Thy Brother's Keeper

by F. Paul Wilson

  He came up with a red, softball-size object that jiggled in his gloved hand.

  Romy stared at it. “A water balloon?”

  “Not quite. Put your pistol away and get ready to open the door for me.”

  Romy didn’t know what Zero was up to, but she’d learned to trust his judgment. And his preternatural calm bolstered her confidence. She stowed the pistol and unlatched the door.

  Zero called toward the front: “Do we have any curves coming up, Patrick?”

  “About thirty yards.”

  Zero turned to Romy. “Get ready. Five-four-three-two-one-open!”

  Romy gave the door a shove. As soon as it swung open, revealing the green Taurus no more than half a dozen feet from their rear bumper, Zero launched the balloon with a gentle underhand toss.

  Romy watched it wobble through the air and land on their pursuer’s windshield—which then disappeared in a splatter of dark green paint.

  The car swerved as the windshield wipers came on.

  “Those won’t help,” Zero said. “Oil-based.”

  And then the van leaned to the right as it rounded a curve, but the Taurus kept going straight, bounding off the gravel roadway and ramming nose first into a deep ditch. It hung there, trunk skyward, steam boiling from under its crumpled hood.

  She heard Patrick laugh. “What the hell?”

  “Not in the clear yet,” Zero said, staring out the rear door at the second car. He had another paint balloon in his hand. “Come on,” he whispered. “Just a little closer.”

  But the second car, a dark blue Jeep, hung back. Obviously they’d seen what happened to the Taurus.

  “Have to try something else,” Zero said. He rummaged in the chest and came up with a plastic container. “Here. Toss these out.”

  Romy lifted the lid to find a couple of dozen steel objects that looked like jacks. But these were much bigger, and instead of six tips, these had only four, each ending in a sharp barbed point.

  “What are—?”

  “Road stars. Just toss them out. They’re configured so that they always land with a point up.”

  Romy emptied the container, watched the Jeep roll over them, and waited for its tires to go flat.

  “Hmmm,” Zero said. “Must have self-sealing tires. The stars will chew them up eventually but we don’t have time for that. They’re probably calling for more back-up now.”

  He pulled two lengths of chain from the chest, each with a dozen or so road stars attached, and dropped them out the back.

  Again Romy watched the Jeep run over them, but nothing happened.

  “They didn’t work.”

  “Just give them a few seconds longer. The chains will wrap themselves around an axle, and drag the stars through the rubber—”

  Romy saw a puff of dust as the front left tire blew out.

  “—tearing the tire to shreds.”

  The Jeep swerved on the gravel and then another tire blew. The van left it behind in the dark, eating dust.

  “Back to that 78 sign, Patrick,” Zero called, “and please don’t miss it this time.”

  Romy gazed at Zero and tried to sort through the strange mix of emotions scattering through her at that moment. They were warm—no, they were hot—and if this wasn’t love, it should be.

  Luca thumbed the SEND button on his ringing PCA. It was Stritch.

  “I’m in the crib now,” he said. “Our buddy Benny here is in charge of forty-two sims, and that’s how many I count.”

  “Count again. You made a mistake.”

  “I’ve counted three times already. There’s forty-two sims here; not forty-three, not forty-one. Forty-two.”

  “Then he’s lying about the number.”

  “That’s what I thought so I made him show me his records. Sure enough: forty-two.”

  Portero growled and hung up. All sims accounted for? Then where did the sim in the van come from?

  The PCA rang again. Snyder this time. His voice sounded strange…nasal.

  “Give me some good news.”

  “We lost them.”

  Luca’s car swerved when he heard the words and he didn’t trust himself to drive. He pulled over and listened to Snyder’s long-winded, jumbled, broken-nosed, ass-covering version of whatever really happened, blaming it on a guy in a ski mask or some such shit. When it was over Luca broke the connection and sat with his forehead resting on the steering wheel. For the first time in his adult life, Luca Portero wanted to cry.

  9

  NEWARK, NJ

  DECEMBER 23

  “All right,” Zero said, peering through the pre-dawn light at the McDonald’s four blocks ahead. “Let’s stop here.”

  He sat with Tome and Kek in the rear of the van. Patrick had the wheel as usual, Romy at his side.

  Zero yawned. Tired. They all were tired. And they should be. A long night that he, Romy, and Patrick had spent spray-painting the van. He’d had no way of finding a new one on such short notice, so now the old one sported a glossy black coat and New Jersey tags he’d picked from a pile of old plates he’d found in a Staten Island junkyard.

  He glanced at his watch: 6:45A .M. and still no sun. Not due to rise for another half hour. Newark hadn’t risen yet either, most of it still asleep on this cold Sunday morning. He’d wrestled all night with the timing of his approach to Meerm. Assuming he could find her, it would be safer for all concerned to make contact under cover of darkness. But he was sure Meerm would be frightened of anyone she couldn’t see. That necessitated a daylight approach, multiplying the risks of being spotted.

  He stared at the McDonald’s, Beece’s key landmark. He’d told Tome he’d been able to see its golden arches over a fence near Meerm’s hiding place. Beece had made no mention of crossing the avenue, which meant Meerm was hiding someplace behind the McDonald’s.

  A detailed aerial reconnaissance photo would have told him all he needed to know, but since he didn’t have one of those, he’d have to proceed by trial and error.

  “Okay,” he told Patrick. “Let’s make this first right up here and see if you can position us a couple of blocks behind the McDonald’s. We’ll work our way back toward it from there.”

  “Gotcha,” Patrick said, and put the van in gear.

  “Everyone keep an eye out for Portero’s people.”

  “If you see a green Taurus,” Romy said, grinning at Zero over her shoulder, “it won’t be them.”

  Patrick laughed. “Right! I’ll bet it’ll be next week before anyone can see through that windshield again.”

  Zero grinned beneath his ski mask. Fortunately no shots had been traded. Romy’s pistol last night had unsettled him. Their pursuers undoubtedly had seen Tome get into the van—why else would they have followed?—and so Zero guessed they’d want the sim alive as a lead to Meerm. He’d figured—hoped was more like it—that they wouldn’t fire unless fired upon. He was glad he’d brought along some alternative weaponry.

  However, if they ran into any of Portero’s men today, they’d be edgy, might shoot first and worry later about who they hit. That was why he’d brought Kek along. He glanced back at the gorilla-mandrill hybrid crouched by the rear door. He wore black coveralls cinched with the belt that held his Special Forces knife. His snout was a cool blue and he seemed relaxed, but Zero knew if provoked he could explode into violence in the blink of an eye.

  As Zero turned forward again, he caught Romy staring at him, her eyes almost luminous in the dimness. She’d been doing that a lot since their time together in the rear of the van last night. He sensed it was more than combat bonding, feared it might be infatuation. That sort of look from Romy should have made him giddy, but instead it weighed on Zero. A look was the limit, the most he could ever hope for.

  After zigzagging through the narrow streets, Patrick stopped the van by the mouth of an alley running between a rundown tenement and an abandoned brick building that might have been a factory once. Pigeons clustered in its broken window frames, cooing and watching.r />
  “Unless my sense of direction is completely out of whack,” Patrick said, pointing down the alley, “the McDonald’s is two blocks that-a-way.”

  “All right then, Tome,” Zero said. “It’s up to you and me now. Let’s go find Meerm.”

  The old sim looked at Patrick and Zero could sense the bond between them. Patrick nodded. “Go ahead, Tome. You can do it.”

  “Yes, Mist Sulliman. Tome try best.”

  Patrick rolled down his window and checked the street. “All clear.”

  Zero pushed open a rear door and hopped down. As soon as Tome was out he started to push it closed and found Romy staring at him again.

  “Be careful,” she said.

  Zero could only nod.

  He hurried Tome off the sidewalk and into the narrow alley. As they moved through the litter and the rubble, their breath steaming in the frigid air, Zero glanced up and was surprised to see a number of clotheslines stretching above them; one sported a bra and a very large set of white panties. Apparently the tenement wasn’t as deserted as it looked.

  “If you were Meerm,” Zero said to Tome, keeping his voice low, “and you were in here and frightened, and looking for a place to hide, which way would you go?”

  “Tome not Meerm.”

  “Yes, but imagine you were.”

  “What is ’magine?”

  How to explain that? Maybe Tome wasn’t capable of imagining. But he’d imagined starting a sim union, hadn’t he. Imagining a solution to a problem, though, wasn’t the same as pretending to be someone else.

  But if I can do it, why can’t Tome?

  “We can talk about imagining later,” Zero told him. “Right now we need to find a spot where we can see the golden arches over a fence, isn’t that what Beece said?”

  “Yes. Say Meerm in metal door with red write.”

  A metal door with red writing…that was their best clue. If they had a big search party, and unlimited time, and could comb the area openly without fear of being attacked, Zero had no doubt they’d find Meerm before the morning was out. But with just him and Tome…

  They arrived in a small quadrangular courtyard that once must have served as a dump for the surrounding buildings. No fence, no McDonald’s arches, no metal door with red writing.

  They moved on into another alley, misaligned with the one they’d just left. They were halfway to the next street when Zero noticed a low passage, five feet high at most, cutting away through the wall of the building to their left. He stooped and saw daylight at the far end.

  “Did Beece mention anything about a tunnel?”

  Tome shook his head. “No, Mist Zero.”

  “Okay, then.” He was about to turn away when it occurred to him to check it out. They were here. Foolish not to take a look.

  “Tome, we should see what’s on the other end of that tunnel. Since you’re smaller, you’re elected. Hurry though and take a quick look. If you see anything that might be what we’re looking for, I’ll follow you.”

  The old sim nodded and ducked into the tunnel. Zero watched his silhouette dwindle toward the far end until he stepped into the light. He moved away from the opening, leaving Zero staring at an empty square of light, and then suddenly he was there again, hurrying back.

  “Mist Zero!” Tome cried, his voice squeaking with excitement. “Is here! Metal door and fence and red write!”

  Zero didn’t wait to hear if the McDonald’s arches were visible.

  “Let’s go!”

  Bent in a deep crouch, he splashed through the wet tunnel in Tome’s wake and emerged into a small vacant lot. A fenced vacant lot, with the McDonald’s arches visible between the buildings across the street. And directly across the lot, an abandoned brick warehouse with a rusty metal door embedded in its flank, a door labeled with a warning in faded red letters. At the rear of the lot was the open end of an alley, probably how Beece had arrived.

  They’d found it. Now they had to hope she hadn’t moved to a new hiding place. Please, let her still be there.

  “All right, Tome. Remember: We have to be calm, we have to speak softly. You’ll do the talking as we planned, okay?”

  Tome nodded. “Tome talk good.”

  Zero approached the door with measured steps, making enough noise so that anyone on the other side would hear their approach and not be taken completely by surprise when the door opened. He stopped outside it, waited a heartbeat or two, then gripped the door’s upper corner and pulled.

  The hinges squealed horribly as it swung open. Inside lay a pool of night, untouched by the dawn. Zero listened but heard no movement within.

  As rehearsed, Tome leaned inside and said, “Meerm? This Tome. Friend sim. Friend Beece. Tome bring friend help Meerm.”

  Silence.

  She’s gone, Zero thought.

  And then, echoing from within, a soft whimper.

  “Do you think they’re all right?” Romy said as she sat in the passenger seat and stared down the alley.

  “They’ve only been gone a few minutes,” Patrick replied.

  Romy knew that, but couldn’t quell her dark sense of foreboding.

  “I should have gone with them.”

  “No, you shouldn’t have. And you know why.”

  Romy glanced at Patrick. He seemed testy this morning. Lack of sleep, maybe. But she knew what he meant: They’d all agreed that a group of humans would spook Meerm.

  “Well, then, I should have gone with Tome instead of Zero. I’m female. If Tome can’t talk her out, I think a female human would be a lot less threatening than a male.”

  Patrick looked at her. “You could be right. In fact, that makes sense—a hell of a lot more sense than sending a guy in a ski mask. I must be overtired. I should have thought of that myself. Hell, why didn’t you bring this up before?”

  “I did. But Zero was dead set on going himself. Wouldn’t consider anyone else.”

  “Doesn’t make sense. You’ve known him longer than I have, but he doesn’t strike me as the my-way-or-the-highway sort.”

  “He’s not. He’ll go with the best idea, no matter who comes up with it. But he wasn’t budging on this.”

  “Must have his reasons.”

  “I’m sure he does. And after last night, I’m more than willing to defer to his judgment.” She caught Patrick rolling his eyes. “What?”

  “Nothing.”

  “No, tell me.”

  “I thought you were going to start gushing again.”

  “Gush?” She felt a sting of embarrassment, knew what he was talking about, but couldn’t bring herself to admit it. “About what? I don’t gush about anything.”

  “You do about Zero. You haven’t been able to stop yakking about last night.”

  Was it that obvious? She’d been so taken by Zero’s aplomb in handling their pursuers—was still impressed, couldn’t stop thinking about it. He could have got those two cars off their tail by pulling out a bazooka and blowing them both to smithereens. Effective but…lacking something. Instead he’d operated like a skilled surgeon, not cutting too deep or too long, inflicting no more damage than necessary to get the job done. And she loved that.

  Now more than ever she felt she had to know who Zero was. She needed to see the face, look into the eyes of this man who did what he did, not just last night, but every day of his life. That was the man for her.

  She looked at Patrick. Another good man, who managed to surprise her time and again. But he wasn’t Zero. There was no one else in the world like Zero.

  “Sorry if I’ve been boring you,” she said. “But if you could have seen—”

  A growl from Kek, squatting in the darkness behind them. Patrick held up his hand for silence and cocked his head toward the van’s oversized side view mirror.

  “Oh, shit. We’ve got trouble!”

  Romy tensed and reached into her bag for her pistol. “Like what?”

  “Like a late model Impala coming this way, looking like it’s got no particular place to go
.”

  She looked down the alley. No sign of Zero and Tome returning yet. Good.

  “Duck down. Maybe they’ll just drive by if it looks empty.”

  “Too late. I’m sure they spotted me in my side mirror.”

  “All right then,” she said, her thoughts accelerating. “Let’s pretend we’re having a fight.” She raised her voice and gestured angrily. “You worthless lump of protoplasm! What good are you? Tell me that! What good are you?”

  “Protoplasm?” Patrick said.

  “The window’s closed,” she told him. “Doesn’t matter what we say; they won’t be able to make out the words anyway, but we’ve got to look like we’re going at it.”

  “Yeah?” Patrick cried, getting into it. “Is that what you think of me? Protoplasm? Hey, you’re nothing but a…a…” He lowered his voice. “What’s lower than protoplasm?”

  “I don’t know,” she whispered as she shrugged. “Try mitochondria.”

  “Right!” he shouted, shaking his fist in the air between them. “That’s what you are! A mitochondria! Just a lousy, no-good, two-bit mitochondria!”

  The Impala slowed as it passed, and Romy saw the passenger’s pale face turned their way, his flat gray eyes staring into the van’s cab, past Patrick’s turned back, at her face. She hoped she looked angry enough.

  Romy slammed the dashboard with her fist. “Isn’t that typical! You don’t even know the word! The singular is mitochondrion , you moron!”

  The Chevy pulled ahead and looked like it was moving on, but then it stopped.

  Kek let out another growl. Romy glanced back and noticed the mandrilla’s snout had turned a bright red.

  “Easy, Kek,” Romy cooed. “Just stay put.”

  But as the Impala’s passenger door swung open, so did one of the van’s rear doors.

  “Stay, Kek!” Patrick said. “I can talk us out of—” The rear door closed softly. “What’s he going to do?”

  “Nothing!” Romy shouted, motioning to him to keep up the faux fight. “Not unless he has to! And if we play this right, he won’t have to!”

  Patrick matched her volume. “How, goddamnit?”

  The passenger, a fortyish redhead wearing a wrinkled green sport coat and a wary expression, was almost to Patrick’s door.