Cole Perriman's Terminal Games Read Free Page B

was holding her breath.
    Each time she turned a corner, she half expected to see someone there.
    Someone dangerous.
    Utterly ridiculous.
    Swinging around to view the empty room, she saw nothing. But she thought she heard violin bows clacking, slapping percussively against the wood of the instruments.
    You’re like a little kid who’s stayed up past her bedtime watching horror films on TV.
    Marianne passed through another doorway into a bare kitchen. She turned back and forth, studying its whole length. It was long, narrow, and cramped in comparison to the rooms she had just passed through.
    I told them this space was too tight when we went over the floor plans. Who could do any major entertaining from a kitchen like this?
    After a few deft movements of Marianne’s fingers, the wall that connected to the dining room glided silently backward, carrying its counter space and cabinets along with it, broadening the whole area by exactly four feet. Marianne studied the enhanced kitchen space with satisfaction.
    There. And that doesn’t hurt the next room—it’s still huge.
    Just to try the idea out, she caused a work island to pop into view in the middle of the kitchen floor. She effortlessly changed the shape of the island and rotated it a little until it sat at a pleasing diagonal. There was plenty of room to walk around it on all sides.
    Still, an adjustment like this demanded a formality. She moved her computer mouse to the desk accessory list, selected “Mail,” and typed a message in the space that appeared:
    Dwayne:
    Please note the kitchen wall adjoining the dining room. I moved it. It’s not load-bearing, so I don’t see any problem, do you? Let me know if you think otherwise.
    —MH
    Another mouse-click caused the message to vanish. Later she would bundle the design file up with the e-mail, attach her version of the house plans, and send the whole thing to the design office.
    It was now very early in the morning, and she had not yet gone to bed. Her eyes were too tired to continue her visual “walk-through” of the house on her computer screen. She felt a yawn welling up. Maybe she was getting truly sleepy. She closed her eyes and stretched her arms and back.
    A sharp “boing” sounded directly in front of her.
    Her eyes snapped open.
    An icon was flashing on her monitor.
    It’s just e-mail.
    So why was she shaking?
    She was still unnerved by the apparition—that grotesquely comic, disturbingly savage murder she had witnessed just a few hours ago.
    Simulation of a murder. Let’s keep our realities straight.
    Even so, the animated performance had irrationally frightened her. The music and images had still haunted her as she toured this perfectly safe, innocuous, virtual interior. As she stared at the blinking e-mail icon, a bright red cartoon bloodstain flashed across her brain. She tried unsuccessfully to erase it.
    And just who the hell would be sending e-mail at this time of night?
    She double-clicked the blinking icon and the message appeared.
    Dahhhling!
    Am looking forward so much to seeing you tomorrow when you get into town. We are on for noon, aren’t we? At the court of King Louis XIV? Oh PLEEEZZZZZZ don’t cancel! It’s been way too long.
    Ruhnay
    Marianne breathed more comfortably.
    Renee.
    Renee was even more of an insomniac than Marianne, and nocturnal messages between them were no oddity. But part of the message puzzled her.
    Court of King Louis XIV?
    Then she remembered. The lounge. The hotel where she’d be for the next few days.
    Renee’s fantasizing again. Guess it’s my serve.
    She went to her desk accessory list again to leave a message of her own.
    O Dahhhling Yourself!
    We’re still on, sweetie. And I understand we’re in for a treat. Old King Louie’s holding a command performance of a brand new Moliere play with music by Lully and lyrics by Neil Simon. Should go down great with whiskey and margaritas! See you there!
    —MH
    She zapped the message into cyberspace, then shut