The Day Before (12 page)

“Um . . . a-­a ­couple of things. The Melody Doe blood test results, do you still want them?”

Sam raised an eyebrow. “I'm off the case. I can't discuss it with you.”

“So, do you still want me to run them?”

“I have no opinion,” Sam said through gritted teeth.

“So, if I couldn't find a clone marker on Melody Doe just like I couldn't with Jane, you don't want to know about them? No report on the similarities?”

She pursed her lips. “You need to wait for Agent Marrins to request that information before you do anything with it. I have no opinion.”

“Right.”

“What else do you need?”

He grimaced. “A favor?”

“What kind of favor?”

He dug in his back pocket and unfolded a square of soggy orange paper. “My landlord is redoing the floors. I need to move my couch. Could I . . . can it stay at your place? Since you aren't being kicked out?”

She took the paper from him as the lights turned back on with an annoying buzz. The paper was bright orange and rain-­soaked, but it did say that all tenants needed to move bulky furniture out so that the floors could be redone. She shrugged. “If you can move it, you can drop it at my place with Hoss.” She handed the paper back.

“Thanks.”

“You watched my dog,” Sam said. “I can babysit your couch.” MacKenzie hovered on the other side of her desk. “Anything else?”

He licked his lips. “About . . . about last night. I'm sorry.” His cheeks flushed pink. “I . . . I haven't been that bad in years. The flashbacks, the pills make me a walking zombie, I know I'm not functioning like I should, but the pills keep me from being . . . there again. I'm sorry if I said anything I shouldn't, or hurt you. I didn't mean to hurt you.”

Sam sat back in her chair. “You didn't hurt me. You didn't even try. Do you have enough medicine for now?”

“I . . . yeah.” His shoulders sagged. “I took two of the new pills this morning.”

“And those worked?” she asked, incredulous. If breath mints could solve PTSD, she would win a Nobel Prize for medicine.

“I remember things. Too many things. But I'm thinking. I can get out of bed without wanting to kill myself. I guess that means they're doing something.”

The door to the main office slammed shut. “Rose! Hurry up and shut down the computers. That generator isn't going to last much longer!” Marrins shouted from down the hall before launching into his rant against secondhand, outdated equipment.

“Yes, sir,” Sam shouted back. The door slammed again. “Back to work I guess. Marrins believes putting in a full day will be good for my soul.”

M
ac leaned on the morgue door to close it against the wind.

Harley stepped out from the side hall. “Pack up. Get everything off your floor. If this turns into another Hurricane Derek like we saw back in '57, we're going to need waders just to find our desks for a week.”

“Boss! I can't lift this!” one of the interns shouted from the back.

“Get going,” Harley ordered, going to help the intern.

Mac nodded and moved, nearly slipping on the smooth, concrete floors. He slid into his office as he stifled a yawn. The previous night was a jumble of memories, the smell of oranges mixed with the sound of mortar fire and a woman's voice. Sitting, he started saving his files so he could shut everything down. Agent Rose smiled up at him from the file.

He blinked. Right. He was cyberstalking Agent Rose through the CBI system to find her line number for the Melody Doe report. A few minutes of digging through the piles on his desk, and he found the file lying on the floor. He checked the files and line number. Everything good to go.

A flashing red light on his monitor called his attention. “Search Completed—­Match Found for Jane Doe 756581530263.” Search for more pills was what he needed. He saw the orange bottle out of the corner of his eye, wallowing under a mess of unfilled reports. Grasping for it like a dying man Mac reached out. No familiar rattle greeted him.
Empty.
His stomach knotted in terror.

Dry-­mouthed and shaking, Mac jerked back to the computer monitor and away from half-­buried memories. He clicked the search button, and Agent Perfect's file reappeared.

He hadn't closed out of it. Figured.

Mac closed Rose's file, cleared his electronic desktop, and reopened the search results. Jane Doe 756581530263—­Match—­Agent Samantha Lynn Rose . . .

It wasn't possible. There was . . . He licked his lips. All right. Yes, there was a way. Jane didn't have a clone marker. Melody Doe didn't have a clone marker. Both were dead. Both were seen after their deaths.

The simple math made perfect sense.

A rich daughter missing, now running loose in Europe financed by a trust fund. The other a CBI agent, the daughter of an ambassador. Not as wealthy as a business magnate like Mr. Chimes but still worth the trouble for a terrorist group.

Shaking, he sagged in his worn office chair, staring at the screen. Agent Rose, he wouldn't have guessed. She was so . . . perfect. Too perfect, maybe.

“Mackenzie, we're shutting the generator down!” Harley yelled.

“Aye, sir.” His hand hovered over the keyboard. Eighty percent accuracy, damning even on a bad day. Mac hit the
SAVE
button and shut off his computer. With a quick yank, the cord snapped out of the wall socket, and he rolled it up. Scooping up the scattered texts and papers on his floor, he made a hasty pile that leaned dangerously.

The light shut off. “Let's go, MacKenzie. I'm locking up!”

“Coming.” He grabbed his jacket and hurried to the door.

“Keep your phone on you,” Harley said. “If the dams break, we'll all get called in, police and bureau.” He hesitated, then clapped Mac on the back. “You okay? You look a little peaked.”

Mac jerked a nod. “Yeah. I'm fine. Just fine. Tired.”

“Uh-­huh, well, get some sleep this afternoon. It's not like you have anything else to do.”

Nothing else at all, Mac thought as he stepped into the driving rain. Except return one slobbering dog and drop the couch off with Agent Rose.

The clone.

B
y three o'clock that afternoon, the skies were pitch-­black, and thick curtains of rain hid the parking lot from view. The lights flickered off again. Marrins knocked on her doorframe. “Go home. Grab something to eat and plan on a late night. The district just called: we're going to lose Harris Dam up the river.”

Her heart sank. “Are they sure? We're already getting reports of flooding downtown. If we get any more . . .”

“The National Guard is bringing in sandbags, and we'll be out there to help.” Running a hand over his balding head, Marrins sighed. “Decades of neglect. They knew the dam was falling to pieces,” he muttered. “But do we get the funds? No.” He drawled the word sardonically. “The Commonwealth is an improvement for everybody on top, but the little guys, the working stiffs at the bottom? We just have to suck it up and make do.” He growled, then jumped, as if he had forgotten Sam was there. “Get home. Drive careful. I don't need any more paperwork because of you.”

“Yes, sir.” Sam gathered her things and walked through the eerily silent bureau building. Wind howled outside, lashing waves of water across the sidewalk to slap the front door. Taking a deep breath, Sam muscled the door open against the wind and slogged through the rain to her car. The little Alexian Virgo gurgled as it started and whined as she drove out of the parking lot. “St. Christopher, holy patron of travelers, protect me. Amen.” If the saints were inclined to listen to one lax Catholic, this would be a perfect opportunity to step in and keep the hurricane from drowning her.

There was no traffic on the roads. Everyone who could had already left town, and those who remained were hunkered down somewhere safe. She crossed herself again. The nuns always said thunder was God talking, but that had never helped.

She drove at a crawl as gusts of wind buffeted the car. Once she'd turned onto the farm road for the house, she punched MacKenzie's number into her phone. It went straight to voice mail. “MacKenzie, just keep Hoss for me. I'll pick him up after the storm.”

An hour later, hands shaking, she finally pulled her car to a stop in front of her house. Another burst of wind whipped past, forcing the ancient oak trees to bend until the branches brushed the ground.
This is how horror movies started.
The menacing creak of branches and shoes sticking in the mud. It didn't matter if she ran for the door or waltzed, she would be soaked to the bone and quite possibly twist an ankle.

The car door groaned in protest as she pushed it open. Her heels sank into the ground. She ran for it, fighting the storm and leaning against the wind to reach the house. Her front door fell open as she reached for it, and Sam landed sprawled on the floor.

“Hello?” Her voice echoed in the dark living room as the security light flashed a merry green, disarmed and docile. Hoss barked from the kitchen. Sam scrambled to her feet. “Hold on, Hoss.”

Grumbling under her breath, she walked into the kitchen, and stopped. A glass hurricane lamp filled with blue oil sat on her ancient table illuminating Miss Azalea with gun in hand standing at the back entrance watching MacKenzie kneel on the floor with his hands behind his head.

The elderly woman nodded to Sam. “Fine storm tonight,” her landlady said as the wind stretched the heavy plastic tarp Sam had taped over the empty doorframe.

“Yes.” Sam slowly set her purse on the table. “Is everything all right, Miss Azalea?”

“I found this young coot breakin' in,” her landlady said. “He didn' think anyone was home.”

Hoss bumped Sam's knee, and she stroked his head in a daze.

“Sam . . . Rose.” Mackenzie's eyes were wide with fright.

Miss Azalea bumped his shoulder with her Smith & Wesson as Sam's phone rang.

“I thought you were in Florida, Miss Azalea. And, Mac, what are you doing out here?” She checked her phone, and they both started to talk at once. Not to be outdone, Hoss started barking. “Yes?”

“Rose, where on the green Earth are you?” Marrins demanded. “I've been calling for the past hour! We lost the dam five minutes after you left, and they're calling in everyone. Get down here.”

“Shut up!” Sam yelled at the dog, her landlady, and her landlady's hostage. She shoved a finger in her free ear and squeezed her eyes shut. “Sir, I just got home. There's a bit of a situation here.” She peeked over her shoulder.

MacKenzie mouthed the words
Help me
.

“It's not another body, is it?” Marrins asked.

“No, it's my landlady.”

“What's she need?”

“I honestly have no idea.”

“Well, sort it out,” Marrins snapped. “We need help out here.” He hung up with a grumble.

She stared at the floor for a long moment before turning back to the strange tableau. “Miss Azalea, weren't you in Florida?”

“Was,” her landlady agreed affably, “but the storm done sent me home. The crick's rising so fast, it's crawling out of its bed into mine. I come up here to see you. I'm gonna stay up here, or I can go to Widow Carnegie's place if that's a problem. She's got the guest room done up real nice.”

Sam shook her head. “No, it's okay. I'm renting one room, not the whole house.” She frowned at MacKenzie. “What are
you
doing here? Didn't you get my message? Why would you try moving furniture in this weather?”

He grimaced. “There was a break in the rain.”

“Those are called rain bands. You should have used it to buy groceries.” Sam grabbed the barrel of Miss Azalea's gun and pushed it toward the door. “You can let him up. He's harmless.”

“Harmless?” The old lady humphed. “He broke my back door!”

“The door was broken over the weekend,” Sam corrected. “I just hadn't fixed it yet.” Miss Azalea tugged at the gun, but Sam tugged back harder. “Please tell me you loaded this with some liquid bullets before threatening a CBI agent.”

Miss Azalea sniffed and folded her arms. “If I shoots someone, I aims to kill 'em, not let 'em have a light nap.”

Mac was starting to shake. A few more minutes of this, and she was going to have an incident.

“Miss Azalea, these things are illegal.” Flipping the safety on, Sam laid the gun on the counter. “You can't go waving a gun at everyone who drives up. Especially not Commonwealth agents.” She moved between her landlady and the man kneeling on her floor.

Mac stood up slowly and backed away. “Um . . .” He rubbed his arm. “I should . . . I should be going.”

“Do you have a truck?” Sam asked.

“Yes.” His focus was elsewhere, probably lost in the past remembering whatever tragedy had driven him down this road.

“Can you give me a ride to the staging area?” Away from Miss Azalea. “I barely survived the drive home—­my car isn't heavy enough to handle the wind.” And her nerves weren't up to fighting the steering wheel. If Mac was driving, she could shut her eyes and pretend she wasn't living through a nightmare.

He bit his lip, blinked, then nodded. “Sure. I guess.” One deep breath later, and he seemed as close to normal as he ever was.

“Great, let me get changed real quick. Is there anything you need before we leave, Miss Azalea?”

Her landlady was still frowning at MacKenzie. “You sure you can trust a city boy?”

“Farm boy,” MacKenzie said. “I was born in Idaho on a farm. I'm a farm boy.”

“Right, Idaho,” Sam said, as if she'd known that all along.

“Fine. But he best be fixin' that door once this storm blows through.”

Sam nodded, knowing it wasn't worth repeating that it hadn't been Mac who had broken the door to begin with. “It'll be a top priority as soon as the back porch is dry.” She rushed upstairs, stripped off her soggy work clothes, and found a pair of old jeans suitable for drowning in. From the depths of her closet, she pulled out a neon yellow raincoat that she'd bought on a whim when she'd moved to Alabama but never worn. She tied on her oldest sneakers and went back downstairs, where MacKenzie was cowering behind Hoss as Miss Azalea glared. “Come on, Mac.”