Skin Game

by Max Allan Collins

  Trouble was, there was no spin she could put on the notion of doing battle with the combined forces of the U.S. Army and National Guard within Terminal City that made it more palatable. “Tomorrow we’ll put our heads together on that.”

  Sitting heavily on the edge of Dix’s desk, the lizard commando said, “Anything you say, Scarlett O’Hara.”

  Not wanting to take this conversation any further, Max went back down the two stairs to the main floor. “Gotta check a couple of things. Be back.”

  Mole waved absently and Dix sat forward, eyes on his monitor, all his concentration focused on watching the splinter groups.

  Stepping out into the sunshine, Max walked aimlessly for a while, allowing herself some quiet time. As she passed the groups they had seen on the monitors just a few minutes ago, some of the transgenics looked up at her expectantly. She smiled and tried to exude a confidence she didn’t really feel. Most of them allowed her some space, but at the fourth group she passed, one of them—probably an X6, judging by the young man’s features—separated himself and approached her.

  He wore his brown hair shaved except for long braids set on each corner of his skull. His jeans and T-shirt both looked like they hadn’t seen the inside of a washing machine for months. Thin-faced, he had wide-set brown eyes, a small, straight nose, and full lips.

  As he fell into step beside her, a smile creased his face. “How ya doin’?” he asked.

  Returning his smile, she said, “Good. You?”

  His smile disappeared. “Kind of . . . worried, actually.”

  “I can understand that.”

  “Rumor says the Army’s comin’ soon and that they have orders to kill everybody. I even heard there might be an air strike.”

  “Doubtful,” Max said. “The media blade cuts both ways. We have a few protesters supporting us, you know.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah—they got their own signs, ‘Save the Transgenics,’ ‘Stop All Animal and Human Testing,’ that sort of thing. Not a huge group, but it indicates support we can build on. What’s your name?”

  “Travis.”

  “Travis, it’s going to be all right.”

  He frowned in thought. “So, the Army’s not coming?”

  “I didn’t say that. I just don’t think they’re coming today.”

  “But when they do come . . . ?”

  He was keeping up with her as she walked the compound.

  “We’ll be ready.”

  Now he found another smile. “Thanks. Can I tell that to my buddies?”

  “Sure—tell everybody and anybody that whatever happens, we’ll face it together.”

  The smile faded. “Frankly . . . that isn’t much comfort, when you’re worried that you’re going to be . . . slaughtered. . . .”

  Max stopped and so did the young man. She looked unblinkingly into his eyes. “That’s what this whole thing is about, Travis. It’s not about whether we win or lose or tie. It’s about facing this together, not alone. The Army wouldn’t have any trouble with just one of us, would they?”

  Travis shook his head.

  “But what about hundreds of us? Thousands?”

  He saw her point and grinned. “I’ll spread the word,” he said.

  As she watched him leave, with some spring in his step, her cell phone chirped. She pulled it out and flipped it open. “Go for Max.”

  “Hey, you.”

  Logan.

  She smiled. “Hey.”

  “I thought I should let you know—I’m going to be gone for a while.”

  “How long a while?”

  “Most of the day probably,” he said. “I’m meeting Asha at Crash. I think I’ve got a lead on Sage Thompson . . . and I need to talk to her about checking it out.”

  “Logan . . . it’s getting tense here. I just talked to a young guy named Travis. He doesn’t want the Army to come in and kill us all like animals.”

  “Can’t blame him.”

  “What kind of name is that? Travis?”

  “Well, Max . . . there was an officer at a famous battle in Texas, a long time ago, named Travis.”

  “What battle was that?”

  “The Alamo.”

  “I haven’t run across that in my reading, yet. How did it turn out?”

  “. . .Great. Everybody was a hero.”

  “That’s something, anyway. Hey . . . be careful.”

  “I will. You too.”

  She disconnected.

  Logan Cale sat at his desk looking at the phone for a moment.

  Max sounded exhausted, and he wished there was more he could do to help her. She took so much on her shoulders, but now there was nothing to be done about that . . .

  . . . except, maybe, get to the bottom of the skinner mystery, and see if clearing that hateful story out of the headlines could help ease the tension on the transgenics’ situation in Terminal City.

  Rising, Logan gathered his cell phone, his keys, and headed for the door. His car was parked near the end of the exit tunnel, and within ten minutes he was speeding toward the bar.

  Crash, the favorite hangout of the Jam Pony gang, was nearly vacant at this hour of the day, the big video screens with the racing and other sports footage playing to a mostly nonexistent audience. Brick archways separated the Crash’s three sections: the bar, the game room, and the restaurant area, with its tables and chairs. The jukebox, which usually screamed with metal-tinged rock music, stood mercifully silent; the occasional knock of pool balls from the back and the news on the television at the far end of the bar were the prominent sounds. A small lunch crowd would be in, in a half hour or so; but for the time being only the bartender and Asha were at the bar.

  Logan came down the stairs and took a seat next to the blonde freedom fighter.

  “Hi,” she said.

  “Hi, Asha.”

  A cup of coffee with cream sat in front of her. If it was her first, he wasn’t that late. She’d taken only a few sips and the liquid still steamed.

  The bartender, a skinny, tattooed guy with long, greasy, black hair, shambled toward them from the TV. His name was Ricky and he usually worked nights; judging from the bags under his eyes and the frown etched into his face, morning duty didn’t suit him. He brought Logan a cup of coffee and shambled off again.

  “He doesn’t say much in the morning,” Logan said.

  Asha smiled. “He doesn’t say much more at night. Now, tell me what the rush is.”

  “It’s about that NSA agent we were looking for.”

  “Thompson,” she said quietly.

  He nodded. “I may have found something.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Eyes Only has tracked him to the Armbruster Hotel.”

  “I know the place.”

  “Well enough to watch my back?”

  “Oh yeah.”

  Daylight sliced across the bar, and they both looked up to see the silhouette of a man standing in the doorway. The sun blinded them and they couldn’t see him clearly, but there was something about the guy that seemed familiar. The tail of the man’s overcoat waved once more, then the door closed.

  Blinking furiously to readjust his eyes, Logan peered up at the man, who was already halfway down the stairs: black hair slicked back, tight dark eyes, and an olive complexion; dark suit with a white shirt and conservative striped tie.

  Logan turned casually to Asha, but his words were as urgent as they were quiet. “Go—he’s White’s man.”

  Asha slipped off the stool and meandered toward the back. She was a memory by the time the man came up and stood next to Logan, showing him a badge.

  “I’m Special Agent Otto Gottlieb. Can we talk?”

  Logan simply shrugged.

  “May I sit?” Gottlieb asked, gesturing toward the stool.

  “Free country.”

  “That’s the theory,” Gottlieb said as he hopped onto the stool. “Your friend sure left fast.”

  “Not my friend. I think she was a working girl
, got a glimpse of you and thought, ‘Cop.’ ”

  “She wasn’t wrong, was she? . . . Mr. Cale, I need to talk to you.”

  So he knew Logan’s name.

  Ever casual, Logan said, “I’m listening.”

  “Not here. We need to go somewhere else.”

  Smiling, Logan said, “You’ll pardon me if I don’t jump at the chance, Agent Gottlieb, but that’s not the most enticing pickup line I’ve heard in a bar. . . . People who go ‘somewhere else’ with government agents, these days, have a tendency to disappear for good.”

  Gottlieb looked shaken, a bead of sweat trailing down one side of his face, like a teardrop that lost its way. “Look, Mr. Cale—you work for Eyes Only.”

  “Actually, I’m self-employed.”

  “I need to talk to him.”

  Logan smiled broadly. “Why sure, no problem. He’s an underground cyber journalist you feds have been after for years . . . and now by simply asking me, you’ll get a direct line to him, no questions asked. . . . And what would you like for your other two wishes?”

  “Mr. Cale, what if I can give you an assurance that—”

  “I don’t work for Eyes Only. I share some of his distrust of the government, but it ends there. So maybe you better just leave.”

  Gottlieb didn’t move. His attitude shifted, subtly. “As someone who doesn’t know Eyes Only, Mr. Cale, can you tell me why your fingerprints were all over the apartment where we traced his last broadcast to?”

  Logan started to rise, but Gottlieb put a hand on his arm. “I’m not here to arrest you. In fact, I have a gift for you—a show of good faith.”

  Withdrawing a manila envelope from his overcoat, he laid it on the counter between them.

  Sitting down again, Logan asked, “What’s this?”

  “All the fingerprint files from the apartment. White never saw them.”

  Logan studied the agent; the man’s face had a tortured sort of sincerity etched on it. “What about the NSA fingerprint people?”

  “They’re no problem,” Gottlieb said. “They delivered the print identification just as they were supposed to . . . to me. Agent White lost interest in Eyes Only when the situation at Jam Pony came up. I give them to you now as a sign of my sincerity.”

  “These prove nothing,” Logan said. “This could all still be in a computer anywhere.”

  “I’ve dealt with that. They’re gone.”

  “Well, hell—what more assurance could I need than that?”

  “Listen, Mr. Cale! Just hear me out.”

  Ricky the bartender wandered up. The agent shook his head and the bartender went back to the TV. Logan wanted to bolt, but after slipping the envelope inside his jacket, he turned to face Gottlieb. “So talk.”

  “Can’t we go somewhere?”

  “No—this place is empty and not bugged, unless you’ve bugged it. Tell me here or not at all.”

  After mulling that for a few seconds, Gottlieb kept his voice low and asked, “The name I mentioned earlier . . . the man I work for. You know him?”

  Logan nodded.

  “I think he may have gone rogue.”

  Laughing out loud, Logan said, “No wonder the NSA snapped you up—you don’t miss anything. Anything else hot off the presses? Any word in yet about whether Nixon’s a crook?”

  Gottlieb’s eyes fell, his face turning crimson, as he said, “I tried to give him the benefit of the doubt. We’re supposed to be on the same team, after all, he and I.”

  “Ames White is on a team, all right,” Logan said. “But not the one you’re playing on, or any team that’s trying to help this country.”

  “I figured that out.”

  “Good for you, Agent Gottlieb! Now, why don’t you go talk to your superiors about it?” Logan rose, tossed a bill on the bar, and took a step.

  Gottlieb grabbed onto Logan’s arm. “I can’t talk to my superiors, or to anyone else in the government. White’s got ties everywhere—I couldn’t trust anyone. My friends in the government may be his friends. There’s no way to know.”

  Logan let the hand rest on his arm as he nodded. “You’re right about that much. But why Eyes Only?”

  “If you can’t trust your friends,” Gottlieb said meaningfully, “who’s left but your enemies?”

  That was a good point.

  “All right, follow me out,” Logan said.

  Then he climbed the stairs and headed outside. The sun had grown warm and felt good on his face. With Gottlieb stepping up next to him, Logan heard the cock of a gun and wondered if he’d been suckered . . .

  . . . until he turned to find Asha standing behind them, her pistol aimed at Gottlieb’s skull.

  “Maybe we should find somewhere more private,” Logan said as he lifted Gottlieb’s pistol from its holster.

  The three of them turned down an alley, trooping far away from the street and into the shadows, Gottlieb leading the way, but Asha prodding. The alley smelled of decaying food and urine; somewhere, a cat cried out. Slipping behind a Dumpster, the three of them stood out of sight of the traffic on the street, though Gottlieb still peered around nervously, looking for prying eyes and eavesdroppers.

  “Tell us what you know,” Logan ordered.

  Otto Gottlieb gave them his story—all of it.

  Logan had suspected much of what Gottlieb had to report, and had actually seen the assassins outside Jam Pony; but he knew they needed more.

  “Do you have proof of any of this, Otto?”

  Gottlieb shook his head. “There never is any—White calls it ‘plausible deniability.’ ”

  The phrase had an all-too-familiar ring to Logan. “Where can we get proof?”

  “If I knew that, I wouldn’t have come looking for Eyes Only.”

  Logan decided to change course. “Where’s Sage Thompson?”

  Looking as though he’d just been punched, Gottlieb asked, “How the hell do you know about him?”

  “Because Eyes Only found out about Calvin Hankins.”

  “I can’t believe it. . . .”

  “Otto, do you know where Thompson is?”

  “No! But if I did, he might be able to corroborate some of what I’ve told you.”

  The smell in the alley was as unpleasant as it was thick; Logan—ready to find a new office—said, “If you’re on the level, Otto, you’ll have to do exactly what I tell you.”

  Gottlieb sighed. “I’m good at that.”

  “You got a car?”

  “Sure—just around the corner.”

  The three of them marched to the vehicle. Asha got behind the wheel, Otto sat on the passenger side, and Logan got in the back.

  “Hand me your cuffs, will you, Agent Gottlieb?”

  “Make it ‘Otto.’ ” He fumbled around behind himself and got them out, then held the cuffs up over his shoulder.

  “Right hand,” Logan ordered.

  Gottlieb frowned. “What?”

  Asha stuck the gun in his ribs, and the agent’s right hand went behind the seat.

  Locking the bracelet over that hand, Logan said, “Now the left.”

  Gottlieb obeyed, awkwardly extending his other arm around the seat, and Logan cuffed him with his arms pulled behind him.

  “What’s this about?”

  Logan got out and Asha rolled down the passenger side window for him to lean in. “Show of good faith or not, I can’t trust you, Otto. So, you’re going to have to trust me. Asha will watch you—she’ll take you to a safe place. I’ll join you as soon as I can. If I find Agent Thompson, we may be able to help you. If you’re lying . . . well, I think you can fill in that blank, yourself. Do we have an understanding, Otto?”

  Looking very scared, Gottlieb nodded.

  Logan shook his head slowly. “I hope you’re telling the truth, Otto. A lot of people are depending on you . . . and if we don’t find Agent Thompson, they might all be in serious trouble.”

  And right now Otto Gottlieb looked like he knew all about what it was like being in se
rious trouble.

  Chapter Ten

  * * *

  NO PLACE LIKE HOME

  COUNTY GENERAL HOSPITAL, 1:42 P.M.

  WEDNESDAY, MAY 12, 2021

  Alec opened his eyes to terrible, harsh brightness, and immediately shut them again. He tried to move his arm up to shield his face, but found the limb restrained, the other one too. Keeping his eyes closed, the light warm on his face, he tried to move his feet; they too were tethered.

  “You’re not going anywhere, 494,” a familiar caustic voice said.

  Alec’s gut tensed: Ames White.

  The X5 did not move, eyes shut, as if opening them had just been a twitch, a flutter in his sleep. A hand settled on his face, thumb under his chin, fingers and palm on his cheek, a chill snake-belly touch. The fingers began to tighten—White had the strength to crush a man’s skull, even a transgenic like Alec.

  “Open your eyes, 494,” White said. “Or would you rather I close them forever?”

  Alec opened his eyes and stared into the face of the cold-eyed NSA agent, who removed his hand from the X5’s cheek, though the man still hovered over the right side of the bed like a vampire caught in the act. The agent—in his typical dark suit—had the sick pale look of a bloodsucker at that, his skin an unnatural white brought on by the fluorescent lighting.

  Alec’s head was swimming. “Is this . . . prison?”

  “Don’t be silly,” White said, a small smile playing on thin, cruel lips. “It’s a hospital. You’re getting the best of care—your furry friend, too.”

  His head was settling down. “How did I get here?”

  “The police. A friend of mine on the department whispered in my ear—something about your friend’s dog snout that made some people think you two might be transgenic.”

  Restrained though he was, Alec was able to survey the small hospital room—it was empty but for himself and White. “I don’t see a police guard. Is there one in the hall?”

  “Maybe you’d like a map of the building? How else can I be of service? . . . The guard is federal, 494. Transgenics are the NSA’s jurisdiction—but surely you know that?”