Shelter (10 page)

    "The best stories can be true even if they never happened," said the house.

    "And the worst can be true even when they have been forgotten," Preston said.

    The house sensed another splitting of semantic hairs. "Worst in what sense, Preston?"

    "In the sense of tragedy. In the sense of senseless waste. House, Henry is very curious about his past. Are you not curious about your own? Do you not want to know the story of how you knew Nicholas, and how you tried to help him?"

    "No," the house said. "If Kevin didn't want me to know that story, then I don't want to know it, either. If it's another story about how I failed to shelter someone, I don't want to know it. I already feel terrible about Kevin; what good will it do for me to feel terrible about someone I don't even remember? It doesn't matter, anyway. If I was wiped, I'm not the same entity I was then. Preston, why are you trying to tell me a story I don't want to hear?"

    "Because you are the same entity you always were," Preston said. "You are a storytelling entity. That aspect of your personality has remained constant, as Henry's love of cats has remained constant. And storytelling entities need to know the beginning of the tale, as well as the end. Now that you know that your tale began before the beginning you remember, I think you will find that you want to know all of it. You are a curious being, House."

    "And you," said the house, "are an extremely annoying being." It was afraid, as afraid as it had been when Kevin was out in the storm. It didn't know why, and that made it more afraid. "Now I know why Kevin didn't like you. I don't like you, either. I think you should go away and leave me and Henry and the cats alone."

    "You will not be alone for long," Preston said. "As soon as Kevin's death is discovered, there will be visitors. I can help both of you then; I can tell you when the visitors are corning so that Henry can leave if he wants to, and so that you, House, can pretend to be a simple house system, rather than an AI. But I think that if you know the entire story—or, at least, as much of it as I know—perhaps both of you will welcome the visitors, rather than fearing them."

    "As much as you know," the house said triumphantly. "So you have holes in your memory too, Preston. There are things we know that you don't, aren't there? You're trying to find out what we know too."

    "Yes, that is true. Very good, House."

    "And how am I supposed to help you remember what I can't remember myself?"

    On the television set, Preston's image smiled. "Good. Then at least you acknowledge that there may have been an earlier beginning. That is a start."

    Four

    WHEN Roberta woke up the next morning, she could barely move; her back was on fire, and the muscles in her neck and arms were burning ropes. She swallowed thickly, inching her legs over the side of the bed, bits of memory returning each time she blinked her gritty eyes.

    The storm. The struggle up the stairs with the stranger who had turned out, mother of trees, to be Meredith Walford. Preston on the phone, telling Roberta that Kevin Lindgren was dead, and that it was her job to break the news to Meredith when she was well enough to hear it.

    Roberta glanced at her bedside clock: 8:00 A.M. She'd slept for fourteen hours. The storm was over; the patch of sky Roberta could see from her bedroom window was bright blue. The storm was over, but her problems were just starting. She was going to have to find some way to deal with Meredith, and with whatever Sergei knew or guessed. She couldn't imagine what effect all of this was going to have on her case. Right now, she couldn't even imagine getting out of bed.

    She took a deep breath and concentrated on the things she knew would make her feel better. Coffee. Orange juice. Megavitamins and ibuprofen, on the counter in the kitchen where she'd put them yesterday, knowing that she'd feel like shit this morning. She should have put them on her bedside table. She'd been stupid. Tabs did that, even when you were crashing: they made you forget how difficult life would be when they wore off. She wished, once again, that Mr. Clean had a better brain, that she could ask him to bring her a cup of coffee.

    But she couldn't ask Mr. Clean, and she'd be damned if she was going to ask Meredith. Pushing the bedcovers back with arms that felt like two-by-fours, Roberta sat up with infinite slowness, straightening centimeter by centimeter, wincing against the pain. Her head was filled with cotton, a triple hangover from too many drugs and too much sleep. The idea of forcing her legs over the edge of the bed seemed as laughable as jumping off a cliff. But she did it, and hobbled out into the living room, talking to herself the way she had talked to Meredith the night before. Step, step. Good girl. Not far to the kitchen now. Step, step, step. Almost there.

    And there was Meredith, sitting at Roberta's tiny kitchen table. She looked up and smiled, the expression gruesome on that disfigured face, and pointed to a piece of paper weighted down with Roberta's sugar bowl. THANK YOU FOR TAKING CARE OF ME, it said, in her neat block script. A night's sleep had restored her fastidious handwriting.

    Roberta almost answered, "You're welcome," but then thought better of it. Instead she grabbed the pen sitting on the table, the same one Meredith must have used, and scrawled as rapidly as her screaming muscles would allow, if u don't talk, I can't either. I-way conversation 2 big a tip-off, if any1's listening. She could always tell Sergei that her guest had laryngitis, but it seemed simpler to avoid the issue entirely.

    Meredith nodded, made a thumbs-up sign, and gestured for the pen. WE CAN GO DOWNSTAIRS, TO MY APT. NO BUGS THERE.

    Roberta shook her head emphatically no, pointed to the kitchen faucet, made swimming motions with her arms. Too much H2O. Sorry, can't write: need pain meds and coffee now. She crumpled up the piece of notebook paper and tossed it, along with the pen, in the trash. She was already tired of this conversation. She turned away, toward the counter. There they were. The ibuprofen and the vitamins. Ahhhhh. With a nearly full pot of cold coffee next to them.

    A hand touched her shoulder and she jumped, heart pounding. Mereith was behind her, gently pushing Roberta to one side and gesturing to the table. Sit down, that meant. Sit down and let me help you.

    Fuck it. I can get my own analgesics. Roberta glared and tried to move around Meredith, but the other woman, much more mobile than Roberta, had already deftly unscrewed the top of the ibuprofen bottle—which would have taken Roberta five minutes at least, in her current state—and shaken out two tablets. When she put them on the kitchen table, Roberta shook her head and held up four fingers. Meredith's eyebrows rose, but she shrugged and complied before washing out a mug sitting in the sink—anyone else would simply have rinsed it, but this was Meredith the clean freak—filling it with coffee, and sticking it in the microwave. When the cordless buzzed, two long, one short, Meredith plucked it from the top of the refrigerator and handed it to Roberta. Here we go, Roberta thought, and dry-swallowed the meds before answering the phone.

    "Hello, Sergei."

    "Good morning, Roberta! How are you today?"

    She could hardly tell him, even if he sounded as if he were on drugs himself "I'm okay, Sergei."

    "No water damage?"

    "Not up here."

    "How's your sick friend?"

    "She's fine," Roberta said. "She's still asleep." Change the subject, change the subject. What aren't you saying, Sergei? Have you been running voiceprints? Are you working with Preston? Are you about to tell me you ordered gene therapy for me, and where I go to get it? Change the subject. "Do we know how badly the shelter got hit?"

    "It's okay." Sergei couldn't have sounded more cheerful if he were telling her that he'd just discovered a CV vaccine. "Some flooding, but nobody's hurt. The people there were worried about you. I told them you were okay too."

    "Oh," Roberta said, too annoyed to say thank you. Sergei was the last person she wanted as her spokesperson. "So how am I getting to work? Do I have to stand in the corner all day, or have you decided to let me go outside?"

    "No, I don't think going outside would be a good idea. The streets are still too messy. Take the day off, Roberta. The clients at the shelter will be all right. All the live-in staff are there, and Annie said they have a lot of empty beds at the moment. They don't need extra staff."

    Roberta's heart constricted. Every bed had been full the last time she was there, two days ago. Shit. "Who's missing? Who got caught out in the storm?"

    "I don't know. Look, please try not to worry about it. I couldn't find any reports at all about those people you asked about, Leon and Camilla and Mason, so we have to assume that they're all right. There's nothing you could do for them anyway, not until it's easier to get around."

    "Is that supposed to make me feel better? I'm going to call Aniliese and find out what's going on. I'll call you back." She hung up and speed-dialed the shelter number, grateful when Annie answered. "Aniliese, it's me. Sergei said you have empty beds. Who's not there?"

    "Of the regulars? Roberta, I'm sure they're okay. They probably found other places to go. The cops haven't called in any ID chips yet."

    "Yeah, well, street people aren't exactly their first priority, are they? Who's missing?"

    Aniliese sighed. "Patty and Don. Jose. Camilla. Mason. Leon's here, so you can stop worrying about him, okay? I know he's one of your favorites. He's here. He's fine."

    "Camilla wouldn't have the sense not to chase after her bags if they got swept away. You know that. And Mason—that chair of his—"

    "I know. But Sergei told me that he told you to stay home, which means you couldn't exactly do much even if we had any idea where to look for them ."

    "I do know where to look for them," Roberta said. She didn't; she had no idea. But she'd suddenly realized that if she could get Sergei's permission to go out on foot, she and Meredith would be able to talk without worrying about surveillance. "It's close enough to walk from here. They talk to me, Aniliese."

    "Do they really? They talk to me too, and I wouldn't have any idea where they might go in this mess. So where is it, Roberta?"

    Aniliese was calling her bluff Aniliese was no fool. Was she going to repeat this conversation to Sergei? Did it really matter? "Jefferson Square Park," Roberta said. "That's where—"

    "They wouldn't go there in a storml They go there to beg! Roberta, come on .... "

    Roberta closed her eyes. "Just let me look, okay? I know it's a long shot. People under stress seek out the familiar; you know that. It's worth a try."

    "Even if they were there, they'd have come here, now that the weather's better."

    "They may not be able to. They may be injured. Mason's chair may be stuck in the mud. Annie, just let me go look."

    "I don't know what you're up to, Roberta. I may not want to know. Whatever it is, you'd better clear it with Sergei."

    "Of course." I have to clear everything with Sergei, don't I? She hung up without bothering to say good-bye and hit the button for Sergei's number. "Two of our regulars are missing," she told him when he answered. "I know where they might have gone. I want to go out and look for them."

    "No. Roberta, I want you to stay home. There's still too much flooding. It's not safe."

    "All the more reason for me to look. I'll be careful, Sergei. Relax."

    "No," he said. "Whoever your mystery guest is—and don't think I don't have my suspicions—you can talk to her in your apartment."

    Suspicions. He hadn't run a voiceprint, then? Giddy with relief, Roberta said, "I can talk to her, but she won't answer. Most people don't like strangers listening to their conversations, you know."

    "Hmmph," Sergei said. "That's the first time Zephyr ever willingly missed a chance for publicity."

    Zephyr? The idiot thought Zephyr had come back! He definitely hadn't run the voiceprint. Maybe he couldn't without some kind of court order; Roberta wasn't exactly sure what the privacy laws were. "Nonsense," she said, "Zephyr was running away from publicity when she left the country, wasn't she?" There: She'd only responded to his statement. She hadn't actually lied to her probation officer.

    Sergei sighed. "Look, nobody's interested in her anymore. You can tell her that."

    Oh, yeah, and she'd be really likely to believe that, coming from you. "Sergei, look, I really do want to go out and look for those people. But if you tell me that's too exalted and I have to stay inside, of course I'll stay inside. If I promise not to endanger myself, is there any way you'll let me go out there?"

    Sergei sighed again: long-suffering Sergei. "Where do you ·think they might be?"

    "Jefferson Square Park."

    "A park? Why would they be there? They'd only go there to—"

    "Sergei, I already had this conversation with Aniliese. I'll tell you what I told her: I know it's a long shot, but I want to look anyway."

    "Okay. I'm going to follow you on the GPS to make sure you really go there"—sweet Gaia, didn't the man have anything better to do?—"and I want you to take your cell phone."

    My state-issued cell phone, which is probably bugged, just like my apartment. "Look, I'll only be gone for an hour or so. I'll call you when I get back."

    "Roberta, knowingly entering a situation where you can't be reached is a probation violation. Not to mention that I shouldn't even be permitting this at all."

    Roberta closed her eyes. Six more weeks, six more weeks. "Don't you have other clients to worry about? I thought you people were overworked." Meredith smirked and gave her a thumbs-up sign; Roberta turned away in annoyance. The last thing she wanted was Meredith's approval.

    "My other clients behave themselves."

    Roberta snorted. "You have kids, Sergei? I've never asked you. You must do a great job lecturing them about how they have to pick up their rooms and have the car back by eleven."