When Bobby entered the kitchen three hours later, he found Anna in uniform, sitting at the table with a plate in front of her, a coffee cup held loosely in her hand. She glanced up. "Well. I didn't expect you up so early." She started to rise.
He held a hand out, palm down. "Sit. Jeez. What are you doing?"
"I try to do breakfast before you guys are up. It's unprofessional to eat with your clients. Besides, I can't take care of things while I'm stuffing my mouth. You want breakfast?"
"Cereal. I'll get it myself. Kick back a little, will you?" The relief on his face faded to a blank mask as he looked down at her half-empty coffee cup and her plate, empty except for a sprinkling of toast crumbs. As he put together the bowl and cereal and milk, he glanced at the coffee maker, its pot nearly full of fresh coffee. He brought his breakfast to the seat next to hers and set it on the table, but didn't sit. "Drink it black?"
"Yes." She smiled. "Just like your father."
"Warmup?"
"No, thanks. I'm done."
He took her cup from her fingers and headed towards the counter. But instead of pouring it into the sink, he took the pot from the coffee maker. He watched her watch him as he poured the cup back into the pot, bringing it to the full mark.
"I started out with yesterday's coffee" she said. "I heated it in the microwave."
"Uh huh." He glanced at the toaster. "There aren't any crumbs in the pan. Are there?"
"Well, of course not. I clean it after I use it."
"And if I put my hand on it, you'll tell me it's cold because you made your toast half an hour ago. And you've been sitting there with your coffee ever since. Even though it's still hot." She opened her mouth to speak, and he raised a hand to stop her. "I'm sure you have a perfect explanation." At that moment, the boy looked much older, and stern. He looked disturbingly like his father. He returned to the table and sat, his eyes never leaving her. He slid the bowl over to her, pushing the plate aside.
"I don't want it, Bobby. I'm full."
He regarded her silently for a moment. Then he said, "How good is your hearing, Anna?"
"As good as anybody's, I suppose. Oh, all right." She picked up the spoon and shoveled a couple of bites in; she chewed and swallowed. "Hate cereal," she muttered. She took another spoonful. "What exactly are we doing here?"
"I'm not sure," he said. "I'm just starting to think you need some taking care of, too. Finish it up."
"I can't, Bobby. I really am full."
"Two more bites," he said, coaxing her like a child. "You can do it."
She did as he asked. "I'm stuffed. Come on, give me a break here. I already had one breakfast." She glanced down at herself. "How much do you think I eat? I can't keep up with you guys. Not even Roxanne, and she eats like a canary."
"Okay." He nodded, giving her a strange look. "You know, with him gone, I don't think we would have stuck around, except for you. You've been pampering and mothering us since we pulled the car in the garage. I feel like I've known you a lot longer than a day and a half. But I don't know you at all, really, do I?"
"Bobby." She stared down into the bowl. "I can't tell you. Please don't ask. Give me a little trust. All I want is to do right by you, but I can't satisfy your curiosity. Not yet, anyway. Wait until your father gets home."
"'Wait until your father gets home.' The last house where they used to say that, things didn't go so well for me. I usually heard it right before the padlock clicked shut on my bedroom door. What does he want with me, Anna?"
"He wants to be your father, Bobby. That's all. It's all he ever wanted with you. But he's never been a father. You disappeared too soon. He's just trying to give you what you need. He hasn't done such a bad job so far, I think. And he'll get better with practice, if you'll let him."
"Why did he take sixteen years to find me?"
"I don't know. If you'll accept a guess, it's because your mother hid you, from people with more resources to search for you than your father had."
"IO."
"Yes. I'm sure it's no accident that he discovered you through them." She looked up at him. "And as soon as he did, he moved. No hesitation. He prepared to throw away his career and make enemies of some very powerful people, to get you free and bring you here safe."
He exhaled heavily. "And what is he to you, Anna? Tell me that much."
She stood. "Before you kids came here? Absolutely everything."
"You love him, then?"
She took the bowl to the sink and dumped the contents down the disposer. "I'm not sure I know the meaning of the word. But I feel very close to him sometimes. And I owe him more than I can possibly repay. Do you want some breakfast, really?"
After she had him shoveling eggs into his mouth, she headed for the bathroom.
For deception, Anna's design allowed her to take in a small amount of food and non-water liquids, but her 'digestive' system consisted of a short length of tubing and an elastic reservoir. The entire arrangement ended thirty centimeters below her chin. Anything that went into it had to come out the same way.
She triggered a purge of the system and directed the contents of her 'stomach' into the toilet. Then she drank a glass of water, channeling it into her food reservoir rather than her functional one, and ejected it again, to flush the system. The second and last time she did this, she heard footsteps approaching the bathroom, and a soft tap on the door. "Anna?" Kat's voice. "You okay in there?"
She wiped her mouth on a towel. "Fine, hon. Be out in a sec." She flushed the toilet, rinsed and dried her hands, and opened the door. The big redhead was waiting for her, wearing the more modest of her two suits. "Did you want some breakfast?"
"No thanks. Think it'd be safe to take a swim in the ocean?"
"I don't know. If I were you, I'd wait until Mr. Lynch has a chance to reconnoiter, and find out what measures IO is taking to locate you. Just lie low a little longer, hon."
"Okay. I'll just hit the pool then, before anybody else is up."
"Hon, the boys aren't giving you a hard time, are they?"
"No." Embarrassed, she added, "Either I'm going completely nuts, or people are walking the beach just to stare at the back of the house."
"Would one of those people be a middle-aged woman with a dog?"
"Yes. You know her?"
"She's our neighbor, the one I catered for last night."
"Oh. Does her husband walk the beach too?"
"She's widowed. Describe the man."
"Forty to forty-five, I think. Dark complexion, Middle Eastern maybe. Medium height, thin features, bald on top. Pot bellied. Black mustache."
"Sounds like Mr. Rafiq, our neighbor from across the street. You probably want to stay away from him."
"Cop?"
"Womanizer. His wife divorced him for it. He's been crossing the street to chat when he sees me working in the flower bed out front. And he tried to invite himself into the house once, when Mr. Lynch was away. Anyone else?"
"No one I've seen more than once."
"These little gated communities are like small towns. Everybody knows everybody else, even if they don't socialize, and they're curious about newcomers. Once you've been here a while, the interest will slack off." Good surveillance wouldn't let the subject see the same tail twice, but she decided not to mention it. Anyone who tried to approach the house from the beach would trip the security and alert her, but long-range observation from the beach or the water was still a weak spot in their perimeter.
When she returned to the kitchen, Roxanne was at the table, apparently dressed in what she'd worn to bed, slicing fruit. To Anna, it looked like the girl was sure to cut herself; she didn't seem to be giving the task her full attention. "Here, sweetheart, let me do that. How did you sleep last night?"
"Better. Ashamed to admit it. Thanks for the night light." Still grumpy, but better than yesterday. Fewer fatigue poisons coming out of her pores, too.
She smiled as she swiftly applied the knife. "And where did Mr. Bear sleep last night?"
Roxanne smiled back. "Right under her chin."
She shoved the plate of cut fruit towards the girl. "Start on this. What else would you like? The pantry's full."
"Just coffee. This is good. Kat and Eddie'll empty the cupboards soon enough."
"Kat skipped breakfast. She went for a swim."
"She's just scared somebody'll see her in that two-piece. She'll be starving as soon as she comes out of the water."
"Good to know. What will she want?"
"Everything. She eats like a pig." She took a bite and chewed carefully, swallowed. "Is Bobby up?"
"Yes."
"Did you talk to him?"
"Yes. I presume you kids have been talking." She lowered her voice. "I'm equally sure you didn't tell all you might have. Thank you, Roxanne."
"I made you a promise. I don't like breaking promises."
Promises are different from deals, apparently. "Neither do I. but I don't want you getting caught in the middle of anything." She tried to inject the proper amount of apprehension into her voice. "If there comes a time when you think one of the others has to know… well, try to talk to me first, okay? I'd just rather not get taken by surprise."
The girl nodded. "Think I'll take this into my room while I change."
III
Eddie breathed deep, trying to turn his focus inward. He'd come out to the pool for some early morning sunshine and a little isolation to perform a kata, trying to establish a morning ritual. Katas were perfect for that. People who didn't understand martial arts saw all that jumping and flailing and couldn't believe it was a way to attain inner balance. But doing a kata correctly meant doing it perfectly, and that took concentration. It also took an intimate knowledge of your physical capabilities, and his growing body introduced subtle changes to his reach and strength every day, making his practice an exploration as well as a ritual. By the time he was done, he'd be loose and warm and one with himself, ready for the day.
But today, the inner focus just wasn't coming. He was too distracted. One distraction was the smell of something baking in Anna's kitchen, making his stomach growl with every inhale. That was a minor distraction. The major one was swimming laps in the pool, eight feet away.
Kat was churning up the water pretty good as she plowed back and forth, cutting the visibility under the surface. But he was seeing plenty of that fine booty and those mile-long legs as she passed by, and when she reached the end of the pool, she stood and turned instead of flipping, which gave him regular glimpses of everything else on the shelves of her candy store.
She reached the end of the pool again and turned for another lap. But she glanced up at him and dogpaddled over to his side of the pool. Busted.
She rested her forearms on the edge of the pool and looked up. "Does all the splashing bother you? I can stop."
Three clever answers popped into his head, one after the other; he forced them away while she waited, a polite smile on her lips. He felt like he was on thin ice with Kat. He could tell she looked sideways on his relationship with her younger sister. She'd been drugged and taken downstairs before he'd made it with Natalie, but she could have heard about it from someone after they were freed, before they all split up. She'd been awfully cool to him the whole trip to La Jolla, and had only thawed since the towel fight yesterday. Clearly she wasn't as ready to give him the benefit of the doubt as Rox was. He couldn't think of a better way to lower Kat's thermostat than with some halfwit remark or lame come-on line. Finally, he said, "My mind's wandering anyway. I was thinking about the changes we've been through since our last day of classes."
"'Changes.' Which part? The part where we found out we were born on Krypton, or the part where we got introduced to the Matrix?"
"Heh. Does feel that way. Watching Bobby light matches by staring at em would creep anybody out."
She gave him a strange look. "What creeps me out is the way you waltzed out of your cell. How did you do it? The rest of us were half crazy after a few days. You came out as if you'd spent the weekend in a cheap hotel."
He gave her a lopsided grin. "Being locked up naked in a room full of mirrors isn't my idea of torture. Any time I was near the meal slot when it opened, I'd face the wall and… waggle."
Kat snorted and grinned back. It was good to see; Kat in a good mood put everybody in a good mood, and there were still too many dark thoughts floating through people's heads around here.
He threw a quick series of shadow punches. "Seriously, being alone with my thoughts for a few days was no problem. I have a rich inner life."
"I'll bet."
"Do. You know about my trick memory. It gives you a lot of things to do inside your own head. You can re-read any book you've ever read, for starters. Ditto any TV show or movie." Or compare any two chicks I've ever seen as if they were standing side by side, for a primo game of "Which One Would You Rather Do?"
He spun and kicked at air, five feet off the ground. "Actually, the cell kind of reminded me of the final set in one of my favorite movies." He grinned. "Enter the Dragon. I spent a day in there running through every move Bruce did in that flick."
"So you distracted yourself for four days. Kept busy. Didn't think about it."
"Didn't say that, Red. I was totally pissed, most of the time. But I channeled it into something constructive." He did a couple of wheels and blocks; not really a kata, just moving around while he thought, kind of high-energy pacing. "I practiced, and figured out where the door was, and kept an eye on it while I tried to figure a way to make someone come into my cell. I figured we were all prisoners, and I hoped you were close by so I could spring you. Not much of a plan, but preparing the best I could kept me from worrying too much." He stopped and looked down at her. "Ignorance is bliss. If I'd known what they were doing to Rox, I'd have been bouncing off the walls."
Besides being probably true, it was the right thing to say. One look into Kat's eyes proved it. "Me too. Sarah said she came out on Mr. Lynch's arm like a cripple. She looked like she'd just got the beating of her life."
"Speaking of which," he said, changing the uncomfortable subject, "is the L-man a one-man army, or what? I'm good, Kat. I've won tournaments against guys with years on me. And I was wound tight, after days of practice and waiting for that door to open. I sprang like a bear trap when he stepped in. But he was waiting for me, like he knew what I was going to do before I did it. He comes back, I want to start sparring with him."
"Sounds like you're planning to stay."
"C'mon, Red. It's just you and me now. We're not going anywhere. How long would we make it on our own? I bet it takes skill to hide from IO. Like I said, I'm not bringing this trouble to my folks. Mr. Lynch has the money and the know-how."
"You trust them?"
"I think they have more than one motive for what they're doing, and a hidden agenda. But it doesn't change anything. They're helping us, for whatever reason, and they intend to do right by us. That's all they need to earn my trust. If I never learn what else they're up to, I couldn't care less."
"Speaking of secrets. I wonder about my dad. Where he is, if he's alive. And how much Mom knew."
"You think he kept his Gen a secret from her?"
"I don't know. I was thinking about him and Roxy's mom, actually. The divorce date about matches."
"Ew. Maybe you can ask one of them someday."
"Eddie, do you wonder where your parents are?"
"I know where they are."
"Your real ones, I mean."
"Yeah. My real ones. Kat, I'm sure my sire and dam gave me up for a good reason, and maybe it broke their hearts to do it. I got nothing to be hurt about, and I hope they're okay. But they're strangers. My real mom and dad are the people who raised me." He grinned down at her. "You know the old story about the kid who finds out he's adopted? And he's all bummed about it, thinking he wasn't wanted, until his adoptive parents sit him down for a heart-to-heart and tell him, 'We wanted you. We chose you.'"
"Is that what your folks did?"
"They never had to. They're white."
"Oh. But your name is Chang."
"That's what was on the birth certificate. When they adopted me, they decided to keep the name my birth parents gave me. Only thing they ever did that I can bitch about." He looked out towards the ocean. "I'm the only rich kid in our bunch. Bobby doesn't count, he didn't grow up with money. My folks aren't this rich, but they make plenty of coin. We have a housekeeper and a gardener. Dad's a bigwig at the medical center, and Mom's an anesthesiologist. At home, I had a room of my own, and another for my toys. They're not trying to buy me or anything, they just love giving me stuff. They usually put in sixty-hour weeks. But at least one of them was in the crowd at every soccer game or school play or karate tournament. Dad takes me on weekend trips three or four times a year. I never went through what Bobby did, or Rox. I always had a mom and dad who made sure I knew I was wanted and loved." He glanced down the beach. "We've got company."
Kat rose a few inches out of the water for a better look. "The dog lady again. Anna says she's our neighbor."
"Well, the mutt doesn't act like it walks the beach every day." The shin-high, pointy-nosed furball was straining at the end of its leash, going from side to side until it was brought up short. The woman was hanging on to the leash with both hands as she peered up at the house. He waved, and Kat did the same. Automatically, the woman took one hand off the leash to wave back, and the dog yanked free, running in a zigzag path down the beach. She power walked after it, calling, "Vicious! Vicious!"
"Hm. His name, do you think, or is she warning bystanders?" Kat climbed out of the pool, and he tried not to stare too obviously as she toweled off. He needn't have bothered; she might be modest for her own sake, but Kat seemed totally clueless about her effect on men. He was sure it would get her in deep trouble someday.
After she left, he decided he wouldn't be getting his head in gear for a decent kata, and decided to settle for some breathing exercises. Instead of turning his focus inward and shutting out all distractions, he closed his eyes and turned outward, losing himself in his surroundings. He smelled the fragrances from the garden, his suntan oil, and the smell of the sea. He heard the small sounds of birds, the strident cries of gulls, and the hiss of the surf. He felt the sun on his upturned face, the soft breeze.
He felt the pavement under his bare feet: its rough pebbled surface, the trace of grit. It felt odd, as if he was sinking into it a little, as if it were hard-packed sand instead of stone. No, that wasn't right. It was as if his awareness of it was penetrating the surface into what was beneath. He became aware of concrete as an amalgam, glimpsed unthought-of complexities of its structure. He felt the tiny pockets of water and air that leavened it; felt the age of the rocks that the cement held together.
Years ago, he had read an old science fiction novel about this dude who'd been raised from a baby by aliens with weird powers and amazing mental disciplines. One of the things they'd taught him was how to study something so thoroughly that it became a part of you, and you a part of it.
"Grokking," he said with a smile. "I grok concrete. Weird." He opened his eyes and looked down.
His feet were grayish-white and pebbled. Concrete.
Reflex took over. He backflipped off the pool apron, landing on his back in the flower bed with his feet in the air. The panic subsided when he realized he could still feel his feet.
He wiggled his toes. They felt fine, and they were just as flexible as ever, but they looked like concrete. Some chameleon effect. He touched one foot with his hand. It felt like concrete. He rapped it with his knuckles, and it felt like knocking on a patio slab. He tapped the sides of his feet together gently, and got a weird result: he felt his feet hitting together, as normal as could be, but at the same time, it felt the way it would if he'd taken two chunks of concrete in his hands and tapped them together. He decided not to hit them together too hard; he wouldn't want to chip anything off.
Using his hands to help, he bent one foot up towards his face and examined it closely. He saw that the change was gradual, without a sharp terminator. As his eyes traveled down his leg from calf to heel, he noted how the skin took on a gray-white color as the hairs on his leg shortened and disappeared, and finally, below the ankle, the appearance of the rough and pebbled surface that exactly matched the pad around the pool. He looked closer, and watched normal color return up near his calf, saw the pebbled skin around his ankle smoothing out. Five minutes later, his feet were back to normal. The effect isn't permanent. Whew.
He got up and stepped back to the patio. He thought about that sinking-in sensation he'd experienced, and felt it return. It's like hypnosis. The more often you do it, the easier it gets. He looked down. His feet were grayish white. He willed the sensation away, and watched the color return to his skin.
He decided to try another experiment. The deck chairs consisted of an aluminum tube framework with a wood decking; cypress, he thought. He touched the frame, felt himself sink into it. He felt the metal's softness and density and conductivity, tasted the other elements that went into the alloy. His hand took on a dull silvery sheen. He tapped his knuckles against the frame and heard a dull clink. Then he touched the chair's wood decking and got a surprise. The cellulose was easy enough to grok, but the wood's fibrous cellular structure was more complex than anything he'd yet attempted, and he couldn't duplicate it. His hand looked like plastic fashioned to look like wood.
I don't know enough.
It was a novel experience. Since he was a little kid, school had mostly been a breeze. The teachers and counselors had called him "gifted." He figured they simply had no idea how much schoolwork was just memorization.
To him, subjects like History and Lit were no-brainers; he read the textbooks the first week and never opened them again. He could sit in class writing term papers in his head while the teacher droned on, straight from the book he'd read a month before. And every test was an open-book exam for him.
Skull sweat subjects, like math and some science courses, sometimes required you to understand and think about the material, not just disgorge the textbook on command. But his photographic memory still gave him a big leg up. He was never stuck for an axiom, for example, or the proper formula. Some of his math teachers had gone lazy putting together quizzes and tests, and had used problems from the textbook that had the answers in the back; that meant he had the answer key to every one of them in his head. Looking for bargain comics at a garage sale, he'd come across a really old math text that had log and trig tables in the back. He'd memorized the tables as fast as he could turn the pages, and now he could do heavy math problems in his head faster than most people could punch them in on a calculator.
But he wasn't some frickin egghead; he was just a guy who never forgot what he saw or read. And the teachers and counselors weren't going to turn him into a geek with "advanced classes" and a "more challenging curriculum." Over his dead body. He liked being an average kid who didn't have to work hard in school, with normal friends who didn't build cyclotrons in their basements. He wasn't about to spend all his time in school watching over his shoulder for the losers looking for someone to blame their D averages on. He kept an A minus average, acceptable to the crowd he ran with and good enough to keep his parents off his back. He never aced a test unless somebody else was sure to. He didn't excel at anything academically, and finished his freshman year in high school no higher than the top ten percent. He'd had it all figured out, and life was good.
Then, despite all his hard work, Darwin Academy had come calling, and his parents had been thrilled to apply for him.
Normally, he would have just thrown the entrance exam. He routinely massaged his scores on aptitude tests; it was easy, when you knew almost exactly how many right and wrong answers you were putting down. But the Academy's marathon quiz was different. Too many of the questions were un-academic, almost like a psych test; a lot of them didn't seem to have a right answer. But he knew he didn't want to get shipped off to some nerd academy, so he did his best.
His best wasn't good enough. He'd been accepted. He'd had to go through all his possessions and decide what was important enough to put in his backpack for the trip to Darwin. He'd got on the plane feeling like a draftee. Or a new convict.
But Darwin had been fun, right up until it turned nasty. The kids were cool, mostly easy to get along with, with normal attitudes and interests. The curriculum and the teachers actually made you think. High marks didn't draw fire from anyone; everybody got high marks, even the jocks. The pod system of class structure seemed to make a point of throwing disparate types together. Geeks were a tiny but respected minority. Everybody got along, and social groups formed and re-formed without snubbing anybody. He could hang with anybody he wanted without worrying about keeping his head down. Pretty amazing, really.
But not as amazing as the chicks. They were all hot, not a bowwow in the bunch, and since all the kids were new to school and each other, they were mostly unattached. There were plenty to go around; shoot, he had two to pick from in his own pod, sisters no less. He was hunting in a wildlife preserve.
Every day at Darwin had been an adventure. But he'd never felt out of his depth, immersed in a mystery beyond his understanding, even in the cell. Until now.
The Eastern philosophies woven into martial arts had taught him to expand his consciousness. He'd heard, more than once, about "seeing the universe in a grain of sand." He was feeling something like that now. The longer he held on to that slat of wood, the more things he sensed about it, and he struggled to identify them, make sense of them. He had an inkling of the tree's transport mechanism now, and could identify a lot of what it was made of: carbon, oxygen, all kinds of complex chemicals whose purposes still eluded him. He studied the input a little longer, then withdrew his hand. A woodgrain pattern had appeared in it; it looked pretty real now, actually. His understanding was growing.
He walked through the area, just touching things: pool tools, furniture, soil. After a while, he could tell whether he was touching plastic or wood or fiberglass with his eyes closed; each of them "tasted" different after just a moment's contact. He could easily tell artificial stuff like plastic from, say, leaves. It felt like being able to see in more than three dimensions.
He decided he'd had enough for a while. The smells from the kitchen were making his stomach growl again, reminding him of hungers not intellectual. He rounded the pool, headed for the door.
III
"Hon, what's that you're doing?"
Caitlin continued to click keys, her pastry forgotten on a small plate beside her on the counter. "Checking out this computer." The little workstation in the kitchen was so snug she had to tuck her feet under her chair. "This is so weird."
Anna stood behind her chair and looked over her shoulder. "Is there something wrong with it? It seems to be working."
"It's working, all right." She turned her head to look over her shoulder at the little housekeeper. "What do you know about computers?"
"Almost nothing. I've never used one."
"You're kidding."
"Nope. What's so weird about this one?"
She tapped the case. "According to this, it's a ten-year-old Dell. That's about seven generations in computer tech. Compared to what's out on the market now, this model's a museum piece. It's still useful in the kitchen, for storing recipes and printing schedules and such. But there's hardly any point hooking it up to the Internet, and most new software won't run on it; it just doesn't have the capability. Except…"
"Except?"
"I walked past it half a dozen times before I noticed. There's a USB2 port on the front, and a DVD drive. They shouldn't be there, not on a platform this old. So I fired it up and checked its specs. The hardware's been upgraded, extensively, right up to present generation. The motherboard's probably new, too. The fan and the case may be all that's left of the original computer." She shook her head. "It doesn't make any sense. Why sink this kind of money into an old unit, when you can buy a new one for half as much?"
"I can think of a few reasons. Perhaps the case is a disguise." She smiled. "So that someone might pass it by without recognizing it for what it really is. Or perhaps it has sentimental value, and he preferred to preserve its utility with upgrades instead of replacing it."
The girl turned her head again, to look at Anna. "Sentiment. For a computer."
The little housekeeper returned her look. "Couldn't you feel affection towards a dependable machine that served you loyally?"
"I suppose." She turned back to the screen.
Anna rested her hand on the computer's case. "I'm just imagining the poor unloved thing tossed on some trash heap." Her voice was quiet, distant. "Or sitting in some dark, dusty storage space, maybe for years, waiting to be destroyed."
Kat was studying a list on the display. "Anna," she said absently, "it's just a machine. It doesn't have feelings. Hm. It's even got DSL."
Anna moved back to the oven. "Sure. My imagination's running away with me, I suppose."
III
Eddie stepped through the kitchen door, blissful. The smell of baking had been tantalizing from outside; in here, it filled the air. Anna smiled at him. She was cradling a huge mixing bowl in her arm, stirring some mixture with a spoon. She had a tiny smudge of it on her cheek. She looked adorable. He smiled back. "Smells great. What's cooking?"
"Cinnamon rolls. Nut bread. I'm thinking of baking a chocolate cake while the oven's warm."
"I like the way you think. They coming out soon? Seems like I've been smelling them all morning."
"This is the second batch. The first one... well, Roxanne was right about Kat being hungry after her swim." She nodded towards the corner, and he turned to follow her gaze.
"Oh, God, she's found one," he moaned. "We'll never see her at the pool again."
"What's wrong?"
"Computers. Her only love. Junior high science projects. President of the computer club in high school. Computer science major in college. She's a pint-sized computer geek trapped in a pinup girl's body. Right now, you're looking at the realCaitlin Fairchild." He didn't bother to lower his voice; Kat's eyes never left the screen, and her fingers fluttered over the keyboard without a pause. "She doesn't even know I'm here. I've seen her sit at one of those until her legs fall asleep and she falls over when she gets up. Hilarious. Hey, Kat."
"Hmm?" She never looked up.
"After breakfast, wanna go skinny-dipping with Bobby and me?"
"Mmm hmm."
"Then maybe you could come to our room for a little while before you get dressed, and we'll all party."
"Kay. Lemme finish this." She made half a dozen keystrokes in two seconds and turned to him. "What, now?"
"I said, you gonna eat that last roll?"
"Oh. Yeah." She picked it up absently and took a bite. "Oh. Did you want it?"
"Neh." He grinned. "I'll wait for the next batch."
"Kay." She set it back down on the plate and resumed typing.
He turned to Anna, expecting to see her grinning too. But her eyebrows were gathered, her expression troubled. "Eddie, why did you call her 'Caitlin'?"
"It's her real name. 'Kat' is just a nickname. Sarah's the only one who calls her 'Caitlin' all the time."
"Like 'Rox' or 'Roxy,' for Roxanne."
"Yeah," he said cautiously, wondering about her again.
"Is 'Eddie' a nickname?"
"Short for Edmund, my middle name." He grinned at her. "If you want to stay friends, you'll never use my first."
Again, her reaction was unexpected. She gave him a look so direct and penetrating, he could imagine he was being CAT scanned. "Are we friends, Eddie?"
There was nothing lost-puppyish about her voice; she might have been asking if he knew his shoe was untied. But he thought of the way the group had been dissing her, like she was a lunatic or a stray dog that was acting weird, and got a case of guilts. "Sure we are. We're friends, Anna."
She nodded. "Good. Thought so. I know I'm your friend, but I wasn't sure you were mine. The rolls should be out in five minutes. Then they need to cool a little before I ice them. Would you like something while you wait?"
He sat at the table. "Did you find my snack cakes at the store?"
"Yes." She lifted her lip. "But I'd rather not get them again. Or serve them, for that matter."
"Why?" But he suspected the answer.
"Because they're not food."
"What are you talking about? Of course they're food." Is this how Rox sounded, just before the hammer dropped?
"No. Food is something that provides your body with nutrients and fuel, and gives your digestive system some healthy exercise." She set the bowl on the counter, pulled a cellophane-wrapped snack cake out of the cupboard, and held it in her hand, looking at it. "This is… whatever it is. But it's not food."
He shifted in his seat. "Anna, please tell me you're not a health nut."
She transferred her interest from the cake to him. "Your body's a marvel, Eddie."
"Thanks." He leaned back and put his hands behind his head. "I try to stay in shape."
She smiled. "I mean in general, you peacock." She got serious again. "It's the product of a thousand generations of evolutionary design and re-design. No machine ever built," she said with heavy emphasis, "can match its complexity. Some scientists argue that it's needlessly complex, that evolution's an inefficient method for introducing improvements. But since even the experts don't know all that the human body's capable of, I'd say they're not qualified to offer an opinion. It has layers upon layers of linked subsystems and interdependent processes. You could write a book detailing just the mechanisms that regulate your breathing while you sleep. Eddie, have you ever visited a refinery? Or just driven by?"
He nodded. It had been pretty impressive: all those round tanks, large and small, scattered to the horizon; the square ponds full of who knew what; the buildings and control centers and what looked to be about a million miles of pipes running everywhere.
"Turning a barrel of oil into a hundred useful products is not one bit more complex than what happens when you take a bite out of a ham sandwich and bolt it down. And refinery technicians analyze that barrel of oil exhaustively before they introduce it to their system, because crude oil isn't all the same, and what you put in affects what your process produces." She tossed the wrapped package to him. "Tell you what. Just read the list of ingredients out loud, correctly pronounced, in under a minute, and I'll say no more."
The ingredients list covered most of the underside of the package. And photographic memory wasn't going to make some of the chemical names easier to pronounce. He didn't even try. "Anna, the FDA checks all this stuff out."
"Yes. So we can be fairly certain none of it will kill you within a couple of years, or give rats cancer."
"The testing's better than that."
"Tell it to the people who took Vioxx and Thalidomide."
"They haven't proved that stuff about Vioxx yet."
"Not in court. It's possible they never will. The pharmaceutical industry hires excellent lawyers. But they'll take it off the market anyway, and that's proof enough."
"But those are drugs."
"There's a reason the same government agency oversees food and drugs. Pharmaceuticals and your snack cakes have a lot in common: they're wholly artificial substances introduced into the human body, which isn't adapted by evolution to receive them. Almost all of them produce effects besides the desired ones. At least the pharmaceuticals are intended to be beneficial." She sat next to him and pulled the package between them, with the list of ingredients facing up. "Do you know why half this stuff is in here?"
"Well, the sugar's for taste."
"Why are there four different kinds?"
He had no idea. He shrugged.
"Some of it is for flavor. Rather, to mask the real taste; you wouldn't let it near your mouth if it wasn't sweetened. Sugar's also necessary as a binder, an edible glue to hold it all together. Another reason they use sugar is to dilute another ingredient so it mixes easier." She tapped the panel lightly with a fingernail. "What about this one, with the long chemical name?"
"Don't know. There must be some reason."
"Indeed there is. It's an air-entraining agent, just like the one they put in concrete to keep it from cracking in cold weather. It's in your snack cake because it's cheaper than yeast." She pointed to one after another. "This one acts as a lubricant, to keep the batter from gumming up the automated mixing machines. This one enables the whole concoction to be baked at a much lower temperature, making it cheaper to produce. This one is a stabilizing agent; without it, that creamy filling would look like snot a week after it was injected into the cake." She pushed it away. "What's in that package is a product, an assembly, no less than a sheet of plywood. It's constructed and packaged to resemble food, and it's edible. And that's all. Tell me. Which do you like better – chocolate chip cookies from a bag, or from my oven?"
"You kidding? Your cookies are great."
"So's my chocolate cake. Eddie, I promise you'll never run out of cupcakes if you let me throw these away. They're not good for you, and I don't trust them."
It sounded like a good deal, but he didn't want to cave in too easily. "What about those cinnamon rolls? Let's see the list of ingredients on the tube."
"There is no tube. They're from scratch."
"Get outta here!" He reached for her cheek and touched the dollop of icing smeared on it.
Long-chain molecules. Carbon compounds. Polymers.
He grinned. "You little fibber. Your icing's straight out of a can. Or maybe a refinery." He wiped it away.
All the exotic materials he'd sensed disappeared. He rubbed the icing between thumb and forefinger, puzzled. He sensed sugar, he thought, and some other organic compounds. But all the weird plastic- feeling stuff was gone.
Anna sat still as a statue. No, more like a hunter in a blind, her mother-hen demeanor replaced by a strange watchfulness. Quietly, she said, "What is it, Eddie?" But she isn't asking me why I'm acting strange. She's asking me how much I know.
She didn't move as he leaned forward and slowly stretched out his hand to touch her cheek again. Non-organic, but complex. Dense and stretchy and… thinner than a sheet of paper. Beneath it, he sensed a hexagonal grid of metallic objects no bigger than a pencil dot, each of them maybe a millimeter apart, connected by wires too fine to see with the naked eye, mounted on a superfine elastic mesh. Beneath it was another layer of different elastic, a mounting surface, he thought.
They locked eyes. He put his other hand in her hair. Protein? Organic, anyway. Normal hair, I bet.
A sharp intake of breath behind him. Rox. He pulled his hands away. Dammit. I must have looked like I was about to kiss her… or just did.
Anna said, "Perfect timing, sweetie. Eddie's just made a discovery, I think." Her eyes flicked to Kat, still clicking away, oblivious. "Can you two help me with something in the living room?" She stood, and so did he. He didn't think the shock of discovery accounted for the way he sort of floated out of the chair. Anna smiled at Roxy's shaken and narrowing face. "Trust each other, you two. If you don't, you'll feel like fools five minutes from now." He felt the tile pressing against his feet again.
In the living room, she turned to him. "How did you know? Gen?"
He nodded. "Something new. I can touch stuff and get a good idea what it's made of. Even if it looks like something else."
"Grunge, what are you talking about? What were you doing, if you weren't…"
He reached for her and did the same thing: one hand to her cheek, the other in her hair. The hair was essentially the same, just differently flavored, especially the purple streaks. Her cheek was a sort of smooth, protein-rich bark. He felt a fine coating of artificial compounds: makeup. He sensed capillaries and discerned pores. A living, breathing organism, totally different from Anna's skin.
He realized Rox's eyes were closed and her lips were parted, waiting.
"Well, go on, stud," Anna said. "I won't look."
Roxy's eyes snapped open, staring. She pulled away. "What's going on?"
"Tell her, Eddie."
He cleared his throat with a cough. "She's not real."
Anna blinked. "Well, that's not what I was expecting."
"Her skin's not real, I mean. Not organic. Artificial. An imitation."
"I think the word you want is 'prosthetic.'"
He looked at her. "Those little dot thingies underneath. Sensors? Like, for heat and pressure? Pain sensors? It's got different layers, like a sandwich. Or composite armor."
"It's a good guess. I really don't know. But it's tough and heat-resistant, and I don't think I feel pain the way you do." She pressed a finger into her palm and looked at Rox.
"Are you like that all over?"
"Probably." The corner of Anna's mouth lifted. "I don't suggest you try to find out."
"Anna." Rox looked a little shocky. "They skinned you? And replaced it with that? Why?" Unspoken but clear were the words: They skinned you alive? How did you live through it?
"I don't know. As far as I know, I've always been this way. If I had some kind of surgery, that memory's gone too."
It was his turn to be confused. "Gone?"
The little housekeeper turned away. "Could you tell it, sweetie? I just don't feel up to it. Besides, I've got to take my rolls out." She paused at the door. "I don't feel entirely well. I'm going to my room afterwards."
III
Anna locked her bedroom door behind her, stripped off her clothes, and studied her reflection in the mirrored sliding closet door.
Not real.
I don't resemble the pictures in Eddie's books as closely as Caitlin does, but everything's there. And variation between body types is wide. Roxanne said we look alike, and he thinks she's real. If I'm not supposed to be real, why did they go to so much trouble? The ones who held me. Gave me orders. Tested me.
"Made me," she whispered. It was the first time she'd spoken to herself aloud. It was also the first time she'd faced her origin squarely. It isn't just that I'm faster and stronger, have different senses, think differently. I'm not a mutation like these kids. I wasn't created the way other people are. I didn't grow. I was built.
They must have built me for a reason. What did they want me to be, and how did I fail?
She slid the mirrored door aside to reveal her nearly empty closet. Behind the first pole, with its modest assortment of slacks and shirts and plain dresses, lay a second, holding only three hangers: gray tee shirt, black utility vest, and a pair of urban-camo BDU pants, all shades of gray and black, all items clean and neat if rather faded. A pair of hunting boots sat on the floor against the back wall. She took the items out and dressed, then slid the door shut and studied her reflection.
This is how I appeared to them. A little soldier. One that can kill with her bare hands, despite looking rather like a fifteen-year-old girl. Is that what they wanted? Why did they change their minds and shut me away?
She heard stealthy footprints, several sets of them, outside her bedroom door. They don't want anything from me; they don't want to disturb me at all. They're just checking on me.
"I feel like I've known you a lot longer than a day and a half. I'm just starting to think you need some taking care of, too."
"Sometimes you find yourself attracted to the most unlikely person. We're friends, Anna."
"You were an experiment too. I thought we were going to be friends."
Trading happy smiles with Caitlin as they shopped for clothes.
I knew I was bonding to them; subroutine after subroutine is linking directly to their input. Now I know they're bonding to me. But how can they, if they don't know who I am?
A nearly noiseless knock on the door. "Anna?" Bobby's voice, almost whisper-soft. "You sleeping in there?"
"No, I'm changing." She pulled some out-of-the-house clothes off their hangers. "Do you need something?"
"No," he said, raising his voice. "I just wondered if you're okay."
"Thanks. I'm fine. I'll be out in a few."
The hallway was deserted when she stepped out of her room, but she could hear people sounds throughout the house: a chair scraping against the concrete by the pool, and a splash as a body entered the water; Caitlin's fingers still working the keyboard in the kitchen; the television in the living room. The house was never quiet to her, but these sounds indicated life and habitation, and seemed to change the house's character. When I'm alone here, it's a structure, a machine. Now it's a nest.
She went through the bedrooms quickly, picking up and making the beds. Caitlin's was already made, her teddy bear sitting against a pillow. Roxanne's was strewn across the floor, along with her bedclothes and fruit plate and some evidence of a bedtime snack. Bobby's wasn't made, but his covers were pulled up neatly, as were Eddie's. Dusting and sweeping, she decided, could wait until she got back from her errand.
As she carried dishes to the dishwasher, she glanced toward her redheaded charge. The pastry plate still sat near at hand, but the pastry was gone; Anna wondered if the girl had finished it, or if someone had taken it without her noticing. She appeared to be studying a magazine displayed on the terminal. "Hon, what have you got there?"
"Robotics Today. No one's tried for the Sanagachi Prize yet. They raised the bar pretty high this time."
She looked over the girl's shoulder just as Caitlin touched the keys and another block of text appeared. "What now?"
"News services. No reports of a massacre in the Upper Peninsula, no rash of missing-persons cases. It's like we never existed. Or we're still there. Guess the people at the Academy found all our folks' e-mail addresses."
"Caitlin, can you teach me to use a computer? It seems I'm missing out on a valuable information source."
The girl turned to her. "Anna, if you know how, you can find out almost anything on the Net. How can you not know how to run a computer? Every school has them."
"Home schooled."
"Ah." The girl's tone expressed a clear opinion about her housekeeper's curriculum. "Sure, I'll teach you. When?"
"Not now. I have an errand to run. After dinner, maybe?"
"Kay." She shut off the machine and stood, stretching. When she raised her arms, her knuckles brushed the ceiling.
"Next time I need something off the top shelf, I think I'll just ask you to fetch it down."
She brought her hands down. "Sure. Nice to know I went through all this for a good reason."
As Anna entered the garage, she glanced again at the car the kids had arrived in. Stolen plates. Registered to a dead man, possibly. As soon as Mr. Lynch gets home, it's got to go.
Just as she was going to give the command to raise the garage door behind her vehicle, the mailbox mike picked up a car slowing to a stop in front of the house. Over the idling engine, she heard a man's voice: Rick, the morning-shift security guard. "Well? Do you recognize it?"
"I told you I've never been here." A girl's voice, sullen. "Why this… shakedown? I was just walking down the sidewalk. It's my color, isn't it?"
"Miss, my mother's Mexican. A third of the property owners here are black or Middle Eastern or Asiatic. You add in the domestics and other service types, including me, and most of the people who belong on this street aren't white. I know them all, and you're not one of them. I've been sitting halfway down the street watching you since you came in. You ducked under the gate, entered on foot, and bypassed the call box, ignoring the big sign telling nonresidents to call upon entry. You're not dressed for the neighborhood, and there aren't many kids here anyway. The way you looked over the houses, I knew you'd never been here. And that bag you're carrying is too big for a purse and too small for luggage, but just the right size for concealing burglar tools or something small and valuable. That's why the shakedown. Not having ID just clinches it."
The motor shut off, and the car door clicked open. "This is the Lynch place. If someone here can vouch for you, you'll get a sincere apology. If not, you're getting a ride downtown."
She raised the door behind the empty bay. Rick was walking down the drive with a girl wearing shorts and a tank top and carrying a denim backpack. Her upper arm was gripped tight in his big hand as he urged her along.
The girl was beautiful. A thick cascade of wavy jet-black hair flowed down the center of her back to her waist, bound by a lace of leather at the back of her head. Her figure was trim and athletic and compared favorably to the girls in Eddie's books, being the sort sometimes described as "hourglass"; despite being fifteen centimeters taller and ten kilos heavier than Anna, the girl's waist was no larger. Her dusky features were broad, almost Asiatic, with dark slanted eyes, heavily lashed, and full, pouty lips.
Sarah. Bobby's lover.
Rick jerked his hand back from her arm, as if he'd touched something hot, or gotten a shock. His other hand moved to the billy club at his belt.
"Sarah." She stepped quickly down the drive to meet them. "Thank goodness you're here. We were getting worried. Thanks for bringing her in, Rick."
He rested the heel of his hand lightly on the club's handle as if he'd never meant to do anything else. He eyed the girl, who returned the appraisal, waiting. "My apologies, miss. Sorry to make you feel unwelcome. Won't happen again. I'll make sure the others know. Suggest you replace that lost ID as soon as possible, just the same. Anne, I wish I'd known you had company coming."
"I was taken by surprise too. Mr. Lynch's son is home from school, and he invited friends. Sarah's the last, and she's a little late." She reached for the girl's hand. "Come, dear. Everyone's here, and I think Bobby's by the pool. I'll show you your room, and then you can mingle. Are you hungry?" She looked past her to Rick. "Thanks again, Rick. Can you stop by in half an hour or so? I'll have something for you."
"You don't need to do that, Anne. It's my job."
"Which is why Mr. Lynch will insist. He values people who take their work seriously." She waved as she led Sarah into the garage and shut it behind them.
Sarah eyed the old four-door in the center bay. "I'm in the right place after all. When I got here, I wasn't sure." Her gaze shifted to Anna. "He didn't tell us he had a daughter."
"He doesn't. I'm Anna, the housekeeper. I know all about you."
Sarah raised her eyebrows. "What does that mean, exactly?"
"It means you don't have to watch your speech around me. I keep Mr. Lynch's secrets. The kids can tell you. How much of his runaway money did you spend?"
"Just enough for a few meals. I offered all my rides gas money, but there weren't any takers." Her lips thinned. "I think they were looking for some other compensation. I had to get out twice."
"Any other trouble on the road?"
The girl shrugged. "A few problems. There must be a crackdown on drunk drivers or some such. I came on two roadblocks where the police were checking IDs. Both times, I told the drivers I was underage, and they were glad to let me out beforehand, so I could travel cross country for a few miles. I presume they didn't tell the police they'd seen me. The first time I got tagged was right here." She looked at the closed garage door. "I thought about bribing him."
"Wouldn't have worked. He really does take his job seriously. Let me have it."
Sarah unzipped her pack and reached in, coming out with two packs of bills, one in a bank wrapper, the other rolled up and secured with a rubber band. "Where's your boss?"
Anna headed for the connecting door. "He went to the reservation, looking for you. He called to say you'd left, and IO had your family under surveillance. He stayed to safeguard them until they lost interest." She paused with her hand on the knob. "Sarah. You've seen how risky it is to leave the house without ID. Getting caught would be catastrophic for all of us. Promise me you won't leave the grounds until he gets back."
"All right."
"I mean it. Promise."
The girl's expression turned to mild amusement. "What makes you think my promise is worth anything?"
"I don't think Bobby could love a girl who didn't honor her word."
Sarah stilled. But she said, "Anna, I promise I won't leave the house without permission until I'm sure it's safe, or I'm leaving it for the last time. That's the best I can do."
"Not good enough." She held on to the knob. "I can't follow you around all the time to make sure you're still here. And if you leave after midnight, you'll set off alarms. At least promise me you'll tell me before you leave."
The girl shrugged. All right. I promise. If I decide to leave, I'll tell you first."
She turned the knob and led the way into the hall. "Bedrooms to the left. Your room is the first on the right. Bathroom's next door. Pick either bed. You've got the room to yourself. I'll tell the others you're here." She stopped. "Oh. Are you hungry? I've just been to the store, but I can go out again, if you have special needs."
The girl eyed her darkly. "Are you asking me if you need to stock up on buffalo jerky or something?"
She returned the look without flinching. "I was thinking you might be diabetic, or lactose intolerant, or just plain picky."
The girl's look lightened. "I eat kosher when I have a choice, but I'm not fanatic about it. I eat a lot of fruits and vegetables."
"So does Roxanne. You'll find plenty in the kitchen, and I'll be starting lunch shortly. If you actually have a taste for buffalo jerky, or anything else, let me know, and I'll pick it up on my next trip to the store."
The kids' reunion seemed more wary than joyful. Eddie and Caitlin were particularly reserved towards the Indian girl. Bobby's outward reactions were tightly controlled; he tried to conceal his emotions and assume a casually friendly mien, but his heart rate increased twenty percent when she appeared at the pool, with an accompanying rise in temperature. Roxanne seemed happier to see her than Anna had expected. The girl-child wrapped her arms around the dark-haired beauty for a quick hug, then led her out the side door. "Don't think I'm switching my preference or anything. I'm just glad you're here safe." Then: "What do you think of Anna?"
The object of her question was in the kitchen, getting an early start on lunch and listening in; merely human ears would not have heard Roxanne's words, or the reply: "Classic control freak."
A giggle. "Isn't she just?" Anna heard Roxanne's fancy cigarette case snap open and shut, followed by the click of her lighter. "She caught me smoking in the garage yesterday and went berserk. Today she bought me a pack. Go figure. She's the strangest person. I don't know whether to like her or hate her or be afraid of her or sorry for her. But she's scary capable, and she thinks the sun rises and sets on Mr. Lynch."
"He's really at the reservation?"
"He didn't stay here five minutes when he found out you went there. He was scared, Sarah. He thinks you put your family in danger. He made Kat feel like dirt for letting you go."
"Well, that explains. But why does your boyfriend seem so disappointed to see me?"
"Don't know. You'll have to ask him."
"I think not. I'm hoping he'll snub me, so I can have some peace and quiet."
"She's gonna want to take you clothes shopping tomorrow, I bet. Try not to let her weird you out."
"Don't tell me she picked that."
"This? Gawd, no. You've seen what she wears. She's got no fashion sense at all. She'll tag along and make suggestions, but she'll pretty much let you pick your own stuff out. Just try to find something that doesn't get you stared at. Or not much. Ehhh, just find something."
"I don't dress to titillate, Roxanne. I wear what I like."
"And you just happen to like tight pants and bare midriffs and low necklines and… don't get me started. Just look at what girls your age are wearing before you buy, that's all."
A snort. "You sound like a mom. Not my mom, but a mom."
The mailbox mike went live; once again, Anna picked up the sound of the security cruiser as it turned partway down the drive and stopped. She opened bay three and met him at the connecting door, standing on the bottom step, which almost brought them eye to eye.
She placed an envelope in his hand, but didn't let go of it. She smiled up into his eyes. "This is just a token. You know that. If you need anything, Rick, you can come to us."
He returned her look gravely. "Any of us would have done the same, Anne. I'll be splitting this three ways."
"Thought you'd say that." She produced two more envelopes, equally thick.
He looked down at them; even if the bills inside were fives, he knew he was holding a week's pay in each one. "Give me a dozen of those cookies and you can have mine back."
She slapped him on the shoulder, lightly. "I'm fresh out. Come by tomorrow, and I'll have a dozen boxed up and ready to go." She let her demeanor grow serious. "Rick. It means a lot to know you guys are on the job. Mr. Lynch is gone so much lately."
He looked at her with eyes full of understanding. She often monitored the guards' conversations over the radio and as they exchanged words at shift change. She knew that the security force thought that Mr. Lynch was a retired gangster, like the Riccis, the family who owned all three houses on the turnaround and had installed a second gate across the end of the road. She also knew that they thought Mr. Lynch was using his housekeeper for sex. She found both assumptions useful. "We know when he's gone, Anne. We keep a close eye on the house."
"Appreciate that. You just never know who might… drop in for a visit."
He nodded. "Speaking of which. Tell me about your houseguests, so we won't have a repeat of earlier."
"You can't miss Bobby. Imagine Mr. Lynch at sixteen, but blond. His friend Eddie is short, wide, and Oriental, about fifteen. Roxanne is about my size. Midnight black hair streaked with purple."
"Ech. God." He made a face.
"You won't say it when you see her. The last one is Caitlin, the redhead. I won't describe her. You'll recognize her the instant you see her. Sarah's a beauty, isn't she?"
He nodded. "You may have your hands full with her, I think."
"Rick, they're alllike that." She flicked her eyes across the street towards her neighbor's house. "They've already attracted some undue attention. And foot traffic on the beach picks up when they're out back. The kids don't need the aggravation. They're on vacation, and in real need of some relaxation; their school sounds like a concentration camp. Can you sort of keep an eye peeled for strangers beachside? Offshore, too." She grinned ruefully. "Call me paranoid. I'm imagining some Chris Craft full of Joe Six-packs fifty yards offshore, pretending to fish while they scan the pool with binoculars."
He smiled. "Not much we can do about that. Well, maybe. Brent is good with a rifle."
"Don't you dare. Just tell me, so I can get them inside or whatever. I'm just extra nervous with three pretty girls in the house."
"Four."
"What?" She widened her eyes, pretending not to understand.
He smiled. "Four pretty girls."
She folded her arms. "Get on with you, Rico McCall. Come back tomorrow for your two dozen cookies."
He grinned and turned away. She watched him all the way out to his car, smiling, and brought the garage door down.
"Well, aren't you the little charmer." Sarah leaned a shoulder against the wall halfway down the hall. "I presume bribery requires a certain approach around here. What's the going rate for extra service from rent-a-cops these days?"
Anna shook her head. "He wasn't looking for a payoff when he brought you here. Money wouldn't have been enough to get preferential treatment from these men. To them, this isn't just a job, it's their calling and their profession. They're naturally protective people. But they're only human. They'll give a little extra for someone who appreciates them. Most of the residents don't know their names." She looked at Sarah. "It wouldn't hurt for you to throw him a smile, now and again."
"Not likely. He was feeling me up with the back of his hand when he was hanging onto my arm."
"Sarah, that would be very unlike him."
"I'm not mistaken, and I'm not making it up. He was rubbing my breast with his knuckles."
Anna remembered Caitlin's mysterious effect on the male diners in the restaurant, and nodded. "You receive a lot of unwelcome attention from men, I'm guessing. Don't they believe you when you tell them you're homosexual?"
"What?"
She cocked her head. "Gay. A lesbian. Into girls. Was I misinformed?"
"Who told you that?"
She shrugged. "Everyone. It came up while we were discussing sleeping arrangements. That's why you have your own bedroom when everyone else is doubling up."
Sarah raised her eyebrows slightly. "I feel as if I've been insulted two different ways."
"Everyone seemed to think you'd prefer a room to yourself. If you'd rather double up, maybe we can come up with something."
The girl lifted an eyebrow further. "Are there two beds in your room?"
"No. I wasn't offering to share with you. I thought one of the others might change their mind."
"Okay. For a second there, I thought my gaydar was off. What are you suggesting, then? I doubt Caitlin's going to leave Roxanne in a bedroom alone."
Anna met the girl's eyes squarely. "I'm probably exposing my ignorance in such matters, but I thought Bobby might be persuaded."
Sarah's face closed up. "Truth is, I've gotten used to having my own room. This arrangement is just fine."
Anna noted the increase in pulse rate, and the change in the sound of her heartbeat that indicated an increase in blood pressure. "Sarah, have I offended?"
"That depends on whether you're one of those people who thinks every lesbian just needs a good screw to lose interest in other women."
Anna shook her head. "I don't know a thing about it. I only know that you two are close. I thought you might enjoy sharing a room. As I said, I'm ignorant about gay relationships. I'm just trying to see everyone settled in comfortably."
Sarah looked at her silently, deciding. "All right. I believe you. Leave things the way they are. I'd rather anyone who shares a bedroom with me be doing it at my invitation." Her dark eyes half-closed. "Something else I wanted to ask, since we're being so candid. Just how complete a domestic servant are you, Anna? What does your job entail?"
"I run the house, Sarah. I cook and clean, inside and out. I take care of any guests or occupants. I also maintain the garden and the security system. As for what you're really asking, no. Mr. Lynch established that early in our working relationship. He told me, and I quote, 'Whatever duties you may feel obligated to perform, that isn't one of them. Ever.' End quote."
Sarah nodded. "All right. I just thought I picked up something when you were talking to the security guard."
"You did. They think I'm bumping the headboard with him."
The girl snorted. "God. What an image."
"Explain?"
Sarah looked at her. "Well, doing it as a business arrangement's one thing, but come on. Look at him. And at least thirty years' age difference besides."
She remembered the cover story she'd given Roxanne, the one she'd picked by intuition. "Oh, I don't know. I can't say I haven't thought about it from time to time."
The girl's eyebrow lifted. "Really. How long have you known him?"
"Since I was seven years old." Which I still am.
"Well, that explains." She stepped past.
"Explains what?"
"The slavish devotion, if you've been looking up to him since you were little." She headed down the hallway towards her room.
"Sarah. One more thing. Do you want to shop for clothes with me tomorrow?"
The girl turned. "Our host is coming back in a day or so, right?"
"Correct. I expect him home tomorrow, if all goes well."
"I brought some clothes with me. I'll wait until I can shop by myself." She turned back and disappeared through her bedroom door.
After lunch, Anna resumed her errand. The shop, located in San Diego, was more of an electronics supply warehouse than a novelty store, and did a good business with security agencies and corporate customers. The sales representative looked over her modest clothing as she placed her order. "We have the items you're looking for. Are you buying them for someone else? We have special pricing for certain government agencies."
"No. These are for me. Can't you sell them to private parties anymore?"
"Sure. But they're expensive. We usually sell them to diplomats and government officials headed overseas, other serious kidnapping risks."
"This isn't my first order. I know what they cost. I just need them to be reliable and compact – and sold with discretion. Cost is my last consideration."
He shrugged and visited the back shelves, returning with five tiny tracking devices. "Guaranteed for three years or a thousand queries, unconditional. You sure you don't need installation?"
"I already have someone, thanks."
She picked up one more item at a nearby restaurant-supplies store, and returned home just in time to start dinner. Once she had the process begun and could leave it unsupervised for a while, she set about finishing her bedroom housekeeping. She knocked on Sarah's door. "Sarah? Can I come in?"
She heard the privacy lock snick open. The girl opened the door and stood in the opening, barring entry. "What is it?"
"I'd like to come in and finish cleaning. I've swept and done the glass, but I still need to dust."
Sarah stepped back to let her in. "Is this an everyday routine?"
"It will be now that the room's in use." She stepped in. "I can come back when you're out, if you prefer."
The girl gave her an odd look. "No. I'd rather you do it while I'm here."
Sarah had moved in and unpacked. Her room looked more personal than any of the others: she'd brought some objects from home, and used them to make the room hers. The mostly-empty bookshelf on one wall held a small flute, a pair of tiny moccasins, and several photographs. She started to pick up one of them with a dustcloth in the other hand.
"Don't touch that."
She turned. "I only wanted to dust underneath."
"Don't. I'll take care of it."
She nodded, then turned to study the photographs. "I see where you get your beauty, Sarah." She pointed to a picture without touching it, a large group photo. "That must be your mother. You look very much alike. And the older woman sitting in the middle… her mother? Your grandmother?"
"Yes." Her voice softened. "The man next to her is my grandfather. He's dead now."
"I'm sorry."
"That's my father. I'm third from the left. I'm ten in this picture. My youngest sister, right there, is four or five, and following me everywhere." She picked it up in both hands, lovingly. "My oldest sister is just about to become a teenager, and putting on airs."
"You all look very happy."
"We were." She set it carefully back on the shelf. Her voice turned brisk. "How much longer are you going to be?"
"Minutes only." She quickly dusted the night stand, dresser, and window frame. "Done. Do you want me to leave the polish and rag?"
"Yes. Thanks. I'll bring it to the kitchen."
"That's fine." She paused on her way out the door. "Sarah, how did you make Rick let go of you?"
Sarah gave her a sideways look. "You said you knew all about us."
"I know that you kids have incredible extranormal abilities. I'm still learning about their nature and extent. As are you, I think." She cocked her head. "So, how did you make him let go of you?"
"I think I gave him a shock somehow. It wasn't deliberate. I just wanted him to let go, and I felt … something, rather like when you shuffle across the carpet and touch a doorknob, and his hand jumped off my arm."
She cocked her head. "How does that make you feel, when you discover something about yourself you never suspected? Does it make you uncomfortable, as if you're sharing your mind with a stranger?"
Sarah shook her head, puzzled and cautious. "Not really. No matter what this is that's happening to me, I'm still me."
She nodded. "Okay. Dinner at six."