“Did Carl have family?” Laughton said.
“Just a sister. His dad died when he was little. His mom was killed in a car crash. That’s how he lost his arm and leg. He isn’t some modder,” he said, defending his friend. “He actually needs those prosthetics.”
“Does his sister live on the preserve?”
McCardy shook his head. “Oakland. She was paralyzed in the crash. She’s more machine than orgo. Says she’s happier out there.”
If she’d been paralyzed, there was no way she could blend. Despite McCardy’s egalitarianism, a cyborg that couldn’t blend wouldn’t be particularly popular on the preserve.
“Friends? Anyone else we should talk to?”
“I don’t know,” McCardy said. “Some robots, before we moved to the preserve. He did all of the runs into town. Maybe he knew some people there.”
“Yeah. Okay,” Laughton said. “What’s his sister’s name?”
“Cindy.”
“Do you have her contact info? We couldn’t find Smythe’s phone.”
McCardy fumbled for the phone on his desk, swiped through, and then looking up at the chief, extended his phone.
Laughton caught Mathews’s eye and gave a slight nod. The junior officer took his own phone and tapped it to McCardy’s.
“I’m giving you my info too,” Mathews said, “if you think of anything else once we leave…”
McCardy nodded.
“He didn’t leave his phone here, by any chance, did he?”
McCardy frowned, and shook his head. “No.”
“We’ll need to go through Mr. Smythe’s computer,” Chief Laughton said.
“I don’t know the password.”
“We’ll get experts out here tomorrow to go through it all.”
“Tomorrow,” McCardy repeated, not a question, just a sound.
“You sure there’s no way you could get in, maybe help us out.”
“Carl perfected the burner, a program that literally sets a computer on fire. If he didn’t want anyone on his machine, there’s no way on.”
“Our man will give it a try,” Laughton said, but he didn’t have much faith that it would yield anything. If the hard drive didn’t get burned out, these guys were too cagey to leave a trail of any kind. “And what was Jones’s first name again?” the chief said, circling back on the question in the hopes of shaking loose an answer.
“I don’t know,” McCardy said with the first twinge of annoyance.
“I find that a little hard to believe,” the chief said.
“Why? I didn’t deal with him. Carl never said.”
“You’re a sims hacker, but you have no idea how your product is sold, where the money comes from? Come on, Sam. You know that sounds ridiculous.”
“I’m a hacker. That’s all I know. Look around. I don’t even leave the house. And the one person I do see, you’re telling me is dead.” His face crumpled, and tears slid down each cheek, but he managed to avoid a full breakdown.
“We just want to find the person that killed your partner,” the chief said. “Given the business you’re in, it seems most likely to be related. Any names you could give us…”
McCardy opened his mouth, but closed it again, pressing his lips together in order to avoid losing control of his feelings. When the danger of crying had passed, he opened his mouth again, but the first words came out as a choke, and he had to swallow and repeat himself. “I really have nothing to do with the business side. Carl does all of that. This guy Jones moves it to a larger distributor who gets it off the preserve, I don’t know who. And then, I guess, I don’t know, metals?”
He really didn’t know. There were plenty of husbands who didn’t know what bills got paid because their wives took care of them. It must have been like that. “Okay,” Laughton said. There were only so many times the man could swallow his tears. If they pushed him too far, he’d be reluctant to come to them with more information later. “If you hear from Jones, though,” Laughton said, “let us know.”
McCardy had receded into his shell again. “Yeah. Of course.”
“I’m sorry about your friend,” Mathews said.
McCardy looked up at him. “Okay.”
Laughton passed by McCardy. “Let’s go,” he said, continuing out of the room. His junior officer followed behind, and they let themselves out the front door. It was so dark beyond the house’s aura, it was like they were on an island in space, disengaged from the rest of the world.
“A sister on the other side of the country and one name?” Mathews said, shutting off his body camera. “Half a name, really.”
The pain in Laughton’s face had returned, making it hard to see. “We’re done for the night,” he said, rubbing his head with both hands as he went to the truck. If only he could squeeze the pain away, out, gone. It made thinking impossible.
“Should I—?” Mathews started, as they got into the truck.
“I’m done,” Laughton snapped, collapsing into the passenger seat. He closed his eyes before Mathews even hit the power button, and focused on his breathing, trying to breathe away the pain, just breathe. He was asleep before they’d left town.
Chief… Chief.”
No, it was too early to get up. He could tell by the way his head felt, still stuffed with cotton, the left side of his face pulling everything down. Too early. In the mornings, he always felt better, something like optimistic about the day.
“Chief.”
A rough hand on his shoulder. He opened his eyes just enough to glimpse the world, like dipping a toe into a pool to check the temperature before diving in. Shit. He was still in the truck. They were parked in the driveway of his house. All the lights were on inside. What time was it? Laughton sat up, rubbing his face.
“Chief, you all right?” Mathews said from the driver’s seat.
“Yeah. Yeah. Fine.” He took a deep breath and let it out through his nose. “I’m fine.”
“I figured I should just drop you off. I’ll take the truck home, and come pick you up in the morning.”
Laughton nodded, taking the key fob from his pocket and dumping it in the cup holder. “Yeah. Okay. Yeah. See you tomorrow.” He opened the passenger door.
“Six?”
“Make it six thirty,” Laughton said getting out. He slammed the door, and Mathews pulled the truck out of the driveway as the chief went to his front door. He stood outside, closed his eyes, and counted to three. When he was younger, the first night of a murder investigation, he would go all night, driven in part by the chiding of his inexhaustible robot partner Kir. But right now, it was all he could do to keep standing. He tucked the last few hours away for the morning, grabbed the door handle, waiting for the chunky click of the lock disengaging as the knob verified his fingerprints, and then went inside.
“Daddy! Daddy! Daddy!” Erica pounded halfway down the stairs, completely nude. “Daddy, I carved a dolphin at recess by the twin trees.”
Before he could respond to this overwhelming onslaught of noise, Betty breezed out of the kitchen. “No,” she yelled. “No, no, no, no.” She grabbed the banister and swung around, pointing a finger up the stairs. “No. You get in the bath,” Betty yelled.
“Daddy!”
“Let your father get in the door. You do what you’re supposed to be doing, and get in the bath.”
“I was just—” Erica started, but Betty took one step up the stairs, and Erica spun around and scrambled up the stairs on all fours. The bathroom door closed but didn’t latch.
Betty turned to Laughton. “Hello,” she said, but it came out as almost an accusation instead of a greeting. Betty started for the kitchen. “I’m going to kill her,” she said.
“What happened?” Laughton said, although he knew what happened. It happened almost every night. Dinner ended and then it was the nightly negotiation, do I have to take a bath, do I have to wash my hair, can I just rinse off with a wet washcloth, do I have to wash my hair, and once Erica was eventually upstairs, who knew
what she did up there, ten, fifteen minutes before she even turned the water on, and now it was 8:43, and thirteen minutes after bedtime.
Laughton put his hand to his head. This wave of noise and anger was too much. He just needed a moment to himself to come in and unwind. Betty was in the kitchen, noisily putting dishes in the dishwasher. Laughton went in after her.
“I don’t know what to do with her,” Betty said without turning from the sink. “I’m so sick of this same bullshit. Why can’t she just get ready for bed for once?” She turned her glare on him. “Is the water even on up there?”
“I don’t know,” he said.
“I’m going to—”
“I’ll go check,” Laughton said, holding his hands out in the same “calm down” gesture he used to settle abusive spouses, drunks, and the victims of crashes caused by people who refused to use the autopilot in their cars.
Betty stamped her foot, something Laughton still found adorable. Of course when Erica did it, Betty found it infuriating. “You just got home. You shouldn’t need to deal with this. We’ve told her you need a breather when you get in.”
“It’s fine.”
“It’s not fine,” Betty said. “Don’t tell me it’s fine.”
“I don’t know what you want me to say.”
“Just agree with me.”
That was too loaded to touch. Laughton went back through the living room and far enough up the stairs to hear that the water was still not running. “What are you doing up there, Erica!”
The water went on then. “Showering.”
Laughton went back to the kitchen.
“Is the water on?” Betty said.
“Yes,” he answered truthfully. No need to tell her it hadn’t been until he called up.
“How was your day?” Betty said, but she said it angrily, like it was so unfair that he’d even had a day.
He pulled her to him, and she crossed her arms on her chest between them, so that she was snuggling in as small a package as possible. She sighed and leaned in to him. Laughton enjoyed the moment of calm. His headache was full force again, and he was already thinking he couldn’t get up tomorrow, he couldn’t go to work.
“How’s your head?” Betty mumbled into his chest.
“Bad,” he said.
“I’m sorry.”
“Me too,” Laughton said.
Betty broke their hug now, and went to the cabinet where they kept the cookies. They were made by a pair of sisters in Beaufort in small batches when sugar was available. “You want one?” she asked, pulling a chocolate chip cookie out of the bag. Laughton just shook his head, going to the table, where he fell heavily into a chair.
“Want to hear how my day was?” Betty said, sitting across from him.
Laughton really just wanted to go upstairs, put Erica down, and collapse into bed, but he could see Betty needed to vent, and not just about bath time. “Marcos?”
“Marcos,” she said.
Betty ran the Liberty Young Primary School, her brainchild, which she had founded and saw as the essential sister program to the Liberty Fertility Clinic, which she had also been instrumental in developing. Human schools had been almost nonexistent before the creation of the preserve. There had been a few isolated institutions in the cities, the only places where there were more than one or two human families. The attitude was that all that mattered was learning how to run a subsistence farm—a hydroponic vegetable garden, some fruit trees, a dairy cow or two, and all of the production therein. They needed these things to survive, and what was the good of anything else? Sure, there were some protein products made by entrepreneurial robots, and some grains—and sugar, of course, sugar—but most humans had no way of earning money, relying on government subsidies.
Betty believed that the establishment of the preserve was the beginning of a renewed human society, and that that required two essential components. The first and foremost was to increase the population. That was a project that was taking place all over the preserve, with a half dozen clinics in Charleston, and several clinics in the outer suburbs, all run by the pro-orgo group HOPS, the Human Organized Population Society. It was modeled on antique zoological preservation techniques that had been used to save specific animals from extinction—pandas, rhinos, tree frogs—animals that, in some cases, now outnumbered humans. The program comprised an enormous media campaign on television, in public transportation, and by door-to-door missionaries. All women were encouraged to conceive. The slogan was “A Baby in Every Belly.” The clinics ran a sperm bank with artificial insemination, a sex match program for those who preferred the traditional method of conception, where genetically compatible individuals were coupled for assignations, and sex education for self-established pairs like the Laughtons. They also provided what prenatal and obstetric care could be gleaned from old medical textbooks and manuals, trying to increase the number of successful pregnancies and the infant survival rate.
The program had been slow to catch on, many people indifferent to the prospect of the human race’s extinction, and some people outright opposed, believing that there would be no way to sustain a larger society with food production as inconsistent as it was. Betty spent a few hours at the clinic every afternoon, and then visited as many different women as she could, prospects she pursued like a salesman, making repeated visits, dragging Erica with her, almost as a sample, proof of concept.
The second component, and almost as important in Betty’s view, was school. The bywords there were “teamwork,” “compassion,” “empathy,” “resilience,” and “social responsibility.” The goal was to create good people who believed in the value of humanity and knew that survival was contingent on working together as one people. There were those that called it propaganda and inculcation, and who refused to participate. What was the point? Who even needed to know some of the subjects that were used as a medium—math, history, robotics—to teach fellowship? To the dissenters, agriculture and apathy and distraction equaled survival.
Betty’s class was composed of six children who ranged in age from two to five, and one bad apple named Marcos, who threatened the chance for success of the experiment at all.
“I’m sorry to go on like that,” she said, reaching her hand across the table and taking Laughton’s. “You look like you’re falling over.”
Laughton knew he had to tell her about Smythe—it would be in the news soon, and she’d be angry at him for not sharing it with her—but he was worried she’d take it worse than he did, the waste of human life anathema to her. Then, without preamble, he said, “There’s been a murder.”
Betty pulled her hand back, like she’d touched something hot, or maybe something disgusting, and blinked rapidly. “What do you mean?”
“Someone’s been killed. Behind Kramer’s.”
Her head fell back, her face pointing to the ceiling, eyes closed. Then she looked back at him. “And you had to listen to me talk about a damn brat. Why didn’t you say something?”
“I just did.”
“Goddamn it. Do you know who did it?”
He shook his head. The movement sent a shot of pain across his cheeks. He must have winced, because standing up, Betty said, “You better get to sleep. You don’t want to start the day still dragging today’s headache with you.”
“Yeah.”
“And you better catch the son of a bitch.”
Just then, Erica ran into the room, her hair dripping water, soaking the shoulders of her pajama top, turning the baby pink to almost magenta. She jumped on Laughton’s lap.
“Erica, you need to ask first,” Betty chastised.
Laughton wrapped his arms around his daughter; she was so skinny, he engulfed her. She flopped on his lap, the top of her head hitting his cheek. The pain was explosive, and he released her, nearly throwing her off his lap. “Fuck,” he said.
“Erica, you’ve got to be careful!” Betty said.
Laughton held his hand to his face. His shirt was soaking wet where Erica’
s hair had been pressed to his chest.
“I’m sorry,” Erica said. She looked as though she was about to cry.
“It’s fine,” he said, placing a caring hand on the top of her head. “It’s fine. Let’s go to bed.”
She wrapped her arms around his right hand in anxiety, almost hanging on his arm. Usually he would have forced her to let go—she was hurting him—but tonight he dragged her along, Betty trailing behind them. This was his family.
Erica tried to pull him onto the bed as he tucked her in, but he knew if he even sat, he wouldn’t be able to get up again. He kissed her wet temple, and said, “I love you, beautiful.”
“Stay,” she said, gripping his hand tighter.
“I’ve got to go to sleep,” he said.
“Erica, let go,” Betty said. “I’ll sit with you for a minute.”
Erica didn’t let go, but Laughton wrenched his hand free, the action causing him to tighten the muscles in his face, which made his stomach turn with the pain. He stumbled out of the room, almost tripping into his room and onto the bed, where he collapsed. There was something he was forgetting to do, like the slipup in the interview at the supermarket, forgetting to try to establish a timeline. But what was he missing?
All he could do was breathe, trying to control the pain, to sleep.
* * *
The rising and falling tinkle of notes penetrated the chief’s sleep, and he was slowly aware his thigh was buzzing, an odd vibration that made him feel as though he needed to pee. He opened his eyes. The room was dark. He was mostly on the bed, his legs protruding over the edge from the knees down, and he was still dressed. His phone. In his pocket.
He rolled over, reaching into his jeans.
Betty uncurled herself from the small corner of bed that had been left to her once Laughton had collapsed. “Make it stop,” she mumbled as, still asleep, she swung her feet over the edge of the bed and started to shuffle to the bathroom. “Stop,” she moaned.
Laughton sat up and looked at his phone’s bright display, squinting at the light. At least it didn’t hurt, his facial pain and headache having retreated to little more than an annoyance, thank god. The name displayed there, however, squeezed everything in his chest—“Kir.” Only one reason he’d be calling. Someone must have talked, and the news of the murder had gotten out. Maybe Laughton didn’t have to answer it. He could claim to have missed it. But that would only make it worse later. He swiped to pick up the call.
The Preserve Page 3