Tek Net (17 page)

“You really think, Gomez, that I'd turn to a private cop for help?”

“Someday, sometime. It's possible.” Smiling, he climbed into his skycar.

The girl smiled back, then went hurrying off into the new night.

The cambot said, “That makes three, Nat.”

Natalie Dent paused in the center of the living room carpet of her suite in the Hotel Cyrano. She dropped the hand holding the small bug-detector to her side, wrinkled her freckled nose and told the robot, “Although I'm noted for being an exceptionally calm and even-tempered person, Sidebar, even when working on some horrendously dangerous assignments for Newz, Inc., I must mention that I get a mite annoyed when you address me as Nat. My name—the name, I might add, by which billions of loyal vidwall viewers know and respect me as one of the top investigative reporters on, or off, the planet—is Natalie. Not Nat, a nickname that only vulgar rowdies and hooligans and that disreputable and quick-tongued private eye Sid Gomez address me by.”

“Maybe,” suggested the robot from the sofa where he was sitting and gazing out at the sunny private patio, “you ought to keep your lip buttoned, Natalie, until you locate and disarm
all
the listening and viewing devices that have been planted in our suite.”

The auburn-haired vidwall reporter said, “Far be it from me to complain about doing my fair share of the work. However, if you'd lend a hand instead of merely reclining there on your rusty wusty, Sidebar, then the task would be completed a heck of a lot—”

“Rusty dusty,” the camera robot corrected, turning both his head and the lens mounted in his metallic chest in her direction.

She began pacing the room again, swinging the detecting device, slowly, from side to side. “It doesn't seem especially apt,” said Natalie, “for a mechanism to be questioning the proper usage of a—Oops.”

The small gadget in her hand had commenced blinking the tiny bead of red light on its topside.

Natalie knelt on a stretch of carpeting near the arched doorway to her bedroom. She moved the detector over the surface of the carpet. “There it is, an extremely teeny one.” The gadget had plucked a very small audiovisual bug from the pile.

“Four so far,” observed Sidebar.

It took Natalie, working unaided, another hour and a half to sweep the entire suite. “I'm wondering,” she said as she returned to the living room, “why anyone would go to the trouble of installing nine spying devices in my quarters.” She sat on the edge of an armchair, jingling the bugs on her palm. “I don't imagine that every suite in this establishment is this profusely packed with eavesdropping gear.”

“It might just be,” suggested the camera robot, “that somebody hereabouts suspects the real reason we've come up to the Movie Palace.”

29

Gomez directed his skycar eastward into the night.

Hunching slightly in his seat, he punched out a number on the dash vidphone.

An answering robot appeared on the screen. “Cosmos Detective Agency, office of Walt Bascom. Who shall I say is—Oh, it's you, Gomez. Where the dickens have you been?”

“Otherwise occupied. Is the
jefe
—”

“We've been trying to contact you.”

“What's afoot?”

“I'll let him tell you.”

The screen displayed the Cosmos logo for ten seconds and then Bascom, scowling, appeared.

“We have a lead on Jake's possible location, Sid. Dan Cardigan just came here to pass it along to me,” said Bascom. “What have you been up to?”

Gomez replied, “I've been finding out where they shipped Jake.”

Dan moved into view behind the agency chief. “Does this involve Doc Sears?”

“
Buenas noches
,” he said to Jake's son. “How'd you find out about Sears?”

“Timecheck stopped by the condo. Said he couldn't get in touch with you, so he—”

“I was concentrating on saving my butt and then tracking down Doc Sears.”

“Have you found him yet? We were just about to start a—”

“Doc is rumored to be gone to ground somewhere in the vastness of Mexico.”

“But you do know where my father is?”

“Your
padre
is, almost certainly, being held at a private facility calling itself The Institute. It's located—”

“Near the New Haven Enclave in Connecticut,” supplied Bascom, still scowling. “It's supposed to be a legit psych center for very rich nutcases. But they've been known to help certain influential customers keep people out of circulation.”

“
Sí
, and that's—”

“Is that where Dad is?” asked Dan. “How can you be sure, if you couldn't find Doc Sears?”

“I was able,” answered Gomez as his skycar sped east, “to contact the gent who assisted the elusive Doc Sears in processing Jake after those Limey louts turned him over.”

“What did they do to him?”

“A simple mindwipe—it was a rush job—and then they planted some false memories,” said Gomez. “Nothing too serious, nothing that can't be reversed.”

“What's their game?” asked Bascom. “Why dump Jake back there?”

“According to the information I was able to persuade this
pendejo
to pass along, the Anzelmo/Marriner combo wants to keep Jake out of the way for a week or so.”

Bascom nodded. “Until after they have their secret meeting.”

“That's the idea,
sí
.”

“You're on your way to Connecticut?”

“Even as we speak.”

“I can arrange to have some ops there to back you up when—”

“No,
por favor
. I think I'll do better more or less on my own.”

The agency head said, “Okay, Sid. But contact me if anything comes up that—”

“You're certain he's alive?” cut in Dan.

“Jake's alive,” Gomez assured him, “and he's going to continue in that condition.”

It was windy in Connecticut.

A harsh, strong wind blew across the gravel path that went twisting up to the porch of the rustic cabin that the long, lean man with the double-barreled lazrifle was leading Gomez toward.

“Here you are, Mr. Gomez.” The caretaker halted.

“
Gracias
.” Gomez went double-timing up the realwood steps.

The door of the cabin opened inward. “C'mon in, Sid,” invited the woman who stood there. “I've been doing some nosing around since I got your call.” She was just over four feet tall and her left shoe was built up.

Bowing, the detective took her hand, bent lower to kiss it. “Good to see you again, Maggie.”

“Sure, I imagine I'm a pleasant relief after all your beautiful ex-wives.” Limping, Maggie Pennoyer crossed her living room. “At least, I give you a lot less trouble.”

“Actually,
cara
, only two of the set have given me excessive trouble.”

“I don't think you'll ever be interested in a normal everyday woman who didn't heap grief on you,” suggested Maggie. “Not that I'm anywhere near being a normal everyday woman myself.”

Gomez said, “I got in touch with you, Maggie, because you're the leading freelance expert on brainwiping and on reversing its effects. And it looks like Jake is presently a reluctant resident of a joint called The Institute, which lies just over fifty miles north of your little hideaway.”

“So you mentioned on the vidphone.” Making a follow-me gesture, she hobbled across the rustic room to a doorway.

Gomez followed. “Dan Cardigan was a guest of yours a few months ago.”

“He's a nice, decent young man,” she said as they walked along the hallway. “Hard to believe he's turned out so well, considering he's got Jake for a father and a ne'er-do-well lothario like you as an honorary uncle.”

“
Chiquita
, I'm so virtuous all sorts of high-ranking clerics come to me to ask advice on how to be more pious,” he assured her. “Despite your lack of perception when it comes to a fellow's character, you did a good job of untangling the damage those louts had tried to do his mind.”

“Hey, that's what I'm dedicated to,” she reminded. “Undoing the work of all the doinks—government loons and criminal schmucks—who try to use mind bending as one of the tools of their trade.”

In a small room off the hall Maggie had one of her offices. Next to the realwood desk stood a small, low holostage. On it now was a cutaway projection of a sprawling building.

She limped over to the stage, pointing. “This is a simulation, in perfect scale, of the wing of The Institute where they're holding Jake.”

“
Bueno
. Then he is definitely there?”

“Yep, sure. I have a connection at that dump and I confirmed it right after you phoned me from the Coast.”

Bending his knees, Gomez took a closer look at the projection. “That Jake's room there—where the little red dot of light is blinking?”

“That's it.” Maggie used her finger as a pointer. “Now, Sid, you ought to be able to get in by way of this entrance here. It's where supplies for this poor man's Bedlam are delivered.”

“Your contact can arrange that?”

“My contact and me. I'll fix it so you can hitch a ride on a produce skyvan that's due to—” Her wristphone had started to pulse. “Hold on a sec.”

He noticed that when Maggie pressed the answer button, the tiny screen remained blank.

“News for you,” announced a blurred voice.

“About him?”

“Not there anymore.”

“Where'd he go?”

“Not sure. But was sprung from room.”

“Who took him?”

“Not sure.”

“Any idea where?”

“Probably into the Wilderness Preserve.”

“Thanks.” Maggie ended the call and let her arm swing down to her side.

“I take it,” said Gomez, “that your conversation pertains to Jake.”

Maggie nodded, frowning. “Hell and damnation,” she observed. “Who the devil broke him out of there?”

“Maybe he escaped on his own.”

“Doubtful.”

“Okay, and what's this Wilderness Preserve your chum mentioned?”

“It can be a damn dangerous place,” answered Maggie.

30

Andrew Simmonds sighed out a breath. He slowed, then stopped still on the forest path they were following. “Damn leg's bothering me,” he explained to Jake as he leaned, crouched and took a slap at what appeared to be a fallen log.

When his hand went through the projection, Jake told him, “If you're looking for something to sit on, that big grey rock yonder is real.”

The former OCO agent straightened up. “You can tell from here?”

“I'm good at differentiating the real from the fake.”

“The trouble with this Wilderness Preserve, too much of it is holographic or simulated.” Simmonds prodded the rock with his forefinger. “Real sure enough. You were right, Cardigan.” He seated himself.

Jake glanced back the way they'd come. “We're about five miles from The Institute,” he said, “with no sign of pursuit yet. But still, I'd like to keep moving.”

Carefully, the older man rolled up his trouser leg. “I'll be okay in a couple minutes more,” he assured Jake, rubbing at the metallic leg. “This thing gives me a lot of pain some nights.”

“You can sit here till morning, Simmonds. But I want to—”

“I helped you break out of that place,” reminded Simmonds. “You ought not to abandon me in the wilds.”

“This is a preserve, not the forest primeval.”

“Besides,” the other man added, “we had a deal. I get you clear of The Institute and you put in a good word for me with Bascom. See if he—”

“That escape you arranged,” put in Jake, “went very smoothly.”

“So? I'm good at this sort of thing.”

“But you never tried it until I was dumped here.”

Simmonds said, “Well, Cardigan, I guess it's time to admit that I haven't been completely truthful with you.”

“Who're you working for?”

The former government agent spread his hands wide. “Not the Office of Clandestine Operations,” he insisted. “No, I'm doing what you might call freelance work now.”

“Who for?” Jake eased closer to the seated man. The fallen leaves underfoot made realistic crackling noises.

“Some people who are interested in talking to you,” Simmonds answered. He rested his hand on the side of his silvery artificial leg. “I was never actually a patient in there. I simply bribed my way in and out.”

“What a surprise,” said Jake quietly. “You haven't identified your employers.”

“Let's just say they're some people who are interested in why Leon Marriner is collaborating with the likes of Anzelmo and his bunch.”

Jake grinned. “I don't think I much want to meet these folks.”

“You don't have any choice, Cardigan.” Simmonds moved his hand a few inches lower on his metal leg. “Because I'm going to deliver you to them. In fact—”

“Nope.” Jake dived forward just as the onetime OCO man clicked open a panel in the chrome leg.

Inside the panel rested a small stungun. Simmonds clutched it and started to tug it out.

But Jake straightened up, took a step back and kicked out.

His booted foot caught the seated man square on the chin.

Gasping, head jerking back, Simmonds was lifted up. He half turned, swayed, fell to his left.

Jake followed him, grabbing the hand that was clutching the gun.

Simmonds cried out in pain and dropped the weapon.

Jake hit him twice, hard, in the stomach.

The other man stumbled, fell back against the trunk of an oak tree. This was a real tree and his head hit it. He groaned, sighed, fell toward a clump of brush.

The brush was holographic and he dropped into it and was surrounded by green.