Orphan X

51 *&^%*!

The ten RFID fingernails overlay Slatcher’s own, though since the press-ons had been designed for normal-size hands, they looked more like painted stripes. They always made him feel like a girl playing dress-up in a too-small gown. The fully pixelated contact lens, seated on his right eye, scrolled the virtual-messaging session with Top Dog, rendering the texts midway to the dashboard of the purple Scion. He sat in the shoved-back driver’s seat, his fingers tickling the air, giving answers he did not want to give.

Top Dog was angry, and when Top Dog was angry, you typed faster.

YOU STILL HAVE NO LEADS ON ORPHAN X. HOSPITALS, ERS, MORGUES.

Slatcher noted the lacking question mark. Nonetheless he replied. NO.

The green cursor barely had an instant to blink before TD’s next text sprang up: WHAT IS ORPHAN V’S CONDITION?

The car hugged the curb on an idyllic suburban street lined with willows. Fallen silver-blue leaves collected on the windshield wipers. Using the back of his hand, Slatcher blotted sweat from his brow. The windows magnified the midday Vegas sun, turning the car desert-hot even in cool December.

The movement inadvertently rendered some symbols: *&^%*!

IS THAT SUPPOSED TO BE A JOKE?

NO. SORRY. TECH MALFUNCTION.

ORPHAN V?

HOSPITALIZED. OUT OF COMMISSION. HER BACK LOOKS LIKE SOMETHING OUT OF A CREATURE FEATURE.

HOW ABOUT “KATRIN WHITE”?

A drop of sweat trickled down the bridge of Slatcher’s nose, making it itch, but he didn’t dare scratch it. I LET HER GO. SHE SERVED HER PURPOSE. SHE DID RIGHT BY US.

SHE’LL NEED TO BE CLEANED UP.

He regretted the implicit order. He preferred to play by fair rules, but Top Dog had no such moral qualms. Slatcher typed: IMMEDIATELY?

NO. SHE GOT CLOSE TO HIM. I WANT HER WATCHED. ANOTHER LINE IN THE WATER.

COPY.

ORPHAN X TOOK OUT ALL YOUR FREELANCERS?

EXCEPT ONE. BUT IT DOESN’T MATTER. I WILL HANDLE EVERYTHING PERSONALLY FROM HERE ON OUT.

YOU’D BETTER, TD typed. OR I WILL.

Another implicit threat. A second drop of sweat forged down Slatcher’s forehead. The itch on his nose grew in intensity. He forced his fingers to type. COPY.

WHAT’S YOUR PLAN?

Laughter and shouts carried from the school playground across the street.

MORENA AGUILAR. SHE’LL LEAD US TO HIM.

I WANT HER WRAPPED IN SURVEILLANCE. WHATEVER IT TAKES.

Slatcher lifted his gaze to the little girl sitting on the swings. A teenage girl crouched in front of her, her hands gripping the chains. Almost lost in the sea of playing kids, they spoke closely, intimately.

THAT’S WHY I’M HERE, Slatcher replied.

The teenager stood, kissed the younger girl on the cheek, and turned. Watching Morena walk away, Slatcher reminded himself not to reach to turn the ignition key just yet.

Instead he finished typing: SHE WON’T LEAVE MY SIGHT.