Grave Makers (Darkside Dreams - Series 1 Book 2) Page 2

  It was the same with Catalea. She was stunning, yet equally tragic, and Oscar fell for her hard, in a perfect storm of lust and that age-old desire to rescue the damsel in distress. She quickly became all he thought about.

  That night, as he was coming back down the hall with his pictures of Coster, he saw her again. Waiting in her door. This time, she beckoned to him. Without a thought, he approached her. Close enough to feel her breath on him.

  "My bed is empty," she said. "Why don't you help me fill it up?"

  Oscar swallowed so hard it hurt. "I don't have any cash on me."

  She smiled. "That doesn't matter. I live here, and I'm allowed to have guests..." She turned, glancing toward her bed, then looked back at him. "I just want some company. You seem harmless. Maybe you can make me happy."

  It seemed like he had. At any rate, Oscar himself was also happy for the first time in years, he realized.

  Things changed after that. He saw Catalea as often as possible. Without trying, without even thinking about it, he cut his drinking down until it was almost nonexistent. And he'd had the same pack of cigarettes in his pocket for over two months. It was still half full. He thought he probably only kept it on him out of superstition, out of a strange, buried fear that things would soon go wrong and he would be miserable once again. Or maybe it just felt strange to have an empty left pocket.

  He fell in love with Catalea immediately. She was like no one he'd ever been with before. According to Catalea, the same was true for her with him. Her other clients didn't treat her badly, per se. Just like they didn't treat their hands badly when they couldn't afford a prostitute and had to take care of themselves. They walked in, they took her in whatever position or style they wanted. Words were kept to a minimum. Just basic, dispassionate instructions. Slower, lower, faster... on your belly, on your back, on your knees. She was basically treated like an object.

  Not by Oscar though. Their sex was plentiful, but they spent far more time together doing other things. Laying and talking, taking walks on moonlit streets, discussing the future - a thing which neither one of them had any power over. He because he was old and irrelevant, she because she was a synth. Her station in life was likely to change, given enough time, but his was not. He would die of old age long before anyone invented a cure to aging.

  Those discussions made Catalea sad, but she never shied away from them. To her, sadness was the most common and the most obvious of emotional states. It was everywhere. It was ample proof that she was human. Oscar knew it, and one day so would the rest of the world.

  She was his life, and he was her escape. They spent as much time together as possible, and even when they were apart memories of her, the moisture of a kiss on his cheek, kept Oscar going. It kept him away from the booze, from his former pack-a-day habit. It kept him away from the bars. Slowly, surely, he set himself along a path of self-improvement.

  He wasn't so old just yet, he had a number of good decades left in him if he took good care of himself. So that was what he did, as much for his sake as for Catalea's. The excess weight dropped off him. His heart no longer thumped so disconcertingly and so frantically on the rare occasion where he had to run after someone. It had been over ten years since he had been in an actual fight, but he figured it was only a matter of time... So he joined a gym, started working out, and took lessons to break the rust off his dormant combat skills. It wasn't long before he got the hang of it again, like riding a bike, and dropped his entry level coach for someone more advanced.

  Catalea saw the changes in him, and she enjoyed them. Not because she was shallow, but because her own body never changed at all. It was something new, another break in the monotony of her life as a synthetic prostitute.

  Now, four months later, he once again moved like a tiger down rain-drenched streets, down back alleys in the deep, cold heart of midnight.

  He passed by a 24-hour eatery and glanced inside. Happy people. Young people. Drunk and carefree. They had each other. Their human mates, who could go wherever they pleased and do whatever came to mind. It made Oscar sad for Catalea, and it made him sad for himself. He started to pull out a cigarette, got it as far as his lips, then glimpsed a trash can a few feet to his left. With a grunt, he threw the whole pack away. Heard it splash down into the watery, soupy depths of the garbage can. Irretrievable, now. If he wanted more he'd have to find a store and buy them. That was just enough of a barrier, just enough of a pain in the neck, to keep him on the straight and narrow.

  He walked on, checking the time. Midnight. Five past, actually. Right now he ought to be in bed with Catalea, since this was her free night. But wouldn't you know it, some bastard had the audacity to promise good payment for prompt service. An urgent matter, they said. And private. Private enough that they wanted the meeting to happen tonight, late, in the quiet hours. He was supposed to be meeting them at some hotel, just a few blocks away.

  He fully expected it to be the same old tired business. Someone's partner was running around behind their back, they wanted proof so that they could come out on top of the inevitable divorce settlement. Or maybe they just wanted a way of blackmailing and getting what they wanted out of their wayward spouse.

  It wasn't Oscar's place to know. He was impartial. Half the people he worked for were heroes, the other half were villains. It didn't make a bit of difference which, as long as he got paid. This society and this world were stifling anyway, and not a whole lot separated the supposed good from the so-called evil. Neither side really stood apart, and Oscar didn't fear a thing from either camp, nor did he feel that any side was particularly interesting.

  The hotel was a seedy place. The type of place where a guy would usually bring a prostitute twenty years ago, before the synth girls took over. Now these sorts of hotels were even more dilapidated than before. They stunk to high heaven and they generally had more rodent occupants than human ones. But Oscar was used to it. His clients often liked to meet in these kinds of places, under the assumption that they were ideal hiding spots.

  He stepped through the entry door, which wobbled precariously on loose hinges, and stepped across the lobby floor. He felt something crunch under his feet, which was disconcerting since the entire floor was tile. He didn't look down, for fear of what he might see. Instead, he boldly crossed the floor in the direction of the reception desk, which stood behind various panes of horribly scuffed acrylic.

  On the way, he passed by the usual cast of characters. The old, shrunken being hidden away in the folds of a coat that was far too big, who sat with a stunned look on his or her toothless face. The rheumy-eyed bum with messy hair and a dirty beard whose only companion was the mystery bottle held in a brown paper bag. The young, scrawny fellow who couldn't stop fidgeting. The young lady who might have been pretty once upon a time, whose breasts were nearly falling out of the skimpy top she wore. Waiting on a john, no doubt, or for her pimp to return from some errand.

  Organic prostitutes weren't as popular these days, but they were still around here and there. There were two reasons why a guy might prefer an organic girl. For one, they could be a lot cheaper. For two... some guys, even those who were desperate enough to pay for a woman's affections, were prejudiced against synths. For these reasons only, the oldest profession in the world clung to stubborn life. Oscar doubted very much that it would ever go away. The world would sooner rid itself of cockroaches.

  From behind his shell of acrylic panels, the desk clerk perked up like he'd just taken a slug of espresso. He even smiled. This seemed like very odd behavior for a guy who worked in a place like this.

  "Good evening, Sir!" the guy said, speaking in a semi-amplified, tinny voice through a little speaker gadget. "What can I do for you?"

  Oscar looked the guy over. Kind of scrawny. Toothpicks for arms, but a bit of a paunch that wasn't helped at all by his horrible sitting posture. He was probably forty years old, balding on top. About as pale and sickly looking as a subterranean creature that had never seen the light of day. Not imp
ressive to behold in any way.

  Oscar leaned in, speaking quietly into the speaker. "I'm here to meet someone. For business. But not the kind you think."

  The guy nodded. Taking the hint, he lowered his voice as well. "Then you're here for me. Oscar Graves, is it? You know, I looked at a few other private eyes too. You're the only one whose name has never been in the news. Not even in a single throwaway article. I like that. It shows that you're careful. You've got discretion."

  "It's no secret I'm good at my job," Oscar said. Then he added, with a wry smile, "Or maybe it is."

  The clerk chuckled. He got up, and announced loudly to the whole room, "Right this way sir, your accommodations have been made ready for you."

  Oscar didn't dare look back, but he caught a reflection on a polished bit of steel that ran along the bottom edge of the acrylic panels. Not a single one of the lobby's other occupants so much as glanced in his direction. They didn't care. Or they were too blitzed on drugs or alcohol to even hear.

  Mirroring the clerk's movements behind the safety barrier, Oscar found himself in a narrow, dark hall that smelled of piss. Human or rat, he couldn't tell. Probably both.

  A blank door opened by an inch, and the clerk ushered him inside. Oscar went, sidling sideways through the narrow opening. The door shut behind him with a heavy sound and a series of clicks as different locks slammed into place.

  The clerk led the way down a short hall and into a little private office. More of an apartment, really. There was a crappy old TV and a cot that faced it, with a single lumpy pillow at one end and a blanket that looked almost as rough as sandpaper. There was a fridge and a coffee pot and a five-gallon jug of water. Nothing else.

  The place was clean, at least. The guy must live here full-time. Oscar wouldn't be surprised if he was the only permanent employee left in the hotel. The parent company had probably gone out of business years ago, and he was just here running the place independently and alone, taking money and hand-delivering wads of cash to various utility companies to keep his shitty little enterprise running as long as possible.

  "Whatever happens, Mr. Graves," the guy said, "the evidence I am about to show you cannot leave this room. It's too sensitive. If it fell into the wrong hands, I could be in big trouble. And maybe you would be, as well..."

  Oscar took a step closer, looking into every corner of the room for hidden microphones or cameras. He did this unconsciously, feeling thrilled. He could almost smell the blood in the air. He could almost see the circling sharks. Any second now, they might start nibbling at his heels. If he wasn't careful, they'd follow these nibbles up by biting a chunk out of his leg. Or maybe by taking his whole head. Good thing, then, that he was always careful.

  Finally, a real case.

  "What is it?" he asked. "Was someone killed in the hotel? A working girl? You want to figure out who did it, but you don't want to get the cops involved..."

  "Not a murder," the clerk said. "A step below that."

  "Kidnapping?"

  The clerk nodded solemnly. For the first time, Oscar noticed the lopsided and faded nametag that was pinned to his shirt; JAMES, it said.

  James walked to the TV, a journey of two short steps, and turned it on. There was already footage up, ready to be watched, and all he had to do was hit play.

  It was a sharp view of the cracked and overgrown sidewalk just outside the front of the hotel. The view was almost straight down, from some camera anchored in place a good fifteen feet above the ground. Oscar made a note to look for it on his way out. But he didn't think he would be leaving all that soon. He moved close to the TV screen, leaning in, trying to see every detail possible.

  On the bottom left the date and time were displayed. The recorded events had happened just yesterday evening, not long after sunset. The street was still lit in a red glow, deepening quickly toward dusk. Every ten or fifteen seconds, a car would pass by and briefly wash its headlights over the sidewalk.

  There was something moving, pacing a bit along the sidewalk as though hunting for a comfortable place to lie. It took Oscar a moment to recognize it as a cat.

  "That's Moxie," James said. "She showed up here a couple years ago as a kitten. Half-starved and with a broken tail. I nursed her back to health and she's just kind of stuck around since then. She'll disappear sometimes for a day or two, but she always comes back. Everyone loves her. Even the pimps. She was sort of the mascot for the whole hotel. Wait, here it comes, look! Watch this! The audacity..."

  A new pair of headlights came washing over the sidewalk, but the car drew to a stop instead of drifting on by. A door opened, swinging into view, and a character dressed in billowy black clothes took one step out, grabbed poor old Moxie, then jumped back into the car and sped off.

  Oscar watched this, waited for something else to happen, then noticed that James was wringing his hands in nervous expectation.

  "This is what you called me for?" Oscar finally said, feeling disappointment plummeting through him like an anchor falling toward the bottom of the sea. "A cat?"

  "Moxie is very important to us here," James explained. "She's family, Mr. Graves. Please don't laugh. We just want her back. Please, won't you help?"

  Oscar considered flipping the bird to James and walking out. But then he thought of all the other gigs he had been doing. Skulking around with a camera, trying to catch some dumb married bastard getting his willy wet. Or some dumb married lady getting her guts scrambled by one of the studly male synths who made the organic models and movie stars of yesteryear look like pitiful boys. He'd had just about enough of that work for ten lifetimes.

  Yes, this was just a cat. Yet technically, still a kidnapping. The theft of a living entity away from its rightful home. In a way, Oscar felt that it was probably more noble to save a cat than an organic human. A cat couldn't be evil. A cat deserved a better chance.

  So, feeling like an idiot, Oscar sighed and leaned toward the TV to cycle back through the footage. First, he had to see if he could glean any more clues from what the camera had picked up.

  What a wonder his life had become… but at least he still had Catalea.

  CHAPTER 3

  ◆◆◆

  In the end, the cat was never found. There was still a chance, maybe, but neither Oscar nor James held out much hope these days.

  A week passed. Then days. James stopped calling, and the leads stopped rolling in. Not that there had been many to begin with. A homeless man remembered hearing a cat meowing "like a bastard" from the open window of a passing car. He couldn't be sure, but he thought he remembered the car as being black. That matched, but when you considered the number of black cars in the city, as well as the number of people who took their despairing pets to and from the vet each day, it wasn't much of a clue.

  Catalea withstood his rants about his working life, including the return to the humdrum following the disappointing and open-ended conclusion of the Moxie saga. She listened to his woes then made them better using some warm, wet part of her body. Then she shared her own woes.

  Oscar saw her every day. Sometimes twice or three times. So it was hard for him to notice any small changes. Still, he began to sense some slow transformation in her. Something that he didn't think had anything to do with him. She seemed... happier. She didn't complain as much about her other clients. She seemed to be holding her tongue about something, always on the edge of saying it but never quite getting there. When he tried to leave her extra money, she made a small and customary effort to refuse it. But it became much easier to convince her otherwise.

  Sometimes, when they were making love or just lying together, she would get a bit antsy. Especially when they were loud. She would glance toward the door or the wall, always the same wall, the one that separated her unit from the next one over. He didn't know why. As far as he knew, that unit was unoccupied. The last girl who used it had been bought out a few weeks ago. Some rich guy had decided to move her into his own home, turn her into his personal toy so no one else could
have her. The pleasure houses let this happen on occasion, but not without rubbing their fingers together and mentioning some outrageous fee. Somewhere in six figures.

  Oscar wished he could do that for Catalea. Not to make her some personal plaything, but more so to simply free her from that place. However, it now seemed like she didn't want to leave. She even turned down their usual walks, making excuses that she was tired or that the weather was too cold. The excuses rang hollow, but Oscar didn't pry. He waited. If she cared about him half as much as he cared about her, he had to believe she would eventually tell him what was going on.

  ◆◆◆

  One night, Oscar opened his eyes from a ten-minute doze and found Catalea lying stiff and still as the dead beside him, staring up at the ceiling. Lying on her back, which she rarely did. Usually, she would be wrapped up in him like a synthetic pretzel, getting as close to his warmth and the sound of his heart as possible. She seemed to be thinking very hard about something. He imagined what the inside of her cyber brain must look like. Data banks switching on and off a million times a second, quantum calculations flowing faster than the speed of his own thought.

  It was cruel, he thought, that the synths had been given the capacity to be smarter and better and stronger than humans yet had been tethered to the same flesh, the same prison of brain and skull and emotion-fueled body. It was even crueler because humankind naturally hated any being that was better. It also hated anything that was inferior. Come to think of it, humankind even hated its equals. It hated itself and its own creations. In the end, Oscar realized his kind would probably end up destroying everything. Unless they were somehow stopped.

  Maybe Catalea was thinking the same thing. She might be a sex worker, but Oscar knew she was smarter than him. A hell of a lot smarter. Who knew the deep thoughts that pulsed between her ears?