Lock In

  The recording started as the cop—Timmons—got off the elevator on the seventh floor, stun gun drawn. At the door of room 714 there was a Watergate security officer, resplendent in a bad-fit mustard yellow uniform. As the feed got closer the security officer’s taser came into view. The security officer looked like he was going to crap himself.

  Timmons navigated around the security officer and the image of a man sitting on the bed, hands up, floated into view. His face and shirt were streaked with blood. The image jerked and Timmons took a long look at the dead man on the blood-soaked carpet. The view jerked back up to the man on the bed, hands still up.

  “Is he dead?” asked a voice, which I assumed was Timmons’s.

  The man on the bed looked down at the man on the carpet. “Yeah, I think he is,” he said.

  “Why the fuck did you kill him?” Timmons asked.

  The man on the bed turned back to Timmons. “I don’t think I did,” he said. “Look—”

  Then Timmons zapped the man. He jerked and twisted and fell off the bed, collapsing into the carpet, mirroring the dead man.

  “Interesting,” I said.

  “What?” Vann asked.

  “Timmons was barely in the room before he zapped our perp.”

  “Bell,” Vann said.

  “Yeah,” I said. “Speaking of which, does that name sound familiar to you?”

  “Did Bell say anything before he got zapped?” Vann asked, ignoring my question.

  “Timmons asked him why he killed that guy,” I said. “Bell said he didn’t think he did.”

  Vann frowned at that.

  “What?” I asked.

  Vann glanced over to me again, and had a look that told me she wasn’t looking at me, but at my PT. “That’s a new model,” she said.

  “Yeah,” I said. “Sebring-Warner 660XS.”

  “Sebring-Warner 600 line isn’t cheap,” Vann said.

  “No,” I admitted.

  “Lease payments are a little steep on a rookie FBI salary.”

  “Is this how we’re going to do this?” I asked.

  “I’m just making an observation,” Vann said.

  “Fine,” I said. “I assume they told you something about me when they assigned me to you as a partner.”

  “They did.”

  “And I assume you know about the Haden community because it’s your beat.”

  “Yes.”

  “Then let’s skip the part where you pretend not to know who I am and who my family is and how I can afford a Sebring-Warner 660,” I said.

  Vann smiled and stubbed out her cigarette on the side window and lowered the window to chuck out the butt. “I saw you got grief on the Agora for showing up to work yesterday,” she said.

  “Nothing I haven’t gotten before, for other things,” I said. “Nothing I can’t handle. Is this going to be a problem?”

  “You being you?”

  “Yeah,” I said.

  “Why would it be a problem?” Vann asked.

  “When I went to the Academy I knew people there thought I was there as an affectation,” I said. “That I was just farting around until my trust fund vested or something.”

  “Has it?” Vann asked. “Your trust fund, I mean. Vested.”

  “Before I even went to the Academy,” I said.

  Vann snickered at this. “No problems,” she said.

  “You sure.”

  “Yes. And anyway, it’s good that you have a high-end threep,” she said, using the slang term for a Personal Transport. “It means that map of yours is actually going to have a useful resolution. Which works because I don’t trust Trinh to send me anything helpful. The arrest feed was messy and fuzzy, right?”

  “Yeah,” I said.

  “It’s bullshit,” Vann said. “Metro eyewear feeds autostabilize and record at 4k resolution. Trinh probably told Timmons to shitty it up before sending it. Because she’s an asshole like that.”

  “So you’re using me for my superior tech abilities,” I said.

  “Yes, I am,” Vann said. “Is that going to be a problem?”

  “No,” I said. “It’s nice to be appreciated for what I can do.”

  “Good,” Vann said, turning into the precinct house parking lot. “Because I’m going to be asking you to do a lot.”

  Chapter Two

  “WHO’S THE CLANK?” the man asked Vann, as he met us at the precinct. My facial scan software popped him up as George Davidson, captain of the Metro Second Precinct.

  “Wow, really?” I said, before I could stop myself.

  “I used the wrong word, didn’t I,” Davidson said, looking at me. “I can never remember if ‘clank’ or ‘threep’ is the word I’m not supposed to be using today.”

  “Here’s a hint,” I said. “One comes from a beloved android character from one of the most popular films of all time. The other describes the sound of broken machinery. Guess which one we like better.”

  “Got it,” Davidson said. “I thought you people were on strike today.”

  “Jesus,” I said, annoyed.

  “Touchy threep,” Davidson said, to Vann.

  “Asshole cop,” Vann said, to Davidson. Davidson smiled. “This is Agent Chris Shane. My new partner.”

  “No shit,” Davidson said, looking back at me. He clearly recognized the name.

  “Surprise,” I said.

  Vann waved at Davidson to get his attention back over to her. “You’ve got someone I want to talk to.”

  “Yes, I do,” Davidson said. “Trinh told me you would be coming.”

  “You’re not going to be as difficult as she’s been, I hope,” Vann said.

  “Oh, you know I’m all about cooperation between law enforcement entities,” Davidson said. “And also you’ve never crossed me. Come on.” He motioned us forward, into the bowels of the station.

  A few minutes later we were staring at Nicholas Bell through glass. He was in an interrogation room, silent, waiting.

  “Doesn’t look like the guy to shove someone out of a window,” Davidson observed.

  “It wasn’t a guy,” Vann said. “The guy was still in the room. It was a love seat.”

  “Doesn’t look like the guy to shove a love seat out of a window, either,” Davidson said.

  Vann pointed. “That’s an Integrator,” Vann said. “He spends a lot of time with other people in his head, and those people want to do a lot of different things. He’s in better shape than you think.”

  “If you say so,” Davidson said. “You’d know better than I would.”

  “Have you talked to him yet?” I asked.

  “Detective Gonzales took a pass at him,” Davidson said. “He sat there and didn’t say a word, and did that for about twenty minutes.”

  “Well, he has a right to remain silent,” I said.

  “He hasn’t invoked that right yet,” Davidson said. “He hasn’t asked for a lawyer yet, either.”

  “That wouldn’t have anything to do with your Officer Timmons zapping him into unconsciousness at the scene, now, would it?” Vann asked.

  “I don’t have the full report from Timmons yet,” Davidson said.

  “You’re a beacon of safe constitutional practices, Davidson.”

  Davidson shrugged. “He’s been awake for a while. If he remembers he’s got rights, then fine. Until then, if you want to take a pass at him, he’s all yours.”

  I looked over to Vann to see what she was going to do. “I think I’m going to pee,” she said. “And then I’m going to get a coffee.”

  “Down the hall for both,” Davidson said. “You remember where.”

  Vann nodded and left.

  “Chris Shane, huh,” Davidson said to me, after she was gone.

  “That’s me,” I said.

  “I remember you when you were a kid,” Davidson said. “Well, not a kid, exactly. You know what I mean.”

  “I do,” I said.

  “How’s your dad? He going to run for senator or what?”


  “He hasn’t decided yet,” I said. “That’s off the record.”

  “I used to watch him play,” Davidson said.

  “I’ll let him know,” I said.

  “Been with her long?” Davidson motioned after Vann.

  “First day as her partner. Second day on the job.”

  “You’re a rookie?” Davidson asked. I nodded. “It’s hard to tell, because—” He motioned to my threep.

  “I get that,” I said.

  “It’s a nice threep,” he said.

  “Thanks.”

  “Sorry about the ‘clank’ thing.”

  “It’s not a problem,” I said.

  “I’d guess that you’d have less-than-flattering ways of describing us,” Davidson said.

  “‘Dodgers,’” I said.

  “What?”

  “‘Dodgers,’” I repeated. “It’s short for ‘Dodger Dogs.’ It’s the hot dog they serve at Dodger Stadium in L.A.”

  “I know what a Dodger Dog is,” Davidson said. “I don’t think I get how you get from us to them.”

  “Two ways,” I said. “One, you guys are basically meat stuffed into skin. So are hot dogs. Two, hot dogs are mostly lips and assholes, and so are you guys.”

  “Nice,” Davidson said.

  “You asked,” I said.

  “Yeah, but why Dodger Dogs?” Davidson said. “This is a lifelong Nationals fan asking.”

  “Got me,” I said. “Why ‘threep’? Why ‘clank’? Slang happens.”

  “Any slang for him?” Davidson pointed to Bell, who was still sitting there, quietly.

  “He’s a ‘mule,’” I said.

  “Makes sense,” Davidson said.

  “Yeah.”

  “Ever use one?”

  “An Integrator? Once,” I said. “I was twelve and my parents took me to Disney World. Thought it would be better to experience it in the flesh. So they scheduled me an Integrator for the day.”

  “How was it?”

  “I hated it,” I said. “It was hot, after an hour my feet hurt, and I nearly pissed myself because I had no idea how to do it like you guys do, right? That’s all taken care of for me, and I got Haden’s so young that I don’t remember doing it the other way. The Integrator had to surface to do it, and they’re not supposed to do that when they’re carrying someone. After a couple of hours I complained enough that we went back to the hotel room and swapped back out with the threep. And then I had a good time. They still had to pay the Integrator for the full day, though.”

  “And you haven’t done it since.”

  “No,” I said. “Why bother.”

  “Huh,” Davidson said. The door to the interrogation room opened and Vann came through it, carrying two cups of coffee. He pointed to her. “She’s one, you know.”

  “She’s one what?”

  “An Integrator,” Davidson said. “Or was, anyway, before she joined the Bureau.”

  “I didn’t know that,” I said. I looked over to where she was sitting down and getting comfortable.

  “It’s why she’s got this beat,” Davidson said. “She gets you guys in a way the rest of us don’t. No offense, but it’s hard for the rest of us to wrap our brains around what’s going on with you.”

  “I understand that,” I said.

  “Yeah,” Davidson said. He was quiet for a second, and I waited for what I knew was coming next: the Personal Connection to Haden’s. I guessed an uncle or a cousin.

  “I had a cousin who got Haden’s,” Davidson said, and internally I checked off the victory. “This was back with the first wave, when no one had any idea what the fuck was going on. Before they called it Haden’s. She got the flu, and then seemed to get better, and then—” He shrugged.

  “Lock in,” I said.

  “Right,” Davidson said. “I remember going to the hospital to see her, and they had a whole wing of locked-in patients. Just lying there, doing nothing but breathing. Dozens of them. And a couple of days before, all of them were walking around, living a normal life.”

  “What happened to your cousin?” I asked.

  “She lost it,” Davidson said. “Being locked in made her have a psychotic break, or something like that.”

  I nodded. “That wasn’t uncommon, unfortunately.”

  “Right,” Davidson said again. “She hung in for a couple of years and then her body gave it up.”

  “Sorry,” I said.

  “It was bad,” Davidson said. “But it was bad for everyone. I mean, shit. The first lady got it. That’s why it’s called Haden’s.”

  “It still sucks.”

  “It does,” Davidson agreed, and pointed to Vann. “I mean, she got Haden’s too, right?” Davidson asked. “At some point. That’s why she’s like she is.”

  “Sort of,” I said. “There was a tiny percentage of people who were infected who had their brain structure altered but didn’t get locked in. A tiny percentage of them had their brains altered enough to be able to be Integrators.” It was more complicated than that, but I didn’t think Davidson actually cared that much. “There’s maybe ten thousand Integrators on the entire planet.”

  “Huh,” Davidson said. “Anyway. She’s an Integrator. Or was. So maybe she’ll get something out of this guy after all.” He turned up the volume on the speakers so we could hear what she was saying to Bell.

  * * *

  “I brought you some coffee,” Vann said, to Bell, sliding the coffee over to him. “Knowing nothing about you, I guessed you might want cream and sugar. Sorry if I got that wrong.”

  Bell looked at the coffee, but otherwise did and said nothing.

  “Bacon cheeseburgers,” Vann said.

  “What?” Bell said. Vann’s apparent non sequitur had roused him out of complete silence.

  “Bacon cheeseburgers,” Vann repeated. “When I worked as an Integrator I ate so many goddamned bacon cheeseburgers. You might know why.”

  “Because the first thing anyone who’s been locked in wants when they integrate is a bacon cheeseburger,” Bell said.

  Vann smiled. “So it’s not just me it happened to,” she said.

  “It’s not,” Bell said.

  “There was a Five Guys down the street from my apartment,” Vann said. “It got so that all I had to do was walk through the door, and they’d put the patties on the grill. They wouldn’t even wait to take my order. They knew.”

  “That sounds about right,” Bell said.

  “It took two and a half years after I stopped integrating before I could even look at a bacon cheeseburger again,” Vann said.

  “That sounds about right, too,” Bell said. “I wouldn’t eat them anymore if I didn’t have to.”

  “Be strong,” Vann said.

  Bell grabbed the coffee Vann brought for him, smelled it, and took a sip. “You’re not Metro,” he said. “I’ve never met a Metro cop who’d been an Integrator.”

  “My name is Agent Leslie Vann,” she said. “I’m with the Bureau. I and my partner investigate crimes that involve Hadens. You’re not typically what we consider a Haden, but you are an Integrator, which means a Haden might have been involved here. If there was, then you and I both know this is something you may not be responsible for. But you have to let me know, so I can help you.”

  “Right,” Bell said.

  “The police tell me that you’ve not previously been forthcoming on the whole talking thing.”

  “I’ll give you three guesses why,” Bell said.

  “Probably because they zapped you as soon as they saw you.”

  “Bingo.”

  “Not that it means anything, but I apologize to you for that, Nicholas. It’s not the way I would have handed it if I were there.”

  “I was sitting on the bed,” Bell said. “With my hands up. I wasn’t doing anything.”

  “I know,” Vann said. “And like I said, I apologize for that. It wasn’t right. On the other hand—and this isn’t an excuse, just an observation—while you were sitting on the bed
with your hands up, not doing anything, there was a dead guy on the floor, and his blood was all over you.” She moved a single index finger to point. “Still all over you, come to think of it.”

  Bell stared at Vann, quiet.

  “Like I said, not an excuse,” Vann reiterated, after fifteen seconds of silence.

  “Am I under arrest?” Bell asked.

  “Nicholas, you were found in a room with a dead guy, covered in his blood,” Vann said. “You can understand why we all might be curious about the circumstances. Anything you can tell us is going to be helpful. And if it clears your name, so much the better, right?”

  “Am I under arrest?” Bell repeated.

  “What you are, is in a position to help me out,” Vann said. “I’m coming into this late. I’ve seen the hotel room, but I got there after you were taken away. So if you can, clue me in to what was happening in that room. What I should be looking for. Anything would help. And if you help me, I’m in a better position to help you.”

  Bell gave a wry smile to this, crossed his arms, and looked away.

  “We’re back to the not talking,” Vann said.

  “We can talk about bacon cheeseburgers again, if you like.”

  “You can at the very least tell me if you were integrated,” Vann said.

  “You’re kidding,” Bell said.

  “I’m not asking for details, just whether or not you were working,” Vann said. “Or were you about to work? I knew Integrators who did freelancing on the side. A Dodger wants to do something he can’t be seen doing in public. They’ve got those gray-market scanner caps that work well enough for the job. And now that Abrams-Kettering’s passed, you’ve got a reason to go looking for side gigs. The government contracts are drying up. And you’ve got family to think about.”

  Bell, who had been sipping his coffee, set it down and swallowed. “You’re talking about Cassandra now,” he said.

  “No one would blame you,” Vann said. “Congress is taking away funding for Hadens after the immediate infection and transitional care. Said that the technology for helping them participate in the world has gotten so good that it shouldn’t be considered a disability anymore.”

  “Do you believe that?” Bell asked.

  “My partner is a Haden,” Vann said. “If you ask me, it means now I have an advantage, because threeps are better than the human body in lots of ways. But there are a lot of Hadens who slip through the cracks. Your sister, for example. She’s not doing what Congress expects her to do, which is to get a job.”