“How am I supposed to prove I’m human?”
“Well, we could stick a knife in you and see what color it comes out. That generally works.”
“Very funny.”
“Or you could show me a certain key.”
Leo stood up, fumbled in his pocket—What if he lost it? Cassie wondered for one terrifying moment—then produced the key from his father’s safe.
“Okay, let me see,” Dowd said.
With obvious reluctance Leo put the key in Dowd’s open hand. The lines in Dowd’s palm were etched with motor oil. His thumb was calloused, his nails cut clinically short.
“Good enough?” Leo asked.
“Not yet it isn’t. We’ll see if it opens what it’s supposed to open. Come on.”
Dowd led them to the rear of the garage. He pulled away a tarp that covered a white unmarked delivery van, some years old. The dust released by this gesture hung in the air and tickled Cassie’s throat.
Dowd applied the key to the driver’s-side door of the van. It slid into the lock and turned. He pulled the door open.
“Well, then,” he said. “Well, then.”
The van hadn’t been open in quite a while. Stale air with tang of vinyl upholstery gusted out. “It looks like any old van,” Cassie said.
“It’s what’s in back that matters.”
“So what’s in back?”
Eugene Dowd pocketed the key. “We’ll talk about that later.”
Dowd escorted them up a flight of stairs to the loft he used as an office and bedroom—a few chairs, a table, an ancient refrigerator, sink and hot plate, a mattress on the floor—and asked if they wanted lunch. Cassie looked at the unwashed plates stacked on a sideboard. “Don’t worry, girl,” Dowd said. “All’s I got to offer you is canned chili and some wrapped sandwiches from the 7-Eleven in Galatea. Fresh enough you won’t poison yourself, if that’s what’s worrying you.”
Thomas said he was hungry, and Cassie had to admit that she was, too: hungry enough to accept a chicken salad sandwich, as cold as Dowd’s wheezing refrigerator could make it. Thomas took the same, as did Leo and Beth. Dowd offered them Cokes and took a bottle of beer for himself.
He levered the cap from the bottle. “So, Leo—I bet you could have opened the door of that van even without a key, isn’t that right?”
“I don’t know. What do you mean?”
“Don’t be bashful. Your daddy told me you got hauled into juvie court one time for vehicle theft, attempted.”
“It was stupid. I was showing off.”
“That’s why they let you go with a fine and a lecture?”
“I guess my father told you that, too. Is he here?”
“Your old man? No.”
“Then where is he?”
“Werner Beck doesn’t post his whereabouts with me, at least not on a regular basis. But since you showed up without him, I doubt the news is good. I was told you wouldn’t come here without him unless something unexpected happened.”
“So how do you know my father? And what’s so special about that van?”
“Well, Leo, it’s a kind of a long story. Which I expect you need to hear. It was your father who come to me, by the way, not the other way around. I was living in Amarillo, this was most of ten years ago. Had a little one-room apartment, making ends meet with federal Work and Welfare checks. Your old man just knocked at the door one day and introduced himself. He said he’d seen a story about me in a local paper and he wanted to know if it was true.”
“If what was true?”
Dowd ran his thumb along the label of the beer bottle and looked off into the dim cavern of the garage. “I need to start at the beginning. But I guess you got time. We’ll talk a little. Then we’ll do some work on that car you stole, so it won’t be so easy to identify. Because pretty soon we need to leave here, and we won’t all fit in the van.”
“Leave and go where?”
“A place I dearly hoped I’d never see again. But life shits on hope.” He took a long drink. “Isn’t that the truth?”
14
MONTMORENCY, PENNSYLVANIA
INTERSTATE 80 PASSED THROUGH THE college town of Montmorency, Pennsylvania. The Federal College at Montmorency—one of the colleges established by the Wallace administration in the 1930s—was the town’s biggest business, apart from a couple of manufacturing plants and a limestone quarry. The town was peaceful in the long light of an end-of-November afternoon, many of its neat wood-frame houses flying American flags from front-porch stanchions. It looked like a nice place to live.
But the town had another distinguishing feature: Montmorency had been the home of the late Winston Bayliss, according to the ID Ethan had collected from the dead sim’s wallet.
He had been surprised when Nerissa suggested they drive by the address listed on Bayliss’s driver’s license. “It’ll take us out of our way.”
“Only a little.”
“I thought you wanted to get to Werner Beck as soon as possible.”
“I do. But this might be important.”
“Why? What’s the point?”
She shrugged and looked away.
“It might also be dangerous,” he added.
“Everything we’re doing,” she said, “is dangerous.”
Last night he had talked to Nerissa—more or less for the first time—about their plans.
She had left Buffalo in a furious but unfocused state of mind, determined to enlist Ethan in the hunt for Cassie and Thomas. He understood that. And he understood the guilt she must be feeling. The careful precautions she had put in place after the murders of 2007 had backfired, badly. Cassie and Thomas had left home under the impression that a full-scale second-wave attack was underway. Following protocols, they had gone to the nearest Society member, who happened to be Leo Beck. Leo (and Leo’s girlfriend, a young woman named Beth Vance) had left town, most likely to find Leo’s father. Nerissa was tormented by the idea that Cassie and Thomas might believe she was dead, and she was reasonably afraid that connecting with Werner Beck might put them in even greater danger.
Ethan also knew she had never cared for Werner Beck. She had met him at a couple of Society gatherings. “Even in a community of paranoids,” she said at one of those meet-ups, “this guy is scary-paranoid.”
“He’s right about a lot of things,” Ethan had said. “He’s produced more valuable research than anybody else.”
“He thinks the Society is the vanguard of some kind of human insurgency. We’ll be lucky if he doesn’t get us all arrested.”
“Maybe he is a little crazy. But he’s smart, and he has deep pockets.”
“And you think that’s a good combination?”
So Nerissa was worried about Cassie and Thomas coming under the influence of Werner Beck, more so since the sim’s baleful confession. And Ethan more or less agreed with her. Find Cassie and Thomas, let Nerissa protect them, leave Beck to fight his own wars—fine. Ethan was on board with that. But afterward?
Everything had changed. The dead sim was hardly a reliable source of information, but the attack at the farm house suggested that at least some part of what it had said was true: there was internal conflict in the hypercolony. And although the Society survivors had tried to remain hidden, they had self-evidently failed: the simulacra had obviously known exactly where to find them. So going back into hiding wasn’t an option. They had never really been in hiding.
So, even assuming he and Nerissa successfully reconnected with Cassie and Thomas, what then? Nerissa had been living on the inheritance she had received after the death of her parents in 1998. Ethan had cashed out all his investments in 2007 and had been spending frugally (apart from a few high-dollar weapons and security purchases) ever since. Between the two of them, their resources amounted to very little. Both of them would have to find new ways of making a living and of defending themselves (and Cassie, and Thomas) from future attacks.