Convergence Point (2 page)

“Where's Henry?” Mac asked.

“Over there.” She pointed to part of an arm stuck under a slagged chair. White bone showed easily through the charred flesh. “And over there.” She pointed to a shoe with part of the leg still attached. “And . . . everywhere.”

Mac was pale.

“I'm sorry. You can step out. I can get someone else,” she rushed to say. “Do you need something? Breath mints?” she asked, only half joking. Orange Sun breath mints had been Mac's go-­to placebo when he weaned himself off the sleeping pills.

He winced and turned away. “Can't take pills. Not since Harley tried to poison me. They all make me nauseous.” Their former coworker had been a gem like that. Always ready to cut you down with an insult or poison your medication. Alabama District 3 had been a barrel of laughs.

“What do you need from me?”

Eyes clenched tight, he shook his head. “Computer records. What was Troom working on? Where was everyone when the explosion started? Where was everything originally?” he said, reciting the list in monotone. Mac took a deep breath. She looked at him with concern. “I'm good—­honest. Can you get the surveillance tapes?”

“I'll get them.”

He squatted and touched the body. “No RPC.”

“RPC?” She raised an eyebrow. “Rapid postmortem cooling?”

Mac shrugged. “Does that put your paranoia to rest?”

“You made an acronym for that?” Their first case together had involved the mysterious death of Jane Doe, a woman tortured and ripped apart by an explosion that had also nearly frozen her despite the summer heat. Much to Sam's everlasting regret, the cold body on a sunny day was not the weirdest part of the case.

“I didn't know if I'd need it again.” He stood up. “I guess I don't.”

Muscles in her neck unknotted. “You have no idea how good it is to hear that.”

“Yeah, I do,” Mac said with a snort. “I was there.”

The nightmares of the summer case they'd shared in Alabama District 3 still haunted her. Homegrown terrorists had tried to use a time-­travel device to rewrite history. And even
that
wasn't the strangest part of the case. She'd been kidnapped by her senior agent, crossed into another timeline, come back, and almost died twice. Mac had saved her, he'd told her he loved her, and she'd walked away.

They'd never talked about it again. After the required fourteen hours of therapy, there was nothing more Sam wanted to do than forget that the summer of 2069 ever happened.

And yet here it was, back in her face. In the flesh. The tall, handsome flesh . . .

Choking back the despair, she forced a smile. “I'll talk with Dr. Morr and get the tag and cleanup team in here. Can you handle the autopsy for me?”

“No problem.” He sighed and scowled back at the body. “And here I thought this trip was going to be uneventful.”

G
reen light encased the shattered earthly remains of Henry Troom.

Mac tried not to gag at the smell of burned flesh or the sight of bare bone. There had been worse. Far worse when he was in the military, and even a few bad cases in recent months. In Chicago, he had the advantage of the being the senior medical examiner and passing the cases like this off to a junior as “on the job training.”

He'd made the mistake of telling someone he missed real fieldwork last week before he left for the conference in Orlando, though. Fate was laughing at him now. It didn't get much more real than this.

A knock at the door made him nearly jump out of his skin. The little autopsy lab was a windowless room in a maze of government offices where Sam worked. He was pretty sure they'd wheeled the corpse past a WIC office. Some kid was probably going to need therapy because of that.

“Agent MacKenzie?” Sam's voice was soft, distant.

Mac had wondered what would happen if they ever saw each other again. He'd said “I love you” and she'd told him he had the kinder, gentler version of Stockholm syndrome. Now she was standing well out of reach with an invisible Leave Me Alone field in place. “Hey.”

“Hi.” Sam moved to the edge of the exam table. “Find anything interesting?”

“No.” He finished the scan and saved the data to the case file. “The cleanup crew is still bringing me body pieces. I'm missing an arm, the head, his left foot. How do you lose body parts in a thousand square feet of flat room? It's statistically impossible.”

“Maybe they disintegrated? But then why were his legs there and his foot not?” she asked, dismissing her premise immediately. Sam crossed her arms, clearly angry at the Gordian knot of a case and not at him. That was reassuring. “I know the explosion killed him,” she said, “but do you know what exploded yet.”

“Don't know, and I'm not guessing.” Mac tried hard to focus on the corpse, but he wanted to look at her. He missed Alabama, the smiles, the laughter. The one night she'd come to his room and wound up in his arms all but naked. That memory alone fed his dreams for a day when she returned to him to do more than make sure he wasn't being stabbed to death.

She tapped the desk in front of him. “Earth to Planet Mac, it's past nine. Pack this up, and let's get you to a hotel. We'll have a rental car ready for you tomorrow.”

His stomach rumbled. “Past nine? I didn't . . .”

“You never do.” There was a hint of smug familiarity in her voice. She knew all his weaknesses.

She
was
all his weaknesses.

“It's easy to lose track of time when there's a dead body in front of you,” he muttered. He didn't need her to break his heart again.

“Yeah? Well, you can get blissfully lost in corpse parts tomorrow. I'm starving, and Hoss needs to get walked.”

He grabbed on to the safe conversation topic like a drowning man. “How is the slobbering beast doing?” Hoss was the South African mastiff Sam had adopted in Alabama. He was double her weight, and a slobbery pile of fur that looked like he might chew your leg off for fun. Luckily, the worst he'd ever done to Mac is take him for a run.

“Hoss is fine. He hates the heat, but he loves the beach. There's a pet-­friendly one south of here, and we going running together most mornings.”

Warning bells went off in his head.

Sam smiled like a shark. “You can come with us tomorrow if you want.”

“Um . . .”

“Getting lazy up there in Chicago, MacKenzie?”

He covered the remains of Henry Troom and wheeled them to the cold storage. “Not at all, Rose. If you can find me some running shorts, I'd be happy to go running with you. Until then, you'll have to wait. My suitcase is lost in travel limbo.”

“I'm sure I have something at my place.”

Memories of black lace undies erased all other thought. “I don't think I'd fit.”

“Let's go, Mac.” She shoved him gently toward the door.

A sultry Florida night enveloped them in the scent of freshly mown grass as they stepped out of the air-­conditioned building. Sam's silver Alexia Virgo was parked under a streetlamp in the otherwise-­deserted parking lot. ­“People clear out early around here, don't they?”

“The streets pretty much roll up at nine,” she said, hitting the auto-­unlock. The cable connecting the car to the recharge station recoiled, and the headlights turned on.

The car was just like he remembered, everything neatly put away out of sight. Tidy and prim as the owner, except a huge muddy paw print on the floor of the passenger's side. “Hoss found something to play in.”

She grimaced. “Sorry, it was muddy Saturday, and I didn't have a chance to clean it up yet. I have some napkins if you want to cover it up.”

“Sam, it's dirt under my foot.” He laughed. “I'm fine.”

“Okay.” She didn't sound convinced. “Let's find you somewhere to sleep.”

“Food first. Please?” He didn't try puppy-­dog eyes—­to the best of his knowledge, Agent Rose was immune to every feminine instinct to fall in love with cuddly creatures. That's why she kept a man-­eater for a pet. And was probably the only reason she gave him the time of day, seeing how he was even less cuddly than her dog. They headed east, turning just before the intercoastal bridge, then pulling into a very pink apartment complex. Mac gave her a questioning look. The only bright colors in Sam's life were her neon-­yellow running shirts. Everything else was white, black, or bureau-­regulation navy.

Maybe she's changing?

“No comments on the color. Three miles down, there's a set of apartments painted blue and purple.”

Nope.
“Seriously?”

“They like tropical colors here,” she said in a flat tone that didn't invite further conversation. “Come on.”

He followed her up to a second-­floor apartment.

Hoss barked a welcome as she opened the door. “Hey, puppy. How's my good boy?” Sam petted the dog with obvious affection. “You remember Mac? He's the one who likes to go running with you.” She shot him a puckish smile.

“Hey, Hoss.” He took the slobber on his pant leg—­and almost being bowled over—­as a show of affection.

Sam turned on the lights, and it felt like he'd been punched in the gut. His old couch was here, the one they'd rescued before Hurricane Jessica drove him to find a new apartment and ultimately rent a room from Sam's landlady. The ancient wooden table sat in the breakfast nook. There was a scratch where he'd thrown a knife when they fought over the case one night.

“Mac?”

“I feel like a divorcee coming to see the ex. All that's missing are the kids.”

“You left the couch in Alabama. Miss Azalea called and asked me to pick it up so she could get the new renters moved in. Do you want it back?” Her expression was guarded, unusually wary for a woman who always seemed to always tackle things head-­on.

Mac shook his head. “No. It's . . . I have a new one. It's just strange. I know the furniture but not the house. Not quite déjà vu, but very surreal.” The furniture was wrong in the apartment. In the old plantation house in Alabama, Sam's lacy curtains and the old brass bed—­even the ancient wooden armoire—­had all fitted together.

Here, the apartment walls were a glaring white even in the dim lamplight, the carpet was stiff and cheap. There was a sense of despair and desperation. It felt like a refugee camp. He watched Sam tuck her shoes away, close the curtains on the balcony window, and move around the house. “You aren't happy here.”

“What?” she asked with a little jump.

“You don't look happy.”

“I'm exhausted, Mac. I've been up since four, and the last thing I ate was a granola bar at six. Let me grab you some clothes, and we'll find some fast food before I drop you at the hotel.”

“Sure. Sorry.” She was lying, but he wasn't going to push. Last time he'd gotten too close, Sam had shut him out of her life.

She waved his apology away and vanished into the gloom of the back room.

He followed Hoss into the tiny kitchen. There were steaks marinating on the counter in a bag. Two steaks. There would be potatoes in the cupboard, maybe some spring asparagus in the fridge. His stomach growled. “Sam?”

“Yes?” She walked out of her room, still dressed in her standard navy skirt with white blouse, holding a box with a pair of running shorts and a familiar shirt hanging out.

“What part of my soul do I need to sell to get one of those steaks for dinner?”

“Oh.” Sam slumped with fatigue. “I forgot about those. I really need to cook them, too. I got them out Sunday and fell asleep before I got around to dinner.”

“We could stay up for a little bit,” Mac cajoled. “Grill them. Eat dinner. Pretend we don't have to be up at four.”

“I need to run before work,” Sam said, but he could tell she was on the edge of caving.

“The office doesn't open until nine, we could run at seven and grab a shower after.” He picked up the bag and wiggled it temptingly. “Steak. Real food. You know you want this.”

“We need to find you a hotel.”

“I can sleep on the couch.”

She bit her lip.

“I'll sleep better here than in a hotel room.”

“Fine.” Sam rolled her eyes. “You are so bad for me, MacKenzie!”

“I'm just making sure you eat properly,” he said, radiating innocence.

“And it will be shower
s
, plural, tomorrow morning. You are not hopping in the shower with me.” She tossed the box at him. “Get the coals started. I'm going to change.”

Mac raised an eyebrow.
Grab a shower
had turned into the suggestion they shower together in her mind?

Maybe there was hope for his dream relationship after all.

 

CHAPTER 3

It takes a certain hubris to believe man can control time. Hubris or genius. One often wonders what the difference is.

~
editorial published in
Aristegui Noticias
 I3–2070

Sunday February 12, 2073

Brevard County, Florida

Federated States of Mexico

Iteration 3

T
here was something viciously beautiful about spring. The way ­people cheered the end of a nice, clean winter always made Nialls smile. Rabid plants brutishly destroying the earth around them to make space for roots and branches, velvety-­pink petals laced with seduction and death, it was a metaphor for life, really. A brief, violent struggle, and in the end, the fastest would win the day.

Or course, spring brought the occasional rare fog to the sunny shores of Florida. Thick as soup and filled with adulterated sounds like the cries of the damned. A local penitentiary was prepared for fires, floods, and hurricanes, but a thick fog made it impossible to see more than a meter or two in each direction. The watchtowers and cameras outside were useless. Only the locks inside stopped the prisoners from running loose. For now.

Nialls leaned back in his bunk and watched the open-­circuit TV replay the news headlines. A triple homicide two towns south of here. A whole family murdered. No suspects. He smiled as Detective Rose, with her perfect black curls and trademark red jacket stepped in front of the cameras. No doubt, the newscasters were plotting murder in their minds as the detective upstaged them with the poise of a pageant queen.

It would do him no end of good if someone finally snapped and killed the woman. He'd personally pay to have it done on live television if the killer would guarantee that Detective Rose would die. The last unsung idiot who went after her found, much to his terminal regret, that Detective Rose kept a small ceramic knife concealed on her person.

A death sentence for the unfortunate man. A boon for Nialls, who learned from the deceased's mistake and made plans to take the detective out with a sniper rifle should the opportunity ever arise.

He toyed with the idea frequently. It'd be much easier to do everything he wanted if the only competent police officer in the area was in a shallow grave. But there was a chance, tiny and thin, that she might not die the first time he shot at her. That was enough to make him keep his distance—­Detective Rose was not the kind of person who gave a man a second chance to kill her.

That, and—­of course—­the walls of this prison.

As if to remind him, knuckles rattled the bars of his cage. “Nialls Gant, up and at 'em. You know what time it is.”

“Officer Breck, a pleasure as always. Am I in the kitchen detail today?”

“Laundry,” Breck said. “Get your hands up here.”

With a sigh, Gant walked forward and placed his hands through the slot to be cuffed. “Is this show really necessary?”

“How many ­people did you kill, Gant?”

“I was convicted of money laundering, not murder.”

“Three was it?” Breck asked without bothering to listen. “Four? Five? Everyone knows you did it.”

“If I did something, there would be evidence.”

“Not if you're smart about it.”

“Whatever happened to innocent until proven guilty, Officer?”

“The United States became a protectorate of Mexico in 2025,” Breck said. “But it would be the same either way. You're a killer.”

Gant rolled his eyes and waited for Breck to open the cell door. Shuffling with handcuffed legs and hands, he followed the now-­familiar route to the laundry. Steam coiled up from the aging washing machines. “No company today?”

“Don't complain. You're out of solitary, aren't you? Working the shift alone means no one's going to shank you.”

“Indeed.” He watched the steam curl in front of the security camera.

“Hands.” Breck held out his key, impatience written across his broad features.

Gant held his hands out.

Breck looked down, leaned forward . . .

Gant reached up and grabbed his head, twisting the officer's face until his fat neck popped. “Who needs a shank?” Bending down, Gant picked up the discarded keys. “Thank you ever so much, Officer.” He unlocked his cuffs. There were two minutes left before Breck was due to check in again, long enough to wipe down Breck's body to keep the medical examiner from pulling a fingerprint. There was only a slim chance that anyone would find Gant if his plan came to fruition, but old habits died hard. Anyway, it was senseless to leave Detective Rose with any clues.

To further ensure no evidence, he deposited Breck's corpse in one of the industrial dryers.

He set it on “permanent press.”

Days like this, he wished he had flunkies. There were so many things to do when planning a prison break: guards to watch, alarms to reset, bodies to hide. It was really quite distracting. Nevertheless, needs must, as they said.

He picked up Breck's truncheon.

Time to go muddy the trail.

Gant didn't saunter down the hall; that would have drawn attention. He kept his pace measured, quick, light . . . just like the pathetic errand boys who were trying to shave time off their sentence with good behavior. As if fetching and carrying for the guards was going to get them home faster than busting a few heads open.

The other inmates looked up when Gant walked into the cellblock without his guard or chains.

He smiled. “Good evening, gentlemen. May I recommend putting your shoes on?” He held up the master key. “I'm about the pull the fire alarm. All of you will be exiting the building in a disorderly fashion. Run. Jump. Cluck like a chicken. I don't care. As long as you leave the building in under two minutes, you'll only have to deal with the police.”

Still smiling, he stuck the master key in the lockbox, twisted, and pulled the fire alarm. It was there only for life-­threatening emergencies. Only meant to be used if the guards outnumbered the prisoners. It shouldn't have been built at all. Too tempting.

I'll never get over the stupidity of those in law enforcement.

“Come along, gentlemen. I haven't got all evening. Time and tide wait for no man. Stand up, stand up. Carmichael, why aren't you wearing . . . you know, never mind. Just go. You.” Gant stopped in front of a cell where a younger man lay in his bunk. “Who are you?”

“Camden.” The boy looked at him.

“It's time to leave, Camden.”

“Ain't happening, man. I seen those guns in the turrets. I was here last time some jack fool tried to make a break for it. They took his hands off with bullets.” Camden held his arms up like he was holding an assault rifle. “Rat-­a-­tat-­tat. You know, man? That's a tune I ain't dancing to. You have fun. I'm staying here.”

Gant sighed. “You're wasting my time, Camden.” In one smooth motion, he raised the truncheon and brought it down hard on Camden's neck. “Stay here if you want,” he told the corpse with the broken neck.

An alarm sounded lockdown on the far side of the prison. Someone had tried to bust a buddy out with them. He'd made plans for that. Or, rather, he'd made plans in case someone tried to use the prison break to take a detour and make some extra cash by offing a rival. But just because he planned for such an eventuality didn't mean the idiots had to go do it.

Out in the prison yard, gunfire rattled the windows. Rat-­a-­tat-­tat indeed.

Best to use the parking-­lot exit then.

Gant hummed as he strolled down the empty path, sirens wailing in the distance. Cell Block B was a great tomb—­no, not a tomb—­a cathedral to human ingenuity. Inmates were given one hour of computer time each month, but it had been more than he needed. One tiny computer virus and—­on his signal—­the sirens lost their voices. The lights were darkened, killed with a single keystroke. And outside the barred, bulletproof glass, the prison-­yard lights illuminated the fog like the dawn of war. So poetic. Genius, even, if he would allow himself a brief moment of immodesty. He wished he could have recorded the moment for posterity.

One day, he'd have to blackmail someone to make a film of his life. If they didn't spring for the fog machine, he'd break their femur a quarter inch above the patella. A difficult infliction to master, but it always got his point across.

He pushed the prison doors open and took a deep breath of the vapor-­choked air. Brilliant. Now, where was the coward?

Gant sauntered as he moved into the parking lot. The car-­park lights far overhead were dimmed by the fog. The turret guards were distracted. At the far end of the lot, he could hear someone trying to start a car, but he couldn't see them. Which meant no one saw him as he approached the bright blue four-­wheel-­drive monstrosity with a temporary tag still in the window.

Officer Wilhite's aunt had passed unexpectedly a month ago, and she'd left her only surviving relative a tidy sum of money, a fact the bullying guard couldn't stop bragging about as he watched the inmates eat lunch. It couldn't have happened to a less worthy person. Wilhite was the kind of man roaches looked down on for not having enough class. He was a thing that fed off whatever the bottom-­feeders left over. If he'd gone into crime—­and Gant wasn't entirely sure the officer wasn't supplementing his income with some illegal activity within the prison—­this was the guy the gang would leave for the cops to drag in.

No one wanted him.

Even the understaffed prison system hadn't objected when Wilhite gave his notice.

Gant hadn't planned on leaving tonight. He'd been waiting for Detective Rose to be distracted or for the weather to be perfect. A tornado or a hurricane that drove the guards out of the turret would have been ideal. But fog on a night when Detective Rose was chasing someone a hundred miles away and Wilhite was leaving early? It was as if God Himself had stepped down from his cherub-­encircled throne and given Gant the key. It was divine intervention.

Or diabolical.

Someone swore in the depth of the fog.

Gant smiled, fading back into the darkness, giving Wilhite a path to his car.

“Crazy, sonofa—­” Wilhite stopped in the ring of sickly-­yellow light falling from the lamp overhead. He was watching the tower, head leaning this way and that as he decided whether to go back or not. The former prison guard shook his head. Turning back to his car, he fumbled with his new keys.

Gant moved in for the kill.