Convergence Point (14 page)

Rose looked at her. “That can't be easy math to do.”

“I'm really good with numbers and patterns.”

“So what did you find?”

She took a thin datpad out of her bag and passed it to Agent Rose. “This is the file for one Jamie Rex Nelson-­Gardner. He was raised in the foster-­care system after his mother's death.”

“Gardner?” Agent Rose fixed on the name like a hound dog, just as she had. “Like Sheriff Gardner? Any relation?”

“Jamie was his son,” Ivy said. “I had to log in at the police station this morning to double-­check, but he is. The sheriff divorced his wife before she died and refused to take custody of Jamie.”

“Was it an accidental death?”

“The mother's? Yes, there was a full investigation.”

Agent Rose rocked back in her chair, eyes staring at the wall as her thoughts wandered. To Ivy, she looked like an all-­seeing empress on her throne. Rose steepled her fingers. “Do we know why the sheriff refused to take custody of his son?” she asked in a slow, cautious voice as if she were sneaking up on an idea.

“There's no official reason given . . .”

“But you suspect something. Did Gardner deny paternity?”

“No”—­Ivy smiled—­“but you're right. There was an article about the accident, and that made me dig into the divorce files. Those are in the county record and not nearly as secure as Jamie's—­or the sheriff's—­personal files. There's a transcript of the divorce proceedings, and several times Sheriff Gardner argues with his wife that she should put Jamie into a home. He was diagnosed as neurologically atypical at age three.”

Rose's eyes narrowed, and her nostrils flared. “Gardner wanted to abandon his child because he wasn't normal enough?”

“He was diagnosed with speech apraxia, obsessive tendencies, and a minor developmental delay. From what I can tell from reading between the lines, it looks like they wanted to put Jamie on the autism spectrum. There are little signs here and there, not enough for a real diagnosis, so I'm guessing. I did find a few other articles about him. He won a science fair in fifth grade and had one of his poems published in the city newspaper when he was in tenth grade. He played on the soccer team.” She sighed.

Rose shook her head. “What a waste of a good life. What a wasted opportunity.”

“I can't imagine a parent's leaving their child for anything,” Ivy said.

Agent Rose winced. “I can.” Her lips puckered like she'd bitten a lemon. “A lot of ­people are willing to put careers before children, even when the child doesn't have special needs.”

Ivy bit her lip and looked away. The emotions on Rose's face were frightening in their bitterness.

The bureau agent washed it away with a sigh. “Okay, we have a name. How much legwork can you do on this case?”

“The chief is officially loaning me to the bureau until the homicides are all wrapped up. I'm supposed to be running support for the Bradet case, but I can work on this one, too. No one will stop me.” She wouldn't let them. Jamie was one of hers. He was a forgotten child, an underdog, someone who knew what it was like to be unwanted. He was her ­people.

Rose nodded. “Good. Then, if you don't object, I'd like you to run down as much information on Jamie and his habits as you can. See if he had a home outside the swamp. See if he was dating anyone, look for a place he might have shopped a lot or was a regular. Cousins, friends from school, past coworkers. I want to build a timeline of his life the week before he died. Look for anomalies again, anything that didn't fit in, then see if we can find out who saw him last.” She froze for a brief second, then laughed. “That's a request, by the way, not an order. If you don't want to do this, I can have Agent Edwin run this all down.”

“Oh, no! I'd love to do that,” Ivy said quickly. “It's no trouble at all.”

Rose smiled like a proud parent. “Great. Agent Edwin knows Nealie's pirate group pretty well, so feel free to pick his brain. I have him working on some other things, too, but utilize him. And don't—­under any circumstances—­go chasing after a suspect by yourself. You call the bureau for backup. You wear your tac vest. And you do not, ever, go alone and run into a situation blind. Promise me that.”

“I promise,” Ivy said solemnly.

“You have a bright future ahead of you,” Rose said. “I don't want to see you throw that away because you get caught up in the chase.”

S
omewhere around age four, Sam remembered a sleepless week where she wrestled with the fear that everything disappeared when she closed her eyes. From a clinical standpoint, and from an adult perspective, she could view it as the last stage of understanding object permanence, or the first step to studying theoretical physics. Either way, she recalled being terrified of closing her eyes at night in case the bed disappeared and she hit her head on the floor.

Of all the things she'd worried about the most, it had been her bed. Not her friends disappearing, or her already-­absentee parents never returning. No. That would have made sense. Instead, her younger self had feared losing her bed.

The nuns had tried in vain to explain it away. They'd offered her prayers. They'd made her close her eyes and touch the bed to show her it wouldn't disappear. But it wasn't until Sister Gabriel volunteered to sit and watch Sam's bed as she slept that Sam was willing to finally fall asleep.

Looking at Mac in flannel pajama pants and a faded gray T-­shirt making his bed on the couch, she felt that same rock-­solid reassurance that nothing bad would happen. She leaned her cheek against the wall and watched him move through the shadows of the apartment. “Bathroom's free.”

He looked up with a warm smile.

In another life, she might have crossed the distance to him and wrapped her arms around him. In another life, she might have risked loving him. She wasn't lying when she had told him that he deserved to be loved. And a part of her was willing to admit she did love him on some level that the English language couldn't ever convey. What she felt wasn't a physical lust although he was handsome in an unconventional way, and if there wasn't a headstone with her name on it, she would have been happy with a physical relationship. She felt more than that, though. Mac was her pillar of strength. Even though he had just returned to her life, she knew with a certainty that when everything else went wrong, he was the one thing she could count on.

“You're staring,” Mac said. She was a flash of teeth as she smiled in the darkness. “What is going on in that busy brain of yours?”

“Nothing,” Sam lied as she moved to rest her shoulders on the wall.

“Nothing? Really?”

She shook her head. “Just staring off into space, thinking of things.”

“Not staring at me?” Mac teased.

“Nope.” He lifted his shirt over his head.
Yum.
There was nothing soft about Mac. The doughy, swollen man he'd been while lost to drugs and depression was gone.

Mac chuckled. “Still not looking?”

“Of course not.” She knew he could hear the lie in her voice. “Why would I be watching a sexy man strip in my living room?”

“I don't know,” Mac said, as he sauntered toward her. “Maybe you like the guy. Maybe, you'd like to get closer to him.” He stopped just out of reach.

“Maybe.” Sam tilted her head to the side. “Maybe I've thought about it once or twice.” About how wonderful it would feel to wake up with his arms around her. About how much she'd love to kiss him good-­bye every time she walked out the door, and hello every time she found him again. She could imagine the taste of his lips on hers, though, and it was the taste of blood. The scent of death that hugged her like a jealous lover was always between them.

Mac took a step closer. “Want to do more than think?”

“I don't want to hurt you.” The same refrain. The same argument. Again and again and again—­it was starting to get old even to her. “There's never going to be a right time for us.” Reaching out was a mistake. The feel of hot skin beneath her fingertips was too tempting, too promising. She closed her eyes and pulled away. Burned. “I'm sorry.”

“Don't be.” The air grew warm as he drew closer. Soft lips brushed her forehead. “I'm not going anywhere.”

Sam ducked her head as she grinned. “Get in the shower, MacKenzie.”

He kissed her head again. “Yes, ma'am.”

I'm in trouble.

 

CHAPTER 12

A human being is more than a mere tangle of DNA. Humanity is the gift of sentience, art, civilization . . . To be human is to create and to destroy.

~ excerpt from
Among the Wildflowers
by Andria Toskoshi

Monday March 24, 2070

Florida District 8

Commonwealth of North America

Iteration 2

F
or centuries, Florida thrived on tourism. The constant influx of capital from visitors did everything from pave the roads to pay for the new playgrounds at the schools. As with any large tourist area, there were hideaways, secret places that the natives kept hidden from outsiders so
they
could escape. Gator Trap was one of those places. It was a combination gas station, marina, bait shop, and restaurant on the edge of Shipyard Canal that had an unlisted number and no Web site. So far, that was enough to keep the tourists away.

It also made it an excellent hideout for the kind of ­people who didn't like clones or police. Knowing that, Ivy had opted for casual wear, or at least as casual as she dared let herself wear. Jenna Mills had been a very pretty girl in life. Ivy wasn't sure what her gene donor acted like, but there was something about strawberry blonde hair and freckles that made ­people assume she was going to have a cute Southern accent and wear shorts no longer than a bikini.

She went out of the way to defy those expectations.

Her only concession to the springtime heat was a thin pink T-­shirt with cap sleeves. The shirt and her jeans were both baggy in an attempt to hide her body from prying eyes.

Sitting on the front hood of her car, she watched the ­people watching her and hoped no one decided to pay any closer attention. She checked her watch, bit her lip in worry, and kept an eye on the empty stretch of road.

A few centuries seemed to pass before a familiar red truck pulled into the dusty lot. She'd told Agent Edwin to come in casual dress, which for him seemed to mean khaki shorts and a faded university T-­shirt with a fraying hem. He waved.

Ivy waved back and hopped off the hood. “Hi. Thanks for meeting me out here.”

“No problem,” Edwin said. “It's this or read through physics notes for Agent Rose. This is definitely better.”

“Not a fan of physics?”

Edwin shook his head. “I barely passed it in high school. Everything we're reading from the lab is so far over my head, I need the Hubble telescope to see it.” He clapped his hands together. “What are we doing here, and does it include lunch?”

“Should it include lunch?” The aroma of deep-­fried fat was overwhelming, and not in a good way. Fatty foods weren't a part of her shadowhood. Adulthood and freedom hadn't changed her views.

“They do a great fried-­gator sandwich. It's life-­changing.”

“I'm sure it is for the gator.”

Edwin sighed and rolled his eyes. “If we're not here for lunch, why are we here?”

She rocked to the balls of her feet and bounced with nervous energy. “I, um, might have reached out to someone and told them I was a friend of Jamie's and that I wanted to meet.” She bit her lip anticipating a reprimand.

“Who's Jamie?” Edwin asked.

“Your pirate? Nealie? His real name was Jamie Nelson. I contacted Connor Houghton, who was Jamie's foster brother of sorts. They spent at least three years in the same foster home during high school. Connor was a year older . . .”

“ . . . and you think he's Connor Nu?” Edwin nodded. “That makes sense. You want me to ID him?”

“And make sure no one feeds me to the gators,” Ivy said. “Self-­defense laws don't apply to ­people like me.”

He squinched his face and looked at the ground. “It'll be fine.”

“I'll feel safer having you as backup.”

Edwin beamed. “Then lead on.”

She crinkled her nose and laughed. It was kind of adorable how the big, tough CBI agent was willing to play backup for her. She walked into the Gator Trap and picked a corner booth overlooking the water in the screened patio. Edwin saw her seated, then wandered off—­presumably hunting for his fried-­gator sandwich.

Ivy took a deep breath, checked the water for gators, then started watching the parking lot. She'd heard about Connor from the rumor mill at work. A few years ago, there had been talk around the station that the pirates were clone sympathizers. The chief wanted them prosecuted for sedition. She'd accidentally shredded the orders, and no one ever followed up.

At the time, it hadn't occurred to her that she might one day have to meet one of the pirates and learn the truth. She shifted uncomfortably in her seat. No one could tell by looking at her what she was, but she'd sat silent while the ­people around her ranted about wanting all clones dead enough times in her life already. They were welcome to their opinions, but she was never going to go out of her way to help one of the bigots. If he was a clone hater, she was going to kick herself.

She dug in her purse and pulled out a laminated card that fit in her palm. It was a print copy of her emancipation letter with the details of the Caye Law printed on the reverse. For other ­people, there were prayers to gods and saints. For her, there was a law that declared her human.

“Connor!” Edwin's voice echoed off the wooden rafters.

“Danny Boy!” a tenor voice shouted back.

Ivy nodded to herself. Most voices were just voices, but this one was musical. The voice of Oberon welcoming Titania home to the moonlit forest. It was a good voice for a mysterious pirate. She turned, trying to catch a glimpse of him through the crowd.

A shadow fell over the table, and Ivy jerked back, startled.

Edwin grinned down at her. “I got you some gator nuggets and sauce.”

If it were possible for a clone to turn green, she was doing that now. “Gator nuggets?”

“They're like chicken nuggets but saltier,” he said as he sat down and pushed a basket of unidentifiable deep-­fried lumps, a white sauce with green chunks, and french fries at her.

“I've never had chicken nuggets. Aren't they chocolate? For Easter time?”

Edwin stared at her, sandwich halfway to his mouth. “What?”

“What?”

“You've never had chicken nuggets?”

“I grew up on a vegetarian diet.” Ivy squirmed in the wooden booth. “Is that wrong?” Other humans lived as vegetarians. She knew they did. There were cookbooks just for vegetarians. Clones couldn't be the only ones buying the books.

He shook his head too quickly. “No, it's just . . . you eat meat right?”

“Sustainably caught fish and occasionally grilled chicken.” That's what normal healthy ­people ate. She'd read that in a book at the library. A healthy diet for an adult female consisted of a balanced diet full of nutrient-­dense food such as vegetables, fruits, and wild fish sustainably caught. Her heart raced with fear. “What did I do wrong?”

Edwin shook his head. “Nothing, nothing. It's just a little weird, you know? Most ­people try junk food eventually.”

Ivy frowned at the basket of food. “I . . . I didn't want to. Not when my body was finally mine. I didn't want to hurt my body. For the longest time, it wasn't even mine, but now it is, and sometimes I feel it's the only thing I own.”

“I'm sorry.” He frowned. “I wasn't trying to break you. I just thought you might like it. The gator's real tasty.”

“Danny!” the tenor voice said, interrupting them. A man sauntered up to the table. He was striking in a very magazine sort of way, Ivy decided. Brilliant hazel eyes, sandy-­brown hair, a five o'clock shadow even though it was one in the afternoon, and well-­defined muscles that looked like they took six hours at the gym every day to maintain.

“You're frowning,” Edwin said.

Ivy shrugged. “I thought the pirates would be more . . . scraggly. Malnourished. Ragged. Real pirates were riddled with sexually transmitted diseases, parasites, and lice. They weren't—­”

“Handsome?” Connor hit her with a megawatt smile. His eyes met hers, then traveled leisurely down, resting longer than was polite on her breasts and legs before making a leisurely trip back up. He made sure he had eye contact . . . and then winked.

She burned with embarrassment.

“You are beautiful.”

“Thanks,” Ivy said weakly, “I was designed that way.” Connor moved to sit down beside her, and she had to scoot to the end of the bench to avoid being sat on.

He took the seat opposite Edwin with another wink for her. “This isn't the bad old days, beautiful. We're not keelhauling anyone. Modern pirates are ecoterrorists. We want to preserve our natural heritage with heirloom seeds and eat foods that weren't lab-­created.”

“Rotten sunflower seeds and low-­yield tomatoes,” Edwin said between bites. “That's not how you build a revolution.”

“I don't want my garden produce to be owned by a company,” Connor argued.

Edwin rolled his eyes, and Ivy got the feeling the two had debated this at length many times.

With a nervous smile, Ivy risked touching Connor's arm to get his attention. He responded with another blazing smile . . . but there was ice in his eyes. “Actually, I wanted to talk to you about Jamie.”

“Jamie?” Connor shook his head. “Don't know him.”

“Jamie Nelson,” Ivy said, setting her face in a practiced look of disapproval she'd modeled after Agent Rose. “He went by the name Nealie Rho after graduation. Before that, you two lived in foster care together. I have pictures,” she added in case he tried to wriggle his way out of the conversation.

Connor stole one of Edwin's fries and chewed on it while stared at her. Finally, he shrugged. “So I knew him? So what? Is that a crime now?”

“N-­no.” Ivy stuttered. This would have been so much easier if she'd worn her uniform. Tiny women with freckles never got respect. Badges did.

“Anyway,” Connor said, “I haven't seen Nealie in a while. He buggered off with the others.”

She looked to Edwin for help. He was eating his french fries with no more interest in the conversation than she had in attending a college football game. Taking a deep breath, Ivy said, “Nealie's dead.”

“What?” Connor turned to Edwin. “How?”

Edwin glanced at her. “He died of asphyxiation. Ivy”—­he carefully avoided her title—­“found the body. She's been helping the bureau in the investigation.”

“Because, what, you're a good citizen?” Connor scoffed.

“I was the first officer on the scene.” She lifted her chin a little, trying to act as if his opinion of her didn't matter. It would be so much easier to fake if the opinions of ­people like him couldn't sign her death warrant.

Connor frowned and shook his head. “Nealie was fine last time I saw him.”

“Which was when?”

“I dunno.” He took another fry from Edwin. “Last week maybe? We got into a bit of a fight. MacKenzie and Troom had Nealie's head all twisted up talking about changing the world.”

Ivy's hand started to shake. “MacKenzie?
Agent
MacKenzie?”

“Yeah,” Connor said. “Why?”

Edwin frowned. “Agent MacKenzie from the bureau? Tall guy with dark hair.”

“Looks like he knows how to move in a fight?” Ivy added. “Possibly has anger management issues?”

Connor shook his head. “No, Agent Mackenzie's a girl. Short, black hair in a braid, Aussie accent. She and Troom came out to our camp and asked for help. I didn't like her, so she went to Nealie.” He looked at the table as if eye contact was too hard. “She knew everything about him. His mom's name, his history with his dad, all of it. Wrapped him around her finger faster than you can gut a fish. I tried telling him . . .” He sucked in his cheeks as his face turned red. “I told him she was trouble.”

“But he wouldn't listen?” Ivy asked.

“First time in his life Nealie doesn't listen to me, and he winds up dead.” He shook his head again. “I've known him since we were kids. We weren't placed together on purpose, but we wound up in the same homes a lot. I was the only one who remembered his birthday. Even Nealie didn't. All he remembered was his mom's death date.”

“Which was?” Ivy slipped her notebook out.

“March 19,” Connor said. “Every year, he'd ask me to go out to his mom's grave with him. He didn't like going alone.”

Ivy's hand hovered over her notebook. The date couldn't be a coincidence. “Was he depressed when he went to his mother's grave?”

“No, not really. He understood she was gone, and he'd done his crying a long time before I met him. He brought me in case his dad was there.”

“This is Sheriff Gardner we're talking about, right?”

Connor nodded. “Yeah, though he wasn't sheriff when Dolores died. When we were younger, he'd get drunk and yell at Nealie if he saw him. He sobered up. Did rehab, I think. We never saw much of him after graduation, but we stayed out of his town, too. If we were there, I don't doubt Gardner would have made our lives difficult just because of Nealie. He hates him.”

“Do you know if Nealie went to his mom's grave this year?”

“I guess he would have,” Connor said. “He didn't ask me to come with him if he did, though.” His eyes narrowed for a second, then he shrugged it off. “He's not a kid anymore.”

Edwin finished his fries. “Tell me more about this Australian agent and her buddy Henry.”

“Do they matter?” Connor asked.

“I'm curious,” Edwin said.

“She showed up near the end of January. Seemed to be in a rush. They needed a place they could work on a project off the grid. At first it didn't bother me. He seemed nice, and she was . . . whatever. I don't like her. She's creepy.”