Afterparty by Daryl Gregory Read Free Book Online Page A

hiding anything about Little Sprout, or NME 110. “That never left the lab,” I said. “It never got to testing, much less market.”
    “No one’s marketing this, either,” Fayza said. “As far as I know, they’re giving it away for free. You can see how this would greatly fuck with my business model.” She stared at me as if it were my fault.
    “Look, I’d like to help, but I don’t see how I can—”
    “Bring me a sample of this drug. Confirm for me what it is. Luke will take you to this church.” She nodded to the Afghan kid. “Hootan will go with you.”
    The kid in the hoodie smiled at me.
    “That’s okay,” I said. I wanted no part in whatever gangland enforcer thing Hootan represented. “I’ll do it alone.”
    Fayza turned to me, her gaze as impersonal as a gun barrel.
    “Or he can come,” I said. “Either way.”
    Dr. Gloria rustled her wings, getting my attention, and nodded at Fayza.
    “Oh, right,” I said. “My friend, Bobby. He was wearing something your men took.”
    Fayza dipped into the pocket of her jacket, withdrew the plastic treasure chest on its leather thong. She held it in her hand, and for a moment I thought she was going to open it, and Bobby’s mind would fly around the room like Tinkerbell.
    She handed it to me, as well as a second object—a low-tech flip phone.
    “That’s okay,” I said. “I’ve got a pen.”
    “You will call me on this one,” she said. “Keep in touch.”
    *   *   *
    Hootan led me, Dr. Gloria, and Luke the black Abe Lincoln back to Fayza’s house on Tyndall Avenue. Bobby was waiting for us, pacing frantically, while the young Afghan couple ignored him. I tossed the chest toward Bobby. He screeched in panic to see it airborne, then caught it and touched it to his lips. Then he started thanking me, practically pawing me. Crazy people are tedious.
    “Go back to the apartment,” I told him. “I’ll meet you there later, okay?”
    “Later, right, yes,” Bobby said. Too relieved to be wondering what I was doing with these two new strangers.
    Hootan said his car was down the block. He walked ahead of us, and Luke touched my elbow. His lips were pursed, a dam holding back turbulent emotion. “Thank you,” he said. “I knew when you walked into the room that we were supposed to meet today.”
    I doubted that. “So how far away is this church, Luke?”
    “It’s close,” he said. “And you’re going to love Pastor Rudy.”

 
    CHAPTER FOUR
    The call came for the Vincent while Vinnie was branding the spring calves. He was halfway through the shipment of freshly weaned three-month-olds—five bison cows and a bull from the Rakunas, Inc., facility in Santa Monica, California. The cow in his hands bucked and kicked, a real lively one. He ran a thumb along its side to soothe it, took a breath to soothe himself, then pressed the red-hot iron into the animal’s fuzzy brown flank. The calf squealed. A thin coil of acrid smoke rose up to the ceiling.
    “Sorry, little girl,” Vinnie said. Ranching was no business for the sentimental, but the cries of the young ones really got to him. He flipped down the magnifying glass and inspected his mark, a Flying V about two millimeters long. The lines were crisp, and he was satisfied.
    He set the cow down on the other side of the foot-high fence that separated the kitchen from the wide-open range of the living room. The calf scampered across the carpet of #10 Giro Home Prairie. The herd (thirty-eight head, counting the six he’d just purchased) had congregated in the shadow of the coffee table. It was midday, and the ceiling’s grow lights were turned up strong.
    The pen pinged a second time: another message. He would have ignored the device, but this was the Vincent’s pen, the one that hardly ever beeped. Vinnie removed the magnifying specs and put the branding iron into its tiny holder. He picked up the pen. The messages were the same, sent only thirty seconds apart: “Please call.”
    Vinnie