In my pocket, my comm vibrated twice and then went still. Peering around the doorway, I saw a pair of headlights turn the corner onto my street two blocks away. It had covered the first half block toward me when a second pair of lights appeared and turned onto the street behind it. The first vehicle—an autocab—passed by my position, and I caught a glimpse of McMicking sitting half turned in his seat, one hand on the door handle and the other holding his gun. He continued on, and the car behind him rolled toward my doorway.
And as it started to pass me, I took a long step out of concealment and lobbed my bag of soup squarely into the center of its windshield.
The car's wipers went on instantly, of course. But they'd been designed for rain and sleet, not clam chowder. One sweep later the entire windshield was a solid layer of chunky white goo.
The occupants were up to the challenge. Even before the windshield was completely blocked, the man in the passenger seat slid down his window and leaned his head out, the wind whipping through his hair as he peered around the side of the car toward the autocab still rolling on ahead.
Unfortunately for them, with the distraction of the soup bomb neither set of eyes had spotted McMicking's drop and roll out of the autocab door. He came up into a low crouch by the side of the street, and as the car passed he quick-fired a pair of snoozers into the passenger's exposed cheek and neck.
The man reacted instantly, jerking his head back inside. But it was too late. As the car sped up, I saw his sideways movement continue on, sagging his head against the driver's right shoulder.
With his partner's eyes suddenly of no use to him, the driver now had no choice but to open his window as well. I was ready, and uncorked a couple of shots at the back of his head as he stuck it out into the night breeze.
But snoozers were by design a low-speed, low-impact round, and the car already had too much distance on me. A few seconds later the vehicle careened around a corner and vanished into the night.
Gun still in hand, McMicking crossed the street to my doorway. "That was interesting," he said. "You reach any conclusions?"
"Did you hear the passenger calling any directions to the driver?" I asked.
McMicking shook his head. "I didn't see any hand signals or gestures, either."
"Neither did I," I said. "In which case, I'd have to say they were definitely walkers."
McMicking gazed down the street where the car had disappeared. "So what now?"
"We get you out of here before he can reacquire you," I said, looking around. Aside from the cars parked along the far side of the street, there were no other vehicles present. "I don't know whether it would be safer to get another autocab or call a friend to pick you up."
He gave me a lopsided smile. "You really think I know anyone I trust that far?" he asked. "But don't worry about me. I meant what about you?"
I thought about what Lorelei had said about her sister being in danger on New Tigris. I thought about the fact that her murder pretty well proved she hadn't been just blowing smoke. I though about the Modhri, and his obvious interest in whatever the hell was going on here.
And I thought about the fact that the man standing in front of me had just put up half a million dollars of Larry Hardin's money to guarantee I'd stay in New York until the legal system took its crack at me. "First thing I'm going to do is get some sleep," I said. "After that, maybe I'll poke around a little and see if I can backtrack Lorelei's movements."
"Sounds good," McMicking said, gazing a little too intently at me. "I'll keep tabs on the autopsy. I'll also try to see if I can find anything on her from official sources."
"I'd appreciate that," I told him. "And thanks again for bailing me out. I know the kind of bind you've just put yourself into over this."
"No problem," he said, his eyes lingering on my face another second before he gave the street another sweep. "Get some sleep. I'll call you later." Giving me a quick nod, he turned and strode away down the sidewalk.
I watched him for a moment, wondering if I should offer to backstop him. But McMicking was a big boy, and quite capable of taking care of himself. More to the point, I was dead tired. Turning away, I headed back to my apartment.
It was just before two o'clock in the afternoon when I finally woke up again. I checked for messages—there weren't any—and then heated up another of my repertoire of soup cans, washing down the meal with a glass of sweet iced tea. By the time I finished I felt more alive and refreshed than I had in days.
Time to get to work.
My first task was to write a brief message for transmission to the Tube station hanging out there in the outer system just past the orbit of Jupiter. Unless Lorelei had always been in Terra system, she had to have come here by Quadrail, which meant that the Spiders should have a record of her movements. I asked for that record to be put together for me, and threw in a request that Bayta be located and notified that I would shortly be on my way.
Encrypting the whole thing with one of the Spiders' special codes, I uploaded it to the message center, noted it would be lasered to the transfer station within the hour, and got busy on a general computer search.
I'd been at it an hour, and was still sifting through all the unrelated information on all the unrelated Lorelei Beaches, when my door chimed.
I approached the door as one might approach a sleeping tiger: quietly, cautiously, and with Glock in hand. Standing well off to the side, I keyed the viewer.
The uniform was that of a package messenger, complete with book-sized package in hand. The hair was that of an aging new-drift klivner trying to relive the glory days of his youth.
The face was McMicking's.
I unlocked the door, and he slipped inside. "Still alive, I see," he said approvingly as I closed the door behind him. "Anything else happen last night?"
"Not to me," I said. "You?"
He shook his head and handed me the package. "Here."
"You get something already?" I asked, frowning as I pulled open the tab. There was nothing inside but a set of official-looking cards.
"Not on the woman, no," he said. "I thought you might need these."
I swallowed hard as I focused on the top card. It was an official Western Alliance ID card, complete with my face and fingerprints and other data.
Only it was made out to someone named Frank Abram Donaldson.
I looked up again to find McMicking gazing at me, an all too knowing look in his eyes. "This is …" I paused, searching for the right words.
McMicking, typically, didn't have to search. "This is going to get my butt in serious trouble," he said calmly "But this is war. And I owe you. You and Bayta both."
"Mostly Bayta," I said, rubbing my thumb across the ID. It even felt real. "She's the one the Spiders listen to, and mostly obey."
"But you're the one she listens to," McMicking pointed out. He smiled faintly. "And mostly obeys."
"I'm not sure I'd go that far," I demurred.
"I would," McMicking said. "And one of these days I'm hoping you'll be able to explain just how all of that works."
"Definitely," I promised, though I didn't have the vaguest idea when that day would come. Bayta's close relationship with the Chahwyn and Spiders was a closely guarded secret, but at least it was something I could vaguely understand. Bayta's relationship with me, on the other hand, I was still trying to get a handle on. "Meanwhile, I'll do whatever I can to get back before my court date," I added. "If I do, hopefully you'll be able to sneak the bail money back into your department account with no one the wiser."
"You just focus on figuring out what the Modhri is up to and nail him," McMicking said grimly. "Mr. Hardin can absorb the loss if he has to."
"Mr. Hardin isn't the one I'm worried about," I said, sliding the ID to the back of the stack. Behind it was a torchliner ticket, with the shuttle from Sutherlin scheduled to leave that evening for its long voyage across the inner system to the Quadrail station. "I didn't think I was nearly this easy to read," I commented.