Freaks in the City (5 page)

Sixer inched nearer to the roof’s edge to
take full advantage of the classroom’s slightly ajar window. He
evaluated the lecture Michael was currently giving his students and
concluded Michael had an excellent grasp on the subject of computer
science. For a human.

Michael could prove useful in the
future—useful to Sixer, not to Evan Caine, the man who erroneously
believed he controlled Sixer.

Decision made, Sixer shimmied back the way
he’d come. He leaped from the roof, sprinted toward the fence and
vaulted it. The bus that would return him to Snapperton was due in
six-point-four minutes. Sixer did not increase his walking speed.
He’d quickly discovered that although humans felt compelled to
devise detailed schedules for public transport, such schedules were
invariably so inaccurate as to be worthless.

When the bus pulled over to let him on, he
handed over the exact adult fare. He was scanning the interior to
ascertain the most advantageous seat when the driver said, “Student
ID?”

Sixer considered appropriate responses and
chose one. “No.”

The driver shrugged. “Could have given you
some change.”

Sixer couldn’t fathom why the driver would
make an issue of this when his passenger had already paid the adult
fare, but humans were frequently illogical. He cut short the
likelihood the man would feel compelled to pursue the subject by
heading for a seat at the rear of the bus.

As his torso swayed with the motion of the
vehicle, Sixer reviewed Michael and Marissa Davidson’s interactions
thus far. He’d detected obvious tension that centered around their
son’s girlfriend, one Jaime Smythson, but neither Marissa nor
Michael seemed inclined to discuss the issue openly. Sixer had been
unable to unearth anything detailed about the girl thus far, and he
was forced to concluded that until new data came to light it would
be a waste of resources to continue observing the adult
Davidsons.

The Davidson’s daughter,
Caroline-who-preferred-to-be-called-Caro, was also useless for
Sixer’s purposes. Caro Davidson was involved with her boyfriend and
her studies to the exclusion of almost everything else. She had not
visited her brother at his apartment. Their encounters were limited
to texts and meeting up at their parents’ house over holiday
periods.

Gamma-Dash-One had formed an attachment to
the young female, but after analyzing all the data Sixer had
concluded the rogue cyborg’s attachment to Caro’s twin, Tyler, was
far more significant.

Those same anomalies in Gamma’s creation
that had forced her to evolve, made the probability of her keeping
a watchful eye over Tyler extremely high. The probabilities skewed
still higher once Sixer factored in that all records pertaining to
Tyler Davidson’s attendance at Appleton Performing Arts School had
been wiped around the same time Tyler had moved out of the
apartment he’d shared with another student. And higher still when
cross-referenced to T. Michael Rowen, a current student at
Wasserman College of Fine Arts. Rowen had been Marissa Davidson’s
maiden name. Sixer sensed Gamma’s hand in this.

Conclusion: Tyler Davidson was the key to
locating Gamma. But Sixer did not deem it strategically sound to
make direct contact with Tyler Davidson—not when Gamma could have
the young human under close surveillance. The risk of revealing
himself before he was ready to confront Gamma was unacceptably
high.

Sixer got off at his stop. He purchased a
newspaper at the nearest newsstand before heading for the park to
wait for his next subject.

Shawn Evans was the son of Snapperton’s
former mayor. The scandal that had left Shawn’s reputation in
tatters had compelled his father to make a substantial donation to
Greenfield High School to “encourage” the school board not to expel
his son. Wesley Evans had then prudently bowed out of the next
mayoral election. Upon his graduation from Greenfield High School,
Shawn Evans had immediately been enrolled in a business course by
his father. All evidence pointed to Shawn’s future career path
being to join his father’s vending machine franchise—whether Shawn
liked it or not.

Sixer chose a bench near the public
basketball court and pretended to read the newspaper for the next
three hours. No one questioned him.

A red Miata screeched into a parking space.
Shawn got out, his cell phone glued to his ear. He rang off, stowed
the phone in the back pocket of his jeans, and sauntered over to a
group of young men shooting hoops.

Sixer watched the young humans play a
truncated version of a basketball game while he reviewed footage of
Greenfield High Raiders’ games he’d accessed and stored in his
databanks.

Shawn, then the Raiders’ captain, had been
described in one brutally honest article as a “ball hog” with a
reputation as a “chucker”—a player who took frequent and imprudent
shots at the basket. Conclusion: Shawn had directly contributed to
the Raiders’ many losses on the court. This conclusion was borne
out by the fact that after Shawn had been dropped from the team,
the Raiders’ win ratio had dramatically improved.

Sixer abandoned all pretense of reading the
newspaper, folding it up and placing it on the bench. He rose from
his seat and walked over to the mesh fence enclosing the court. He
hooked his fingertips into the mesh, leaning into it as he observed
the game.

For the third time in a row Shawn’s shot hit
the backboard and missed the hoop. He scooped up the ball and in a
fit of temper, heaved it at one of his teammates.

The young man ducked and the ball just
missed smacking him in the side of the head. He made a rude gesture
at Shawn, and tossed the ball to his friends.

Shawn abruptly realized he had an audience.
“What’s your problem, asshole?”

Sixer selected an appropriate response from
his databanks. “I’m not the one shooting bricks.”

Shawn’s friends snickered.

“Think you can do better, douche-bag?”
Shawn’s stiff-bodied stance and outthrust jaw shrieked the
challenge as clearly as his words.

Sixer unhooked his fingers from the wire
mesh and walked through the entrance, onto the court.

The young male with the ball heaved it in
Sixer’s direction and he snatched it from the air. He did not
bounce the ball to gauge its current level of inflation and get a
“feel” for it. He already knew how he would adjust the trajectory
to make the shot.

Fixing his gaze on Shawn, Sixer tossed the
ball one-handed at the hoop. “It wouldn’t be difficult to do better
than you,” he said as he turned on his heel and walked off the
court.

He did not bother to glance over his
shoulder to verify whether the ball had gone through the hoop. He
knew with one hundred percent certainty he had made the shot. The
whoops of the young humans only confirmed it. “Hey, dude,” one of
them called. “You wanna play?”

“No. Basketball doesn’t interest me.” Sixer
resumed his seat on the bench. Shawn was useless to him. The young
human was not intelligent enough to suit his purposes.

A female approached the court.

Sixer didn’t need to access any of
Snapperton’s online databases to discover her identity. He already
knew of her because she’d dated both Tyler and Shawn.

Her name was Vanessa Ward, but she went by
the name “Nessa”. She wore a fitted black short-sleeved t-shirt,
tight denim shorts, and scuffed black canvas sneakers. Shawn
pretended not to notice her as she took a seat on the bench next to
Sixer.

“Hi Shawn,” she called out, just as her
ex-boyfriend attempted another shot.

Shawn botched the shot. Nessa’s lips
twitched upward.

Sixer noted Shawn’s clenched fists and set
jaw as his teammates rolled their eyes. The opposition high-fived
each other. One of them whistled at Nessa, and although she
affected not to notice, she tossed her head.

Shawn sneered. “Hey,” he said to his
friends. “Check it out. The Time-Out whore is having some time out.
Can’t have that. Who’s in? One of you losers gotta be desperate for
some action.”

Time-Out was a truck-stop on the outskirts
of Snapperton where Nessa was currently employed as a waitress. The
establishment was popular with truckies, down on their luck locals,
and visitors passing through who were unaware of its dubious
reputation. Nessa had been working at Time-Out ever since she’d
been expelled from Greenfield High and her parents had kicked her
out of their house. She currently shared a dwelling with two other
Time-Out waitresses in what was deemed to be an undesirable part of
town.

Nessa had flushed at Shawn’s jibe, and Sixer
noted a vein throbbing at her temple. “Asshole,” she muttered.
Then, pasting a friendly smile on her face, she stuck out her right
hand. “Nessa.”

Sixer shook it, careful not to grip too
tight and bruise her. “Sixer.”

“Unusual name.”

Sixer hadn’t found himself in a social
situation that had required him to give his name before, so he
hadn’t given any thought as to whether “Sixer” would be deemed
unusual. “I was named by a Philadelphia 76ers fan,” he said.

Nessa laughed. “Could be worse.”

“Yes,” he said, agreeing despite not
comprehending what constituted “worse”. A name was merely a
combination of letters—a label that could be shed at will. It was
neither good nor bad. It was just a name.

“Found another sucker, huh, Nessa?” Shawn
jeered. “You’re off your game, babe. Chances that loser has cash to
throw around are sub-zero.”

An expected observation, given that Sixer
wore jeans, an old brown t-shirt and a pair of boots he’d liberated
from a used clothing bin. Appearances were frequently deceiving,
however. Sixer had never literally thrown cash around, but he had
plenty at his disposal.

Nessa slanted a mutely pleading gaze at
Sixer from beneath her lashes. “Ignore him. He’s full of crap.”

“He’s not a particularly talented basketball
player,” Sixer said.

Her smile this time appeared more genuine.
Good. His efforts to build rapport were working.

“You got that right,” she said. “Shawn’s
always been nothing more than a legend in his own mind.”

Sixer indicated the coffee shop across the
street. “Would you like to join me for coffee?”

She glanced at her wristwatch. “I have to be
at work in a little over an hour. I was visiting my parents but
they wouldn’t—” She swallowed, ducking her head so her hair fell
across her face and hid her expression. “They weren’t, uh, home. So
I thought I’d hang here for a bit and wait for the bus.”

Sixer sought the correct slang term. “My
shout? And I can drop you off at your work if you like.”

Nessa peeked out at him from beneath the
curtain of her hair. “Okay. Thanks. That’d be really nice.”

Based on her relationship with Tyler
Davidson, this young female was Sixer’s best option. She would be
easily controlled. She would suit his purposes admirably.

~~~

Sixer leaned over the seat and instructed the
taxi driver to wait while he escorted Nessa to the door of her
workplace. He draped an arm across her back and dug his fingertips
into her waist. A shudder wracked her body.

He inhaled and could taste the sourness of
fear leaking from her pores. “Remember, I’ll be watching you.”

Her breathing hitched as he pressed the cash
he’d promised in the interim into her hand.

He shouldered open the main doors. Rank air
smacked him like a physical blow. If he’d been a human, and cared
about such things, he might have been revolted by the noise and the
grime, the mingled odors of unwashed bodies and overcooked
food.

She ducked beneath his arm and darted
inside, heading straight for the ladies’ room.

Sixer debated following her—not into the
ladies’ room, of course—but taking a table inside and ordering a
meal. In the next three-point-two hours he would need to refuel in
order to maintain his body’s optimum physical performance, and this
place was as good as any to meet that requirement.

A heavyset waitress, the dimpled skin of her
fleshy thighs bulging over the confines of her shorts, placed her
order on the table and dropped him a wink. Her lashes were so
coated with layers of mascara that they stuck together when she
blinked. It required some effort for her to pry open her eyelids
again. “You comin’ in, cutie-pie?”

Sixer backed away, pivoted on his heel, and
headed for the taxi. He did not wish to draw unwanted attention
from the locals. He’d discovered all he needed to know and it was
time to leave Snapperton.

~~~

Great, just great. The elevator was on the
fritz. Nessa jogged up the gloomy stairwell. She made it to the
fourth floor landing before she had to lean against the handrail to
catch her breath. She sucked in a deep breath, and choked. God.
Smelled like something had died. She quickly clothes-pegged her
nose with her fingers.

As she peered about the dingy landing she
noticed an untidy pile lurking in the corner. Garbage bags. Someone
must’ve figured they’d leave ’em here until garbage day rather than
have ’em stink up their apartment. Nice.

She resumed climbing, concentrating on
putting one foot in front of the other. One flight. And another.
Until there was only one more flight to go. Yay.

She found the right apartment easily enough
and paused to knead her burning leg muscles as she planned what she
was going to say. Then she thumped the door with her fist, only
letting up when she heard faint footsteps from inside.

The door was yanked opened and she copped an
eyeful of a skinny, shirtless boy who’d thankfully pulled on
sweats—sort of—over his grungy boxers. He yawned and mumbled,
“Yeah?”

“Tyler ’round?” she asked.

He blinked like a myopic owl. And then
seemed to realize his visitor was female, for he hastily yanked up
his half-mast sweats and forked his fingers through his mop of
hair. “Heyyy,” he drawled. “I’m Pete. And you would be?”