The Duplicate

Chapter Twenty-three

The ice-devil refuses to rest.

Hovering over the window. Pacing the kitchen, back and forth, back and forth. Drinking cup after cup of coffee. Expression grave. Eyes lost in thought.

From my perch on the arm of the couch, I try to ignore him. I try to distract myself with the view from the living room window—the traffic clogging the street below, the people hurrying down the sidewalk. But in the corner of my eyes I can still see him roaming around the kitchen like a caged animal, pumping his anxiety throughout the entire apartment.

I feel it.

And Dax, who is sitting on the other side of the couch, feels it too. It's not long before he starts bouncing both legs and drumming his fingers over his knees.

Okay. I've had enough.

With an exasperated sigh, I hop off the couch and, treating the kitchen as if it were a war zone, halt just short of the kitchen tile. Arms crossed and gaze trailing each lithe, dangerous step Trip takes, I watch him. Pace back and forth, back and forth. Pause by the window. Take a sip of coffee. Pace back and forth, back and—

"Trip."

Eyes snapping up at me, he stops in his tracks.

"You do realize you're pacing around like a madman, don't you?"

Trip gives me an irritated look and turns away to continue his pacing.

"And," I say, "you do realize you were shot last night, and you're running on only three hours of sleep, right?"

He doesn't seem to have a problem ignoring me. He downs the rest of his coffee.

Another frustrated sigh escapes me. "You're stressing me out. Why don't you just sit down, or something? You can think—or whatever it is you're doing—after you've gotten some rest."

Trip gives a shake of his head, stalking towards the window. The gravity of his demeanor makes me pause.

"What is it?" I ask. "What's wrong?"

Trip stares down at the street.

I take a quick step towards him. "Trip."

He shoots me a glance.

"Tell me. What are you thinking?"

For a moment, it looks like he is trying to organize his thoughts. His eyes search the window glass. His fist clenches and unclenches at his side. "If everything had gone according to plan last night," he says, finally, "Verbeck wouldn't have known it was me who went after him. He didn't even know what hit him." He looks over at me, as if to make sure I'm listening.

I nod slowly.

"Ralston might have figured out that it was me eventually, but by that time I would have had my file. It wouldn't have mattered." Trip drops his eyes. "But it didn't work out that way. Braxton showed up."

"And now they know it was you."

"Yes." Trip nods. "I told you Government knows I want my file. They knew when my identification number was searched in Emulation Database, when you went into Archives."

"Okay."

"So, they know I went after Verbeck to get into the Government Database. That's the only reason I would go after him. But I didn't ask Verbeck for a password. The only thing I wanted was a fingerprint."

"You've already told us this." I gesture at the table, where he sat just hours ago, telling us this same thing. "They'll be monitoring the Database for Verbeck's fingerprint, so we can't use it."

"Why didn't I ask for a password?"

"What do you mean?" My brow furrows, and I blink at him a few times. "That's not what you planned. You just needed a fingerprint."

Trip shifts to face me. His frosted eyes flash Dax's way, pointedly, and reluctantly, he repeats the question, "Why didn't I ask for a password?"

"Because you want Dax to design a program to..."

Oh.

"They'll figure someone else, other than you, has to be involved," Trip says. "Someone who can get me into the Database—without a password."

Chewing the inside of my cheek, thinking, I draw closer to the window. Both Trip and I peer out at the traffic.

"Is there any way they could figure out it's Dax?" I ask.

"There are only so many people I have connections to. Now that they know I'm back in the City, they'll monitor them all. Phone calls, bank accounts, internet activity. Dax might even be on the top of the list with his background. And they'll catch the searches he put in for Government Officials and computers connected to the Database. They'll narrow it down, easy."

Everything points to Dax. It's only a matter of time before Government notices, if they haven't—

A single thought zips across my mind. And my hand goes to my mouth. Eyes widening, I look up at Trip.

He meets my gaze and tilts his head, all in one quick motion. "What?"

"The medical kit."

"What about it?"

Swallowing, I try to set my thoughts straight. "Last night, Dax bought that medical kit from a corner store. If they're monitoring bank accounts, and Government knows you were shot..."

Judging by the shock flecked in his eyes, he didn't know anything about the medical kit.

"Oh no," Dax breathes, now standing behind me. I didn't even hear him get off the couch.

Only Trip's eyes move, over my shoulder, switching to Dax. "Did you use a debit card?"

"I... wasn't thinking."

Trip jerks his head away, mouthing a curse.

"I called Dax last night, too," I mumble. A four or five minute conversation with a blocked phone call would probably look suspicious. Especially if it happened only minutes after Trip and I escaped the club.

"Oh shit." Now it's Dax's turn to pace. He runs a shaking hand over his face, his voice nothing more than a squeak. "I'm dead. I'm so freaking dead. They could be at my door any second. They're going to kill—"

"Dax," Trip growls, "that's not helping anything."

Huffing impatiently, I ask, "So what do we do?"

Trip's eyes go to the window, searching again. Mind racing. "We need to leave."

"Where will we go? Where can we go?"

"I don't know." Slowly, carefully, Trip rolls his injured shoulder. He grimaces. "You're going to have to go mobile, Dax. Can you do that?"

Dax bobs his head. "I've got a laptop, and an external hard-drive. I'll probably need my—"

"Go pack."

"Right." Dax skips around me and rushes down the hallway.

I barely notice. My mind and body feel numb. A weird sensation, especially when my heart is beating so fast. "How much time do you think we have?"

Trip shakes his head. "None."

I watch his hand clench and unclench. He rolls his shoulder again. Testing it, gauging it. And my next breath of words comes almost automatic.

"Your gun is in my purse."