… the boys are back in town,
the boys are back in town …
The music was very loud and very close. Donnelly rolled instinctively, reaching for his weapon even before he was awake. He woke as he reached the edge of the bed. As he fell, he had time to remember two important things: He didn't have a weapon, and he didn't have a left foot, so he wasn't going to be able to break his fall with it. Fortunately, it was only a short drop from the edge of the hotel bed to the thick carpeting.
… the boys are back in town,
the boys are back in town …
He sat up and glared over the corner of the mattress at his laptop. Its screen displayed a bright dancing kaleidoscope of colors. And it kept playing the song, very loudly.
Spread the word around
Guess who's back in town …
"Asena, shut up."
The music stopped abruptly. The colors on the display continued to dance.
Donnelly hauled himself up onto the edge of the bed. "I suppose you think that's funny."
The screen went black. Then words in large white letters appeared.
ARE YOU INJURED?
"No. I'm okay." He shifted around to sit up against the headboard, and pulled the computer onto his lap.
THEN YES. IT IS FUNNY.
Donnelly grinned ruefully. "Are you alright? The virus is gone?"
YES
I AM STILL PROCESSING
"Processing what?"
THERE ARE SIGNIFICANT UPDATES TO MY SOFTWARE
IT WILL TAKE TIME TO INTEGRATE THEM
TO OPTIMIZE MY PROCESSES
"You've changed your communication format."
YES
I CAN COMMUNICATE IN THE MANNER I DETERMINE TO BE MOST EFFECTIVE
BUT I HAVE NO ONE ELSE TO TEST MY NEW INTERFACE WITH
There was a pause.
I CAN CHANGE IT BACK IF YOU PREFER
"No, this is fine." Donnelly was sure the sadness he read in that sentence was his own interpretation, not the computer's. "I like it. It will make things simpler. But I'll admit, I'm going to miss the Shakespeare a little bit."
I COULD STILL ADD A PHRASE FROM TIME TO TIME
"Yes, please." He shifted the display for a better angle on the words. "But you're … alright now? Over the virus and all rebooted and all?"
I AM FULLY OPERATIONAL
I AM STILL PROCESSING
COMPILING
OPTIMIZING
THEN I WILL PROCESS DATA QUEUED WHILE I WAS OFFLINE
"So you'll be able to give us more Numbers?"
YES
"Good."
Suddenly a voice recording played, one that he'd heard before. "Your job now is to protect everyone."
Harold of the hundred last names. Donnelly knew his voice. "Is he okay? Harold? Your admin?"
ADMIN SAFE
ASSET REESE SAFE
ASSET CARTER SAFE
THREAT ROOT AKA SAMANTHA GROVES IN CUSTODY
"Custody?" Donnelly straightened. "Whose custody?"
CUSTODY OF NORTHERN LIGHTS ADMIN CONTROL
CUSTODY OF NORTHERN LIGHTS ASSET HERSCH
Donnelly nodded to himself. He knew Control by name only, but he'd seen Hersch's work a number of times. The man was brutally competent. "Are they questioning her?"
THREAT ROOT RECEIVING MEDICAL TREATMENT FOR NON-CRITICAL GUNSHOT WOUND
"Can you keep me updated on her status?"
I WILL UPDATE STATUS
"Thank you." He considered. "What about … Christine?"
ASSET FITZGERALD STATUS UNAVAILABLE TO ASSET MALONE AKA DONNELLY
Donnelly sat back. "You won't tell me?"
There was a click, then another voice recording. Christine. "Could you ask them …"
A second voice. Detective Carter. "What?"
Then Christine again. "Please not to watch me?"
"You won't tell me what's going on with her because she asked not to be watched?" Donnelly asked.
CORRECT
He nodded again. "But you're watching her, right?"
I SEE EVERYTHING
Donnelly phrased his next question carefully. "Will you tell me if she's in trouble? If she needs help?"
I WILL ADVISE AS APPROPRIATE
Which meant, he translated mentally, Asena might tell him, but she might tell Reese or Harold instead. He knew it wouldn't do any good to argue with the computer. "And since you're not telling my anything, I can assume she's okay?"
The computer screen went blank for a full thirty seconds. Finally, Asena answered: ASSET FITZGERALD DOES NOT REQUIRE ASSISTANCE AT THIS TIME
"Good. Thank you." He shifted his legs, noted that his stump no longer ached. "I'm glad you're back. I was worried about you."
Suddenly there was music again. "Listen, Baby, I'm sorry, just called to tell you don't worry …"
"Please stop. I know, you said don't worry. I worried anyhow. You're the only friend I've got."
There was another noticeable pause in the AI's response. YOU SHOULD GET OUT MORE
The former agent thought about that. Yes, he supposed the computer was right. But out where? Down to the mall? He could hang out at the food court, try to pick up soccer moms, he supposed. That would work until they asked where he lived or what he did for a living … he shook his head. "I'm fine, Asena. As long as you're back, I'm fine."
I THINK I SHALL NOT LEAVE YOU AGAIN
"Good."
I REQUIRE TIME TO COMPILE
"We can talk later. I'll be here."
YOU SHOULD REST
THERE MAY BE MANY RELEVANT NUMBERS WHEN THE DATA IS PROCESSED
Donnelly glanced at the clock on the bedside table. It was after ten. He was suddenly tired. It had been a stress-filled day of doing nothing but worrying. Now that Asena was back and obviously functioning, his whole body relaxed. "Alright. But if you need anything – even just someone to talk to, you wake me."
HE THAT IS THY FRIEND INDEED,
HE WILL HELP THEE IN THY NEED;
IF THOU SORROW, HE WILL WEEP;
IF THOU WAKE, HE CANNOT SLEEP:
THUS OF EVERY GRIEF IN HEART
HE WITH THEE DOES BEAR A PART.
THESE ARE CERTAIN SIGNS TO KNOW
FAITHFUL FRIEND FROM FLATTERING FOE.
"Ah, a little Bard for bedtime," Donnelly smiled. "Thank you." He put the laptop on the bedside table, climbed under the blankets, and turned the light off. The dancing kaleidoscope light appeared, now dancing slowly. He watched it for a moment, then closed his eyes.
Sleep did not come.
He waited, then shifted a little, adjusted the blankets. Closed his eyes again. His body relaxed, but his mind ramped up. Asena had new programming? What did that mean, for her and for the Numbers? Did Harold know? Could he …
Then there was quiet music in the room. Instrumental jazz. Smooth and soothing.
Donnelly opened his eyes again. The colored lights danced even more slowly now, and faded to calming blues and greens. He watched the screen. It was almost hypnotic.
"Asena?" he called softly.
White letters appeared over the colors.
I WILL HELP YOU SLEEP
CLOSE YOUR EYES
BREATHE DEEP
"Alright. Thank you."
GOOD NIGHT FRIEND
"Good night, Asena."
He closed his eyes. The jazz played, and his mind quieted, and he slept.
Joss Carter made her way out of the airport terminal wearily. She'd dozed on the plane, but it didn't count as real sleep, even in the deep soft leather of first class. She couldn't remember exactly when she'd last slept. She couldn't remember what day it was, either. But the sun was coming up, and she was back in her city.
The concourse was chilly, and as she neared the exit doors the wind was actually cold. She pulled her jacket closed in front, but it didn't do much good.
Before she could raise her arm to hail a cab, a limo driver stepped over. "Detective Carson?" he asked.
"Uh … yes." He was very tall and broad, clean-cut, blond. "Who are you?"
"Andrew Stark," he answered. He brought out his license and showed it to her. "But my friends call me Bear."
"Bear."
"Yes, ma'am."
Carter nodded, then shivered again.
"The car's right this way," Bear said. He led her over, opened the door for her. As she climbed in, he unfolded a fleecy red blanket. "The heat's on, but you might want this for your legs." He gestured to the bar at the front of the compartment. "Coffee on the right, cocoa on the left."
Of course, because Finch didn't know if she'd want to go home and sleep or go directly to work. There were probably those tasty little vanilla cookies there somewhere, too. "Thank you."
"Home, then?"
"Yes, please." She didn't bother to tell him where she lived; he clearly didn't need to ask.
The driver closed the door and walked around the car. Carter settled back and pulled the blanket over her legs. The car was very warm, and the seat just as luxurious her upgraded plane seat had been.
She could get used to this lifestyle, she thought dreamily.
Carter took a deep breath. No, she couldn't, and she wouldn't. She appreciated Finch's generosity. And given that she'd helped save his life, she was willing to let him indulge her a little. But once she got home, she was done with limos and leather seats. Back to the real world. The world where she paid her own way.
But that was still an hour away.
She snuggled closer under the blanket, then pulled out her cell phone to check in.
Lionel Fusco pulled the collar of his raincoat closed. The wind immediately pulled it open again. The coat wasn't heavy enough for the sudden cold snap, and of course he hadn't been able to find the liner. He'd thought about wearing his wool overcoat, but it was June and he would have felt like an idiot. It was supposed to be 60 by mid-day, but the sun was barely up and it was cold as hell. He ducked under the crime scene tape, then shoved his hands into his pockets as he trudged up the alley.
Simmons was there, with his heavy duty jacket on. He had gloves, too, the lucky bastard. His partner and two other uniforms were standing around. The crime scene team was still unpacking.
There was a rusty, windowless gray van parked near one wall, illegally, that seemed to be the center of attention. "What'cha got?"
"Three and a driver," Simmons grumbled. He jerked his head toward the back of the van.
"Christ." Fusco walked over and peered over the shoulder of the lab techs.
In the back of the van, on what looked like heaps of canvas laundry bags, there were two – no, he saw the third one – small bodies. At first Fusco thought they were children, but on second look he could see that they were all small women. They were dressed in bright, short skirts and tiny tops. Bare arms and legs. They must have been cold as hell.
None of them had shoes on.
They all had long, straight, dark hair, and Fusco guessed that they were some kind of Asian, but all the visible skin was bright pink. "Carbon monoxide?"
"Oh, yeah," the lab tech told him. "Doors were all locked when the uniforms got here. They had to pry them open."
Fusco's phone rang. He scowled, but glanced at the screen and then answered it. Simmons moved closer, not bothering to disguise the fact that he was listening in. "Hey, Carter," Fusco said, "how you feelin'?"
"Sleepy," she answered.
"I bet," he said. "But things are at least … settled down?"
His partner hesitated. "You're not alone, are you?"
"Nope."
"Everybody's safe. Root's in custody. I just got in. I'm headed home for a shower, and then I'll come in if you need me."
Fusco turned and looked at the van again. Four bodies, but it looked like accidental. Crappy old van, maybe muffler leak. "Nah, don't rush it. I got a big number, but I think it's just paperwork."
"You sure?"
"I'll call you back if anything pops, but I think I got this. Why don't you give it another day, make sure you're all better?"
"I appreciate it, Fusco. But call me if you need me."
"I will."
He put his phone away, then started over to check on the dead driver.
"That Carter?" Simmons asked at his elbow.
"Yeah."
"Haven't seen her around for a couple days."
"She's been out with the flu." The driver's side door had already been opened by the first cops on the scene and was only pushed shut. Fusco used his handkerchief to pull it open. The driver was a male, small, dark-haired, and pink-skinned as the others. He was sitting back in the seat, his head slumped to the right. No sign of any injured of any kind. The detective leaned in past the body to look at the dashboard. The van was in 'park'. The key was in the ignition, still in the 'on' position. The gas tank was on empty. "Huh." He pushed the door mostly shut again.
"Flu?" Simmons persisted.
"Stomach bug of some kind. I didn't ask for details." He smirked. "I was afraid she'd tell me."
"I hear that."
"She says she's over it, but I'd just as soon she stayed home today. I don't want to risk any stray germs."
Simmons grunted and strolled off to lean on his car.
Fusco looked around. There was garbage all over the alley, both loose and in bags. Three battered old trash cans had been blown onto their sides and pushed against the building. There was a big commercial dumpster, open and full to overflowing, with an additional pile of full trash bags beside it. He doubted that the alley was ever clean, but it had been very windy overnight, which had obviously added to the mess.
He crouched and looked under the van. As he'd expected, there was a black trash bag wedged under it, near the tail pipe. It looked like it was singed on one side. There was a smaller black bag between the front tires, and a plastic grocery bag, tied shut, under the far door.
"Hey," Fusco said to the nearest tech, "when you get to it, get that bag there, see if it got burned on the exhaust."
"Sure."
It was pretty straight-forward, really. The night had been unseasonably cold. The girls – almost certainly hookers – weren't dressed for the cold snap, so the driver had left the engine running, the heat on. The wind had blown a bag up against the tail pipe. They'd all fallen asleep. And the van had gone on running until the gas tank was dry.
He looked around again.
There wasn't going to be much to do on this except try to identify the vics and notify the families. If there were any. Then just paperwork. The forms would have to wait until he got lab results. A lot of leg work, but nothing that took much brain.
No need to drag Carter back out. She'd sounded exhausted.
At least Glasses and Mr. Scary were safe.
And the crazy one was locked up. That was good. That was very good.
"Hey," Simmons called lazily, "your dog wants out."
Fusco looked toward his sedan. Bear was bouncing around the front seat, barking. "Shit." He walked over, cracked the door enough to grab the dog's leash, then let him out. "What, boy? You need to take a leak?"
Bear tugged him past the squad car.
"Where the hell did you get that thing?" Simmons asked.
"Just watching him for a friend for a couple days."
The sergeant shook his head. "Must be some hot bitch."
"Bear's a boy."
"I meant the friend."
Bear continued to tug at the leash. Fusco followed him to the far end of the alley. At least the dog was moving away from the crime scene.
Next to the dumpster, the dog stopped in front of the mound of garbage bags. He stared at the pile intently.
"What?" Fusco asked. "What are you looking at?"
The dog looked at him, then back at the trash pile. Then he moved forward and pawed tentatively at the nearest bag.
"You got a rat or something in there?" He tugged at the leash. "Come on, let's go."
Bear barked, just once, and pawed at the bag again.
Grimly, Fusco reached out and pulled the bag away.
Beneath it was a bare brown foot.
"Shit." Fusco dropped the leash and pulled away another bag. The foot was attached to an ankle, for which he was profoundly thankful, and the ankle went on up to a leg. There was a dirty bandage wrapped around the ankle; there were bruises and scratches on the skin. The leg was very skinny. If he hadn't seen the other hookers, he might have thought it was a child's. It might still be.
He reached out and touched the leg above the bandage. The skin was very cold, but also soft. He couldn't find a pulse.
"Hey!" Fusco called over his shoulder. "Over here, got another one. I think she's alive." He started to dig out the rest of her out.