Or so he’d thought. That was when he’d almost got caught. He’d been about to step out of the bushes when he spotted two dark figures gliding between the shadows near the barrack. As he’d watched, they separated, one swiftly climbing a tree, the other disappearing into the bushes.
Someone had the sim quarters under guard. Sullivan? Cadman? No matter. That hadn’t been Luca’s destination. He was headed for the sprawling structure on the crest of the hill, the club’s main building.
Soon he’d reached his destination: the kitchen. Once he’d located the cooking pot labeledSIMS he removed a vial of clear odorless liquid from his breast pocket. A brand new compound sent down through Lister from SIRG; so new it didn’t have a name yet, only a number: J7683452.
He’d emptied the vial into the big pot and begun swirling the liquid around, coating the sides and bottom. When it dried, it was invisible. The only thing that could have gone wrong was somebody washing out the pot. But it had been hung up clean, so that was unlikely.
Amazing stuff, J7683452. He could have stuck his head into that pot, licked its insides clean, and he’d be fine. Perfectly harmless in that state. But heat it to a hundred-and-sixty degrees or more and…
Bon appétit.
As for here and now, he didn’t owe the Sinclair brothers an explanation. And they didn’t deserve one.
“Admit it, Portero! You murdered those nineteen sims!”
“Murdered?” he said with a calculatedly derisive snort—few things gave him more pleasure than getting under these twits’ skins. “They’re animals. They can be killed, they can be slaughtered, they can be sacrificed to the gods, but they can’t be murdered.”
With a hoarse roar Sinclair-2 launched himself at Luca, only to be hauled back by the heavier, stronger Voss.
“You don’t want to be doin that, son,” Voss said. “Trust me, you don’t.”
“Ellis, for God’s sake control yourself!” Sinclair-1 said.
“Listen to them,” Luca said softly.
He hadn’t moved a muscle. He’d take no pleasure in hurting Sinclair-2—it would be like fighting a woman—but he could not allow another man to lay a hand on him.
Sinclair-2 struggled a moment, then pulled free and returned to his usual spot on the sofa where he dropped his face into his hands.
What gives with that guy? Luca wondered. How can he be such a wimp?
“Did you?” Sinclair-1 said, staring at him. “Were you responsible for poisoning those sims?”
“Does it matter?” Luca said.
No one answered.
Just as I thought. They don’twant to know.
“Just tell me one thing,” Voss said. “And think very carefully on your answer: Will the perpetrator or perpetrators ever be found?”
“My guess?” Luca shook his head. “Never. But whoever they were, they did us a favor. The Beacon Ridge club has surrendered. They’re giving the sims what they want.”
“Since when?” Voss said. “I ain’t heard nothin about this.”
“That’s because they haven’t made the announcement yet.”
“If that’s true,” the attorney said, his eyes widening, “it takes the matter out of the court’s hands.”
“No precedent,” Sinclair-1 whispered.
Luca watched cautious optimism grow in their eyes. He’d be sharing in that good feeling if not for a call he’d received this morning. Nothing more than a hoax, he hoped—prayed. Or maybe a wild fantasy cooked up by some drugged-out waste of protoplasm. He’d fed it to Lister who’d pass it up the SIRG ladder, but he’d keep it from the Sinclairs for now. He suspected a leak somewhere, and if he was right, the less said here, the better.
But he dearly wished he could lay it on these two. The mere mention now of what the woman on the phone had told him would snuff out the relief warming Sinclair-1 and Voss as if it had never been.
Because if this woman had been telling the truth about a sim named Meerm, it made the threat they’d just overcome seem like a pebble in a mountain gorge.
1
THE BRONX
NOVEMBER 30
Poor Meerm. Poor, poor Meerm. She ver sick sim. Meerm nev sick before. Not like be sick. Food come up sometime. And tummy hurt. Hurt-hurt-hurt. Bad tummy hurt all time.
Meerm stand window, look out through metal bar. Wish she be outside sometime. Not now. Cold out now. Still—
What that? Loud noise from downstair. Again! Loud noise again.Crack! Like giant plate break. Meerm go door, open just little and listen. Hear loud scare word by Needle Lady and Needle Man, hear new man voice shout more loud, hear sim voice, many voice cryee-ee-ee! Ver fraid, other sim.
Meerm hear new man voice shout, “Where is she?” and hear ver fraid Needle Lady say, “Upstairs! We moved her upstairs!”
Meerm ver fraid. Make belly hurt badder. Hear many loud feet come stair. Meerm want close sick room door but no good. Across hall see ladder up wall. Ladder up to little door. Meerm sure locked—all door here locked—but Meerm try. Must try. Too fraid stay sick room.
Meerm jump cross hall, climb ladder, push little door. Move! Door move! Meerm so happy. Climb up roof. Cold-cold-cold. Close little door. Meerm listen. Hear new man voice shout. Ver, ver mad. Hear foot on ladder. Come roof! What Meerm do? Where go?
There. Metal hole. Meerm can fit? Run and crawl in. Squeeze ver hard. Sink inside just as mans come roof. Meerm close eye, not breathe as mans run all round roof. Man look in metal hole but not see Meerm.
Mans ver mad as leave roof. Meerm safe but still not move. Wait. Meerm will wait long long time. Wait until—
What smell? Smoke! Smoke and hot come up vent. Meerm get out and stand on roof. Tar hot on foot. Smoke all round. Meerm ver ver scare. Run round roof, see fire evwhere. Look down. Flame all round, come out bar on all window. Meerm not want die. But roof ver hot. Tar melt under Meerm foot. What Meerm do?
Meerm scream. No one hear. No one near.
2
MANHATTAN
DECEMBER 1
Patrick stood at his hotel window and gazed down at the top of Madison Square Garden and the giant Christmas snowman atop its entrance. The unrisen sun was just beginning to lighten the low clouds lidding the city. In a few hours the streets below would be packed with the weekly Saturday horde of Christmas shoppers.
Patrick had been awake for hours. This had become a pattern every night since the poisoning of the sims. Fall asleep easily—with the help of a couple of stiff Scotches—and then find himself wide awake at 3:00A .M. or so with his mind sifting through the litterbox his life had become.
All because of an argument in a country club men’s room. What if he hadn’t chosen that moment to go to the bathroom? What if he’d waited until after that second drink? Holmes Carter would have been long gone, and without Carter’s bad attitude, Patrick would have laughed off Tome’s request to unionize the club sims. If he’d done that, where would he be now?
For one thing, he’d still have a law practice; he missed Maggie, even missed some of his clients. He’d also have a house instead of a fire-blackened foundation. And he might still have Pamela, although he wondered if that would be such a good thing. From his present perspective he could see that their relationship had been one more of mutual convenience than rooted in any deep regard.
He probably wouldn’t have spent Thanksgiving alone, either. Ever since his folks retired to South Carolina, they’d always called and insisted he come down for Thanksgiving. Not this year. That was Dad’s doing, Patrick was sure.