Git Sync Murder

Chapter 4

4

Did I misunderstand that? “Excuse me?” Dale said.

The lobby crowd had grown even worse. The elevator horde had melded into the con registration mob, and excited attendees of all sizes and colors totally obscured the hotel’s front desk. Their voices churned into an incomprehensible morass, marked every few seconds by surges of laughter and squeals of welcome.

Against that noise, Dale couldn’t be sure of anything he heard.

The con badge hanging around the man’s neck said CHAIN in large sans serif computer–printed letters. It had to be his nickname. “Lilith, the con chair. She said to come get you, and hurry up.” Chain bounced on the balls of his feet, impatience seething from every muscle. “Come on.”

Dale had no idea who the con chair was. Who she was, guessing from her name. “I think you have the wrong person.”

“Dale Whitehead?” Chain glanced back-and-forth across the tables of the booth. “And this is the Detroit Network Services sponsor booth?”

Worry tickled Dale’s spine. “Yeah?”

The hubbub of the lobby almost drowned Chain’s voice. “Then you’re the one I’m supposed to get.” Dale had a hard time assembling the sounds into words. “And she’s in a real hurry. Come on!”

The worry sent shivery tendrils up into Dale’s skull.

A few feet away, Will was engrossed in his conversation with the woman in the business suit.

Dale took a breath, watching for a space where he could interject himself.

“We gotta hurry.” Sweat trickled from Chain’s short-cropped red hair. How did a fit man like that grow shorter of breath just standing there?

Dale’s belly tightened—not as much as the impressive muscles showing through Chain’s T-shirt, but as much as they ever did. He hated interrupting, but forced himself to say, “Will.”

Will glanced at Dale, eyebrows raised.

Chain said, “The con chair sent me to” something “Dale. She’s in a real hurry.”

Dale’s throat tightened. One day in, and his brain was already dropping words?

Stress. He’d taken his afternoon atomoxetine, it had to be stress. Give him a few minutes to relax. He’d recover.

Will’s gaze flickered between Chain and Dale. “I can watch the booth,” Will said, studying Dale’s face. “But don’t be too long, I’m not staying here by myself all weekend.”

Dale nodded, trying to hide his flicker of gratitude. Will had already told Dale that he could go off and see any event he wanted, so long as he coordinated schedules with the rest of the staff. Will’s attitude gave Dale an excuse to cut anything short. He might even snatch five minutes to hide in a bathroom stall. “You got it.”

“Let’s go.” Chain launched himself back towards the registration area.

Dale squeezed around the end of the table and started off after Chain, trotting to keep up.

Dale wasn’t built for jogging. Worse, his mass gave him too much momentum to easily stop when someone dashed across his path or stepped into way and stopped. The stop-and-go got worse as the crowd thickened. With each step Chain pulled a little further ahead, using his greater agility to thoughtlessly weave a path.

Plus, to be fair, the guy was maybe half Dale’s size. Chain could slip through a gap that wouldn’t admit Dale’s shoulder.

Only a couple of yards into the churning crowd, Chain disappeared entirely.

Dale squeezed himself forward between a couple more people before stopping to lift himself up on the balls of his feet, trying to peer over the crowd to glimpse Chain’s red hair. Someone bumped into his back, almost making him lose balance, but with half a step forward he caught himself.

No sign of Chain.

His heart beat faster. The press of people squeezed sweat from his skin.

Maybe the con chair was at the registration desk? Dale set his shoulders and tried to squeeze himself forward. All these people packed so tightly together felt overwhelming. It wasn’t just all the voices and all the faces, or even the closeness of all these people. Even the variety of clothes felt like an assault on his senses, all the different colors and textures hammering at his brain, threatening to steer him face first into a wall.

He’d never see Chain in this.

He wouldn’t recognize his mother in this.

Dale tried to weasel himself forward.

“Hey!” A big man in a black and red Starfleet TNG uniform snarled, “No cutting in line, mister!”

“I’m not cutting!” Dale felt his frustration boiling out his mouth. “The con chair sent for me, I’m looking for her.”

The man glared down at Dale, crossed his arms, and shifted his weight to more firmly block Dale’s path.

Dale fought an urge to swallow. Surely this guy wouldn’t start a fight? Maybe he should back out of the crowd. Let Chain find him again. What could the con chair want that would be so urgent, anyway?

“Hey,” Chain said at Dale’s shoulder.

Dale jumped with surprise, his tension giving it a little more oomph. He felt both grateful for the interruption, and annoyed at that gratitude.

“Stick with me.” Chain raised his voice. “Con staff, coming through! Con staff!”

Surly Trek surrendered a few grudging inches.

Even with this declaration, Chain couldn’t trot through this crowd. Dale tread in Chain’s steps until they broke free and into the open corridor beyond. A few yards further down, they passed through a row of glass doors.

Humidity slapped Dale in the face, along with the scent of leaves and mulch and moss.

The atrium was large enough for a few hundred people, with an outer wall of triangular glass panels so broad that Dale doubted he’d be able to reach from one point to another. The wall curved to form the ceiling, letting the October sunlight pour through.

The atrium needed the sunlight.

For the jungle.

The floor sloped away in a series of ramps, connecting circular concrete patios where wrought iron chairs sat next to decorative tables barely large enough to hold a couple cups of coffee. Between the ramps, spindly trees struggled towards the glass ceiling, their leaves a rich green. Between the trees, leafy bushes huddled a disciplined distance from one another. A rock-lined waterfall ran down from the back wall, near the opposite doors, and trickled through a series of descending pools until it reached a broad Koi pond in the center of the atrium.

A cluster of people stood around the Koi pond, either staring into it or chattering with one another.

A figure lay on the ground next to the pond. His clothing was soaked, and his shins and feet still hung in the water.

The body’s face was as pale as his long white beard.