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Touch

Against custom that day--because, in fact, he hadn't done it in so long--Drayver stopped to check his e-mail before taking lunch. Most of it he'd be able to ignore without repercussion. Holiday raffles. Football pools. Job-stress hotlines. Departmental newsletters with lists of birthdays and promotions, employee profiles, favorite recipes and tips for beating the cold. If it was something that required a vote or signature, he'd get no more than an official slap on the wrist. He was pretty sure he'd survive. Through the years, after all, Drayver's wrist had grown almost as calloused as his manner.

But a message from Chief Inspector Parks, left unacknowledged? That was only asking for trouble. Drayver had gotten more than he'd bargained for the last time, when his careless attitude toward procedure had allowed a rape suspect to flee before they could serve a hard-earned warrant for his arrest. Nevermind that Drayver had tracked him like a vengeful lover, apprehending him less than ten minutes' drive from the border. There was a right way and a wrong way to do things. His way had cost the Department time, money, and not a little pride.

Secretly, Drayver thought, Parks admired cops like him. Unorthodox but effective. Throwbacks to a time when imagination was more important than image. Although most people now chose the force as a stepping stone to a career in government or corporate security, there were still a few, like Drayver, who were driven to be policemen by a sense of moral outrage. Some who didn't have a choice. Parks must have respected that. Otherwise, why would he have actively recruited Drayver? Kept him on through thick and thicker?

Rumor had it that Parks was something of a rougue himself early on. He'd come up through the ranks, not through favor or political appointment. Last of the "old school" brass. But no matter how he felt personally, he couldn't afford to tolerate impudence, or even indifference, from his men. Not with so many waiting for a chance at his position.

Besides, Drayver had enough on his mind with the murder of that girl in the Underground. Vic.NO.674.jd. Still no name. Nothing to chase down. Just another photo and autopsy report in the unsolved file. He probably shouldn't have cared so much. This type of thing was commonplace nowadays. Yet something about her struck him deep. He couldn't express why--she just didn't belong there, sandwiched between the hookers, junkies, drunks and gangland casualties.

A quiet beep. The log scrolled up, filling his monitor. You have 23 unchecked messages. Oops. He scanned the leftmost column, didn't see Parks listed as a sender, and was about to log off when the most recent entry, sent only moments before, caught his eye.

Kennedy/No Subject/Urgent

What the hell was this? Some kind of practical joke, it looked like. Kennedy worked Homicide at Sector 11. He'd transferred from 10, Drayver's home since leaving Patrol, four or five years back, following a nasty dispute over the handling of evidence in a very public Corporate War kidnapping trial. Drayver hadn't heard from him in months--possibly as long as a year. Now this. He punched it up, frowning in anticipation of what he would find.

DRAYVER. FOUND SOMETHING YOU MIGHT LIKE. APT 3-A. CARLISLE. WALKER HILL. KENNEDY.

Not an official summons or request. Not much of anything, really. Brief and taunting enough to force Drayver to look into it. He knew if he tried to find out what it was, he wouldn't get a response. Son of a bitch had him.

He signed out, took the elevator down to the garage. The long drop gave him plenty of time to get worked up over Kennedy's message. Drayver always parked on the lowest level. No one else used it, except for the occasional lost visitor. He could get out of the station without being detained by colleagues or reporters. He could stay there all night, if he wanted, unwind, catch up on sleep if he was too tired to drive home.

The cell on his bike was low, but strong enough to make it to Walker Hill and back. He took a pair of sunglasses and gloves from the saddle bag and put them on. Winter was almost here. The air was beginning to sting a little.

Up the ramp toward an overcast sky. In this light, the Inner City shone too brightly. The streets were teeming with state officials, corporate suits, either wearing mirrored contacts or squinting at their feet as they walked.

He passed through the gate without slowing to say hi to the guards, picked up speed on the bridge to the Industrial Ring. The sky on the other side was a darker grey and appeared to be falling in on itself. Factories spewed thin, "treated" smoke. Machinery whined and clanged loud enough to hear over the misquito hum of his electric bike. Between the Ring and Urbia was a no-man's land of rundown tenements, abandoned stores, warehouses and plants, illegal bars and clubs. And here, on the boundary between Sector's 10 and 11, was Walker Hill.

It took him a few minutes to find the Carlisle. Many of the streetsigns had been removed, their posts painted matte-black so unsuspecting pedestrians would crash into them at night. The yellow crimescene tape had already been torn off the entrance. Kennedy must have parked out of sight. He parked his bike on the sidewalk, entered a code to disable it, locked the rear wheel with a personalized key, then reluctantly went inside.

The lobby was dimly lit--a single bulb worked out of the half-dozen he could see. Paint peeled off the walls. Ceiling tiles hung askew or lay smashed upon the floor. The combined stench of urine, stale cigarettes, pot and decaying flesh--something must have been trapped in the walls--was almost too much to bear. The stairwell wasn't much better. Drayver remembered he had a bag of cough drops in his jacket and popped one in his mouth. A slight improvement. His mouth now tasted like cherry-flavored piss and death.

There was a uniform posted outside the room who recognized Drayver and waved him in. Drayver stepped into a cramped one-room apartment--if it could be called that. A lumpy mattress, a stack of milkcrates filled with junk. The window was partially covered with aluminum foil.

Kennedy stood beside the window with his arms folded. A big man. Moustache and glasses. Outdated suit. A twentieth-century relic, like Drayver. He smiled at his friend with an expression that was difficult to read.

No one else was there. It looked as if the forensic team had blown through in a hurry.

Another inconsequential murder, Drayver thought.

"You made it," Kennedy said, taking his hand.

"What choice did I have?"

"I knew you'd bite."

"I'll do worse than that if you called me out here just to hold my hand."

"Like you have anthing better to do." Kennedy laughed and said, "Watch your step."

Drayver backed away from a mottled stain on the floor. Blood. A lot of it.

"What happened?" he asked.

"Anonymous tip. Somebody found this kid--fuck's his name?--crushed into the floor like a cigarette butt."

"A boy?"

"Nah. Early twenties. I think you know him. Low-level hustler. Blackware, knock-off designer drugs. Farris? Fairn?"

"Fairn. Picked him up a couple times. Kind of liked him, to be honest. Funny kid. Harmless. He must have gotten in over his head."

"Maybe. But this doesn't seem like business, Drayver. It feels personal. Whoever did him put everything he had into it. You should have seen him. He was a mess."

"Too bad. He couldn't have put up much of a fight... What does it have to with me?"

"Beating around the bush, as usual."

"I'm serious," Drayver said. "You didn't bring me out here to look at a puddle of blood."

"Actually, I did."

"What?"

"Take a closer look," Kennedy said quietly.

Drayver stood confused for a moment. He bit through the cough drop. He had a terrible feeling about this. Hands on his knees, he bent over the edge of the stain. His eyes hadn't fully adjusted yet. He couldn't make anything out.

"Clear that shit off the window, would you?"

Kennedy nodded, pulled the sheets of foil off the window frame. The light was faint but steady now. Drayver picked out shapes, swirls in the blood.

"The killer sat here for a while," he said.

"Came back, afterwards."

Drayver glanced at Kennedy, who wasn't smiling anymore. He bent closer.

"He was playing in it."

"Not playing," Kennedy said. "Drawing."

Kennedy switched on a flashlight, which he must have been waiting to reveal--always so goddamn dramatic--and handed it to Drayver.

There were drawings made in the blood. Three faces, repeated over and over again. Fingerpainted in blood by a madman, but still somehow recognizable. The girl he'd found murdered in the tunnel. The girl as she'd seen herself in VR. And Drayver himself. Can't be, he thought. He felt dizzy, weak. He inched lower, staring in horror at his crusted brown reflection.

"God," he whispered.

"Look familiar?"

"Yeah."

"Fucking uncanny."

"You could say that."

"You really think it was meant to be you?"

Drayver was at a loss for words.

"Hey, cop," Kennedy said.

Drayver stood slowly. "This girl..."

"You know her?"

"No. Not exactly. She was just killed. Underground. I caught it."

"You're kidding."

"I wish I was."

Drayver had a sudden, unshakeable sense that he was being watched, that someone was listening to him--even, absurd as it might seem, aware of his reaction, what he was thinking.

"You all right?" Kennedy asked.

"I'm fine," Drayver lied. He started for the door. He had to get out of there.

"You know something about this? Something you're not telling me?"

"No."

"Don't bullshit me, Drayver. I gotta tell you, I don't like this one bit. Doesn't feel right. If you come up with anything, let me know, okay?"

"I will."

"You better."

Drayver found himself outside again with no recollection of having taken the stairs, having passed through that foul entryway. He activated the bike and sat there, trying to act calm. Kennedy would be watching him from that tiny window upstairs. Drayver's heart was pounding. He felt a chill that had nothing to do with the changing seasons. As much as he dreaded doing it, he knew he'd have to go back to that tape, to VR, to the ghastly scene of that girl's death. Only this time, he feared, he wouldn't be alone...

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