The Day Before (22 page)

 

CHAPTER 21

There is always a price for war. When the war is within our own being, the cost is either a loss of weakness, or a loss of strength.

~ Excerpt from
The Oneness of Being
by Oaza Moun Il–2070

Saturday June 22, 2069

Alabama District 3

Commonwealth of North America

W
iping sweat off his face, Mac put the lawn mower away. He was secretly hoping the drought would last all summer and kill the grass. So far, the weather was against his master plan. It was helping the nightmares though. He worked himself to physical exhaustion every day, and the dreams seemed to stay away. And there was an added benefit to trading pills for exercise: he was in better shape than he had been in five years.

A dark blue Jabon Savanna sparkled in the sunlight as it pulled up to the house. Mac smiled. “Good morning, Miss Azalea. Sam's still sleeping, but the rent checks are in the kitchen.”

“I was just heading to town.” The old woman toddled over to him. “And how is my favorite boy?”

He blushed. “Don't say that too loud—­Mr. Cummins will get mad at me.”

“Pff! The old man's been dead twelve years now.”

Mac held the door as they walked inside. “Here's the rent. I mowed the lawn again, but I haven't put the weed killer down yet.”

“That needs to be done. We wait too much longer, and you going to be mowing weeds. They grow faster than grass. You be mowing twice a week if the weeds win.”

“I'll take care of it tomorrow,” he promised.

“That's my good boy.” Hoss walked in, and Miss Azalea let out a delighted squeal. “There's my handsome man! There's my beautiful one. Are they feedin' you right? Are they feedin' my babykins?” She wiggled the dog's jowls. “Sweet thing. Let me check my purse. Do I have a treat for you? Do I have a treat for ma puppykins? Yes I do! Right here! Who's a good boy? Sit!”

Hoss's rump hit the ground like a bowling ball.

“Good boy! Isn't he adorable?”

“A charming, slobbery mutt,” Mac agreed.

“And a purebred mutt at that. Well.” She sighed and shook her head at Hoss. “Slobbery is right. I need to wash my hands if you don' mind.”

“It's your sink,” Mac said, stepping out of the way. “I just rent it.”

She washed her hands and turned back. Hoss lay down, then rolled over, trying to earn another treat. Miss Azalea reached for her purse, and Hoss jumped up hopefully. “Nothing more for you, ungrateful greedy gut.” She looked at Mac. “I got something for you and Miss Rose, a little card. I wanted to thank you for cleaning my car after you borrowed it. And, here”—­she pulled some coins from her purse—­“these were in the car. You must have dropped 'em. I couldn't keep them, it would be stealin'.”

Mac took the pennies in stunned silence. “Miss Azalea? Did you say we borrowed your car?”

“Yes, dear. Just the other day. And returned all nice and clean and shiny. I thought it was sweet of you. I never wax my car when I wash it, but it does shine now, doesn't it.” She smiled fondly out at her Jabon Savanna.

He nodded. “Beautiful.” With a few more words for Hoss, Miss Azalea left. Mac dropped the pennies in his pocket, frowning. It was disturbing to have that much of his life missing—­and he thought he was doing so well off the pills. He couldn't remember borrowing a car at all.

The sound of stairs creaking made him turn to the living room with a half smile. Sam was up. Hoss bounded forward, all four feet leaving the ground at once. Mac followed after, opening the door so the mutt could enthusiastically greet his favorite human.

Sam pushed the dog away and yawned. Sleep bedraggled, she was still beautiful.

“Miss Azalea brought you your change.”

She tilted her head to one side. Sam looked blankly at the pennies. “My change from what?”

“You left it in Miss Azalea's car when you borrowed it.”

Sam frowned at him. “When did I borrow her car?”

“I don't know, but she dropped by to pick up the rent and say thank you for washing the car.”

“She said I took the car?” Sam looked at him with worry written on her face.

“She said we did.” Mac looked at her pleadingly. “I don't remember going anywhere with you.”

“We didn't go anywhere.”

“That makes me feel better.”

“It makes me feel worse. Who would Miss Azalea think was us?”

“I don't know, but they washed her car and left her three cents in change.”

Sam's hands clenched. “Remind me to talk to her on Sunday. I can give one of her daughters a call, too. They can take her to the doctor.” She glanced at the pennies in his hand. “Keep the change.”

He followed her into the kitchen. “I wanted to tell you last night, but . . .”

“What?”

“Birmingham called.”

Her knuckles went white as she opened the fridge. “And?”

“No clone markers. For any of the samples.”

“Accuracy?” her voice was shaky.

“As close to one hundred percent as possible.”

Tears swam in her eyes, and Mac wished he could take the pain away. “That makes no sense.”

“Both of the matches we sent in for Melody Chimes came back confirmed.”

“But one is Melody Doe?”

“Right. Melody Doe is the most recent sample. A statistically perfect match for our missing security guard.”

“Who is in Paris.”

“According to Agent Marrins . . .” He let that thought dangle.

“What are you saying?”

“I'm saying I'd really like a DNA sample from the Melody Chimes in Paris. It's a niggling thought I had last night. Probably nothing, but it gets better.”

“Go ahead.”

“Jane's DNA is a match for you, but the mutations match an advanced age of five years, which fits the age range of the body.”

“We already knew that. Physically, Jane is older than I am.”

“With more breaks, too.” He nodded. “I had them run your DNA against archived data. You are Samantha Lynn Rose. Jane is you . . . in five years.”

She frowned. “How do you explain that?”

“Illegal cloning, maybe. Someone here is running a lab, probably not far from the field where we found both bodies. They're making clones without markers.”

“But why me? And which one do you think I am?” She sat at the table. “I'm confused. How can anyone make clones without markers?”

“At a guess, you're Samantha Rose. Jane was an overmatured clone. If you pull the clone out of the vat early, the clone marker won't show up, but you can't control the rate of growth, either. As to why: ease of DNA access. Do you ever go out to clubs, bars, anything like that?”

Her lips twisted in a frown. “Regularly enough. Bri and I usually hit the clubs on Wednesday. Fewer crowds, and it's nice to know you can have a minivacation midweek.”

“Melody Chimes had pictures of her out with groups of friends at clubs. Getting a DNA sample wouldn't be hard. Depending on the tech, it could be something as simple as grabbing a strand of hair.”

“Or leaving a drop of blood?”

“Um, I've never been to that kind of club, but blood would make it that much easier.”

“There's a chair at one of my favorite places that has a nick in it. I've sliced my ankle on it more than once. Someone complained after they did, and the chair is supposed to be gone.”

Mac shrugged. “If I wanted to collect DNA for illegal clones, I can't think of a better opportunity to grab free samples. Take the blood, grow a clone with no marker at an accelerated rate, and you have an adult sex slave in under eight months. Sure, the clone won't last more than a few years without the clone marker, but that doesn't matter.”

She groaned. “Marrins isn't going to like this. It's the little house of horrors all over again.”

Mac made a noncommittal noise.

“What?”

“Agent Marrins has been here for a long time. How many Jane Does has he ignored, do you think?”

He could see her thinking about it before she shook her head. “No. Marrins is a bureau agent. He might have passed over some Janes as suicides, but that would be the end of the matter. If he had any idea there was a clone lab operating in his district, he would shut it down faster than you can say sting operation. He has no motive for allowing illegal clones.”

“Probably,” Mac said.

“It must be a man thing,” she murmured. “Altin thinks Marrins is twisted. Marrins thinks you're a killer.”

What?
“Me?”

Sam ignored him. “You think Marrins is hiding something. What is it that makes men so paranoid?”

“Experience,” he said with authority.

“We need more. We need to find a connection.”

“Dump site?”

“Not enough.”

“Murder weapon.”

“Still not enough, unless we find the weapon and can prove it's unique.”

Mac shook his head. “If I had some possible weapons, or an idea of how the weapon was used, I could probably narrow down the details. Right now, I have skull fractures from some form of impact.”

“What about other Jane Does in the area?”

“What about them?” he asked.

“We need to find a connection between them if you want to push a serial-­killer case.”

“That's stretching the hypothesis to say that all Jane Does dropped in this area are illegal clones,” Mac argued.

“Fine. Where would
you
start?”

“With material and funding, follow the money trail. The person doing this needs technical know-­how and money for supplies. Around here, that's a short list.”

Sam leaned against the doorjamb. “District 3 is rural. Just because a lab is here doesn't mean the operation is based here.”

“There'll still be a record of some kind. Land sales and taxes if nothing else.”

“Any thoughts on motive?”

“Not without knowing who is behind the means. So far, our two suspected victims are both young females. Using a technique without a clone marker means that there is no long-­term prospect for the clones. Sex slaves, snuff porn, something like that could be the motive.”

Sam wrinkled her nose.

“Or someone angling in on the money aspect and trying to clone replacements. Both you and Melody come from wealthy families.”

She shook her head. “I'm not buying that theory.”

Mac shrugged. “It makes sense. Both you and Melody Chimes were in positions that could bring wealth and influence. If someone cloned you and could control the clone, they could be set for life.”

“But it doesn't fit the evidence. Both victims were brutally beaten, killed by an impact of some kind, and Jane was tortured. You don't kill the clone if you want to use it as a replacement.”

“You do if you want to threaten another clone,” Mac said. “Or we come back to the fetish clubs. Clones are used for bondage and dark-­fantasy sex play. I could see a club owner buying clones of local women just so they could sell the fantasy better.”

“That's disgusting.”

“Doesn't mean someone won't pay for it.” They shared a look.

Sam shivered at the thought of someone paying for the pleasure of beating her to death. “I can see it, but it doesn't feel right to me. We'd have heard rumors by now. Or found more bodies.”

“There aren't a whole lot of other scenarios that fit the evidence,” Mac said. “Assassin training yard, serial killer with his own clone-­at-­home set, time travel.”

“We need evidence, not soap-­opera plot lines.”

“And I hadn't even gotten to the fun ones yet.”

She rolled her eyes. “What's the connection between Melody and Jane? Why them?”

“Age, social status, wealth, neither of them are white, there's a good chance you went to the same clubs. Maybe it was a fetish. Or maybe it was an attack of opportunity. Maybe the cloner picked up DNA samples at random and cloned them for fun.”

She shook her head. “There's more. There has to be more. I'm going to go through Melody's file again. We're missing something.”

 

CHAPTER 22

There is no such thing as impossible, there is only a place where that possibility is not yet available.

~ Dr. M. Vensula, head of the National Center for Time Fluctuation Studies I4-­ 2070

Monday July 1, 2069

Alabama District 3

Commonwealth of North America

T
he phone rang, another interruption during an already-­busy day. Sam picked it up. “Agent—­”

“If someone doesn't have a clone marker, are they clone or human?” Mac asked without wasting any breath.

“Is this an existential question?”

“No. What is the legal designation?”

“Human. Without a clone marker, there is no way to prove someone is a clone. The marker stabilizes an adult clone, and all clones predating the marker law will have their genes on the Verville list,” Sam said, reciting the legal definition from memory.

“Neither Jane or Melody Doe has Verville traces of any kind. The full report just arrived. I thought the original test of Jane missed something, but Birmingham retested, and there is nothing that matches the Verville list. Legally, both Jane and Melody Doe are human.”

“What . . .” Her voice trailed off, and her eyes went wide. “Holy Mary.”

“We have a serial killer. Officially. One we can take to Marrins.”

“No. No, we still have only two deaths.”

“Three.”

“Another Jane Doe?”

“John Doe. When the body was found just before I moved here, they weren't able to identify him in the system. John was listed as an illegal immigrant and buried three plots down from Melody Doe. He's a perfect match for Matthew Vensula, a biology student who finished his internship at N-­V Nova Labs before going missing. He was last seen at the lab talking with Dr. Emir. He has the same fracture pattern and was found in the same field. Same dump site. Same weapon.”

“Same doctor.” Sam slammed her fist on the desk. “I'm really starting to hate that man. Emir is linked to all these Matthew, Melody, and Mordicai.”

“Dr. Emir is listed as the last person to see both Melody Chimes and Mordicai Robbins alive, in case you were wondering.”

“Naturally. Maybe he really hates ­people whose names start with M.” A shiver of apprehension ran up her spine. “Just so we're clear, I never want to be left alone with Dr. Emir.”

“I wouldn't recommend it unless we use the M theory, then I'm the one at risk.”

Sam looked at the district tax records on her screen. “Problem: he has no motive. ­People don't haul off and murder their interns and security guards for no reason.”

“Maybe they saw something they shouldn't have.”

“Like what?”

“Like the clone of a bureau agent? I don't know, but get me to that lab, and maybe I can find out.”

“You know I can't tie Jane to the case without bringing up questions I won't answer. For that matter, I can't bring up Melody Doe. The official word from the Chimes's lawyers is that Melody is touring France with her new boyfriend. That leaves us one body.”

“If Marrins brings it up, you can say Jane and Melody Doe were possibly cloned in an identity-­theft scam. The Melody clone worked: Melody Chimes was killed and replaced by her clone, who fled the scene of a crime when the lab was attacked because she was scared she would be caught. You were the next victim, possibly because of your ties to the bureau but more likely because you come from the same wealthy background as Melody. Your clone overcooked, and they sold it to a fetish shop before dumping it.”

“That's going to be a hard sell.”

“Tell Marrins we might catch a clone ring in the act of cloning a bureau agent. Not that it matters, without the clone marker and Verville traces, all three of the Does are legally human, but you know how Marrins thinks.”

She sighed in resignation. “Fine, the logic is still spotty but I'll take it to Marrins and get a warrant. When I get to the lab, what am I looking for?”

“Blood? A signed confession? Emir to have a nervous breakdown when you show him the warrant? I don't know, what do you want?”

“Mac,” Sam said in a dry tone, “I meant, what should I look for as a possible weapon?”

“Um . . .”

“Don't say ‘um.' ”

“No sharp edges. Nothing that flakes. I almost want to say something soft.”

“Soft?”

“Have you ever seen a body hit by a sonic blast?”

“I've never had the opportunity.”

“Sound waves can shatter a body. It reminds me of that, but the blast isn't hitting the organs and liquefying them, it's striking the bones. The fractures radiate out from the point of impact like ripples. Whatever it is, don't look for a conventional weapon. It will look benign.”

Sam rubbed her temples. “That's going to be fun to look for, but I'll try to find something.”

“It would help if I could come.”

“No it wouldn't—­you're not field trained. Some days, I don't even think you're housebroken.”

“It would satisfy my curiosity.”

“Mmm, that I believe.” She started pulling files up on her computer. “Do you think you could tie Robbins to this at all?”

“Probably not. I can look over the autopsy again, but he was killed by a bullet to the throat. He choked to death on his own blood.”

“Lovely.” She rubbed her own throat in sympathy.

“Premeditated, execution style. Marrins was right about that, I looked it up, and it's a common method of dispatching gang members who turn traitor in some areas of the country. Serial killers don't get creative with their killing styles. They find something they're comfortable with, and they use it again and again.”

“I'd still like to talk to Melody Chimes, or whoever is using her name, and get her account. Marrins won't give me the recording, though.”

“Is it in the database?”

She blinked, gaze falling down on the morgue windows in the building below. “MacKenzie, that's a loaded question. Marrins is the only one in this office with authorization to access those files. As the lead agent on this case, I can't authorize you to break the law or go against a direct order from our senior agent.”

“I wasn't asking you to authorize any such thing.”

She thought she saw a flash of white lab coat in Mac's window as he swiveled in his chair. “Let's not give Marrins an excuse to fire us both. Okay?”

“Do you need the recording?”

She only hesitated for a moment. “Yes.”

“See you at dinner.”

It took her an hour to write up the report for Marrins. The senior agent was resting at his desk when she knocked. “What can I do you for, Rose?”

“Sir, hypothetically, if I had three individuals all killed by the same weapon and dumped in the same area, would we classify it as the work of a serial killer?”

“Not if they're clones.”

“No clone markers, sir.”

Marrins raised bushy white eyebrows. “Sounds like a good working hypothesis. What'd you find?”

“When we dug up that mass grave—­”

“Waste of time.” Marrins sneered.

“I know, sir, but you did order me to identify everyone before we reburied them.”

“That grave's made us the busiest district in the state for the past month,” he grumbled. “Even with Hurricane Jessica. I've never filed so much paperwork in my life!”

Ignoring him, she pressed on. “Three of them died under unresolved circumstances. All of them unidentified victims. All killed with the same weapon. All dumped in the same field. All close to the same age.”

Marrins pulled the file closer with a frown. She'd left just the autopsies and the Doe names, he didn't need the faces or links. “Go on.”

“We have a positive ID on the John Doe: he was a biology student who worked as an intern at N-­V Nova Labs. He's been missing for almost three years.”

“Emir,” Marrins breathed.

“Yes, sir. He was the last person to see Mr. Vensula alive.”

Marrins drummed his fingers on the desktop. “Emir. He's been yanking my chain way too hard this past while. I think it would be good to put the fear of the bureau back into him.”

“Agreed, sir. Will you request the warrant, so I can search the labs?”

Marrins grinned like a shark. “I will indeed.”

“I'd like to take the coroner with me, sir,” Sam said. It was a gamble, but she needed Marrins on her side.

“Our bureau one?”

“No, sir, Coroner Harley. He handled the original John Doe case, and he has more experience than anyone else at our disposal. I'd like to request the city loan him to my case for the duration of the investigation. If he can come with me to the lab, he might be able to tell me what caused the fracturing that killed our Does.”

“Assuming they were all killed there.”

“I'll admit it's a stretch, sir. We can definitely tie one body to the lab. I'm running a computer search now to see if we can tie the other two to the lab as well. If I can get positive ID matches to the bodies from former lab employees . . .” She spread her hands. “It would be a nearly perfect case.”

Marrins nodded. “You'll have the warrant, but you're taking our morgue freak.”

Guess you don't think he's a murderer anymore, do you?

“Sir?”

“This is not the city's case, Agent Rose. I don't want Harley near this.”

“Yes, sir.” She hid her smile until she was safely back in her office.

A
late-­evening breeze rustled the oak leaves and stirred night-­blooming jasmine in the yard. The lazy ceiling fan creaked but did little else to alleviate the muggy heat of the evening. As the air-­conditioning kicked in, moving the drapes, the temperature moved from sauna hot to sultry warm. It was a night made for tangos, swimming naked, or kissing someone under the stars.

She didn't miss anyone in particular, Sam told herself as she put away the last of the clean dishes. It was the idea that she craved. Right now, she wanted someone to hold her, to sweep her around the room, to kiss her senseless. Her brain was in overdrive worrying about what would happen in the morning. Would Emir run? Confess? Pull some crazy proof she was a clone out of his data file?

I just want something to happen, something wonderful for once, before the world is crazy again.

Hoss looked up a second before the back door swung open. Sam was already reaching for the butcher knife.

“Hi! Oh.” MacKenzie held both hands up. “Sorry. Were you expecting trouble?”

She stepped away from the knife. “I'm on edge.”

“I see that.” He petted Hoss's giant head. “Did you get the warrant?”

“We'll have it by morning. Marrins assigned you to the case.”

His eyebrows went up. “How did you swing that?”

“I asked for Harley. The senior agent delights in giving me what I don't want.”

“Strange man.” He pulled an efile from his back pocket. “I brought you a present.” Sam held out her hand, and he held the efile up a little higher. Mac leaned close and whispered, “What do I get in return?”

“Dinner.”

“Ooo, you wicked temptress you.” Mac winked and laughed. Sam snorted and snatched the efile as he walked to the oven. “What am I eating?”

“Does it matter? You'll eat anything that holds still two times out of three.”

“That doesn't mean it will taste good.”

“Cajun chicken sandwiches.” She slid the efile into her phone to play. “What did you bring me?”

“Audio of Melody Chimes pulled from her university record, her Wannervan Security record, and from the phone call from Paris to New York where her parents met with their lawyers and bureau agent Citavia.” He made himself a plate and sat at the table opposite Sam. “Go ahead and listen.”

She hit
PLAY
.

“Hi, I'm Melody Chimes,” said a cheerful voice that was young but already turning smoky. There were good genes there and just a hint of Dulcet Chimes-­Martin's upper-­class accent. “I'm jixed as a pickle to be a student at Auburn. War Eagle!”

Sam bit her lip. “I want her to be in Paris.”

The recording switched files. “My name is Melody Chimes, civilian registration number 78A-­56-­9A2B. My height is sixty-­eight inches, my weight is 123 pounds. I am African-­descent American, brown hair, brown eyes.” On the audio, Melody Chimes sighed, and said away from the recorder, “Brown is so dull.”

Mac didn't make eye contact.

Again, the recording switched. “Mum! How are you? I'm soooooo sorry I haven't called,” a syrupy thick voice gushed. There was no hint of smoke. The accent was thick, but false. “I love Par-­ee! I just had to come with a friend. You understand.”

Sam put her sandwich down as a man's voice asked where she was, if she was alone and safe.

“I'm with friends,” the possible Melody said. “Quite happy. Perfectly happy. Everything is wonderful. I'll call you soon. Loves!”

She shut the recorder off. “That wasn't Melody Chimes.”

“The recording is scratchy, bad for a trans-­Atlantic call. Just listening once I caught what you did. I ran it through a voice-­data match and”—­he shook his head—­“there's just no way.”

“Her family believed this was Melody?”

He raised an eyebrow. “Their baby girl is missing. They'd rather believe that's Melody, than admit she's dead. ­People are like that when they grieve. They'll grasp at straws. Carry headless bodies miles on end because they think something can be done. With a bureau agent sitting there, it must have seemed possible.”

“Why would Marrins lie?”

“Why does Marrins do anything?”

Crossing her arms, Sam sat back in her chair. “I don't like this.”

“Mmm.” Mac finished his sandwich. “You have a gun?”