One of Us (30 page)

I CALLED MY FATHER as soon as we hit AlA. Dad took the news stoically—either Mom had already filled him in, or he'd worked it out by himself and kept his own counsel as usual. Dads work in mysterious ways. You think they don't have a clue what's going on, and then one day you trip and they're already there in position to catch you.

After the call I just floored the pedal and headed to Jacksonville, Helena quiet beside me in the passenger seat.

I turned into Highwater on two wheels, braked the car outside the REMtemps building. I had the door open and was halfway out before Helena grabbed my arm and yanked me back. She put her face close to mine and spoke very clearly. "You can't do this. You cannot go in there and kill Stratten."

"I'm not going to kill him."

"You've sent your message. Now just leave it alone."

"I'm not going to fucking kill him. I don't kill people. That's your job, remember?"

Her eyes shone furiously: "Fuck you. So what happened back there by the school?"

"You know what happened there, and you of all people should understand it. You heard what he said, and I believed him—plus if we'd left him alive for the police to find, there'd be a helicopter firing on us as we speak. And frankly, I can't bring myself to give a shit about someone whose job is killing people."

"Including me?"

"Your choice, not my problem. Now I'm going into this building, and you can either help me or you can sit out here or you can fuck off back to your boyfriend in LA and get on with your life. It doesn't make any difference to me. Stratten knows you're not working the contract, or he wouldn't be watching the airports and he wouldn't have sent those guys after me. You're out of this. You don't have to hang around any longer and baby-sit me. You can let ol' Hap makes his mistakes all by himself."

Helena let go of me, pushed me away. I got out of the car, took one step, turned back.

"Look, Helena, I'm sorry. But either I'm going to get whacked, or I'm going to prison. I really don't have that much to lose, except two people I care about. Laura dug her own grave, but Deck's in trouble only because of me. I want them back before something happens to me, because I'm the only person who gives a shit about them. I am tired of being pushed around, and Stratten is first in line to receive that news flash."

She sat still and silent for a moment, breathing deeply. Then she looked up at me, and I saw something in her eyes I hadn't even realized had been missing.

"You've changed," she said.

"Not as much as you."

"We'll see," she said, and looked at me a little longer. Then she nodded briskly. "Okay. Let's go ruin this guy's day."

Sabrina was sitting behind the desk in REMtemps's reception area, which cheered me up immensely. Even better was the way her mouth dropped open. She knew the score, had helped tip Travis off that I'd called Stratten from Applebaum's. It was instantly evident to her that Hap Thompson hadn't dropped by to borrow some paper clips. Her eyes flickered with panic for an instant, then went cool.

"It would be a huge mistake to call security," I advised her. "Really. For a start, most of them are dead."

Frosty: "What do you want?"

"I want to talk to Stratten. And I'm just not going to take no for an answer."

"You can't," she replied.

"Well, there you go." I grinned. "Thought I'd made myself pretty clear, and there you go just saying no to me. What do you think, Helena? She being obtuse, or just stupid?"

Helena raised an eyebrow, gave Sabrina a good looking over. "Obtuse, I'd say. And what on earth has she done with her hair?"

I leaned on the desk, blocking Sabrina's view of Helena. "Let's try this again. Get Stratten out here, or I start dismantling the walls and ceiling, starting with the portion above your head."

"You can't talk to Mr. Stratten," she said, her voice a little shaky. "He's not here."

"You realize I'm just going to run around the place, checking every room and causing trouble? Got any major clients in here for consultations? You want me to check if they know where he is?"

"Look, Mr. Thompson, he really isn't here." She was pale now.

"So where is he?"

The skin under her left eye twitched. "I can't tell you."

"Yes, you can. Use words. I'll understand them."

"I really can't. He'd ..." She swallowed, and I realized it probably wasn't me she was most frightened of. "He'd hurt me."

"Just tell me, Sabrina, or you're going to get damaged anyway."

She stared me down with a vestige of defiance. "You may be an asshole, but you'd never hurt a woman."

"No," I admitted, "you're probably right." I stood aside to reveal Helena, who was pointing a gun right at her heart. "But believe me, she would."

You almost certainly haven't stared down the barrel of a gun held by Helena, but it really focuses your mind. There's something about the sight that makes it clear that the time has come to be extremely accommodating.

"Mr. Stratten's in Los Angeles," Sabrina said quickly. "I don't know where. He booked the trip himself."

I stared at her. "In LA?"

She nodded feverishly, eager to get it over with. "He went there the end of last week. I've been patching his calls through to make it seem like he was still here."

"What the hell's he doing in LA?"

"I don't know."

Helena flicked the safety off. "Try harder, toots—or the hairstyle gets it."

"I don't know! He just said it was business."

At that moment I worked it out, finally understood how Stratten tied in. I dropped my head, wishing I were smarter, that I'd put it together several days ago. It must be great being clever. It must just make everything so much easier.

"That means something to you?" Helena asked me.

"Yeah. It does. Okay, Sabrina, we're leaving now, so you can go back to being rude to people on the phone. But I want you to do me a favor, okay?"

Sabrina didn't look like Sabrina anymore. The hardness in her face was gone, and her lips didn't look quite so airtight. I'm sure the change was only temporary, but it was an improvement. I just wished she hadn't had to be scared to allow herself to be more human, but I guess a lot of us are like that.

"What?"

"When Stratten calls in, tell him I know what his business is, and it's about to end."

THE STEWARDESS had our number pretty quickly. She gave both of us a fistful of peanut packs and left us to it. We had a pair of seats over the wing, but could have grabbed a row each if we'd wanted to. Evidently not many people make the hop from Jacksonville to LA at that time in the evening.

"So. You going to explain it to me, brains?" Helena asked, chomping on the free peanuts. We'd been in the air an hour by then, surrounded by little oval windows of darkness. I'd spent the time putting it together in my head, trying to work out how it changed the situation. We were due in LAX at nine local time; one of my two days was nearly over, with very little to show for it.

"Stratten was in business with Ray Hammond," I said. "Like he's maybe in business with people in every major city in the country. He's got the memory business sewed up. Lots of well-known people use REMtemps, and some of them must use the memory services, too. Though the caretakers don't know who the clients are, Stratten does. And he keeps track of every recollection that passes through one of his machines—including ones that the clients think REMtemps don't know about. He keeps an eye out for blackmail openings. Then he sets a local goon on the people who dumped them—in our case, Hammond."

Helena nodded. "So Hammond tails the client, gets more evidence of stuff that he or she doesn't want the public to know about, and then makes the pitch: Pay us, or your career goes down the toilet."

"I should have worked it out sooner. There was a weird entry in Schumann's file, something that happened a long time ago. I don't think Hammond heard it from any witness. I think Stratten gave the information to him."

"But wouldn't REMtemps's clients suspect that's where the leak was?"

"Not if Stratten was clever enough, and made sure that the shakedown was explicitly tied to stuff Hammond had found out subsequent to getting a key in through the memory. Maybe some of them did work it out: Jamison looked kind of shifty when I asked if he had any idea what set Hammond onto him. But by then it's too late, and Stratten's not going to care anyway. He's got his clients over a barrel. Memory-dumping's illegal, and he can make more money out of blackmailing them than he can for charging for the service."

"Then Laura kills Hammond and it all goes Picasso."

"Stratten's got no one else on the scene, so he hightails it over there, cleans out Hammond's apartment, and lets the victims know it's business as usual. Most of them just buckle under. But Schumann decides he can't take it anymore and kills himself. Meanwhile, Stratten wants Hammond's death put to rest as quickly as possible, because the longer Travis pokes around, the greater the chance of the lieutenant discovering what Hammond was involved in. When Quat lets Stratten know what I've got in my head, Stratten's got the perfect opportunity. I go down for the murder, and the case is closed."

"You've got to tell Travis about this."

"I will," I said, peering out the window. We were passing over a city: I could see a few lights below, advertisements for civilization. "I'll call him in a minute, and Jamison, too—let him know he might want to watch out. But I don't think Travis can help. Stratten is too powerful to take down unless you can pin something very specific on him—and he's way too clever to have laid himself open to that. Probably it's Quat or some other bastard who's doing the actual leaning on clients now, and Stratten's got himself alibied by the Pope."

"How do the guys in the suits tie in?"

"I still have no idea. You heard the weirdo: They had plans for Hammond. God knows what that means."

Helena yawned. "Was that guy really an alien?"

"Yes," I said. "They all are." I hesitated, still trying to come to terms with what I'd learned today. "The obelisk finally arrived. I've spent my life laughing at people who claim they'd been abducted. Turns out I'm one of them."

"Hap Thompson, Space Boy," Helena murmured sleepily. "I don't know why, but I don't find that too hard to believe. Even the whole alien thing. It's just not as hard to swallow as I'd have thought."

"Maybe it's time," I said. "And somehow we just know that."

"But how come they look like us? Why don't they have those big black eyes and little gray bodies? Or fingers that light up in the dark?"

I shook my head. "Nobody can remember anything about what happens when they're taken. There's just no memory there. Even I can't find it, and I've got a hell of a lot more practice than most. So when people get back, they try to fill the memory in as best they can. They're scared, so they go for the big fears. They substitute hazy memories of operations they had as a kid—or projections of ones they're afraid might have to happen. They fill in the pictures from magazines, movies, books. They make something up to fill the gap, pin their fears on something concrete, because that's better than not knowing what to be afraid of."

Helena shifted in her seat, then rested her head on my shoulder. "So, what now?"

"The alien said to go back to LA. So we go there."

"How do we know what he says is true?"

"Helena," I said. "He's all we've got." It came out a bit husky. The weight of her head, the feeling of her neck close to mine, was making me feel a little strange. I could smell her hair, could understand the amount of space she was taking up. Somehow, the girls I'd been with since Helena, they'd always seemed a fraction too big or too small. One of her hairs was tickling my nose, which usually drives me insane. I didn't move, though, in much the same way as you don't move the very first time you're sitting holding someone and your arm gets pins and needles so badly, it feels like it's on fire. Some things are worth the price: not forever, maybe, but at the beginning.

The plane hit a small patch of turbulence, provoking a few squawks from farther back in the cabin. The main lights had been turned off by then, leaving only the little glows above the windows. Sooner or later a stewardess would come along and tell people to pull the shutters down, and I'd refuse, as usual. I love being up in the sky, carried along in my taut metal tube and protected by its physics from that other physics, the physics that says all things must fall. I like looking out of the window at the blackness, studded below by the occasional sparks of light that proclaim "Yes, there's somebody here. There're things living on this ball of rock, and this is where we are. We have motels and cable TV and reasonably priced cheeseburgers. Come and visit us."

"What's this?" Helena mumbled. Her hand was resting against my chest, the fingers tracing a ragged patch in my skin through my shirt. A small circle just below the clavicle.

"A scar," I said.

"I don't remember it" she said, and then went very quiet. She turned her head to look up at me.

"Yes," I said. "It's from then."

"Hap, I'm so sorry."

It was right that she was sorry, but I had never seen a look of such compact misery, and I didn't want to see it now. "It's okay," I said. We held each other's eyes for a long moment, she trying to see if I meant it, I just looking at what was in her face. I'd always believed that loving someone was a road you could travel down only once, that after you'd taken a wrong turn you just had to turn your back and keep on walking.

Now I no longer knew.

The moment stretched, and stretched. Helena blinked very slowly. There was something strange about the movement, but I couldn't work out what. My thoughts seemed muddy and confused, as if they were groping for the usual phenomena and not finding them, helpless and stalled in the face of some data my brain couldn't use.

Out of the corner of my eye I saw the flight attendant standing a few rows farther up the aisle. She was leaning over, talking to someone, but her lips were moving slowly, and I couldn't hear what she was saying.