James Patterson: Toys

The caller turned out to be Owen McGill, my partner at the Agency of Change and a longtime friend, probably my best friend-other than Lizbeth, that is.

“Grab your boots, Hays,” McGill said. “There’s been an ugly incident at the Toyz store in Baronville”-a tony Elite suburb at the northern edge of New Lake City, about twenty miles away. “They want you here right now. It’s homicides, plural. ”

“Me? Now? I already had my ugly incident for the night. Lizbeth and I were attacked- by skunks. Besides, I’m supposed to be off.”

“Sorry, buddy. Jax Moore specifically requested you. ‘I want Hays Baker on this!’ That’s what he said.”

I exhaled. “All right, all right. I’m on my way.”

So much for reading bedtime stories, a romantic interlude with my wife, or even getting to taste my vodka with a twist of lemon. What a letdown, and what a shit night this was turning out to be.

I hadn’t even had time to take off my tux jacket before I was heading off to face, well, whatever was so important that Jax Moore had requested me at the crime scene.

Homicides-plural .

Our apartment building’s superfast express elevator whisked me up to the rooftop garage, and I jumped into my own car-a teardrop-shaped sports-pod just big enough to comfortably fit me and a passenger. Although the touch of a button would extend it rearward, enabling it to carry as many as four others.

As the hatch slid shut, the instrument panel lights blinked a message: “Ready when you are, Dr. Baker.”

“Toyz store, Baronville, max speed,” I said.

Usually, I operated the vehicle myself, but right now I needed a break, even-as it would have to be in this case-a very short one.

“Roger that, Dr. Baker,” replied the interactive pilot’s crisp voice.

Suddenly, the sports-pod shot straight upward, then forward, pressing me firmly back into the custom seats. These superlight pods were among the fastest models available, capable of doing zero to sixty in two seconds flat, maneuvering in the air like a hummingbird, and cruising comfortably at three hundred miles per hour, even on a surface road.

“Airspace clearance is set. Estimated flight time: four minutes and twenty-three seconds,” said a different voice, female and as familiar as an old friend. “Would you care for a drink? Entertainment of any kind? Sensory stimulation?”

This was Elle, the artificially intelligent attendant. I hadn’t named the pilot-our relationship was more businesslike-but Elle deserved a name.

“How about some Bach?” I said. “Please, Elle. That would be terrific. Just what I need.”

“If I might make a suggestion, the Brandenburg Number Six, Allegro, would just about fit our flight parameters.”

“Perfect.”

“Perhaps with a multisense track?” she said.

“Something light, yes.”

Elle didn’t have a full body, just a pair of slender robotic arms, but they functioned with a precise efficiency that could be spellbinding. She slipped the car’s mood helmet onto my head, and I relaxed with the classical music-another of the very good things that humans had given the world. How bizarre was that?

Actually, to be fair, humans were still making a few worthwhile contributions to the world. We Elites weren’t numerous enough to fill every role in our society, so we had to concentrate on managing the vital ones-government, medical, military, law enforcement, telecommunications, media. Consequently, well-trained and strictly supervised humans were still manning the orchestras, bands, and studio sessions that we required. Humans also had many necessary subservient roles, especially those involving cleaning and waste collection.

But I believed it was Elite technology that really took classical music to the next level-when the Brandenburg began, I wasn’t just listening, I was experiencing with all my senses…

… drifting along a pure, clear river, with the scent of lilacs in spring wafting through the air.

Trees along the banks thrust their strong trunks up from the earth, while their branches reach like slender, red-tipped fingers to caress the sky.

Rich, ripe fruit of all varieties hang within easy reach, and alluring nymphlike shapes frolic in the water around me, waving at me to come join them in their play…

The exquisite concerto ended with its last, very memorable drawn-out chord.

“We’re here, Dr. Baker,” Elle said in the quietest whisper. “Toyz store, Baronville.”

Damn. I could have used a little more Bach.

Owen McGill certainly hadn’t exaggerated-the crime scene was ugly all right. Eleven dead! The first thing I saw was a butchered male body in what looked to be a very expensive navy blue pin-striped suit. The poor fellow’s torso was twisted horribly and partly submerged in a veritable lake of his own blood.

I’d seen plenty of gore before, but this was possibly the worst yet. The most nightmarish aspect of the scene was that the victim’s blood had splattered all over some miniature toy horses that had been let out of a stable-themed play set.

The cat-sized horses were covered head to hoof in blood and were walking around, leaving tiny, crescent-shaped red prints on the synthetic marble floor, apparently looking for some miniature oats or hay.

Creepy didn’t begin to describe it.

But the full measure of the massacre, the carnage, was much worse than that initial impression.

A second corpse, this one female and partially dressed in an expensive gold lame pantsuit, was lying nearby. Close to that were two more female victims. Their trademark pink and blue Toyz shopping bags were scattered everywhere around the courtyard.

They had been cut in a way that sickened me-torsos savagely ripped open, organs removed, the heads completely gone. Missing, in fact.

As I stared at the gore, and shooed away one of the little horses from the male’s body, McGill came striding over. As always, I was glad to see him. My friend is rock solid, dependable, and a good ally when things get rough. He’s built like a gorilla, six foot six, and close to three hundred pounds.

“Where are the killers?” I said, assuming the humans responsible had been arrested by now. The city police would have been on the case immediately.

“So far, no sign of them, Hays. You believe it? They got away with this.”

“That’s not possible.”

“I hear you. Gets even stranger though. Listen to this. Every single one of the security cameras in the place just happened to malfunction at the same time.”

“What?”

“It gets even better. There must have been close to a hundred customers in the store-nobody remembers a goddamn thing. Not even the security guards.”

That was impossible. Elites have crystal clear memories and would never lie to authorities. They aren’t capable of it.

“Go ahead, ask ’em,” Owen McGill challenged me. He gestured at the civilians gathered beyond the cordon. “Maybe it will start coming back to them-once you turn on the old Hays Baker charm.”

As with most of the company’s consumer outlets, especially ones in respectable Elite communities, this Toyz superstore was open twenty-four hours, and it was crowded with customers.

“Who can tell me what happened?” I stepped forward and called to the blank-faced, clearly confused crowd. “Somebody must have seen these terrible murders. I need witnesses. Please. Anybody? Speak up now.”

A pretty, young Elite woman, wearing skintight jeans and a bodice that barely covered her nipples, shrugged helplessly. “I was standing right there, looking at the iSpielberg imagers,” she said, pointing at a display of equipment that allowed you to star in your own movie.