BACKTRACKER by Milo Fowler (e book reader txt) 📕

Definitely an issue. Probably some kind ofinferiority complex. The desire of his subconscious to assert itself in a waythat would make him stand out as somehow special, utterly unique. Utterlystupid.

The Link program kept him from wasting his valuable mentalresources on such foolishness. It regulated his sleep patternsto ensure optimum REM levels—something like that. He was no expert, but hedidn't have to be. He always got a great night's rest. Maybe he dreamed, but he never remembered anything thathappened in those dreams. He didn't have to waste any brain cells thinkingabout it.

Like I'm doing now. He shook his head as hisshoes clapped down the last flight of stairs to the lobby. Twelve flights. Hisblood was flowing, his heart and lungs awake enough now for thedrive home. He stifled another yawn.

"Good evening, Mr. Muldoon." The synthetic securityguard raised its hand mechanically, forcing a broad, fake smile. Everythingabout these things was fake.

But Muldoon returned the gesture. SYNs were human, more or less.He was no bigot. At least he didn't want to be.

"Another late night?"

Harry Muldoon stared at the guard as a nauseating chill of déjà vuswept over him. He'd been here before. This moment—he'd lived it before. Buthow was that possible?

Of course it was. How many times had he been the last one to leavethe building for the night, the first one to show up at the break of dawn? Toomany times to count.

"Yeah. Too late." He closed his eyes and squeezed thebridge of his nose.

Way too late. He was spooking himself.

"Working on a difficult case?" The guard's eyes lookedgenuinely interested.

I should know its name. "Hardto find missing persons when they don't want to be found."

"The nature of the beast." Another artificial smile.

Small talk. With a creature bred in a Petri dish. I've reallygot to go home.

"Goodnight." Muldoon turned and raised his hand infarewell. The guard mimicked the gesture. I'll get its nametomorrow.

The SYN had only worked the security station for two years now.Not really long enough to be on a first-name basis. Heck, I don't even knowthe name of that travel agent in the office next to mine. Burl-something.Burlap. Maybe. I'll get his name tomorrow too.

His thoughts were meandering, a sure sign it was too late for him to be out in public.Maybe he'd make the drive home on automatic tonight, ensure that hearrived in one piece. He nodded, agreeing with hisreflection in the window of his vehicle—a sleek two-seater built for speed andfuel efficiency. The Paradox. Clever. The makings of a grin tugged at acorner of his unshaven face as he palmed the driver's door.

"Destination?" droned the voice of the computer as hefell into the firm bucket seat. The door drifted shut behind him.

"Home." He fumbled with the safety harness."Automatic drive."

"Confirmed. Estimated time of arrival: ten minutes."

The buckle snapped into place, and he closed his eyes for amoment. The car veered from the curb and accelerated, the steering gripstilting side to side by themselves with every vector adjustment. He dropped hishead back against the support cushion. It had been a long night. A long day.And what did he have to show for it?

Squat. Besides the makings of one killer headache.

He could still see the surface of his desk glowing behind hiseyelids. The files, the photos. Well-organized chaos. The timeline would helpput things in order, but other than adding some chronology to the case, it wasuseless. It wouldn't bringa man back from the dead. And Harry Muldoon wasbeginning to think that's exactly what had happened to his wife's father.

He'd been murdered.

Brilliant government scientist, prohibited from further experimentation with temporal mechanics, goes into hiding and is never heardfrom again. Killed off by the same Feds who fired him in the first place, morethan likely. The only way they could get rid of him for good.

There was nothing in the files to contradict or support thistheory. It was a worst-case scenario. Occam's Razor redefined: in the absenceof any other plausible answers, the worst possibility is the only one likely tobe true. In this town, anyway.

Muldoon's head dropped forward with a jerk as he caughthimself dozing. Good thing he wasn't driving.Soon he'd be home, in his own bed. Beside his wife, hopefully fast asleepalready. Otherwise, he'd be forced to tell her about the enormous headway he'dmade in the case. It was thrilling how he'd managed to track down the elusivetruth.

Only she'd see straight through that brave façade. He'd spent mostof the day just as he had for the past week, following leads that led him incircles. Chasing his own tail like a dog—not one of those robo-hounds, but areal one from the old days before the Plague. Flesh and blood, fur and loads ofsaliva.

She had to know he was giving it all he had. But it was onlynatural that she'd have her doubts. He had plenty of his own. For starters, didhe really want to find the old man? Did he want Cyrus Horton back in theirlives?

He and I never really hit it off. He didn't approve of the way we met: therapist and patient.More to the point, he knew something had to be wrong with me if I was seeingIrena for help. Incontrovertible proof I wasn'tgood enough for his daughter. Same old story, repeating itself across the ages.

When was a man ever good enough for another man's daughter? Whenhe could provide for her, put a roof over her head? When he gave her more thanher father ever could? Antiquated notions. Yet the tension remained.

HellTown Tenement 3166 wouldn't always be the permanent residenceof Mr. and Mrs. Harold and Irena Muldoon. They wouldn't be stuck there on the eighth floorfor the rest of their lives. Not by a long shot. He had plans.

Break the next case wide open, solve the crime of the century,rake in the rewards. Once he earned the reputation that came with a successfuldetective agency, he'd hire on adjunct staff and let them do the grunt work.Move Irena out of the Tenements and over to Easy Street, just a fewblocks down from The Pearl—only the hottest nightclub in all of NewCity.