Convergence Point (21 page)

 

CHAPTER 16

Every life is created with ten thousand deaths. Every breath I breathe steals a moment from another. Selfish I. Selfish love. Selfish broken man.

~ excerpt from the poem “A Living Death” by Jorge Sabio I2—­2068

Friday March 28, 2070

Florida District 8

Commonwealth of North America

Iteration 2

M
ac sat in the living room, back propped up against the outside wall of Sam's bedroom, and watched the sun rise. In the ser­vice, he'd known soldiers who could sleep anywhere. Guys who could drop onto any surface, close their eyes, and be snoring in minutes no matter what was going around them. Explosions and gunfire wouldn't rattle them. Until a few years ago, Mac would have put himself in that elite group of snoozers. The ambush and depression had changed all that. He'd lost sleep but never been alert. Now . . . he rubbed a hand across the stubble on his chin and tried not to think about Sam.

At least she'd been wearing clothes this time. The problem was she was as sexy in an oversized T-­shirt and shorts as she was in a lacy bra and panties.

He bumped his head on the wall to clear the memory. Sam didn't know it. She never noticed how his heart skipped a beat when she stepped into the room. She never noticed him.

Cursing quietly, he looked at his phone. Leave days would only get him so far. Eventually, he'd have return to Chicago. Go back to the apartment in the city and not seeing Sam every day. He'd break a little. She'd probably not notice his absence.

A shadow fell over him, and he looked up where Hoss's face should be. He saw knees. He looked up higher at Sam, frowning down at him. “Did you not sleep at all?”

“I was sleeping fine until the phone rang.”

She sat down next to him. “I'm sorry it woke you up.”

“I wasn't that tired.”

“You're a terrible liar.”

“You're not much better if you think I couldn't fall back asleep just because the phone rang.”

“Then what is it?”

Besides the fact that you smell like cinnamon and vanilla?
“Maybe the contents of the call?”

“I told you not to worry about that.” She leaned sideways, resting her head on his shoulder. “Should have known that wouldn't work. But I know what would make you feel better.”

“I doubt it.” Her scent taunted him, speaking of home and all the things he'd never have.

Sam held up her phone. “Last night, I had the bureau techs in District 6 run a trace on the creeper who called me. I thought we could have breakfast, then go arrest him.” She smiled. “Yes? Fun times?” She moved away from him. “What's wrong?”

Mac shook his head. “Nothing. I was just in a weird place when you walked in.”

“You're mad at me.” It wasn't even a question.

“No.”

“Your shoulders are tight. You won't make eye contact. You're furious with me.”

“With myself,” Mac said. He shut his eyes and tried to relax. “I realized something last night while I was sitting here, and it just . . . ruined my mood I guess. Sorry.”

“Do you want to talk about?”

“No.”

Sam stood up. “All right. I'm doing cereal for breakfast. You can shower and eat whatever you want. I'm leaving in twenty. You can come with me or not.”

“That sounds about right,” Mac muttered.

Sam kicked him in the shin with her bare foot. “This is why you need sleep! You're such a grump when you're tired.”

“I'm not tired.”

“Mac, I'm sorry I put you through this.”

He looked up at her in confusion. “What do you mean?”

“I know this isn't easy for you. You got out. Got away from me, and you were safe. This whole time-­travel nonsense. You deserve so much better. I know you've got to be stressed out. I know . . .” She sighed, and he thought he saw the shimmer of a tear in her eye. “I'm sorry, all right. You shouldn't be here, but I need you here. It's selfish, and I know it, but I need you. You're my rock, Mac. But I don't want you losing sleep over me. That's not fair. I feel safe, because you're here, but . . .” She shook her head. “If it's too much, say so. Please. I understand if you need to go back to Chicago.”

“I wouldn't sleep any better there.”

“Where would you sleep better?”

“Your bed.”

“Fine,” Sam said. “I'll take the couch.” Her lips quirked up in a smile. “That's what you meant, right?”

Mac smiled. “Of course.”

“Because you wouldn't have been suggesting anything else without at least buying me flowers first.”

“I thought I'd bought you flowers before.”

“Nope. Still waiting on those.”

“Were you expecting them?”

“I figured they'd fit into our relationship eventually.”

“Any particular type I should be looking for?”

“Pretty?” San suggested. “I like sunflowers and hibiscus and anything big and bright.”

“Yeah?”

She nodded. “Are you going to get breakfast now?”

“Yeah.” He stood up. “I don't want to go back to Chicago.”

“Good. I don't want you to go back either. You'll have to, eventually, but I have some leave coming up, and I'll be due to transfer in another year. This district's too small for me to grow my career. Maybe I could visit you and do some house hunting while I'm out there.”

“Or we could house hunt together.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Pretty sure you need to make that kind of proposal with a ring.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Any kind of ring?”

“I'm partial to opals, and I think sapphires are bad luck.”

“I'll keep that in mind.”

“You do that,” Sam said. “I'm going to go get dressed.”

Mac leaned so he could watch her walk down the hall. “Need any help?”

“No, I just needed to see you smile.”

Watching her move was more than enough reason to do just that.

 

CHAPTER 17

We made a horrible mistake dismissing evolution. In the quest to control time, we forgot that time changes all things. ­People change, and we will never find a way to control who they become.

~ private conversation with Agent 5 (retired)

Saturday March 29, 2070

Florida District 8

Commonwealth of North America

Iteration 2

S
team coiled out of the swamp into the primal darkness of night. Gant paced the perimeter of the building, not certain if he was more concerned about the creatures with glowing eyes swimming in the swamps or the man inside, whose temper was fraying by the hour.

“Will you stop pacing!” Donovan shouted, punching the aluminum siding of the shack for emphasis. “You're not helping.”

Gant considered the gun in his hand. Lucky for Donovan, he wasn't worth the few remaining bullets. Besides, after all they'd been through, he felt Donovan deserved something a bit more personal. “The notes say the machine won't work tonight.” He'd read them and understood them well enough. If the dates were all correct, there wasn't a chance to cross back to his reality until tomorrow night. “We have time.”

“This isn't kindergarten math,” Donovan said through clenched teeth. “I'm not waiting to the last minute to do everything.”

Grumbling profanities in Spanish and English under his breath, Gant continued pacing. He knew what was wrong. Clone or not, leaving Detective Rose alive was an insult. It tore him apart knowing she was out there breathing—­any of her. She'd shrugged off his threats. Treated him as inconsequential.

Ignored me.

“Go get a drink before I kill you,” Donovan said. “I can't stand your pacing anymore! Go get laid. Whatever. There's a liquor store about ten miles down the main road.”

Gant looked at him, thumb stroking the trigger guard of his gun.

Not.

Worth.

The.

Bullets.

He pivoted on his heel and stalked over to where they'd found two beat-­up four-­wheelers. One was charged enough to get him to town, where they'd left the college kid's car.

“Be back by noon!” Donovan called after him.

Flipping the other man a rude gesture, Gant called back, “Yes, Mother.” He gunned the engine and raced across the dirt road. Whiskey sounded good. Maybe a little ninety-­proof moonshine. What he wanted was . . . something flammable. Something that would light up the night sky like the fires of hell.

S
am kicked her blanket off and rolled onto her side. The cool breeze from the air-­conditioning sent shivers down her back. She tugged the blanket up, then pushed it off again.

Hoss whined quietly in protest. She was interrupting his sleep.

Rolling onto her back, Sam dropped her arm over the edge of the bed and stroked Hoss's fur. Something had pulled her from sleep, but it wasn't the heat of the night. Adrenaline raced through her veins, pushing her heart rate up, making her hyperaware of everything around her. Downstairs, the neighbor had left their TV on again, and she could hear the hollow sounds of a synthetic laugh track. Tree branches rattled against the siding of the apartment. In the distance, she could hear the faint rumble of a truck charging down the highway.

This wasn't like waking up from a nightmare with a faint sense of dread and cold sweat making her skin clammy. This was liking waking up
to
a nightmare. Opening her eyes to see monsters.

Sam swung her legs out of bed. She slid her foot over Hoss's flank until it found the soft carpet, stood, and dressed in the darkness. Something had pulled her from a deep sleep to perfect awareness. Quietly opening the door, she tiptoed to the living room.

Mac lay sprawled across the couch, one arm over his forehead, the other dangling off the side of the couch. She really should have offered him the bed. Their green couch just wasn't built for a tall person. Funny how she'd come to think of in terms of Us and We and Ours.

Car tires squealed in the parking lot outside. All thoughts of relationships pushed aside, Sam ran to the window. A dark car took the turn too fast, slowed for a fraction of a second, and something like a giant cigarette butt flew out the car window. There was a crashing sprinkle of glass, and Hoss yelped in the bedroom.

“Hoss!” She ran down the hall and opened the door to see a bottle with a lit rag explode. The heat of the explosion knocked her backward. “Hoss!” She choked, coughing on smoke.

Strong hands grabbed her under the armpits and hauled her backward. Sam tried to break free.

Hoss limped out of the room. She clapped her hands.

“Out,” Mac ordered, opening the door. “Right now.”

“There's a fire extinguisher”—­she coughed as smoke started filling the room—­“under the sink.” Fire alarms were going off. Mac was dialing someone, probably the fire department.

She looped a leash over Hoss's head and dragged him outside. Hurrying barefoot down the wooden stairs, she banged on her neighbor's door, praying the elderly woman would hear something over the sound of her TV.

Slowly, it was dawning on her that someone had thrown a Molotov cocktail on her bed. Delayed shock froze her limbs. If she'd been in bed . . . She dropped her hand down to pet Hoss.

A car rolled up beside her. Sam looked over, expecting to see a neighbor.

The man who stepped out of the car with a twisted grin was no friend of hers. “Hello, Detective Rose.”

“Gant.” Sam stepped back, hand tightening on Hoss's leash.

He lifted a gun. “Good-­bye, Detective.”

Sam lunged forward, but Hoss was faster. Five shots, and Hoss fell backward. Sam lurched sideways as Mac tackled her. All she could do was watch Gant's car peel away into the night as tears ran down her face.

“I
am fine.” Mac tried once again to wrestle the IV needle away from his arm.

The nurse, a middle aged woman with dark skin, bright cherry-­red hair, and a Spanish accent snarled at him. “You are going to hold still, or I will sedate you.”

“Mac!”

He looked up to see Sam standing in the doorway, wearing an oversized sweatshirt and a pair of navy-­blue scrub pants.

“Let her put the IV in,” Sam ordered.

He narrowed his eyes at her betrayal but sat back in the hospital bed. “I'm not in pain.”

“You have a bruised rib, a concussion, damage to your lungs, and that's only the partial list.” Sam's eyes were tight with fear.

He winced as the needle cut his skin. “Sam, sweetie, I'm fine. Come here.” He held out his free hand. “It's not that bad.”

“You jumped off the balcony, you idiot,” she said through clenched teeth.

The nurse grumbled something in Spanish that was certainly a commentary on his brains, or lack thereof, but he ignored her. “Sam? Are you all right?”

“Hoss is dead. You're in a hospital bed. And you ask if I'm okay?”

Right.
He took a deep breath and was rewarded with a stabbing pain. “Sam . . . I'll say anything you want. How do I make it better?”

She turned to the window and pulled aside the thick green curtains. There was nothing to see but a streetlamp in the parking lot. “This isn't on you, Mac. You have plane tickets for Chicago. In forty-­eight hours, you will be released from the hospital and fly home.”

“And?”

The room filled with an arctic chill as she turned. “There is no ‘and.' I arrest Gant. You go to Chicago. We all file our paperwork and move on.”

“You think I'm going to leave after this?” The machine next to him let out a shrill scream as his blood pressure skyrocketed. “Not just no, Sam.
Hell
no. I'm not leaving you. Nothing you say is going to change that.”

There were marble statues with more emotion on their faces than hers as she crossed to him. She was shutting him out. Closing down all the nonessential systems so she could survive. He'd seen soldiers do it in war zones and at home. He'd done it more times than he cared to consider, but Sam had pulled him out. Forced him to feel something other than burning self-­hatred.

“Don't even try to pull rank,” he warned with a snarl. He wasn't going to let her slip into the same mire he'd only barely escaped. “I'll pay off my government contract and retire down here if that's what it takes. I'm not abandoning you.”

She pressed a bittersweet kiss to his cheek. Her lips were as cold as the grave. “What if I ask?” she whispered.

Ice filled his veins. His free hand curled around her wrist. “Why?”

“You're hurting me.” Her eyes were so cold. So dark and distant it was like looking into the face of a corpse.

He dropped his hand, but he wasn't sure that it was his touch causing the pain.

“Please leave. If you love me at all, you won't want to see me hurt, so leave. Let me have my life back. What little is left, I want to live free.”

There wasn't a medicine in the hospital that would fix his breaking heart. No way to return the stolen air to his lungs. No measure for the pain as she walked away.

“W
here have you been?” Donovan demanded, as Gant got off the four-­wheeler.

He glowered. “Getting more bullets. And a drink.” And revenge. The first light of day was breaking across the swamp, and already the humidity was something near a hundred percent. It felt good.

Donovan rolled his eyes. “You're pathetic. Get in here.”

“What's got your panties in a twist?”

“Look here.” Donovan held up a rod with a viscous purple liquid. “Know what this is?”

“Poison?”

“A stabilizing catalytic liquid,” Donovan said with the careful enunciation of someone who'd read the word but didn't quite know it meant. “Keeps us from going boom.”

“Does it get us back to reality?” Nothing else mattered.

Donovan nodded. “We turn this on at three this afternoon, and we should wind up back in our timeline a few days before your prison break.”

“How do we go farther back?” A few days wasn't enough. The airports would still have him on the no-­fly list. Detective Rose would still have his fortune sitting in an evidence locker.

“We'd have to wait six more weeks to go back farther, and it would still only buy us a few more days.” Donovan hurled the notebook they'd stolen from the wrecked car at Gant. “Read it over.”

Donovan finished putting the machine together as Gant read over the notes. Most of it was over his head, not that he'd ever admit that. He had the sneaking suspicion that Donovan was, possibly, smarter than he. At least with the book work and math. School hadn't been a bastion of safety and learning as much as a building full of marks waiting to be taken for their money. Gant had spent more time breaking into cars in the parking lot than in class. Up to this point, it hadn't affected his upward momentum.

Book smarts weren't necessary for a con unless you played a professor. It was better posing as an accountant. Numbers never lied, but they could dance if you had the knack.

“Donovan?”

“Eh?”

“What's an einselected node?” Gant asked as he leaned against a support beam of the warehouse. The metal was refreshingly cool, nicely shaded from the blazing sun outside.

Donovan washed machine grease off his hands from a water donkey they'd found tucked in one corner. “I think it's like a pillar-­of-­the-­world type of thing. You know in a house where you have walls you can knock out and walls that have to stay because the house collapses without 'em?”

“Sure,” Gant lied as he flipped a page of notes with the Zoetimax watermark.

“Haven't you ever demolished a building?”

Gant looked up from the stolen pages with disgust. “Why would I want to damage a building? I use finesse.”

“Killing ­people is finesse?”

“Sometimes it's the only way to get the lock open,” Gant said calmly. Some part of him recognized that murder was not an option for the average person. He was equally aware that keeping murder as an option broadened his choice of options considerably. Really, it was the difference between believing that only the ­people with keys should open doors and the belief that anyone who could pick the lock should open doors to take what they wanted. It was baffling that more ­people didn't view life that way. For which Gant was grateful to his fellow man. Competition—­competent competition—­wasn't good for him.

Donovan sighed.

“Tired of me already?” Gant asked.

“A week with you is more than I planned for,” Donovan said. There was no malice in his tone.

Gant's fingers slipped to the reassuring shape of the gun tucked into his pants. Killing Donovan was tempting but not yet practical. If the other man was anything like him, then Donovan was holding a crucial detail back so that Gant wouldn't be able to use the machine alone. It's what he would have done. Once again, he felt like his control over the situation was slipping.

He rubbed sweating palms along the rough denim of his pants. Detective Rose was dead. His eye twitched. There'd been a dog, a dark shadow of a monster lunging for him. But surely,
surely
, the bullets had gone through. He'd seen her fall . . .

Gant nodded to himself. Yes, Rose was dead. For good this time. They were out of hell. In the swamps, but away from the English-­speaking abomination of a country that had infested Florida. The gas station had strange beer, no sugar skulls, no chili-­covered mangoes. Part of his mind ticked over and started calculating how much he could charge the locals to escape. No reason to be greedy. A few grand a head, and he'd still make money hand over fist.

But that meant staying longer.