Sims by F. Paul Wilson

it wasn’t just the air. He straightened and did a slow turn, checking out the glass-littered floor until he spotted a bottle on its side against the far wall. He crunched over and retrieved it. A Fruitopia bottle, empty but reeking of gasoline. And a piece of paper rolled up inside. He fished it out.
    â€œWhat is it?” Pamela said.
    â€œA note.”
    With trembling fingers Patrick unrolled the wet piece of blue-lined loose leaf and held it up to the light. The gasoline had acted as a solvent, running the ballpoint ink, but the words were still legible. His gut crawled as he read them aloud.
    â€œ
Forget about a sim union or next time it won’t be empty.
”
    â€œOh, Christ!” Pamela cried. “Who’d do something like this?”
    â€œNot signed.”
    A threat. He had trouble rereading the message because his hands had begun to shake. Jesus, he’d heard of things like this happening, but never dreamed . . .
    He forced his racing brain to slow so he could examine the possibilities. SimGen popped into his head immediately, and just as quickly he discarded it. This was hardly their style, especially since they knew they couldn’t lose in the long run. One of the anti-sim hate groups? Could be. He’d seen them on TV, mostly losers who resented animals taking human jobs—Wake up, guys: Machines have been doing that for a couple of centuries—but he hadn’t heard of any in the area.
    He didn’t want Pamela to see how rattled he was. “One of your old boyfriends, maybe?”
    â€œThis isn’t funny, Patrick! Someone just threatened your life!”
    Just then a couple of Katonah’s finest screeched to a halt at his front curb.
    â€œSorry.” Couldn’t she see he was just trying to break the tension? “Bad joke.” He looked around for his pants. “I’m going to go out and talk to the cops.”
    â€œWhat am I supposed to do?”
    â€œGet dressed and stay out of sight. You’re better off not being involved in this.”
    He pulled on his slacks and a shirt, and hurried toward the front door.
    . . . next time it won’t be empty . . .
    What the hell had he got himself into?

8
    It was a little after nine when Patrick arrived at his office at Payes & Hecht, but he felt as if he’d already put in a full day.
    The fire trucks had arrived on the heels of the first patrol car and doused his flaming lawn. It looked like the vandals had tried to burn some sort of message into the grass but whatever it said had been turned to steaming mud by the time the fire hoses finished their work. The cops took his statement, bagged the Fruitopia bottle and note, and promised to have the patrols make extra swings by his place.
    All fine and good, but it had left him with a sick, sour stomach and an adrenaline hangover. At least he was in better shape than Pamela who seemed totally freaked by the incident. He’d tried to explain that the threat had been against him, not her, but still she’d been afraid to leave the house.
    Finally he’d put her on a train to the city, then made it to White Plains where he was surrounded as soon as he stepped into the Payes & Hecht reception area. News of the attack had been all over the TV and radio; the firm was medium size, consisting of twenty-two attorneys, and everyone knew everyone. The associates and staff were shocked and concerned and wanted to know all the details. But before he could get into it, Alton Kraft, the managing senior partner, pulled him aside for a one-on-one in his office.
    â€œYou all right?” Kraft said.
    His blue eyes looked out from under thick eyebrows that matched his salt-and-pepper hair. He had a lined face and looked grandfatherly, but he could be a buzzsaw with any associate who strayed off the beaten path. Patrick was up for partnership next year and Kraft was one of his main supporters.
    â€œI’m fine. Really.”
    The