Artificial Detective 2: Shell Game by Dave Terruso

Author:Dave Terruso [Terruso, Dave]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2022-10-31T04:00:00+00:00

9

Travis scurries after me as I rush toward the house where Ken is being held. Just as he catches up to me, he drops his FlapPad and spins around to retrieve it.

I stop for him but don’t turn to face him. “When the guests at Off-World found out they were stranded in the resort for two and a half years, Ken had a severe claustrophobia-induced panic attack and attempted to dig a hole deep enough to tunnel under the resort and come out on the other side of the dome. Even if he could dig that deep—he couldn’t—he was ignoring the fact that it was minus 370 degrees Fahrenheit out there, and if the cold didn’t kill him, Jupiter’s radiation would.”

With a grunt, Travis sidles up to me, his FlapPad pressed to his chest the way high schoolers carry books on TV. “So, this is in keeping with Ken’s personality. Is his panic attack a matter of public record, something Aidan would know about?”

I walk faster to make up the few seconds we just lost, and Travis keeps up, huffing and puffing. “It wasn’t made public, but there was an incident report that Aidan might have gained access to. Even if he didn’t, it’s possible that Aidan interviewed all of these people once he abducted them, so he’d be able to imitate any or all of them convincingly.”

We turn up the walkway to Ken’s front door. Travis tucks his FlapPad under his arm. “That makes this game incredibly difficult for you, who know these people well. And impossible for me, who haven’t met any of them except Kevin Roth.”

“Correct.” I knock on the door. “Ken? It’s Coba. I’m coming in, okay? I’m here to help you. Everything’s okay.”

Ken doesn’t answer. I hear the jangling of kitchen drawers inside. “Ken. It’s Coba. I’m coming in.” Over my shoulder, I say to Travis, “Wait out here until I come get you. I don’t want to overwhelm him since he doesn’t know you.”

Travis nods, starts pacing on the lawn.

I open the door and slowly enter the beach house, which is nearly identical on the inside to the one Marty and Ethan are in.

Inching toward the sound of metal clanging, I find Ken frantically shuffling through a utility drawer in the kitchen with one hand and scratching at the gray shock collar necklace with the other.

He’s a stout man of average height with uncannily smooth skin. His flopsy gray hair is drenched in sweat, matted to his forehead and neck. He dons round blue tortoise shell glasses. The yellow T-Shirt he wears has dark ovals of sweat in both armpits. Emblazoned in the center of the shirt is an image of a gray tabby kitten with bright blue eyes clinging to a tree branch; above the kitten’s head, the words Hang in There! are scrawled in blue in Victorian font.

Ken is hyperventilating. His heart rate is 128. The skin above and below his necklace is riddled with scratch marks, fresh scabs, and drops of blood—it reminds me of depictions of Christ after his crown of thorns was removed.

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