Next of Kin

Chapter Twenty-one: 63%

Twenty-One, 63%

I held her a long time. I never wanted to ask her anything else, other than what I could do to make things easier for her. But I stayed as she cried because I knew that there could be more she knew, and I needed to know it. Because John's killer was still out there.

When she finally let me go, minutes after she finished sobbing, I braced myself. She wanted his killer found probably more than me. “Was there anything there, anything out of the ordinary, that you could tell me? Anything that might help me find who did this?”

“I would have told you already if there was,” she said. “But if I remember anything, I'll tell you.”

“When did you leave?” I asked.

“11:15, something like that.”

“Okay. I'll let you know if I find anything.”

I believed Tara more than ever before. Not a single process had been out of order. But my interview with her did point to more sophisticated mods than I would have ever believed existed. Which meant I needed to talk to an expert, one who was likely to be about as hostile as possible with me over the idea.

I knew she was at least checking up on me, if not watching avidly. So there was a pretty good chance that she knew where I was headed, and perhaps just as troubling, that she would know what I wanted to ask.

I drove to the same spot I left my car the other night. This time there were no guards, and I walked right into her tent.

“Is this a warm reception?” I asked. “Or just you not wanting witnesses.”

“That depends on whether or not you can play nice,” Jenel said.

“I want to know about some mods- black market ones. I'm pretty sure Jim lied to me, but if I want a shot at figuring out what about, I need to know how he got around my sensors.”

“Why would I tell you?” she asked, almost academically. “Provided those mods exist, telling you is like telling the cops, and rendering them useless.”

“Those mods are the same debate as piracy versus anti-piracy measures, or antigens and antibodies. Your tools will evolve, so will theirs, and if history and nature are a guide, yours will thrive in the wild, while theirs will stake out little pockets they can hope to protect. I'm looking for a killer. Even here, do you really want to protect the 'right' to kill?”

She smiled, and at first I thought it was because I'd made a cogent argument, before I figured out how naïve I was being. She'd figured out a way to screw me- or at least screw with me. “One condition: you let me shut down your cameras.”

“You can do that?” I asked.

“I always could. But I want your permission. Otherwise it would be a violation, me forcing vulnerability onto you- something I wouldn't do without a good goddamned reason.”

“The audience will hate me for it.”

“The audience are an asshole. And they'll hate you for not solving the case more. And ultimately, they're irrelevant, a shock collar around your neck there to keep you inside your little invisible fence; but a week from now? A year. They won't remember your brother, let alone your investigation into his death. But you will. If you fuck it up, it will haunt you for the rest of your days. So fuck 'em.”

I shut my eyes. The little part of me, that lived for approval, that couldn't stand getting anything short of an A going all the way back to elementary school, fought against the idea. I'd only just started winning them back, and this was a little like giving all of them the finger. But she was right. About just about all of it. “Do it,” I said.