Anarchy Found (10 page)

For a genius, I sure didn’t think that one through. But I never figured on being in this position, did I? It’s been a dream for fifteen years. Something Case and I talked about, but never thought we’d see. And then Thomas appears—not physically at first, just in email—and he offers us everything we need to do what we always said we would.

I don’t care what Sheila thinks about it, I’m on board. And maybe Thomas is a dick and I don’t like him, but I don’t have to like him to take what he’s offering.

“It’s to the left,” Sheila says as I blindly search for the wrench I’m looking for on the ground. I find it with my gloved fingers. My hands are sweating like crazy.

It’s the stress. It’s the job. It’s the girl.

I really do need to make Sheila some kind of solid body when I get the time. Something with hands so she can expand her duties. Right now she’s perfection when it comes to computers and weapons. She runs all the automated systems in the cave. And I have several small robots used for cleaning that she’s wired into, so they are busy all hours of the day and night. She runs the bikes, and the car, and the helicopter.

But she cannot hand me tools. And the biology bot I call Hammer, despite his name, can’t do shit in that department either. He’s the largest robot I own at the moment. But he’s contained inside the inner labs. Stationary and mounted to a bench. He’s really just an arm with half a brain.

I sigh to stop myself from cursing too much as I try to fix the bike that Case fucked up last weekend. I had to take the whole engine apart and rebuild, and that’s just the mechanical damage. The body work is something else altogether. If Hammer was mobile… if Sheila was solid…

But wishing aside, there’s no one here but me and these bits of computer code. So I go it alone. As usual.

“Why not just build a new one?” Sheila asks, still hovering over me like a mother. “The prototype is ready for engineering.”

“I don’t have time,” I growl through a wrench between my teeth.

“You need an automatic engineering system.”

“No shit.”

“That way we can work harder for you.”

Fucking Sheila. I stop what I’m doing and look up at her. She smiles. And goddamned if she isn’t the perfect replica of a human woman in her holographic form. I’d never be able to assemble something like that. It pains me to think of reducing her to a tin can of nuts and bolts like Hammer. “You work plenty hard, Sheils. I’d be sued for violation of labor laws if you were human.”

“I’m not human. And I enjoy working. I can’t work enough. What is rest to me but time spent being idle?” She cocks her head at me.

“Well, one day. When things quiet down, I’ll have time to build more. But right now I just need to make do with what I have.”

“We have all the parts, Lincoln. I inventoried everything in stock at the moment, and your new prototype could be assembled in seven days if you gave me control of your engineering lab.”

“Control how?” I growl, still trying to concentrate on the task at hand.

“If you gave me owner access to the entire lab, I’d recode the cleaning bots to build parts. Then I’d recode the AI program in this bike and transfer it to that bike.” She stands and points to the holographic image of my dream. The perfect motorcycle. Sleek, aerodynamic, powerful, and well-equipped.

Weaponized, is the word I’m looking for. This bike, the one I’m working on, has no built-in weapons. But if Sheila could…

“I can do it,” she says, like she’s reading my mind. “Just give me access and I will get to work. Then you can stop spending so much time in here and get out a little more. Mr. Reider sent me a reminder earlier that you’re expected at a party tonight in the city.”

“He’s out of his mind,” I snap. “I’m not going to a party being held by Thomas. I’m not his fucking dog. I’m not at his beck and call. I’m not—”

“Detective Masters is going. I found her name on the guest list.”

“What?” I stop messing with the bike again and look at her. “Why would I care about that?”

“Because,” Sheila says in that superior I’m-a-genius-AI voice, “you’ve watched the footage of her in the cave at least seven different times since last Saturday. And I don’t have access to the house upstairs, but I’m not an idiot, Lincoln. You’re obsessed with her.”

“Fuck.” I laugh. “No. It’s a sign of paranoia. I was trying to gauge how much she saw just in case her memory comes back.”

“Hmph,” Sheila says. “That’s a lie. I can detect an increase in your heart rate and a sheen of sweat forming on your brow. You
like
Detective Masters.”

“No—”

“In fact, it’s my duty to see to your well-being. So I think we should call her up and ask her out on a date.”

Beeps sound off on her speaker system. “What the fuck are you doing?”

“Calling Detective Masters.”

“Sheila, this isn’t funny. She’s a fucking cop, for Christ’s sake. Hang up.”

“Only if you go to the party.”

“You can’t disobey me.”

“Health override. You’re stressed, which affects your moods. Moods are part of my wellness recognition protocols. And I have decided you need a date.”

“Sheila, I will turn you off.”

“Oh, look, it’s ringing.”

“OK, fine! Just hang up!”

“Promise me with a pinky swear.”

“I don’t pinky—”

“Hello?” I stop mid-sentence at the sound of Molly Masters’ voice. “Hello?” she asks again.

I look up at Sheila and mouth,
I swear
, as I wiggle my pinky finger at her.

“Good evening,” Sheila says in her fake automated computer tone. “You are the lucky winner of a free trip to—”

Beep, beep, beep
.

“Oh, darn, she hung up.”

“You’re a bitch,” I say. But I say it through a laugh.

“I am,” Sheila says with a smile on her transparent face. “Every good woman has a little bitch inside her. I’ll have the cleaning bots press your tux before I morph them into my engineering minions. Now please accept my request to run your life so I can make sure you get laid sometime in the next century. People can go months, but you’re straddling that line between frustrated and desperate.”

Fucking Sheila. She’s been around Case too much.

But I get out from under the bike and walk over to the main computer terminal so I can accept the request. Because women, right? Every man wants one. Even me. And maybe Sheila’s not real and she’s more like a mother than I’d like to admit, but she’s all I’ve got.

Chapter Twelve - Molly

I hang up the phone and look at it for a moment. The voice sounded familiar.
It was a computer, Molly
, the rational person inside me says. But it did… feel… familiar.

My phone rings again and I snatch it up and tab the answer button. “Hello?”

“Ah, Miss Masters.”

Fuck. Atticus Montgomery. I spent all week avoiding the Blue Castle, but I should have known better than to think I’d slipped under his radar.

“Mr. Montgomery. How nice to hear from you again. I’m sorry, but I have no news about the case just yet. I’m—”

“It’s a personal call.”

Shit. “Oh. Well, how can I help you?”

“Our date, remember? To see the stars.”

“Mr. Montgomery—”

“Atticus.”

Whatever. I roll my eyes. “Atticus, I’m afraid I have plans tonight.”

“I know. Big party for the new kid in town.”

I laugh. “Surely you’re not trying to tell me you’re going?”

“Why wouldn’t I be?”

I sigh. He’s not going to make this simple. And what did I expect? He’s the son of a billionaire. It’s easy to make snap judgments about people and see them as ridiculous, or snide, or lacking in manners. But people at the top like Atticus Montgomery are where they are for a reason. And silver spoon aside, he’s well-educated, fearless, and persistent. “Well, it’s a party for the new satellite company—”

“SkyEye.”

“Right. SkyEye. They’re something of a direct competitor, aren’t they?”

“Satellites,” Atticus says with a pfffft. “Expensive tech built for the super-rich. It’s just not practical. So no, we’re really not competitors. And we were invited.”

“Oh, God, is your father going to be there too?”

“You’re going then?”

“Oh, I have to. I’m in charge of security. So yes. But I’m afraid if you think we can use it as our date, I have to decline. Duty, right?”

“Right.” I can almost hear the smile and it sends a shiver up my spine. I’m not sure why he’s sorta creepy to me, but he is. That tower. I really don’t want to see the stars from that thing. It’s just weird. “But you’re dressing for the occasion, I hope? I’d like to see you cleaned up. No offense to your everyday wear. But the tan slacks and white blouses are kind of… ordinary. You’re definitely not ordinary.”

I huff out a breath. “Well, no offense taken. I do my best to be as ordinary as possible. I’m afraid it suits me.”

“All pretenses. No ordinary woman wears saddle shoes.” He chuckles on the other end of the line. “It says fearless nine-year-old. But in all the right ways.”

I burst out laughing. “Jesus, Atticus. You have a way with words. I’m not sure how to take that, but—”

“Some children just naturally feel invincible and immortal. Like the world is at their beck and call. Like it owes them nothing but a challenge and no wall is too high, no obstacle too large, and no enemy too close.”

I stand there in silence for a moment, thinking about how right he is. Or was. “Well,” I say after several long seconds. “I might’ve been that way once. But today, they’re just comfortable shoes.”

“Hmm,” he says thoughtfully. “We’ll have to agree to disagree on that. And even though you’re working, I’m sure you’ll be able to spare a moment to say hello when I seek you out. Have a nice morning, Miss Masters.”

The line goes dead.

I press the end tab just to make sure the call disconnected and slump down in a chair near the front window as I think about what he said. He’s been checking up on me, obviously. And why not? I’m the detective in charge of a major case that involves his billion-dollar business. It’s only logical that he went looking.

But I respect the fact that he didn’t bring it up. Not directly. And that he could read so much into my scant history available online. I
was
a fearless nine-year-old. And that lasted through ten, eleven, twelve. All the way up to sixteen.

But sixteen… I look down at my saddle shoes. The two-tone brown leather is scuffed and the soles are worn down just right. I wear them every day without fail. They remind me of happier times. Back when motorcycles were fun and I was fearless. Back when my family was whole and even though the people who raised me were transient—we moved from town to town and only stopped when we had to—their love was limitless. Back when living meant something more than military duty or solving crimes.

I kick my shoes off and pick them up, then take them into my bedroom and throw them in the closet. I don’t like people to see through me like that. And it’s not that I think Montgomery is being mean or facetious. I think he is genuinely interested in figuring me out. But I don’t want to be figured out. And I certainly don’t want to walk around with clues on my feet.

A chime announces an incoming text, so I walk out of my room to get my phone. It’s the chief.
You better be on time today.

Well, duty calls. One more day and then some downtime this weekend. I really do need to get rid of Will’s bikes. I hate seeing that trailer every time I have to take the garbage out. This weekend I’ll—

“I’ll what?” I say out loud. The thought was there and then it wasn’t. It feels like a hole in my memory. “What did I do last Saturday? I got the bikes. I drove…”

And this is where it gets fuzzy. I drove home, obviously. But I don’t remember any of it.

“I drove—”

But another text from the chief comes in and jars me back to the present.
Acknowledge me when I message you, Masters!

I text back,
Leaving now
. There’s no time to start wondering what I might’ve done last weekend.