Sims (52 page)

“Yes, Mist Sulliman. Tome try best.”

Patrick rolled down his window and checked the street. “All clear.”

Zero pushed open a rear door and hopped down. As soon as Tome was out he started to push it closed and found Romy staring at him again.

“Be careful,” she said.

Zero could only nod.

He hurried Tome off the sidewalk and into the narrow alley. As they moved through the litter and the rubble, their breath steaming in the frigid air, Zero glanced up and was surprised to see a number of clotheslines stretching above them; one sported a bra and a very large set of white panties. Apparently the tenement wasn't as deserted as it looked.

“If you were Meerm,” Zero said to Tome, keeping his voice low, “and you were in here and frightened, and looking for a place to hide, which way would you go?”

“Tome not Meerm.”

“Yes, but imagine you were.”

“What is 'magine?”

How to explain that? Maybe Tome wasn't capable of imagining. But he'd imagined starting a sim union, hadn't he. Imagining a solution to a problem, though, wasn't the same as pretending to be someone else.

But if I can do it, why can't Tome?

“We can talk about imagining later,” Zero told him. “Right now we need to find a spot where we can see the golden arches over a fence, isn't that what Beece said?”

“Yes. Say Meerm in metal door with red write.”

A metal door with red writing . . . that was their best clue. If they had a big search party, and unlimited time, and could comb the area openly without fear of being attacked, Zero had no doubt they'd find Meerm before the morning was out. But with just him and Tome . . .

They arrived in a small quadrangular courtyard that once must have
served as a dump for the surrounding buildings. No fence, no McDonald's arches, no metal door with red writing.

They moved on into another alley, misaligned with the one they'd just left. They were halfway to the next street when Zero noticed a low passage, five feet high at most, cutting away through the wall of the building to their left. He stooped and saw daylight at the far end.

“Did Beece mention anything about a tunnel?”

Tome shook his head. “No, Mist Zero.”

“Okay, then.” He was about to turn away when it occurred to him to check it out. They were here. Foolish not to take a look.

“Tome, we should see what's on the other end of that tunnel. Since you're smaller, you're elected. Hurry though and take a quick look. If you see anything that might be what we're looking for, I'll follow you.”

The old sim nodded and ducked into the tunnel. Zero watched his silhouette dwindle toward the far end until he stepped into the light. He moved away from the opening, leaving Zero staring at an empty square of light, and then suddenly he was there again, hurrying back.

“Mist Zero!” Tome cried, his voice squeaking with excitement. “Is here! Metal door and fence and red write!”

Zero didn't wait to hear if the McDonald's arches were visible.

“Let's go!”

Bent in a deep crouch, he splashed through the wet tunnel in Tome's wake and emerged into a small vacant lot. A fenced vacant lot, with the McDonald's arches visible between the buildings across the street. And directly across the lot, an abandoned brick warehouse with a rusty metal door embedded in its flank, a door labeled with a warning in faded red letters. At the rear of the lot was the open end of an alley, probably how Beece had arrived.

They'd found it. Now they had to hope she hadn't moved to a new hiding place. Please, let her still be there.

“All right, Tome. Remember: We have to be calm, we have to speak softly. You'll do the talking as we planned, okay?”

Tome nodded. “Tome talk good.”

Zero approached the door with measured steps, making enough noise so that anyone on the other side would hear their approach and not be taken completely by surprise when the door opened. He stopped outside it, waited a heartbeat or two, then gripped the door's upper corner and pulled.

The hinges squealed horribly as it swung open. Inside lay a pool of night, untouched by the dawn. Zero listened but heard no movement within.

As rehearsed, Tome leaned inside and said, “Meerm? This Tome. Friend sim. Friend Beece. Tome bring friend help Meerm.”

Silence.

She's gone, Zero thought.

And then, echoing from within, a soft whimper.

“Do you think they're all right?” Romy said as she sat in the passenger seat and stared down the alley.

“They've only been gone a few minutes,” Patrick replied.

Romy knew that, but couldn't quell her dark sense of foreboding.

“I should have gone with them.”

“No, you shouldn't have. And you know why.”

Romy glanced at Patrick. He seemed testy this morning. Lack of sleep, maybe. But she knew what he meant: They'd all agreed that a group of humans would spook Meerm.

“Well, then, I should have gone with Tome instead of Zero. I'm female. If Tome can't talk her out, I think a female human would be a lot less threatening than a male.”

Patrick looked at her. “You could be right. In fact, that makes sense—a hell of a lot more sense than sending a guy in a ski mask. I must be overtired. I should have thought of that myself. Hell, why didn't you bring this up before?”

“I did. But Zero was dead set on going himself. Wouldn't consider anyone else.”

“Doesn't make sense. You've known him longer than I have, but he doesn't strike me as the my-way-or-the-highway sort.”

“He's not. He'll go with the best idea, no matter who comes up with it. But he wasn't budging on this.”

“Must have his reasons.”

“I'm sure he does. And after last night, I'm more than willing to defer to his judgment.” She caught Patrick rolling his eyes. “What?”

“Nothing.”

“No, tell me.”

“I thought you were going to start gushing again.”

“Gush?” She felt a sting of embarrassment, knew what he was talking
about, but couldn't bring herself to admit it. “About what? I don't gush about anything.”

“You do about Zero. You haven't been able to stop yakking about last night.”

Was it that obvious? She'd been so taken by Zero's aplomb in handling their pursuers—was still impressed, couldn't stop thinking about it. He could have got those two cars off their tail by pulling out a bazooka and blowing them both to smithereens. Effective but . . . lacking something. Instead he'd operated like a skilled surgeon, not cutting too deep or too long, inflicting no more damage than necessary to get the job done. And she loved that.

Now more than ever she felt she had to know who Zero was. She needed to see the face, look into the eyes of this man who did what he did, not just last night, but every day of his life. That was the man for her.

She looked at Patrick. Another good man, who managed to surprise her time and again. But he wasn't Zero. There was no one else in the world like Zero.

“Sorry if I've been boring you,” she said. “But if you could have seen—”

A growl from Kek, squatting in the darkness behind them. Patrick held up his hand for silence and cocked his head toward the van's oversized side view mirror.

“Oh, shit. We've got trouble!”

Romy tensed and reached into her bag for her pistol. “Like what?”

“Like a late model Impala coming this way, looking like it's got no particular place to go.”

She looked down the alley. No sign of Zero and Tome returning yet. Good.

“Duck down. Maybe they'll just drive by if it looks empty.”

“Too late. I'm sure they spotted me in my side mirror.”

“All right then,” she said, her thoughts accelerating. “Let's pretend we're having a fight.” She raised her voice and gestured angrily. “You worthless lump of protoplasm! What good are you? Tell me that! What good are you?”

“Protoplasm?” Patrick said.

“The window's closed,” she told him. “Doesn't matter what we say; they won't be able to make out the words anyway, but we've got to
look
like we're going at it.”

“Yeah?” Patrick cried, getting into it. “Is that what you think of me?
Protoplasm?
Hey, you're nothing but a . . . a . . .” He lowered his voice. “What's lower than protoplasm?”

“I don't know,” she whispered as she shrugged. “Try mitochondria.”

“Right!” he shouted, shaking his fist in the air between them. “That's what you are! A mitochondria! Just a lousy, no-good, two-bit mitochondria!”

The Impala slowed as it passed, and Romy saw the passenger's pale face turned their way, his flat gray eyes staring into the van's cab, past Patrick's turned back, at her face. She hoped she looked angry enough.

Romy slammed the dashboard with her fist. “Isn't that typical! You don't even know the word! The singular is mitochondr
ion
, you moron!”

The Chevy pulled ahead and looked like it was moving on, but then it stopped.

Kek let out another growl. Romy glanced back and noticed the mandrilla's snout had turned a bright red.

“Easy, Kek,” Romy cooed. “Just stay put.”

But as the Impala's passenger door swung open, so did one of the van's rear doors.

“Stay, Kek!” Patrick said. “I can talk us out of—” The rear door closed softly. “What's he going to do?”

“Nothing!” Romy shouted, motioning to him to keep up the faux fight. “Not unless he has to! And if we play this right, he won't have to!”

Patrick matched her volume. “How, goddamnit?”

The passenger, a fortyish redhead wearing a wrinkled green sport coat and a wary expression, was almost to Patrick's door.

Romy cried, “When he comes to the window—which will be in about two seconds—act pissed. We're having a private argument here and he's butting in. Can you get into that?”

“Yeah!” Patrick gritted his teeth and leaned closer. “I can get into that! I can get into it better'n you, you worthless mito—” He jumped at the tap on the driver window, turned, and rolled it down an inch. “Who the hell are you?”

The man's lips turned up at the corners in a poor imitation of a friendly smile. “Hi, we're a neighborhood patrol, just keeping an eye out for trouble and—”

“Yeah, well so what?” Romy said, leaning over Patrick's shoulder and projecting Raging Romy-scale belligerence. “Who needs you? Go patrol some other neighborhood. This one's fine!”

She noticed how the man's eyes were fixed on Patrick, barely flicking her way during her outburst.

“Yeah!” Patrick said. “This one's fine!”

Suddenly the guy's hand darted into his coat and came out with a big pistol, a cousin to the HK in Romy's bag, which she didn't dare reach for now.

“Hold it!” he said, grinning at Patrick. His Adam's apple was bobbing wildly. “I know you. You're that sim lawyer. We've been looking for you. Turn off the engine.”

His expression tight, grave, Patrick glanced at Romy and obeyed.

“Hold
real
still now.” Without turning his head the man called to the Impala. “Yo, Snyder! Come see what we hooked!”

The Chevy's driver door opened and a taller, beefier man stepped out. He had a small white bandage taped across his swollen nose.

“Well, well,” he said as he reached the van and looked inside. “If it isn't Sullivan and Cadman.”

Romy knew she shouldn't be surprised that he knew her name, but the way he said it, the sound of it on his lips, jolted her.

“What's in the back there, folks?” Snyder said, grinning. “A ski mask, maybe? And a supply of paint balloons? Mind if we take a—”

What happened next was a blur: Two furry hands appeared, one to the left of Snyder's head, one to the right of the redhead's, and then those heads slammed together with a sickening
crunch!
Both men's mouths dropped into shocked ovals as their eyes rolled up under their lids.

“Jesus!” Patrick said.

Then the furry hands smashed the heads together again, and this time the sound was wetter, softer. Blood spurted from the redhead's nose, splattering Patrick's window.

“Christ, Romy! Make him stop! He's going to kill them!”

“Too late for that,” she said, feeling the cold touch of Raging Romy's secret delight. “Kek! Put them back in the car. Quick!”

“I know that sound,” Patrick said dully. “I heard it the night we were run off the Saw Mill. I—”

She grabbed Patrick's arm. “We've got to move! They may have a call-in schedule, and if they miss it—”

“Yeah, yeah,” he said, looking dazed and maybe a little sick. “Got to move, but . . . Jesus.”

She noticed Kek dragging the two bodies back to the car and tossing them through the open driver door like sacks of wheat. She rolled down her window and leaned out.