BACKTRACKER Read online

  BACKTRACKER

  A Novel

  Milo James Fowler

  www.milojamesfowler.com

  For Sara

  Now and Forever

  PROLOGUE

  Ten Years Ago: 2166

  April 12

  Alan stood at the railing, gripping it with both hands, knuckles as white as the raging waters far below. Plenty of rocks down there beneath the surface, rearing their heads among the chop. They would break his fall. And him.

  He tapped the plug behind his left ear and called up the life insurance policy. Documents floated before his ocular implants, a hologram only he could see. Not that anybody else would have noticed if he'd projected it. Nobody was around.

  A lonely bridge in the driving rain. A desperate man under an avalanche of debt. But now everything was in order. His family would be provided for. They wouldn't have much, but they would survive. All he had to do was jump.

  His boots slipped as he climbed over the railing, clinging to it. He had to do this right. Couldn't foul it up and just break his leg. He had to go face-first, crack open his head like a swollen watermelon.

  Strange what you think about at the end. Not the faces of his wife and kids, which would have made more sense. Instead he remembered fresh fruit, something he hadn't tasted since he was a kid himself. Times were different then. Everything seemed more real, somehow. Not like this.

  Why wasn't he afraid? He should have been shivering with cold dread. Instead this was more like a Link experience. Virtual. Almost real, only something was missing. It didn't feel like it was actually happening. Maybe part of him didn't believe he'd go through with it. He was a coward, after all.

  His boots shuffled on the slick ledge. He was stalling. His grip on the railing behind him had yet to loosen. He couldn't feel his fingers.

  "This is it," he breathed, psyching himself up.

  He pulled his right hand free.

  "Need some help?" called a voice from the end of the bridge.

  Alan jerked his head, facing the voice. A dark figure approached, trench coat flailing in the wind and rain. A purposeful gait, unhurried. An unfamiliar man. An unexpected obstacle.

  "No thanks," Alan said, unprepared for conversation, hoping this stranger wasn't some good-doing Wayist here to save his soul. "I'm fine."

  "Unlikely, Alan," said the stranger. "You've been missing for days. The cops have given up on you, but your family hasn't. They're worried. People think you left them."

  "No, I—" He struggled to hold onto the railing and face the stranger at the same time. "I would never leave them. I love them."

  "They know. They love you. That's why they hired me to find you."

  "Hired?" That didn't make sense. They had barely enough credit for groceries. "Who the hell are you?"

  "You're in trouble. I get that." The stranger stopped a couple meters away. Both hands stuffed into the deep pockets of his coat. "But doing this? Leaving your wife and kids? You'll only hurt them more."

  "They're better off—"

  "They don't think so. I'm inclined to agree with them." He beckoned with a nod. "Come on, Alan. Let's go see your family. Trust me, they'll be happy to see you."

  Alan turned his gaze back to the water. The rocks. The easy way out. Except it wouldn't be so easy, would it? Not for his wife, Jean. Or the kids, Hana, Debi, and Ernest. He saw their faces now, and his eyes stung with hot tears. They would miss him terribly.

  But he knew what was best. They would learn to live without him, and things would be better for them. No more gambling debts, living in fear of the collectors. Those bloodsuckers would leave his family alone once the life insurance took care of everything he owed. Jean and the kids could start over with a clean slate. Without his addiction poisoning their happiness.

  His mind was made up. Not an easy choice, but the only one that mattered.

  He stepped off the ledge, both boots dangling in the air, cold rushing upward—

  Until his shoulder wrenched free of its socket, his arm extended over his head, his wrist snagged on something that left him swinging. He cried out in pain and surprise.

  "No you don't." The stranger had a hold of him, gripping him with both gloved hands. "I'm a man of my word, Alan. I promised your wife I'd bring you home."

  "Let me go!" Alan wailed. A pathetic sound. He hated being so weak.

  "C'mon." The stranger grunted, adjusting his hold, clutching Alan's forearm. "Help me out here. I don't have all day."

  A pinpoint of light flashed from the man's wrist. He wore an outdated timepiece, a black plastic wristwatch, something like a kid might have worn decades ago. Alan hadn't seen anything like it since he was a boy himself, digging for the prize at the bottom of a cereal box.

  The stranger cursed under his breath. "We're running out of time, Alan."

  "Who are you?"

  "Harry Muldoon. Believe it or not, this isn't the first time we've met."

  Mystified, Alan reached upward with his other arm, and Muldoon guided his hands to the railing, holding onto him tightly as both his boots regained their footing on the ledge. Muldoon didn't let go until Alan had clambered over to stand beside him on the bridge.

  "Hail a cab. Take it to this address." Muldoon handed him a business card, as outdated as the wristwatch. On it was printed a location Alan didn't recognize. "Wait for me there."

  A chime sounded on Muldoon's timepiece. Some kind of alarm? The light continued to flash.

  "We've got to get you cleaned up before you go home. You've been out on the streets too long. Promise me you'll do as I say this time."

  "This time?" Alan echoed. Things were getting weirder by the moment.

  "I'll meet you there." He took a step back, beyond Alan's reach, and stood like a statue. The chime reached a fevered pitch. "Don't freak out."

  A sudden burst of electric-blue light, and Harry Muldoon vanished from sight, leaving nothing behind. It was as though he'd never been there. In the silence that followed, interrupted only by the sounds of the churning river and driving rain, Alan staggered across the bridge with trembling hands. Every few seconds, he glanced at the address on the card, wondering if it too would disappear without warning.

  When Alan eventually showed up at his office, he opened the door with HAROLD MULDOON, PRIVATE INVESTIGATOR in bold lettering on the frosted glass.

  "You made it." He graced Alan with half a grin. Then he cold-cocked him, knocking him unconscious with a single blow to the jaw. "Sorry, Alan," he said, catching the disheveled man as he slumped into his arms. "Three days from now, we'll get you home. Until then, you've got to sit tight."

  Muldoon dragged Alan to a chair and zip-tied him in place. There were consequences to chronic online gaming. You never knew when you might wake up and find yourself in the clutches of collectors looking to take what you owed them in blood instead of credits. Not the case here, but that was beside the point.

  Alan's wife wouldn't be requesting Muldoon's help until two days from now. So Muldoon would have to wait until sometime after that to take him home. If Alan were reunited with his family too soon, then he wouldn't be gone long enough for Jean to visit Muldoon's office, and Muldoon never would go looking for her husband in the first place. As a rule, Muldoon tried to avoid the possibility of such inconsistent causal loops. They gave him headaches.

  When Alan came to, he wouldn't ask many questions. He'd be too shocked by the whole experience. Just enough to keep him on the straight and narrow path, Muldoon hoped.

  Half a dozen tries, but he'd finally managed to get Alan this far. The cops, overworked and underpaid, had presumed the man was dead after three days missing. They'd been right. But the police had their limits. They couldn't travel into the past and find Alan moments before he threw his life
away.

  Muldoon was no hero. He had a business to run, rent to pay, and he expected to be compensated for his efforts. Often times he was—when he timed things out right. So he waited. Kept Alan fed and watered, alive and well. Out of sight. Then he arranged the tearful reunion.

  As far as the cops and collectors knew, Alan Jeffries was dead. Muldoon would advise the Jeffries to keep it that way. Get the hell out of town and start over in some other Province with new identities. If all went according to plan, they would live out the rest of their lives together, poor but happy. There were worse endings to this story.

  Muldoon hoped none of them ever came to pass.

  July 31

  Raul's shorts and T-shirt were damp with sweat. He sat huddled in a corner of the dark closet, as far from the door as possible. Whenever it opened, he jumped, stifling a scream. He couldn't stop shaking.

  They tossed him a candy bar once in a while, a bottle of water. They didn't let him out to go to the bathroom. He had to do that in a corner of the closet. The smell made him sick, even though it was his own.

  In the gloom, he couldn't tell what time it was. When the door opened, the glare was always the same—too bright, like the lights in the gym at school. How many days had passed since they grabbed him off the street? Two, maybe?

  He'd been walking home after swim practice. The sun was still out. They pulled up in a van and dragged him inside before he could cry for help, before he knew what was really happening. He knew it was wrong, being carried off your feet by two strong men. Tossed onto your back, a gloved hand pressed hard over your mouth while others grabbed your feet and your hands and wrapped them in tape. The side door slid shut with a slam, plunging the back of the van into darkness.

  "Well, ain't he pretty," said one of them as the van lurched from the curb with a screech of tires, accelerating away. "Catch of the day, huh?"

  Another one chuckled, cursing with appreciation. "Top dollar, my man, top dollar."

  They talked about him like he was something to be bought or sold. They told him not to cry and spoil his pretty little face.

  "Five thousand for our little man, nothing less," they said, winking at him.

  Raul's stomach rumbled now. Had they fed him today? It had been a while since his last candy bar and water bottle.

  They didn't sound happy outside, in that other room with the gym lights. They yelled at each other, cursing and calling each other awful names, hollering about "buyers" and "markets" and "merchandise." Raul crept toward the door to hear better.

  "So much for your contacts," spat one of them. "Days now, and we've got nothing. Meanwhile our fresh little flower is wilting. Top dollar, my ass!"

  "Lay off, man," said the other one. "They'll be here. Just wait."

  "What have we been doing? An easy score, you said. Right. We'll be lucky to break even! That van, this hellhole—you said we'd come out ahead, but we're worse off than when we started!"

  "Trust me. It'll pay off."

  "Cut and run, man. We've gotta burn everything, erase the DNA. That kid's gonna croak before we get a single credit out of this mess, and I'm not going down with the ship."

  The door crashed open. Not the closet door—another one, slamming against the wall like somebody had kicked it in. Raul cringed but kept his ear pressed against the closet door, listening intently. The men shouted and cursed, surprised. Gun metal clicked and clinked, but before a single shot could go off, the sound of pulse rounds firing filled the room. Just like on the Link, those "cop shows" as Raul's mother called them: three blasts, abrupt bass notes that rumbled in Raul's chest as they found their marks.

  The men released garbled cries, hitting the floor and shaking violently. Raul could see it all happen in his mind's eye, every detail down to the thuds of the men's weapons hitting the floor, released by their limp fingers after the seizures ended. They lay still. Silent. No longer in control of the situation.

  Raul heard only his own breath. Maybe his heartbeat too, racing in his ears if that was possible.

  "Third time's the charm," muttered a voice Raul didn't recognize as heavy footsteps headed toward the closet. A shadow fell across the line of white light beneath the door. More silence. Then a soft knock. "It's okay, kid. You're all right now." The man paused. "Move back from the door. Let's get you out of there."

  Raul crawled backward, bringing up one arm to shield his face. Who was this man with the pulse gun? A cop? They weren't allowed to use lethal rounds, so that made sense. The police had found him, they'd come to rescue him. He would finally go home, something he feared might never happen.

  The closet door caved in with broken padlocks swinging from the door jam. Three of them. Those kidnappers hadn't wanted Raul to even think about escaping. Now they lay sprawled out across the floor and stained furniture, either unconscious or dead. Hard to tell which.

  "Can you walk?" said the stranger.

  He was tall, backlit by the room's glaring light. His gun was in his right hand, pointed at the floor. A revolver with a large cylinder and a wide barrel. The cylinder glowed blue where three rounds remained unfired in their chambers.

  Raul nodded and tried to say he could, but his throat was dried shut. So he got to his feet instead and instantly crumpled against the man.

  "Steady, champ." The man caught him with one arm and held him upright. "You haven't gotten much exercise lately."

  "I swim," Raul managed. Talking hurt his throat.

  "You're dehydrated. Want me to carry you out?"

  Raul shook his head. He forced his wobbly knees to obey, taking a step back from the man.

  "You're one tough kid," the man said. He sounded like he meant it.

  They stepped over the zip-tied limbs of the motionless men on the floor and headed toward the busted front doorway.

  "You a cop?" Raul rasped as they stepped out into the humid summer night.

  The stranger shook his head. "They gave up on finding you a few days ago. Thought you were dead. Maybe worse." He nodded over his shoulder toward the first-floor apartment they were leaving behind, one of maybe a thousand in the block-long HellTown tenement. "Your mom hired me to find you."

  "Are you a detective?"

  A smile cracked one side of the stranger's face. "Sometimes."

  "What's your name?"

  "Muldoon. You?"

  "Raul."

  Muldoon stuck out his hand. Raul took it in a firm shake.

  "Would you believe we've met before, Raul?"

  He frowned at that, trying to remember. "I don't think so..."

  "Another life." Muldoon's eyes looked sad but relieved, like maybe that other life hadn't turned out so well. He clapped Raul on the shoulder and squeezed. "Let's get you home."

  A police car pulled to the curb with its flashers on. Muldoon stepped in front of Raul, shielding him from view.

  "This had better be good, Muldoon," said the cop, heaving himself out of the vehicle and glaring at the detective.

  "They're inside, Sergeant. You should've brought more men."

  "Couldn't spare 'em." The sergeant spoke with a funny accent. Like a leprechaun who'd woken up on the wrong side of the bed. "Other divisions might be gettin' those synthetics, but I prefer my officers to be flesh and blood." He cursed. "SYNs. Don't trust the damn things. Ain't human!"

  "So you're stuck with the few. The proud. The stretched-too-thin."

  "Want a thank-you? A pat on the back? Fine. Nice work. Cross your fingers and imagine a big fat bonus."

  "You can't afford my rates."

  "Don't I know it. I've given up on you ever joining the force. You'd be a real asset, Muldoon. Uncanny. That's how good you are." He cursed under his breath. "The Blackshirts will be all over this, soon as I file my report. Human trafficking is their dance. The kid will be remanded into their custody—"

  "Hold off on the report, Sarge," Muldoon said, stepping forward. "He's been through enough. He should go home to his mother."

  Raul peeked around Muldoon's fr
ame, draped in a long black coat. Weird thing to wear in the summer. The sergeant scratched at his unshaven cheek and nodded, squinting at Raul. Thinking things over, it looked like. Was he a good cop or a bad one?

  "Get in," he said at last, climbing behind the steering grips of his black and white vehicle. The lettering on the side read NEWCITY POLICE—TO PROTECT THE RULE OF LAW.

  Muldoon and Raul slid into the backseat. As the doors closed and locked automatically behind them, Muldoon gave the sergeant Raul's address on the other side of HellTown. The police car sped off into the night, carrying the boy and the stranger who'd rescued him to the only place in the world he wanted to be: home.

  Fifteen minutes later, Raul's mom was clutching him to her chest outside their tenement and sobbing all over him, and he was hugging her back and doing plenty of his own crying. The relief he felt washed over him like a tidal wave. She kept repeating his name and saying, "Thank you, thank you," again and again.

  But when Raul looked back at where Muldoon and the cop had been, they were gone.

  Muldoon rested his head back against the seat and closed his eyes as Sergeant Armstrong drove them along the congested city streets, weaving around four-wheeled obstacles in their path. Both of his hairy hands were on the grips. No automatic drive for this cop; he didn't trust the AI.

  The kid was back with his mother, where he belonged. The kidnappers were out of commission. And it had taken only a dozen or so attempts. Not too shabby, all things considered.

  The only problem? This wasn't his time. Raul might mention Muldoon to his mother, but she would have no memory of hiring him. Because she hadn't. Not yet.

  A pinpoint of light started flashing on his wristwatch. He clapped a hand over it before Armstrong had a chance to notice. Soon the alarm would chime, and after that, he'd have a whole lot of explaining to do the next time he crossed paths with the sergeant.

  "Let me off here," Muldoon said, reaching for the door's manual release.