Convergence Point (16 page)

“Fraud, mostly.” She sighed again, then slid open a desk drawer and pulled out a lollipop. “You want one, honey? They're cinnamon-­flavored. My therapist says I should have one every time I think about going manhuntin' again. I'm too old and too rich to waste my time chasing money pots.”

“No thanks. I'm good. Who else came by about the locker?”

The woman unwrapped her lollipop and tossed the wrapper in the recycler. “Let's see, lawyer, then the reporter, then this guy with a shaved head. All muscled up with some really nice tats. I offered him a joyride in exchange for the keys to the locker, but he turned me down.”

“That's technically prostitution. Also illegal.”

The woman's eyes went wide. “Joyride! Joyride, honey! Ain't you never . . . ugh. Girls. Youth is so wasted on the young. I was going to take him out in one of those classic cars we have stored here. There's this businessman from beachside who parks his cars here when he goes to his vacation home in Tulum, down south. Gorgeous classics.”

“So you use the cars without his knowledge. That's illegal, too.”

“No—­I just borrow the cars sometimes. Make sure the engines are running. It's practically charity work. Driving in a ragtop in the hot sun. I started charging him extra for the good sunscreen. Well, I had to. I couldn't be driving around like that in cheap SPF 10 could I? Skin cancer is no joke, honey.”

“Do you do
anything
legal? At all? I'm just curious.”

Flowers trembled as the woman sucked in her breath, it came out again in a wave of humid, cinnamon-­scented despair. “I pay my taxes regular-­like.”

“Great. How's this. I'm going to pretend you aren't in my district because this is technically a gray area, and you could be someone else's problem, and while I'm on the premises checking out this storage unit, you are not going to do anything that reminds me I have a badge. How's that sound?”

“Sounds like I'm not going to get paid,” the woman said. She gave her lollipop a thoughtful lick. “You gonna tell me about the stiff.”

“No.”

“Fine, you're the private type. I get that. My second husband was like that. Very quiet man. Liked horses. Liked shooting bookies more though, the poor soul. It was an affliction.”

Sam stared at the woman noisily sucking her lollipop. “Have you ever done anything normal?”

“I almost graduated once.”

That sounded about par for the course. “Key?”

“Sure, honey.” The woman heaved herself off her stool and waddled to the back room. She came out with a key ring dangling on one finger. “Do I gotta walk you out there?”

“I can find the locker myself.”

“Okay.” The woman handed her the key. “The three hundreds are the big storage garages. You can use the side door, but not the front door without the fingerprint of the owner.” She paused and her mouth drooped into a horrified frown. “You don't have his hands, do you?”

“They're both at the morgue, attached to the body.”

“That's good. Dismembering ­people gets messy.”

Sam nodded but didn't ask the woman how she knew. Maybe the old girl had a lively imagination. Or not. As the door swung closed behind her, she reached for her phone. Petrilli was going to love investigating this place. She sent him a quick text with the address and a note to check in one of these days.

The pedestrian gate swung open as the woman inside pushed a button. Sam crossed the parking lot, already baking in the Southern sun. The heat felt good on her skin.

Building three hundred was near the back of the lot. Licking her lips, she looked at the keys. If he had . . . if he'd rebuilt the machine, this was probably where it was. A far safer choice than in his apartment or the lab.

She reached for the camera pin in her pocket out of habit, then paused. Officially, in the reports everyone else in Florida had read, Emir's machine didn't exist. Time travel had never been discovered. She'd never crossed timelines into another place or seen another version of herself. If the machine was in there, and she caught it on camera, there wouldn't be any more secrets. Some four hundred pages of classified information that was locked under a mountain in Colorado would be exposed to public inquiry. Her life would be shoved under the microscope of public opinion.

Again.

Heart racing, she dropped the pin back into her blazer pocket. Some things were best left off the record. Her lips tightened into an involuntary frown as she unlocked the door, her movement turning on the motion-­sensor lights.

And she held her breath.

Color filled the room. Huge canvases leaned against every wall. Skinny ones barely wider than her torso that scraped the eight-­foot ceiling. Long ones that were still taller than she. Paintings of wild cities in colors that seared across her soul with burning emotion.

There was some order to the chaos. On the left of the main door, the first paintings were subdued, cityscapes all in shades of gray and all slightly alien. The proportions of the buildings were odd, the angles . . . not quite right. The gray paintings included one small portrait, a square no bigger than her hand. The face was hers painted in ash.

Next to the gray cities were paintings of Alabama. She recognized the café, and the courthouse in the town square across from her old bureau office, and N-­V Nova Labs, where she and Henry Troom had first met while he worked for Dr. Emir. The painter had picked other vistas; the feral fields choked with weeds and dying cotton plants, the main highway out of town at sunset, maybe sunrise, and a field with high grass burned golden by the sun. A chill ran down her back.

Jane Doe had been found in that field.

Next to Alabama was another set of paintings. Some of them showed the same buildings, but this time the signs were written in Spanish, and a Mexican flag flew over the courthouse.

As she walked, the paintings became brighter. The painter had chosen more vivid colors, deeper contrasts. The strokes went from blueprint precision to wild, almost angry strokes, as if the painters had been trying to exorcise a demon through their art.

In one corner, a stack of smaller canvases lay scattered, paint side down. There was a hole there, large enough for a person to squeeze through. She pulled out her phone and turned on the camera light to look through the hole to the neighboring storage unit. Dust motes danced in the light, but there was nothing more.

Pulling out a pair of examination gloves from her pocket, Sam slipped them on and picked up one of the fallen canvases at random. It was another painting of her. She leaned it against the table and picked up another. Again, her. She turned them each over with morbid curiosity.

Her with her hair up.

Her in her work clothes.

Her with her hair down.

Her bruised and bleeding.

Always her face.

Always looking away.

Bile churned in her stomach.

She left her portraits and went to the first gray painting, the one that seemed to be on the far end of the painter's spectrum, either first or last. The painting was maybe six feet across and came to just below her chin. Gingerly, she rested her gloved fingertips on the side and eased the canvas away from the wall. There were more gray paintings behind it, smaller ones lying hidden, but that wasn't what she was after.

The artist hadn't signed a name to the paintings, not one she could see, but . . . she looked across the pale back of the painting until she found the scratch marks of faded pencil lines. Shuffling the painting she got close enough to read the words:

“Iteration 1”—­Abdul Emir May 9
th
, 2067.

Sam put the painting back on the wall and picked up the gray portrait of herself.

The back read:

“Commander I1”—­Abdul Emir August 3
rd
, 2067

Nearly two years before they met. She would have still been in the academy. So how had he seen her? A press release? Some information bulletin from her mother's political campaign? Or was the knowledge of her impending death making her paranoid?

She turned her phone on and dialed a number by memory. He picked up on the second ring. “Mac? I found Henry's old storage place. I need a crime scene unit down here.”

“Did you find a body?” Mac sounded almost hopeful.

“No.” She looked at the hole in the wall, the curiously empty space nearby, and the sea of portraits. “I'm not sure what I found.”

 

CHAPTER 13

It doesn't matter that we survive. All that matters is that our world survives.

~ Private conversation with Agent 5 of the Ministry of Defense

Tuesday March 25, 2070

Florida District 8

Commonwealth of North America

Iteration 2

G
ant crouched behind the bushes in the predawn light.

“Are you sure it was her?” Donovan asked again.

“Positive. You think I wouldn't know Detective Rose when I saw her?”

Donovan craned his neck to look at the apartment. “Should we rush the building?”

“No. She's always got weapons on her. Probably sleeps with her gun. We have to attack when she least expects it.”

“The shower?” Donovan asked. “I don't mind that view.”

Gant looked at him in horror. “You are a very sick man.”

“You never thought about what she looks like naked?”

“No. I think about what she looks like dead. Alive, she thinks about what I look like dead. That's how we interact.” He turned back to the apartment with a shudder. “There's nothing appealing about a woman who wants you in front of a firing squad.”

“Sometimes the sexiest ones are the girls who want you dead.” Donovan grinned. It took all of Gant's willpower not to slit his throat then and there.

The door to the apartment opened, and Detective Rose stepped out wearing jogging clothes and carrying her purse. Gant frowned. Who went jogging with a purse?

A car alarm beeped.

Nasty, twisty mind that detective had. Naturally, she wouldn't run near home. She was probably using her jogging time to try to triangulate his position, or the machine's. Either worked for him.

Gant patted Donovan's arm. “I've got an idea. Car wreck. We'll follow her to where she's going jogging and T-­bone her car in an intersection. She'll never know what hit her.”

Donovan frowned as Detective Rose drove away. “We need a certain kind of car to pull that off. Something with extra weight. Unless you want to snap your neck in the process.”

“City maintenance vehicle?” Gant suggested.

“Good idea.” Donovan nodded. “Let's tail her.”

It wasn't hard to find the little gray car driving on the empty street. Detective Rose didn't check for a tail or try anything fancy. They watched her drive into the parking lot of an auto-­body shop and jog off. “Easy enough,” Gant said. “You want to stay here and watch the car, or do you want to go lift the other one?”

“Boosting cars isn't my strong suit,” Donovan said with a grimace, as if Gant hadn't guessed from the scars on Donovan's knuckles what the other man's specialty was. Donovan was a wet-­works man all the way.

Gant smiled. “I'll be back within an hour. If she tries to leave, stall. Give her a flat tire or something.”

Forty minutes later, Gant pulled into a side street and parked the large truck used for breaking up trees that had fallen in storms. The wood chipper welded to the back gave the truck a nice heft. He climbed out of the cab and looped around the corner to where Donovan stood leaning against the chain-­link fence. “Anything?”

Donovan shook his head. “She went for a jog and changed. Came back about ten minutes ago. She's inside now. That's her car there. Almost done.”

The little gray car was having its tires filled. Gant could taste the anticipation of death on the air. He felt light as a feather—­effervescent—­and with a good kick off the ground, he could have flown. Removing Detective Rose from the equation would remove the lodestone from around his neck. Everything he'd ever wanted was here in this moment.

“You think she knows a way out of here?” Donovan asked.

“She wouldn't have crossed timelines if she didn't.” Gant licked his lips in anticipation. “Can I drive the truck?”

Donovan raised an eyebrow. “If you want. Don't see what's so exciting about smashing a car.”

Typical of the man, really. He was all hot and bothered with seeing Rose alive, but put her in the ground where she belonged, and Donovan was getting squeamish. “She dies, and everything is better. It's letting the tiger off the leash. Once she's gone, no one can stop us.”

“No one's
trying
to stop us.”

“Shut up,” Gant ordered. Detective Rose walked out of the shop, waving to the man behind the counter. It was good that she looked a little less than perfect today. Her black hair wasn't as glossy in the humidity. Her signature purple jacket had a crease in it from sitting in the shop. The flaws made her look human, a little more mortal, a little bit less scary. She smiled as she climbed into her car, and so did Gant. Everything was perfect. “Into the truck.” He shoved Donovan.

He ran toward the vehicle, hoping he'd planned it right. If she headed back to the apartment, there were two stop signs between her and the truck. Traffic wasn't heavy, but she wouldn't be zipping along, either. He didn't bother waiting for Donovan to close the door before he started the engine and pulled forward. The little side street had a stop sign.

Detective Rose didn't.

Gant held his breath, heart racing in anticipation.

The little gray car drove toward destiny.

There was a perfect moment. The synchrony of fluid movement as the car drove past and the truck surged forward. Metal met metal with a cacophonous crunch. Gant was thrown back in his seat, but he lifted his head grinning.
It had worked!
Everything he'd ever wanted.

Like a child racing to see the presents waiting for them on Three King's Day, he leapt out of the truck to survey the damage.

Detective Rose's head lay on the steering wheel of her car. The horn's blaring was the trumpet of God. The final proof that all was right in the world.

Donovan opened the side door. “Here, she's got some tech and papers. Let's take it and go.”

Gant nodded, unable to take his eyes off the beautiful scene. Perhaps, in a perfect world, she would have seen his face as she died. The look of shock and fear would have heightened the experience. He knew it from other victims, but her look of terror would have been special. He sighed.

“Gant!”

“What?”

“We have to go before the
federales
arrive. Is there anything else we need?”

Gant reached through the broken glass and pulled Rose's head back. Lifeless black eyes stared back unseeing. “No. Let's go.”

T
he jagged rhythms of Draxton's
Third Modern Symphony
pulled Mac from a dreamless sleep. “Sam?” He sat up and looked around the apartment, letting the phone ring. Hoss ran over to the couch, nubbin wagging. “Sam?”

No answer.

He punched the on button on his phone. “ 'lo. This is MacKenzie.”

“Agent MacKenzie?” a quavering voice asked. It sounded vaguely familiar. For some reason, the color red popped into his mind.

“This is MacKenzie. Who's this?”

“Junior Agent Dan Edwin, sir. I . . . um . . . can you come over to the county hospital? I need some help.”

Mac scratched his head and yawned. “Sure. Gimme a minute to get dressed. You're not bleeding to death or anything, are you?”

There was a sniffle from the other end of the line. “No. No, sir.”

“Hostage situation?”

“No, sir.” Edwin sounded like his puppy had just died. Poor kid. Probably got into trouble with some girl and didn't want the senior agent to know about.

Not too smart calling the senior agent's roommate. “Hold tight, Edwin. I'll be there in fifteen minutes.” Mac hung up the phone. “Sam! Hey, Sam, you in the shower?” He waited a second before shrugging and heading to her room. Not his fault if she couldn't hear him from back there. If he accidentally walked in on her in a towel, it wasn't like he was going to cry. And Sam was never overly body shy.

He smiled and opened her bedroom door. “Sam?”

The room was empty, the shower off. Her gym bag and car keys were missing from her dresser.

Mac looked down at Hoss. “She left? Without me?”

Hoss wagged his stub of a tail with enthusiasm.

“You only say that because you want part of my breakfast.” Heading back to the kitchen, he dialed Sam's number.

After three rings, the phone beeped. “This is Agent Samantha Rose of the Commonwealth Bureau of Investigation. I'm not able to answer my phone at the moment, but if you leave a detailed message and a contact number, I will call you as soon as I am able.” The phone beeped again.

“Sam, it's Mac. Edwin just called me from the hospital.” He balanced the phone between his ear and shoulder and pulled a loaf of bread from the fridge. “Poor kid sounds pretty tore up.” He took the peanut butter from the cupboard and smeared it on the wheat bread to make a quick sandwich. “I'm not sure where you are, but I'm going to take my rental and go see if I can help. I'll give you a ring if it's serious. It's, uh”—­ he glanced at the clock—­“just after eight. I guess you took off early to hit the gym or something. Call me around lunch if you're free. I'll swing by your office later and be home by seven at the latest.” He swallowed an “I love you,” before choking out, “See ya,” and hanging up.

But he realized something: It was love. Not hero worship or lust, but pure love. Sam was the first thing he thought of when he woke, his last thought before falling asleep. His internal compass swung due S
AM
. In the past decade, she was the only thing he was sure about. Even if she could never see that, he loved her. They might never be more than friends, and he'd accepted the fact that eventually she'd probably fall in love with someone else, but between now and then, he was going to make the most of the time he had with her. Tonight, he planned on convincing her to teach him how to cook. Something basic and hands-­on. Something that would mean she spent an hour or so standing next to him.

He held the butter knife out, so Hoss could lick it, and scarfed down his sandwich. A swig of milk, a minute to brush his teeth, then his shoes were on and he was out the door following the rental car's GPS to the county hospital on Beachside Road. It was a wide, squat building painted the same pale gold as the sand on the beaches, with crushed coquina shells decorating the arches. It had probably looked good forty years ago when it was new. Now it looked faded, half-­forgotten. The large parking lot was three-­quarters empty, and a monument to local plague victims, carved in obsidian, stood between visitors and the main door, looking like a promise of death.

Grimacing, Mac walked past, trying not to look too closely. It had been nearly thirty years since the last victim was interred but it still wasn't long enough to make the fear of the plague fade.

Agent Edwin was pacing the empty lobby when Mac walked in. The younger man looked up with red-­rimmed, tear-­swollen eyes. “Thank you.” He closed his eyes and rocked on his heels. “Thank you for coming, Agent MacKenzie.”

“My pleasure.” Mac tried to smile, but the plague statue outside had put fear and doubt in his mind. Please, God, if you're out there, don't let it be the plague. “What'd you need me for?”

Edwin took a deep breath. “There was a . . . an accident. Hit-­and-­run.”

“You look okay,” Mac said.

Edwin nodded. “Agent Rose . . .” The younger man looked up at him with his lips set in a flat line. “They brought her here.”

“Sam?” His voice cracked and thundered, shaking the bulletproof glass of the lobby doors. His calm shattered. “Why the hell didn't you tell me it was about Sam? I'd have been here in minutes. Where is she? I can . . .” He took a deep breath. “Do they not have a surgeon? I can do that. I mean . . . yeah. Where is she? Get me some gloves. This'll be fine.”

A woman in medical scrubs with bright pink and green flowers came through a heavy metal door. “Agent Edwin? Is everything all right?”

“Um . . .” Edwin looked panicked between the nurse and Mac. “This is the senior agent in the district right now. Agent MacKenzie. He's a medical examiner from Chicago.”

“Where's Sam?” Mac demanded, doing everything he could to get his temper under control.

The nurse frowned with disapproval. “Maybe you should calm down a little before you come back.”

“No,” Mac shouted.

She stepped back.

He swallowed, then coughed. “I mean, I'm fine,” he said in the calmest voice he could summon. “Sam's my best friend. I'd like to see her, please.”

“I'm . . . I'm sorry.” The nurse pulled a green curtain back as she turned. “Dead on impact.”

His world tilted, spiraled away, colors fading as he realized what he was looking at. Sam lay lifeless on the hospital cot, neck twisted at an unnatural angle. Oxygen fled the room.

“It happened instantly,” the nurse said in a consoling voice. “She didn't feel anything.”

“Sam.” His knees hit the tiled floor. “Sam?”

“I can get you a chair,” the nurse offered in a calm, rational voice so at odds with what he felt. “We tried to contact her next of kin, but her mother was in a meeting, and her father didn't pick up.”

“He's dead,” Agent Edwin said. “And she doesn't talk to her mother.”

“Oh.”

“I called Agent MacKenzie because he's listed under her family contacts,” Edwin said. “At least on her bureau file.”

“How irregular.”

Mac reached for her hand. She'd painted her nails lilac. It was . . . cute. He'd never seen her with her nails done before. “Her hand's cold.”

“Yes, she's been dead for over an hour now,” the nurse said. “We just needed you to come in and confirm her identity. Officer Hadley was first on scene, and she recognized Miss Rose, but there was no purse or wallet found.”