Night's Pawn (5 page)

"I'll feed you the security camera recording. You can take it from there," Teek said. "Just tell me when."

Chase picked up the remote and told the telecom to accept the data signal when Teek sent. "Go ahead."

Teek leaned forward, pressed a button, and the red words "Receiving Data" began to flash across the bottom of Chase's screen.

"That's it," Teek said.

"Thanks." The words turned green and disappeared.

Teek nodded. "Anytime. Call me if you need anything."

"I will do that, my friend. Thanks again." Chase flicked the remote at Teek's image, turning his face back into the flat black of the screen. By the time he'd hung up, the telecom had automatically decompressed the trideo data into usable form. He told the unit to play it.

The camera angle was high and to the right of the bar's outer door. Chase hadn't noticed it before. Next time he would look. The image was clean and sharp, even in the low evening light. High-quality. Thank you, Teek.

Even with the good image, it was hard to see the girl. Her body language, which was contradictory, placed her somewhere between eighteen and thirty. His guess was closer to the former. In her green minidress, black sheer stockings, and half-calf boots, she was dressed for success, if turning tricks was the career path of choice. Her auburn hair was cut short and she wore a shoulder bag that could have been holding anything. The way the front wave of her hair fell it was tough to see her face.

"Can I help you?" came a voice through the cheap speaker. It must have been Nick; William was never that polite.

"Yes, I'm scanning for Simon Church," she said, her voice a little deeper than what he'd expected and with the trace of a British accent.

"I'm sorry I don't know the man."
Gracias
, Nick.

"I'd heard he was hereabouts some."

"Told you I don't know 'im."

"Older, I guess by now, big shoulders, dark hair."

"You just described my mother."

"He's an old term—chummer—of mine. Lots ago."

"Look, chica, I told you I don't know the man."

She looked down and away from the camera, and Chase still hadn't gotten a good view of her face. There was, however, a gnawing familiarity. When she looked back at the door, the movement of her head tossed her hair away from her face for just a moment. It was still too brief for him to make her out, but he knew he could reverse the recording and still-frame it, so he let it run.

"Sure, sure. If he shows, tell him Cara was looking for him. I need some help. I've got a room at the Caina, Eighth and Fiftieth. Okay?"

"Whatever."

"Great. Thanks." She stepped away and the recording ended.

Chase didn't need to check, but wanted to. Older by now, she said. Older by twelve years. The recording ran back to the turn of her head and he froze the picture. The image was clear enough that he could zoom in until only her face was visible.

When Chase looked at pictures of himself from twelve years ago, he saw very little difference. Most of the changes from ages twenty-seven to forty-one happened under the skin, normally invisible but painfully present at inopportune moments. It was different with Cara. The only similarities were a certain posture, the movement of a hand, her mother's eyes, her father's tone. She'd been only eight years old the last time Chase had seen her. Twelve years from being an eight-year-old was a lot longer.

He remembered, the memories coming back sharp and fresh.

She runs at him, clothes dirty and torn from her slide down the hill. She's smiling, though, ignoring the scrapes and the trickle of blood running down her arm. "That way?" she asks, giggling for punctuation.

He shakes his head and glances at the familiar Land Rover coming up alongside, kicking dirt and gravel. "No. Not unless you like eating dirt," he says.

The Rover door opens roughly, "
—fragging
Christ, Cara, are you insane?" Her mother swings herself from the seat, careful not to catch any part of her evening dress on the door's accessories. "Have you any idea what your father was doing tonight?"

Cara turns toward her mother and never changes her expression. "He's still there, right?" she asks.

"Of course he's there! Did you really think he'd come chasing after you just because of this stupid stunt?"

"No. No, I guess I didn't."

"Tonight was important, Cara. Tonight was crucial. The Japanese don't look kindly on executives with unmanageable children."

"But Daddy didn't come, right?"

"No he didn't."

Cara doesn't say any more, only looks back at Chase for a moment before beginning to walk around to the far side of the truck. She brushes some dirt from her arm and then climbs into the passenger side of the Rover. She sits there, waiting.

"She was where we thought, Mrs. Villiers," he begins, careful about how he addresses her.

"But how in god's name did she get out of the compound? "

"She's very good. She must have listened hard at the family security briefings and learned our schedule and procedures. We'll start varying the patterns. That should slow her down some."

"You'd better. This can't happen again while we're here. She has no idea what she's risking."

"No," he says, "I think she knows exactly what she's doing."

He'd spoken to her one last time before the family left.

She's standing on one of the sundecks watching a pair of falcons dance in flight. She glances over her shoulder as he walks up. "Are you coming to Seattle with us?" She's gotten taller.

"No, Cara, I'm not. My contract with your family is up. Your mother has decided not to renew it."

"I got away from you too many times, huh?"

He nods. That was as good a reason as any.

"How about you catch me? I could run away again, and you catch me and I tell my mother you were really good, the best." She's watching the falcons avidly.

"Hmmm," he says, "it might work, but I doubt it. Besides, right now it would only make sense if Deaver caught you. If I was the one, your mother would be suspicious."

Her lips purse. "I don't like him."

"Because he's a mage?"

She shrugs. "He doesn't look
at
you. He looks
in
you, like he's watching your mind work. His eyes are really creepy. How could he wear them?" She turns toward him. "Don't they hurt? Doesn't he always know he's got them on?"

"Cybertechnology is very advanced. Some of it's almost as good as the real parts. You can barely feel them. Deaver's only got a little, his eyes. He mostly relies on his magic."

She blinks. "Do you have any?"

"Magic?"

"Cyber stuff."

He nods.

"A lot?"

"More, I suspect, than I know."

She turns back toward the birds, but they've gone. Her eyes focus on the faraway mountains. "I don't want any. I'll never want any. I only want me."

"Sometimes it's not a choice. Like for Deaver… and me, a bit."

"I don't care," she says. "I don't care."

Chase knew he needed to fill in those twelve years. He'd heard some stories, read the corporate pages of the tabloids, but wanted to know more. He needed someone who knew where the data could be found and had the talent to get at it. His message ended up in a place where the only reality was electronic. It took a few hours before a response came, and it wasn't from who he expected.

"Church."

Chase looked up, surprised. The telecom hadn't beeped, the voice had simply begun and the face simply appeared. She'd cut through the electronic security of his system like it wasn't there. Her appearance was young and carved from mirrorike black stone, her eyes two darts of blue neon. The image showed little more than her face and parts of a gently shifting fractal shoreline behind her, but he knew the gown she wore was in the ancient Greek style and woven from the palest orange light. The stylings of her electronic image were perfect. He'd met her once before. He stood.

"Lachesis."

She bowed her head slightly. "You dispatched a message to the Nexus, for Lucifer."

"I did."

"He is dead."

Chase started, and looked away for a second. Another of the old guard dead, another piece of the past slipped away. He felt old again.

"How."

The electronic quaver of her voice did not shift, but he felt a tinge of satisfaction. "It has been reconciled. The individuals responsible have been held accountable."

"I'll want to know at some point."

"Acknowledged. Your transmission indicated you had instructions for Lucifer. I am prepared to execute those instructions in his stead."

He nodded and sat back down more slowly than he'd intended. "I need a full information search on a person, birth name Caroline Tara Villiers. Her father is Richard Villiers, one of the owners of Fuchi Industrial Electronics."

Lachesis' head tilted slightly to one side. The Fuchi name was almost holy to deckers like her. The company built the cyberdeck computer hardware that was the primary tool of her work, and paradoxically, the security software the corporations used to protect themselves against deckers. Fuchi's own worldwide computer systems were considered to be nearly impregnable, a blatant challenge to any decker wanting to test, or hone, his or her skills in illicit data retrieval.

"What are the search parameters?"

"I need as much as you can find about her activities and whereabouts for the last twelve years. But you've also got to be as quiet as possible. Zero feedback."

"Noise is not conducive to continued activity."

"This one's got to be so quiet I can hear a fragging pin drop. I also have a time limit—eight hours for an initial report, with an estimate at that time for your production of a detailed one."

"Acknowledged."

"Also, keep any penetration of Fuchi systems to a minimum. If you've got to do it, do it as a blind behind some other run."

"Acknowledged."

He thought for a moment and then nodded slightly to himself. The information Lachesis turned up would give him more to go on. "That's it. What'll it cost me?"

"There is no charge for this action. The potential challenge is sufficient."

Chase laughed and shook his head. "Oh no, if you're in it just for the wiz, God knows what you'll do before you think you've been duly compensated. How much?"

"Two thousand nuyen worth of random corporate bearer stock now, five thousand negotiable upon delivery."

Chase smiled. "That's better."

4

The next morning, with Lachesis' preliminary report fresh in his mind, Chase stood in a shadowed doorway across from the Caina Hotel, observing its occupants wander out into the morning gloom. The Caina was a flophouse catering to transients and low-income residents of the Lower Westside zone. Most looked like various kinds of wage slaves, but a few of the building's inhabitants seemed to be heading off for seamier occupations.

According to Lachesis, a Cara Deaver was registered in room 407, and was two months in arrears for her daily rent. The hotel computer had her account flagged and noted for managerial attention. Lachesis could have easily changed the account status, but someone on the Caina's staff had already noted it. Cara Deaver was tagged for eviction.

Chase hoped that all the girl wanted, or needed, was cash for rent and a push in the right direction, but he doubted it. Lachesis' overnight work had turned up a turbulent history for the little girl he remembered. The kind of history girls with her background weren't supposed to have.

A matte-black '48 Ford Americar pulled up loudly in front of the Caina, and two oversized specimens of street muscle got out. Chase didn't know them personally, but he was more than familiar with their type. Slip them some cash and they were more than willing to act as insurance against, or for, a violent incident at whatever event you might have planned. The driver, wearing mock vintage Euro-Wars battle dress was finishing off a rude joke about trolls and sisters as they got out. His ork partner, similarly garbed but with more street clothes mixed in, seemed amused and appreciative. Neither noticed, or cared, about Chase watching from across the street. They pocketed their sunglasses and entered the building. Chase saw no evidence of weapons, but their field jackets had ample room for carrying light or medium-sized pistols. The odds of them packing anything cybernetic was low.

If the muscleboys were there for Cara's eviction, the Caina's management must be expecting more trouble than a girl her size could usually deliver. Other than the overdue rent, the hotel computer showed no other notations of complaints or problems.

Chase crossed the street and entered the hotel a few dozen steps behind the toughs. His own choice of clothing had proved unusually appropriate: a Texas Ranger military jacket sporting insignia circa the secession of Texas in '35. Displaying such insignia was usually taken as a personal insult south of the border. The Caina's Aztlaner front-desk clerk recognized the patches and scowled as Chase entered. Chase scowled back and gestured toward the stairs. "
jud subierion
?"