Sims (46 page)

He did but found only scattered mentions of the group; nothing of substance, no hint as to its purpose.

“Let me try,” Romy said.

They switched seats. Patrick watched her access a directory of US Federal Government agencies and enter a string of asterisks into a password box.

“Don't forget,” she said, as if reading his mind, “I work for a government agency myself. I've picked up a few passwords and access codes along the way.”

He watched a while longer, then got up and moved away. Romy was far more facile than he at the keyboard. She worked too fast for him—he'd no sooner focus on a screen than she'd be clicking to another. He stepped to the window and stared out at the night.

This block of Henry Street was reasonably well lit. He studied the parked cars for signs of life. None. The only pedestrian was a drab-looking woman making her way along the sidewalk directly below.

This constant vigilance rawed his nerves. When would it end? When could he relax again, if ever?

He wandered over to where Tome was busily filing papers.

“Getting tired, Tome?”

“No, Mist Sulliman,” the old sim said, grinning up at him in the narrow confines of the file room. “This fun.”

Whatever turns you on, he thought. He patted the sim's bony back.

“Great, my friend. Have a ball.”

Patrick was turning to go when he spotted something blinking on a little table in the corner. Tome followed his gaze. He snatched up the rectangular object and hid it behind his back.

“What's that?”

Tome looked down. “Picture, Mist Sulliman.”

“A picture? Can I see it?”

“Mist Sulliman be mad,” he said, eyes still on his shoes.

“Nonsense. Just let me see.”

With obvious reluctance, Tome placed the framed picture, upside down, into Patrick's outstretched hand.

He turned it over and stared in shock. The Virgin Mary . . . Our Lady of Guadalupe, to be exact, but not like Patrick had ever seen her. The traditional gold-leaf glory radiating around her had been enhanced with flashing red rays. Patrick flipped it over and spotted the battery case that powered the diodes.

“This is . . . amazing,” Patrick said. “Where did you get it?”

“Buy on street. Mist Sulliman not mad?”

“Why on earth would I be mad?”

“Lady on street yell Tome. Say Mother Mary not for sim.”

Bitch. Although he could see how true believers would object to sims taking up their religion, worshipping
their
god. It diminished them, made them feel less special.

“But why, Tome? Why'd you buy it?”

“Tome pray for Mist Sulliman and Miss Romy. Ask Lady to protect.”

Patrick was touched, didn't know quite what to say. He stepped past Tome and replaced the blinking icon on the table.

“Thank you, Tome. I . . . we have something called freedom of religion in this country. That means you can pray to any god you want. And . . . thanks.”

He wandered back toward Romy, ready to tell her about Tome's prayers, when she called out to him.

“Look at this,” she said, her expression troubled. “This particular SIRG—the Social Impact Research Group—had millions and millions of government dollars poured into it through most of the nineties and into the oughts, and then the money stopped.”

“Money from where?”

“That's the weird part. I can't find out who picked up the tab.”

“Somebody had to. Some department or agency had to be debited before SIRG could be credited.”

“I know. There's a whole string of agencies and departments and groups that seem to be intermediaries but I keep running into dead ends or getting lost in the maze whenever I try to track the money back to its source.”

Patrick shook his head. “Almost like . . .”

Romy looked up at him. “Manassas Ventures.”

“Do you think . . . ?”

She held up a hand. “Before you go getting excited, let me tell you that I think SIRG might be dead. As in defunct. Can't find a mention or a penny of appropriations from any source whatsoever for years.”

“Damn! For a moment I thought we were on to something. But then again, how much pay dirt could we expect from something with a name like the Social Impact Research Group?”

“Don't let a title put you off,” she said. “Ever hear of SOG?”

“Son of Godzilla?”

Romy smiled up at him. “Close. Try the ‘Studies and Observations Group.' It was started in the Nam era. That innocent title covered a joint Special Operations unit that included members from the Air Force, Navy SEALs, and Special Forces. They were sent into Laos to wage a secret war.”

“So you think someone who thought SOG was a clever cover might have come up with SIRG?”

“Just a thought.” Romy looked back at the screen and rubbed her neck.

“Stiff?”

“Yeah. Been a long day.”

He gripped both her shoulders and began kneading the back of her neck with his thumbs. He could feel the warmth of her skin through the light weave of her sweater.

She groaned. “That feels
good
.”

You're telling me, he thought.

“SIRG appears to be defunct,” she said as he continued to knead. “But it could be operating under a different name. Either way, just to be sure we've turned over every rock before we move on, I think we should know where its money came from, don't you?”

“But how?”

Patrick stretched his fingers forward, working his massage down to her collar bones.

“My . . . office.” Romy groaned again. “You're making it hard to concentrate.”

“Just soothing those tight muscles. Relax.” Patrick himself was anything but as a rapturous pressure built within.

She cleared her throat. “What was I saying?”

“Something about your office.” He slipped his fingers over her collar bones onto the upper edges of her pectorals.

“Oh, right. OPRR's computers are linked to the government. And my boss, Milton Ware, is an absolute master at weaving through bureaucratese.
I need to find a way to put Uncle Miltie onto the scent without knowing why. Maybe if I—”

“Excuse me?”

They both jumped and turned at the sound of a woman's voice. Relief flooded Patrick as he recognized the figure standing in the doorway.

“Miss Fredericks! How did you get in here?” He could have sworn he'd locked the door.

Alice Fredericks smiled. “I'm sorry if I startled you, Mr. Sullivan. But I was walking by and just happened to look up and see the lights, so I thought I'd stop in and inquire as to why you haven't called me.”

Walking by? Patrick thought. Probably watching the place with a telescope.

He leaned closer to Romy and whispered, “She's the one I told you about.” Romy gave him a puzzled look, but before he could elaborate—

“Oh, no!” Alice cried, pointing to Tome who had stepped out of the filing room. “It's one of them! One of my long lost great-grandchildren! Please take him away! The sight of him tears at my heart!”

“Now I remember,” Romy whispered. “Dramatic, isn't she.”

“Just a bit.”

He motioned the baffled Tome back into the file room where he'd be out of sight, then turned to Alice. Though he was still rattled by the way she'd strolled in here off the street, he didn't want to take it out on her. But it was time to put a stop to these intrusions.

“Miss Fredericks, I'm sorry, but I don't think I'll be able to spare the time to take your case. And even if I did, in the long run it will come down to your word against SimGen's, and I don't think—”

“Even if I have proof?”

“What sort of proof can you have?”

“A check made out to me from Mercer Sinclair.”

Yeah, right, he thought. “How would you happen to have that? Once you cash a check it goes back to the one who issued it.”

“But I didn't cash it,” Alice said, eyes wide. “It was the last payment for letting them use my body to incubate the alien child. I didn't know they'd steal him from me. How could I take money from the man who stole my child?” Her eye filled with tears. “That would be like . . . like selling my baby!”

“So why didn't you burn it or tear it up?”

“I kept it as a reminder to stay the course, and because I knew someday I'd have a chance to confront Mercer Sinclair again, and when I did I wanted to be able to throw it back in his face!”

“We'd love to see that check,” Romy said. When Patrick gave her an are you-nuts? look she nudged him with her elbow and whispered, “No stone unturned, right?” Then she raised her voice: “Can you bring it here?”

“Oh no,” Alice said. “I never take it out of my room. But if you want to come visit me, I'll be very happy to show it to you.”

Patrick regarded Alice Fredericks. Was she completely bonkers and dreaming all this up? Just a lonely lady who'd say anything to have company? Or could there be a kernel of truth at the heart of her crazy story?

Patrick sighed. “Leave me your address and I'll see if I can get over tomorrow.”

“He
will
get over tomorrow,” Romy said, giving him a wry smile. “Even if I have to drag him.”

NEWARK, NJ

Meerm shiver in dark. Ver wet and cold. Ver scare. And hurt. Hand bleed, foot bleed, leg bleed. Not bleed lot but still bleed. Blood wash off in rain but come more blood.

Meerm inside now. Clothes all wet and drip. But where? Meerm not know. Meerm run-run-run from sim home. Slip in water. Fall down, get up, fall down. Many fall. Meerm so dizzy and weak. No run no more. See old metal door in brick wall. Pull-pull-pull on handle. Door open loud and Meerm go in. Close door behind.

Not warm here. Ver dark. Meerm feel big metal wire. Go up-up-up. Ver bad oil smell.

Meerm shiver more. Meerm cry. So cold-wet. So lonely. Sim friend gone forever. Meerm no go back. Bad mans wait for Meerm. Want hurt her. Poor Meerm. Nev see Beece friend again.

What sound? Outside. Some call Meerm name. Meerm listen hard. Yes. Some call, “Meerm! Meerm, where you?” Not man voice. Sound like sim. Sound like Beece!

Beece-Beece-Beece! Meerm so happy to hear Beece. Want see. Meerm push door open little. Ver ver little. Just enough see.

Yes! There! There Beece! Meerm go open wider—

No-no-no! Beece bring mans! Bad mans who hurt!

Beece walk down dark alley with other sim. Beece cold and hungry-tired, not know where is. Too many turn. Beece pretend search Meerm but not want find. Beece not like these mans. Ver mean mans. But meanest is red-hair city man who hurt Beece. Other mans call him Grimes. Grimes ver bad man. All these mans bad. Want hurt Meerm. Why? Meerm not bad. Meerm just sick. Get big-big belly.

Beece hear run-steps. Crouch down fraid when see red-hair city man run up. But not hit Beece. Stop and talk other man.

“Hey, Alessi! Somebody called the cops. Lowery heard it on the scanner.”

“Shit!”

“Yeah, well, had to expect it. Somebody sees a bunch of men and monkeys poking through their neighborhood, they want to know what's going on.”

“Don't suppose we've got any suck with these locals.”

“Naw. Who'd ever figure we'd have to operate in Newark? Anyway, Portero doesn't want anyone to know why we're here. That's why I'm moving the car around to the main drag out there. I'll be in the McDonald's lot. When the boys in blue arrive, we fade.”

“I'll bet he's royally pissed.”

“Count on it.”

“All right. See you at McDonald's. Hey, while you're there, get some burgers and fries for the trip home. I missed dinner.”

“You got it.”

Grimes go. Other man look Beece. “Keep looking, monkey. We're not through yet. You go over there.” Point other sim. “You come over here with me. Find her, damn it!”

Beece go where told. Lots trash here. Big puddle. Shoe all wet. Beece
lost. See top Mickey-D sign between building. Golden arches. Yum. Beece love Mickey-D. Yes-yes. Sometime—

What sound? Beece hear squeak-squeak. Turn see black metal door in brick wall. Look hard see red letter.

ELEVATOR SHAFT
DANGER!
AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL
ONLY!

Beece no read but Beece see blood on door. See eye look out from door crack.

Meerm! Meerm here!

Beece look round quick. Mans not near. Man not look. Beece fraid talk. Wave Meerm to make stay. No speak, no move! Beece bend, get water in hand. Wash blood off door. Get more. Blood all gone now.

Man yell, say, “Find anything over there?”

“No, sir. Many puddle. No see Meerm.”

“All right then, keep moving! Time's a-wasting!”

Beece bend and whisper to door, “Beece not tell. Not tell no one.”

SUFFOLK COUNTY , NY

So . . . Meerm is in Newark.

Zero couldn't be absolutely sure, but it was evident that Portero believed so. Zero had hired a private detective to keep an eye on him. Often the man reported back that Portero had given him the shake, but tonight he'd called and said that Portero and three others had made a beeline from the SimGen campus to a battered neighborhood in Newark.

Zero had driven his van from the West Side garage, through the Holland
Tunnel, into Newark. Although only a few miles, the trip had taken nearly an hour. But well worth it. Arriving, he'd been treated to the spectacle of Luca Portero and his men herding dozens of sims through the streets, all calling “Meerm! Meerm!”

His heart had sunk. The swine had found her—or damn near. Only a matter of time before all those men and sims tracked Meerm down.

And then . . . a reprieve. He'd pounded his steering wheel with glee as he watched Portero and company make a slapdash retreat just before the Newark Police arrived with their lights flashing. They'd left empty-handed, which meant that Meerm—if she were here at all—was still somewhere in the vicinity. It also meant that Portero and his men would be back.