Pamela…terrified. In spite of the flames and the sirens and the broken glass, that was what gripped him. So out of character. The ultracompetent Pamela was even more driven than he; give her a goal and she became a heat-seeking missile. She’d never shown him the little girl who lived inside her, the one who could be frightened.
“I don’t know,” he said, reaching across and giving her trembling shoulder a gentle squeeze. “But it’s all right. We’re okay.”
He hoped.
Patrick was dressed only in boxer shorts, and the cool fall air flowing through the window raised goosebumps. Maybe it wasn’t just the air. He straightened and did a slow turn, checking out the glass-littered floor until he spotted a bottle on its side against the far wall. He crunched over and retrieved it. A Fruitopia bottle, empty but reeking of gasoline. And a piece of paper rolled up inside. He fished it out.
“What is it?” Pamela said.
“A note.”
With trembling fingers Patrick unrolled the wet piece of blue-lined loose leaf and held it up to the light. The gasoline had acted as a solvent, running the ballpoint ink, but the words were still legible. His gut crawled as he read them aloud.
“Forget about a sim union or next time it won’t be empty.”
“Oh, Christ!” Pamela cried. “Who’d do something like this?”
“Not signed.”
A threat. He had trouble rereading the message because his hands had begun to shake. Jesus, he’d heard of things like this happening, but never dreamed…
He forced his racing brain to slow so he could examine the possibilities. SimGen popped into his head immediately, and just as quickly he discarded it. This was hardly their style, especially since they knew they couldn’t lose in the long run. One of the anti-sim hate groups? Could be. He’d seen them on TV, mostly losers who resented animals taking human jobs—Wake up, guys: Machines have been doing that for a couple of centuries—but he hadn’t heard of any in the area.
He didn’t want Pamela to see how rattled he was. “One of your old boyfriends, maybe?”
“This isn’t funny, Patrick! Someone just threatened your life!”
Just then a couple of Katonah’s finest screeched to a halt at his front curb.
“Sorry.” Couldn’t she see he was just trying to break the tension? “Bad joke.” He looked around for his pants. “I’m going to go out and talk to the cops.”
“What am I supposed to do?”
“Get dressed and stay out of sight. You’re better off not being involved in this.”
He pulled on his slacks and a shirt, and hurried toward the front door.
…next time it won’t be empty…
What the hell had he got himself into?
8
It was a little after nine when Patrick arrived at his office at Payes & Hecht, but he felt as if he’d already put in a full day.
The fire trucks had arrived on the heels of the first patrol car and doused his flaming lawn. It looked like the vandals had tried to burn some sort of message into the grass but whatever it said had been turned to steaming mud by the time the fire hoses finished their work. The cops took his statement, bagged the Fruitopia bottle and note, and promised to have the patrols make extra swings by his place.
All fine and good, but it had left him with a sick, sour stomach and an adrenaline hangover. At least he was in better shape than Pamela who seemed totally freaked by the incident. He’d tried to explain that the threat had been against him, not her, but still she’d been afraid to leave the house.
Finally he’d put her on a train to the city, then made it to White Plains where he was surrounded as soon as he stepped into the Payes & Hecht reception area. News of the attack had been all over the TV and radio; the firm was medium size, consisting of twenty-two attorneys, and everyone knew everyone. The associates and staff were shocked and concerned and wanted to know all the details. But before he could get into it, Alton Kraft, the managing senior partner, pulled him aside for a one-on-one in his office.
“You all right?” Kraft said.
His blue eyes looked out from under thick eyebrows that matched his salt-and-pepper hair. He had a lined face and looked grandfatherly, but he could be a buzzsaw with any associate who strayed off the beaten path. Patrick was up for partnership next year and Kraft was one of his main supporters.
“I’m fine. Really.”
The two of them had hit it off from the first brief Patrick had prepared for one of Kraft’s cases. He’d said it was the best he’d seen in years, and had taken Patrick under his wing.
“Good. I want to talk to you about this sim union thing. I’m not sure it’s consistent with the image of the firm.”
“It’s pro bono,” Patrick said. “Aren’t we always being encouraged to take some pro bono cases? This is one of mine.”
“That’s all fine and good, but I don’t like seeing the firm’s name mentioned in connection with fire bombings.”
Patrick stiffened. He was well aware that when Alton Kraft said “I” he was speaking for the senior partners.
“Alton, believe me,” Patrick said, smiling in the hope of lightening things up, “I like it even less when it’s my own name mentioned in connection with a fire bombing.”
Kraft grinned. “I can imagine. But Patrick…” The grin faded. “You’re an excellent attorney and you’ve got a big future with this firm. I admire your tenacity—when you’re handed a problem, you stick with it until it’s solved.”
Tenacity, Patrick thought. Better than “stubborn as a mule,” which was how his mother used to characterize him.
“But that same tenacity cancause problems too. When a situation looks like trouble for you or the firm, you have to know when to back away and cut your losses.”
“I hear you, Alton. Loud and clear. But I’m sort of stuck with the sims for now.”
“Not for long, fortunately.”
“What do you mean?”
“Oh, I guess you haven’t had time to sift through your messages yet. Judge Boughton has been assigned to decide on the declaratory judgment.”
“Henry Boughton?”
“The one and only.”
Patrick felt as if he’d been punched. Shit. What else could go wrong today?
“I think I’d better go talk to my clients.”
9
Tome answered Patrick’s knock at the barrack door. His large dark eyes widened at the sight of him. His grin was pure joy.
“Mist Sulliman! You all right? You not hurt?”
Doeseverybody know? “I’m fine, Tome. I just—”
“Look!” Tome cried, turning to the nearly empty room where half a dozen off-duty sims were either clearing the breakfast plates from the long mess tables or lounging in front of the TV. “He comes. He safe!”
The other sims jumped up and began screeching. They rushed forward and crowded around, some reaching out to touch him, as if to reassure themselves that he was real. Patrick was touched in another way—they must have been genuinely worried about him.
“We see TV,” Tome said. “See burn. Say men who hate sim hate you.”
“Well, we don’t know that for sure.”
Tome cocked his head and his dark eyes stared at Patrick from beneath his prominent brow. “Why men hate sim?”
“Justsome men, Tome—a very small number. Dumb men. Let’s not worry about them. We’ve got a bigger worry.”
“More fire?”
“No. A judge, a very tough judge, has been assigned to our case.”
“No problem for Mist Sulliman. Him best lawyer world.”
Patrick had to grin at that. “You keep thinking those good thoughts, Tome. But this is very bad news for our case.”
“No problem for Mist Sulliman.”
“Yes, problem. Big problem.”
How to explain this to a nonhuman? Patrick wasn’t all that familiar with Judge Boughton’s positions, opinions, and decisions outside the labor relations arena. He did know he was a crotchety old fart who thought too much court time was being wasted on trivialities at the expense of more serious legal matters; woe to the attorney who showed up in Boughton’s court with a case the judge considered frivolous—which covered a lot of territory in Boughton’s field of vision. He was the terror of unions, notorious for his loathing of the picket line.