BACKTRACKER by Milo Fowler (books to read in your 30s TXT) 📗

the dining corner, to the tall glasses and squareplates that remained untouched. She sighed, the hint of a smile gone. Tomorrownight, maybe. She left the kitchen as it was and returned to the livingroom.

"Lamp off," she said, and the light obeyed, fading todarkness.

She found her husband facedown on the bed as if he'd taken arunning leap and landed there, arms and legs outstretched. Rhythmically, hereleased gusts of breath into the thick pillow.

"Time?" she whispered as she tapped the plug behind herear and reached for her husband's feet.

"Two seventeen AM," came the artificial voice of herLink interface. It sounded like an ageless woman on sedatives. "Set alarm?"

"No." She untied each of Harry's black shoes and easedthem off his feet, one at a time. "No alarms," she whispered.

"Confirmed."

She tapped the plug again to disconnect from the Link and set theshoes on the floor at the foot of the bed. Her gaze remained on her husband'ssprawled-out body. She found herself drawn to him even like this, dead to theworld. Without a thought, she crept on hands and knees to lie beside him, curled against him.

But she didn't sleep. In the darkness, she watched her husband'sface, half-turned toward her on the pillow. His eyelids twitched as he dreamt.

I love you, Harold Muldoon.

She hoped he knew how much. She refrained from touching him,kissing him. She wouldn't wake him.Instead she watched the syncopated rhythm of hiseyelids.

Harry Muldoon stood in an alley lit by a single flickeringstreetlamp. The only one that still took its job seriously, and it was on itslast leg. Cold tonight. Muldoon's breath drifted upward, hanging inthe air as clouds of mist before dissipating.

What was he doing here? Following a lead?

The plug vibrated behind his ear. He tapped it, and instantly thewhite fog of the entry portal consumed his vision. He entered his log-in andset his pass-images to random shuffle.

"Thank you for using LinkCom," the larger-than-life,disembodied face of the virtual operator greeted him, her features designed tobe perfect, proportionate. She wore an outdated headset and smiled fake pearlywhites that glistened between plump lips, inviting him to continue. "Howmay I assist you?"

"Receive call," he replied, his voice louder than hewould have liked.

"Of course. You have an incoming call from an unknown source.Unfortunately, only audio is being transmitted. Would you like toproceed?"

"Yes." Not really. He'd rather be sleeping.

There was a short pause. Then the operator's face dissolved intoone of his pass-images: the pounding surf of a tropical island seascape inshades of grey.

His plug pulsed again. Another call?

No. There was no other call. Only this one. The alley was gone, and hewas back in his bedroom, blinking at the dark.

He logged-in, shuffled his pass-images. The operator greeted him, this time for real.

"Receive call," he said, his voice groggy, deepand muffled.

"Of course. You have an incoming call from Sergeant Armstrongof the NewCity Municipal Police. Would you like to proceed?"

"Yes." Not really. He wanted to get some sleep.Was that too much to ask? "Put him through."

The operator's perfect face faded into an emerging mass ofsplotchy lumpiness that could be none other than Armstrong in the virtualflesh.

"You sleepin' there, lad?"

"Not anymore."Muldoon lay mumbling into his pillow with Irena sound asleep under his arm. A pre-dawn glow illuminatedthe shade drawn over the window above him.

"You sure 'bout that?" A hearty chuckle.

"Hold on," Muldoon whispered. He eased himself awkwardlyoff the side of the bed, keeping an eye on his wife. She didn't stir. Hestepped out of the room, noticing that he wore only socks on his feet. Heglanced back at Irena and smiled.

"Thought you were an early-riser, Harry,"Armstrong said.

With a hand held out against the wall, Muldoon shuffled into thedark kitchen and slid one of the chairs out from the table. "Late to bed,early to rise," he muttered.

"Makes a man grumpy, and gives 'im baggy eyes."

"Is that why you called?" Muldoon tried to wipe thesleep from his face as he seated himself, propping his elbows on the table."To recite terrible poetry?"

Armstrong snorted. "If only. No, I'm afraid it would beanother matter entirely that has me callin' you at this ungodly hour."

"What time is it?"

"You don't want to know. Trust me." A pause. "We-uhreceived something that might be of interest to you. Looks like it'srelated to the...CyrusHorton case."

Muldoon shook his head wearily. "Thought you'd given up onthat one." Years ago.

"Apparently, somebody doesn't know it's cold. They droppedoff a package for you."

Muldoon sat up. "You've got my attention."

Armstrong grinned and reached out of sight for a moment. He returned with a large manila envelope ateye level. "Says: To Harold Muldoon, care of Sergeant Armstrong, etcetera. From—" A pregnant pause. "Cyrus Horton." The grinfaded. "Got to say, lad, it's eating me up with curiosity."

"You haven't opened it." Muldoon could see that hehadn't, and he marveled at the old cop's restraint.

Armstrong scowled. "Back in my day, that'd be a Federaloffense—opening up somebody else's mail!"

Muldoon smirked. Mail hadn't existed for decades. "Noidea what it is?"

"Nope." He shook the package with both hands like aneager kid on New Year's Day. "Can't tell. Not much heft to it." Hedropped it onto his desk. "So why don't you come on down, and you can do usboth a big favor by tearing this thing open. The sooner the better, I mightadd. I'm a patient man, but..." He winked. "'Ain't every day we get aspecial delivery from a ghost."

Cyrus Horton is no ghost. He's alive, andhe's still out there somewhere. He just doesn't want to be found.

Muldoon knew better than to say anything like that aloud. Histheories had been shot down years ago after the official investigation became prolonged,according to the authorities. Horton would never be found, they said, and itwas only a matter of time until hewould be declared legally dead. It didn't matter thatHarry Muldoon had a hunch, didn't matter that he knew Cyrus Horton better thanthe rest of them—knew he was too smart to leave a trail when falling off thegrid was exactly what he had in mind. Muldoon was the old inventor'sson-in-law, after all, and that made him too tainted by emotional proximity tobe of any value in