BACKTRACKER by Milo Fowler (e book reader txt) 📕

How long ago had it been? Less than an hour? He'd found the boy inthe pouring rain, eager enough to take his chances against the traffic and gorunning into the street, straight for the remains of his father lying at themandroids' feet. The tuxedo with an umbrella had asked the old man a fewquestions, then turned away, leaving the giants to do his dirty work. Had thatbeen Lennox?

Muldoon tapped his plug and blinked as his view of the apartment'sentryway returned. He stared back into the living room, toward the empty couch.Absently, his hand went to the revolver holstered under his left arm.

How long has it been? The last time he'd setfoot into The Pearl—

He shook his head, squeezing his temples. I don'tknow which memories are real.

Not a day went by that he didn't feel like he was losing his mind,haunted by sights and sounds from the past that he knew were as real asanything else. He'd experienced them himself. He remembered them clearly. Butthe sad truth? They were related to events that had never occurred.

He knew he'd been married at one point. He remembered every detailof their wedding day with crystal clarity—the reception, where he'd slow-dancedhis bride to some old jazz number, his heart and soul overcome with love thatexploded like a nuclear bomb inside him, all the while wondering: What haveI ever done to deserve this amazing woman? He remembered her face like noother, his beautiful angel in white gliding across the dance floor.

He remembered their life together, struggling to make ends meet,living in this crappy HellTown apartment while they both worked—him as aprivate investigator, her as a therapist—and saved up what they could to getout of here, to move over to Easy Street where he'd give her the life shedeserved. One big case...blow it wide open. That's all he'd ever needed.

But in the end, it hadn't mattered. Because none of it hadhappened. He'd never been married to Irena Horton.

She'd never been born.

He cursed. Stormed into the kitchen and grabbed his coat, tuggedit on. Smashed his hat as he retrieved it from the counter, picked at it alittle, re-shaped it in the hallway outside as his apartment door slid shut andlocked itself behind him. His eyes remained on the hat in his hands as hedescended the eight flights of indoor stairs, and only when he'd stepped outinto the rain did he put it on and pull the brim down to shield his eyes.

The slick, vacant sidewalk and empty street beyond beckoned. Itwas there his feet took him, shoes and socks with no chance to dry since theirlast encounter with the relentless downpour.

Forget about the kid. He's nobody to you. Whois, these days? You've done enough good—and more than enough harm. Leave thisalone. It's got nothing to do with you.

One block of dark tenements passed, followed by another. Diffusedmoonlight illuminated the way in a frosty glow between storm clouds and sheetsof driving rain. Shadows threatened to overtake any passersby, reaching outwith grasping fingers to touch a warmth they would never know for themselves.The man's eyes roved as he walked. Habit. He couldn't help it. He knew thisarea of town too well to let any of it pass unheeded.

In another life, he might have been born here. He would have livedwith his father, just the two of them against the world and all its odds. Butthey would have made it, because they always looked out for each other. He knewhis dad needed him. They were inseparable. That's why he'd thrown all cautionto the wind when he saw his old man torn apart in that alley across the street—

He slipped, stumbled, but caught himself with one hand against thepole of a streetlight that had long since quit its only purpose in life.

I'm losing my mind.

But it made sense—in a completely illogical way. If he couldn'ttrust his memories from what seemed to be years ago, how could he trust anyfrom less than an hour ago? If, in fact, that was how long it had been sincehe'd restrained that kid from charging into the street.

Time didn't work the way it used to for him. It had always seemedrelative, depending on his activity at the moment: minutes raced along while hewas doing something enjoyable, but the opposite had also been true. Now,however, there was no telling how time would pass. He often had no idea whathour it was. Sure, he could Link up and check the standard, but it never seemedright. Deep down, somewhere inside him, he knew it was wrong.

That copy of Alice's Adventures in Wonderland hadn't comewith any disclaimer. If it had, it might have read something like WARNING:PROLONGED USAGE OF THIS TIME TRAVEL DEVICE MAY RESULT IN A VARIETY OF SIDEEFFECTS INCLUDING, BUT NOT LIMITED TO, CHRONIC JET LAG, SCHIZOPHRENIA,INSOMNIA, AND (of course) CONSTIPATION.

He almost smiled, in spite of himself. But then he looked at thestreetlight, and he had no idea how long he'd been standing there, bracinghimself against it.

A chill slithered down his spine, brought on by the downpour nowblasting against him. The wind had picked up over the pastmoments...minutes...whatever. He watched his shoes as they picked up the paceand left the useless streetlight behind.

Dark, quiet blocks devoid of any other foot traffic soon gave wayto splashing, honking cars with lights that sped in both directions at thecross street up ahead. Broadway. There, the umbrellas on the sidewalks bustledto and fro with a life all their own, shapes that resembled men and womencoming and going at analmost frantic rate.

Nothing's changed.

Everything was exactly as he'd left it, like no time had passed atall. As he entered the barrage of fast-paced bodies, allowing their momentum tocarry him forward, he found the faces attached to them were the same he'd seenbefore—most of them, anyway. Synthetics.

Don't they ever sleep?

Doubtful. One of the many human flaws genetically weeded out ofthese human-replacements. What better way tobeef up the economy than to create consumers who had no need for sleep andcould instead spend the entire credit balance they'd earned in a single day onall that The