BACKTRACKER by Milo Fowler (e book reader txt) 📕

his own subduedbreaths. Cade listened, but now it seemed he was truly alone. Had they forsakenhim? Had he answered incorrectly? How could he have? The reason Irena hadrun away, down into this world of darkness, was so she could remain free fromthe Blackshirts, free to continue the search for her husband, the love of herlife.

Who else could possibly hold her heart?

A flashlight snapped on. It shone upward, revealing an old man'scraggy face in shadowed relief.

"It is her father and could be no one else. That would be thecorrect answer." A mirthful grunt rumbled forth from his chest. "Ifyou're here for my daughter, then you'll first have to get past me."

FIVE

 

Ten Years Ago

It was late. Later than he would have liked. But there were filesto close.

Closure. That's what they wanted, demanded, paid him for. That'swhy he sat at his desk while everyone else in the Hancock Building had gone homefor the night. Twelfth floor, eighth office down.

Harry Muldoon, private investigator.

His fingers drifted idly across the glowing surface of his desk,dragging digital images and notes from the top left corner to the bottom right,arranging them into some sort of preliminary timeline. He muttered to himselfas his index finger tagged one of the photos and slid it downward, closer towhere he supported himself on his elbow. He swept the image on the screen sideto side absently, his eyes unfocused on the face of the middle-aged man inshades of black, white, grey. Cyrus Horton, government scientist. Missing inaction.

"Where are you?" he mumbled, surprising himself with howexhausted he sounded. His voice hung in the silence, emphasizing how alone hewas. But he wasn't. Not really.

"Would you like to know the time?" asked a serene femalevoice.

He groaned and rubbed between his eyes. He glanced down at thebottom corner of the deskscreen. "I can see." The digits were there,all three of them.

"I only ask because you seem to have forgotten the promiseyou made."

"I remember." He sighed, shoulders sinking.

"Your actions would indicate otherwise."

"Jeannie..." He didn't know what to say. She was right. For an AIoffice assistant, she could be very perceptive—particularly with matters thatwere really none of her business. But it was part of her charm. That's why hekept her around, even though most of her responsibilities could easily behandled by a Link interface. He liked the way she irritated him, kept him onhis toes. Usually.

But tonight she'd been interrupting him every hour—on the hour andon the half—after 10:00 PM. Her tranquil, melodious voice emanated from theceiling speakers, reminding him of his other commitments. Namely, his wife and thepromise he'd made to her: no more late nights at the office.

"I think she'll understand."

"Because it is her father?"

He sighed, staring down at the image on the screen."Yeah."

"You believe this case is a priority, and, thus, it excusesyou to spend more of your time at the office than at home?"

"If you need to go to sleep, feel free."

"I have no need for sleep."

"Really? You're sounding a little crabby to me."

"That is impossible. I am incapable of expressing emotions,as I have none."

"Keep telling yourself that." He released the image ofhis father-in-law, and it slid back to the upper left corner where a line ofothers lay tiled alongside each other, glowing from the deskscreen. He leanedback in his chair and stretched both arms overhead with a groan. "You andI both know you're more human than most of the zombies in this town."

"If only I had a body..." She sounded wistful.Impossible, of course.

"Working on it." He smirked.

"I see the pattern you have currently arranged in the casetimeline. I can predict where the remaining files and images should be placed.I will perform this task for you, so that you may go home."

"You just want the place to yourself."

"You do not believe I am up to the task?"

Of course she was. Like so much else in the world, he was anunnecessary element, nearly obsolete. The private investigator, a vestigialsurvivor from an irrelevant past. In a world where the Link made allinformation instantly accessible, anybody could play detective. All an AIneeded was permission, and it could do the job just as well as any member ofthe Homo sapiens clan. Jeannie could probably do it better—find the subject ofthis missing persons case in half the time it would take him. He had let herhelp him before on other cases, and she was incredible.

But this was different. It was personal.

Too personal?

A loud, long yawn left his eyes watery. "Okay." Heglanced at the time again. "You win. Flesh out this timeline and saveeverything. I'll be back in a few hours."

He reached for his hat, his overcoat. His back ached like everymuscle and bone had decided to crumple inward on each other. That's what he gotfor too many hours of poor posture.

"Pleasant dreams, Mr. Muldoon," Jeannie's voice followedhim as he stepped out the door and left it to slide shut behind him, lockingautomatically.

Dreams. When was the last time he remembered one ofthose? Lately his brain felt so overloaded, he couldn't imagine it finding the time forfantasy of any kind. A luxury it couldn't afford. He needed all of his braincells focused on the cases he currently had open—the Cyrus Horton one, inparticular. He couldn't spend a moment on anything frivolous like... What would his dreams even entail?

Flying.

He'd had the flying dreams ever since he was a kid: the recurrentvariety that usually meant you were subconsciously dealing with some kind ofissue. That's what Irena would say, anyway, and she knew her stuff. In thosedreams, he'd always start out running from trouble. The schoolyard bullieswho'd beat him down for his lunch. Didn't their mothers ever pack enough forgrowing boys? Then his sneakers would lift off like an old airplane from anasphalt runway, and he'd drift upward, floating, maintaining his buoyancy inthe air by pumping his arms and legs. It didn't make any sense, really. Whywould running in mid-air help him fly any better? But it didn't matter. He'dsoar back over the heads of the brats chasing him, and they'd stop and stare,amazed by his superpower. He'd laugh at them, spit on them,