Everywhere It's You

by C. B. Salem

  Tom grunted. “Try again. That will get flagged from here to the mayor’s office.”

  “Why?”

  “Atlas Pharmaceuticals has had the pharms contract for the department since the start of the year. Plus a whole bunch of other shit that means he has connections from the police chief to the mayor’s office. Any investigation into him is going to put a bull’s eye on my ass that I don’t need. You have anyone else?”

  Kristina tucked this new information away in her memory bank. “How about Geno Totti?” she tried. “General surveillance in connection with organized crime in the city.”

  A sigh on the other end. “It’s lame, but so long as it’s not Fordelli I’m good.”

  “So you can do it?”

  He paused, seemingly dragging this out just a little longer.

  “Yeah,” he said finally. “Drop by the lab at one.”

  He hung up before she could even thank him.

  Despite that, she smiled. Even though she hated doing Recalls, or anything that involved heavy pharms, it was an important step to getting somewhere on this search. After another sip of coffee, she got back to work on her tablet. The mechanical clock on the wall continued to tick away the time. There was a lot to do before lunch.

  ***

  She spent the rest of the morning reading through the protocol Dunn-Brantley had drawn up in her office and drinking enough coffee for an average week. Much of the protocol dealt with financial information and had cross-references to his will, which made for even more reading. By the time lunch rolled around, she was left mostly where she’d started: this was her mess to clean up and none of the factors surrounding Tatum’s disappearance made any damn sense at all.

  At twelve-thirty, she realized she would need to delay lunch and headed out for the CPD Crime Lab at Dearborn and Van Buren. On a normal summer day, she would have walked and enjoyed the weather, but this was anything but a normal day. As such, she decided to take the subway.

  She walked up to the familiar sign for the Red Line and descended the steps. The familiar bombardment of glowing advertisements hit her as she went down into the station. Every single one was for pharms, many for Tatum Pharmaceuticals products.

  “Erase Wrinkles From Within”

  “Clare-Tee: For Your Career. For Your Life.”

  “20/20 Vision in 20 minutes!”

  Each sign had a localized aero hovering around, giving a sense of calm satisfaction. Homeless people would sometimes sleep under the ads at night for the sense of well-being they provided. Even during the day, sometimes they would stare into them for hours, having nothing to do and nowhere to be. Legislation had been passed to counteract this, calling it blight, but so far the law had proven largely unenforceable.

  After swiping her pass and going down to the tracks, she got on the train and had a quick, uneventful ride. The trains were pretty light traffic-wise this time of day. When the train got down to Jackson, she got off, went through the underground tunnel and past a street band playing old-fashioned rock music, and came up at the Blue Line station.

  From there it was brief walk from the station to the lab’s tall, menacing building. It was shaped as a triangular prism, with modernist slits for windows in light brown stone. In truth, it looked more like a fortress than anything else. Probably because it had originally been designed as a prison, nearly a hundred years before.

  She walked in the hulking door nearest the street, past the security body scanners, and up to the front desk. The prison was even more minimalist than her office. Stark, smooth gray walls that looked nearly metallic. Shining, perfectly lacquered navy floor. Dead silence, save for the echoes of her footsteps. It was like a museum.

  A blonde woman at the front desk—who appeared to be working on her candidacy for the title of Most Bored Person in the World—looked up from her tablet briefly before returning her eyes to the screen. She had headphones in and wore a perfectly wrinkle free white blouse.

  “Can I help you?” she asked, removing a wireless bud from one ear.

  “Yes. I’m here to see Dr. Thomas Andersen in Pharm.”

  She sighed and tapped at her tablet. “Is he expecting you?”

  “He is.”

  The woman sighed again and then continued to work at her screen. A moment later Kristina saw her brother’s round face pop up on the large screen behind the woman’s head. His glasses were slightly askew, and his chest seemed to be heaving slightly. Out of breath again, apparently.

  “Someone here to see you Dr. Andersen,” the receptionist said.

  “Visitor confirmed,” Tom answered. He immediately switched off.

  A small brown button popped up just in front of the tablet the receptionist had been working at. She took it and handed it to Kristen, who pocketed it in her jacket.

  “You’re authorized for the crime lab,” the receptionist said. “Follow the signs. If you go off course, security will be alerted and—”

  “I know,” Kristina interrupted. “Been here before.”

  The receptionist’s blonde brows shot up. “Witness a lot of crimes?” she asked skeptically.

  Kristina tightened her fist around the button in her jacket pocket, trying to stay calm. “Something like that,” she said. She turned to leave.

  “What case are you here for, exactly?” the receptionist asked.

  Kristina spun back around to face her and saw her narrowed eyes. Shit. She’d managed to wake the beast.

  “I have to log it, is all,” the receptionist continued, by way of explanation.

  Kristina grimaced. “Since when?”

  The blonde woman fluttered her eyes. “It’s at my discretion. The case, please?”

  Kristina took a deep breath and grit her teeth. “Investigation of Geno Totti. Can I go?”

  The receptionist looked down at her tablet briefly, then nodded. Kristina wasn’t sure, but she thought she saw a small smile on the receptionist’s face. Without another word, and kicking herself for getting sloppy and being forced to double-down on the Totti lie, Kristina was on her way.

  ***

  The CPD’s sterile white walls made everything look the same, but she knew her way around from previous visits, just as she’d said, and soon she walked into a door marked Crime Lab: Pharmaceuticals Section. Under that, it read Dr. Thomas Andersen, Assistant Director.

  She knocked once and walked in, still angry she’d had to log the case with the receptionist. Hopefully it wouldn’t amount to anything. It was the kind of sloppy mistake that drove her crazy.

  As she came into the room, Tom’s ruddy face was buried behind a host of screens, his tie knot loosened under his white coat as he typed at a keyboard. His office, while still having the feel of sterility that pervaded the place, was messy, with devices and papers scattered across various surfaces, each alternately covering the other. It was a miracle he ever found anything in here. Just being around this mess for a few minutes made her chest tight with anxiety.

  Somehow he and Kristina had inherited different genes when it came to their preferred environment. And a million other things, really. But especially cleanliness.

  “Just getting your Recall set up,” he said quickly. “Almost done.”

  “Hi to you too,” Kristina said. She sat down on what looked like it would be a doctor’s table were it not in black leather. At least this looked clean. “Thanks for getting me in.”

  Tom waved his hand absently. “No problem. Mind if I ask the actual reason for the Recall?”

  She blinked. It was strange for Tom to be asking details about something like this. He wasn’t normally one for small-talk.

  “Any reason you want to know?” she asked.

  Her brother froze and looked at her, eyes wide behind his glasses. “Any reason for the hostility? I’m helping you out here, you know.”

  She blew out a long breath. “No, just seems like people here are a little jumpy. Receptionist gave me some crap about what I was doing here. Asked to log the investigation.”


  Tom’s eyes narrowed. “Really? And you told her it was for Totti?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Better make sure to get something on record then.” He went back to work at the keyboard.

  “I’m sure I’ll get you something,” she said. “Anyway, this is all coming from a surveillance op last night. Birthday party for Geno Totti at The Velvet. Bunch of mobster types there. Should have been watching someone else, though.”

  “And this is the part where you tell me who.”

  “Landon Tatum. Guy freaking walked in like it was natural and he was there to have a hell of a time.”

  “Holy shit.” He stopped typing again. “That’s a rough spot for a guy like him. Think he was slumming?”

  She shrugged. “Maybe. Big issue is now he’s missing. Cops don’t know yet. Document my firm drafted says I have forty-eight hours to find him before the police are notified.”

  “Other than me,” he said with a smirk.

  Tom had always loved a good secret. Even if his line of work had been different than Kevin and Kristina—especially Kevin—that, at least, was a weakness they all shared.

  She locked eyes with her baby brother. “I don’t need to say—”

  “You don’t,” he said, shaking his head slowly. “Lips are sealed on this end.”

  “I mean it.”

  “I know.”

  They both sat there for a minute before Tom remembered himself and went back to his keyboard. He tapped the keys quickly, programming the pharm that was about to go into her arm.

  It had been the big breakthrough in pharmaceuticals, twenty years ago. The ability to use nano-chips to synthesize pharmaceuticals on a molecular level. Combined with concurrent advances in scientists’ understanding of the brain, the result was the ability to create finely-graded effects on people’s minds through the magic of chemistry.

  “Alright,” Tom said, after another few moments. He moved away from the keyboard and over to a shelf against the wall. “Just going to need to get the CAP on you for a minute and then we’ll stick an IV and have you set up.”

  She settled back on the doctor’s table. Tom came over with what looked like a winter hat and put it on her. The CAP, or Cerebral Activity Placement device, contained a bunch of little sensors stitched into the fabric of a garment people could wear comfortably on their head. It let the operator do some fine-tuning on a pharm before injecting.

  Tom returned to his desk. After a few more key strokes, she heard a humming from a machine behind her that signaled the pharm was being synthesized. Her brother stood up again.

  “Alright,” he said, walking over. “Hold your arm out and we’ll get you set up with the IV.”

  She did as he asked. “I don’t understand why you can’t put this thing in a pill or something,” she muttered, as he readied the line. “You would think by now we would be over needles.

  “Too hard to control intake level,” Tom said. “And frankly not worth it.”

  She closed her eyes as he expertly found a vein in Kristina’s left arm. A small pinch, and then he backed away. She kept her eyes closed.

  “Alright,” Tom said, as he headed back to his desk. “You’re going under in five. I’ll keep an eye on your vitals.”

  She took a deep breath.

  CHAPTER THREE

  She exhaled after a few seconds and opened her eyes. A gauzy, low-lit room surrounded her. Brushed metal lockers dotted bubble-pink walls, with a few black chairs scattered around. She was in the dressing room. A digital clock projected on the wall read 1:00 in icy blue digits.

  Tom had dropped her in perfectly.

  As she took in what was happening a bout of nausea rose up in her stomach, then into her throat. This was Recall.

  She’d always hated the dissociated sensation of the pharm, ever since she’d had to take it for her first case when she was eighteen. Her head felt like she’d dunked it underwater and then started trying to watch a movie slowed down just a little bit. The movie was actually her memories. Very specific memories. All kinds of déjà vu.

  She pushed her stray thoughts away and tried to focus. Her last-night’s-self was checking out her look for the night. Red wig, epic amounts of makeup, and a skimpy black dress provided by the club—all straps and sequins, coming down to just a couple inches below her butt.

  Jeez, her thighs were...maybe a little too much muscle? Maybe it was the lights. The pushup bra she’d been wearing made her boobs look pretty great, at least. Guess that was the idea.

  She exited the dressing room a moment later.

  She wasn’t technically stripping, just handing out drinks. Teddy—the manager of the place who was helping her out thanks to a favor he owed from back when she worked for her brother Kevin’s security company—had helpfully called the job “drink wench work.” In case she got any crazy ideas about this being something respectable.

  It was crazy how men found ways to be shitty sometimes. People in general, really, but especially men. Or at least strip club owners.

  From the dressing room she made her way to the bar to pick up a tray of drinks and from there out to the private lounge. The room was still empty, just as she’d remembered. She circled around, hugging the wall.

  The grungy decor lent a dark, dated look. Velvet curtains hung down from exposed steel beams, with the walls behind a treated aluminum that maintained a good sound while looking like the inside of a shipping container. The tables were lacquered black wood, each of them containing an inset that popped up with recreational pharms of both the stim and X variety. To one side of the room, there was an area for the guest of honor complete with three red leather arm chairs and a crystal tumbler of cognac. The leather even looked real.

  Her last-night’s-self walked to the front of the room, balancing gracefully on very high heels as the first guest arrived. Then another bout of nausea washed over her, fogging her mind. Her eyes had to be lying.

  Landon Tatum had just entered the room.

  This was wrong. He’d come in later, she knew it. Fifteen minutes before the birthday boy, maybe twenty. There had been more than a dozen people there. Even Fordelli, the man she had come to watch, had arrived first. She’d been watching very carefully and this wasn’t the kind of thing she’d forget. It was impossible.

  He wore a black suit, black shirt and a silver tie. That wasn’t right either. But the clean-cut, brown hair, the thin-lipped mouth, the dark eyes, they were as she’d remembered. He had sharp cheek bones with a slightly crooked nose that looked like it had been broken in a fight once and never fixed. It was strange for a scientist to not also be a pretty boy.

  She breathed shallowly. This was wrong.

  She watched herself approach to offer him a drink. Then the next guest came in, to the right of where her eyes had been focused.

  Tatum again. Sharp cheeks. Slightly crooked nose. Dark, perceptive eyes.

  Another black suit, black shirt, but this time a blue tie. She flicked her eyes between the two of them. They were both there. She was seeing two of him.

  Her stomach dropped. Something had happened. Her Recall was wrong.

  What the hell was going on? Even for Recall, she felt terrible. Had Tom messed up somehow? Was she hallucinating? Too much stress and not enough sleep? How did she abort a Recall, anyhow? She’d never needed to before, but if there was ever a time this was it. Tom had to see her vitals were going crazy.

  Like being stuck in a bad dream, she continued to watch her previous night. They came in packs. Some black suits, some with pinstripes, some with colorful ties, but all versions of the same man. A clone army of model-handsome billionaire descending on her. She wished again she could wake up.

  How was she going to learn anything when everyone looked like him? Especially when it was, of all people, someone she was finding herself strangely attracted to.

  Reeling, she surveyed the scene again, trying to keep her mind clear. No sense in feeling sorry for herself. If she was stuck here she was going to mak
e the best of it.

  When she looked more closely, there were differences. The skin, the face, the outfit, those were all the same, but the builds—weight, height, posture—were slightly different. They weren’t quite clones. More like a blend between Landon’s build and that of the original body. Or rather, a whole bunch of different bodies.

  The postures in particular were different. She had noticed this before, but it had never stood out so much as when everything else looked almost exactly the same. The arch of the back, the weight on one foot or the other, the lean. There was information there, if she could just remember who it was attached to and keep all the people at the party straight in her head.

  She was just there waiting for one man. If she could identify and keep track of him, she could deal with the hallucinations when she came out of Recall.

  The next ten minutes was more of the same. Guests continued to filter in, all very slightly misshapen versions of the same. Eventually, a larger, more portly version came into the room, wearing a silver suit with a black bow tie. That would be Fordelli, the man she had attended the party to watch. He was immediately preyed upon by a very aggressive, very tall brunette stripper. So aggressive, she wondered if she shouldn’t look into the woman a little more.

  Because Fordelli had been her intended focus on the night, it was where her eyes had been focused. Meaning the room around was slightly blurry. It was one of the frustrations with Recall: you could only work with the sensory detail available to your brain. If your eyes hadn’t focused on something before, you couldn’t reverse that in Recall. You just had to deal.

  Because of this, people who knew they were going to have to do a Recall after an event trained themselves to shift their focus around frequently, but she’d yet to become very proficient at that trick. She would have to work on that in the future.

  A few minutes later, everyone in the room had their attention shift at once, including her last-night’s-self, as if they were following a stage direction. Then she saw him.

  Landon Tatum entered the room wearing no coat, and the sleeves of his white shirt were rolled up to reveal a watch that probably cost as much as her apartment. The shirt was paired with closely tailored midnight blue slacks that accentuated his long, thick legs.