The Presence Read online

  “You tell me.”

  “According to these stats, this guy is ... 180 years old? That can’t be right.”

  “Keep going,” Slowinski said. “There’s more weird-ass shit in that file than I’ve seen in my whole career.”

  Chaco continued through the data, then stopped and read one with more detailed meds. “Jesus,” he said to himself.

  “Well, he’s not that, but from the looks of it, he can’t be quite human, either.”

  Chaco read on. “What is this guy?” he asked finally.

  “We don’t really know. He just appeared on the grid 40 days ago, like he dropped out of the goddamned sky.”

  “Maybe he did.”

  Slowinski engaged the hairy eyeball. “I would keep your focus on terra firma, agent. There’re not going to be any damn aliens on my watch, is that clear? Besides, I’m sure our boy here is the good ol’ fashioned homegrown variety. But the thing that gets me is the DNA sampling. If he’s a clone, then he’s something new, because you don’t get those kinds of readings and not be black. And if he’s not working for us, then he’s a threat to national security, period.” He hit the top of his desk with his finger to punctuate his meaning.

  “But, sir, what can my department do? This looks like more of a DoD issue.”

  “Click back to folder C and scan down to file 14.”

  Chaco complied and came to more conventionals of the tall woman browsing in the convenience store. She had to be wealthy, considering the coat she was wearing, and then Chaco noticed her eyes. It was hard to make out, but they had a cat-like quality, sort of like Meatball’s, but not so golden. And what was with those orange rings? He came to a fuzzy high-angle shot of the store’s interior, probably lifted from one of the security cameras. The aisles were crowded, not unusual for the time of night, and to the right of the checkout was the woman. She was making a transaction with the counter guy, an old Asian as far as Chaco could tell. Something caught his attention, and he clicked up the magnification. Standing near the counter was the man again, wearing the same clothes as in all the other images.

  “Okay ...” Chaco said hesitantly. “Are they together?”

  “Go to the next sub-folder,” Slowinski said.

  Chaco clicked through more images of the orange-eyed woman on board a commuter flight, similar to those that ran between New York and Washington. She was talking with a female passenger who wore one of those stupid head wraps that were so hot right now. In the sixth image, the orange-eyed woman was laughing and leaning forward enough to fully expose the face of other passenger. At first she didn’t register, but it suddenly hit Chaco. He zoomed in on the base of the head-wrapped woman’s neck and saw Deja’s tiger tattoo. A chill crawled down his spine. He looked up.

  Slowinski raised an eyebrow. “The plot thickens.”

  “Sir,” Chaco began, but the word caught in his throat. “Are they all connected in some way?” He thought he came across pretty calm.

  “We don’t know yet. But when I saw your mark there ... What’s her name?”

  “Moriarty, sir. Deja-Ann.”

  “Right. Well, that’s when I said to myself it’s time for Mr. Chaco to step up to the big leagues. Are you ready for a little field work, agent?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Slowinski nodded in approval.

  “Who is this woman with the weird eyes?

  “Her name is Kita Corazon Francesca Goya. She’s the wife, or I should say new wife, of Alberto Goya. Are you getting the picture here?”

  “She must be a clone, because our sources told us that Goya’s wife died three years ago in an accident. His PR department spinned it that she was having treatment abroad for cancer.”

  “Affirmative. She’s probably one of those Caribbean jobs. I don’t like the smell of this, and I’ll bet you a week’s credits that they’re all mixed up together.” Slowinski highlighted his last statement by stirring his finger in an imaginary pot.

  Chaco doubted seriously that Deja was involved, but there was something very strange – decidedly unnatural – about this guy who never changed clothes. He couldn’t put his finger on it, but his old cop sense was on point. And what the hell was Deja doing getting shitfaced with a silent?

  “I want you to leverage whatever you have with this Moriarty girl and build a profile on this clone who seems to have only one suit. He’s our wild card, mark my words.” Slowinski went back to staring at the presidents.

  Chaco started to get up.

  “One more thing,” Slowinski said.

  Chaco teetered, his legs half bent.

  “If you’re dipping your pen in the ol’ Moriarty ink, don’t get involved. Do I make myself clear?” He shot Chaco a look that jumped off the hairy eyeball scale.

  9. TO MEND WHAT?

  Deja stared into her drink and watched the chemical fusion between its fruit juices and alcohol – what the bartender had called a “1-900-FUK-YOU-UP” – become a hypnotic party in a glass. She didn’t have a clue for what the 1-900 meant, but had a good guess for the other part.

  “It won’t kill you,” the bartender said. He laughed, and the gold loops around his neck began humming as they interacted with the rings hanging from his ears. He might have been cute, Deja mused, except for the spiderweb tattoo that had replaced his hair. His laugh became a raspy cough, and his tattoo slithered across his skin and collected into a dark patch on top of his head. “Shit,” he muttered between hacks, “I’m gonna need to get regen’d.”

  Deja watched his tattoo reform as he walked to the end of the bar. This wasn’t the first time her best friend had stood her up, but she was beginning to get tired of the cycle: get mad at boyfriend, get back together with boyfriend, tell Deja all about great makeup sex. She sucked down half the FUK-YOU-UP in a single draw and looked around the bar.

  Desperate Sense was the kind of club that gracefully milked its fame like an aging diva. It was named after its owners, the famous German rock band, and had ridden every trendy wave since opening 20 years ago. It was “the” club where New Yorkers could party with the elite of the vanities crowd. But for the last few years, it had maintained a quiet chic, relying on its restaurant for more and more of its business. It had on file a veritable who’s who of genetic profiles, and its chefs were very tight-lipped about their more famous patrons’ gastronomical fetishes.

  The restaurant was out of reach for Deja’s line of credit, but the original bar was still relatively affordable – or at least it was for her friend, who usually picked up the tab out of the vague guilt she felt for making Deja listen to her problems. Even if Deja was a little fed up with her friend’s trials, there was usually someone famous at the bar she could check out.

  “You went through that in a hurry,” Damien Torres said, leaning onto the bar. “What’s the matter? CeCe stand you up again?” He pointed at Deja’s empty glass, and the Bvlgari caught the halogen spotlight. He flashed a set of exquisite teeth that came across almost as one continuous unit that could be detached for maintenance.

  Deja didn’t grace him with an answer; instead, she motioned to the bartender for another round.

  “You haven’t returned any of my calls.” Torres slid the last of his martini’s olives off its skewer and began inspecting it.

  “I was in DC,” Deja said, still trying to attract the bartender’s attention.

  Torres knocked back his drink in one smooth, cultivated movement, then whispered in Deja’s ear, “When are you going to realize that this policeman of yours is a loser?” He eyed himself in the huge mirror that ran the length of the bar and placed the olive between his teeth.

  The bartender presented Deja’s drink with a nod to Torres. She shifted on her stool and took a long sip. The drink’s title was beginning to make sense. “Damien, for one thing, he’s a Net Agent, not a police officer. Besides, Net Agents have so much more to work with than lawyers.” She glanced at his crotch and took another sip.

  Torres smiled coolly around the olive, sucked
it in and grabbed Deja’s arm. He leaned into her face, chewing. “How would you know? You’ve never been with a lawyer.” His face froze mid-chew as a thumb and finger the size of sausages wrapped around his neck. Torres gave out a pitiful cough and a little chunk of olive flew past Deja’s shoulder.

  “This asshole bothering you?” the man attached to the hand asked. He was the size of a small truck, yet moved with a surprising grace.

  Deja looked from Torres’s slowly whitening face to the man. His jaw was grinding away as he waited for her answer.

  “Ah, no,” she said. “I mean yes. Yes he was.”

  Corazon stepped from behind the man, and her coat changed pattern as she passed through the light from a halogen spot. She patted the rescuer’s shoulder and slipped her sunglasses into her purse. “I think you’ve made your point, Oscar,” she said to him.

  Torres gasped as the man released his grip. “Yes, Ms. Goya.” He looked at Deja. “Are you all right?”

  Deja nodded.

  Torres tried to protest, but the man glared. Torres sat down and went back to rubbing his neck.

  “My dear,” Corazon said, gently hugging Deja. “We were just leaving when I saw you at the bar. Then this man grabbed you, and well, I asked Mr. Pavia to intervene. I hope you don’t mind.”

  “No,” Deja said.

  “May I join you?” Corazon asked.

  “Sure,” Deja said.

  Pavia grabbed Torres by the collar. “Give the lady your seat,” he said and lifted him off the stool with the same effortless motion he had displayed before. “You and I need to have a little chat on manners.” He looked at Corazon and motioned in the direction of the lobby. “I’ll be over there, ma’am.” He walked Torres from the bar like a puppet.

  “You must forgive Oscar,” Corazon said, climbing onto the stool. “His methods are somewhat crude.” She glanced at Deja’s drink. “What are you having?”

  “It’s called a 1-900 ...”

  “Yes, a 1-900 what?”

  Deja shied. “Fuck-You-Up.”

  Corazon looked down into the swirl of colors. “Really? I must try one.”

  * * *

  While Deja and Corazon talked, the crowd at the bar ebbed and flowed with the cycles of the late-night New York party scene.

  “This boyfriend of yours sounds very intriguing,” Corazon said when she finished the last of her sixth 1-900.

  Deja watched her lick the edge of the glass. “You’ve had six to my two, and you’re still coherent. That’s amazing.”

  A wicked little grin came over Corazon. “Not really. I’ve been genetically predisposed to have a high tolerance for alcohol.” She motioned to the bartender for another round for her and Deja. “Alberto likes it that way.”

  “Hey, Cor,” Deja said. “See that guy at the end of the bar? I think he’s got the hots for you.” She nodded toward a man seated to the left of the drink station. He was alone and had a strange presence Deja couldn’t define. It was like the world in his immediate space had been cranked down to a slower tempo.

  Corazon discreetly glanced over her shoulder, and the man looked away. “Why, I think you’re right,” she said, turning back.

  The bartender placed fresh drinks down. “Compliments of the gentleman.” He gave a nod in the direction of the man.

  Deja and Corazon raised their drinks to their benefactor, but he had vanished from his stool.

  “That’s very odd,” Corazon said.

  “Not in this bar. Believe me, you get all kinds.” Deja took a sip.

  “Hello.”

  Deja turned to find the man standing next to Corazon. He was addressing her and acting like Deja didn’t exist.

  “Excuse me for being so forward, but I wanted to compliment you.” His coat was made of the same living properties as Corazon’s, and their thread patterns began shifting toward each other.

  “Thank you, but for what?” Corazon asked.

  “Your eyes.”

  Deja thought she saw Corazon blush under her genetically perfected skin.

  “Why, I’m flattered, Mister?–”

  “Just, Marl,” he said.

  “Well, thank you Marl. It’s not every day that I get a compliment from a handsome man.”

  “That’s a shame, because a woman with your beauty should be complimented every day.”

  Deja watched as Corazon and Marl edged toward each other. Their coats took on a sheen that bordered on radiant. In the glow, Corazon’s orange rings revealed their true brilliance.

  “What do you like about my eyes?”

  Marl’s smile taunted Deja, and he had an air about him that was familiar.

  He raised his hand slightly, as if to touch Corazon, but hesitated. “They‘re beautiful.”

  “Really?” Corazon said, shifting her drink to her other hand.

  “Yes,” Marl said, “they’re excellent workmanship.”

  Corazon’s expression faded, along with her coat’s glow. Deja sensed Pavia move through the bar’s dense crowd and appear at Marl’s side, his jaw in overdrive.

  “Is this guy bothering you, Ms.–” But before he could finish, he froze, his hand poised just above Marl’s right shoulder.

  Marl’s demeanor hadn’t wavered. He studied Corazon as she set her drink on the bar and began nervously fishing the sunglasses out of her purse.

  “Is this man with you?” he asked, as if this question was the most important one in the world. He gestured to Pavia.

  Corazon cautiously looked up. “He is.”

  “I sense that he would die to protect you.”

  “Yes, I believe he would.”

  “Is he your husband?”

  “Heavens, no.”

  “I’m sorry if I offended you.”

  Corazon and Marl eyed each other for a moment.

  “You don’t remember me, do you?” he asked.

  “No,” Corazon said, “I most certainly don’t.”

  “I know you enjoy old movies, like ... Casablanca.”

  The tension in Corazon’s body language fell away. It seemed that this statement hit a nerve in the clone’s memory. “You’re the man I spoke with ... in that little Korean shop?”

  Marl smiled through his Zen-like calm. “I see the bruise has healed.”

  This observation seemed to move Corazon, but this time Deja saw a profound hurt wash over her.

  “Does he hit you often?” Marl asked.

  Corazon didn’t answer.

  Deja, transfixed in the moment’s elegance, suddenly noticed that no one in the bar was moving. She glanced to the restaurant and saw that everyone was frozen in place.

  “You and I are a lot alike,” Marl said.

  Corazon looked back. “How’s that?” she asked. Their coats began to glow again.

  “We were both created for a purpose.”

  Corazon passed her fingers down Marl’s lapel; the coat’s pattern surged toward her hand. “I was created to mend a man’s heart,” she said.

  Marl smiled again, and Deja realized that the glow wasn’t emanating from his coat, but from him.

  “I, too, was created to mend something.” Marl’s voice had taken on a musical quality, rich in a bass level that was straying into subsonic. He moved closer to Corazon, but Deja never really saw any motion.

  “To mend what?” Corazon asked.

  Marl raised his hand and traced the line of her jaw with his fingers. “Your world.”

  10. KICK HIS ASS

  The silence hung heavily in the limousine and was broken only when the vehicle’s instruments dialogued with the vast Interway grid of Manhattan Island. Deja stared at the back of Oscar Pavia’s head. The car came to an intersection and slowed to a halt.

  “Ms. Goya,” Pavia said, navigating his mass around the steering toggle. He leaned onto the center console and addressed her through the opening that separated the driver’s area from the passenger compartment. “I’m sorry for what happened back there.”

  Corazon, who had been stari
ng out her window for the last 12 blocks, drew a question mark in the condensation her breath had created. “Tell me, Oscar,” she said, tracing the question mark again. “What exactly did happen?”

  The car pulled forward, and Pavia’s attention returned to the road.

  “I’m not sure,” he said. “He must have been using some kind of neurogenic dampener. If my Netpad had been functioning, it would have recognized the source and possibly neutralized it.”

  Corazon laughed slightly as she spelled out MARL in a fresh patch of breath. Deja figured she was thinking the same thing about Pavia’s statement: pretty doubtful.

  They were passing the high-rise residences that lined Central Park, and the silence returned. Deja began to remark about how she never came here much, but stopped and decided that for once she would listen to her better self. She sank against the seat and watched the old buildings rush past in a blur of affluence and fame.

  Corazon tapped Deja’s arm, snapping her back. “What do you think happened back there?”

  “Well ...” But Pavia’s head turned slightly, and Deja hesitated.

  Corazon entered a code on a panel in her door’s armrest, and a divider glass began growing from the edges of the two front seats. Pavia glanced back, his jaw angrily flexing in protest. Deja’s ears popped as the glass sealed off their compartment. She cautiously glanced at Pavia, who had been reduced to a globular silhouette by the divider’s argon tinting.

  “It’s all right, dear,” Corazon said through a knowing little grin. “He can’t hear us.”

  Deja leaned onto the center armrest. “I don’t know, Cor. I’ve never seen anything like that before.”

  “Nor have I.”

  “How did he freeze all those people? I mean, is Mr. Pavia right? As far as I could tell, nobody was moving.”

  “Except you.”

  Deja thought for a second. “Well, yeah, but that’s probably because I’m your friend. I am, aren’t I?”