Olive was a different kettle of orange-eyed fish. She was so pissed at her stupid husband for stupidly giving all their money to that stupid neighbor that I bet she’d have sworn Pancho had shot Lincoln if we had asked.
Les said, “What did Child’s Play promise to get you?”
“Have you ever heard such a stupid name? I mean … stupid.”
“No. So what was it?”
“Just what we said. The treatment.”
“The full treatment that the Timeless get? Or the treatment that people get when their parents exit?”
“What do you mean?”
Who’s stupid now? I said to Jen.
Les explained what he meant.
Olive seemed dumbfounded. “It never occurred to me to ask. He said he’d get us Eden and we said hell yes.”
“Eden,” Jen said, jumping in.
“You were very nice when you visited those times.”
“Thank you.”
“Things got better. Between Pancho and our boy. For a while.”
Jen smiled.
“The truth is, though, we don’t want to exit. Know what I mean?”
Jen nodded.
Apparently that wasn’t enough. Olive was waiting for her to speak.
Jen said, “I know it must be hard.”
Olive said, “No, it’s not hard. It’s stupid. Who says that humans should have, you know, those dates on groceries?”
Jen said, “Expiration dates.”
“Exactly. That’s stupid.”
“So Eden.”
“Exactly.”
“What’s Eden?”
“I just told you.”
Jen said, “Tell me again, will you please, just so I’m clear.”
Olive shook her head. Everyone was obviously so stupid nowadays.
“It’s what he called it. The treatment.”
“Have you heard others call it that?”
Olive said “Probably. Here and there, like.”
“Do you have a Bible?”
Olive looked offended. “Of course we have a Bible. Two. One Spanish and one in the original English. I go to the Assembly Hall each and every week.”
“Did Child’s Play give you a new Bible? Or look at yours?”
“Why would he do that? Officer, are you feeling okay? You’re sounding, I don’t know … ”
Les said, “Stupid?”
And Olive laughed.
* * *
13:31.08. Nice Lebanese doc phoned. Child’s Play was awake, but groggy.
Jen and I, Les and P.D. reached the Washington Charity Hospital Complex so quickly you’d think we had superpowers. Raced up to four.
But nice doctor unnicely turned his back when he saw us, like Les and Jen had some sort of disease he wasn’t fond of. What’s that about? I asked, and Jen shrugged.
There was a sign on the door: “Entry Prohibited.” We went into the room. Child’s Play was sitting up in bed, a whopping bandage around his head. Half the wires and tubes had been pulled out. One of his arms was cuffed to the bed.
Les said, “Seems she didn’t kill you.”
“Orange-eyed bitch.”
“Child’s Play,” Jen said, “we’ve always been good to you.”
“I got no beef with you.”
“So, we need your help. Just a word or two. Between us. It’s this Eden thing—”
But just as Jen said the word thing, a woman—white, late-twenties, chunked up like an MMA fighter, khaki fatigues, and with an Uzi dangling like a cocktail purse on a strap over her shoulder—pounded into the room, yelling, “Who the hell gave you permission to be here?”
Jen went for her badge. Woman went for her gun. Jen threw her hands in the air. “Whoa, there, we’re police. Who the hell are you?”
“That door has a sign. No one comes in without my say-so.”
“We’re not ‘no one.’”
Woman still hadn’t lowered her gun. “Let’s see some badges. Slowly,” she said.
Les and Jen produced their badges. Woman said, “Outside,” like she ran the show, which she apparently did.
Once back in the hallway, Les said we were the officers who had arrested the alleged perpetrators. The woman looked like she didn’t care. Jen said we were in charge of the assault investigation, and the woman said that wasn’t exactly true any longer.
Les asked if she was a cop.
Woman said, “Yes and no.”
“DC?”
“No.”
“FBI?”
“Before you lose your voice spouting initials, let’s just say that I’m a private contractor.”
“Working for …?”
“Who I work for.”
Jen said, “We need to talk to him. Child’s Play”
Now the woman looked bored and restless. She studied her fingers like she was contemplating a manicure, but I had the impression she was actually thinking about techniques for pulling out someone’s fingernails.
“It’s not going to happen in a million years.”
Not having that much time to wait, we turned away without a word. As we left the ward, Les muttered, “Fucking mercenaries. Makes you wonder what the hell’s going on.”
14
Zach’s father, Raffi, wasn’t a recipe man. More of a staring-into-the-refrigerator-and-running-some-mental-algorithm-and-producing-magic sort of cook. That night, so he claimed and no one could dispute, he made a Madagascar chicken dish. They had splurged and bought a real chicken. It was organic and had been well treated. It tasted very good.
Leah asked Jen about work.
“Ever been to the Charity Hospital?”
Leah said, “They say it’s out of the nineteenth century.”
Raffi said, “Imagine, living in a country where health care is seen as charity.”
Jen sensed this was closing in on dangerous territory—health care … the treatment … exit—so she quickly described Pancho Porter’s amazingly huge cheeks, which led to Raffi talking about getting dumped by a trumpet-playing girlfriend in high school, who, because of long hours of disciplined practice and equally disciplined kissing, had severely cracked lips.
“I got the short end of the stick,” he said.
Leah said, “And you ended up with me.”
“Which proves I didn’t get the short end of the stick after all.”
Leah brought out a peach pie. Befitting her college minor in chemistry, she approached her pies like she was putting together a bomb: one false move and it was all over. Exacting measurements, homemade crust, fresh fruit.
Raffi and Leah went out to visit a friend who was exiting in two weeks; Zach and Jen cleaned up, his hands in a sink of suds.
“He’s a great cook, but man does he make a mess,” Zach said.
Jen wiped the countertop and swept the floor. Broom in hand, she stopped. Her eyes rested on Zach’s figure from behind.
“I can feel your beautiful eyes on me,” he said without turning.
“I’ve never felt so at home as right here.”
He half-turned, his hands still in the sudsy water, and smiled, his dimples perfect. She kissed him tenderly on the lips.
He said, “I’ve never been so happy as I am with you.”
As he continued to scrub the baking dish, she hugged him from behind, resting her cheek against his back. She said, “Thank you,” and then yawned noisily.
“I’m that exciting?” Zach said.
“Chandler was teasing me too.”
“Who’s Chandler? A new guy?”
“Oh, ah, no one. Someone I work with.”
She knew her stumbling made it sound like she was having an affair. She knew she had to tell this wonderful man who had attentively listened to her childhood story and didn’t tell her to get over it. Who made her feel so safe.
“I should tell you,” she said, and climbed onto the counter.
“What’s that?”
His tone told her he hadn’t even imagined she was having an affair. But she t
ook a deep breath and said, “You may have caught rumors of this, but DC and some of the other police departments are trying out an experimental program.”
“Stop being racist?”
“Yuk yuk. We’ve done a pretty good job since the DC18. No, they’re doing a test run of synthetic implants.”
“Implants of what?”
“Well, these little organic computers.”
“Sounds creepy.”
“It’s to give us quick access to data. An instant comm link. A second set of eyes to keep us safe. And pretty much a photographic record of what happens during our shift.”
“It’s alive?”
“Well, sort of. I mean it’s not like it could live on its own.”
“Where does it live?”
“You know. They, uh, put it in your brain.”
“This is totally creepy.”
He handed her the now-clean baking dish to dry.
“It’s just that …”
He looked at her with alarm. “God, tell me you’re not getting one of those. I mean, it’s crazily invasive. Maybe dangerous. And you and everyone around you will be under constant surveillance.”
She didn’t respond.
“Please, honey. Please tell you’re not going to get one of those.”
Ten seconds passed, but to Jen it was an hour. She dismissed the impulse to change the subject. She owed it to him. To them.
“I already have one.”
He looked stricken. “Since when?”
“Since two years and three months ago.”
He stared at her, dumbfounded.
“You’ve had this—this thing all the time I’ve known you!”
“It’s not—”
“So last night, when we made love, it was there too. Right now—”
“No, it isn’t like that. I can turn him off.”
“Whenever you want?”
“No. Not when I’m signed in.”
“Wait, did you just say turn him off? Not it? This is getting creepier by the second.”
“He—it’s just an expression, silly.” Not exactly, she thought. Chandler, like P.D. and some of the others, had for some experimental reason been gender coded, although many were non-binary. She didn’t know if others kept changing, but Chandler certainly had been growing into his role, including his tough-guy talk.
“You’re telling me that anytime I’ve ever seen you or we’ve talked when you’re working, like that day at Zombies, everything we said, everything we did was being recorded and shared with others?”
“I don’t think they share it.”
“Really? And how do you know that?”
“I don’t, but—”
“God, I can’t believe you’re telling me this. I feel so …”
“We were ordered to keep it quiet.”
He put on a crappy German accent. “I was just following orders.”
“Zach, that’s a disgusting thing to say.”
“Is it on right now?”
“I told you, only when I’m working.”
“I feel so—I don’t know—spied on. Violated.”
“That seems a bit—”
“Jen, don’t tell me what I’m feeling. Okay?”
They were silent. One of those noisy silences where every physical motion feels awkward, like your joints need oiling and even your breathing feels put on. They finished cleaning up.
Jen left. They didn’t even pretend to discuss plans for that weekend.
It would be weeks before Jen would find out what Zach hadn’t told her. That, while he was washing dishes, he had decided to tell her he had lied to her. It was true that he hadn’t reached Mary Sue from the co-op, but he had managed to contact Devin. Not right away, but Zach had gotten a message to him, and Devin had phoned back from some other number and kept the call very short. They’d gone into hiding. They were scared that the fire had been set. Maybe as a warning. Maybe to destroy their business. But also, just maybe to kill them.
* * *
Les waved Jen in. “Wasn’t actually expecting to see you tonight, but you’re just in time for dessert.” He glanced out the door, at the hallway, to see if Zach was coming. “Alone?”
“All,” Jen said.
Christopher came into their small foyer and kissed her hello.
Jen said, “I’m so glad to see a normal, happy couple.”
Christopher winced sympathetically. “This sounds bad. Want me to scram?”
“No, but I could use one of your caipirinhas.” She grabbed Christopher’s hand and dragged him into the kitchen, Les trailing behind.
Christopher fetched a bottle of cachaça from under the counter, a lime from a basket of fruit, some sugar, and ice and went to work. Meanwhile, Les pulled a tiramisu from the refrigerator and served it in shallow glass bowls.
Christopher and Les were physical opposites. Although Les had a great body, he wasn’t particularly good-looking. He moved in a chunky, muscular way, and if he had been a boxer, he would have been a slugger, not an out-boxer who dances elegantly around opponents. Christopher was Brazilian and Black, and had a boring but stable job in the Department of Transportation. He was utterly normal in build, but he moved gracefully and seemed entirely at home in his body. He also had the most beautiful face she could imagine, serene and strong all at once.
I wish I could marry these two, she thought. Except she occasionally sensed that Christopher was, deep down, jealous of her relationship with Les, so it probably wouldn’t work.
They went into the living room. Jen curled up at one end of the couch, Christopher at the other. Les took his usual spot, cross-legged on the rug on the other side of their coffee table. The two men started with the dessert, but Jen went right for the drink.
Christopher said, “I hear you guys had an awful day.”
“Beginning,” Jen said, “at a truly disgusting hospital.”
“But,” Christopher said, “don’t you think it’s good to have a charity hospital? I mean, people need it.”
Les nodded to Christopher and turned to Jen. “So?”
Great interrogator that he was, Jen immediately spilled the beans that she had told Zach about Chandler.
“And on the freak-out meter?”
She pointed to the ceiling. “Christopher, did you react like a crazy person when you found out?”
“Are you kidding? P.D. keeps him safe. Why would I object? God, even with P.D, I still worry about him every time he steps out the door.”
She was envious. Their life was so simple. You did your jobs, you exercised, you cooked and ate, you watched some shows or went out. You had sex, you slept. None of the drama at Zach’s. No discussions about how screwed up the world was or the latest war or how everyone should start co-ops.
With the confession over, they all sank into a quiet evening. They watched a short movie. Ate popcorn. Talked about this and that.
About 10:30, Christopher said, “I’ve gotta crash.”
Jen started to get up, but Les said to Christopher, “Hon, you mind if I talk to Jen for a while?”
“Praise the Lord! I can actually go to sleep without getting mauled by you.”
He kissed Jen and then Les. “Good night, Tiger,” he called as he left the room.
“You too,” Les said.
“I was talking to Jennifer.”
Once Christopher had gone, Jen said, “You really maul him?”
“I’d say we stack up pretty equitably on that one. Another drink?”
“Two was more than enough.”
“Brazil’s great contribution to inebriation. Now, come on. ’Fess up.”
She circled around the topic of Eden for a minute, getting no further than Brooks telling her to stop wasting time on it. Les pretended to fall asleep.
“Okay, okay,” she said. “Remember the report about someone breaking into the Johnsons’ apartment?”
“You’re shitting me. That was you?”
A sheepish grin came over her face.
/> “While on duty?”
“No.”
“That was an amazingly dumb thing to do.”
“You’re the one always telling me to stand up to Brooks.”
“Yeah, but I didn’t tell you to openly disobey him, break into a crime scene when you’re off duty, and cover it up by going back in. Good thing you didn’t say any of this in front of Christopher; I’d never hear the end of it. Or even in front of P.D.”
“Yeah, she is a bit of a suck,” Jen said. It wasn’t the first time Jen thought about how different Chandler and P.D. were, and wondered how much was from their original programming and how much was something akin to personality, whatever that might mean for a blob of organic computer.
“I’m serious, Jen. What the hell were you thinking?” But then, seeing her grin turn to alarm, he softened. “Well, at least your days of sucking up to Brooks are over, Cobalt.”
“Les, Eden has been niggling at me since I first heard these rumors.”
“Don’t forget that. They’re rumors.”
“But now we hear about a counterfeit treatment.”
“Maybe. Or maybe another rumor. Remember, Child’s Play didn’t deliver. I’m guessing he was scamming them.” Out of the blue, he said, “Why the hell are you asking everyone about reading the Bible?”
“Not reading the Bible.” She told him about the Bible getting stolen, the receipt from the co-op, and the co-op getting burned down.
He shook his head. “You’re stitching together cobwebs. It’s nothing … Probably nothing, anyway.”
“Then why’s there a mercenary outside of Child’s Play’s hospital room? And why was that Secret Service guy at the station?”
“Dunno. But, Jen, I have to tell you. You’re my partner. You’re my friend.” He paused, looked at her with anguish, then said, “Jen, we do our work, but it’s got to be by the book. I don’t want you to lose your job. And I don’t want to lose mine. Even if there’s something going on, I don’t want it screwing up everything Christopher and I have planned.”
* * *
Jen trudged home. Took her an hour. It was late and the streets were quiet save for two or three small Shadow camps and the occasional bus or empty car going to its garage for the night. Everyone else was home with their lovers, their families. Everyone sleeping, content. It was a good time for self-pity.
The Last Exit Page 9