seconds later Jason pulled out a metal box, no bigger than a paperback.
“What is this?” he asked.
“Our only chance right now,” she said. “Well, that, and…you. We’re friends of Patrick Danaher’s.” Her dark eyes met Kenna’s. “We need your help.”
FORTY-SIX
Not quite together in step, the heels of the two men’s shoes snapped a hard syncopated beat against the tile floor at Virtu-Tech’s nearly silent headquarters. Tate’s gaze held straight and steady, though his posture was uncharacteristically rigid. He smirked in a way that made Patrick worry for his brother’s safety.
Although Celia didn’t visit the Chicago offices very often, she maintained a private space on the building’s top story and presumably that’s where they were headed. Here, on the first floor, the place was hushed, soft mechanical sounds lost in the high-ceilinged space that—during the day—housed more than three hundred employees.
There were precious few doors in Virtu-Tech office buildings on this level—everyone remained closely monitored with low-ranking worker bees stationed at the building’s center, surrounded by three-hundred-and-sixty degrees of plasma screens and a perimeter walkway for supervisors to oversee the group.
No wonder so many people turned to VR these days. Being inside one’s own mind alone—escaping reality to experience one’s own fantasies beyond the view of anyone else—held an allure few could resist.
The walkway was vacant now, all the screens dark. During the day, they provided an endless, cycling presentation of cheerful people spouting the benefits of VR. Even at work, one couldn’t escape the constant stream of commercial advertising reminding employees of delightful virtual adventures, the ultimate reward for toiling at their mundane jobs all day.
Patrick remained silent as the two men made their way across the main floor, his thoughts consumed by his brother’s welfare. Werner hadn’t given any indication of abandoning Virtu-Tech’s initiative. Rather, he’d argued its importance. Which means he wouldn’t have walked away. Not of his own accord, at least. Something was wrong. The sooner Patrick got out of this meeting, the better.
A muted buzz echoed as the two men entered a restricted area. Tate slowed.
Ahead of them, an elevator descended to the first floor. Its doors opened to reveal Celia’s assistant Nick, who didn’t smile when he nodded hello.
The men stepped in, and Patrick started to reach for the fifth floor’s button, but Nick said, “Three.”
“Three?” That made no sense. The third floor held only VR chambers running experimental programs. He hesitated.
Tate reached past him and punched the number.
“I thought we were meeting Celia,” Patrick said.
“You are.” Nick crossed his hands at his waist. “On three.”
Patrick pondered that for the elevator’s short trip. What was going on? Simon had gone silent for the past few days—no response through their regular channels. While that behavior wasn’t unusual, and it typically meant that he had secreted himself in his lab, his recent absence coupled with Werner’s disappearance did not bode well.
FORTY-SEVEN
When the elevator door opened again, Celia welcomed the small group. Dismissing Nick, she led Patrick and Tate down a long corridor before stopping at the entrance to VR chamber two.
Celia scratched at the room’s metal door, absently, like one might stroke a pet. The little shiver-squeals her movement produced made Patrick wonder if her nails were metal, too. He ignored the sudden gooseflesh on the back of his neck and forced himself to project a mien of calm detachment.
Her eyes turned down slightly at the corners, as did her mouth. She was the unhappiest-looking human he’d ever encountered.
“So satisfying,” she said, “that you could join us today.”
Her hand dropped from its caress of the metal doors, but the hairs on the back of Patrick’s neck stood firm.
“Tate tells me that Werner’s missing,” he said. “Is that true?”
“Isn’t that adorable.” She wrinkled her nose. “You’re actually worried about him, aren’t you?”
“Of course,” Patrick said. “He’s an important part of our enterprise. As is Simon. I haven’t heard from him recently, either. I’m concerned for them both.”
Celia’s brows came together, deepening the vertical lines between them.
“Simon?” Her sharp laugh was as grating as her fingernail shrieks. “He couldn’t be here today.” Her dark eyes sparkled. “Apparently you haven’t heard…the unfortunate news.”
“News?” Icy fingers of fear clenched Patrick’s stomach. “What happened?”
“The dear man.” Sighing deeply, Celia rotated her neck, scanning the ceiling above their heads as though seeking out spiderwebs. “He wasn’t well. When old men aren’t careful, they have accidents.” She winked at Tate. “Poor Simon.�
�� She turned to open the silvery door. “I’m sure someone will miss him.”
Patrick reached for the wall to steady himself. His mouth opened, but no words came out. Simon was his friend. Like Charlie had been. At every turn, the dissidents were crumbling while Virtu-Tech’s power grew. He squeezed his eyes shut, wondering how he could handle it all with Simon gone. Simon…gone.
Forcing himself to get a grip, he focused on why he was here. To find out what had happened to Werner. He opened his eyes and did his best to muster strength.
Celia tilted her head. “Something wrong?” she asked.
“I will…” Patrick cleared his throat. “I will miss Simon.”
That cold glint of humor shot from Celia’s eyes again. “No, you won’t, Mr. Danaher.” She shrugged. “Not for long, anyway.”
FORTY-EIGHT
Werner made his way to a local twenty-four-hour diner, where he sat in a booth with his back to the door. He sipped hot coffee, staring blindly at the menu, thinking of nothing but what had transpired in that VR capsule. Or, more accurately, in his mind.
The waitress returned to refill his mug. “What can I get for you?”
Shrugging, he pointed to a line on the menu.
“How do you want your eggs?”
“Doesn’t matter.”
She turned away without another word.
Werner stared without seeing. When his food arrived, he ate without tasting. If he backed out now, Celia would never understand.
Pushing away his plate, Werner drew out his cell phone and grimaced when he noted the time. Too bad, Patrick. This can’t wait until morning.
The call went straight to voice mail.
Damn. Werner had never known his brother to shut his phone off overnight. He waited for the beep and said, “Call me.”
He fingered the port behind his right ear. The one that had allowed him to revisit his old home. That he’d done so at a commercial enterprise—one without the protections offered by VR capsules at headquarters—spoke to his tumultuous state of mind. Such behavior was expressly forbidden. Virtu-Tech directors were expected to remain pure-brained, to eschew VR as entertainment and to avail themselves of “safe” VR systems, like the one at headquarters, for education and self-help purposes only.
