“I don’t see a garage,” Patrick said as they stepped out onto Ninth Avenue in the Thirties.
He noticed the sidewalks were busy here, but nowhere near as crowded as the midtown madhouse a few blocks east.
“It’s down the street, closer to Tenth. But let’s stand here awhile. Just to be sure no one followed us.”
The sun had poked through the clouds but did little to moderate the chill wind whistling off the Hudson.
“Do you ever ask yourself if you’re crazy?” Patrick said, looking around as if expecting to see trench-coated men lurking in doorways.
“All the time.”
“Good. That’s a healthy sign. Because I think we’re both crazy.”
“I think I know where this is going.”
“Do you? Great. Then maybe you can tell me why we’re at the beck and call of this guy. Who is he? What’s driving him? Why’s he doing this? What’s in it for him?”
“I can’t answer all your questions,” she told Patrick, “but I can tell you why he’s doing it: to stop the slave trade of sentient beings.”
“But what’s in it for him?”
“Cessation of the slave trade of sentient beings.”
“Bull. Idealistic crap.”
The words stung Romy. “You don’t believe people can be motivated by ideals?”
“Foot soldiers can be, and they often are. But not the generals, not the guys running the war. They’ve got something else driving them, whether it’s a better place in history or a spot closer to their god or riches or fame or glory or power or revenge or guilt; there’s always something in it for them.”
“What about Gandhi? Schindler? Father Damien? Mother Teresa?”
He shrugged. “Everyone in the world knows their names. Maybe that’s what they were after.”
“I’m glad I’m not you,” she said. “What an awful way to view life.”
“Maybe I’ve seen too many so-called idealists caught with their hands in the till.”
“A corrupt individual doesn’t corrupt the ideal.”
“No argument there, and I didn’t bring this up to start one. But look at the situation. Here’s a guy who has to have spent a fortune setting up this nameless organization to stop SimGen, and then he hides his identity from everyone who works for him. I can see him not trusting me, but what about you? You say you’ve worked with him for years. He’s got to know you’re in this for the long run. Why doesn’t he let you see his face?”
“How do you know he hasn’t?” she shot back.
Patrick’s eyebrows jumped. “Has he?”
“No.”
“See what I mean?”
“Maybe he’s someone we’d recognize.”
“Yeah, there’s a thought. You know…he seems to be built a lot like David Letterman.”
Romy wasn’t going to dignify that with a response.
“Let’s walk,” she said, satisfied that no one was on their tail.
“Seriously, though, I’d feel a lot better about this Zero guy if I knew what makes his motor run.” Patrick seemed to be in summation mode as they headed toward Tenth Avenue, walking sideways, the wind ruffling his blond hair as he gestured with his hands. “If it’s because a SimGen truck ran over his mother when he was a kid, fine. Or if he’s got huge short positions on SimGen stock, fine. Or even if it’s because of something crazy like Mercer Sinclair stole his girlfriend in seventh grade, okay too. I just want to know so I can have a handle on how much he’ll risk to get what he wants. Because so far we’re the ones in the line of fire, not him. He wasn’t in my car when it was run off the Saw Mill. He wasn’t at Beacon Ridge when the sims offered to share their poisoned food with us.”
Romy hated to admit it, but Patrick was making sense. She’d been taken with Zero from their first meeting. She’d sensed the fire burning beneath all his layers of disguise, and had been warmed by its heat. But what fueled that fire? It was a question she’d never asked. She’d assumed it burned the same as her own, an all-consuming desire to right a wrong. Was that foolish? Perhaps. But she had to go with what she felt.
“All I can tell you,” she said, “is that I believe in his cause and he’s never let me down. I don’t intend to let him down.”
He sighed. “Fair enough. I’m trusting your judgment. For now.”
Down near Tenth, Romy stopped before a dirty white doorway next to an equally dirty white roll-up garage door and pressed a buzzer. She glanced up into the eye of an overhead security camera and nodded once, signaling that all was clear. The door buzzed open.
Inside, a single dusty bulb glowed in the ceiling. They found Zero, barely visible in the gloom, his tall lean figure swathed in sweater, jeans, ski mask, dark glasses, and gloves, pacing beside a beat-up Ford Econoline delivery van, once white, now soot gray.
“Have you heard any more about this SLA group?” he said without preamble.
Romy sensed the tension in his voice.
“Nothing. I called a few of the cops I know but nothing’s broken yet beyond the identity of the corpse in the ashes: Craig Strickland, a twenty-four-year-old loser with a history of assaults.”
“Doesn’t sound like your typical globulin farmer.”
“They figure he was security. He may have tried to resist. As for the SLA, an all-points has been issued but they and their captives seem to have vanished.”
“Two vans filled with human and sim hostages and no one’s seen a thing?”
“Not yet.”
Zero slammed a gloved fist against the already dented side of the van.
“Damn! Whoare these psychos? What do they hope to accomplish for sims by murdering humans? Not that the world is any poorer for the loss of a globulin farmer, but killing him shifts the focus. The public’s attention is on the murder now, not on the sims the dead man was abusing.”
“Pardon my paranoia,” Patrick said, “but maybe that’s the whole point. Maybe these aren’t sim sympathizers. Maybe SimGen is behind them.”
“I don’t buy that,” Zero said, “but let’s assume SimGen has somehow come to the conclusion that the gains from high-profile murder will, by some stretch of the imagination, outweigh the risks. If that’s true, and if they’re going to spray paint ‘Death to sim oppressors’ at the scene, then why kill only one of the globulin farmers? Why not make a real statement and kill them all?”
“Hostages?”
Zero’s expression was unreadable behind his mask and shades, but Romy could imagine a dour look as he stopped his pacing and faced Patrick.
“How many people can you see stepping forward to pay a globulin farmer’s ransom?”
Patrick shrugged. “Okay. So much for the hostage idea.”
“‘Death to sim oppressors!’” Zero said, slamming his fist against the van again. “Damn them! Idiots!”
Romy had never seen him show so much emotion. She found it oddly exciting.
Down, girl, she told herself as she pulled her digital camera’s chip case from her pocket.
She said, “I may have another piece to add to the puzzle. I took a shot of an Asian man—Japanese, I think—at the scene. He ducked away as soon as he saw the camera. I’ve never seen him before, and it may mean nothing, but he was definitely camera shy.”
Zero seemed to have calmed himself. He took the chip. “I’ll see if he’s anyone we should know about.”
“But what’s the plan?” she said. “What do we do about this SLA?”
“No choice but to wait and see. I doubt we’ll have much of a wait. A group like that won’t want to stay out of the headlines. But in the meantime, we’re ready to make our move against Manassas Ventures.”
Romy stiffened. “When?”
“Monday, first thing in the morning. Are you up for it?”