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 Posted: Mon Jun 21, 2010 5:49 pm
Another writing contest; this time, to write a novella. Five rounds, consisting of prologue, three chapters, three chapters, three chapters, and ending. I'll submit here after I submit to the contest.
Titled: Organic Hearts, Metal EYEs
“Are you serious?”
The doctor wiped his gloved hands on a towel. “There have been very few occasions in which I have been more serious.”
I shook my head in disbelief. “But they said it wouldn’t happen.”
“They said there was a very small chance of it happening -”
“No,” I corrected him, desperate, “they said it wouldn’t happen. They said it only happened to previous technology. They said mine was so updated that it wouldn’t happen. They said -”
“They lied,” the doctor said simply. “It’s happening.”
I stared down at my hands. The pale skin, the strong fingers, and the very curve of them looked suddenly helpless. This was a fight I couldn’t win with my hands. “What’s going to happen to me?” I finally asked.
The doctor spoke with a voice I appreciated. There was no pity, no apathy, and no messing around - only an honest, businesslike tone. “One by one your organs will shut down. We can replace these organs with TECH, depending on which organs shut down first, but once it reaches your brain there won’t be anything we can do.”
I looked up at him to actually see his face, suddenly realizing my head had dropped onto my chest in fatigue. I studied him with my organic eye - at the doctor’s insistence, I always turned my EYE off in the examination room. It interfered with all the computers and machines that surrounded him. I tried to think of something to say, some way to tackle this problem and pound it into pulp.
Nothing came to me.
After a long hesitation the doctor spoke again. I could see the unwillingness to do so in his face. “There is one other procedure we could try -”
“Do it.”
“But -”
“I don’t care.”
Sighing, he pressed a button and brought one of the many machines whirring to life.undefined
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Posted: Fri Jul 09, 2010 9:13 am
Chapter One
Ding!
Demitren Corning smiled ruefully as the secretary for New York City Law Enforcement Headquarters, Offices, and Laboratories (NYCLEHOL) handed him his card back. “Keep that safe,” she advised him. “You’ll need it to punch in every morning.”
“Sucks to be an intern again, doesn’t it?” he said ruefully as he took the card and tucked it in his inner coat pocket.
The secretary smiled. “You’ll live.”
He gestured to the right with his thumb. “Is she as tough as they say?”
“Who’s ‘they?’”
“Previous interns. The ones that didn’t last longer than a week.”
“She’s tougher,” the secretary said grimly. “She went easy on them.”
“Thanks for the warning,” Demitren smiled. “Anything else I should know?”
“She hates her job and is more than likely to bring it out on you.”
With mock serious Demitren tipped her a salute. “Here goes, with God!” he declared heroically. He walked down the hall to the right with the secretary laughing behind him and a smile on his face.
When he finally found the door that read Veteran Consultant, he knocked on the door. “Get in here,” barked a woman’s voice. With a hesitant glance around himself and a whistle for luck, Demitren opened the door and let himself in.
His first glance of Jenosa Parkings was of her side profile. She was standing with her right side facing him, watching a holographic screen scroll through a list of names. He took in her shoulder-blade-length brown hair, brown eye, pale skin, and athletic build with a sweep of his eyes. Unlike everyone else in the office building, she was dressed for street patrol work rather than a desk job. A black patrol woman’s jumper suit with its sleeves rolled up accentuated the muscle and provided several handy hiding places for whatever weapons she probably had. Her face wasn’t unpleasant, but the expression on it was one of concentration and determination that didn’t belong in an office. He coughed to let her know he had entered the room.
“I know you’re not sick, so keep the noises to a minimum,” she told him, and she pivoted to face him.
Demitren blinked, unable to keep himself from reacting. The left side of Jenosa’s face was almost completely made of metal. Hair still framed it, and her chin, mouth, and nose were still organic, but her forehead, eye, and cheek had been replaced. In place of an organic eye was a bright pinpoint of red light, which he was certain was beamed on him right now. Seeing the rest of her body, he realized that her left arm was also of metal from halfway up her forearm to an inch past the elbow. There was no way of telling what else about her had been replaced with TECH - Technology and Equipment Containing Hyperactivity.
After a moment of studying him over Jenosa still hadn’t spoken, so Demitren did. “X-raying through my clothes?”
The look on his face made it obvious that she wasn’t the flirty kind. “Checking to see if you want to kill me or not,” she corrected him.
“There can’t be that many people who want you dead,” Demitren said, “to make that your first assumption with every newcomer.”
In answer the woman pointed to a dark burn mark on the wall behind her. “Last week’s intern,” she explained.
“At him or you?”
“At me. He missed.” Evidently deciding that he had passed the test, she sat down behind her desk in a swivel chair, slouching slightly as she watched him warily. “Let’s see your resume.”
“It’s in your inbox.”
“I want a hard copy.”
“Don’t trust computers?”
“Don’t trust you.”
Demitren shrugged and pulled a slightly-crumpled and badly bent package of paper out from his other inner coat pocket. With a look that clearly said she wasn’t impressed so far, Jenosa took it from him, flipped past the cover page, and began reading choice bits. He got the feeling that her organic eye was reading, but her TECH eye - whatever those things were called - was actually watching him and analyzing his reactions to what she read. “Demitren Corning. Majors in psychology, sociology, and teaching... Good Gog. You don’t mean to tell me my newest intern is a teacher, do you?”
“I taught at a university.”
“Then why the heck are you interning for a patrol job?”
“I’m interning for an analysis desk job, not on-the-street law enforcement.”
“Same difference. Answer my question.”
Demitren shrugged. “I got tired of telling people the same age as myself to do things I myself had never done.”
“So you decided to come complicate my life. Thank you, I’m so honored.”
“Aw, really, it wasn’t actually anything to do with you,” Demitren said, trying to lighten the atmosphere. “They just happened to put me with you by chance. I nearly swooned when I found out -”
“I suggest you shut up now. You’re still in school?”
“I’m working to get my doctors in sociology and psychology.”
Jenosa continued scanning the resume. Demitren invited himself to sit down in the other available chair and waited.
Finally, Jenosa took the papers and slammed them into a desk drawer. Sitting up straight, she folded her hands on the desk and looked Demitren in the eye. “How much do you know about me?”
Demitren thought for a moment. “Not much. You got into law enforcement at the age of fifteen by lying about your age and education. They didn’t find out until you were nineteen and they couldn’t do anything about it. They wouldn’t have, anyway, because you’d already solved three cold cases and intercepted five criminals with your partner, the legendary Daren Sweanar, who retired five years ago at the ripe old age of forty-seven. You were promoted year after year until you got offered the job of chief of patrol, but you declined because you preferred to actually be patrolling. But for the life of me I’ve never managed to figure out how you got landed with a desk job five years ago. You were born sometime in... uh, December, in the year 2205. You’ve got a scar between your shoulder blades from when you were seventeen and got on the wrong end of a drug dealer’s knife, and you once threatened to kill your boss but lived to tell the tale.”
For a moment Jenosa simply stared at him in silence. Then she took her hands off her desk and leaned forward. “You call that ‘not much?’”
Demitren shrugged. “I worked as a reporter for a magazine to pay for college.”
The woman leaned back in her chair and closed her organic eye. “Great merciful Minerva.”
“Sorry.”
“Do you actually have any qualifications for this position?”
“Well, not your position...”
Jenosa rolled her eyes. “For the position you’ll be applying to?”
“Sociology and psychology?”
“You taught it.”
“Meaning I know a lot about it.”
There was a staring competition between the two for a while, then Jenosa sighed. “Let’s get this over with, then. You’re my intern. I’m the boss. You call me Parkings or Jenosa, but call me Miss Parkings, ma’am, or Miss Jenosa and I will blast you into the nether world, got it?”
“Yes.”
“Good. Do you know how to use a computer?”
“Monitor or holographic?”
“Either.”
“Both.”
“Great. You’ll be on the computer, then. Boot up that one there.”
For the rest of the morning Jenosa made him familiar with the files and applications on the office’s computers and network. She brought him up to date with the whole building, and sent him on his lunch break. She preferred to eat lunch in her office. He left her with her sandwich and her holographic screen, which resumed scrolling through a list of names she seemed so interested in.
In the cafeteria Demitren ate his own packed lunch with the secretary from that morning, whose name he found out was Sunny Hills. “My parents have a bad sense of humor,” she explained over her salad. Sunny bought her lunch at the office’s cafeteria.
“Better than none at all,” he replied. “How did Jenosa get stuck here if she was such a crack-job patrol woman? She’s not even thirty-five yet.”
“She’s thirty exactly,” Sunny replied. “She got here when she got the EYE. They forced her to quit patrol work and work in the office.”
“How’d she get the EYE, anyway?” Demitren asked, twirling his fork in his Chinese meal.
Sunny thought about this as she chewed celery. “I don’t really know. I’m not allowed to see her medical records and I don’t have access to her old patrolling ones. But from what I can figure... You remember the serial arson case about five years back?”
“The one Jenosa solved.”
“Yeah. It was only a couple of months after Daren Sweanar retired, and she had already been given the new partner. In her defense he was a rather young and inexperienced guy. Anyway, she lost patience with him -”
“Really? That sounds unlike her.”
Sunny giggled. “They were patrolling, had a pair of leads on the arson case. She ordered him to investigate the smaller of the leads, sent him to a warehouse where the gasoline was stored. Then she went to follow the other lead on her own. Long story short the arson criminal cornered her, locked her in, and set fire to the building. Then he found out that she’d blockaded his escape route first, so he got caught. But by the time the fire department found her, her left side had caught on fire.”
Demitren nodded. “Her face and her arm.”
“Well, the rest of that side, too, but most of it they were able to save or just re-grow. The face and the arm got burned the worst, so those got TECH replacements. And when they decided to give her an EYE, she was forced to retire from patrolling and take up a job here.”
“But why?” Demitren wondered through a mouthful of noodles. “You’d think an EYE would be more helpful on patrol than in an office. Wouldn’t it? What, EYE stands for Extraordinary...”
“Extrasensitive-Something-Equipment,” supplied Sunny. “I forget the ‘Y’ word. And sure, an EYE would be amazing on patrol. But it’s actually more complicated than that. First of all, she had been reckless and stupid, going alone and abandoning her partner. It may be a bit extreme for an experienced patrol woman to lose her job for just that, but it’s a factor. Second of all, this was around the time when people got it into their heads that old blood should be replaced with new blood. Remember? The public voted to change the president of the United State’s term of service to only two years around that time. That whole preventing-corruption-and-stalemate crap. The people wanted new patrol men and women, and this was an excuse to get rid of one of the old ones.
“Third, an EYE may be amazing for patrol, but it’s also fairly useful in an office. Now let me see if I’ve got this right... Right. The EYE scans a document, then by electronic impulses sends the image of the document to a computer receptor transplanted into the brain. That computer takes the image, converts the electronic impulses from the EYE into new electronic impulses, and sends the new ones to various parts of the brain. Those parts of the brain then instantly receive what the document looks like, what the information on it is, and what the information means, and it’s all instantly memorized. Think of it as really, really good photographic memory. Then we don’t spend so much time reading documents and filing stuff, you only have to look at it once.”
Demitren watched as she explained all this to him. When she was done he finished slurping a noodle and cleared his mouth. “Small wonder she hates her job. Any chance of her getting back on the streets?”
“I certainly hope so,” Sunny said. “It would be a lot easier.”
“What do you mean?”
Standing, Sunny went to dispose of her tray. “I think you’ll find out.”
***
Happy to be alone I turned back to the screen. I already had it memorized, thanks to my dear friend the EYE. But I can’t stop watching it. I keep hoping that seeing it over and over again will make something pop out at me.
It’s been a long time since I was put on a case. They top guys finally decided that since they couldn’t restrict me to memorizing files, they might as well allow me to be active in the worst of their cases. But what terrible timing. To finally have a case, and only just be started, and find out that I had a time limit to solve it.
A time limit the top guys didn’t assign me.
I put a hand to my forehead in small protest against how unfair it all was. And speaking of unfair, why the heck did I have to suddenly deal with an intern? Sure, he seemed pleasant enough. Light brown hair of a decent length, a decent body build, and - according to my EYE - all the right genetics to be on the job. But the fact that he was capable didn’t mend the fact that he’d be hanging around me for the next deities-know-how-long.
‘Maybe when I die they’ll ask him to write a eulogy as a coworker.’ I smiled, imagining the funeral. ‘“Uh, well, she was my boss... And she hated her job... and she threatened to shoot me every five minutes...”’
Chapter Two
The next two days were spent making Demitren familiar with the NYCLEHOL facilities. He learned several useful things: what the difference was between the NYCLEHOL and the NYCLE (the organization of patrol men and women that patrolled the streets of NYC), how the NYCLEHOL computer network worked, and where the restrooms were.
On Wednesday Jenosa decided that he was ready to start being her real intern. “I don’t want you hovering over my shoulder like some kind of creeper kid,” she told him. “Stand next to me and speak your mind or don’t waste my time.”
“I’ve got no problem with that.”
She ignored him. “Usually Veteran Consultants such as myself -” her tone of voice was sour as she said this “- aren’t assigned cases. But due to a little persuasion on my part, they’ve agreed that due to lack of important activity I can handle this.”
Demitren snorted.
“I know you’re not sick, so enough with the noises.” Jenosa activated the holographic screen she was always watching. Instead of the scrolling list of names, several windows started darting back and forth across the screen, depending on where Jenosa and her remote control cursor wanted them to go. “It’s a kidnapping case,” she started, “and the worst one I’ve seen in years. Victims are children, both genders, ranging in ages from three to twelve. Forty-nine have been taken so far with the same note for ransom. The note’s exactly the same, but the paper and ink suggest that the ‘napper has been printing it from several sources to keep us from narrowing down a location.”
“Back up a second,” Demitren said. “Forty-nine children missing?”
“We’re up against a professional,” she agreed. “It’s nerve-racking that he’s come this far. The worst part is we can’t profile him. There’s absolutely nothing in common between these kids. Some are orphans, some live with one parent, some live with two, some live with other relatives. All social classes, all backgrounds, all ethnic groups, all ranges of education, talents, and personalities. In fact, there’s only one clear thing they have in common.” She brought up a window that began a slideshow of the missing children’s photographs. “They all have very dark brown hair.”
Demitren studied the children for a moment. “I can see how profiling would be a problem.”
“We do know it’s a male, though,” Jenosa added.
“How’d you figure?”
“First, the age of the children. Women usually only kidnap babies or toddlers.”
“I thought you said some were three.”
“Only one three-year-old,” Jenosa muttered, pulling up the list of names she had stared at, which Demitren realized was a list of the victims. “Two four-year-olds. Four five-year-olds, eight six-year-olds, ten seven-year-olds, ten eight-year-olds, five nine-year-olds, five ten-year-olds, one eleven-year-old, three twelve-year-olds.”
Demitren nodded. “Ah. Fewer young ones, more older ones.”
“Barbaric numbers just the same. Second reason we know he’s a man, the residences of the victims show signs of forced entry. Alarm systems were destroyed with a hammer - or fist - rather than just being turned off or hacked. The situations with older kids show signs of struggle suggesting a large, power fully-built being. And in the case of one twelve-year-olds, he drew the girl’s blood on accident but didn’t bother cleaning up.”
“You’re saying that if it had been a woman, she would have cleaned up the blood?”
“Yes.”
“All right, then.”
“Third reason is the ransom note. A woman would be more likely to write an individual one each time, taking notice of each child. Then again, so would some men, but a man’s more likely to be this impersonal.”
“If it’s so impersonal, why haven’t you mentioned the possibility that it could be a group?”
“We haven’t, really, but it seems unlikely.”
“Can I see the ransom note?” Demitren asked.
Jenosa shot him a look. “I was going to, without your helpful prompting.” With her remote she selected a window and maximized it for Demitren to read:
“One hundred thousand dollars. I don’t care who pays. I’ll keep the child alive. When you’re ready to give me the money - in cash - e-mail 4310@quickmail.com.”
“Smart of him to use quickmail,” Demitren noted.
“We’ve gone over quickmail’s network backwards and forwards, but there’s absolutely nothing with the e-mail address to link it to anything or anyone,” Jenosa said irritably. “That’s the worst part about free e-mails. This guy just made one that he didn’t use for anything else, didn’t supply his name because he didn’t have to, and boom! He’s home free.”
“And he’s not much of a letter writer,” Demitren said disapprovingly. “He demanded one hundred thousand dollars with every child, with the same note?”
“Yeah.”
“So, does he want one hundred thousand dollars for all the children, or per child?”
“Does it matter? No one’s agreed to pay. None of the parents have that much money, and the big-shot companies that have enough cash don’t want to... what was the phrase? ‘Play into the kidnapper's hands.’” She snorted. “Technically as ‘veteran consultant,’ I’m only supposed to be advising people on how to handle the case. But you and I are going to take care of this one.”
“Really?” he asked, looking at her with a smile and a cocked eyebrow.
“Don’t get any ideas. You’re my intern, I’m the boss. We’re not partners or anything fancy like that,” she snapped. “Got it?”
“Crystal clear,” he said. “When do we start?”
“I already have,” she said. “Since last week I’ve been interviewing the families of the children, or if they haven’t families I’ve been interviewing their caretakers. Today we’re interviewing the last three.” With her remote she selected a window with a child’s profile on it. “Five-year-old Tomat Dwelling. Dark brown hair. Tan skin. Average grades, class clown but no real trouble, plenty of friends, freckles, brown eyes. Was alone in the house with the family dog while his mother was working her weekend job, his father was grocery shopping, and his sister was at a friend’s house. The back door was splintered and broken so the kidnapper could force his way in. No one saw him because the back yard has a huge fence around it. The alarm didn’t go off because the outside network had been found and smashed in with a hammer. Dog was found tied up and beaten, but not killed. The note was printed on plain printing paper and taped onto the TV screen, where the boy was playing video games. Been missing for a month.”
She selected another window. “Eight-year-old DJ Walling. Dark brown hair, fairly dark skin. Poor grades, a tendency to have temper tantrums and talk back to the teacher. Not a lot of friends. Birthmark next to his left eye. Brown eyes. Lived in a hotel with his mom. Someone found a duplicate key card and got in without having to break in. People in the rooms next to them heard the child screaming, but didn’t think anything of it because he often did during his tantrums. The note was printed on a piece of paper used to wrap a fast food cheeseburger in, and the ink was from a different kind of ink cartridge. Been missing for two weeks.”
Another window, another child’s photo. “Twelve-year-old Samantha Dean. Dark brown hair, obviously. Pale skin. High grades, excellent behavior, small circle of friends, no blemishes on the face, green eyes. She was alone in her mother’s apartment while the mother was at work. Her father lives in New Jersey. The door was beaten to splinters, same as the Dwellings’ was. Alarm went off briefly, but it got smashed with a hammer immediately. No one really heard it nor really cared, I guess. According to the neighbors the alarm was a cheap thing, just sounded like a kitchen timer.”
“Wouldn’t anyone hear a door being beaten up?”
“Not over their rap music. Anyway, this is the house they found the blood in. It’s a match to the child’s. Signs of a struggle. Apparently Samantha put up a fight. Note was printed on paper with the local sanitation department’s logo on it. Ink came from the first ink cartridge. Been missing eight days.” Jenosa turned off the screen and grabbed a shoulder bag with the NYCLE logo on it. “Come on. We’re taking NYCLEHOL transport to the suburbs, then the city, then downtown.”
Demitren flashed Sunny a salute as they walked by her desk and waited a couple of minutes out front for the NYCLEHOL transport: a shuttle bus with the NYCLEHOL logo on both sides that smelled like unwashed cats in the inside. Jenosa sat in the passenger seat, leaving Demitren by himself in the back. The driver smoked heavily, the seats were sticky, and for some unexplained reason the shuttle was only authorized to use certain roads - which made the ride longer. Needless to say it was a relief when the shuttle, forty minutes later, managed to find its way to the suburbs and pulled in front of the Dwelling house.
Jenosa rang the doorbell and flashed a badge to the man who opened the door. “I’m sorry we couldn’t be here sooner,” she said.
The man shrugged. “Nothing you could do about it, anyway. Come in.”
He introduced himself as Mr. Dwelling. He had brown hair that was graying, a clean-shaven face that looked like it needed more sleep, and a clean shirt and pants. The house was orderly and freshly cleaned but quiet. Demitren noticed a teenage girl with long brown hair looking at them from the top of a staircase. When he waved to her she disappeared behind the corner of the wall. He thought she had been crying and figured she must be the older sister.
Mrs. Dwelling was in the kitchen doing bills. Mr. Dwelling made introductions, then invited them to sit down around the kitchen table.
“I wish I could do more than just ask questions,” Jenosa said.
“We’re just happy you’re trying to help,” Mrs. Dwelling said. Her voice was weary.
“Take notes,” Jenosa told Demitren. He dug a notebook and a pen out from her bag and got ready. “This is my intern,” Jenosa explained. “If he interrupts or does anything offensive I’ll take care of him myself.” Demitren grinned.
“We already know the basic details of the case,” Jenosa said. “My job now is to try and find some reason as to why your son was chosen. The kidnapper knew about how your alarm was situated outside, knew the child would be alone in the house. He had picked your boy for a reason. We need to know what this reason is, so we can find what other children have it and prevent them from getting kidnapped, and then to use this reason to track him down.” The parents nodded.
“First off,” Jenosa began, “what age group did your son hang out with?”
“Only kids his own age,” Mrs. Dwelling said. “There was the occasional affiliation with his teachers and with adults he saw as caregivers, but his friends were his classmates.”
“What after-school activities did he participate in?”
“He’s on the local soccer team,” Mr. Dwelling said. “And he collects action figures. On days when we were celebrating something, like a good report card, we’d take him to the store and let him buy a new one.”
“Did he ever talk to you about a stranger, while at soccer or anywhere else?”
Mrs. Dwelling shook her head. “He never mentioned anything strange.”
The interview continued. Tomat took the bus to school, had never wandered anywhere on his own, had always been under constant supervision, didn’t bother talking to strangers when they were out in public, played the same video game (the newest version of Blasted Worlds), and wasn’t particularly good at soccer, but played because his parents thought it was good for him. He pulled pranks on his sister, sometimes talked back to his parents but never meant to hurt them, loved to play fetch with their dog, and had never tried to commit a crime, no matter how minor. After several questions Jenosa stood and asked if they could look in his bedroom and in the room he had been taken in.
Jenosa pulled out two cameras and handed one to Demitren. “Take pictures of the room from all angles,” she detailed him. “I want to be able to see every inch of this room eventually. I don’t care if you think it’s minor or unimportant. If I find out there’s so much as cracked plaster in here that you didn’t take a photo of, I will have your guts for a clothesline.”
“Understood,” Demitren assured her, turning the camera on and looking it over to find all the appropriate buttons. Then he entered the bedroom.
It looked perfectly preserved, as a memorial to the day Tomat had disappeared. Demitren understood that this was normal for parents who lost children. Clicking about the room, there were three things Demitren noticed: one, the shelves all contained action figures from the Blasted Worlds video game. Two, Tomat was not a very neat person. And three, he had a certificate from “AEIO Learning Center” hanging on his wall.
Chapter Three
As soon as Demitren told Jenosa about the “AEIO Learning Center” certificate, she uttered an angry oath, took a deep breath, put on a patient face, and went back to the kitchen, where she politely asked about it. Mrs. Dwelling explained that Tomat had been a member of its program for part of the school year. “But why didn’t you tell us about it when I asked about after-school programs?” Jenosa asked.
Mrs. Dwelling looked fearful and close to tears. “He stopped going months before he... disappeared. It couldn’t possibly be important.”
“Everything’s important when we’re in the dark,” Jenosa fairly snapped. Then she softened again, said that she would not stop looking, thanked the parents for their cooperation, and pushed Demitren out to get back in the shuttle van.
“‘AEIO Learning Center?’” she asked aloud when they got driving again. “What is that, anyway?”
“It’s an after-school tutoring program,” Demitren explained. “You go there to get extra learning help.”
“Tha’s righ’,” added their driver as he looked both ways, looking for an opportunity to turn. “I brough’ m’ three-year-old there t’ help ‘er learn t’ write. An’ m’ sister took ‘er ten-year-old there to work on ‘is fractions.”
“You can go every day after school, or every, say, Thursday after school,” Demitren continued. “You pay per session, and either they develop a special learning program for each child - or you just bring homework you’re having trouble on.”
“Tha’s righ’,” the driver helpfully said. “M’ neighbor down the street brings ‘is autistic child there ev’ry day. Been doin’ so fer seven years now, an’ they really help!”
“What does ‘AEIO’ stand for?” Jenosa asked.
“It’s just a clever little name,” Demitren supplied. “Their TV commercials goes, ‘AEIO Learning Center... All that’s missing is U!’”
She stared at him. “I don’t get it.”
“You know... U? You? You? The letter U, the word you... ?” He glanced at her completely bemused face. “Never mind.”
The fact that Law Enforcement hadn’t mentioned AEIO Learning Center in their reports made Jenosa furious. Angrily she took out her mobile phone, dialed the appropriate number, and gave the person who answered a piece of her mind! After about five minutes of listening to her tirade the person on the other end began assuring her that they were very sorry, that it would never happen again, and that they would from now on look for every little detail. Jenosa replied by saying dang right they would, and she started her ranting afresh. Her irate mood wasn’t helped by the fact that the shuttle was now stuck in traffic once again. “Why don’t you just exit here and take the 4-30?” she snapped, referring to a road built in 2179 that over passed all other roads - and some buildings - at a staggering height of forty stories.
“Can’t,” the driver said. “This vee-hic-le ain’t authorized t’ use them roads.”
“I don’t believe this,” she snapped. “First the shuttle gets stuck in traffic, then Law Enforcement doesn’t include a vital piece of information in their reports, and to top it all off, I’m stuck with an intern on my heels!”
Demitren nodded, his face a mask of concern. “I sympathize. I, too, am stuck in traffic, no one told me the van was going to stink this badly, and I’m stuck with a boss who hates my guts.”
Jenosa looked at him for a minute, her lip twitching. Then she turned to face front again, and Demitren couldn’t tell if she was too angry to reply of if she didn’t want him to see her smiling.
An hour later they managed to find the hotel where DJ Walling and his mother stayed. Ms. Dijone, as she was called, opened the door enough to snap at them that she’d rather not see them right now, thank you very much. Jenosa continued knocking on the door, asking again and again to be admitted, and was refused every time. Eventually Jenosa yelled through the door that if Ms. Dijone didn’t answer their questions, DJ was as good as dead, and his mother reluctantly let them in.
In order to be out of the irritable mother’s way as soon as possible, Jenosa took her own notes through the interview and let Demitren take pictures of the hotel room as she did. He covered every inch, even getting on his knees to take pictures under the beds. He noticed that while Tomat hadn’t been very neat, DJ and his mother had no idea what organization was. There were trading cards of an Alien Race video game scattered under the bed, and those looked to be the most orderly things in the room. And in DJ’s pile of school things he found a half-finished workbook of math problems that came from a different publishing company than those of his school’s textbooks.
Back in the van Jenosa shared with him her notes from the interview. DJ had always been a tantrum-thrower; it was his way or no way at all. DJ collected Alien Race trading cards but had never played the video game. DJ didn’t really have friends; he traded cards with other boys his own age, but was as disrespectful to them outside of the trading circle as he was to adults. He had never mentioned anything strange, but he complained a lot about the guy from the store where he bought trading cards. Apparently he was always asking DJ how he was doing. He walked down the street to take the public bus to school, only spoke to strangers to criticize them, had once tried to steal a set of trading cards and had thrown a tantrum when he got caught, and spent a majority of his time pouting around the room. His pouting periods got more frequent and more violent as he was forced to be alone after school: his mother worked until nine at night. Most importantly, he spent every Friday afternoon at the nearest AEIO Learning Center.
“Doesn’t sound like a kid I’d want to hang around with,” Demitren observed.
“He’s a brat,” Jenosa announced, tapping her notebook irritably. “He has no real desire to be anything but lazy. He probably wouldn’t even bother with the trading cards if it weren’t for the fact that his trading circle is the closest he’ll ever have to friends.”
“Soun’s lika lonely life,” the driver murmured sympathetically.
“Can’t you turn onto the 4-30 here?” Jenosa demanded.
“Ans’er’s th’ same,” the driver sniffed. “Ain’t authorized.”
Jenosa slumped on her seat in a bad temper.
Thirty-eight minutes later the shuttle finally made it to an apartment building that looked as though it hadn’t been loved in fifty years. Loud barking, rap music, shouting, and sirens peppered the air as Jenosa and Demitren walked up the stairs to the floor where the Deans lived. “No wonder Samantha put up a struggle,” Demitren muttered. “She’s probably grown up with eat-or-be-eaten survival skills.”
“Don’t say anything like that to the people here,” Jenosa hissed. “It’s more than my job’s worth to drag your carcass back to base.”
Arriving at the Dean apartment, Jenosa knocked on the door. It opened just enough so that a furtive green eye could peep out at them. Jenosa flashed her badge, assured Mrs. Dean that she wasn’t in trouble, and they were here about her daughter. A trifle less nervously Mrs. Dean opened the door enough to admit them.
Demitren was amazed at the state of the apartment. He had half-expected a smoke-infested room, housing vermin and insects, with drug dealers in the corners and addicts on the floor. As if the home was making an effort to contradict his bias, everything was spotless. The furniture was secondhand, but well-kept. The room they were in was clean of all animals and illegal objects. The air even smelled sweet. Jenosa seemed to be as surprised as he was. “You have a lovely home,” she told Mrs. Dean.
The other woman smiled. “I’m right grateful for your sayin’ so. Samantha and I make the best with what we got.”
They sat together in what served as a living room, but Mrs. Dean told them she slept on the couch. “I let Sammy have the bedroom,” she said. “She tried to make me change my mind the day doc told me ‘bout this bad back o’ mine, but I just laughed.”
Jenosa smiled. Demitren could see that she already respected Mrs. Dean and thought of her highly. Jenosa began the interview with the usual questions, and the graying old woman answered. Samantha was friends with girls her own age, being too smart to get close to the boys on their side of town. She wasn’t in any after-school activities, choosing to concentrate on her schoolwork instead. She was never anywhere without adult supervision, and would even refuse to follow her friends if it meant being out of sight of adults she trusted. She sometimes would chat amicably with strangers but never told them her name or where she was from. Her one leisure activity was collecting paperback penny novels – “Not very good ones,” Mrs. Dean said, “but Sammy said they were fun to read and anyways, she could read better ones just by going to the public library.” The only time Mrs. Dean heard a cross word from Sammy was when she was sticking up to a bully for making fun of one of her friends. Sammy had a weakness for cats and almost wandered off with a stranger when she was nine because he told her he had a box of kittens she could play with. There couldn’t be a more law-abiding citizen anywhere on the block.
Demitren took notes diligently from where he was sitting on the couch. Mrs. Dean spoke calmly from a rocking chair, while across from her Jenosa was listening intently perched on the rocking chair’s rocking footstool. Both members of the NYCLEHOL were liking the Deans more and more with each detail. Jenosa asked her next question. “Did your daughter ever mention anything strange to you? Like a stranger trying to talk to her, or someone she knew acting oddly?”
Mrs. Dean leaned her head back in thought, then nodded. “There was one day she mentioned something, a couple months back. Is that too long ago?”
Jenosa shook her head. “Nothing’s too long ago.”
Mrs. Dean nodded again and closed her eyes. “Sammy was part of the AEIO learning program for a while. It was a safe place for her to study and it helped with her grades. One day she came home and said there was a leak in the plumbing, so a man was called to come and fix it while they were studying.”
She was interrupted as Jenosa suddenly leaned forward in a bout of coughing. Mrs. Dean and Demitren waited for her to stop, but it didn’t happen. After a minute they both became alarmed as Jenosa leaned farther forward until her head was in her lap, coughing into a fist and holding her stomach with her other hand. Pausing long enough to ask where the bathroom was, Jenosa continued coughing as she went into the next room. After a few seconds there was a pause, then Demitren heard the sound of Jenosa spitting into the sink. There was another pause, and he heard her spit again. Another minute passed, both he and Mrs. Dean heard water being run to wash out the sink, and Jenosa came back, looking briefly worried. “I’m sorry,” she said, sitting back down.
“Are you all right, dear?” Mrs. Dean asked.
Jenosa dismissed it with a wave of her hand. “I’m fine. Please continue.”
Mrs. Dean relaxed again, and Demitren realized they had both gotten tense with worry. He went back to taking notes. “When the repair man showed up,” Mrs. Dean said, “Sammy said he took a long time to fix the leak and clean the floor. He was lookin’ at all the kids, she said, but she didn’t like it. Said he came over to her and started touchin’ her hair, talkin’ ‘bout how pretty it was...”
Back in the shuttle van, Demitren and Jenosa were fairly quiet, digesting everything Mrs. Dean had given them. They had left her looking far more peaceful than they had met her, with her wholehearted wishes that Jenosa’s cough get better and that Demitren get a fine good job someday in their ears. But what seemed the strangest about the whole encounter was her description of the repair man Samantha had seen at the AEIO Learning Center - but Demitren couldn’t figure out why.
The other thing that was distracting Demitren, however, was the fact that Jenosa was looking less and less thoughtful and more and more annoyed with each second, until she broke the silence. “I can’t stand it anymore. When was the last time this vehicle got an oil change?”
This was so random that neither man replied for a moment. “I dunno,” the driver finally answered. “Why?”
“It needs one, badly.”
“’Owdya know?”
“I can hear it, ding bat.”
Demitren sat forward. “I can’t hear the engine, or anything else for that matter.”
Jenosa sighed, was silent for a moment, then spoke again. “I suppose you’ve heard where I got this?” She tapped her finger under her EYE. Demitren nodded. “Well, my ear got damaged, too. They managed to re-grow the outer flesh thing,” she said, tugging at her lobe, “but the inner ear was irreparable. So instead of an eardrum, I’ve got a computer that intercepts sound waves and translates them for me.”
“Sounds useful.”
“It’s annoying. By ‘sound waves,’ I’m not limited to the English language. My left ear can understand everything from Spanish to computers.” She glared at the driver angrily. “And I’ve been listening to your van this whole time, and it’s in terrible need of an oil change! I can hear it complaining.”
“Complaining!”
Her glare was directed at Demitren. “Machines don’t really feel emotions the way we do. They don’t act based on them. They do, however, feel some primitive form of emotion: they can tell when they’re all right, which is happiness, and when something’s wrong. That’s how I knew you weren’t sick when you entered my office. The computers acknowledged the presence of a moving being with no defects apart from allergies, and felt ‘reassured.’”
Demitren stared at her. “And the van’s complaining that it needs an oil change?”
Jenosa shot a nasty look back at the driver. He looked back at her with injured innocence. “Maintenance ain’t my job, I’m just th’ driver!”
“And you’re a lousy one at that!” Jenosa snapped. “We should have been back at base an hour ago! If you would just...”
Demitren left her to it.
***
I was two hours late for my appointment with the doctor thanks to that oaf and his lack of “authorization” to drive on proper roads. Dismissing my intern for the day I started to run toward the doctor’s office, wondering all the while I did: why had I told the intern about my EAR - Extrasensitive Auditory Receptor? It certainly wasn’t part of the job description to inform amateurs which of your organs weren’t organic. I wasn’t comfortable with sharing anything about myself with this new guy, and I became resolved to make sure I told him nothing else.
In the examination room I turned the EYE off with a simple thought process and waited for the doc to finish with his usual checklist. “I spat blood today,” I told him. “While I was on duty.”
He looked up from his clipboard. “Really? Lie back on the table. I’m going to let the FAS look you over.”
I did as he asked, letting the Full Anatomy Scan run up and down me several times before flipping over to my back and letting it do the same. I heard the machine decide it was done, heard it decide to fold back into place, and heard it conversing with the main screen, which agreed to display the information to the doctor. Both machines felt a sense of urgency, but didn’t panic, because machines can’t feel panic.
Doc looked it over and nodded. “Well, your windpipe needs new lining.”
I groaned. “Now?”
“Don’t worry, it’s a small surgery, not as big as your EYE or elbow,” he told me. “If we put you under now, you’ll be out by midnight, and you’ll be ready for work tomorrow.”
I agreed. A bit later as we were waiting for the surgery room I asked, “All my organs are going to shut down, right?”
“Yes.”
“Does that include my skin?”
He nodded. “It’ll start flaking off eventually.”
“So at one point, all my skin will be replaced with metal.” He nodded. I frowned. “I don’t want to die a complete cyborg.” He just looked at me with understanding, not having an answer to the problem. Angrily I slammed my fist down onto my lap. “I always thought I’d die by bullet,” I said through gritted teeth.
“If that’s the way you want to die,” Doc said grimly, “I suggest you provoke an old enemy really soon.”
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Posted: Fri Sep 17, 2010 4:28 pm
Chapter Four
Demitren came to work the next morning and, as Sunny punched him in for the day, asked her, “Did you know about Jenosa’s ear?”
Sunny glanced at him. “The left one? Yeah, it got replaced with EAR TECH. I did say her whole left side got burned.”
Demitren shook his head as he took his card back. “Makes you wonder, the fact that I’m working with someone I know almost nothing about.”
“Compared to most, you know plenty,” Sunny told him. “She’s not keen to tell people about herself and it’s rare for anyone to get close to her.”
“Guess Daren Sweanar’s a rare one, eh?”
Sunny smiled. “Her partner? Of course. They worked together for ten long years.”
“What was his secret?” Demitren asked. “Some kind of superpower where everyone was forced to like him?”
“Oh, come on, Demitren. Just because she’s a little cold to you doesn’t mean she’s not human. Daren didn’t need superpowers to get her to be a friend to him.”
“Bet he had to knock her out once or twice.”
“Look, just go to work, ‘kay?” Sunny said, turning back to her desk. “I promise you she won’t kill you.”
“I just don’t like working with secretive people, that’s all,” Demitren muttered as he waved good-bye and made for Jenosa’s office.
When he got there he knocked and let himself in without waiting for an answer. As he expected, Jenosa was staring at the holographic screen as it scrolled through the list of kidnapped children. “Took you long enough to get here,” she muttered.
“Sorry.”
She looked at him. “So, what did we find out yesterday?”
Demitren knew this was meant to test him as an intern as well as refresh both their memories. He thought hard before answering. “We know that the last three children were members of the AEIO Learning Center some time before their disappearances.”
“And I just finished calling the other forty-six families,” Jenosa put in. “Same with them.”
“So the AEIO Learning Center is a big suspect, particularly its repair man.”
“I called the AEIO headquarters,” Jenosa said. “They have several locations in New York City, but they all use the same force of repair men, who are all based at the central headquarters. Headquarters are located on Byzone Street.”
“We also know that the kidnapper has a quickmail e-mail address,” Demitren mused. “Is that it?”
Jenosa nodded glumly. “I think so. We’re missing so much.”
Demitren furrowed his brows. “One thing bothers me, though. Samantha’s description of the repair man.”
“What about it?”
“It doesn’t fit the description of the kidnapper,” Demitren explained. “These children were taken by brute force, left with an impersonal note. The repair man took great care in singling Samantha out and stroking her hair. That doesn’t sound the same.”
Jenosa nodded. “I see where you’re coming from.”
“You think there might be more than one person involved?” Demitren asked eagerly.
“I’m not thinking anything yet,” Jenosa snapped. “I’m not Sherlock Holmes; I bend my theories to the facts, not the other way around.”
“I’m... pretty sure that was Hercule Poirot, not Sherl-” He noticed Jenosa’s glare. “Okay, okay. So what’re we doing now?”
“You tell me, you’re the psychologist and sociologist.”
“I’m not a psychologist or a sociologist,” Demitren said, confused.
“You’re studying to get your doctor’s degree in both, aren’t you?” Jenosa said, exasperated. “And you’re interning for a position as a desk-job criminal behavior analysist. And you're interning me so you can see how investigations are done around here. As long as I’m stuck with you I’m going to see that you get proper training.”
Demitren shrugged and thought a bit. “Well... Try to think of something else the children have in common. The kidnapper chose them for a reason.”
“Exactly,” Jenosa said. “The AEIO has to have loads of other kids with brown hair, but he didn’t bother with them. There has to be something else they’ve got in common.”
Demitren shrugged. “Well, let’s start with Tomat and see if something sounds familiar with the other kids.” Jenosa didn’t object, so he pulled out the photos he had taken the day before and began shuffling through them. “Well, he played video games.”
“And a very violent game at that,” Jenosa snapped disapprovingly. “Fancy letting a five-year-old play the newest version of Blasted Worlds. Doesn’t matter, though. DJ collected video game trading cards but didn’t play the games,” Jenosa said. “And Samantha didn’t play games at all.”
“So that’s not it, then. He was a class clown.”
“DJ was a brat and Samantha was a teacher’s pet.”
“Way to stereotype, boss. Well, he played soccer... but neither of the others did. He had a dog; neither of the others had pets. He collected -”
Jenosa shot up a hand to silence him. “Say that word again.”
“Collected?”
Jenosa touched her forehead and closed her eyes in concentration. “Collected... collected... Why does that ring a bell?”
Demitren shrugged, not wanting to interrupt any brain waves she had going on.
Unfortunately for them, the office intercom didn’t share his views. “Will janitorial staff please phone 1094? Janitorial...”
Jenosa slammed her fist against the wall. “Lost it. Dang it!”
Demitren shrugged. “So what do we do now?”
Jenosa sighed and slumped into her swivel chair. “Well, I don’t have any more assignments from the top today. Seems like all we can do is print out hard copies of the evidence so far and stare at them.”
Ten minutes later the pair was engrossed in packets of papers; the list of missing children, the ransom note, and the children’s profiles were included. Demitren had been staring at the ransom note for a majority of the time when he suddenly sat up. “I think I’ve got something.”
“What is it?” Jenosa asked, watching as he activated the holographic screen.
Taking a pointer that allowed the user to draw images on the screen, Demitren maximized the ransom note so they could both see it. “The e-mail address. 4310@quickmail.com. Notice anything weird about it?”
“Not really.”
“The numbers. Why didn’t he just do ‘1234’ or ‘anon’ or something simple like that?”
“Wasn’t allowed to use them because somebody else already had? Sick sense of humor? Ran his fingers blindly up and down the keys?”
“Possible, but I don’t think so. It just came to me now looking at it. I don’t know why I didn’t notice it before. I’m a member of an online dating service -”
Jenosa gagged. He paused, realized what he had just said, and reddened. “Yeah, well, um, anyway, and instead of putting our names down we... We use usernames. The point is, sometimes people think it’s really clever to replace a couple of the letters with numbers. Like ‘l0v3g1r1’ did...” He reddened again. “Well, anyway, here.” He wrote the letters A, E, I, and O under the “4310” part of the e-mail address. “See where I’m going?”
“I haven’t the slightest clue.”
“There’s a kind of resemblance between these numbers and these letters. See? ‘4’ kind of looks like ‘A’, ‘3’ is sort of a backwards ‘E’, ‘1’ could be ‘l’ or ‘I’, and ‘0’ - well, obviously ‘0’ is ‘O’.” He finished writing and showed her the board. “So, 4310@quickmail.com really is...”
“AEIO,” murmured Jenosa. “AEIO Learning Center.”
“Exactly!” Demitren exclaimed, pointing at her like she had just won a game show as he set down his pointer.
Jenosa looked at the e-mail address, shaking her head. “That confirms it, then.”
“Confirms what?”
“That we’ve got more than one guy on our hands.”
“Um,” Demitren rolled his eyes about the office, thinking, “why?”
Jenosa pointed at the e-mail address. “The kidnapper - that guy who battered down doors when the families were away, who disabled alarm systems with a fist, who got the kids away efficiently, who left behind the impersonal notes all printed on different papers in different inks - there is no way a guy that much of an expert would do something so completely obvious!”
“Oh,” Demitren snorted, “so in order for me to discover something, it has to be ‘completely obvious.’”
She faltered. “That’s not wha-” Pausing, she blinked, pointed at him, opened her mouth, shut it again, and squinted her organic eye at him angrily. “I’ll get back to you on that.”
“Take your time,” he said casually.
“Shut up.” Jenosa turned back to the board, ignoring the smirk that covered his face. “So we’re likely looking for two guys: the one who does the kidnapping, and the one who set up the e-mail address.”
“Next question,” Demitren mused. “How do we find them?”
***
I hated admitting that an intern had found something before I could, so when he went off for lunch today - probably to flirt again with that secretary - I ignored my own lunch and settled down to find something on my own.
I decided to use a process that had worked before. I thought about all aspects of the crime that had to be important if I was committing the crime myself, and then asked myself if that aspect of the crime had been covered by the reports.
I started with location. Reports about where the victims had been were thorough, so I moved on to people involved, victim, alarm systems, animals, other threats, escape routes, and emergency access into or out of the residence. I got nothing, so I started the list over, trying to be more detailed. That was when I came across time.
The crimes had all happened at different hours, according to the reports. And I realized something as I went through the times. Every single kidnapping had happened on the weekend, either on a Saturday or a Sunday.
This gave me two options: one, the kidnapper was too busy to kidnap on the weekdays. Or two, the kidnapper knew these children would not be alone on a weekday.
I set about trying to eliminate the possibilities by checking to see if it was true that no child would be alone on a weekday. To my joy I found my notes on DJ Walling - the child whose mother worked until nine at night. DJ was alone every day after school, so the fact that he was taken on a weekend instead supported option number one.
This didn’t help much, of course. Every job I had ever heard of, with the exception of NYCLE and NYCLEHOL, allowed days off on the weekends. Finding just one man, let alone two, who had weekends off... Well, in NYC, this was difficult.
That being the case I continued. I briefly thought of the violent methods used in the kidnapping, but brute force could suggest either a man whose job required it, or simply a man who worked out a lot. So I was looking for a pattern with the children again.
When Demitren had said “collect,” it made parts of my brain start buzzing. I was trying to remember something my EAR had translated. Unfortunately the EAR computer did not record as well as translate, so my brain was going to have to remember on its own. Collecting... Collecting...
My brain was stuck on it. Shrugging, I decided I could at least do something small and seemingly pointless, as it was my lunch hour and I wasn’t being paid to do efficient work just now. I flipped through Demitren’s notes to remind myself what it was that Tomat collected and booted the monitor computer, intent on searching what stores in NYC carried Blasted Worlds action figures.
***
Demitren had leftovers for lunch, and he stared hopelessly at the soggy mess. “Should have wrapped everything individually.”
“It’ll look like that by the time it gets to your stomach,” Sunny said over her salad.
“Doesn’t mean I want to eat something that looks like it’s already been eaten,” Demitren sighed as he plunked himself down at the table and picked up a spoon halfheartedly.
“What did you pack, anyway?” Sunny asked, gazing at the mess with interest.
“Soup, biscuit, peas... Bunch o’ junk,” he replied, spooning some of it up.
“What kind of soup?”
“Chicken vegetable.”
Sunny shrugged. “Think of it as an exploded and cold chicken-pot-pie, then.”
Demitren smiled at her. “It’s about time I heard someone look at life with a sunny disposition.”
Sunny clucked her tongue and shook her head. “Bad pun, Demi, really bad pun.”
“Sorry.”
“And besides, I know Jenosa seems to be a bit of a grouch, but she’s not that bad,” the secretary told him, taking a bite of lettuce.
Demitren tried to take a bite of his own lunch and pulled a face. “Bleugh,” he gasped. “I forgot about the cheese and cream onion dip.”
Sunny made a face back at him. “Well, it’s your own fault for being unable to pack a decent lunch,” she told him. “Cheese and cream onion dip with chicken vegetable soup, biscuit, and peas? Are you at a barbecue or an Irish potluck?”
Demitren sighed. “Now I have two ladies on my case. I can’t do anything right, can I?”
“Nah, I wouldn’t say that,” Sunny protested, pushing her tray between the two. “Have some of my salad. I’m not too hungry anyways.”
Demitren shook his head and picked up his spoon, continuing gallantly to pick at his own lunch. “So what can I do right?”
“Well, for one thing, Jenosa hasn’t threatened to shoot you yet.”
“Only if I called her Miss Jenosa, ma’am, or Miss Parkings,” Demitren said through a mouthful of mush.
“Don’t talk with your mouth full. I usually don’t mind, but your lunch today is disgusting,” Sunny said. “So if that’s the only time she’s threatened to shoot you, then that speaks in your favor. And rumor is you’ve met her tongue-lashing with ready wit.”
“Eh?”
“A transport driver came back yesterday bursting to tell people about the whole ‘stuck with an intern / boss hates my guts’ exchange. By the way, what’d she do to you for that?”
“Nothing. She stared at me a bit and just turned away.”
Sunny smiled. “So you didn’t offend her by that. Keep it up and you might find her sense of humor.”
“I’ve a better chance of finding a radish in this mess than I have of finding a sense of humor in that woman,” Demitren said, gesturing to his lunch.
Chapter Five
The next day was fairly uneventful as far shuttle vans were concerned. When Demitren entered the office he found Jenosa sitting in her swivel chair and looking unhappy - not angry, just unhappy. “My leg hurts to stand on,” she said.
“Need me to do anything?” he asked.
“Kind of you,” she said sarcastically. “I’ll see the doctor after the work day.” She spent that day digging through her mind, trying to find why the word “collect” was so important to her, and Demitren tried his best to help.
“Well, I got a list of all the stores that carry Blasted Worlds action figures,” Jenosa sighed, “which included every WallMart, Target, TECHcorp, souvenir shop, newsstand, and collectors' shop in NYC.”
“How do we narrow the list down?” Demitren groaned from his perch on the corner of Jenosa’s desk.
“Well, the newsstands, souvenir shops, WallMarts, and Targets only carry some of the more popular characters: Diamere, Brut, Moe, Dr. Croc, Rafe, and so on. TECHcorp gets a little deeper, including Dagmoir, Damonik, Hydra, Bergoth, Joysia, Xavier, and the like. But only the collectors' shops include the rarest characters, like Skylark, Mr. Fowl, Vandyke, and Petula.”
Demitren’s brows furrowed. “Do you play the game or something?”
“Huh?”
“You know all the characters’ names.”
Jenosa pursed her lips. “Well, I was staring at inventory lists for hours! What did you think the result was going to be?”
Demitren shrugged. “So what’s next?”
“Well, your photos of Tomat’s room showed that Tomat had almost all the characters, even including Lucinda/Lucas Gobiidae, who are very rare indeed. So he’s been getting his at a collectors' shop.”
“Let me guess: you called his folks and asked which one.”
Jenosa shrugged. “It was all I could think of to do at the time. And their answer was this one.” She pulled up a window onto the holographic screen. “‘All Things Unique,’ run by a Mr. Arnawld Judgby. Privately owned. Stocks action figures, glass figures, dolls, trading cards, comic books, paperbacks... bunch of junk.”
Both people suddenly stopped and looked at each other. “Say that list again?” Demitren said slowly.
“Trading cards and paperbacks,” Jenosa muttered. “Of course! I knew there was something about collecting!”
Demitren hopped from his perch, upsetting a pile of papers as he did. “I’ll call Ms. Dijone and ask where DJ got the trading cards,” he declared.
Jenosa dived for the phone and started dialing. “I’ve got Mrs. Dean and Samantha’s paperback novels covered.”
Demitren sprinted from the office and flew down the hallway, skidding to a halt in front of Sunny’s front desk. “Can I borrow the phone?” he gasped.
Minutes later Jenosa hung up the phone as Demitren walked in, red-faced and breathless from excitement. “All Things Unique,” he said, holding up a piece of paper where the name was written with its location and its phone number.
“Same here,” Jenosa said. “And don’t you think I’d already have the address and phone number?”
Demitren shrugged. “I didn’t want anyone to think I was using the front desk phone for a personal phone call, so I wrote something down.”
Jenosa picked up the phone again. “Forty-six more children to go. Get on the computer and skim through photos taken of the other children’s living spaces. When you find one that’s got a collection, I’ll call their family.”
“Sure thing,” Demitren said, typing in his password for access to the files.
It was a success. The three-year-old’s parents encouraged collecting as some kind of developing-interest exercise (“Load of old rubbish,” Jenosa muttered as she got off the phone), so the toddler’s many colored rocks came from ‘All Things Unique.’ One four-year-old collected comic books, and another dolls.
Tomat’s age group included his Blasted Worlds collection, another boy’s Alien Race model collection, a girl’s doll collection, and another girl’s stuffed mice collection. (“Why stuffed mice?” Jenosa asked. “I mean, stuffed animals, maybe. Teddy bears, sure. Stuffed mice...”)
Three of the six-year-olds collected comic books, another three collected Blasted Worlds trading cards, and two collected Alien Race models. (“Why are all these young kids involved in violent video games?” demanded Jenosa.)
Five seven-year-olds collected Blasted Worlds action figures, one collected Blasted Worlds trading cards, three collected dolls, and one collected rocks. (“Have you ever actually played video games?” Demitren inquired.)
Six eight-year-olds collected Blasted Worlds action figures, one collected doll dresses, two collected stuffed animals, and DJ collected Alien Race trading cards (“Are you getting all this written down?” Jenosa asked Demitren as she dialed the next number).
One nine-year-old collected stuffed animals as the other four collected Alien Race trading cards. (“I played Alien Race once," Demitren said. "It wasn't that fun.")
Three ten-year-olds collected stuffed animals, one collected rocks, and one collected dolls. (“With a passion,” Jenosa observed after talking to the parents. “She has two hundred.”)
The eleven-year-old collected dolls, and two of the twelve-year-olds collected comic books. Samantha, of course, collected paperbacks. (Demitren was too busy writing to make comments.)
“We’ve got something,” Jenosa said, satisfied, as she hung up the phone.
This made Demitren look up from his notebook. “‘We?’”
“Of course, ‘we.’ You’re my intern.”
“So you admit that I’m helping with this.”
“I admit that you’re following me around.”
“Not the same thing.”
“Didn’t say it was.”
Demitren threw his hands up into the air in mock despair. “What’s a guy gotta do to get some credit around here?”
“Solve a murder,” Jenosa said seriously.
Demitren grinned. “I’m solving a kidnapping case. Does that count?”
“Depends on the victims.”
“They’re all children.”
Jenosa paused. When she spoke again her voice was quieter. “Yes, that counts.”
They were both silent. Demitren, for his part, was shocked by her reply. Being quiet was completely unlike her. He pushed it away to deal with when he wasn’t in the same room as her. “So what do we do now?”
Jenosa shook her head slightly, as if trying to refocus, and said, “Well, obviously, we should probably get a list of the employees of AEIO’s repair crew and of All Things Unique. I’ll get on that and we’ll go from there. Based on the e-mail address, it's safe to assume that the man who set up the quickmail address is an AEIO employee, which would make the kidnapper an employee of All Things Unique.”
"Makes sense," agreed Demitren.
Ten minutes later the list of AEIO repair employees got printed out, and Jenosa was on the phone with their employer. She put it on speaker phone so Demitren could take notes.
Mr. Jalden was a submanager of AEIO who didn’t have much influence in the whole establishment but did know everything there was to know about his employees - to an extent Demitren found extremely creepy. “We’re looking for someone who has an interest in brown hair,” Jenosa said. “He may speak very gently to children, particularly children with brown hair. He may touch their hair and tell them repeatedly how pretty it is. Ring a bell?”
“No...” Mr. Jalden said. “Bob’s dating a redhead, George’s wife dyed her hair blonde, Harry’s fiancé -”
Demitren interrupted hastily. “Then do you know anyone who may have had a loved one with dark brown hair?”
“Well...” Mr. Jalden mused. “Bob’s great-aunt Missy had -”
Demitren coughed. “I’m sorry, sir, I’ll be more specific. This loved one might have died or have been separated from the employee against his will. It’s most likely that the loved one would be a child.”
“Hm...” Mr. Jalden thought aloud. “Carter’s wife divorced him and took his kids with her, but only one had brown hair and it was a lighter shade. Talkein had a brunette girlfriend that he had been dating since middle school and then broke up with him in college. Alcoholic now. And Cretain’s children both died in a car accident. Twins, as I recall. Wife left him soon after. Said he was acting weird. Oh, and Taelor’s cousin died when they were fifteen. Drowned off Lake Erie. I guess he saw her brown hair floating in the water first and called for help. Helped drag her to shore, dragged her by her blue skirt. People said he hasn’t been the same since.”
Demitren jotted everything down. “That gives us a start, thanks. We’ll call you if we need anything else.”
“Well,” Mr. Jalden said pleasantly, “Anytime!”
Jenosa hung up the phone. “There is something wrong with that man,” Demitren said.
“Based on the fact that he knows Bob’s great-aunt Missy, or the fact that he knows Taelor’s cousin was wearing a blue skirt when she drowned?” Jenosa snorted.
***
I couldn’t wait for lunch hour to come. I needed to get away from him. There was something about him that made him different from the other interns. I tried hard to remember how many times I had threatened to shoot him, and then realized I hadn’t pulled my gun on him once yet. That realization was as weird as the pain that kept shooting up my right leg.
At first it felt like I was being unfaithful to Daren. I didn’t want to have another partner after him; we never could be the same. Then I realized this was nothing like the way it was with Daren. With Daren, we were strictly business. We got it done the way it needed to be done and saved the sitting back and talking for later. This new guy, however, kept talking all the time, and even weirder was that I didn’t seem to mind. It was like he was digging to find something in me, and that thing in me wanted me to let him.
I sat back trying to figure it out. I guess it was because I had met Daren when I was fifteen and still scared, but he always made me feel strong and invincible, like I could do anything. Now that I was thirty and had complete knowledge of my capabilities, I suppose I didn’t need someone who made me feel that way anymore. This new guy didn’t even come close to making me feel like a super hero. In fact, he almost had the opposite effect. I found myself starting to relax around him.
I shook my head. ‘Great. Now I’m thinking like some kind of weirdo.’ Maybe being this ill did something to your thought processes before it killed you. Speaking of being ill, that was probably what was wrong with my leg. Doc would probably have to do surgery on it that night, and I wondered how much TECH would be required.
I jumped as a sharp ding came from the monitor computer. Shaking the mouse to wake it up, I realized it had been my inbox. Daren had returned my e-mail. Eagerly I opened it.
Re: Bad news
Parkings,
Oh my god. Parkings, I’m so sorry. I never thought it would happen to you. I thought what you thought, that it only happened to outdated TECH.
I wish we could be with you right this instant. As soon as we can we’ll reserve a flight and head on up there. Get ready for us, Parkings. Sharron says we’re going to move in with you to “make it easier”, but I’ll try to persuade her otherwise. Knowing you, having someone cooking all your meals for you and everything wouldn’t tide over so well!
Sharron says to remind you that we love you and miss you. Chin up, Parkings.
-Daren (and Sharron)
I smiled. It sounded just like him. Since he and his wife Sharron had moved to Florida to spend their retirement in peace, we’d exchanged the few e-mails and sent Christmas cards. They were family to me, so of course they were the first ones to tell that I was dying.
***
Demitren walked up to Sunny with a mixture of his usual ‘I dare you to flirt with me’ face and a new ‘what the heck did I just walk out of’ face. “I don’t get her.”
Sunny creased her forehead as she closed her eyes in agony and faced the ceiling. “Now what?”
“She’s of a mindset that kidnapping children is equivalent to murder,” Demitren said as he sat across from Sunny. “Not that I don’t agree with her, of course, but it just seems weird for her.”
Sunny shot him a look. “Why? There’s nothing weird about that.”
“Well, no, but it doesn’t fit her type.”
Sunny rolled her eyes. “So, what would fit her type?”
Demitren opened his lunch. “Don’t get me wrong, thinking that kidnapping children is atrocious doesn’t conflict her let’s-go-out-and-bust-some-criminals type. But the way she lowers her voice when she -” He noticed Sunny looking at him. “What?”
Sunny smiled. “I think I just figured it out.”
“Meaning why she’s so weird? Tell me, I beg you.”
Sunny shook her head, her smile broadening. “No, why you freak out about her so much.”
“I don’t freak out about her.”
“Every lunch hour you’ve done nothing but ask me about Jenosa Parkings,” Sunny shot back at him. “‘What TECH does she have? Why is it so hard to get her to be nice to you? Why doesn’t she ever give you credit?’ And now you’re starting to notice how her voice lowers when she talks about certain things.”
“Oh, come on. I taught psychology and sociology, remember? It’s my job to know about lowering voices.”
“So that’s half the reason you’re so upset,” Sunny said. “Even with all your experience, you can’t figure out Jenosa Parkings. Bet I know the reason you can’t figure her out.”
Demitren sighed. “I don’t want to hear about it.”
“Suit yourself,” Sunny said, and she dug into her salad.
Chapter Six
Nothing else happened that day. Jenosa glanced at Demitren ten minutes before closing time. “Weekend tomorrow. Don’t suppose you’ll be here?”
“Interns usually don’t work on weekends,” Demitren admitted. “Besides, I’ve got classes in the mornings.”
“And I just called in for a sick day. My leg needs a day off,” Jenosa muttered. “It’s a shame to leave the case alone for the weekend, though.” Demitren nodded in agreement. The two looked at each other for a moment, then Jenosa sighed and grabbed a piece of paper. “This is my address,” she said as she began scribbling furiously. “When you find the building, just give your gun to the security guard and they’ll tag it and keep it for you -”
“I don’t have a gun,” Demitren said, bemused.
Jenosa looked at him. “Then you better take NYCLEHOL transport to my apartment. It’ll still be open tomorrow -”
“Why?”
“I don’t want to explain why your carcass is outside my apartment building, stupid.” She handed him the piece of paper. “Tomorrow afternoon, at one. Don’t be late and don’t be dead.”
“Got it,” Demitren said, taking the paper and getting ready to leave. “Have a good evening.”
***
I doubted I would. As soon as I could I went to the doctor’s and reported the pain in my right leg. The FAS gave me a look-over, and my EAR heard it beep with concern. The doctor pursed his lips as he looked over the report. “Your leg is decaying from the inside.”
“Pleasant. Real pleasant.”
“We’ll replace it with TECH. All of it, I’m afraid.” I groaned, and the doctor smiled. “Now, it’s not so bad as all that. You wear your patrol jumper suit, don’t you? No one will be able to see the metal.”
“It won’t clank when I walk or anything?” I asked him.
The doctor sniffed, pretending to be offended. "My TECH don’t ‘clank.’”
So I underwent surgery that night and woke up without my right leg. I didn’t realize it at first - until the nurse pulled back the blanket to show me my new metal limb. I was happy to note that it was perfectly shaped - identical to my organic leg - but I was still self-conscious about it. The doctor only reminded me that I had overcome my self-consciousness about my EYE rapidly, told me that he had numbed my hip to give it time to adjust, and warned me not to move my leg at all that day. I was safely nestled in a chair in my apartment by twelve-thirty that morning.
I can’t explain why having TECH made me self-conscious. Maybe it was because I was losing flesh. You don’t realize what a comfort your own body is until you don’t have it. Maybe it was because I had never been a true “girl,” hadn’t indulged myself in makeup or any beauty to speak of. Call it vanity, but I thought my body didn’t need the primping. It was useful enough as it was, without someone else’s skin color or nose. So losing my organic parts maybe made me feel as though I was losing the parts of myself that I actually took care of.
I also noted that getting this leg felt worse than getting my EYE, EAR, and metal elbow had. I had two theories on this note: one, when I got my EYE, EAR, and elbow TECH, I was relieved for the pain of the burns to go away and therefore didn’t worry about the metal so much. Two, this time I needed TECH to replace organic parts I had lost to a disease, not to battle with villainy. Some part of me felt like this new metal leg was a symbol of how weak I was becoming.
***
When Demitren showed up twenty-five minutes later she buzzed him in with a remote and scanned him with her EYE to make sure he was unarmed, healthy, and prepared. “You brought a portable?” she asked him, referring to the portable holographic screen her EAR heard whirring with unhappiness (computers do not like it when their carrier runs up staircases) in his bag.
“It’s got the profiles of the All Things Unique employees,” he explained. “Why do you live in this neighborhood?”
“Huh?”
“You live a block in the wrong direction from where Samantha Dean and her mother live,” Demitren said in astonishment. “With your job you should be able to afford better living space than this.”
“Run into trouble on your way here?” she asked, bemused.
“No, because I took transport. Took us two hours to get here, by the way. Actually, I was only witness to five muggings, three attempted rapes, four stickups, six drug dealings, and nine gang fights on the way here. And those were all on this past block.”
Jenosa shrugged. “The rent was cheap, even if we do pay extra to have security at the door.”
“I’m sure it was.” Demitren sighed and sat down across from her. “How’s the leg?”
Jenosa had found that wearing her jumper suit, or any other pants for that matter, felt too funny on her numbed leg and hip, so she was wearing a skirt. She had covered her right leg with an afghan after propping it on a footrest. “Fine. Doc numbed it and told me not to move it.”
Demitren pulled out the portable and activated the screen. “Well then, let’s get started.”
The list of All Things Unique employees was harder to deal with than the list of AEIO employees. This time the store had agreed to provide photographs so that Jenosa could determine who had the physical prowess required to bust open doors. Demitren scrolled through the pictures on the holographic screen as she analyzed them. “How ‘bout this one?”
“Too young. Couldn’t punch a window screen, much less a door.”
“This one?”
“Nah. Not as pathetic, but still no.”
“This one?”
“Demitren, really, he’s in a wheelchair."
Demitren looked up. “You just called me by my name.”
She flushed, and looked angry. “So?”
“You never -” Demitren shrugged. “Never mind. This one?”
She paused. “Maybe... He’s possible.” She read the name. “Kynark Allen. Yeah, he looks it.”
Demitren pulled up his profile. “Gym membership, family... There’s really nothing here.”
“Still, he has the build, so we can’t eliminate him.”
“Understood.” He brought back the slideshow of employee photos. “This one?”
Ten minutes later Demitren hooked up the holographic screen to Jenosa’s home printer and printed out the three photos of likely suspects. “We’ve got three: Kynark Allen, Geog Nalak, and Jedosh Teclorn.”
“I still say we’ve only got two.”
Demitren sighed. “We agreed that Geog Nalak has the upper body strength, right?”
“I told you that Geog Nalak has the upper body of a wrestler. He’s got no lower body strength. He’s too unbalanced to pound a door.”
“But he’s in debt and he does have immense upper body strength. Besides, maybe that’s how he managed to get the kids away, he wrestled them into submission.”
“That wouldn’t explain the samples of Samantha’s blood they found.”
Demitren shrugged. “Sammy fought back, right? So maybe she grabbed something to defend herself with, and he grabbed it from her -”
Jenosa shook her head. “If that were the case, the kidnapper would have just left the weapon there with the blood. It’s more likely that the kidnapper came into the house with some kind of weapon, something he already had, to scare the kids into submission. Then, even though it had Samantha’s blood on it, he would have to take it with him, or we could have used it to identify him.”
“So you say it couldn’t be a wrestler like Nalak. Fine, but we’re keeping him in the list of suspects so people higher up don’t get mad at us, like how you got made at patrol for not including AEIO in their reports.”
Jenosa’s lips pursed, angry that he was right, and she slumped back in her chair. “Fine. And the other two?”
“Well, we talked about Kynark Allen. He’s so far been an upstanding citizen. The only reason he’s a suspect is because he has, according to you, the right muscle coordination.”
“And I know what I’m doing. But you’re right, there’s not enough criminal background for him. He even has his own kids. So it’s our third one...”
“Jedosh Teclorn. Was arrested for kidnapping five children once, but evidence suggesting another suspect cleared him. Case was never solved. Then he was tried for kidnapping six children later, but was found not guilty. You did say we were up against a professional. Has a gym membership, the right muscle coordination, and works at the counter of All Things Unique, where he has the ability to communicate with customers. Remember, Ms. Dijone said DJ had complained about an employee asking him how he was.”
“So this is the prime suspect.”
“Yep,” Demitren confirmed.
“Great,” Jenosa said, straightening in her chair. “I’ll turn it in to headquarters Monday, and -”
"You will?!” Demitren cried. “What about me? Did I have no part in this?”
“You’re just an intern -” Jenosa started to argue.
Demitren snapped the holographic screen off irritably. “Just an intern. Like some kind of stupid new kid? I’m older than you!”
“Are not!” Jenosa cried angrily.
“Am too.”
“Are not!”
“You’re thirty. I’m thirty-two. I’m older than you.”
Jenosa tried to find a witty retort, failed, and resorted to yelling angrily, “That doesn’t change the fact that you’re just an intern.”
Demitren threw his hands into the air. “And you even refuse to acknowledge the fact that I’m your intern! Why aren’t I good enough for you? Comparing me to Daren Sweanar, is that it?”
Jenosa was completely dumbfounded. “What -?!”
Demitren packed his bag angrily, leaving the photos of the suspects with her. “Well, I’ve had enough of this. You don’t laugh, you don’t smile, you’d rather I wasn’t here, you don’t acknowledge the things I do, and you drive me completely insane!” And he marched out the door.
Jenosa was completely baffled by his outburst. After a moment she exhaled a puff of breath, rolled her eyes, and picked up the nearby phone. “Security? Demitren Corning’s going to be trying to leave the building. Could you drag him back up here please?”
Two minutes later Demitren found himself back in her apartment held between two burly men. He crossed his arms as they unceremoniously deposited him and left, closing the door behind them. “And the point of having them drag me back here was?”
Jenosa’s eyes were bright with fury. “Doc said I couldn’t move my leg.”
“Why not?”
She snapped. With a burst of furious energy born from anger, she whipped the afghan off of her leg. Demitren saw for the first time, emerging from beneath the skirt she wore, a leg made of sleek black metal.
“But - But you weren’t injured,” he gasped. “I saw you yesterday. Why do you have TECH?”
The anger fading, Jenosa sighed. She suddenly felt unsure of what she had just done. Finally, she asked, “What do you know about a Virus?”
Demitren put his bag on the floor, his head cocked in confusion. “Which kind?”
She shook her head. “No, Virus with a capital V.”
“I’m... not aware of it.”
“Count yourself lucky.” She paused, figuring out how to explain it. “Do you know what ‘TECH’ stands for?”
Demitren furrowed his brows in concentration. “Technology and Equipment Containing Hyperactivity.”
“Do you know what hyperactivity even is?” He shook his head, and Jenosa grimaced. “It’s the machine equivalent to the force of life. Hyperactivity, when artificially created with a surge of electricity to the right places in the right ways, makes a computer or a machine more like a living thing.”
“I don’t understand -”
“Well, look at it this way. A computer without hyperactivity can function on its own, responding to changes appropriately - but only if you program it to, first. A computer containing hyperactivity could encounter a completely new situation, one it’s never been programmed for, and use its previous knowledge with its hyperactivity to adapt to the situation and fix it.”
Demitren shook his head. “How?”
Jenosa shrugged. “No idea. What I do know is, it makes the machine like an organ. It continuously communicates with parts of itself and with parts of my own body in order to be able to handle everything it comes to. Our organs do this by reproducing cells constantly, letting the DNA pass on to a new generation. TECH just does it by programming itself over and over again, every second. This makes the TECH like a part of my body, not just something connected to it. With hyperactivity, I don’t have to worry about mechanics. I can go into the shower. The TECH doesn’t need to be mended and reprogrammed at a garage. It handles itself, just like parts of our body would.”
“Versus the old machines they used to build to replace limbs,” Demitren mused, “where it didn’t communicate with the rest of the body. It was its own little machine, just there to replace the gap. Sounds convenient,” Demitren said when he had thought about it. “But what about it?”
Jenosa sighed. “Well, you know that organs reproduce cells. And in that time, the DNA is translated into RNA in order to be duplicated, and all that other biology junk.” Demitren nodded. “And you also know that sometimes, when the DNA is being translated for the new cell, there’s a mistake.” Demitren nodded, still confused. “So that mistake, the genetic mutation, passes on to the new generation of cells, because that new cell with the genetic mutation then reproduces into daughter cells, which reproduce into more...”
“That’s one of the causes of some cancers.”
“Right.” Jenosa put a hand to her head, not really wanting to tell him more, not really wanting to stop. “Well, since TECH has hyperactivity in it, it’s constantly reprogramming itself. And sometimes the newest program turns out wrong. But instead of being a new cell, it’s a new series of electronic impulses, telling the TECH the wrong instructions. The wrong instructions, the bad program, is called a Virus. And because it’s made out of hyperactivity, the machine equivalent of life, it isn’t limited to machines.”
Demitren’s eyes widened as he understood. “It spreads to the organic parts of your body.”
Jenosa nodded. “I got a Virus. In my EAR. Thank whatever deities may be that I didn’t get it in my EYE; the EYE’s connected to too many parts of my brain, I’d be defeated instantly. Instead it just spread from my EAR to my sinuses, via the bloodstream. That’s how they diagnosed me,” she said, “but Doc did say there was one more thing they could try... He didn’t want to do it, though.”
“What?”
Jenosa closed her organic eye. “They took my EAR out. Wiped it out, reprogrammed it, and put it back in again. After they replaced my sinuses, of course. Doc hoped that it would eliminate the Virus.”
“Did it work?” Demitren asked, but he already knew the answer.
Jenosa shook her head. “It got my windpipe next. I spat blood. And now it took my leg.” She opened her eye and shrugged again. “My organs are going to shut down one by one. And then it’ll reach my brain, and there’ll be nothing they can do.”
Demitren felt weak in the knees. “You’re dying?” She didn’t respond, and he sank to a seat beside her. “Oh my god,” he murmured. “I’m sorry.”
“I know you are,” she snapped. “That’s not what I want.”
“Then why did you tell me?” he asked, head in his hands.
“Hell if I know. Maybe because I wanted you to know why I act the way I do about the case. I’ve only got so long to find those kids.”
“Who else have you told?”
“Daren and his wife.”
Demitren shot her a look. “Daren’s married?”
She looked at him in bemusement. “You didn’t know that?”
He blushed. “No... I kinda thought, you know, that you had a thing for him -”
“Blerugh!” Jenosa gagged. She looked positively revolted.
“So, you don’t?” Demitren asked, hoping she wouldn’t shoot him.
“Tell me you didn’t just say that,” she begged. “Tell me you didn’t just say I had a thing for Daren. He was married the day I met him, you idiot! And what would you care, anyway?” she asked, suddenly suspicious.
Demitren started blushing furiously. “I dunno. Maybe because I figured it was weird that somebody managed to get friendly with you? You have a tendency to, well, you know... uh, yeah.”
Demitren wilted under Jenosa’s stare. Slowly, she asked, “What have you been smoking?”
Monday morning Demitren still didn’t know what had occurred between them. He marched up to Sunny’s desk and, as he handed her his card to get punched in, said, “All right, spill it.”
“What?”
“Why do I freak out around Jenosa Parkings?”
Sunny smiled. “Curiosity eating you, or something else?”
“Stop it."
She shrugged. “You like her. Don’t you dare argue with me!” she said mischievously as Demitren opened his mouth. “You’ve had a crush on her since you first saw her in some news story, I’ll bet. I’ll bet as soon as the option for a job that would let you work with her opened up, you left your teaching career solely for that. You walk in here knowing more about her than everyone else, you stalker!”
“Uh -”
“Then you spend every lunch period talking about her. You know what I think? You’re so used to being able to flirt with girls, being attractive but keeping them just out of reach so they don’t actually fall for you. Then Jenosa shows up, the woman you’ve actually got a crush on - don’t you dare argue with me! - and you can’t even make her smile. You’re frustrated, so you start freaking out.”
Demitren’s mouth opened and closed helplessly. Finally, he shook his head and smiled at the secretary. “I think you’re jealous.”
In reply Sunny showed him the ring on her left hand. “Got proposed to last night.”
“Great for you!” Demitren exclaimed, genuinely happy for her.
As Sunny handed him his card back, Jenosa came running from the direction of her office with her bag slung across her back. “Don’t bother getting settled. We’re investigating another kidnapping. Come on, we’re taking my motorcycle. Transport’s too slow.”
There was something in her voice that told Demitren something huge had happened. “Wait, what? Why?”
“There’s something different about this kidnapping!”
“What?”
“The child’s still there!”
Flashing Sunny a salute, Demitren ran after his boss.
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