Their Fractured Light
Page 12
For once I don’t have to hide the terror coursing through me as I reach with a shaking hand for the edge of the counter to pull myself up. My legs are barely working. I was never one of the warriors on Avon—I know how to duck and cover, but fight? The adrenaline is making me nauseous, making my vision blur and my nose sting as I try to keep breathing. “Whatever it is,” I whisper, “just take it and go.”
“That would be you.” The man’s eyes flicker, just for a moment, down toward where my other hand is gripping the towel closed in front of me. It’s only for an instant, but I’m swept by a wave of fear so tangible I nearly choke on it. “You paid us a little visit the other day at Headquarters. The boss wants us to ask you a few questions.”
They know. My last hope of throwing them off my identity falls away into tatters.
The man watches me, enjoying this, the moment when I realize I’m probably going to die tonight, when they’re done questioning me. Then, softly, he says, “You should be more careful who you write to over the hypernet these days.”
My gaze snaps to my comscreen before I can stop myself. Dr. Rao’s last, brief message to me hovers in front of my blurring eyes: Burn this connection. Run.
She was trying to warn me. Did they catch her, too?
“I have friends.” It doesn’t even sound like my voice. I can’t think. I can’t move. “They’ll know why I vanished, if I don’t show up. They’ll know who did it, they’ll call the police.”
“We are the police,” says the second man, sounding impatient. My act isn’t fooling them—the realization closes over me like water, leaving me drowning in its wake. When I look again at their uniforms I realize they’re from LaRoux Industries’ security branch, which explains how they were able to access my apartment. And why they’re doing this so brazenly outfitted in LRI’s uniform. Kristina McDowell uses an LRI alarm system to protect her belongings. Any call to the police will also get patched through to them—even if what I was saying were true. Even if there was anyone waiting for me, anyone who’d realize I was gone.
One of the other men—there are four total, all distinctly unimpressed with my attempts to find sympathy or hesitation in what they’re doing—emerges from the bathroom with the clothes I left on the floor before getting in the shower. He tosses them at me and grunts to the others, “All clear. She’s alone.”
“Put your clothes on,” snaps the first guy, the one whose eyes keep flickering over me like he’s imagining what’s beneath the white terry cloth. “Unless that’s what you’d like to wear when you come with us.”
I nod, not trusting myself to speak, and turn toward the bathroom. My mind’s running through an inventory of everything in there. The mirror—no, they’d hear it breaking. Perfume—the alcohol would burn their eyes if I could throw straight. My hair spray—if I had a lighter I could use it as a makeshift flamethrower. The hair dryer—the puddles I’ve left on the floor—are they wearing rubber-soled shoes?
But I don’t get more than a step in that direction before a jerk of the man’s gun halts me in my tracks. “You can change right here,” he says, those roving eyes narrowed.
My skin crawls so violently that for a moment I think I might sink back down onto the floor. I grip the edge of the counter, white-knuckled. “I can’t change out here,” I blurt, no longer acting. “I can’t—while you’re—”
Roving Eyes grins a little, and though there’s smugness there, it’s a grin that so contrasts with the hacker’s smile that for a moment, a detached part of my mind focuses on Gideon, wondering what he’ll think when my body turns up somewhere on the news. If it turns up. Roving Eyes’s voice drags me back. “You can step out there. I’ll turn my back and you’ll have ten seconds. You’re not dressed in ten seconds, or I hear you moving in any direction or doing anything other than dressing, you’ll come naked.”
“But—” My voice tangles, my mind finally blanking entirely. I’ve run out of words. I can’t think. I can’t escape.
“Clock’s ticking.”
I lurch out into the center of the living room and glance over my shoulder to see the man do as promised and turn his back. I can see two of the others behind him, speaking to each other; they could turn their heads and see me. But the man’s beginning to count down from ten, voice crawling into my ears and prompting me to drop the towel and scramble as quickly as I can into the tank top and lounge pants I was wearing before I took my shower. I’m still pulling my top down when the countdown finishes, but he can hear the rustle of fabric, and he waits a half a breath longer. In another time, some other situation, that lenience might have given me some hope. But by the time I pull my shirt down, the gun’s aimed squarely my way, the glow of the comscreen from the office glinting blue off the metal barrel.
The comscreen.
“My boyfriend!” I gasp, throwing a plan together as I speak. “He’s meeting me here tonight for a date. He’ll be here any minute—he’s a reporter—I don’t think your boss would like to read about this in the papers. Me disappearing, days after being harassed by LRI security at Headquarters.”
The man rolls his eyes, then jerks his chin at the screen. “Call him. No—write him. Don’t want him hearing anything unusual in your voice. Cancel your date. I’ll just stand behind you and make sure you don’t make any errors.”
I force my face to fall, my expression to crumble, even as a tiny flicker of hope kindles, my first since I realized I wasn’t alone in my apartment. Two of them follow me into the office, and as I move across to sit in front of the screen, Roving Eyes stands so close behind me I can feel his body heat. With a swipe of my trembling hand, I select the name—Jake Cheshire—from the list.
Then in a shaking voice, I dictate my message.
“Hi, babe.” I swallow, watching the letters pop up on the screen as the computer reads my voice. “No need to come over tonight after all. My father and some of his friends stopped by, so I’m going to go out to dinner with them. I’ll see you this weekend though—we’re still on for the park where we met last time, right? I’m dying to see you. Love, Alice.”
“Wait,” Roving Eyes says, his voice sharpening. “Let me read it before you send it.”
I hold my breath. I’ve tried every hint I can think of: mentioning my father, who Gideon knows is dead; telling him who has me by mentioning the holopark at LRI Headquarters; using a name from the same work of fiction from which his boss—the Knave of Hearts—takes his nom de guerre. I pray it’s enough. I pray he’s checking that inbox regularly. I pray—
The man grunts. “Fine. Send it and let’s go.”
I force my eyes to blink regularly for the screen’s eye-trackers, when all I want to do is squeeze them shut, to block out everything like an animal hiding its head in the sand. The message swishes off with a chime. At least if they end up killing me, someone might know. Someone, somewhere, will know what happened to me.
“Move!” shouts the man, when I sit frozen in the desk chair.
My gaze sweeps the apartment as I jerk to my feet, looking for something, anything I can use. Once they get me out of the apartment, my odds of getting out of this alive dwindle to almost nothing. Just think. Just breathe. Then a jolt flashes through me—my plas-pistol is still in my handbag from the day I was at LRI. It’s in my closet. “My shoes are in my bedroom,” I say, my voice shaking more violently now that I know what I have to do. Now that I know I have to try to fight. “In my closet.”
“That would be you.” The man’s eyes flicker, just for a moment, down toward where my other hand is gripping the towel closed in front of me. It’s only for an instant, but I’m swept by a wave of fear so tangible I nearly choke on it. “You paid us a little visit the other day at Headquarters. The boss wants us to ask you a few questions.”
They know. My last hope of throwing them off my identity falls away into tatters.
The man watches me, enjoying this, the moment when I realize I’m probably going to die tonight, when they’re done questioning me. Then, softly, he says, “You should be more careful who you write to over the hypernet these days.”
My gaze snaps to my comscreen before I can stop myself. Dr. Rao’s last, brief message to me hovers in front of my blurring eyes: Burn this connection. Run.
She was trying to warn me. Did they catch her, too?
“I have friends.” It doesn’t even sound like my voice. I can’t think. I can’t move. “They’ll know why I vanished, if I don’t show up. They’ll know who did it, they’ll call the police.”
“We are the police,” says the second man, sounding impatient. My act isn’t fooling them—the realization closes over me like water, leaving me drowning in its wake. When I look again at their uniforms I realize they’re from LaRoux Industries’ security branch, which explains how they were able to access my apartment. And why they’re doing this so brazenly outfitted in LRI’s uniform. Kristina McDowell uses an LRI alarm system to protect her belongings. Any call to the police will also get patched through to them—even if what I was saying were true. Even if there was anyone waiting for me, anyone who’d realize I was gone.
One of the other men—there are four total, all distinctly unimpressed with my attempts to find sympathy or hesitation in what they’re doing—emerges from the bathroom with the clothes I left on the floor before getting in the shower. He tosses them at me and grunts to the others, “All clear. She’s alone.”
“Put your clothes on,” snaps the first guy, the one whose eyes keep flickering over me like he’s imagining what’s beneath the white terry cloth. “Unless that’s what you’d like to wear when you come with us.”
I nod, not trusting myself to speak, and turn toward the bathroom. My mind’s running through an inventory of everything in there. The mirror—no, they’d hear it breaking. Perfume—the alcohol would burn their eyes if I could throw straight. My hair spray—if I had a lighter I could use it as a makeshift flamethrower. The hair dryer—the puddles I’ve left on the floor—are they wearing rubber-soled shoes?
But I don’t get more than a step in that direction before a jerk of the man’s gun halts me in my tracks. “You can change right here,” he says, those roving eyes narrowed.
My skin crawls so violently that for a moment I think I might sink back down onto the floor. I grip the edge of the counter, white-knuckled. “I can’t change out here,” I blurt, no longer acting. “I can’t—while you’re—”
Roving Eyes grins a little, and though there’s smugness there, it’s a grin that so contrasts with the hacker’s smile that for a moment, a detached part of my mind focuses on Gideon, wondering what he’ll think when my body turns up somewhere on the news. If it turns up. Roving Eyes’s voice drags me back. “You can step out there. I’ll turn my back and you’ll have ten seconds. You’re not dressed in ten seconds, or I hear you moving in any direction or doing anything other than dressing, you’ll come naked.”
“But—” My voice tangles, my mind finally blanking entirely. I’ve run out of words. I can’t think. I can’t escape.
“Clock’s ticking.”
I lurch out into the center of the living room and glance over my shoulder to see the man do as promised and turn his back. I can see two of the others behind him, speaking to each other; they could turn their heads and see me. But the man’s beginning to count down from ten, voice crawling into my ears and prompting me to drop the towel and scramble as quickly as I can into the tank top and lounge pants I was wearing before I took my shower. I’m still pulling my top down when the countdown finishes, but he can hear the rustle of fabric, and he waits a half a breath longer. In another time, some other situation, that lenience might have given me some hope. But by the time I pull my shirt down, the gun’s aimed squarely my way, the glow of the comscreen from the office glinting blue off the metal barrel.
The comscreen.
“My boyfriend!” I gasp, throwing a plan together as I speak. “He’s meeting me here tonight for a date. He’ll be here any minute—he’s a reporter—I don’t think your boss would like to read about this in the papers. Me disappearing, days after being harassed by LRI security at Headquarters.”
The man rolls his eyes, then jerks his chin at the screen. “Call him. No—write him. Don’t want him hearing anything unusual in your voice. Cancel your date. I’ll just stand behind you and make sure you don’t make any errors.”
I force my face to fall, my expression to crumble, even as a tiny flicker of hope kindles, my first since I realized I wasn’t alone in my apartment. Two of them follow me into the office, and as I move across to sit in front of the screen, Roving Eyes stands so close behind me I can feel his body heat. With a swipe of my trembling hand, I select the name—Jake Cheshire—from the list.
Then in a shaking voice, I dictate my message.
“Hi, babe.” I swallow, watching the letters pop up on the screen as the computer reads my voice. “No need to come over tonight after all. My father and some of his friends stopped by, so I’m going to go out to dinner with them. I’ll see you this weekend though—we’re still on for the park where we met last time, right? I’m dying to see you. Love, Alice.”
“Wait,” Roving Eyes says, his voice sharpening. “Let me read it before you send it.”
I hold my breath. I’ve tried every hint I can think of: mentioning my father, who Gideon knows is dead; telling him who has me by mentioning the holopark at LRI Headquarters; using a name from the same work of fiction from which his boss—the Knave of Hearts—takes his nom de guerre. I pray it’s enough. I pray he’s checking that inbox regularly. I pray—
The man grunts. “Fine. Send it and let’s go.”
I force my eyes to blink regularly for the screen’s eye-trackers, when all I want to do is squeeze them shut, to block out everything like an animal hiding its head in the sand. The message swishes off with a chime. At least if they end up killing me, someone might know. Someone, somewhere, will know what happened to me.
“Move!” shouts the man, when I sit frozen in the desk chair.
My gaze sweeps the apartment as I jerk to my feet, looking for something, anything I can use. Once they get me out of the apartment, my odds of getting out of this alive dwindle to almost nothing. Just think. Just breathe. Then a jolt flashes through me—my plas-pistol is still in my handbag from the day I was at LRI. It’s in my closet. “My shoes are in my bedroom,” I say, my voice shaking more violently now that I know what I have to do. Now that I know I have to try to fight. “In my closet.”
