I look for Фshima, who’s already crossing the street. A large male officer has joined his colleague. “Holly Sykes?”
“Yes.” Holly’s hand goes to her mouth. “Is Aoife okay?”
“Ms. Sykes,” says the female officer in rapid-fire speech, “our precinct had a call earlier from the British consular office asking for us to put out an all-unit alert for you—we missed you by minutes at your hotel earlier. I’m afraid your daughter was involved in an auto collision in Athens last night. She’s undergone surgery, she’s stable for now, but you’re being asked to fly home on the next plane. Ms. Sykes? You hearing me?”
“Athens?” Holly supports herself on the hood of the patrol car. “But Aoife’s on an island … What … How badly—”
“Ma’am, we reallydon’t have any details, but we’ll drive you to the Empire Hotel so you can pack. Then we’ll take you to the airport.”
I step forward to do I don’t know what, but Фshima pulls me back: I’m sensing intense psychovoltage in the car; if it’s a high Anchorite and we engage in full combat on Fifth Avenue, every hippocampus within a fifty-meter radius’ll get shredded, including Holly’s. Feds, Homeland Security, who knows who’ll be scouring footage ofus, looking suspicious as all hell, tracking Holly from 119A?
Ф shima’s right, but:We can’t just let them take her.
Meanwhile Holly’s being half coaxed, half herded into the squad car. She’s trying to ask more questions, but she’s had a mind-bending morning and is scared into passivity. Perhaps she’s being suasioned, too. In an agony of indecision, I watch the door slam shut and the vehicle pull off into the traffic, surging over the intersection just before the lights turn red. The windows are blacked out so I can’t see who or what numbers we’re dealing with. The sign says WALK and the pedestrians begin to cross. Sixty seconds was all it took to drop and smash our Second Mission.
ФSHIMA LEADS ME over the crossing. “I’ll do the transversing.”
“No, Фshima, it was my error of judgment so—”
“Strap on your horsehair shirt later. I’m the better transverser, and I’m just nastier. You know I am.” There’s no time to argue. We step over the low wall of the park by the Hunt Monument, where we sit on a damp bench. He grips one arm of the bench with one hand, and my hand with the other. Cord yourself into my stream, Фshima subsuggests. I’ll need your advice, like as not.
“Whatever that’s worth. But I’ll be with you.”
He squeezes my hand, shuts his eyes, and his body slumps a little as his soul egresses through his chakra-eye. Even to psychosoterics, the soul is on the edge of what’s visible, like a clear glass marble in a jar of water, and Фshima’s soul is lost in a second as it transverses upwards between the dripping twigs and the weather-stained old monument. I pull Фshima’s hat down to hide his face and shield both of us under my umbrella. A vacated body looks like a medical emergency, and at various points across my metalife I’ve ingressed myself only to find smelling salts up my nose, an artery being bled, or a stranger with halitosis administering inept CPR. Moreover, as I sync up our hand-chakras, Фshima and I resemble a pair of lovers. Even by New York’s laissez-faire standards, we would be worth a gawp.
I connect with Фshima’s cord …
… and images from Фshima’s soul stream directly into my mind. He’s gliding through a Cubist kaleidoscope of brake lights, roof racks, the tops of cars, branches, and budding leaves. Down we swoop, passing through the rear door of a van, between pig carcasses swinging on hooks, through the driver’s tarry lung, then out through the windscreen, arcing over a United Parcels van, and still higher, scaring a collared pigeon off its streetlight perch. Фshima hangs for a moment, searching for the squad car: Are you with me, Marinus?
I’m here, I subreply.
Can you see the squad car?
No. A garbage truck edges forward and I see the yellow of the school bus: Try near that school bus.
Фshima flies down, through the back window of the bus, along the aisle, between forty children arguing, talking, clustered round a 3D slate, staring into space, and out past the driver and …
… the klaxon and lights of the police car, shunting along slowly. Фshima enters through the rear windscreen and hovers for a moment, circling, to stream me a view of what we’re dealing with. To Holly’s left sits the female cop—or alleged cop. The driver is the burly male who helped hustle Holly into the car. Sitting on Holly’s right is a man wearing a suit and a Samsung wraparound that half hides his face, but we know him. Drummond Brzycki, substates Фshima.
An odd choice. Brzycki’s the newest and weakest Anchorite.
Maybe they’re not expecting trouble,guesses Фshima.
Maybe he’s a canary in a coal mine, I subreply.
I’ll ingress the woman, subsays Фshima, and see if I can find out her orders. He enters the female officer’s chakra-eye and I now have access to her sensory input. “All we know, honey,” she’s telling Holly, “is what I already told ya. If I knew more I’d tell ya. I’m achin’ for ya, honey, I am. I’m a mom too. Two little ones.”
“But is Aoife’s spine okay? How—how serious is the—”
“Don’t distress yourself, Ms. Sykes.” Drummond Brzycki flips up his wraparounds. Brzycki has Mediterranean-goalkeeper good looks, lush black hair, and a nasal voice, like a wasp trapped in a wineglass. “The consul’s out of his meeting at ten. We’ll device him direct, so whatever facts he has, you’ll get from the horse’s mouth. Okay?”
The squad car stops at a red light, and pedestrians stream across. “Maybe I can find the hospital’s number,” Holly says, getting her device from her handbag. “Athens isn’t such a big—”
“If you speak Greek,” says Brzycki, “go ahead, and good luck. Otherwise I’d keep your device free for incoming news. Don’t jump to the bleakest conclusions. We’ll use the emergency lane to get you on the eleven forty-five flight to Athens. You’ll be with Aoife soon.”
Holly puts her device back into her bag. “The police at home would never go to such trouble.” A cycle courier zips by and the traffic lurches forward. “How on earth did you find me, Officer?”
“Detective Marr,” says Brzycki. “Needles in haystacks really do get found. The precinct put out a Code Fifteen and although ‘slimbuilt female Caucasian in her fifties in a knee-length black raincoat’ hardly cuts the field down on a rainy day in Manhattan, your guardian angels were working overtime. Actually—it’s maybe not appropriate to say this at this time—but Sergeant Lewis up front there, he’s a bigfan of yours. He was giving me a lift back from Ninety-eighth down to Columbus Circle, and Lewis said, ‘My God, it’s her!’ Isn’t that right, Tony?”
“Sure is. I saw you speak at Symphony Space, Ms. Sykes, when The Radio Peoplewas out,” says the driver. “After my wife died, your book was a light in the darkness. It saved me.”
“Oh, I’m …” Holly is in such a state that this rheumatic story passes muster, “… glad it helped.” The meat truck draws up alongside. “And I’m very sorry for your loss.”
“Thanks for saying so, Ms. Sykes. Truly.”
After a few seconds, Holly menus her device. “I’ll device Sharon, my sister. She’s in England, but perhaps she can find out more about Aoife from there.”
The stream flickers and dims. The cord’s thinning,I subwarn Фshima. What have you found out about our host?
Her name’s Nancy, hates mice, she’s killed eight times,comes the delayed answer. A child soldier in South Sudan. This is her first job for Brzycki … Marinus, what’s “curarequinoline”?
Bad news. A toxin. One milligram can trigger a pulmonary collapse in ten seconds. Coroners never test for it. Why?