by Jillian Kidd
Barely missing their laser blasts, we sped off, above the buildings and away from The Den of Iniquity. Another successful night for the dynamic Maxwell duo.
Now if only we didn’t get pulled over for flying at an incredibly illegal hover height.
3
I was having one of those dreams—you know the kind. One of those so vivid you could swear it was real? I dreamed Colt and I were back at the club and I was dancing with Roberto, just as I had done in reality. But when Roberto took me upstairs in the dream, his eyes turned dark red and his teeth started to grow into sharp points. He held me in a vice grip as I desperately tried to get away from him. But he wouldn’t let go.
When I woke up, the sun was spilling in through the sheer pink drapes on my bedroom window. I heard a childlike voice say:
“Hello.”
I lay there for a minute, letting my eyes adjust to the light and my heartbeat slow down from that creepy nightmare.
“Hello.”
Taking Nando to the station had been a breeze. He’d stayed knocked out the entire car ride, though I’d watched him with my gun aimed at his head in case he happened to wake up. When we arrived, Colt had slapped him awake and opened the car door to allow two beefy cops to grab him. Nando hadn’t struggled, only stared off into the distance, clearly very upset. But he knew we’d won. My brother and I split the money, which we had automatically drafted to our respective bank accounts. I planned on paying off my car with it. I never did get a clear picture of what Colt had done at the club to cause his distraction, because every time he tried to relay it to me he started laughing so hard he nearly cried. All I got was “karaoke,” “threw a shoe,” and “turned out the lights.”
“Hello.”
I rolled onto my stomach and hugged one of my many down pillows, while letting my head stick over the side of the bed. Rogue sat patiently with his little rust-colored tail wagging.
“Hey, Rogue,” I said, my voice husky with sleep.
“Hello,” he said again, his long dachshund body shiny in the morning light.
Well, he didn’t really say it. I had just bought one of those new Speakollars—the ones advertised as being the latest in technology for pets. You put the collar on your pet, and it had a little wire that connected to a tiny suction cup on your dog’s head and read his brainwaves. The collar was supposed to speak what the dog was feeling. There weren’t a whole lot of expressions. There was “Hello,” “I’m hungry,” “Back off,” “Let’s play,” “I’m afraid,” or “I’m sleepy.” And I could pretty much tell if he was thinking any of those by looking at him.
“Come here, little guy,” I said, reaching down to grab him. He jumped backwards as if on hydraulics, thinking I was trying to play. “Oh, you quit. You come here.”
He finally let me pull him up on the bed with me and started licking my face. Yech, I’d need to get his teeth cleaned soon. In order to give his neck a good scratch, I took off the collar, placing it on my green antique Art Nouveau nightstand. My apartment was quite an eclectic place. I really enjoyed antique furniture, especially Art Nouveau, and anything green. (Must be the Irish roots from my mother’s side.) But I liked my technology as well. I had a flat wall TV with phone capabilities, and a really nice hologram Chess set.
The way the Chess set worked is this: when I turned mine on I picked a person’s name from my list. Then that person would get a signal at his or her house, letting him or her know that I’d like to play. If I chose to play against, say, Colt (since he has the same set) and he wanted to play too, a neat hologram of him would appear in the seat across from me, as would a hologram of me at his home. The Chess pieces I played with were real physical pieces, as was the board, but Colt’s pieces appeared as holograms to me. Mine looked like holograms to him. I knew several people who liked to play, most of them guys.
I had some Dali prints on my walls, as well as the creative spiritual/space art from Shamahad Nidhri, who was an up-and-coming pure genius. A purple, plush warming rug rested in front of my black and white Comfort Foam couch. I also enjoyed decorating with peacock feathers. I had some in vases in about every room. Rogue had a little blue treat dispenser in the kitchen. I had it programmed to give him about five a day. My kitchen table was tall and round, and had a couple of tall stool-like chairs with automatically adjustable backs and arms. A Bonsai tree I’d had for years sat on the kitchen counter, next to my favorite citrus candle.
I kept my weapons in the hall closet with a print-sensor lock on it. Inside are laser guns, bullet guns, nun chucks, sai, you name it. But my favorite weapon had come from Gakuya.
Dad’s best friend, Gakuya Aomori, was a fellow bounty hunter from Japan. He taught my father Aikido. And Dad, in turn, had taught me the martial arts. Gakuya was killed on a mission he’d gone on with my dad in 2050, about three years ago. Dad had retired that same year. I didn’t remember Gakuya much, because he and Dad only really saw each other when they were out on the hunt together. But as a gift, he’d given Dad two short swords he’d made himself. Dad had passed them on to me and Colt upon retiring. Mine was named “Seigi,” or “Justice” in Japanese. Colt’s was named “Mamori,” or “Protection.” The weapons stretched about a foot and a half long, not counting the hilt. They had a slight curve to them, but what made them really special was the sharp edge, made out of laser-cut diamonds and fused to the steel blade.
Gakuya had a daughter, Hitomi, who was as equally intriguing as her father. She’d followed in his footsteps and had become a bounty hunter herself. I very nearly idolized the woman. One of my goals when I went Global was to work with her on a mission or two, if she’d let me.
I picked up Rogue and swung my pale legs off the bed, letting the dog rest his head on my shoulder, his tail tapping against my arm. I was wearing my favorite set of pajamas, the ones with little shorts and a tank top that has frogs on them. I walked over and peeked out the window to see what kind of a September day it would be. My apartment had a great view of the Trinity River, and was aptly named “Riverside.” It looked like it was going to be a pretty day. But living in Texas, you never knew. The day could start out heavenly and then turn hellishly hot, or a cold front could blast in and knock the wind out of you.
That dream was really bothering me. I was still having a hard time recognizing it as a dream. Walking through the living room, I pressed a few buttons on my wall panel and let Beethoven’s piano music relax me. Yes, I liked Grandparent Rock and classic symphonic music.
I put Rogue on the ground and pulled my wild red hair back into a pony tail, then poured the dog some food. I fixed myself a bowl of cereal and walked back into the living room. Grabbing my electric newspaper off the coffee table, I sat in my favorite forest green papasan chair. I reached under and flipped a switch, and little vibrating pulses relaxed my body.
I turned on the electric newspaper, the thin fiberglass device resting in my lap the size and shape of those old-style newspapers, the kind printed on real paper. Actually, my dad printed one off with every issue.
My father, Bob Maxwell, used to be a bounty hunter like Colt and me. When he retired a few years ago, he bought out The Dallas Informer, a little newspaper just finding its footing. It printed odd-ball stuff, got down to the nitty-gritty, and focused on positive, interesting stories of human advancement, in addition to the scandals people loved to read about. Dad helped it grow and flourish into the third most read paper in the Metroplex.
He had gotten a journalism degree when he was in his 20s (in part because his dad, my grandpa, had been a hell of a reporter all his life), but then Dad turned to bounty hunting after doing a feature story on a bounty hunter who had nabbed a dangerous Fish. That way of life just called to him, so he said. Continuing family tradition, I had gotten my degree in journalism, too, though I’d also been bounty hunting with a license since I was 18. Dad was a great teacher. And yeah, the way of life did call to you. You just knew it was what you were supposed to do. At least, that’s how it was for me.
/> The TV made a wind chime sound, letting me know that I had a phone message. I never remember to keep my cell phone on me, which is funny, because I actually knew some people that have surgery to get their phones implanted into their teeth; they were that obsessed with being “connected.” I think they were just plain nuts. Maybe I was a hermit, but I just didn’t like people being able to interrupt me wherever I was, whatever I was doing. So most everyone knew to call the house or car phone.
I put the electric newspaper down and tried not to spill my cereal in my lap as I leaned over to the coffee table, using the built-in touchpad remote to play the phone message. Whoever had left the message hadn’t done so with video, because the screen turned blue with ethereal white ribbons—screensaver of my choice.
“Mina, it’s Dad,” said the man I trusted and loved in a deep, Texan voice. “Listen, I need you to come up to the office. I need to talk to you about a couple a things, one being that your mother called. She’s gonna be in town this week.”
I rolled my eyes, munching on my cereal.
“Anyway, I need to go because my sports writer’s sick and I’ve gotta find somebody to cover the Cowboy’s game. Heard you made a good catch last night. Proud of you, sweetie. Talk soon.”
The words Delete? and Save? appeared on the screen.
“Delete,” I said, and the word Delete flashed with another wind chime sound.
Rogue was munching on the last of his breakfast. His round metal tag tapped against the porcelain bowl. It was old fashioned to keep a tag on him when almost everyone used microchips, but I hated needles enough for the both of us, and have seen the one they use to put those chips in. Just thinking about it made me feel faint. No, thank you! Tag’s fine!
“All righty, bud,” I said, “let’s take you on a quick walk by the river, and then I’ve gotta go talk to Dad.”
Mother was coming to town. Great. Nothing like a visit from the Queen of Snobsville, who also happened to be Number One on the National Selfish Scale. I put my cereal bowl on the ground for Rogue to finish since my appetite had suddenly waned.
I would have almost rather gone back to sleep and dreamed more of that creepy Roberto dream, or heck, dealt with Roberto again in real life over dealing with Mother. But as a certain late, great rock star from last century said, you can’t always get what you want, now, can you?
* * *
I felt inspired to wear a vintage Rolling Stones T-shirt and my favorite pair of worn-in jeans with sneakers that day. I ran a brush through my hair and pulled it back into a pony tail again, and laced up my cushioned black walking sneakers. Rogue wanted a walk, and nobody—I don’t care who you are—can resist the charms of a weenie dog when it really wants something. So we went down to the river and did a couple of miles.
It was a really pretty day. It’d been so hot this summer; the slight cold front that had blown in yesterday was a welcome reprieve.
Sometimes I didn’t know how I could be the product of my mother. She never went on walks, unless it was in an air-conditioned gym. Heaven forbid she ever break a sweat. God help us if a bug landed on her arm. And woe be unto the universe if some wind blew any of her rich, red hair out of place, breaking the illusion of her air-brushed appearance.
I guess the hair is one of the things I got from her. My mother had a head full of crimson waves. But while hers had a more copper tone, mine really was an unusual rose red color. I used to dye it different hues and cut it into wacky styles because I got bored with it. And because I didn’t want to be like Mom. After Mom left Dad (I was 11, going on 12 years old), I chopped it into a bob and dyed it black. I still remember trying not to laugh when Mom screamed bloody murder at the sight of it. Served her right. She had her new husband (husband number 2 then, and currently she was prowling for number 7), and she had her new money. Plus, she was free of the responsibility of Colt and me. She could hate my haircut all she wanted. Let her live with a little disappointment.
I didn’t see her often, maybe a couple times a year. She always called Dad to let us know when she was coming into town, even though she had both my contact info and Colt’s. I had a hunch it was because she tried to retain a hold on Dad, because she was all about control. Dad never remarried. In a way, you could say he’s married to his job. First, bounty hunting. And now the newspaper. He seemed happy enough, so I never tried to “find” him anyone, like so many people tried to do when you’re single.
I took Rogue back home after he’d gotten some good exercise, and then hopped in my green 2052 Honda Hover. Really happy to now have the money to pay the car off, I began my drive to Dad’s workplace with the windows down. The smell of freshly cut grass mixed in with the breeze. Children played outside in sprinklers and tried to sell lemonade on the side of the road. Nice to know some old traditions had lasted the test of time. Older kids drove hover boards or sat on their porches listening to music. Young teen lovers pawed at each other when their parents weren’t looking.
I left the residential area and drove up on the highway. Trees and homes gave way to whizzing traffic and metropolitan buildings. Pressing the flashing yellow AUTO button on my steering wheel, I typed in the newspaper’s address and let the vehicle drive itself. Some people still didn’t feel safe with the AUTO function. I understood that it had only been around for a few years, but I’d never had it fail on me. The car had sensors in it, which kept the car a safe distance from the cars around it. It changed speed to keep with the rhythm, and it also had a built-in sensor for red lights and stop signs. It could also sense sudden obstacles. I was a big fan of the technology. I liked being in control of the vehicle from time to time, but I wanted to check out the Fugitive List and didn’t trust myself to try to drive and look at Fish at the same time.
My Honda’s dashboard had a built-in video monitor and phone, so I turned on the screen and typed in my bounty hunter code that would allow me to view the live feed of criminals. The faces I saw were familiar: fugitives who had escaped us for weeks, months, years. Descriptions of their crimes and bounties flashed in bold print below their faces, as well as any knowledge about them that might lead to their capture. Nando’s face showed up with a big red X on it, signaling that he’d been captured. Below his face were the names “Colt Maxwell and Mina Maxwell.” He’d stay on the channel like that for about a week before disappearing into the archives.
Then came the face of Jared Doyle.
The clean-shaven face didn’t fool me. Neither did the boyish look of innocence on the 27-year-old’s face. The man was an abuser and a child molester. He’d been arrested after beating up on his girlfriend, Leigh, who had accused him of molesting her 6-year-old girl. The whole thing might have gone over a little smoother had Leigh not told him about the video footage she had in a safe—footage of him feeling up little Sammy during the night. His mamma had paid his bail with every last dime she’d had, but he’d failed to make his court date. Fancy that. Now he was in my territory.
I’d been on his trail for a few months. Leigh and I had somewhat gotten to know each other in that span of time. I took her out to lunch once every couple weeks, tried to give her some hope that I’d catch him. I encouraged her not to let him back into her life, and to contact me if she heard any news. Leigh was a very forgiving person, and a woman who thought she could trust words. She’d been letting Jared live there while he “tried to find a job,” and she’d paid the bills. He’d talked a good game and had tried to make things seem equal by babysitting her child while she was at the job, and keeping the house clean on occasion. Well, the last time I checked, babysitters don’t put their hands down children’s pants or make kids touch their grown up private parts.
Jared’s mother wasn’t a whole lot of help, and on top of that, I didn’t much care for the woman. She lived with a man that gave me the abuser vibe the minute I saw him. When I’d entered their house, he’d remained lounging in his chair and watching the TV without so much as a “Hello” to acknowledge me. And there was poor Mrs. Doyle, who pl
ayed martyr and brought him food and drinks with little defeated sighs. When I questioned her about Jared’s whereabouts, all I got was, “He’s left me penniless and with no way to get in touch with him. Me! His only mother.” And also, “My son would never molest a child.” That sort of garbage. I didn’t have the heart to show her the video footage because she wouldn’t have believed the truth even if it stared her in the face. As my grandpa liked to say, “Denial isn’t a river in Egypt.”
Anyway, Mrs. Doyle really had no idea where her son skipped off to, and though Mr. Doyle had failed to make one comment, I sensed that he didn’t know either, and didn’t care. I had a hunch that Jared was far away by now, maybe latching his claws into another girlfriend he could mooch off of.
But my hope sparked back to full force when my car phone suddenly rang.
The screen changed from Jared’s face to show a thin woman with shoulder-length brown hair in the right hand corner of the monitor. She looked younger than her age, despite all that she’d gone through. Her image brightened and dimmed along with a flourish of wind chime sound effects. I pressed the green TALK button on the dashboard, and her image expanded to fill the screen.
“Leigh,” I said, grinning a little at the irony, “Speak of the devil, I was just thinking about you.”
“Mina,” she said, her video image clearly showing real fear in her features.
Something was wrong.
“What is it?” I asked.
“You said to call you if I had a hunch that Jared might be back around. Well…” She fidgeted with her cross necklace. “I’ve been getting these phone calls for the last three nights. And—and there’s no voice on the other line. Just breathing. Heavy breathing. No image. The phone won’t say where it’s from, like it’s blocked or unlisted. I—I don’t know. I just don’t know.”
“Okay,” I said. “Continue.”