Futuristic Violence and Fancy Suits (15 page)

“I'm not sleeping with that body right in front of the door.”

“I'll drag him away, if that will ease your mind. But he took a bullet to the brain, which even by zombie rules should eliminate him as a future threat.”

“Move him anyway. Oh, and I haven't figured out how to access Arthur's money yet but if I can't get into the accounts then you can just take a bunch of furniture or something as payment. It all looks pretty expensive.”

He smiled. “I'm confident we can work it out. Do you have any problems or questions?”

“Yeah. I mean no, that sounds fine. I'm too tired to think.”

“This is what you are paying me for. In the morning, you will have some big decisions to make.”

“And then you'll tell me just how screwed I am?”

“Most people in your situation would be pondering just how screwed their enemies are. You're safe now, Ms. Ashe.”

“Zoey.”

“Armando.” They shook hands. “Good night, Zoey.”

When he let go of her hand, she lunged in and hugged him. He reciprocated the hug about as much as a tree trunk would, and clearly wasn't a fan of the way she spent the next ten minutes crying into his lapel. But he waited it out in silence, which Zoey thought was polite of him.

Finally she pried herself away and apologized, and by the time Zoey was closing the door to the bedroom Armando was already dragging the dead psychopath down the hall, leaving a red smear on the hardwood floor in his wake. Zoey locked the door and shut off the wall feed. She kicked off her shoes for the first time and crawled into bed. Stench Machine jumped up and pressed his back against her face, as he usually did. She had time to think that after this nightmare of a day, she'd never get to sleep again. But halfway through the thought, she was out like a light.

 

FOURTEEN

The first two things Zoey discovered after she woke up sore and stiff Friday morning was that she was apparently now a huge celebrity in Tabula Ra$a, and that the toilet in the guest room talked.

It was, on the whole, an extremely impressive toilet. It had a self-warming seat (which apparently automatically lowered itself when it detected a female approaching), played gentle music the entire time she sat on it, and had two nozzles inside the bowl to wash and then dry her private parts when she was done. That list was presented in ascending order of how alarming Zoey found each of them.

Topping them all, however, was the fact that in the middle of this process a male voice with a British accent asked her if she wanted to watch the morning news update while she peed. Zoey's answer, a sleepy yelp of terror, apparently was interpreted as “Sure, toilet, show me the news to drown out the sound of my farts.” A screen blinked to life and automatically hopped around from coverage of Zoey's hostage situation on the train, to the intruder getting shot in her house, to rumors of her inheritance, to a recap of the chase for the “key” that had led up to it. Zoey thought for a moment that the whole world had ground to a halt to cover her situation, then figured out that the feed was set to deliver a custom feed of just the news that pertained to her. It was the kind of thing that could mess with a person's head.

The British toilet-bot interrupted to give a startlingly detailed report of her health, informing her that she was not pregnant, currently did not have any drugs in her system, was not diabetic or suffering from kidney disease, but was at risk for a urinary tract infection due to slightly elevated levels of leukocyte esterase in her urine. She thanked the toilet, but it did not respond. That was good—if she started to think of it as a sentient being, it would probably be much harder to poop in its mouth.

Zoey knew she should go out and get a status report from Armando, or at the very least find out if Armando had been killed by a second wave of psychopaths who were now waiting to ambush her outside the bedroom door, but she kept finding reasons to not leave the guest room or even get off the toilet. She decided she liked it in there, a little room with a big, heavy door and soundproofed walls. Outside was the big, crazy house and outside that, the bigger, crazier city. For all she knew, the corpse of the Hyena was still slumped out there somewhere, drawing a cloud of flies.

The toilet voice came back to ask if she was okay, apparently if you sat on it too long it started to assume you had died. She told it she was fine, but a few minutes later it asked again. She needed to figure out how to turn off that feature if she intended to sit there the rest of the day, which at some point had apparently become her plan. The part of Zoey's brain that thought up ways to procrastinate from unpleasant tasks—honed to perfection through years of exercise—reminded her that she should call her mother, who was probably worried sick about her. Especially if she had watched the news, though she normally wasn't in the habit of doing that (“Honey, don't you know they're just giving you all of the stories of people being ugly to each other and ignoring all of the good?”). The call went to her voice mail, because Zoey's mother also wasn't in the habit of answering her phone.

“Hi Mom. I just wanted to let you know I'm okay. I don't know if you watch the news but it looks like I inherited like a billion dollars in drug money or something. Can you find a lawyer? Just tell him I'm in danger of getting murdered or going to jail for having a bunch of heroin warehouses and mafia money that I didn't even ask for, so whatever he can do to fix that would be great—SHUT UP! Sorry, I wasn't talking to you, Arthur's robot toilet is hassling me. Oh also my bodyguard shot a guy last night, hope that's okay. He had super powers, they all do. I don't know what's up with that. Anyway, call me.”

Well, that should set her mind at ease. Zoey hung up and summoned the tremendous force of will it took to stand. She glanced at the shower and tried to decide if she felt safe enough to get naked in this house, then decided she smelled so bad that she just had to risk it. Also, it would be another good excuse to not leave the guest suite. She went out into the bedroom and scooted the table and lamp in front of the door, just in case.

The shower, she discovered, had fifty nozzles and a touchscreen with dozens of settings bearing unhelpful descriptions like “Jungle Massage.” After trying a few it became clear that each was set to fire the water from various patterns and temperatures in order to create some kind of transcendental showering experience, while some unseen aromatherapy module pumped the room full of scents ranging from “Fresh-Cut Grass” to “Baking Cinnamon Buns.” Zoey could not find a setting for just “regular shower” so she picked one at random and set about trying to decipher which of the dispensers on the wall oozed shampoo (at least one of them seemed to have been filled with scotch). Then, a few seconds in, the walls of the shower stall vanished and were replaced by a crystal-clear view of an emerald rainforest, the four screens simulating the experience of being outdoors bathing under a tropical waterfall. This freaked her out, because even though she knew it was just a video feed, she still couldn't shake the fear that a group of savages would come along and find her inexplicably standing naked in a stream. She hurried up and finished bathing, then spent twenty minutes trying to figure out how to turn the shower off.

By nine, Zoey found herself sitting on her bed, staring at the big door, and steeling herself to go outside. At nine-thirty she was still sitting there, Stench Machine getting hungry and impatient. Time and time again she mentally resolved to go out, and time and time again, her butt would not leave the bed. Finally there was a knock at the door, and Armando was asking if she was okay. That broke the spell and, bracing herself to see the pale corpse of a serial killer, she yanked open the door and found that not even a bloodstain remained from last night's horror.

She said, “So what did you do with the dead guy, just toss him out to the tigers?”

“No, ma'am, everything was done through official channels. Though the TRPD and the coroner required two separate bribes, for some reason. I'll put it in my expense report.”

“They didn't need to talk to me?”

“Welcome to the world of Tabula Rasa. Or rather, welcome to the world of
being wealthy
in Tabula Rasa. Now, the first decision I have to burden you with this morning involves access to the grounds. You've had a number of house staff try to report to work this morning. I've been turning them away—”

“Yeah, I don't want to bother with any of that.”

“Well, you have fifty thousand square feet of mansion and fifty acres of land here, it takes a small army to keep it looking like this.”

“Right, otherwise the people who drove past might not feel quite as miserable about their own lives when they see it.” Zoey headed toward the stairwell and said, “I'm not staying here, all that stuff is somebody else's problem. Keep everybody out for now. Not just to keep the serial killers from leaking in, but to make sure none of Arthur's old cronies decide to get revenge.”

“If you're referring to the house staff, I'm not sure how much hunger for vengeance lies in the hearts of the landscapers or cleaning crew.”

“I'm mainly worried about—”

“
Scrooooooge!!!
”

They had reached the landing, and Jacob Marley's ghost had been lying in wait. Stench Machine went streaking down the stairs in terror.

“Oh my god, will you unplug that stupid thing? What I was saying was, I'm mostly worried about the Suits—the, uh, creepy henchmen Arthur worked with—”

“Oh, I know who they are.”

“Well, will they come back with a bunch of thugs and try to kick down the door?”

“That would be an exceptionally poor strategy on their end. The security system would give me ample advance warning. The most difficult part would be neutralizing them before the crossfire created too much damage to the décor. I believe there are vases in that foyer older than the New Testament. No, the danger posed by those men is of a … different nature.”

“So what do you—” Zoey stopped, startled by the sound of clinking noises from down the hall. “Wait, is somebody else here?”

Armando looked confused. “Just Carlton, the butler.”

Zoey had completely forgotten about him.

Armando, growing alarmed, asked, “Was he ordered to leave? He said he never heard from you after he retired for the evening. The gunshot woke him up.”

“I didn't even think about him. It's … fine I guess. Can I trust him?”

Armando shrugged. “I did a background check. He has been a butler for fifty years. You can't trust anybody one hundred percent but…” he shrugged again. “These are the decisions
you
have to make. It comes with the inheritance.”

“Wonderful.”

Zoey left Armando where he was and followed the busy sounds, which took her through the dining room and into the hallway where she had gone the night before, only instead of heading toward the holographic Mold door, she went the opposite way and soon found herself in a vast kitchen suited for a restaurant. She saw two huge stainless refrigerators with touchscreen controls, a flat-top grill like they have at Benihana, a deep fryer, and a row of three ovens topped by fifteen burners (Zoey marveled at all of the instant macaroni and cheese she could boil on that thing). She saw rows of copper-bottomed cookware dangling from racks over two huge sinks. Off in one corner was the arched brick opening of a wood-fired oven.

She wandered around the room, past a fragrant wall-size rack of fresh herbs sprouting from tiny little pots under grow lights. On the opposite wall was a bar—mirrored shelves of liquor and a beer tap, next to a coffee bar setup boasting an antique brass espresso machine that looked ten times as expensive as the professional one she used at work. She went over to give it a look, finding it comforting to be around tools she had mastered—grinders, steamers, even a little jar of toothpicks for drawing designs in the foam. The lingering scent of coffee oils was wonderful, even if it did remind her of long days, sore feet, and one particularly awful steam burn.

“Mr. Livingston would have his beans delivered weekly,” said Carlton's voice from behind her. He had walked in silently from the other door, carrying Stench Machine.

Zoey spun and said, “Oh, I'm sorry. I was just … looking.”

“You're apologizing for looking at your own kitchen? Your cat was wreaking havoc in the pantry, I had to go chase him down. I do believe he is hungry.”

“Oh. Right. I'm … sorry.”

Carlton nodded toward the coffee bar and said, “Your father, he found a service that ships the beans the day after they are roasted. Flies them in from Colombia. Have you eaten? Would you like something?”

She was starving, but said, “Oh, don't worry about me. I'll … order something.” Then she thought and said, “You don't keep cat food around, do you? Not for me, obviously. I put some in my suitcase but I didn't pack enough, I thought I'd have a chance to stop at a—”

Before she could finish, Carlton sprang into action, opening the nearest refrigerator.

“If you're asking if I can prepare a meal a cat would find satisfactory, well, how difficult can it be?”

“You'd be surprised.”

Carlton pulled a tuna steak, eggs, and a stick of butter from the refrigerator, then continued loading his arms from a walk-in pantry. He emerged with flour, a bag of rice, a jar of peanut butter, a plastic bear full of honey, a box of brown sugar, and a single, perfect banana.

“Do you like bananas, Ms. Ashe?”

“Oh, you don't have to—”

“Your father compensated me quite well to do precisely this, in precisely this situation. Am I to assume that my employment continues under the previous terms? It is my understanding that some staff were let go last night.”

“Um, sure, that's fine.”