Isaac Asimov's I, Robot: To Preserve

by Mickey Zucker Reichert

  Susan studied her hands in her lap, saying nothing.

  “When she told me a police officer she trusted was due to arrive at our door at any minute, it seemed more prudent to just lay low and wait for you.”

  Jake’s attention cut to Susan. She had acted contrary to Pal’s account by refusing to allow Jake access to the apartment. A reasonable explanation did not immediately present itself, and Susan could not tell the truth without revealing herself as the perpetrator of the evidentiary theft.

  Pal had obviously considered the situation and had a ready answer. “But when we got to the apartment, Susan’s cousin had arrived earlier than expected from Iowa. We had barely gotten all three of us safely inside, when you came knocking. Her concerns about Layton colored how she behaved; she didn’t want him to think she regularly got shot at or had cops coming to her door. And, clearly, she didn’t know pistol-permitting law.”

  Susan nodded vigorously to show she did not.

  “So, when it became clear she wasn’t going to let you in, I took matters into my own hands. I reported the incident to you; we arranged to meet here. And here we are. Even discounting the text, no longer than half an hour passed between the shooting and my reporting the incident to an officer of the law.”

  Jake sighed, then nodded. Susan held her breath. It was up to him to determine if the report had been timely enough. “I guess that makes sense enough. I’ll explain it to Central Park Precinct.” His gaze locked on Susan. “And, Susan, whatever you do to investigate this case, make sure you don’t step on any law enforcement toes. Believe it or not, we’re on your side, but there’s only so much I can do to help.”

  “I understand,” Susan said as they all rose and prepared for the drive to 1 West Eighty-sixth Street and Traverse Road.

  Chapter 8

  Detective Jake Carson hesitated in front of a radio motor patrol car parked among several others in the lot outside his office building. He placed a hand on the driver’s-side door handle, then stopped. Without looking at Susan or Pal, he surmised aloud, “I imagine you’re prone to claustrophobia.” As he had not directed the comment, neither of his companions responded immediately. Susan did not suffer from any illogical fears as far as she knew. She supposed Pal had been involved in more than a few difficult or dangerous situations, in training or combat, which might leave him wary of enclosed spaces.

  Though he received no response, Jake bobbed his head as if he had, then redirected his companions to his personal vehicle, a Subaru Sapphire that Susan had come to know well the previous year. He explained sotto voce, “The backseat of a police vehicle is designed for perps, not passengers. We’re taking mine for your security and comfort, but as far as anyone who might be watching is concerned, you’re both claustrophobic.”

  “Thanks,” Pal returned, taking Susan’s hand. His touch sent a shock of excitement through her, the kind she had not felt since Remington’s death, and she found herself hoping it was not just a meaningless gesture of pseudo-affection intended to fool Jake and any cameras. He had a secure, manly grip and a warm, dry palm.

  The moment they settled into the car, Pal turned on his Vox, studying the screen. Reminded that she had also deactivated her Vox during the glide-bus ride, Susan did the same. She had scant hope she had missed anything of import; she had no living relatives, half her friends were currently with her, and her boss was rotting in a jail cell. So, it surprised her to discover seven messages, three of them voice, all of which she converted to text.

  The first was from Dr. Aloise Savage, requesting she call him at her earliest convenience. Three were from various psychiatry residents, two attempting to clarify the rumors of her abrupt departure and one asking about a patient. She answered the last one with a few keystrokes before addressing the final three, all from Kendall Stevens.

  His first, logged in shortly after Susan and Pal had boarded the glide-bus, was a tongue-in-cheek voice mail about a billion-dollar racehorse headed toward the finish line several lengths in front of its competition. One touch of the jockey’s whip sent the animal screeching to a halt, a single step from the line, never to finish the race, thus making itself useful only for dog food. Kendall proceeded to soften the analogy by admitting a job at USR was hardly “dog food” but also pointing out that completing her residency would, in no way, ruin Susan for a job there. It would, however, open her horizons considerably.

  Kendall’s next message, a true text, was silly with a warning subtext: He would not allow her to cut him out of her life for another year. The third stated he would be coming to her apartment at approximately six p.m., with dinner for two in hand and would not take no for an answer.

  Susan responded with, “Make it din 4 4. CU@6.” Kendall and Jake might compare notes, so Nate needed to be at Susan’s apartment, as Layton Campbell, when Kendall arrived. She and Pal would have to figure out a way to make it appear as if her cousin from Iowa consumed his portion of the meal.

  Jake broke what had become a sustained and awkward silence. “So, how did you two meet?”

  Susan glanced at Pal. Focused on collaborating on their Central Park story, they had not yet had a chance to create one for their relationship. Pal was still tapping at his Vox, seemingly engrossed, so Susan answered. “On my rare breaks from the hospital, I always try to do something active. Exercise takes away the kinks and clears my head. I wasn’t up to running in the snow, so I walked to the mall to do some skating. Pal and I bumped into each other on the ice.”

  Pal was paying enough attention to add, “Literally.” He never looked up from his Vox.

  Susan smiled. “Well . . . I’m a decent skater, but I find it difficult to get out of the way of someone who’s going a thousand miles an hour. Especially when he’s not paying attention.”

  Pal finally looked up. “I was racing some kids,” he claimed. “And trying to look cool while doing it.”

  “Well, if bowling over a woman enmeshed in figuring out how to treat someone with Fregoli syndrome looks cool, you succeeded admirably.”

  “I helped you up,” Pal said. “And apologized.”

  “You did,” Susan replied, as if it were an admission, but she could not help adding, “I thought you were a total moron.” Realizing the tale had taken an unsuitable twist, she continued. “If we hadn’t met up at the hospital a few days later, I would have dismissed you as just some jerk.”

  Jake asked the obvious question. “What were you doing at the hospital, Pal?”

  Susan stopped herself from flinching. Thus far, she thought, they had done a great job concocting a believable story. The longer it got, and the more locales it involved, the more likely one of them would make a mistake.

  Pal set aside his texting for the moment. “Visiting a sick friend. At least, that’s what I told Susan.”

  “What you told me?” Susan turned her attention completely onto Pal. “You mean you weren’t there to see Mr. V?” Paranoid about Jake checking up on the story, she chose the initial of a patient she remembered. So long as she did not use his actual name, she was not violating confidentiality.

  “I didn’t even know him,” Pal said. “I came to see you, then panicked. I saw his name on a board . . .”

  The charade was becoming dangerously complicated, but Susan had no choice but to play along with what she had started. “But you spent an hour together. He never said anything about . . .”

  “I’m not sure if he figured out what was happening and played along or if he was just so out of it, he thought I really was someone he knew.”

  Susan pretended to consider. “He was deeply depressed. Nothing was working. I don’t know what you talked about, but he did seem a lot brighter after your visit. That’s the main reason I agreed to go out with you. I figured anyone who could buoy Mr. V.’s spirits was worth knowing.”

  Pal looked at his hands. “As long as I’m confessing stuff, the collision on the ice wasn’t
entirely accidental, either.”

  Susan tried to sound affronted. “You meant to knock me on my butt!”

  “Of course not,” Pal defended himself from the fiction. “I was just trying to get your attention. You were so engrossed in . . . whatever that syndrome was you mentioned. After several tries, I guess I miscalculated.”

  “She said Fregoli syndrome,” Jake inserted. “What exactly is that?”

  Susan had not intended to go there, but she dutifully explained. “It’s a rare disorder in which a person believes that several people are really all the same person in disguise. It’s usually associated with paranoia. I had a patient who presented with it, and I was trying to come up with an explanation for why it exists and what might cause it when I got creamed on the ice.” Again, she had chosen something a real patient had presented with, without mentioning her name.

  “Sorry,” Pal said, as if for the fortieth time. Briefly, he turned his attention back to his Vox, tapping it several more times.

  Susan took the lead again. “Not exactly the romantic story you tell the grandkids.”

  “Actually,” Jake said, “when you add the part about Pal pursuing you, and your being entirely oblivious until months afterward, it is kind of sweet.”

  Susan grinned and reached for Pal’s hand. He stopped texting long enough to curl his fingers around hers and turn his face toward her. She found herself staring into those intoxicating eyes once again. She did not need to see his mouth; the warm smile was visible in their sapphirine depths. For a strange and giddy moment, she could actually forget the charade, could imagine a long and happy lifetime together.

  Jake pulled into the precinct parking lot, leaving the motor running. He turned to look directly at his passengers. He opened his mouth as if to speak, then closed it and sighed deeply. He started again, hesitantly. “Susan, I know you can read people as easily as most people read street signs, so I’m guessing you understand what I’m about to do better than I do.” He stopped, clearly wanting something from her.

  Susan dragged her attention from Pal’s chiseled features to plant it firmly on Jake. She guessed, borrowing from Pal’s previous comment after the shooting. “Sometimes, when you’ve saved someone’s life at the risk of your own, an eerie symbiosis develops. The saver often feels more indebted than the savee.” She added swiftly, “Though not in this case. I appreciate everything you’ve done for me, Jake . . .” Susan winced, remembering her cold aversion over the past year, but could not apologize for it again. Though cruel to her friends, she had needed that year to maintain her own sanity. “Even if I’ve not always done a great job of showing it.”

  Pal encouraged gently. “If it’s any consolation, Jake, I know exactly how you feel.”

  “I’ll bet you do,” Jake said, without a hint of sarcasm. He even managed a smile.

  Susan caught the subtext. Pal still knew relatively little about her, but Jake understood nearly every detail of her struggle over the past two years. He was fully aware that she had become caught, however unwittingly, in a deeply moral and significant war she could not afford to lose. He trusted her implicitly and, intentionally or not, had come to champion her cause, sometimes ahead of his own best interests.

  Jake sighed again. “I’ve been listening to the chatter.” He tapped at his left ear, a universal gesture to indicate an essentially invisible earpiece. “The only victim found at the scene of the attack was a woman with a GSW.” Apparently, the medical abbreviation for “gunshot wound” was the same for the police.

  “Is she all right?” Susan asked.

  Jake nodded. “The doctors believe she caught a ricochet. No sign of a projectile, inside or out.”

  It took Susan a moment to understand Jake’s actual point. “The three men who attacked me? The ones Pal shot?”

  Jake shook his head. “No.”

  “No?” Susan repeated incredulously. “No . . . bodies?”

  “No sign of them whatsoever. No indication they were ever there. Central Park Precinct is looking for someone who fired recklessly into a crowd.”

  Susan rushed to Pal’s defense. “It happened the way we told you. The guys who attacked us were the ones shooting recklessly. Pal didn’t—”

  Jake stopped her with a raised hand. “It’s Jake, remember? You don’t have to convince me that an organized group wants Susan Calvin dead.”

  Susan fell silent.

  “You need to keep in mind that the feds put a lid on everything that happened to us last year. CPP doesn’t know your situation, and there’s a limit to what you can tell them about it.”

  Susan suddenly realized another reason Jake had found an excuse to switch to his own vehicle. Police cars were an extension of their precincts: Anything that happened in them was recorded. Jake’s car would not have such intrusions. “But I don’t know the cover story.”

  Jake gave Susan a hard stare. “Whose fault is that?”

  “Mine,” Susan admitted without hesitation. “But does that really matter at the moment?”

  “There’s not time to brief you now.” Jake glanced at Pal, then back, indicating he had no idea how much Susan’s partner knew or what she wished to tell him. “You’re going to need to avoid talking about last year as much as possible to keep from slipping up.”

  Susan realized the difficulty. If she related the story of what had happened in the park to the Central Park Precinct, she would have little choice but to reference the previous year to explain why people were shooting at her. With nothing on the scene to corroborate them, she and Pal would look like an intertwined pair of schizophrenics feeding off each other’s paranoid delusion. “Um, Jake. If we report shooting three men who appear not to exist and a conspiracy to murder me about which they’ve heard nothing, won’t we appear—”

  “Batcrap crazy,” Pal inserted.

  Jake spread his hands to indicate they had struck to the heart of his problem.

  Susan was not accustomed to ever being a step behind anyone in a discussion, but she needed to clarify a point. “What happened to the men Pal shot? I mean, I didn’t have a chance to check if they were dead, but they definitely went down too hard to walk away.”

  “Mop-up crew,” Pal said. “Well-organized militias or criminals can clear a scene in minutes. I won’t go into details of how it’s done, except to say they had a lot of backup. Some assisted or carried the casualties while others pursued us. A few more cleaned up the site.”

  Jake nodded knowingly. “Which lends more credence to your SFH theory, Susan. They can’t afford to leave any sign of their involvement.”

  A grim sense of foreboding settled over Susan. “Jake, you can’t leave me without an armed escort.”

  Jake’s head never stopped bobbing. “And you still refuse police protection?”

  “Unless . . .” Susan saw only one opening. “Will they assign you to me?”

  Jake answered immediately. “Not a chance.”

  “Then no,” Susan answered vehemently. “I’m not going to hide in some secret location, keeping my head below window level and hiding behind a stranger. I need you, or I need Pal.” She tried to sound firm, not whiny. “You can’t let them take his guns away.” Though Susan never wanted to pull a trigger again, she appreciated the need to keep the good guys armed. The bad guys, she knew, paid no heed to law or permits.

  Jake sighed again, even more deeply. “I can’t believe I’m saying this.” He turned his gaze fully on Pal. “If you do or say anything about this, if you lose me my job, then MARSOC training or none, I’m going to hunt you both down and . . . and NSR you.”

  Susan remembered NSR stood for “nonstandard response.” She wondered whether members of the military used the same shorthand as police did for shooting a bad guy to the ground no matter how many shots it took. She had never been gladder that Kendall was not with them to make a witty remark. Jake might have exploded.
“You have my word I won’t say or do anything that could get you in trouble.” She found herself silently adding, On purpose. No matter how much she tried to avoid it, misfortune seemed to find her. When Jake assisted her, it struck him hardest of all. At least, this time, he’s not physically involved.

  Apparently understanding or surmising the NSR reference, Pal said nothing. He simply raised a closed hand, and the men bumped fists. Susan could only conjecture, but it seemed to reassure Jake, to convey a wordless but significant promise of loyalty.

  Jake turned back to face the windshield, turned off the engine, and slumped for a moment. He spoke without looking at them. “We’ll go in together, but I’m going to talk to them first. Alone. I’ll take the blame for your delay in reporting. I’m going to stick mostly to what happened but fudge the times a bit. Okay?”

  “Thank you,” Susan said, truly grateful.

  Jake continued. “I’m going to hand over the pistol and chip because I have to. It’ll be up to them to determine if and how quickly you get them back, but I’m going to encourage them to return both as soon as possible. Whether or not they demand your other guns will depend on what, if anything, is found at the scene.”

  Now it was Pal’s turn to say, “Thank you, Jake. You’re a standup guy, and I’d be honored to have you at my back. Ever considered joining the Marines?”

  “Only for about a second.” Jake shook his head wordlessly. “Believe me, I appreciate what you do.”

  “Did,” Pal corrected.

  “Did,” Jake repeated. “But I wouldn’t last a day in a war zone.”

  Having relied on Jake in some tight and dangerous situations, Susan doubted it, but said nothing. Like the vast majority of civilians, she had absolutely no idea what the military did or even where or if wars were currently being fought.

  Jake returned to the subject at hand. “The longer we delay, the harder this gets to explain.” He shoved open his door, grabbing an envelope from the seat beside him. “The two of you need to decide what you’re going to tell the CP Precinct about what happened earlier today, and you need to do it while we’re walking to the building. Because, once you’re inside, nothing you say is private anymore.” He stepped out and closed the door behind him.