The Day Before (8 page)

“Standard search wouldn't pull her up.”

“A clone?”

Mac looked back at the wall of photos. “Money.”

“A shadow.” She moved again, not quite pacing. Just . . . wandering, looking at the photos in a thought-­filled silence. “Melody listed a dorm as her home address. This was the address her sister gave us.”

“Maybe she didn't want to be found.”

“Kill your owner, take their life?”

“It's possible.” He licked his lips. “If it was a clone, the lab has . . . had serious problems.”

“Problems? A clone in a lab with government research is a security nightmare. It's so illegal, you can get arrested for
saying
things like that.” She tugged on her ponytail in frustration.

“It fits.”

Barely . . . Hopefully she sees what I
'm seeing.

“That's the problem.” Agent Rose sighed as she studied the pictures. “What sort of person can beat to death someone with their own face?”

He took a shaky breath. “Two Jane Does,” he whispered more to himself than her. Two unidentified women beaten to death. A memory fizzed at the edge of recall, similarities between the bone fractures, the placement of the facial impacts. Circles on the bone. “Can . . . can you authorize a reevaluation for the old case?” Agent Rose raised an eyebrow but dipped her chin in acknowledgment.

A battered white car pulled in front of a bright pink Montero Sunlit. Mac let out a whistle of appreciation in spite of himself. A Sunlit. Those things cost more than the national debt of most wartime nations. Bells, whistles, AI, private highway usage—­­people who could afford that could easily afford a clone or three for their kid.

“That's Mrs. Chimes-­Martin and the PD,” said Agent Rose. “Keep your mouth shut. Contact me when you've looked at the paperwork. If you can find anything that links the old Jane Doe with Miss Chimes, I'll file for reevaluation.”

“Yes, ma'am.” Mac tried not to look like he was running for the door.

“MacKenzie?”

He froze in the doorway.

“Don't even think of touching the pills. If this goes to court, you need to be stone-­cold sober.”

“I am . . .”

The Look, again.

“Roger that.”

 

CHAPTER 8

Picture a wave, it crests and collapses without losing anything. There is energy. So much energy! Time is much the same, choice creates energy, the energy crests into a wave of possibility, a thousand iterations rising, but in the end, the water returns to the ocean. The prime iteration is stable. In the end, all possibilities lead to our reality.

~ Student notes from the class Physics and Space-­Time I1–2071

Wednesday May 29, 2069

Alabama District 3

Commonwealth of North America

A
lime-­green Sista' Twista' slid over the wet tabletop. “All the taste, none of the toxins,” Brileigh said as she slid into the chair beside Sam. She sipped her drink, eyes closed, and groaned. “See, right now I'm in a tropical paradise while the cabana man named Juan rubs my feet.”

The club music poured over them, hot and tribal.

“Come on, Sammie, give. Why so mopey?”

Sam tasted the Twista', all tight citrus notes with a hit of heat at the end. “Work. It's stressing me out.”

“Why do you think we're here? It's girls' night! We're out getting drinks and dancing instead of sweating like hogs at the gym. This is fun!” Brileigh punched her arm, not a light tap either. Her weight-­lifting partner had a mean right hook.

Sam tried to shrug it off. Melody Chimes was missing, and she was at the bar with her best friend acting like she didn't have a care in the world. Guilt gnawed on her insides, making her question every action.

“Drink your Twista',” Brileigh ordered. “You need some steps tonight.”

Her phone vibrated. Brileigh snatched it away before she could answer. “Hello? Nope. This is Brileigh. I said no!”
Your Mom,
she mouthed.

“Brileigh!” Sam hissed. “Gimme the phone!”

“Mom says she loves you!” Brileigh sang out. “Oh, she loves you, too,” she said back into the phone. “Of course, she said that. Right after she got her tongue out of the mouth of . . .” Brileigh laughed. “I'm joking! Aren't you all overprotective?”

“Brileigh, give me my phone back.”

“Sorry, I couldn't hear you over the wild party in the background.” Brileigh stuck a finger in her free ear.

“Brileigh.” Sam looked around for a distraction. Bri's neon-­pink Tumble Me Now sat half-­empty on the table. “Bri, I'll finish your Tumble Me.”

That earned her a look of outraged shock. Sam reached for the drink.

“She loves you, too,” Brileigh said again. “She'll call you tomorrow. Yup. Busy. Loves! Bye.” Brileigh clicked the phone off and tossed it to Sam as she reached for her drink. “Your mom says she misses you. Why didn't you call? What's going on?” Brileigh sipped her Tumble Me.

“I've been busy. With two cases open, it's hard to find hours to call home. She's trying to catch up on the fourteen years of boarding school when she never called once. You'd think someone so career-­oriented would understand.”

Brileigh wrinkled her nose in distaste. “Really?

Sam rolled her eyes. “She's dedicated to her country and international peace. She sent letters. Every Tuesday, like clockwork I'd get a letter written in Spanish telling me what she'd done during the week. My dad sent some, too, not as regular. His were all in French.”

Bri drummed her nails on the table. “And nothing about that situation strikes you as odd?”

“Everything about it does! Does anything about my life strike you as normal? I had to rent an apartment when I went back to Toronto to take care of my dad because I don't know where my parents' house is. My mother was too busy to talk, and my dad . . .” She let the sentence drop. “I don't do normal relationships.”

“You don't do relationships at all,” Bri argued.

“I dated Joseph!”

“While working with him on a case . . . and then you dumped him.”

Sam rolled her eyes. “He was cheating on me.”

“Which is a good reason for dumping him, I agree. But it isn't the same as dating multiple ­people.”

“Yeah, well, I dated one guy, and it ended badly. I have every right to be gun-­shy.”

Bri shrugged. “I'm just saying, it wouldn't hurt to give the males of the world a second chance. It's okay to live a little first.” She eyed the crop of locals. “Maybe not these ones . . .”

“Yeah.” Sam finished her drink and eyed the dance floor.

“One more drink?” Brileigh asked.

“One more, then we salsa.” One little salsa before she left wouldn't hurt.

D
inner was cheese sticks with pepperoni as she tried to get the laundry under control. Images of the day kept replaying in her head. Images of images, even; Melody Chimes—­a younger version of her older sister—­in the graduation gown, in a bridesmaid dress, out at dinner with her friends.

Hoss whined, and she let him out as her work folder beeped. Sam flipped the folder open, scrolling down to look at the new notes. MacKenzie had tagged a photo to the bottom of the file: Jane Doe 756584347183, found February 11, 2068, a dark-­skinned young woman wearing a silvery sage-­green shirt with black slacks. Part of a broken pencil with the letters A-­U-­B was found in her hair.

Saints and angels. . .

Except for the evidence of a brutal beating, Jane Doe-­183 was a physical match for Melody Chimes. She wrote a note back to MacKenzie. “Report acknowledged. Prep JD-­183 case files. Argue to exhume body and open case for reevaluation in the morning.”

She salsa-­ed tonight. Tomorrow, she tangoed with a year-­old corpse.

 

CHAPTER 9

It takes a very strong person to see a parallel world for what it is: an illusion. The average person can't walk into a false reality, remove the einselected Nodes, and step out again unchanged. We are not looking for the average person.

~ From Colonel Aina's speech to incoming cadets at the Ministry of Defense War College I1–2072

Thursday May 30, 2069

Alabama District 3

Commonwealth of North America

M
ac trudged from the morgue to the main bureau building through the sweltering morning heat. The summer warmth didn't seep to the bone. Even with the temperature pushing triple digits, all he could feel was the cold. His head spun a little; the lack of sleep was catching up with him. But sleep meant pills, and pills meant another chewing out from Agent Perfect.

It really was a shame the army had downsized after unification. That woman was born to be a drill sergeant. Somewhere, a very lucky private first class was missing out on a whole set of erotic fantasies featuring Agent Rose. And here he was taking medications that impacted libido.

Maybe going off the pills won't be such a bad thing. I could use a fantasy or two.

Showing his ID to the frowning secretary—­
I wonder if she frowns at everyone, or just ­people who look like they've woken up in a Dumpster
—­Mac took the stairs at a slow pace. A wave of vertigo made the building tilt out from under him. He leaned against the wall with his eyes closed.

From around the corner he heard Marrins shout, “I don't care what you think, this needs to get done. Emir, do I care about that? No. I'm doing everything I can on my end.” The senior agent's door slammed shut.

Shuddering, Mac pushed himself off the wall and shuffled to the conference room. Agent Perfect was there, apparently fresh from a photo shoot for the next recruiting poster: black hair pinned neatly back, ruby lips, pressed white blouse, navy skirt he guaranteed landed a regulation two-­and-­a-­quarter inches above her patella. She probably checked the length with a ruler before leaving her house every morning.

He collapsed into a chair and swallowed bile while her pen drummed on the table. The quiet hum of the air-­conditioning wove a dangerous lullaby, inviting him to rest his head on the table and sleep.

She stopped tapping. “MacKenzie, do you need to go to sick call?”

The tabletop was cool and smooth. If he closed his eyes, he could pretend it was nap time.

“Earth to MacKenzie,” Rose persisted. “Are you dead, dying, or just drugged?”

A heavy hand fell across his back, knocking the wind out of him.

“How's it going, Rose?” a man asked. There was a beat of silence. Mac was willing to bet the newcomer and Rose were sharing looks of disgust aimed at him. “What's wrong with him?”

“I work for the bureau, Detective Altin, not the Vatican. I don't do miracles or mind reading,” Rose said.

Mac opened an eye and caught sight of the dour detective taking a seat by the door.

Altin held out the papers he'd brought. “I got your report on the Jane Doe from '68. The chief was ready to bite through her desk when she saw that.”

The conversation swirled around him.

Rose took the papers. “Did you talk to the family?”

“Mr. and Missus Chimes, the parents, are still out of country. Mrs. Chimes-­Martin was able to answer some of the questions. Turns out both she and her sister have shadows. One each, as far as she knows.” Altin tapped the paper. “The shadow house is out of state.”

“What's out of state?” Marrins demanded as he walked into the room. He plopped down in the chair opposite Altin with a jiggle and a scowl.

“The Chimeses kept shadows for their daughters.” Altin gave Marrins a copy of the report. “It's out of my jurisdiction. I called the bureau's senior agent over there and asked him to send someone over to confirm that the Shadow has a clone marker.

Marrins read through the interview with a frown in place. “We need to exhume Jane Doe-­183: Melody Doe. Good work, this is more than I expected from you, Rose.”

Maybe she's not so perfect after all.

 

CHAPTER 10

We are inebriated by the concept of Self, by the idea of the individual mind. We want Self to exist to such a degree that we have built an entire culture around the worship of Self and the need for such inanities as Personal Growth.

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

Friday June 7, 2069

Alabama District 3

Commonwealth of North America

I
f the saints were listening, and inclined to grant miracles, then the phone would have exploded twelve minutes ago when Detective Altin put Dr. Emir on speaker to rant. Friday was a day without miracles. The phone worked fine, and for a quarter of an hour, Sam listened to the blistering rage of the aging physicist. “My research is threatened!” Emir yelled again.

Sam pushed the phone a little farther across the desk. Maybe the phone would fall and accidentally hang up on the good doctor.

“These men would turn my work into nothing more than a stage for hate and fear! I won't stand for it.”

Marrins knocked on the wood frame outside Sam's office.

She sighed, grabbing the phone while motioning her boss in. “Neither will we. I assure you that the bureau is doing everything in its power to pursue this”—­she fumbled for a word—­“injustice to the fullest extent. We are doing everything in our power to safeguard your work. Detective Altin is a fine, upstanding law-­enforcement officer, and if you have any complaints about his behavior—­”

The dial tone sang in her ear.

“Good-­bye.” Sam clicked the phone to its
OFF
position and docked it beside her computer. “The wonderful paranoia of Dr. Emir,” she told Marrins with an apologetic smile. “Three shows daily.”

He snorted. “What's he want this time?”

“Assurance that no one working the case is going to steal his data, or force him to misuse his device, or something. Honestly, I don't understand half of what he says.”

Marrins's beefy hand landed hard on her shoulder in a brutal pat of camaraderie. “I heard you spent the night with corpses.”

Sam winced. “It was a mess from start to finish. Trying to find a particular body in a hole full of bodies is hard enough to begin with. But then someone drove by last night, the PD didn't have their lights on, and the guy digging was in plain clothes, so of course there was a ruckus. After that documentary on grave-­robbing and cemetery vandalism ran on the news last month, ­people have been calling in weekly to report suspicious activity, and a concerned citizen held up the dig for almost an hour.” She rubbed sleep from her eyes. “Add to that—­again—­that mass grave is a disaster. Harley has everyone on the morgue staff working overtime, but we still haven't found our Jane yet. If she's not in there . . .” Sam shook her head. “Just to be on the safe side, I sent MacKenzie to pull all the old files he could find in the system. If anyone down there followed protocol, we'll have her autopsy on record.”

“Good thought.” Marrins sat on the desk, making it groan in protest. His lips smacked together. “Why don't you close up shop? We're not going to find anything in the next forty-­eight hours that's going to change the world. You need a vacation. And I need you out of my district.”

The smile dropped from her face. “Sir?”

“Just got off the horn with an old friend of mine, thought it might interest you. Senior Agent Barsol in D.C. is looking for a field agent fluent in Spanish.”

“I'm fluent in Spanish and French,” Sam said cautiously, heart fluttering with hope.

“He's scrapping the bottom of the barrel if you ask me, but he's desperate. I owe him a favor, so I tweaked a few things and gave you the leave time you need. You've got a flight out of Atlanta this afternoon. Take the rest of the weekend to enjoy yourself. By the time you get back, all this will be taken care of, and you'll be on target to go to D.C. I promise.”

“Thank you!” Sam had to force herself not to jump up and hug the surly old agent. The stodgy old misogynist had finally come around and seen the value in her work. “This is wonderful.”

“Pack up. Lock up. Enjoy your weekend.” Marrins thumped her back again.

Sam waited until she heard Marrins settle at his desk before she reached for her phone. Down the hall, Marrins's phone rang, and he started talking. She dialed Bri.

“Sammie! How's life?” Brileigh asked with her customary enthusiasm.

“Great! I have an interview for a job in D.C.”

“Fantastic!” Bri said. There was a muffled scream in the background, then Bri yelled, “Knock it off, or I'll duct tape you to the hood of the car!” A wave of whining rose at the edge of hearing, then Brileigh was back. “So, D.C.?”

“Yes, a full field-­agent position. The bureau even bought my plane ticket!” Sam laughed, turning her chair.

Agent MacKenzie stood at the edge of her office, hand raised to knock. She held up a finger to let him know she needed a minute.

“About time they promoted you,” Bri said. There was a muffled scream in the background, and Bri yelled, “So help me, I will use you for catfish bait!” In a more normal voice, she said to Sam, “Other than a good-­bye party and help packing, what do you need from me?”

“Can you watch Hoss? I can drop him at your place, or you could go pick him up.”

“What?” Bri yelled something unintelligible away from the phone. “Sammie? What was that?”

Sam held up a finger to keep MacKenzie from interrupting. “Hoss, the dog? You said you'd watch him if I ever got a weekend free?”

“Oh, right. Can't. Sorry. Jake scheduled a weekend at the cabin for us. Fishing on the lake, kids trying to drown each other. Family time. You know how it is.”

“Not really.”

“Whatever. Look, I'm already three hours out of town. Can the landlady watch him until Sunday? I could pick him up Sunday night.”

“She's down in Florida visiting her grandkids.”

Bri hummed. “How about a neighbor?”

“Don't worry. I can call a kennel or something. Maybe take him with me.” She pulled up the Web page for Hartsfield-­Jackson International Airport in Atlanta to see if there was a kennel on-­site.

“I'm sorry, Sammie! Really, if I'd known you were going, we would have taken the dog.”

“It's not your fault. It caught me by surprise, too” Sam winced as Bri yelled something at her kids again. “I'll call you later. Bye, Bri.”

“Bye!”

No kennel at the airport, and mastiffs were listed as a restricted breed that couldn't fly. She snarled at the computer and turned to MacKenzie. “Hi. Can I help you?”

MacKenzie looked clean for a change. Almost sober. His eyes still looked like he hadn't slept in days, though, but she knew after last night, she couldn't really talk. “We identified five more bodies, two of them clones.” He hesitated, then stepped into her office. “I pulled the files from the Melody Doe autopsy I did when I first arrived.”

“Anything interesting that you missed?”

He tossed a file on her desk. “You're not going to like it.”

“There's very little I like after two hours of sleep and a long day,” Sam said. “Hit me.”

MacKenzie took a seat in the chair opposite her and leaned forward to turn the file on. “Jane Doe-­183—­the one we're calling Melody Doe—­was found in the same dump site as the Jane Doe we brought in a few weeks ago. Over the past five years, seven clones have been dumped there, not a big deal. But . . .” He scrolled through images and pulled up a close-­up of Melody Doe's femur. “Circular ripple patterns on the bone. Not as pronounced as on Jane, but they're there.”

Sam pulled the file closer. “What did you classify this as when you did the original autopsy?”

He rubbed his neck. “Scanner error. It was old, only worked half the time.”

“You do good work when you're off the pills.”

He looked out the window. “I just needed sleep.”

“You—­”

“I didn't say that!” Marrins angry yell cut off her reply. There was the sound of a phone slamming down. “Someone get me the number for District 2!” Marrins hollered down the hall.

Sam rolled her eyes and said a silent prayer that Senior Agent Barsol would like what he saw when she arrived. Forgetting what she was going to say, she looked back at MacKenzie and said, “It looks good. Let Harley's ­people handle everything this weekend. Sleep, if that's what you need. If something comes up that needs your classification level, I'll call.”

MacKenzie cleared his throat. “I, ah, I thought you were leaving town this weekend.” His gaze stayed firmly on the floor.

“Were you listening to my phone call?”

“I'm . . . I'm sorry. You told me to wait . . .”

She shook her head—­it wasn't that big a deal. “If I can find a place to leave my dog in the next thirty minutes, yes. Otherwise, it's going to be a phone interview.”

“Do you want me . . . ?” He coughed, face bright red. “I mean, I could watch a dog.”

She raised an eyebrow.
Was not expecting that.
She thought about it for a second, then asked, “You promise not to kill my dog?”

MacKenzie nodded quickly.

“All right, the security password for the house is ‘Sam said I could.' Hoss's food is in the bin in the laundry room, and don't worry about his size, he's a big softie, really.” The twinge of pity kicked her. “There's some steak in the chest freezer. Go ahead and help yourself to a few, as a thank-­you.” She scribbled down her address. “Seriously, don't kill my dog. No pills. No dead dogs. I'm attached to my puppy.”

He smirked and looked up at her from under long lashes. In the right light, he had killer eyes.

Didn't expect that, either.

“The dog will be alive on Monday. Promise.”

D
.C. smelled of rain and city, the air vibrant with the sound of traffic and chatter. After the silence of the Alabama house, it was heaven to her ears.

Leaving straight from the office for the Atlanta airport, she'd waved her ID and grabbed the last government-­reserve standby seat on the two o'clock flight. Ninety minutes wasn't long enough to read everything about the D.C. agent's career, but she picked up the highlights. Reading about successful convictions was a pleasant distraction from the tractionless case at home. It gave her hope that one day she'd close some cases of her own.

After the plane landed, she took a taxi downtown, fiddling nervously with the latch on her carry-­on through the whole, silent drive.

Senior Agent Barsol's office was in a nondescript gray building with the familiar aging receptionist glaring at newcomers. Sam presented her credentials and was guided through a labyrinth of cubicles. It wasn't as laid-­back as the office in San Diego where she'd worked fresh out of the academy, nor as slovenly as the neglected offices in Alabama District 3. Agent Barsol was a bald man with deep frown lines around his mouth, gold-­rimmed glasses, and a diamond earring. He gave Sam a smile as she stepped into his bare office. “Sorry for the decor—­or lack thereof; the conference room is being renovated, so everyone is using my office for team meetings. I'm Mike Barsol.”

Sam shook his hand. “Samantha Rose, thank you for inviting me to come, sir.”

“Thank you for coming up. Agent Marrins said your lot is in the middle of some big case.”

“We're following up on an old Jane Doe case,” Sam said modestly. “It won't be big until we find what we're looking for.”

“Well said.” Agent Barsol thumbed through her folder. “So, you speak English, French, and Spanish fluently. Former Canadian citizen, still a minor when the Commonwealth was formed, top marks at the academy, wonderful reviews from the senior agent in California. Why are you in Alabama?”

Sam took a steadying breath. It was inevitable that the question would come up. “I took emergency family leave shortly after joining the bureau. My father was ill and needed me. When he was stable, I'd already been replaced in my previous posting. I didn't have the time in ser­vice for most of the postings available and couldn't extend my leave to wait for the next assignment cycle. One of the agents in Toronto called Senior Agent Marrins and asked him to reopen his junior agent slot. The senior agent felt he could justify having a third agent in his district, especially since Agent MacKenzie spends more time working for the county coroner's office than the bureau. So I moved there and was grateful for the post.” Although she was less grateful when she found out her ex had gotten her the job by telling Marrins she was an easy lay. She'd cleared that up with a cold dismissal of the senior agent and a heated rant session with Bri.

“Good, it's best to be up-­front with these things. Do you expect your father to suffer a relapse, or do you have any other reason you might need to leave the bureau in the near future?”

“No, sir.” She'd made it clear when she left Toronto that her father was on his own. His struggle with prescription pain medication was real, but he wasn't willing to quit, and she wasn't willing to spend the rest of her life patting him down for contraband.

Agent Barsol nodded. He ran her through a few scenarios, let her read a file on a closed case, and asked questions—­standard bureau hiring procedures. But at the end of the interview, he was frowning. “Rose, you seem like the ideal candidate, but I'm looking for a field agent. Someone who can follow directions and work with a team.”

“I can do that, sir.” Desperation choked her. The job was slipping out of her fingers.

“Would you be happy?”

“I'm very social, sir. I enjoy working with a team.”

Barsol sighed. “Let me rephrase that: would you be happier working as a field agent with a team, or working as a senior agent with your own command.”