Outcasts Page 18

  He figured red roses and picnics was a safe theme to repeat, and the roof would offer the opportunity for private conversation away from the MiniComm she’d left in his apartment.

  Friday morning before his task shift at Pharmco, he was sitting on the couch in his apartment eating a plate of scrambled eggs for breakfast and wondering whether or not Ciddah’s friends would be a safe conversation topic if she mentioned Lawten, when there was a knock at his door.

  “S.L.E., open up.”

  Mason stared at the door for a moment, then got up and looked out the peephole. Enforcers. At least three of them standing in the hall outside his apartment.

  What did they want? Should he answer the door? Pretend not to be home?

  An enforcer pounded on the door again, which made Mason jump. “Mr. Elias, we tracked your SimTag and know you’re home. Open the door.”

  SimTag, right. Since he’d been about to leave to task his shift at Pharmco, he’d already showered this morning and used the small round adhesive bandage to attach his SimTag.

  Mason opened the door. “Yes?”

  “Safe Lands Enforcers, sir,” an enforcer said. Bron, according to the name on his patch. He looked the definition of “brawn” as well with a muscular build and a short beard. “We have a warrant to search your apartment and your person.”

  A warrant. Mason stepped back from the door, and the men filed inside. There were five enforcers and a plain-clothed bald man with brown SimArt “hair” that looked more like some kind of helmet.

  General Otley was the last to enter, making Bron look like a child. The man had to be six and a half feet tall with shoulders that rivaled the old bull Mason used to feed each day back in Glenrock. He wore yellow contacts and had several lip and eyebrow piercings, including a golden tusk through his nasal septum. Mason could barely see the number eight that glowed on his cheek beneath his bushy moustache and beard.

  A surge of anger and fear twisted Mason’s stomach. He gritted his teeth in the presence of the man who’d killed his father, his uncle, and Papa Eli. Yet he didn’t dare speak, knowing he had no power in this moment. Otley always had the power.

  Four of the enforcers instantly began their search: two went to his bedroom on the other side of his apartment; one rushed to the living room, which was on the opposite side of the wall that divided the living space from the kitchen; and the last remained in the kitchen, not far from the apartment entry. This left Bron, the man with the SimArt hair, and Otley standing inside the open entry door.

  Otley jerked his head toward Mason’s kitchen table. “Sit, little rat.”

  Mason walked to the chair and sat. Kitchen cupboards slammed as the enforcer opened one after another, rummaging through Mason’s meager possessions.

  “Mr. Elias, sir, my name is Webb Bron. I’m an investigator with the Safe Lands Enforcers. We’re looking into the theft of pharmaceutical products that disappeared from the City Hall Pharmco last Wednesday. We have reason to suspect your involvement.”

  “Seriously?” Mason said. “Why me?”

  “The meds were stolen the day you started at the City Hall Pharmco,” Bron said.

  “And that makes me guilty?”

  Bron pulled out a chair and sat beside Mason. “That makes you a suspect.”

  “Well, I didn’t take anything.”

  Another kitchen cupboard slammed and dishes clanked together.

  “We’ll see, Mr. Elias.” Bron waved the bald man over. “This is Reed Yarel. He’s an enforcer field medic. He’s authorized to test your blood.”

  “For what?” The bald man set his case on the table and opened it. “What was stolen from Pharmco, anyway?” And was it really worth a search of his apartment?

  “ACT treatments.”

  That was all? “I don’t have the thin plague,” Mason said. “Why would I steal treatment?”

  This gave Bron pause. He looked to Otley.

  “He’s an outsider,” Otley said, looming over them like a monster about to pounce. “Outsiders are usually clean.”

  “I see,” Bron said. “Well, a blood test will confirm that.”

  How could Mason get out of this? “I don’t consent.”

  Bron’s eyes narrowed. “You have something to hide?”

  “The thin plague is blood-borne,” Mason said, watching the enforcer in the living room pull cushions off the couch. “How can I be certain you haven’t come to infect me with the virus?”

  “Mr. Elias,” Yarel, the enforcer medic, said. “I am a professional and quite capable of taking a blood sample without contaminating my patient. If you’re concerned, inspect my equipment yourself.” Yarel handed Mason a standard blood test kit, still in its sanitized packaging. Mason supposed there was no way for that to be contaminated.

  “I still don’t understand why you need to test my blood.”

  “It’s standard procedure in a theft of this type,” Bron said. “To verify that you haven’t used the stolen goods.”

  Then there was no option but to let his blood prove his innocence. Mason nodded, and Yarel proceeded to take a sample of Mason’s blood and test it with a blood meter. Mason perceived nothing subversive in the medic’s actions. He used the same tools when he worked in the Surrogacy Center, so he was able to understand the readings when the machine finally stopped whirring.

  The test was negative.

  Though he knew this already, relief filled him to see Yarel corroborate his word.

  “No sign of ACT, General Otley,” Yarel said. “He’s stim free as well. And there is no indication of the thin plague.”

  Otley growled and paced to the table. “My turn, little rat. Hook him up.”

  Medic Yarel removed another device and held it out to Mason. “SimTag, please?”

  Mason froze, terrified that things were about to go badly. The bandage holding his SimTag in place was small, but if Yarel saw it …

  Mason twisted his hand so the bandage faced him, then reached out and set his fist against the screen, trying to look calm, praying Yarel had no reason to inspect his implant location. Might a question be distraction enough? “What does this do?”

  “It’s a lie detector, Mr. Elias,” Yarel said, eyes blessedly focused on the machine and not Mason’s hand. “So be sure to tell the truth.”

  Mason pulled back his hand and clasped it with his other, then put them on his lap under the table. Thanks, God. He eyed the little black box, curious how it worked. It consisted of the SimPad and three tiny bulbs that were dark.

  Otley stepped up to the table on Mason’s left. “When did you leave the Pharmco last night?”

  “A little after six o’clock, just after we closed.” Mason looked at the lie detector. A green light flashed in the bulb on the far right.

  “And you went where?” Otley asked.

  “Here. To my apartment. And I haven’t left.” The green light flashed again. Green must mean truth. Mason stopped looking at the lie detector. He knew he was telling the truth, after all. Instead he glanced at the enforcer who was rummaging through his refrigerator, saw him put something in his mouth. He was eating Mason’s food?

  Otley slapped his hand on the tabletop. “Pay attention, rat. You’ve been here since returning from task yesterday?”

  “I have.”

  Otley’s yellow eyes pinned Mason. “Can anyone verify that?”

  “The doorman.”

  “The doorman can verify that you were in your apartment all night?” Otley raised one eyebrow. “Was the doorman with you?

  “Of course not. I spoke with him when I passed through the lobby. Probably around six fifteen.”

  “You know Ciddah Rourke?” Otley asked.

  Her name made him flush with the memory of their kiss. “Yes, she’s my — was my task director in the SC.”

  “Have you ever paired up with Miss Rourke?” The question was intrusive, but with Otley’s growling voice, it seemed downright mean.

  “No.” For some reason Mason looked at the lie
detector. Green.

  “Miss Rourke claims otherwise.”

  What? “She does?” Why would Ciddah say such a thing?

  “She said that you and she are almost lifers.”

  She did? “After one date?” Mason doubted any man was that good at wooing a woman. “Did you use the lie detector on her?”

  Bron chuckled and covered his mouth with his hand.

  “Let me ask you this, Mr. Elias,” Otley said. “Do you know a Droe Rivan or Losira Kent?”

  “Never heard of them.”

  “They’re Ciddah Rourke’s donors,” Otley said. “You would call them parents.”

  A chill gripped Mason’s arms. What was Ciddah up to?

  “Did you know that the ACT treatment differs per patient?” Otley said. “What I take and what Medic Yarel takes are different.”

  Mason considered this. “Because of your different body weights?”

  “Partly,” Yarel said. “And also because each person has an infinitely different strain. The virus mutates within us, and depending on our DNA, it affects us differently.”

  “The materials stolen from the Pharmco are a match for Losira Kent and Droe Rivan,” Otley said.

  Ciddah’s parents were sick? Possibly sicker than most Safe Landers? Emotions fought for precedence in Mason’s heart. He felt bad that her parents were suffering. But she had reassigned Mason to the pharmacy the day the vials went missing. It was too convenient to be mere coincidence. Every time he got close to that woman, she did something to push him away. This was his own fault. He’d never been a regular man getting to know a regular woman. He’d been trying to get information from Ciddah, so how did she keep managing to use him first? “It sounds like you should be questioning Ciddah.”

  “We have. She claims to know nothing about any of this. And she has an alibi for last night.” Otley smiled, and his teeth were surprisingly white. “For the entire night.”

  That didn’t mean she’d been with a man. It didn’t. And … “Did you use this thing on Ciddah and her alibi? Maybe they’re the ones lying.”

  “Oh, I don’t think so, little rat. I think you’re lying. I think Ciddah told you her donors weren’t doing well, that they were too sick to task and planned to go into hiding, and that they needed to take treatment with them. I think you wanted to help them — to help her. Why not admit it?”

  “I admit nothing.” Mason was angry now but reminded himself of his company. General Otley was not an honest man. This could be some sort of trap. But that theory didn’t ease his fury.

  Otley circled around half of the kitchen table until he was standing directly across from Mason. “Do you care for Ciddah?”

  “Of course. She’s a nice … person.” When she wasn’t yelling at him for defending his people. Or framing him for theft.

  Otley leaned on the table with both hands, which made it creak and tip toward him. “Do you love her?”

  Seriously? “How is such a question relevant to stolen pharmaceuticals?”

  “It goes to motive, little rat. A man will do anything for the woman he loves.”

  Even in the Safe Lands? “Well, I like Ciddah very much. But I wouldn’t steal — ”

  “Do you love her — yes or no?”

  Love. How could he love a woman he couldn’t trust? “No,” Mason said, determined that it was the truth.

  But the bulb on the far left flashed red.

  Mason’s eyes bulged, staring at the tiny pinprick of crimson. How could a machine know something he didn’t even know himself?

  Otley laughed and straightened, and the table creaked back to a level state. “Surprised? Femmes will mess with your head if you’re not careful. Now, tell me you stole those missing vials, and we’ll be done here.”

  “I didn’t.”

  Green light.

  “Did you give them to Ciddah when you were tasking there?”

  “No.”

  “Did she ask you to leave them somewhere?”

  “No.”

  “Did she tell you she planned to steal them herself?”

  “No.”

  Otley walked back to Mason’s side. “If she came to you tomorrow and asked you to steal them, would you?”

  “No, I wouldn’t.” Green. Good. Mason stared up at Otley.

  “All right, rat. All right.”

  An enforcer walked up and handed Otley the MiniComm Ciddah had placed in Mason’s apartment. Otley held it up for Mason to see. “Do you know what this is?”

  “It’s a MiniComm.” Green light.

  “And what does a MiniComm do?”

  “Records?” The center bulb flashed orange. “What’s that mean, an orange light?”

  “It means you’re guessing,” Otley said. “That you don’t know either way.”

  “That’s incredible! How does this device work?”

  “Focus, little rat,” Otley said. “How did the MiniComm get here?”

  “I don’t know.” Red light.

  Otley raised his eyebrows and waited.

  Mason released a long sigh. “Ciddah put it there. At least I think she did. I didn’t see her do it.”

  “So she was here? When?”

  “The morning after Kendall Collin gave birth.”

  “This has been here for over a month and you knew it and you left it be? Why?”

  Mason leaned his elbows on the table. “I didn’t want Ciddah to get in trouble.” Red light.

  “Try again.”

  “I don’t know.” Red light.

  “Third time rings bells, rat.”

  “Because I didn’t want whoever was listening to know I’d found it.” Green.

  “Why not?”

  “Because it would make me look … subversive. Like I had something to hide.” Green.

  “Do you?”

  Mason thought about how to answer that. “Don’t we all?”

  That was the end of the lie detector questioning. The search went on for another half hour. Mason sat at the table watching. He had so few things, he didn’t know what was taking them so long. Otley asked him about the gloves Levi had given him to hold his SimTag when he wasn’t at work and why he had two handheld Wyndos, to which Mason answered, “Winter is coming and I wanted an upgrade.”

  Otley merely grunted.

  When they finally left, carting out bags of “evidence,” Mason went to look for his things and found that his portable Wyndos and the gloves were gone. If anything else was missing, he couldn’t remember.

  He put the couch back together and sat down, staring at the dark Wyndo wall screen. “Wyndo: power. Grid: locate: Ciddah Rourke: ID#7 – 69 – 23.”

  The Safe Lands logo rotated while the Wyndo worked, then Ciddah’s face filled the left side of the screen. It was a nice picture. She’d been smiling and looking at the camera, which made it feel like she was smiling at him. He glanced at the map to the right of her picture. It showed downtown Highlands. The pulsing orange dot showed Ciddah’s location was in City Hall. Text to the side said: “Surrogacy Center.”

  He looked to her face again and fell back against the couch cushions. He should have known better. It seemed as though she had betrayed him yet again.

  CHAPTER

  15

  From the moment Otley left his apartment until the time of Saturday night’s date, Mason agonized over how to handle the situation with Ciddah. If it was true, and the enforcers really had questioned Ciddah first, she must know that they would have come after him. Should he tap her and cancel? Confront her over the Wyndo? Or continue with the date as planned, pretend to know nothing? Did she even expect him to show up? Maybe she thought he’d be in prison. What if he went down to her apartment to meet her and she was off with her alibi, celebrating Mason’s demise?

  Her alibi had better not be Lawten.

  One consolation in all this was that Zane’s off-grid Wyndo couldn’t be tracked. The auto-delete feature cleared the memory instantly after every use. Mason had taken a trip to the Midlands last nig
ht to warn everyone not to tap him at that number anymore, and Zane had given him a new off-grid Wyndo and an emergency ghoulie tag in a tiny metal box. Then he’d come back with Mason to check his place for any new MiniComms that might have been left by Otley’s people. Zane had found two, so that, at least, was something Mason needn’t worry about now.

  Ciddah was still a problem.

  Since he’d already arranged most of the evening, he decided to pretend nothing was amiss — at first. Rather than going to the roof, now that the MiniComms were gone, Mason set his kitchen table — moved to the living room — for dinner, and put on the suit he’d rented. His only post-interrogation purchase was a dozen red roses, one of which he would give to her. If he could get her into his apartment thinking all was well, he’d have a better chance of conducting his own interrogation.

  Tonight Mason would finally get some answers from Ciddah Rourke.

  When the time came, he went down to her apartment and rang her bell. The door opened, and Ciddah smiled at him and stepped out, resplendent in a short, fitted red dress and matching high-heeled shoes. Even her lips had been painted to match.

  Red, he decided at that very moment, was Ciddah’s color.

  Her gaze took him in as well. “Walls, you look good! Oh, thank you.” She took his proffered rose into her apartment, and again Mason heard water running as Ciddah most likely put the flower in a vase.

  He reminded himself that her beauty was irrelevant. He must maintain control of the evening’s events and discover once and for all if Ciddah Rourke could be trusted.

  She returned and closed the door. “Are you going to tell me where we’re going yet? Or is it a surprise like last time?”

  “We’re going to my apartment.” Mason offered her his hand, and she took hold of it, her nearness shrouding him in the scent of vanilla and cinnamon. That and her touch made him want to pretend that Otley’s visit had never happened. As they made their way to the elevator, Mason considered that this evening would be harder than he had originally anticipated.