The Mysterious Case of Betty Blue Page 5

  The guard had his doubts, as he’d just been out there and the fine pricks of wet coldness were unmistakable.

  Rain was in the forecast, and rain was on the way. He could smell it.

  “The traffic lights are down to the right about fifty metres.” With an arm in the guard’s careful possession, Scott had little choice but to allow himself to be led off into yet another unknown. “I’m really sorry about this, Mister. If you cross at the light and come back down the other side, you’ll find there’s a park bench right across the street.”

  For obvious reasons, the guard would be risking his employment for such a simple courtesy as taking Scott directly over there. That would be all of forty-eight feet.

  ***

  Scott tapped his way along, killing time and avoiding the dreadful thought that Betty had deserted him. The alternatives weren’t much better. She might have been caught. She might have given herself up in spite of her statements. She might have simply gotten lost, or detained, or fallen off a roof or something. It could be anything, really.

  It was just as the man had said. He found the intersection, listened to the signals, and the cars.

  There were few voices about, but the vehicles were idling tamely enough and he set across on the familiar pong-pong, pong.

  Fifty metres north, and fifty metres south. He counted his steps. His questioning stick, held in the right hand and then the left, followed the gutter on his left and then hit something on his right.

  He stopped, and slowly explored it. It was indeed a park bench. Across the street, he could sense the security guard’s benevolent but ultimately impotent watch.

  Scott sat down.

  Why didn’t Betty show up?

  Think in the proper terms.

  What I don’t know I can’t reveal under torture.

  Scott smiled, for the first time in hours.

  It was a bitter smile.

  The realization that he could just get on a bus and go home held its own insidious logic.

  The trouble was that he wanted to know what happened. And what happens next?

  Good question, he admitted.

  There was a peculiar whistle from the park behind him, cutting through the noise of cars, trucks, delivery vehicles and always that persistent hum of voices from somewhere.

  The whistle came again.

  He’d heard that one a million times.

  It started off at a certain pitch, and then it went up, and then it went down.

  It was like a bosun’s pipe, only electronic.

  Scott was being hailed from somewhere out in the darkness.

  His heart thudded. It was closer, more insistent now.

  Aw, fucking Jesus Christ, what do I do?

  How do I know that’s even her?

  And yet it did make a weird kind of sense—she’d been watching the area for hours, most likely.

  That had to be it. She'd been waiting.

  For fuck’s sakes

  Ah, fuck it.

  I need to fucking pee anyways.

  I might as well get this over with—whatever happens.

  He had the sudden urge to cross himself or something, in spite of a strong overall atheism.

  The trouble with atheism was that it didn’t make much provision for hating God. It had always been a bit of a contradiction for Scott.

  Scott clambered awkwardly to his feet, taking his time about it. There were certain to be bushes and trees and arbitrarily-placed bedding plants and herbaceous borders.

  Standing there, he sighed deeply.

  The whistle came again, twice. He turned, with his guts feeling terribly loose, and wobbly in the knees after sitting around half the night.

  He felt his way into the unknown.

  ***

  Scott disappeared into the forbidding gloom.

  The guard tore his eyes off the street and went back to his regular duty of checking all the rest-rooms for stragglers, and then making sure there were no other drunks or druggies hiding away.

  He had the coffee-pot and his touch-tablet. What more did he need?

  In another few hours, his relief would show up and then he could go home, the wife, the kids, the dog and the apartment filled with nine different kinds of noise.

  Chapter Six

  Someone coughed fifty feet to his left, oddly muted by the small lungs and ill health of a familiar type. It had to be a wino, someone living outdoors by the sounds of it.

  Scott wondered if he was spending the night there, but shuffling footsteps indicated he was heading in the opposite direction. If that was a woman, she was in rough shape. A noisy group of people were somewhere nearby, a sports bar, he thought. A grille, with a barbecue and big-screen TVs all over the place. They were out on the patio.

  The damp of the grass came in around the edges of his shoes, above the rubber soles. He must tread carefully.

  Crickets muted momentarily and then rose in song again after his passing. The cool breeze stirred the branches and he ducked his head in reflex. Raising the stick, he found nothing there.

  He straightened up. The branches might be five or ten metres up. The wind was very strong, and the trees were rattling and groaning where they rubbed up against one another.

  He was afraid to speak, to give her away. She must be able to see him just fine. In which case, her silence was suggestive. It was a warning. The whole set-up was hoary—or hairy.

  There were others out there, nearby, for he heard their cheerful, youthful voices. And yet he knew enough to be afraid. Fifty yards off the street, and it was a whole ‘nother world.

  It was a big city, its infernal hum all around. The parks, the little patches of jungle splotched here and there, were oases of sanity by day and a kind of insanity by night.

  That was a fine way of saying it was just kids, mostly; getting out of stuffy apartments and away from soul-crushing, barren existences if only for a brief moment of play and hooliganism.

  He stumbled over a small cut in the ground, and then there was soft dirt underfoot. The tip of his stick brushed something higher and thicker and stronger than grass. Flowers, he surmised.

  He decided to go left, possibly around it. The smell of lilies arose all around him, thick and sweet. There was another smell there too, the smell of the earth. He wondered if there were cedars around here somewhere. He hoped so. He always liked the smell when he was under cedars.

  He waited for a moment.

  The whistle came again, from sort of ahead of him but off to the right, as if shaped and distorted by intervening landscape features. She was farther away now, it seemed. She was like a siren, a siren of the night.

  Scott decided to pee right where he was. He could always plead insanity. If it was her, she’d wait, and if not…not.

  He coughed twice, carefully, and then carefully put the stick under his arm, and proceeded to thoroughly relieve himself. The pungent steam was both a reminder of boiled cabbage and the fact that all men were animals.

  ***

  In familiar surroundings, vertigo normally wasn’t a problem, but with the uneven ground and the stumbling around in the blackness and the dew, Scott was grateful for an overhead lamp up ahead.

  Its fuzzy globe of prismatic colour told him which way was up and how far he could safely wobble without falling over.

  The moment passed.

  “…Betty…?” Scott hissed into the darkness, ears straining for the hint of a footfall.

  “It’s okay, here I am, Lover.”

  Scott caught himself with a start.

  He stood there, trembling, sagging in relief. There was the briefest of sounds and then her scent was there.

  “Betty.”

  “Scott.”

  She held him and wetness filled his eyes as he clung to her. It was all too brief.

  “We’d better go.”

  His heart raced and the blood sang in his ears. It was relief and the terror of what came next.

  “Yes. It’s just that I didn’t expect it
to be so late.” Scott didn’t bother to dry his tears.

  He felt a little better now.

  “Oh, Jesus. I was scared shitless, Honey.” He let it all out in one big exhalation. “Oh, God. Thank God.”

  She took him by the hand.

  “It’s okay, Scott. Forward twenty steps, and then there’s a small stairs. A bit to the right, and then we’re going up.”

  With a grin as big as all outdoors on his homely mug, Scott plodded along, checking still, off to the right with his stick and trying to take regular-sized steps.

  “Okay, slow down. One or two more…good.”

  Scott paused.

  First one.

  He lifted a foot and located the step with the tip of his cane.

  “Upsy-daisy.”

  He found the next level and then began tapping his way up. The steps must be pretty wide. He negotiated the stairs with a silent Betty holding his hand for reassurance more than anything. Scott had gone up and down stairs a million times on his own. He just needed to know how high and how many. He’d gone up more than one set of stairs on all fours. It was better than dying.

  “Three more, Scott.”

  “Yes.” His questing cane had already found the flat and level.

  If only they had time to talk, and the privacy. Other hushed voices nearby ruled that out. They were on the run and interactions should be avoided as much as possible. All kinds of people in the park at night, Scott thought. Betty had to avoid her fellow robots if at all possible, with their total recall and constant recording and feedback links.

  There were plenty of other hazards.

  You couldn’t rule it out, anything from muggers to dog-walkers and joggers and teenagers drinking.

  If they could just get out of the city undetected, they might have a chance. If nothing else, they might get a two or three-day head start while they figured out what to do next.

  There was an abrupt burst of laughter, raucous and mean.

  “Well, well, well. What do we have here?”

  “Say! Dewey! Would you look at that!”

  “Ooh-ee.”

  ***

  The tone said it all, and Scott’s neck prickled in sudden fear. Punks, and he caught the faint whiff of alcohol. Betty’s sudden stop and the long silence implied much.

  “It’s a lovely evening, isn’t it, little lady?” Someone spat. “Oh, such a little sweetie-pie.”

  The accents and emphasis were lewd and carefully offensive.

  “Yes, it’s very pleasant.” Betty gave Scott’s bicep a quick squeeze and then let go.

  Scott’s imagination ran wild. He could only try to visualize. There were at least three of them.

  Shoe scuffs, breathing, giggles off to the right…someone in front and one off to the left as well.

  “So, Baby, what do you say you ditch the loser and come along party with us?”

  “Yeah!”

  “That guy’s nowhere, Baby.” He had a real scumbag giggle on him. "Why, he can't even really 'preciate ya, can he?"

  “We’ll show you a good time!”

  More laughs, and someone sloshed a bottle of something. That was the guy to Scott’s immediate right front.

  “I’m sorry. We have someplace we need to be.” She was two feet away, a little in front and to Scott’s left.

  “We wasn’t asking, lady.”

  “Leave her alone.”

  “Shut up, Mister Blind-Melon.”

  Scott turned angrily. He was about to open his mouth when a hard hand shoved him back. The guy was right there, and he caught himself, teetering on the brink of the eight concrete steps they had just come up.

  He stood there unsteadily, knees bent. His feet were apart and he knew where at least one of them was. Hard breathing was right there. The guy was drunk and not in that good a shape by the sounds of things, but then Scott wasn’t either. The stick was sort of trailing behind him now.

  Come on, Pally…say something.

  The guy sniffled and then a hyper-aware Scott had him dead to rights.

  Thank you very much, sir.

  Make the first one count.

  Thanks, Dad.

  “What made me do this?” His voice was clear and strong.

  Scott imagined the puzzled faces all swinging to him.

  “Huh? What?”

  “This.”

  The cane hummed through the air.

  Thwack.

  “I wasn’t always blind, you know.”

  You fucking bastard.

  Scott’s wicked, up, over and around-hand swipe with the cane must have caught the punk smack-dab in the chops. He went right down, although Scott heard him getting up again, too. There were unmistakable sounds.

  He couldn’t help but smile.

  “Fuckin’ son of a bitch!” There was blood in that mouth, if Scott wasn’t mistaken.

  Scott stepped forwards, following the squeals of rage as the guy scuttled backwards on his butt. He was swinging straight down from high overhead, two-handed, giving the man a good caning or at least giving all he had in the attempt.

  If nothing else, put on a show—make them think twice about it.

  He connected with something fleshy more than once and was hoping pure blind luck would give him another face shot on the guy.

  The fellow bolted as grunts and gasps came from the other two. Betty didn’t seem to make much noise.

  Whatever she was doing over there sure sounded appropriate. Thuds and soft whumps pretty much said it all.

  Yelps and gasps and cusses in an unfamiliar voice came from over there.

  Scott’s breath was ragged and his emotions were all over the place when he turned to help.

  There didn’t seem to be much he could do.

  He didn’t think he could do much damage to her. Feebly poking away was only going to do so much. One man said fuck, and then repeated it several times. Someone was groaning and gasping now. He heard a kind of a crack sound.

  If only he could get a clue from the sounds of the scuffle. One of them was cussing, on the ground a few feet away, just a bit to his left.

  As for the other one, he might be made of sterner stuff.

  There was a snap, a crackle and a pop. There was a scream and then a thud, like when someone drops a bag of cement onto a wheelbarrow. Whoever that was, that boy hit metal when he landed.

  It was all very quiet now. Someone warm and soft in the grip took his hand and led him rather quickly away.

  Walk, don’t run, right?

  “Betty?”

  “It’s okay, Scott.” Her voice was distant and unperturbed.

  He sucked in air. He smelled her, and then she paused. She was taking him in her arms.

  She gave him a quick peck on the lips.

  “Are you okay?”

  He cracked a wry grin.

  “Yeah. You should see the other guy.” Now that he thought about it, there was a stinging sensation on the left side of his neck.

  He put his hand up there but couldn’t find anything wet.

  The other guy, or somebody, had managed to connect after all, and Scott dimly recalled feeling something like that in his berserker rage. Something had definitely brushed up against him.

  Her soft fingertips touched the wound.

  “Am I bleeding?”

  “It’s not bad. Just a scratch. A scuff, really. But we’d better go.” She didn’t mention that it looked like a very sharp blade had missed his jugular by a millimetre or two.

  She picked up the pace. They walked for five or six minutes. She was taking him to a dark and very narrow trail leading down into a ravine. She briefed him in a cautious voice. All he had to do was to wait.

  His neck burned along in a stripe. He dabbed at it gingerly, exploring. Now it was definitely sticky. His pulse soared. It was all he could do to be silent. What a horrible feeling.

  “I’ll just go and get our suitcases. I’ll only be a minute or two—they’re right there, okay, Scott? I promise.”

 
"And I really am sorry about before— ” She would explain later.

  “Yeah.” He listened intently.

  The wind in the trees covered a multitude of sins, and that was a good thing sometimes. He was getting his breath back now. The adrenalin would subside, or so he hoped. He was a bit wobbly in the knees, perhaps more so. It was best to think about something else.

  It was a good idea to pay attention.

  He had the impression there was no one about, at least for fifty, or seventy-five metres. Their would-be assailants had been easily tracked, with his not particularly exceptional hearing, back out to the streetlights and some other solace. First-aid of one kind or another would be in order, at least for one or two of them, but the yelps and heartfelt curses indicated that the body count was low.

  “What did you do to them?”

  He heard an adult woman calling a dog, and more barks as if in answer from somewhere behind him. That one lady was off in front somewhere. The highway must be nearby. There was the constant thrum from the northwest, or so he thought.

  He heard a creek or rivulet down below, directly in front of him.

  He could always turn and pretend to stare off in another direction.

  It was like getting on an elevator and facing the back.

  What difference did it make?

  Betty had slipped off and wherever she was, she wasn’t answering. He had the impression there was a fog rising. Whether or not it was starlight, or moonlit, what difference would it make?

  A bit of fog would be good cover.

  Scott stood there, with the end of the cane firmly planted as an anchor against an uncertain Fate and listened to the sounds of the night, both up close and personal, and far off. There was something funny going on. He lifted the end of this constant companion and felt it. It seemed like a couple of inches was shredded, and maybe a bit of it was even missing.

  Hopefully someone had that embedded in them. This complicated matters. He relied on that thing, at least when out of doors. Now the length would be all wrong.

  That was the thing with robots, no heavy breathing.