there?' I asked.
'Since we left the precinct house,' McMicking said. 'Private car, Manhattan registry plate. There could be a second person in the car with him—hard to tell with the light and distance.' He cocked an eyebrow. 'The other interesting question would be which one of us they're following.'
'My guess is it's you,' I said. 'I'm pretty much a known quantity. You're the mystery man.' I cocked an eyebrow. 'I mean, they know about Bruce McMicking, but they don't know about
'Those official photos of me do tend to go out of date pretty fast,' he agreed. 'Of course, that assumes our friend is a walker and not some other unforgiving leftover from your past.'
'Could be,' I agreed. 'Though I'm guessing you probably have as many of those leftovers as I do.'
'Someday we'll sit down and compare notes,' he said. 'Any preference as to how we work this?'
I watched the streetlights flowing past. 'Let's first try to find out which of us he's interested in.'
Ten minutes later our autocab pulled to a halt by the curb in front of my apartment building. I hopped out, and as the vehicle pulled back into the sparse predawn traffic I strode quickly across the sidewalk and the thin sliver of open ground to my building's outer door.
No one opened fire before I made it inside, nor was there anyone lurking in the foyer. I skipped the elevator in favor of the stairs and headed up.
Midway up the first flight my comm vibrated in my pocket, and I pulled it out. 'Compton.'
'Looks like it's me,' McMicking's voice came back. 'The car didn't even slow down for you. Oh, and I got a clear look as we went around the corner. There are definitely two of them.'
'Just doubles the fun of it all,' I said. 'Are they still following you?'
'Like the golden retriever I had as a kid.'
'Good,' I said, easing around the last corner of the final landing. There was no one lurking in the hall outside my apartment. 'Give me ten minutes and then a two-buzz.'
The first thing I did once I was inside was to retrieve my Glock and make sure its clip was loaded with snoozers. I tucked it into my belt, and then added a clip of thudwumpers too, just in case. Feeling marginally safer now that I was armed, I went to the kitchen.
Eggs would have worked best, but I'd come straight home from Sutherlin Skyport and hadn't had a chance yet to stock up on perishables. But I did have a pantry shelf full of canned soup. I decided New England clam chowder would work best, and emptied four cans into a plastic bag. Carefully gathering the top of the bag closed, I headed back out.
The street was momentarily deserted as I emerged again onto the sidewalk. I'd already settled on my spot: a somewhat overelaborate covered doorway a couple of doors down that stretched three meters closer to the street than my building's doorway did. I hurried to it and stepped inside, doing my best to melt into the decorative wrought iron.
In my pocket, my comm vibrated twice and then went still. Peering around the doorway, I saw a pair of headlights turn the corner onto my street two blocks away. It had covered the first half block toward me when a second pair of lights appeared and turned onto the street behind it. The first vehicle—an autocab—passed by my position, and I caught a glimpse of McMicking sitting half turned in his seat, one hand on the door handle and the other holding his gun. He continued on, and the car behind him rolled toward my doorway.
And as it started to pass me, I took a long step out of concealment and lobbed my bag of soup squarely into the center of its windshield.
The car's wipers went on instantly, of course. But they'd been designed for rain and sleet, not clam chowder. One sweep later the entire windshield was a solid layer of chunky white goo.
The occupants were up to the challenge. Even before the windshield was completely blocked, the man in the passenger seat slid down his window and leaned his head out, the wind whipping through his hair as he peered around the side of the car toward the autocab still rolling on ahead.
Unfortunately for them, with the distraction of the soup bomb neither set of eyes had spotted McMicking's drop and roll out of the autocab door. He came up into a low crouch by the side of the street, and as the car passed he quick-fired a pair of snoozers into the passenger's exposed cheek and neck.
The man reacted instantly, jerking his head back inside. But it was too late. As the car sped up, I saw his sideways movement continue on, sagging his head against the driver's right shoulder.
With his partner's eyes suddenly of no use to him, the driver now had no choice but to open his window as well. I was ready, and uncorked a couple of shots at the back of his head as he stuck it out into the night breeze.
But snoozers were by design a low-speed, low-impact round, and the car already had too much distance on me. A few seconds later the vehicle careened around a corner and vanished into the night.
Gun still in hand, McMicking crossed the street to my doorway. 'That was interesting,' he said. 'You reach any conclusions?'
'Did you hear the passenger calling any directions to the driver?' I asked.
McMicking shook his head. 'I didn't see any hand signals or gestures, either.'
'Neither did I,' I said. 'In which case, I'd have to say they were definitely walkers.'
McMicking gazed down the street where the car had disappeared. 'So what now?'
'We get you out of here before he can reacquire you,' I said, looking around. Aside from the cars parked along the far side of the street, there were no other vehicles present. 'I don't know whether it would be safer to get another autocab or call a friend to pick you up.'
He gave me a lopsided smile. 'You really think I know anyone I trust that far?' he asked. 'But don't worry about me. I meant what about you?'
I thought about what Lorelei had said about her sister being in danger on New Tigris. I thought about the fact that her murder pretty well proved she hadn't been just blowing smoke. I though about the Modhri, and his obvious interest in whatever the hell was going on here.
And I thought about the fact that the man standing in front of me had just put up half a million dollars of Larry Hardin's money to guarantee I'd stay in New York until the legal system took its crack at me. 'First thing I'm going to do is get some sleep,' I said. 'After that, maybe I'll poke around a little and see if I can backtrack Lorelei's movements.'
'Sounds good,' McMicking said, gazing a little too intently at me. 'I'll keep tabs on the autopsy. I'll also try to see if I can find anything on her from official sources.'
'I'd appreciate that,' I told him. 'And thanks again for bailing me out. I know the kind of bind you've just put yourself into over this.'
'No problem,' he said, his eyes lingering on my face another second before he gave the street another sweep. 'Get some sleep. I'll call you later.' Giving me a quick nod, he turned and strode away down the sidewalk.
I watched him for a moment, wondering if I should offer to backstop him. But McMicking was a big boy, and quite capable of taking care of himself. More to the point, I was dead tired. Turning away, I headed back to my apartment.
It was just before two o'clock in the afternoon when I finally woke up again. I checked for messages—there weren't any—and then heated up another of my repertoire of soup cans, washing down the meal with a glass of sweet iced tea. By the time I finished I felt more alive and refreshed than I had in days.
Time to get to work.
My first task was to write a brief message for transmission to the Tube station hanging out there in the outer system just past the orbit of Jupiter. Unless Lorelei had always been in Terra system, she had to have come here by Quadrail, which meant that the Spiders should have a record of her movements. I asked for that record to be put together for me, and threw in a request that Bayta be located and notified that I would shortly be on my way.
Encrypting the whole thing with one of the Spiders' special codes, I uploaded it to the message center, noted it would be lasered to the transfer station within the hour, and got busy on a general computer search.
I'd been at it an hour, and was still sifting through all the unrelated information on all the unrelated Lorelei Beaches, when my door chimed.
I approached the door as one might approach a sleeping tiger: quietly, cautiously, and with Glock in hand. Standing well off to the side, I keyed the viewer.
The uniform was that of a package messenger, complete with book-sized package in hand. The hair was that of an aging new-drift klivner trying to relive the glory days of his youth.
