Idolon (17 page)

He probably shouldn't have hit her, but he had. He couldn't take that back. All he could do was move forward and keep moving.

Mateus climbed out of his car and made his way down the street to the hotel. On the way he passed a surfhead house fenced off from the street by long boards, dozens of three-meter-high oblongs planted side by side in the ground. The boards reminded him of yellow fiberglass teeth, all cracked enamel and chipped edges.

The TV security guards eyed him suspiciously as he sauntered across the parking lot to the main entrance. Both of them had that static snow job philm that hurt to look at. "What's up, class?"

"What can I do for you?" one of the guards said, his polite voice relayed through little speakers in the thick sound-, bomb-, and bulletproof door.

"I'm here to talk to my sister," Mateus said.

"Your sister?"

"Yeah. Her name's Nadice. She converted last night, and I didn't get a chance to say good-bye."

The guard frowned, and Mateus wondered if the guard knew Nadice didn't have a brother.

"You can't talk to her," the guard said.

"Why not?"

The guard's frown deepened to a scowl. "Because it's against the rules."

"But she's here? Right?"

"I didn't say that."

"Don't you have visiting hours? You know? For loved ones? I'm the only family she's got."

"Not anymore. We're her family now. I'm her big brother," He jerked a thumb in the direction of his sidekick. "And this is her other big brother."

"Come on, bro. I just wanna make sure she's okay."

"Why?" The guard's manner turned overtly hostile. "You the one who smacked her?"

Mateus held up his hands, palms out. "What makes you say that?"

"We see a lot of domestic violence. Boyfriends and husbands trying to apologize and make amends."

"Not me, man. Like I said, I'm her kin." They couldn't prove shit unless maybe they took some soft DNA prints.

"I still can't let you in."

The dude wasn't budging. Clearly a different strategy was called for. "What if I agree to convert?"

The guard shook his head. "Sorry. This center is for women only. You want, I'll send you the address of one of our other conversion centers."

"Sounds like you got a good thing going here. Lots of female company. Must be nice." Mateus grinned, hoping to appeal to the dude's baser instincts and establish some masculine rapport.

The guard's eyes bulged, belligerent. "It's not like that. You some kind of pervert or something?"

Christ. The asswipe was probably neutered. One of those eunuchs churches kept around for choir practice.

"I think you better leave," the guard said. He rested a hand on the taser at his side and nodded for his buddy.

Mateus spread his hands wider and took a step back as the second goon joined the first. "Awright. I don't want no trouble."

"Then hit the road, Jack. And don't come back."

"No problem, man. I gotcha." He bobbed his head like he was stoned, playing the part. With any luck, they'd write him off as a typical dreadhead and forget about him as soon as he was gone, another hapless spoon-cooked soul.

Besides, he had what he needed. Nadice was in the building.

"So what's the big emergency?" Pelayo said. He walked toward Front Street and the San Lorenzo levee. The levee was shaded by a line of tall palms that dappled the concrete barrier. Leafy splashes of light snagged on found-art partially embedded in the wall: a bald rubber tire, a twisted bicycle frame, several rust-pitted shopping carts, the glaucoma-dull headlight of an old car, and the hollow tubes of a wind chime that poked out of the mud-colored 'crete like the bones of some exotic bird that had been carried to the bottom of the river, stripped of all flesh, and slowly silted over.

Over his eyefeed d-splay, Nguyet fretted, picking at her front teeth with a ragged thumbnail. "Have you seen Marta?"

"Not since last night."

"She hasn't contacted you?"

"No," he said. "Why?"

"She's missing."

Pelayo shaded his eyes from the metallic shards of glare the wall seemed to emit as part of some slow, steady decay. "What do you mean, missing?"

"She didn't come home last night."

"That's it?" Typical Nguyet. Everything was a disaster with her. One questionable divination and the world was coming to an end.

"It isn't like her to just go off," Nguyet said.

True. Marta usually stuck close to home, worried about her father.

"Maybe she's seeing someone," he said. It was bound to happen. Even with somebody as closed off as Marta. She shut people out, held them at a distance, but every wall had its cracks.

Nguyet shook her head, obstinate. "She's not involved with anyone. She doesn't have a regular boyfriend."

"How do you know?"

"When she went out last night, around ten, she promised that she'd be back in one hour. We haven't heard from her since."

That didn't prove anything. "Did she say why she was going out?" he asked.

Nguyet nodded. "She said she needed to get some fresh air."

"How'd she look?"

"Fine. A little pale, but not too bad. Not like before. If she was feeling sick, she wouldn't have gone out."

"Was she upset about anything?" He'd pissed her off, but not enough to send her into a serious funk.

"I don't think so. She was alone in her room fifteen or twenty minutes before she left."

"Did Rocio say something to her?"

"No. They didn't fight, if that's what you're getting at. He was asleep." Ng
_U
yet chewed at a frayed hank of hair. "I think something bad happened to her. She got into some sort of trouble. I just know it."

The crystals again. Behind her he could see the divination cards spread out on the kitchen table. Seven of them, lined up in a row, one card for each chakra.

"What kind of trouble?"

"I think maybe she's trafficking. I did a reading, and it revealed one crystal inside of another crystal. Something hidden inside of something else."

"Trafficking for who?"

"Her boss. Someone else. What difference does it make?" Nguyet gave him a strangled look. "That's why she hasn't been feeling well. Whatever she's selling is making her sick."

"Just calm down." Telling himself as much as her. "Take it easy. Have you called the police? The local hospitals and clinics?"

"Yes. No one's seen her."

Just like Concetta,
he thought, filling in the blank left by the pause between them.

Pelayo was no longer walking. He had come to a dead stop next to the accordion-ribbed trunk of a shaggy palm. Bicyclists and joggers cruised by on the fenced footpath that ran along the top of the levee, their shadows tangling with those of the palms. "What do you want me to do?"

"You know people, right? Street types. Maybe you could ask around, find out if they've heard anything."

It was probably a waste of time—it had been with Concetta. But if he didn't try, he'd never hear the nd of it. Nguyet would never forgive him. And if something bad happened...

"Where was she working?" Pelayo couldn't remember. Marta changed jobs the way most people changed philm.

"This place called the Get Reel."

"All right. I'll see what I can find out."

Nguyet sagged, relieved. "Thank you."

_______

Turning back to Pacific Avenue, Pelayo noticed an ad mask clinging barnacle-tight to the face of the levee.

"Atossa? Is that you?"

No answer.

The left side of the mask was chalk-white, the right side dark brown smudged with black. Filigreed gold leaf gilded the bridge of the nose, brows, and temples. Carbon-black foil, etched with white curlicues, covered the sides of the nose and the cheekbones. Gold outlined a fish's mouth and blue scales on the chin and jaw. A white triangle, outlined in gold, on the forehead, held musical notes.

It looked to be a sculpture, part of the other debris embedded in the wall.

The mask stared blankly at him, its eyes black and unfathomable. The vacant gaze unnerved him. It was like a vacuum, waiting to be filled.

He started to turn away, but the lips moved. Or seemed to. He couldn't be sure. It might have just been the light. He reached out to touch the mask, paused, then withdrew his hand and hurried off. Atossa would be at work by now. If she was keeping an eye on him, he wanted to know.

_______

Model Behavior was located in the old Rio Theater, at the intersection of Seabright and Soquel. It took twenty minutes to climb the hill from the river, past all the tourist shops that had settled there like an incurable infection.

The theater, over two hundred years old, had gone through at least two major fires and several extensive renovations. The only thing that hadn't changed was the chrome-and-glass ticket kiosk out front. The kiosk verified his DiNA bar code, then ushered him into a main lobby decorated with plush red carpet, black marble walls, and decorative, Art Nouveau-embossed tin ceiling panels. The original concession stand had been converted into a check-in desk.

The historical landmark was used for ad demos and fashioneer shows. FEMbots, dressed in the latest designer clothing or philm, strutted down a runway in front of a big d-splay that provided thematic backgrounds. Preproduction ad masks circulated above the seats, colorful as circus balloons and kites.

Atossa worked in a second-floor cubicle, where she pulled the electronic strings on ad masks around the world. Locales like London, Paris, Tokyo, and Beijing. Rich first-world cities teeming with haute couture dilettantes and philmheads from every imaginable cast. Clothiers, perfume and cosmetic manufacturers contracted with Model Behavior to have masks advertise their products in cinephile nightclubs, bars, and cafes. As a sales and marketing tool, it had proven to be particularly effective in politically volatile regions.

Glass cases containing replicas of the masks she was licensed to operate lined the walls of the cramped room. The masks gazed out at him—a Japanese kogyaru, an Indian Maharani, a Russian zolotaya, a Chinese popera queen—illuminated by a real-time cityscape on the room's Vurtronic d-splay: Moscow, judging by the overcast sky and the even drearier Soviet-era buildings.

Atossa hadn't been looking over his shoulder after all.

She sat at a desk in front of the d-splay. She looked upset, her hair in disarray, her face puffy, her expression glazed. Her brow wrinkled when he stepped through the door. "What are you doing here?"

"I just got done. I was going to call, but I figured I might as well come by and see you in person."

"I wish you'd called." Her mouth puckered, sour. "I'm just getting ready to do a run."

A frown threatened to corrode his smile. "Are you feeling okay? You don't look so hot."

"I'm fine! You're not the only one with a job to do."

"You don't sound fine."

She sniffed, swiped at her nose with the back of her hand. "Christ. I don't know how much longer I can do this."

"Do what?"

She turned away from him, hiding her face while she stared at the d-splay. "Look. This is not the time for a discussion. Not
here.
Not
now."
Her voice came out raw, as if she was about to cry, or had been.

He went to her, bent down on one knee, and tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear. "What's wrong?"

She shook her head, twisting free of his touch.

"What?" he said. "What's the matter?"

Her back started to shake. Then her shoulders crumpled forward, and a stifled sob escaped her.

"Girls have been getting pregnant." She cleared her throat. "Five I know in the last week. Some of them don't even have boyfriends. You know what I'm saying?"

"I'm not sure," he said.

"Single women. Same-sex couples."

"Wait a minute." Pelayo pinched the bridge of his nose. "Are you trying to tell me you're pregnant?"

"It's not what you think." She refused to meet his gaze.

"What am I supposed to think?"

"I was afraid you'd be pissed."

So this was what she had wanted to talk about last night. He stood. "I thought we were taking precautions. Both of us."

After a second, she turned in the chair to look up at him. "That's what I'm saying. These other girls shouldn't be pregnant."

Pelayo combed his fingers through the lank, unfamiliar hair and began to pace in the tiny room, feeling suddenly confined. "So how did it happen? If it's not mine, then whose is it?"

"I'm not saying I am. I haven't even gotten tested yet. It could just be stress."

Pelayo stared at her, incredulous. If she
was
knocked up, the baby wasn't his, and she expected him to give her the benefit of the doubt.

"I know how it must sound." She dropped her gaze to her lap. "But you have to believe me."

"How come you haven't been tested?"

She shook her head. "I've been afraid."

"Of what?"

"I'm not sure. I know"—she knitted her hands tightly—"it doesn't make sense. But I'm scared."

"You afraid to find out what's going on?" he asked.

She nodded, looked up again. Her eyes were teary, red-rimmed. "Yeah. Maybe. And I don't want to be told it's my fault. That I did something to bring this on myself."

"Like what?"

"I don't know. It's that whole, if a woman gets raped or beaten or something, she must have asked for it."

Pelayo took a moment to let out a deep breath. "So what do you want to do?" he finally asked.

Atossa mashed her lips. Her expression was frayed, pocked with shadows. "If I am pregnant, I'm thinking about getting an abortion..."

Pelayo wasn't sure what to say. Or what she wanted from him.

"... but I wanted to talk to you first."

"Are the other women you know getting abortions?" he asked.

She twisted her hands. "Some of them."

"But not all."

"No."

"It's up to you," he said. "Whatever you think is best." It was her choice, not his. He didn't want to tell her what to do.

"I want it to be a joint decision," she said.

So she wasn't asking for his advice, necessarily, but his support. She wanted him to be there with her, for her. Pelayo knelt next to her again. An when he went to put an arm around her hunched shoulders, instead of pulling away she leaned into him for comfort.

"Piecework," she said after a while.

"What about it?"

"I did that once, when I was fourteen. Grew ro-taxanes inside me. That's what this feels like, except it's not my choice."

"You think that's what this is? Some kind of industrial infection?"

She shrugged, then straightened under his arm. "A TV was following me the other day.
Watching
me."

"Where?"

"Here and at home." She rubbed goose-pimpled arms. "It was creepy, like he was checking me out. Keeping an eye on me."

"When was that?" Pelayo asked.

She hugged herself. "Yesterday morning. After I went to the clinic to see about setting up an appointment."

About the same time the TV had been spying on him. Unless it was really Atossa the TV had been trying to keep track of. "Why would a TV want to know whether or not you're pregnant?" he said.

Tossa shook her head. She sucked in her cheeks, the hollows of her face drawing tight and hard.

He rested a hand on one shoulder and squeezed gently, feeling knotted, bone-hard muscle. "You want to stay at my place for a while? Until we figure out what's going on?"

"You sure that's all right?" she said. "It won't mess with the test trial?"

"Right now I'm more concerned about you." He kissed her lightly, tilting her chin like a wineglass between the tips of his fingers, and stood up. "Let me know when you're done here and I'll pick you up."

She followed him to the door. "Where are you going?"

"To get some answers."