Idolon by Mark Budz Page B

afternoon. Came on a couple of times. Annoying as hell."
    Marta's stomach tensed. "What" — she moistened er lips — "what are you talking about?"
    He frowned, concentrating. "Someone, a woman, or a kid maybe, reading a bunch of numbers."
    "What kind of numbers?"
    "Beats the hell out of me. Didn't make no sense. It went on for a couple minutes each time, then stopped."  
    "That's it? Just numbers?"
    He grunted. "Worthless piece of shit. I tried to change the station but couldn't. Had to turn the damn thing off."
    A shadow leaned into the room, spread across the floor in a stain. Marta turned. Instead of Nguyet, a man stood in the doorway. He leaned casually against the jamb, all suited up under a beige overrcoat, his hair slicked back, a gray felted Lancaster feedora in one hand. Nguyet appeared behind him, flustered, her face a bright sheen.
    "Marta." The man tipped his head, first at her and then her father. "Uncle Rocio. How you been?"
    Recognition kicked in. "Pelayo," she said.
    He stepped into the room, out of context in the retro philm he was waring. "It's been a while."
    How long had he been standing there? she wonndered. How much had he heard?
    "I tried to stop him," Nguyet said. "But he barged right in."
    Pelayo fixed Marta with a hard, flat gaze. "We need to talk," he said. "Now."
     
     

 
10
     
     
    At six, Nadice caught a Bay Area magrail and headed northeast to Dockton.
    She stared out the bubble window next to her, watching cars cross the Golden Gate Bridge in bright mercurial threads of light.
    Fifteen minutes later the train passed Suisun Bay on her left, sped through Pittsburg and Antioch into the capillary network of waterways and sloughs formed by the Sacramento and San Joaquin Rivers. According to a tourist information feed, the water had been fresh a century ago. But the rivers shriveled as the oceans lose, turning the delta of the Central Valley into an inland sea populated with pontoon-supported bridges, walkways, and buildings that spread like melanomas along the brackish slow-moving currents.
    Dockton. It spread out before her, a tumorous growth of creaking, brine-encrusted epoxy board, sheets of brittle photoelectric plastic, heat-cracked tires, rust-scabbed metal, and peeling architectural philm.
    Earlier, Nadice gave the train the address Mateus had made her memorize. Now, the bus section she was seated in detached from the train, shunted onto a paved loop, and dropped her off at a stop next to one of the road-accessible tributaries.
    Inhaling the stench of a nearby waste-reclamation plant, Nadice climbed wooden stairs to the top of the levee. On the other side was a small marina. She couldn't see any water between the pontoon docks. But the buildings bobbed sluggishly, rising and falling to an unseen rhythm. The latest F8 hit, "The Vivisexionist," drifted from the flea-market booths set up a short distance away. Nadice squinted against the early-evening glare, shading her eyes with one hand. Most of the makeshift structures — motels, bars, stores, and cafes — were held in place by gangplanks and frayed Kevlex line. Many appeared to have been boats at one time. Other buildings had been constructed diirectly on the dock, where they clung like barnacles or limpets. The town was a hodgepodge of architectural styles — everything from French Quarter Bourbon Street to Pacific Tiki bar and Aegean stucco. In a few places, programmable philm appliques decorated the epoxy board and sheet-metal siding. The letters on one decal, a sign for a travel agency called Gone Fission, pulsed in toxic radioactive green. Below them, a flying fish sporting four dragonfly wings leaped up out of a pond. At the peak of its arc the scales sloughed off and the fish turned to look at her.
    "Hello," it said, the voice a flat monochrome over her earfeed. With a quick flick of its tail, the fish detached from the sign and swam into the air.
    Startled, Nadice stepped back.
    Gossamer wings fluttered, holding the fish at