FIFTY

Two miles away, beyond the outer city wall, were the shacks with tin roofs, crowded in rows between open sewers. Here, in contrast, the houses were three stories tall, with large landscaped yards as buffers between each residence. During the day, Industrials would labor to maintain the landscaping and clean the interiors of the homes. Now, with dusk approaching, the yards were empty, with a whispered breeze bringing hinted scents of tree blossoms and flower beds.

The brick walk to the rear entrance of the house took Razor beneath a canopy of lush oak trees with squirrels scampering up the bark. Razor climbed the steps, pushed a button, and announced himself. The door buzzed as it unlocked.

He pushed it open, entering a tiny square room with hooks on the wall and several sets of ragged clothing. As he stepped inside, the door locked behind him. He gave it an experimental tug, but it wouldn’t open. The interior door was locked too.

Razor was effectively trapped in the small, bare room.

“Strip down,” Swain’s voice commanded from a hidden speaker. “Leave your clothes behind.”

Razor hesitated.

“There will be clothes waiting for you on the other side,” the voice said.

Yes, Swain was observing him.

Razor saw no choice. As he hung up the final piece of clothing, the inner door buzzed. He pushed through it to a second and equally small room with tiled walls and a tiled floor. In the center was a drainpipe. On the other side, a third door.

He waited for it to be unlocked.

Instead, there was hissing. Razor glanced upward at the sound, and saw mist released from a series of nozzles. It was acrid, the first touches of it burning his eyeballs. He lowered his head and covered his mouth with a hand, coughing.

“We don’t talk until you’re disinfected.” Swain’s voice again.

It had been hot outside, but this chamber was chilled. The mist fell long enough for Razor to begin to shiver as he hacked for breath, still shielding his mouth from pesticide. Razor wasn’t worried about his tattoo bleeding away from the chemical, just about getting any into his bloodstream. His blood was whacked out plenty, and he didn’t want to invite more of a cocktail swirling through his veins. Finally the mist stopped. Then began again, with more force. It was cold water. When this stopped, the inner door buzzed and opened automatically. The backside had a set of hooks. On one hook was a towel. On another hook, disposable brown paper clothing and paper slippers.

Razor dressed quickly. The fibrous paper soaked up the water he’d missed with the towel. It was a familiar feeling, that of being a commodity, and his anger steeled him. It took effort to hang his head and slump his shoulders as he finally left the disinfecting room. It could have been worse; some Influentials only allowed Industrials into the house if all their head and body hair was shaved.

On the other side was a larger hallway, where a man with silver hair sat in a chair, about four paces away. Beyond, the hallway led to living areas, with walls decorated with large framed paintings and hardwood floors with luxury rugs. Razor doubted he’d be invited there; the silver-haired man held the leashes to two Rottweilers panting on their haunches, staring intensely at Razor.

“Far enough.” The voice identified the man as Swain. It wasn’t enough that he was an Influential and Razor the Industrial. Or that he’d forced Razor to strip and endure a disinfectant mist. Or that Swain was restraining two attack dogs. Swain underscored the lopsided power balance by wearing immaculately tailored clothes and sitting with one knee over the other. He appeared fit, his face handsome with lines softened by expert plastic surgery. “Don’t move. Talk.”

“She says you are a friend of her father, Jordan. She says you are expecting her. To help her. With surgery. She has a letter from her father to you.”

“The letter. It’s in your clothing outside?”

Razor kept his head bowed, aware of the breathing of the Rottweilers. “She made me memorize it.”

“I want to hear it then.” Swain leaned forward. Razor was acutely aware of the shift in the man’s body language. The intense interest in what Razor had to say.

“Hugh, I trust you now as I did then,” Razor said in a monotone. “She’s not a number now. She’s my daughter. Arrange the surgery that will let her live a normal life. Help her escape. When she’s free, I’ll send you the code to the funds we diverted. The money will be all yours. Signed Jordan Brown.”

Swain took a deep breath and let it out slowly. He absently patted the head of the closest Rottweiler. A man who cared for his animals but saw Industrials as commodities.

“Why did she send you?” he asked.

“Before she puts herself in your hands, she needs to know if she can trust you.”

“Tell her she can,” Swain said. “Her father believed in me. She can too.”

Sure, Razor thought. A man who keeps Industrials home at night to suit his needs. Again he fought a shiver against the images that threatened to overwhelm him.

“She has questions,” Razor said.

“Tell her I will answer them. For her. Not for you or anyone else.”

“Until she trusts you, she wants me to ask them.”

Swain blinked a few times, assessing Razor. “What questions?”

Here was Razor’s opportunity. Caitlyn, of course, had not sent him here, nor did she even know he was intent on learning all he could about her. But Swain had no way of finding out that Razor was running a bluff. As long as Razor’s questions were ambiguous instead of specific, the bluff could continue.

“She wants to know about her past,” Razor said. He’d given thought to his questions. “Things that her father wouldn’t tell her.”

“Like what?” Swain was immediately impatient. “I’m not going to spend hours explaining things to you.”

This was another tipping point. Razor had taken this chance under a couple of assumptions. The first was that Caitlyn’s value—obvious by government pursuit—would also have value to Swain. His gut told him that Jordan’s trust in Hugh Swain, implied in the letter he’d read before returning it to Caitlyn, was misplaced. He doubted that Swain would be motivated to answer Razor’s questions out of wanting to help Jordan or Caitlyn. He assumed Caitlyn would be a prize of some kind to Swain, either because he knew enough about Caitlyn to understand her value to the government, or as the letter implied, the code, whatever it was, would be enough reward.

“Caitlyn says she wants to know why the government wants her so bad.”

Swain scowled. “Does she know why Jordan fled to Appalachia?

” Someone who was fast and sharp and dangerous would have no problem dealing with a question like that. Razor hid his confidence though. “I don’t know what she knows. She sent me with questions, not answers.”

Swain made his irritation obvious. “I hope you’re not as stupid as you look. I’ll start from the beginning. You tell her every single word. And in a safer place than this. Understood?”

His gamble that Caitlyn was irresistible bait had just succeeded. For Razor, it was the sensation of feeling the final tumblers click into place.

Razor kept his face blank and nodded. “Understood.”

“And one more thing,” Swain said. “I’m going to tell you where she can meet me. If you can bring her, I’ll make sure you are well rewarded.”

Razor, for the first time, looked directly at Swain. Like he was a greedy Industrial, finally comprehending something. “Maybe you’d better explain exactly how much reward you mean.”