No, I don’t want to see a directory of lonely women in my quadrant.
—and settle on the last notice. I read the words, and my blood freezes in my veins.
The police station is abuzz with the usual suspects: prostitutes, drunken vagabonds, wife-beaters, teenaged vandals. I’d like to think I’m too upset to notice these details, but the truth is that my curiosity is the only thing grounding me to reality. Without it, I might just collapse. In fact, that’s exactly what happens when I remember why I’m here. I try to keep calm, but it’s an exercise in futility. I have no control over the sobs that overtake me and batter me with seismic tremors.
A detective named Rackley takes me back to his office and asks me questions: when was the last time I saw Stewart; who were his friends; who might’ve had a beef with him; on and on. It’s pretty easy to infer from this line of questioning that Stew didn’t die of natural causes, and that makes his passing infinitely more difficult to accept.
At some point, my composure begins a wounded progression from shock to grief, and finally to indignation. Why do they need to ask all these stupid questions? All they have to do is check the nexus—law enforcement agencies have their own portal to the nexus, which is reputedly far more powerful and user-friendly than anything I’ve ever worked with—and they’ll have all the information they need. Yet as the detective continues to exhaust this line of questioning, I realize he’s shaking this bush for a reason.
And as the implications of this burgeon in my tired little brain, I become more than a little uncomfortable.
Rackley doesn’t arrest me—thank God—but the look in his eyes as he escorts me from the building tells me he’s got his man all picked out. I take some comfort in knowing that he bears the burden of proof—and that none exists to incriminate me. Still, I know my every move will be scrutinized from here on out, and that isn’t good news.
I suppose this doesn’t bother me as much as it probably should. Frankly, I can recall feeling similarly since time imprinted against my very first memories—the feeling that every decision I make will someday come back to haunt me. That fear has never ceased to crowd my decisions, even if I’ve become used to its relentless presence—even now, it remains the dark, foreboding figure at the back of the tram: we all eventually grow accustomed to him, but most of us will never let ourselves forget that he’s there.
What bothers me more is that as long as Rackley remains fixated on me, the real killer is free to kill again at his leisure.
It’s eight thirty by the time I get home. I’m so exhausted I can barely see straight. I stumble into my room and literally fall into bed. Forget work, forget food. Forget everything—I just want to sleep or die, and I honestly don’t favor one over the other right now. I feel my NanoPrint nagging at me, but it’s only just discernible as I tumble into blissful unconsciousness, where nothingness graciously obscures the repeating theme of death and grief in my life.
Someone is pounding on my door. I groan and pantomime a shriek of frustration into my pillow, yet I drag myself from the comfort of my bed and across the footprint of my condo to the front door. On the adjacent wall, my door monitor illuminates the digital representation of Adrian, who looks so haggard with worry that her prettiness only just prevails.
Cripes.
I let her in, an apology spilling out of me before the door is half open. She grapples me into a desperate hug, squeezing me like she more than half-expected me to be dead. Then she releases me and commences to slap me silly.
I raise my hands in defense. “Hey, what’re you d—”
“Don’t—you—ever—do—that—to—me—again!” Each word is emphasized by a stinging slap against my bare skin. Do what? I wonder. Did I black out and force her to delete her scrappy movie collection?
“Okay, let’s just settle down and—”
Slap. “Don’t tell me to settle down!” she seethes. “How dare you disappear without any explanation and not even bother to let me know you’re okay!”
Jeez, I think. If she’d just looked at my daygrid, she’d have seen that I was here—and that I spent half the morning at the police station. Suddenly, as if on cue, my NanoPrint shivers and throws a notice. For once, I take a second to read it.
When I do? I want to cry.
Are you sure you want to remain in Privacy Mode? This is your sixth notice; to disable this recurring notification, simply change your privacy preferences to—
Oh, no.
That explains a lot, I realize. How I must’ve looked to Rackley, inaccessible to the nexus even as I labored to answer his questions with nothing to hide. How I must look now, to Adrian. I feel like I might throw up.
“I’m sorry, honey. Really, I just forgot I was in privacy mode yesterday and—”
“Who is she?” she interjects in a voice thickened by distrust. “What’s her name? Is it that Mitzy tramp?”
“Wait a second, now. You’re jumping to the wrong conclusion, okay?”
She pauses for a second, then another. I can’t believe she’s giving me a chance to explain myself. Actually, now that she is, I’m not sure what to say. Her nostrils are flaring, cheeks flushed red. For a second, despite the inappropriateness of my timing, all I can think of is how sexy she is when she’s angry.
“Well, I’m waiting.”
Have I mentioned that I’m a terrible liar? My deficiency in this area prevents me from trying often. Normally, this is a practice that has served me well. But given the extraordinary events that I’ve been through in the last few days, I doubt the truth will be any more believable than anything I can make up. I’m too tired to embellish, though.
I tell her about poor Stewart and my interrogation, my narrative picking up momentum until it drifts outside of my control. I lose steam after a while and fall into tearful silence.
“Why is this happening?” I want to know. “First Arthur and now Stewart?”
“Poor baby,” Adrian croons. “Everything’s gonna be fine now.”
I want to believe her—desperately, perhaps more than anything—but I can’t. My life is falling apart around me, and as much as it hurts, I know deep in my gut that the heartache is only just beginning.
Keith greets me with a frown, and though I’m disrespectful of his authority as a general rule—treading the line of insubordination for the sheer joy of it, in fact—I have to admit that I’ve been remarkably flaky lately. Not only have I cashed in several untimely absences in the past week, I’ve also made no effort to warn my coworkers—much less my boss—that I would be out. Unlike some of the guys around here, and in spite of my tenure, I’m quite expendable. They could easily teach a monkey to do my job. Of course, if they dared, charges of animal cruelty would surely follow, considering how deliriously boring my job can be. Honestly, if it wasn’t for IntelliQ, I’d fall into a protective coma immediately upon arriving at work—and I’d have absolutely no leverage at this company.
I follow Keith back into the womb of his office, wishing I had taken the time to prepare a defense, or that I had the energy to cough one up now, on the fly.
Sigh.
I’m just so tired of this, all the limelight and cloak-and-dagger scrap. I want to come clean, to have my old, boring life back.
But Keith has other plans. Instead of seating himself behind his desk, he stands directly in front of me, leaning forward with his rear hinged against the edge of his desk. The expression on his face isn’t one of disappointment—it’s pity. He’s hunched forward with his head cocked slightly to one side—I think he’s going for an air of sympathy and approachability, but he looks more like a sexless bear with a bad crick in the neck. And what’s worse? Courtesy of a popped shirt button, Keith is inadvertently providing a free, eye-melting peepshow of his man-boobs, which seem to come and go throughout the months—and are more there than not, at the moment. Tim has a theory, incidentally, that Keith’s amorphous body hasn’t given in to all the formulaic hormone treatments, and is attempting to menstruate as it wa
s originally designed to do.
In case you’re wondering, my genes don’t keep me thin all on their own: mental rabbit holes of this repulsive variety are pretty effective appetite suppressants. Right now, for example, I’m so grossed out that I have to breathe through my mouth and look at the floor just to keep my breakfast down. I can feel it churning in my belly like a quivering ball of baby snakes.
Keith takes this as some sort of grieving cry for help—remind me to give Tim a good smack upside the head the next time I see him—and puts a fat hand on my shoulder. With a groan, I swallow back a little bile that has slithered up my throat despite my best efforts.
“I know it’s hard,” he says. “We’re all going to miss him.”
I feel my cheeks flush, and though I’m trying to be on my best behavior, I involuntarily slap away his hand. I guess I’m a little more chafed than grossed out now. “Please don’t act as if you knew him,” I warn. I don’t mean to be hateful, but my indignation at this unnecessary false familiarity sets my nerves aflame.
His face opens up with bewilderment and he squeezes farther against his desk, putting a little more distance between us. “Don’t be like that, Wilson. I’ve known him as long as you have. We’re all shocked, and we’re all hurting just as much as you.”
What the heck is he talking about? As far as I know, Keith and Stewart have never knowingly shared breathing space on the same block. My incredulity must be blatant, because Keith slithers away and reverts to his comfort zone behind his desk, his eyes darkening by the moment.
“Listen, Wil, he left something for you.” He immerses a hand into his desk drawer and it emerges with an envelope. What in the universe would prompt Stewart to leave something for me through Keith of all people? Before I lose my temper—which is possibly closer than it’s ever been to completely escaping my grasp—I snatch the envelope and stomp into my office. I sit at my desk and seethe for a moment. When I’ve had a moment to cool off, I get back up and shut my door.
My eyes are brimming with tears. Poor Stewart. I can’t believe he’s dead, that someone killed him. I remember when he taught me to tie my shoes as a child, back when my parents were still around but were too busy to bother. He taught me so many things, things I can’t describe because their combined depth escapes words.
And though I still can’t claim to understand the mess I’ve gotten myself into, I’m beginning to believe that my uncle died because of me. Because I dragged him into something I should’ve been man enough to bear the brunt of alone.
I return to my desk and wipe at my face with the back of my hand. Before I can overthink things, I rip into the envelope, hoping for some explanation of how my beloved uncle came to be associated with my coworkers. Instead, I find something far more frightening. Inside the envelope, a single sheet of paper is sloppily folded into thirds. Stretched flat, its surface is void but for one word—a word that at once fills me with trepidation and steals my breath away.
Run.
You don’t have to tell me twice.
I rise to leave, but suddenly Keith is in my doorway. I’m not pleased with his lack of knocking etiquette—but I’m not about to waste a moment harping about it, either.
“Please tell me he left you the password,” he says, a sheepish frown splitting his wide face.
I look at him dumbly.
“Figures,” he growls. Leaving me confused, he walks out of my office and into the common corridor, yelling, “Does anyone know the password to the NanoRack?”
A mental tumbler clinks in my head.
Oh, no.
I blow past him into the rack room and find it empty. “Ryan? Tim?” No answer. I dart about the rack corridors like a mouse in a maze. I hear a sort of gagging sound—weird, but undoubtedly human—and follow my ears past the humming servers into the back, near the emergency exit.
Slumped against the wall with his butt on the floor is Tim, eyes gushing, nose dripping like a faucet. He’s trying for all he’s worth to contain a sob, and when it finally erupts, it does so with enough intensity to seize his entire body.
“Tim, you okay there, buddy?”
He looks at me and shakes his head.
“It’s my fault, man.”
“No, Tim. It isn’t. It isn’t anyone’s fault,” I tell him, though I know in my heart that, in fact, I am to blame.
Tim looks at me desperately, like he wants so much to believe me and is right on the precipice of doing so, if I can just push him over the edge.
“We should’ve left it alone, Wil,” he cries. I think I’m supposed to say We were just doing our jobs, Tim, or something—anything to grant him permission to put away the guilt. But I’m too self-absorbed, too confused and hungry for understanding to worry about mollifying him right now. “Left what alone?” I demand.
“The nexus, man.”
“What are you talking about, Tim?”
“Ryan did something he shouldn’t have—and now he’s dead.”
“You mean deleting that master record?”
Tim’s eyes bulge. Maybe I shouldn’t have tipped my hand—again: I suck at lying.
“C’mon, man,” I assure him. “I know it’s a big no-no, but people don’t die for causing data confusion, do they?” I try to smile as I say this, to give an impression of assurance—yet I’m shaking in my shoes, too.
“You don’t see it, do you?” he whispers, barely audible amidst the cacophony of fans. No, in fact I don’t see it. Whatever is going on here has escaped me since day one.
“Tell me what’s going on,” I beg him.
“He was just trying to help.”
“Help who?”
“Us, man! God, you’re so lowQ sometimes.”
“Noted. Pretend I’m a crank intern and spell it out, Tim.”
“Ryan didn’t want me getting my hands dirty with that whole Mitzy thing. He knew if I kept poking around, my queries were bound to get someone’s attention. So he figured he’d just get rid of the evidence altogether.”
“But what good does that do anyone? There’s a girl running around right now living under the assumed identity of Arthur’s ex-wife!”
“Exactly, Wil. That’s the way Arthur wanted it.”
“What?”
“I think we really screwed this up, crank. I don’t think Mitzy ran off with another man the way we all thought. I think she’s in hiding somewhere.”
“Hiding from what?”
“The same people who threw Ryan off his terrace last night, that’s who. The same crazy freaks who killed Arthur.”
I’d like to chew on this for a while, but Tim’s not finished yet.
“If you have any doubts, let me tell you something no one else seems to know yet.”
“What’s that?”
“Ryan’s NanoPrint? It’s gone. Just like Arthur’s.”
My head is about to explode. “I don’t understand this. If Arthur was so scared, why didn’t he go into hiding with Mitzy? Why stick around at all?”
“I have a theory.”
“Which is?”
Tim wipes his nose with his sleeve and gives me a sidelong glance. “You.”
On my way out, I pop my head into Keith’s office and say: “Nexusmaster.” His manicured eyebrows scrunch, and I’m gone. I don’t bother with a resignation or a request for time off. I just walk out the door. Mind ablaze, I plummet to the ground floor on an empty elevator, step through the swishing door—
—and literally into Inspector Rackley.
“Mr. Abby, just the man I’m here to see.”
“I’m a little busy right now, Inspector. Can this wait?”
He smiles at me like I’ve just proven a point he’s already made to himself and says, “Time waits for no man.”
A tram pulls to the curb and jettisons a few passengers; I step past the detective and toward the waiting tram. “Why don’t you make an appointment with my receptionist, Inspector?” I suggest with unveiled agitation.
To my back, he replies, “Y
ou don’t have a receptionist, Mr. Abby.”
I pause with one foot in the tram and offer an ironic smile over my shoulder. “Huh. Well, I guess that explains a few things.” I step inside and the door dismisses Rackley with a hydraulic swoosh.
It’s after one in the morning. I’m sitting up in bed with my heart trying to blast a hole through my chest. I don’t know what disturbed my sleep, but whatever it was didn’t exactly lull me awake like a kiss on the cheek. Probably my morbidly obese upstairs neighbor, who I have recently learned is a sumo wrestler in training.
I try to still myself to listen, yet the beating of my heart fills my ears like muddy lake water, and I suppose I know on some level that sumo footsteps aren’t to blame. I don’t want to disturb Adrian; I just lie there, trying to tell myself that everything’s fine. But I feel as though a wild animal is cornered in my flesh, moments from bursting free to escape something too sinister for my brain to grasp.
Then I hear it. It’s a knocking, so faint it might’ve been my neighbor coming or going. Only I can’t imagine Mrs. Grace doing anything at this hour. No, it’s definitely a knocking.
Leaving Adrian to sleep, I shut the bedroom door and creep through my condo, ill at ease in the captivity of my own home; every shadow is an assassin, poised to attack if I dare to look away. I reach the door no worse for the wear, save for my poor heart, which has taken quite a beating lately. My antiquated door monitor isn’t much help in the darkness; I see a figure on the screen, and that’s as much detail as I can discern. I shouldn’t answer the door, I know. If I were a smart man, I’d call the police right now.
Please, send someone right away! Someone just knocked on my door!
Okay, so maybe that’s not such a good idea. Still, considering all the craziness going on lately, I really shouldn’t open—
Knock-knock.
I flinch involuntarily. Man, I’m terribly spooked. “Who is it?” I whisper.
Staring at the monitor, I listen intently for a response, but I hear nothing. And then, just audible above the hum of inner city silence, I hear her speak.
The Pedestal Page 9