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

The older man's stooped shoulders were bare under black suspendersholding up a pair of baggy slacks. His white tank was spattered with grease,and his hands worked feverishly on a device, polishing it with a ragged pieceof cloth.

"You want to marry her?" His wide eyes stared atMuldoon, waiting for an answer. There was no guile in his tone, only curiosity.

Muldoon had been taken aback. It hadn't helped matters that Irena wasstanding right there. He glanced at her, and she half-smiled awkwardly, notknowing what to say or do—but with warm amusement in her eyes. She knew herfather, and she must have known something like this was coming, sooner orlater. He wasn't so immersed in his secret work as to be oblivious to hisdaughter's late night activities. She didn't seem irritated or evenembarrassed, only sorry for Muldoon's sake.

But he hadn't flinched. It wasn't how he'd imagined going aboutit, not at all like the story he'd heard from his own father, but the momenthad arrived—ready or not. So Muldoon nodded once, holding the hand of hisfuture bride.

"Yes. I do."

His face had burned to the tips of his ears, but he'd held hishead high, even managing to venture a glance at Irena in time to catch hergaze. Eyes a little larger than usual, with a smile spreading across her lips.

Horton had blinked once in response. Then he'd sniffed withindifference and turned away, heading downstairs to his workroom withoutanother word.

"Destination?" droned the voice of the computer asMuldoon's black Paradox eased to the curb. The driver's door rotatedupward, inviting him inside.

"NewCity Police Headquarters." He buckled the harnessacross his chest as the door dropped and locked itself. "Automaticdrive."

"Confirmed. Estimated time of arrival: twelve minutes."

The car accelerated away from the curb, thesteering grips tilting side to side with everyminor course change. The glare of the sun's early rays broke across thewindshield, but their brilliance was fleeting. The glass darkened, muting theeffects of the morning sun above the city's harsh geometric skyline.

Muldoon blinked up at the light. How long had this star been partof Earth's twenty-four hour cycle? This carefully orchestrated dance across theheavens involving massive planetary bodies hurtling through space at speeds tooincredible to fathom? The years themselves were too many to fully comprehend.The human brain can only grasp so many zeros before millions, billions,trillions all start to sound the same. Didn't help that they rhymed.

Muldoon rubbed between his eyes. We're so finite. Profoundthoughts always seemed to arrive in the mornings before he could do much withthem, before the day had dulled the edges of his mind. We're like littlekids, really. All we see is what's right in front of us. We have no concept ofthe vastness of time.

NewCity Police Headquarters resembled every other government building in town: an imposingconcrete and glass structure built above meters of endless steps with solidstone pillars supporting a neoclassical pinnacle. NEWCITY MUNICIPAL POLICEengraved in big Roman-style lettering. The front steps were already shaping upto be a major thoroughfare as cops, lawyers, and various forms of low-life made their daily pilgrimage to theknights of the round table, the keepers of the peace: TO PROTECT THE RULE OFLAW.

Muldoon's car pulled to the curb behind a checkered taxi with itsengine humming.

"Park or idle?" the computer droned.

"Idle." He removed the harness and stepped out under thedoor as it opened. "This shouldn't take long."

"Confirmed."

He took the stairs two at a time, passing curious glances andfrowns on either side. Most weren't as eager to reach their destination. Getthe package, find out what it's all about, get back home. Talk to Irena. Lether know what was going on with the case, maybe have something tangible to showher now. If this turned out to be anything more than a tasteless joke.

"Harry, my boy!" Armstrong grinned inside the foyer,baring his coffee-stained teeth. He had the large envelope in one hand and amug of steaming brew in the other which, despite the hustle and bustle aroundhim, managed to remain in its ceramic receptacle without spilling a drop.

Muldoon shouldered his way through the throng and raised his voiceto be heard. "We're doing this out here?"

Armstrong shook his head, then jerked it back to the left."My office. I'll blaze us a trail."

He turned and Muldoon followed, watching as the chief's girth cuta swath through the bodies moving to and fro in the bullpen before him.

"Something going on I don't know about?"

Armstrong chuckled, rocking his broad shoulders. He glanced backwith, "Been a while since you've come down here for a visit. We've got ourhands full these days, and that's a fact."

"Somehow I doubt you've missed me."

"Can't speak for the others around here, but as for me—"He paused as he approached his office door and nodded grimly. "Aye. Ihave." He palmed the sensor plate, and the glow darkened his hand for amoment. Then the door slid aside, and Armstrong lumbered into his clutteredoffice. "Can I get you anything? Coffee?"

"I'll pass." Muldoon stepped inside, and the door slidshut behind him. He stood with his hands in the deep pockets of his overcoat,his gaze drifting from the package in the chief's grip tosurvey the mess around him. Armstrong was a collector of 20thcentury cop memorabilia. Hats, badges, unloaded guns. They might have fetched acredit or few in some circles. Too bad all the signed photos of formercommissioners were worthless. Hard copies held only sentimental value thesedays. "Sets me on edge."

"Ah, that's right. Not one for stimulants, are you."Armstrong dropped into the padded chair behind his massive desk and exhaled loudly.He held up the envelope and frowned at it. Then he tossed it across thedeskscreen, sending it into piles of data chips that scattered across theglowing surface. "The moment of truth."

Muldoon strode forward and lifted the package, weighing it in hishand as he did so. It couldn't hold much, but it held something—an odd, solidshape that swelled the bottom of the envelope. He turned it over, surveyed thehandwriting. Broad strokes in all caps:

TO: HAROLD MULDOON

C/O SERGEANT ARMSTRONG

NEWCITY MUNICIPAL POLICE

FROM: CYRUS HORTON, UNDERGROUND

"Open it already, lad!" Armstrong was grinning again,but his eyes heldunguarded impatience.

Underground? What could