James Patterson: Toys

Hughes Jacklin started to speak, but suddenly his forehead wrinkled with confusion and alarm.

“I–I’m sorry, ma’am. I don’t-I’m not really sure.” Then he looked in dismay at the shackles on his ankles and wrists. “Have I done something wrong?” he asked, as a child might.

“Let’s just say that you have a debt to pay to society. And you’ll have the rest of your life… to serve.”

Autumn was always a beautiful time in the city. The mornings had a delicious chill, but warmed into mellow afternoons; the trees turned a magnificent red and gold; and the sky was more often than not a crisp, clear robin’s-egg blue, which filled me with optimism and goodwill toward my fellow humans.

As Lucy and I strolled along the lakefront, I thought about my parents living here once upon a time, when they were still young. They must have done this same kind of thing and felt the same way about the natural beauty along the water. The fullness of their lives seemed to lie ahead, keen with promise, because they were poised to make a great leap of faith toward each other-what we humans call love.

“I just had a stroke of genius,” I said. “Rare, I know. But bear with me.”

Lucy smiled. “You finally succeeded in integrating quantum mechanics, relativity, and calculus into a single equation? Well done, Hays. I am impressed.”

“Not quite that lofty, but perhaps with more of a charm factor. Let’s wander downtown and find ourselves a good bottle of wine and dinner.”

“Brilliant concept, maestro! Just one addendum to your theory-the food has to be loaded with calories.”

The city was still somewhat unsettled from the war and the political and social upheaval that had inevitably followed. But the sterile, Elite-dominated atmosphere was slowly becoming infused with new life-human life at its best. The people on the streets didn’t all look picture-perfect anymore. The rich smells of cooking spilled out from restaurants, and taverns were serving real wine and beer. There was music, boisterous laughter, occasionally a bit of disorderly conduct, and even public displays of affection.

It was like watching someone who’d been completely bland start to acquire a personality-a messy one with some bad habits, but interesting and with unlimited potential.

Then Lucy and I turned a corner, and the pleasant little cloud I was drifting on crashed against a wall of reality.

“OK, Hays. Oh dear,” said Lucy. “Let’s turn around. We can go another way, just not this one. C’mon, Hays-look away!”

A female maintenance worker was cleaning up loose newspaper pages and other trash on the street a few yards ahead of us. Even in her khaki uniform and without makeup or adornments, she was very attractive, and her lush violet hair stood out from a block away.

It was Lizbeth.

“Can you handle this, Hays?” Lucy asked. “I don’t know if I can.”

I nodded that I was OK, but Lucy slipped her hand into mine anyway, as if I were a nervous or frightened child seeking aid and comfort.

In reality, there were no worries here, nothing to fear. Lizbeth wouldn’t have a clue that she’d ever even seen us before. Lucy, true to her promise, had reversed Lizbeth’s brain surgery. But then, like the other top Elites, Lizbeth had undergone a memory purge and been assigned to menial labor for the rest of her days.

Still, it was as eerie as a loved one’s wake, encountering her in the street like this. I’d known in the back of my mind that it might happen, but I suppose I’d put off dealing with it. I had even considered having Lizbeth relocated to another city-because of Chloe and April. The girls were just getting used to her absence, and if they saw her, it could be confusing and possibly traumatic. They clearly loved Lucy and me, but I had doubts about whether they were ready for this.

As Lucy and I got closer to Lizbeth, she paused in her work to give us a polite worker’s smile. She had the same bearing as the other reconditioned Elites I’d seen-efficient but placid, with no apparent concerns beyond the minimal task at hand.

“Good evening, sir, ma’am,” she said in a voice that was all too recognizable and, therefore, chilling to me.

“Good evening,” we murmured, walking on as if nothing had happened.

That was that.

But then we passed an angled shop window. It gave me a brief, blurry glimpse of Lizbeth’s reflection.

Maybe I only imagined that she was staring after us with her gaze suddenly gone steely-and that her hand had formed a make-believe pistol, aimed directly at our backs.

And that then, she pulled the trigger.