Do I want that? Dell or Katya or that Sutherland guy? They might send Colette again.
I set the shoes on the counter. The light is better in here, and I can see the edge of the inner lining now. I take a butter knife and pry at it, seeing if it will pull free.
After several minutes of trying, I give up and switch out for a steak knife.
I stick the blade in the seam between the edge of the shoe and the sole. At first it sinks in easily, then it hits something solid. I knew it. There’s metal in there.
I slice along the heel until I can peel it up.
Holy smokes.
Beneath is a series of circuits. If I had to guess what a trainee would have, there would be some sort of tracking device, maybe a motion counter to make sure they ran their miles or whatever physical work they have to do. And surely — hopefully — something that allows them to bypass security in their own facilities. The high-tech silos use those scanners, but probably other buildings in the network have normal doors.
Like safe houses do.
I carry the shoe to the pantry and wave it around. Nothing happens. I set it on the hatch. Still nothing.
I back up and sit on a kitchen chair. Dang it. I turn the shoe over in my hand.
Wait.
It probably knows whether or not it’s being worn.
I pat the sole back into place and slip the shoe on. When I stand up, the bottom forms to my foot. I walk to the other and put it on as well.
Do the shoes know I’m not Katya? I think about her. She was a little taller than me, and definitely more muscular. So she probably weighed a bit more. I look around. The radio. And the toaster. I pick them both up. That’s about right. Now the shoes should register that I’m her, unless there’s something trickier like a chip in her body.
It’s worth a shot.
I walk toward the pantry.
My heart is pounding. I don’t know if this will work. Or what I will find if it does. For all I know, Vigilantes will descend from the sky on lines from helicopters.
I step up to the pantry door.
Nothing.
I take another step closer to the hatch, until my toes are up against the crack.
And I hear a faint “click.”
Oh my God.
The far side has lifted up almost an inch.
I did it!
I set the toaster and radio on a shelf and walk around the hatch to kneel before the opening. My fingers fit beneath the lip.
I lift the metal panel, grunting under its weight. When it gets about two feet up, I notice a steel bar on the side, like the ones used in old cars to prop up the hood.
It takes a lot of effort to hold the hatch door up with one arm, but I manage to pull the bar up and fit it in a carved-out hollow. I let go of the door with relief.
It’s pitch black below. I need a flashlight.
I dodge the open door to run into the kitchen for one. If my heart was hammering before, it’s firing like a machine gun now. The Vigilantes were right! Aunt Bea’s house IS part of their network.
I stop for a second outside the pantry door.
