Timecaster Page 20

  I left the apartment, plotting my next move. I could follow the killer in reverse, find out where he came from. Or I could follow him on the bike, and see where he went.

  I chose the bike, and jogged back to the scooter carousel. As I ran, I thought about the celebrity veil and the bike chit. I also thought about the disk blocking the killer’s chip. This was someone familiar with timecasting protocol, someone who thought he could beat it. But you can’t beat timecasting. No matter where he ran to, I’d be able to follow him. Eventually he’d need his chip to pay for something, and I’d be there to catch him.

  Which made me wonder, why all the subterfuge? He knew I’d be following him. What did he hope to accomplish?

  I found out right after I picked up his tail again.

  Timecasting someone on a biofuel bike wasn’t easy to do solo. The timecaster’s attention constantly switched between watching the perp and watching the road, all while operating the scooter one-handed. I expected the killer would know this, and make it difficult for me to follow him.

  My expectations were wrong. Once he fed his chit into the carousel, he took out his DT. I zoomed in to see what he was doing. He brought up a keyboard and typed:

  I’m taking 1-90 north to exit 15. You can pick me up again at the biofuel station on the northwest corner. I trust you’re wearing the veil mask I left for you. See you soon, Talon.

  I froze. Then I looked around, as if the killer was watching me right now. But he wasn’t. He’d written this more than forty-eight hours ago.

  Still, the paranoia was real. Granted, he’d specifically set me up, so he knew I’d be after him. But this had been a rough journey on my end. Why suddenly make it easy for me?

  I waited for the next red light, then borrowed a scooter from an unwilling man who complained a lot, but came around to my way of thinking when I showed him my Nife. I strapped the TEV to my back and hit the gas, deciding to believe the killer was telling me the truth. The fact he left me the celebrity veil meant he wanted me to follow. This was part of his plan.

  I headed toward the expressway, not liking this one bit. The more I thought about it, the more I realized how much this guy had been playing me from the start. He knew I’d be on the run. He knew I’d find the prism sphere. All the time I’d thought Teague was the one who’d leaked the transmission of Zelda’s death. But it was the man in the mask.

  I drew the obvious conclusion. The killer had to be a timecaster.

  I hopped onto I-90, thinking about all the guys in my old Van Damme squad. There were twelve of us when the program began in Chicago, and four more in other parts of Illinois. Neighboring states also had their own teams. At the height of the program, there were more than a hundred working timecasters in the US, and easily another two hundred worldwide. Any one of them could have gone rogue.

  If I narrowed it down to those who had some sort of grudge against me, it didn’t eliminate too many names. Teague and I were the best on our squad, with the best records, which was why we were kept on. There had been a lot of resentment when the program was downsized.

  When I exited at 15, I located the gas station and pet the bunny, quickly finding the killer. He was parked next to the air pump, waiting. I fast-forwarded, watching him sit there. Eventually he must have determined I showed up, and he started the bike and headed west. I quickly recognized the neighborhood.

  This was Schaumburg. I was here yesterday, visiting Michio Sata.

  The killer went the speed limit, but I went on ahead of him, sure of his destination. Even though this had happened in the past, I knew he was going to Sata’s house. Sata, and Vicki, were in danger.

  I called Vicki on my headphone.

  No answer.

  I called Sata on my headphone.

  No answer.

  I now understood why the killer had sent me on this wild-goose chase. He didn’t want to just frame me. He wanted to destroy me. As I was running around Chicago, searching for answers, his intention all along was to hurt the two people I cared about most. He knew I’d send Vicki to stay with Sata. He just needed some time to get both of them alone.

  Sata is smart, competent, and strong, I reminded myself. He wouldn’t let anyone get the better of him.

  And yet, he was an old man. An old man on roids, which weren’t known for their positive effects on mental health. The killer who set all of this up would be able to deal with Sata.

  I called Sata again, got his voice mail, and left him an urgent message to contact me just as I was pulling up to his house.

  I ditched the bike and ran to the front door, which was yawning open. Any panic I’d ever felt in my life paled next to the raw fear coursing through me as I rushed into his house.

  “Vicki! Sata!”

  They didn’t answer. Even though dread sat on my shoulders, and apprehension weighed down my feet, I powered through the house, aware that every time I turned a corner there was the danger of seeing my wife and my mentor dead.

  The terror mounted with every room I checked.

  Bedroom. Nothing.

  Kitchen. Nothing.

  Bath. Nothing.

  Guest room. Nothing.

  Guest bath. Nothing.

  Living room. Nothing.

  Dining room. Nothing.

  And, finally, the gym.

  Nothing. They were nowhere to be found.

  Rather than being relieved, my panic kicked up a notch. Worry was a useless emotion, but at that moment, not knowing was worse than knowing. Had the killer come here? Or had it just been a coincidence? Maybe Sata and Vicki were safe, and the masked man had gone elsewhere.

  I ran to the front door, set up the TEV, and tried to tune in to the octeract point. The bunny felt different, and when the transmission began I knew something was wrong.

  I saw Sata. But this was not the Sata I knew. This Sata was fat instead of muscular, with shoulder-length white hair and a drawn, almost desperate, face. The house was different as well. Messy, haphazard, with no greenery, piles of garbage littering the corners.

  An alter-Sata, from a parallel universe. Which meant there was a prism ball around here, disrupting the signal.

  I walked out of the house, and had to get an acre away—completely off the property—before the normal signal returned.

  I looked around for Sata and Vicki, walking the perimeter, trying to pick up their trail. Then, changing tactics, I went back forty-eight hours to see if the killer had come here. He did, right up the driveway. I expected him to walk onto the property and disappear, but instead he took out his DT again and wrote something.

  Go inside and watch the projector.

  Then he took another step and vanished.

  I hurried into the house, running to the projector, pressing play.

  The killer filled the screen. He still wore the black jumpsuit and the celebrity veil. I turned up the volume.

  “I knew you’d make it this far,” the killer said.

  His voice was immediately recognizable.

  “No . . .” I whispered.

  Then he took off his celebrity veil, and I stared right at the face of my dearest friend in the world.

  Michio Sata.

  FORTY-ONE

  The Mastermind, Dr. Michio Sata, sits patiently in the waiting area. Anyone passing by, if they bother to look, sees a calm, bemused man, with a strange case strapped to his chest that has a bizarre prism effect. They might guess he’s a kindly old grandfather, awaiting his family’s arrival. Or perhaps he’s simply a people watcher, enjoying one of the few pleasures left in his golden years.

  It’s doubtful any of them will guess he’s few hours away from killing them all. Them, and eight million more.

  And that’s only the beginning.

  Sata has had enough of this world. He’s decided to find another one more to his liking.

  But first, he’s going to wipe this one out.

  The prospect delights him. But even more exciting is facing the mouse again. Talon. As close a thing to an adv
ersary as Sata has.

  It isn’t much fun wiping out all life on the planet if you don’t have to beat someone in order to do it.

  Sata can still remember years ago, meeting Talon for the first time. His buddy Teague had done better in classes. But Talon had something about him. Something special. Teague, though an excellent timecaster, was a rather boring, oafish personality.

  Talon cares about people. He truly wants to make a difference.

  Breaking him will be so much fun.

  A child walks by, holding his mother’s hand. He stares at Sata, offers the old man a smile.

  Smile while you can, child, Sata thinks. You’ve got two hours left.

  The ghoulish thought makes Sata smile back.

  FORTY-TWO

  “Let me begin by saying you’ll never find Vicki on your own,” Sata’s projection said. “She’s safe, for the moment. But you’ve seen what I’m capable of doing. Unless you follow my instructions, she’ll die. And so will you. Your right arm has been growing steadily number, hasn’t it?”

  I looked at my arm, flexing my hand. I had very little feeling left.

  “During our kendo match, I hit you above the padding with a well-aimed thrust. The tip of my shinai had a needle in it. You’ve been injected with a nanopoison. Your entire nervous system is shutting down. Unless you get the antidote, you don’t have too many hours left.”

  My mind spun, and I began to get dizzy. This couldn’t be happening. Sata couldn’t be the one behind all of this madness. He was my mentor. My friend.

  “I’m sure you have questions. You’ll find answers, and your wife, at the space elevator. Vicki already purchased your ticket, but you’ll need your chip to get into the station. Our lift leaves at three. The authorities are looking for you, and will be waiting. I’ve left an obfuscation disk next to the projector. You can stick it to your arm, over your chip, and it will block GPS, and timecasting, as I’m sure you’ve discovered.”

  I glanced down at the thin round device next to the projector. It went into my utility belt pouch.

  “If you miss the lift, you won’t have any second chances. Vicki will die. And so will eight million others. Boise was just a warm-up. Once I reach low-earth orbit, I’m unleashing the device upon Chicago. By four p.m., the entire city will be gone.”

  This just kept getting better and better.

  “Going to the authorities won’t do any good. When you walked into my house, you activated a slate magnet. The recording on your TEV has been erased. I’ve also carefully hidden five prism balls on the property. You won’t be able to track me, or to prove my involvement.”

  “Yeah? Well, what about this recording I’m watching, asshole?”

  “This recording will now self-destruct. You should jump away.”

  I dove to the side, tucking and rolling, leaving my mouth open to equalize the sudden change in pressure as the projector exploded. It still hurt my eardrums, the blast of superheated air and flames setting my shirt on fire. I came to a rest on my back and patted out the fire on my clothes. I was shaken, upset, wondering what I was supposed to do next.

  It didn’t take long for me to figure it out. Sata had left me no other option. I had to go to the space elevator.

  That meant getting my chip back.

  I logged onto GPS using my DT and tracked my chip. It was moving, which meant my raccoon buddy hadn’t evacuated it yet. I had no idea how difficult raccoons were to catch, but I guessed it would take more than me and my bare hands. To complicate matters, the raccoon was at a location I was unfortunately familiar with: Chomsky’s house.

  Boy, I hated that dick.

  I was running low on people who could help me, so I called the only number I had left.

  “Fuck you, Talon. I’m not talking to you.”

  “Look, McGlade, I’m sorry about the sex thing.”

  “It wasn’t just the sex. I also got my arm broken—broken trying to save your ass, BTW. And you used me as a human shield. I hate getting Tased, Talon. It sucks the farts out of dead gerbils. And all of this was before I learned you killed half a million people. Not that I have any particular fondness for Idahoans, but fuck, Talon.”

  “I didn’t kill those people. And I need your help catching who did.”

  “You can bite my ass after I shit myself.”

  “You’re a poet, McGlade, you know that? I’ll pay you.”

  “Pay me what? Promises and insurance credits I’ll never see?”

  “How about a thousand paper books?” I told him, thinking of Zelda’s. “Lots of rare titles. Many of them hardcover.”

  There was a lengthy pause. I could picture him adding up the black market value in his grubby little head. “And you have these books in your possession?”

  “Yes. I can bring you samples.”

  “What is it you need?”

  “Do you have animal traps?”

  “Of course I have animal traps. What size?”

  “For a raccoon.”

  “You’re telling me a raccoon blew up Boise?”

  “It’s a long story. I need an animal trap, some bait, a patch of living skin, and a sedative with a syringe. Also, bring your Taser. We may have to, uh, subdue the little guy.”

  “Nice. You’re a class act, Talon.”

  “Bring your Magnum, too.”

  “Sit on a cactus and spin, asshole.”

  McGlade truly did have a way with words.

  “I’ve got more than just the books. I’ve got paintings.”

  “Real paint-on-canvas paintings?”

  “Yeah. Famous ones, too.”

  “What artist?”

  I closed my eyes, trying to think of the name I had seen on the landscape scene in Zelda’s bedroom.

  “Monet,” I said.

  “You’re fucking me with a jackhammer.”

  “Where do you come up with lines like that?”

  “You so do not have a Monet. You know how much those are worth?”

  “Bring the gun. And ammo. I’ll meet you a block away from my house, on the corner of Randall and Monroe.”

  “Gimme three hours.”

  I checked the time on my DT. “You’ve got two hours. If you’re late, no books or paintings.”

  “Two hours? No way. It would be easier to stuff my ass with synthetic cotton and then crap out a knitted—”

  “Two hours,” I said, interrupting him. Then I pressed my earlobe and hung up.

  It took me ten minutes to find one of Sata’s suitcases and fill it with what I needed. Then I was on the road again, heading back to Aunt Zelda’s. I needed to focus, to plan, but my brain was stuck in a loop. I kept thinking of Sata’s betrayal, and Vicki’s safety. Would he hurt her? What could have happened to him?

  I wondered if it was the steroids. Maybe they’d fried his brain.

  Maybe I should have paid closer attention. I could remember the classes, the lessons, the countless kendo matches. Good, dear memories. He was like a father to me. Why didn’t I make a better effort to stay in touch with him? Could I have prevented this?

  Then I considered my relationships with Teague. And Vicki.

  Apparently I needed to put in more work with the people who were important to me.

  Five hundred thousand people. Damn.

  When I arrived at Zelda’s, I dumped the bike in a loading zone and headed for the elevator. Surprisingly, Neil was still in the apartment. He sat naked on the sofa, his head slumped down and his shoulders sagging. He was making a high, keening sound, somewhere between a sob and a yelp. When I walked over he looked up at me, his face glistening with tears.

  “My pee-pee shrunk.”

  I was all out of stock in the sympathy exchange, so I ignored the incredible shrinking dick and turned my attention to Zelda’s bookshelf. I picked four titles that looked particularly old and expensive. Then I went to the bedroom to take the Monet. Funny how we place value on physical things. This was a nice enough landscape, done in pastels, but worth a fortune? I pulled
it off the wall, pried off the back, and ripped the canvas out of the matte. I folded it up, then put it and the books into one of Zelda’s handbags. Also, on a whim, I grabbed her raccoon-fur coat.

  Neil was curled up on the floor, cupping himself. I stepped over him, then grabbed a bottle of pills from the bathroom medicine cabinet.

  “Will those make my willy grow back?”

  “Take five of these, and it will grow back tomorrow.”

  I shook five into his hand. Technically, I wasn’t lying to him. His manhood would bounce back to normal size tomorrow, all on its own. The pills would have nothing to do with it, because they were industrial-strength laxatives.

  I made it back to my house fifteen minutes before McGlade was scheduled to arrive. While waiting for him to show up, I double-checked the location of my little raccoon buddy. He was still on that dick Chomsky’s roof. But he’d apparently become a trifle more active. I didn’t know much about raccoon behavior, but this one appeared to be running laps.

  Time crawled by. Still no McGlade. I tried calling Vicki, and Sata, and was unsuccessful with both.

  Ten minutes after the agreed-upon time, McGlade motored up on his Harley Davidson biofuel bike. Unlike the scooters prevalent throughout the city, this hog was three times the size and twenty times less fuel-efficient. But it was deafening to make up for it.

  McGlade pulled up and said something, which I couldn’t hear over the roar of the throttle. I gave him the universal I can’t hear you hand signal, cupping my hand to my ear while saying, “I can’t hear you.”

  “What?” McGlade yelled. “I can’t hear you!”

  Jackass.

  He eventually cut the engine. “You got the stuff?”

  I nodded. “Do you?”

  “Yeah. Lemme see the books.”

  I handed them over. McGlade scowled. “Fiction? Who reads fiction these days?”

  “I just grabbed a few.”

  “Who the heck is James Patterson? How am I supposed to sell that? Don’t you have any Joe Kimball?”

  “I think I have a few.” I had no idea if Zelda did or not.

  “There are a whole bunch. Here’s the Monet.”