could grab me.
“Leave me alone,” I told him. His eyelids drooped, and his hand began to lower back by his side.
“Leave me alone.”
I slipped out the door and ran.
Nico Wachalowski—Sigil Veranda Apartments, Apartment #901
Mist gave way to a short squall of snow as I inched down the street. The strip of sky above the buildings had turned dull gray. Sean’s place was on the other side of town, and by the time I got there, the commuters were in full swing. Traffic had piled up in front and behind. People trudged along the sidewalks on either side with their collars turned up and their heads down. I nosed past a group of people waiting impatiently at the curb, crept down the side street, then took a concrete ramp into the garage below.
According to the apartment’s security logs, Sean got in late the night before. The timing suggested he’d gone straight home after we spoke. That put three hours or so between when he arrived home and when he sent the message. Another two had passed since then, and he never showed up at work. He was in trouble.
Heading up the front entrance, I checked the logs for visitors. There had been a handful, but none were signed in by him. Cameras didn’t record anyone who was unaccounted for, coming or going.
Inside I took the express elevator up, and then made my way to Sean’s unit. I gave the door a knock, but no one answered. I knocked again.
“Sean, open up.”
Using the backscatter to scan through the door, I could make out his coat on a rack. Next to that, I could see his shoes. Nothing moved in the gray space behind them.
“Sean, if you’re there, open up.”
I listened for a minute, but didn’t hear anything. I took my badge from my pocket and put a call in to Noakes.
He stayed on the line while I held my badge to the door scanner and the bolt released, suppressing any voice or electronic response. When I pushed open the door, I saw that the apartment was dark. I went inside and closed the door behind me.
Through the thermal filter I could make out faint traces of footsteps, but none of them had been recent. None approached the door. No one had come or gone for hours.
Creeping into the main hall, I drew my gun and adjusted my visuals to let in more light. Nothing looked disturbed. The apartment was completely quiet.
“Sean?”
No one answered. The thermal signatures were very faint, but got stronger through the living area. He had sat on the sofa for a while, and there was an empty glass on a marble-topped end table. Fresher footsteps headed toward the bedroom. I followed them in.
The bed was still made, but I could make out a warm spot in the middle, as if he had lain there on top of the covers at some point. I recorded the image, then followed the footsteps through a door and into the master bath.
In the bathroom, he’d stood in front of the sink. There were drops of brown liquid on the porcelain and bunches of tissues in the trash, stained with something black, maybe ink. There was a thermal handprint on the toilet lid.
Lifting it up, I looked in and saw the water was stained pink. A wad of tissue was clogging the bowl, and floating above it was a wrinkled white orb that trailed red tissue.
I zoomed in on the eye. It looked like it had been cut out. The iris was clouded and scarred.
I tried to scan the retina, but it was too damaged. Something had scorched it.
Kneeling in front of the sink, I fished through the trash. Under the tissues was a small, glass bottle with a dropper. It was unmarked, but had a sharp, chemical smell.
Back in the bedroom, I noticed some scoring on the frame next to the bathroom doorknob, and pinprick burn marks on the carpet. When I zoomed in on the latch, I saw the metal bolt had been burned through. Someone cut their way in to get to him.
He closed the connection.
Rain drummed against a window next to the bed. I switched to the backscatter and searched the room, looking for anything that might have gotten left behind. When I scanned across the floor, I found a safe concealed under an area rug next to the bed.
Moving the rug aside, I raised the panel to find it fitted with an electronic lock. I remembered Sean’s message.
31 03 76 11 52 57 81
I keyed the sequence into the safe’s keypad, and a moment later I felt a thump through the floor as the bolts retracted. Whatever he was trying to tell me, whatever he wanted me to know, it was inside.
I turned the arm and pulled open the heavy door. The only thing inside was a small recording device. A yellow LED flashed on one side of it.
It looked like the recorder was receiving from a wireless source, or at least it had been. I tapped into the recording buffer, and a window came up in my field of vision, displaying a test code. The recording came from a camera eye, a version of a JZ implant’s optics, or a revivor’s eye. News peddlers and paparazzi used them. The eyes had a recording buffer, but they could also transmit to an external recorder.
Sean had one implanted, then. The eye would be inferior to the recorder he already had, but whatever it recorded wouldn’t end up in the JZI buffer. The only reason for him to do that was so that he could record things without anyone at the FBI seeing them.
I played the recording. There was no sound, just a streaming image from Sean’s point of view. He was standing in the bathroom, looking into the mirror in front of the sink. I knew the expression I saw on his face; he was in trouble at the time the recording was made.
He looked into his own eyes in the mirror, giving the illusion he was looking out at me. He reached up with an erasable marker and began writing on the mirror in black ink.
He wiped the message away with a tissue. He dropped it in the trash next to the sink and wrote again.
He frowned, and his eyes looked sad as he added:
He wiped the mirror clean, then looked back through the bathroom doorway like he heard something. After a second, he turned back to the mirror again. He held the marker up to it, and began to write again as a light flickered somewhere behind him.
