Convergence Point (9 page)

Each door in the office was discreetly hidden within the painting, but only one door was locked. Gant checked his watch, unlocked the door, and scowled at the director's office. It was lined with white binders on white shelves.

“Needle in a haystack.”

He was going to kill Donovan. Rushed jobs were botched jobs.

Growling, he took a steadying breath and used an asset Donovan couldn't match: his brain. The plethora of binders had to be for show, they were out of fashion in the computer age. Gant did a quick search of the ornate rococo desk. The thin legs and elegant scrollwork hid nothing. There wasn't even a computer in the room. If Director Carlisle had taken her tech home, their chances of success had dropped to nothing.
No, wrong way to think.
He tried to think like a businessman. A wealthy, paranoid businessman.

There had to be a safe.

He scanned the walls, looking for a break in the monotonous wall of binders. No one was perfect. No one kept secrets. Not from him.

In the left corner, a shelf down from eye level, Gant found what he was looking for. Knowing the director was left-­handed would have helped, but it was too late for regrets and dithering. He grabbed the binder, flipped it open, and skimmed the contents.

Dates and times of regressive jumps. Dates and times of lateral iteration jumps. Dates and times of future jumps. Well, that was interesting. Worth considering in ten years' time when he'd stolen enough money to visit as a customer. He snapped the binder shut and walked out the door. Three minutes until he had to hide from motion detectors.

Donovan put a lot of faith in Gant's ability to run a six-­minute mile.

The first guard who crossed his path was lucky enough to only get the cold blowtorch upside his head. Cracked skulls were uncomfortable, but the second guard got a faceful of flame, his own private hell for the last moment of his life. Gant smiled at the thought of the superheated air cooking the man from the inside out as he slid into place behind a statue.

Six silent minutes ticked past.

Gant stood still, staring out the window at a fountain with dancing satyrs and an excellent view of the parking lot. Angry voices at the end of the hall signaled a break from the motion sensors as police cars filled the parking lot.

“Donovan.” Gant swore creatively under his breath. He ran headlong down the halls, through a very broken door, and into the inner sanctum, where Donovan stood waiting next to a row of prone bodies. “You tied them up?”

“I like to give them the illusion of hope. Being tied up means they might escape.”

Gant looked at the executed guards. “Seems like a waste of time.”

“I was bored.”

“A waste of ammunition then.” Sloppy.

“I can always find more bullets. Did you find the right binder?”

Gant tossed the book at him. “This is the one. Carlisle has today marked as an ILJ. Do you know what that means?”

“That the machine will get us out of here.”

“It better do it with requisite alacrity. Detective Rose is outside.” And he wasn't going back to prison. He'd make a deal with the devil and testify against Donovan first.

Donovan frowned. “Impossible.”

“Then stay here.” Gant took the binder back. “I'm leaving.” He turned through the pages, looking for instructions. There was a timetable, but he could only hazard a guess at what it all meant. “We should have grabbed Carlisle.”

Donovan grunted agreement but stopped to dig things from his bag.

Gant rolled his eyes. Double doors led to a wide theater that reminded him of a scene from
The Wizard of Oz
. All the showmanship to mask the simplicity of the truth: A single machine with the power to change time.

He looked from the machine to the instructions. There was math, and an
ON
button, and very little programming. “Donovan, this is not a well-­thought-­out plan.”

“Doesn't matter. The machine works, ‘aight?”

“Yes . . .” Gant hesitated. “But we can't set it for a specific day. The machine uses a mathematical formula for a predetermined place and time based on when you turn it on.”

“So, where are we going?”

“The year 2070, and Florida, if this is correct.” Gant frowned. “What is an ‘iteration'?”

“Who knows,” Donovan said. “Do you think it matters?”

A muffled explosion sounded outside the room. Gant looked at Donovan as he slapped the
ON
button.

“I left a few surprises for your fan club,” he said with a shrug, as smoke poured through the door. “But that won't keep them off us forever.” An ethereal blue light twisted out of the machine. “You ready?”

“More than ready.”

“Nialls Gant, you are under arrest.” Detective Rose's voice boomed across the atrium.

He turned to see another flash of light and smoke tear the detective from his view. Smiling, Gant ran toward his past.

 

CHAPTER 8

Everything seems inevitable in the moment. Momentum, the weight of consequence, pushes on you like a tidal wave. It's only looking back that you can see with the clarity of hindsight and understand you should have made a different choice.

~ private conversation with Agent 5 of the Ministry of Defense

Thursday March 20, 2070

Florida District 8

Commonwealth of North America

Iteration 2

M
ac woke to the predawn Florida light and stared up at the popcorn ceiling of Sam's apartment. It was funny how the little things always got him. His loft in Chicago had vaulted, square ceilings that the Realtor showing him the listing insisted was a classic art deco design. He didn't know enough about architecture to quibble, but he knew it looked wrong.

Ceilings were meant to be plain. Beds were meant to be soft. Apartments were meant to smell of lavender candles and vanilla hand soap and Sam.

Taking a deep breath, he drank in the smell of home. The underlying unwashed-­dog smell of Hoss, the aroma of roasted chilies from last night's dinner, and the scent of Sam.

He rolled out of bed, checked the small hallway to see if Sam's light was on yet, then headed to the kitchen for breakfast. Chicago had taught him two very valuable lessons, first, take the pedway during the winter, second, if Sam wasn't around, he was going to have to feed himself something other than frozen breakfast burritos.

There was little chance that he'd ever reach her level of gourmet wizardry in the kitchen, but by the time she woke up, he had a small stack of fluffy pancakes and a bowl of scrambled eggs waiting.

She rested herself against the entryway to the kitchen, wisps of black hair curling loose from her braid, a sleepy smile caressing her face . . . Mac wanted nothing more than the right to lean over and kiss her.

He settled for smiling at her. “Good morning.”

“Good morning. When did you learn to cook?”

“When I realized I couldn't get you to transfer up to Chicago, and I had to fend for myself.”

She laughed and rolled her eyes. “I'm sure it was terrible, eating at all those fancy pizza places and forcing down all those designer donuts.”

“Awful,” Mac said straight-­faced as he poured the orange juice. “I had to choke down the risotto at La Belle Vue, and all I could think as the truffle butter melted in my mouth was, ‘I miss Sam's cooking.' ”

“I'm sure that was it.” Sam laughed as she plated her pancakes. “You wouldn't betray me by liking the cooking of a Corden-­Bleu-­trained chef better!” Her smile made his world complete.

Mac handed her the glass of juice he'd poured and sat down beside her. “Eat up, Pumpkin, busy day ahead.”

Looking over a forkful of pancake, Sam raised an eyebrow in amusement. “Pumpkin?”

“Would you like Pookie better?”

She laughed again. “We're not doing pet names.”

“We've known each other long enough, don't you think.”

Sam rolled her eyes. “What part of the male brain connects ‘let's solve a murder!' with ‘let's give each other pet names!'? Where's the logic in that?”

“Who said there needs to be logic?” Mac asked. “Why can't we just have a little fun sometimes? This is a thing friends do. I know you call Bri ‘Sweetie' half the time.” Usually in a fake Southern drawl that he found adorable.

She did her head-­tilt thing that he'd come to learn was her sign of semiagreement. “I don't like either of those names, though.”

“Well, I'll keep trying,” Mac said. “Eventually, I'll find one that fits.”

“O
kay.” Sam scanned the appropriated conference room and looked at her team. Mac was there, dressed professionally and smiling. Agent Edwin had been dragged in as the liaison for the CSI team borrowed from the police. She turned the display screen on to show the pictures Mac had taken in the swamps. They needed answers, and the pirates had them. “I guess it's safe to say your foray into the swamps didn't get us the information we wanted.”

Mac grimaced. “That's an understatement.”

“The pirates have bugged out,” Edwin said. “We went to the main camp, and it's gone. They left almost nothing.”

“It wasn't like they had much left to leave,” Mac grumbled. “No latrines dug, no shelters built. Sam, these guys make a Cub Scout Jamboree look high-­tech. They had nothing.”

Sam raised an eyebrow. “Do you think that's relevant?”

Leaning his elbows on the table, Mac said, “Die-­hard survivalists keep themselves alive because they plan. There is no way to live off the grid—­long term—­if you don't have a plan of some kind. A base of operations.”

“The pirates forage and trade,” Edwin said. “During the colder months, they live off fish and panhandling downtown.”

“No.” Mac shook his head. “Not buying it. The tents out there weren't the good ones, they were the expensive ones weekend
glampers
buy to impress their girlfriends. None of the gear out there was repaired. You say they've been out there for years, but there's not one sign of duct tape on the rafts? No patches on the tents?”

Sam shook her head in bewilderment. “I've never camped in my life. What are you trying to say?”

“I'm saying that these guys have another base of operation. The tents aren't in use full-­time. Either they're couchsurfing with friends, or they have a building out in the swamps.”

She looked at Edwin. “What are the chances?”

“It's possible,” he said with a shrug. “I know of three other camps, and we checked those. They move because of bugs or for better fishing. There's no sign of them. Connor's boat is still at the marina. We put a lock on it, but their bikes are gone.”

Mac pointed at Edwin. “Where does a guy with no income get a boat? Where's he get the marina fee?”

“Connor's the leader of the group. He could have come from money,” Sam said.

“I know sometimes they worked barter jobs,” Edwin offered. “Did yard work in exchange for bike repairs, or cleaned restrooms at the gas station so they could get some snacks. Day jobs where they got paid under the table.”

“Or he could be selling more than anti-­GMO seeds,” Mac said. “Every swamp in the Commonwealth has a history of smuggling, from moonshine to weapons. The black market for guns right now is hot.”

Edwin shook his head. “Ma'am, I know these ­people. They aren't . . . they're pacifists. Most of the time, it wasn't a reformist movement as much as an open-­air soup kitchen. Connor and Nealie were the two who were always there. During the winter, the camp grows to twenty ­people. One time Connor told me there were over thirty. They welcome transients. But the only other ­people I knew were in the camp were Cogs, Spik, and Tracks.”

“None of those are legal names,” Sam guessed. Saints and angels, she hoped they weren't legal names.

Edwin snorted in amusement. “Obviously. Cogs is a local kid with a juvie record. He got busted for tagging crates in the freight yard. No violent crimes, but he ran with a group of wannabes. Kids who saw gangs on TV and think wearing chains and selling cigarettes to each other after school is what gangs in the inner cities do.”

“Not a likely suspect for our case,” Mac said. “Connor is probably the killer.”

Edwin nodded. “Nealie followed him everywhere. If Connor said jump, Nealie leaped without asking how high. When I'd go talk to Connor, Nealie would hover.”

“Does Connor have a record?” Sam asked.

“Not here. I asked at the station, and none of the local cops know him, but without his real name, I can't run a check in the database,” Edwin said. He bit his lip and shook his head. “I hate saying this, but if it was a crime of passion, that's Connor. He's the passionate one. That's why he was in charge. He could get worked up over anything. Give a speech that would make ­people die to protect soap bubbles.”

“Okay, let's put an APB out. Ask the police around here to keep an eye out for the group. Edwin, contact Petrilli in District 6 and Mada over in District 4. They're the nearest to us, and they need to know that trouble might be headed their way. Other than that . . .” She held her hands out in defeat. “Any genius ideas you two want to share?”

Mac shook his head. “I'll do the autopsy today, see if I can find a fingerprint from the killer, or at least something that will narrow down where he was killed. Other than that, I dunno, I want to say follow the money.”

“With me, they stuck to the same story all the time. They were off the grid, barter only, no cash, no taxes,” Edwin said with a sigh. “Connor was very careful not to mention business when I was around.”

“Fine,” Sam said. “We'll start by running Nealie through the system, see if we can find what his real name was. Then we'll go from there.” She shuffled her notes. “Next order of business, Henry Troom . . . how's that going?”

“The major autopsy is done. The head hasn't appeared yet,” Mac said with a frown, “but the last of the wreckage should be cleared out today. From the damage to his neck, I believe Henry was decapitated postmortem by falling debris. The cut isn't very clean, but at high enough velocity, even a piece of paper can feel like an ax.”

“You sure it was postmortem?” Sam asked.

“I know it wasn't the cause of death,” he hedged.

“The blast was fairly instantaneous, wasn't it?”

Mac shrugged. “The blood pattern and cut is wrong.”

“Was the wound cauterized because of heat?”

Mac shook his head. “Nope. Henry's body shows only minimal signs of heat damage. I thought superheated air in the lungs might be the cause of death, but it's not. His jacket's lightly singed, but it would have been the kind of burn you run under cold water and grumble about, nothing fatal.”

“What about a toxin screen?”

“I should have those results this afternoon.”

Sam sat in her chair and wished she could run her fingers through her hair. Or pull it all out in frustration. “Does anyone have
good
news?”

“My college basketball team has a shot of being in the playoffs this year,” Edwin said.

“That's nice. Is it going to help me find a killer?”

“Probably not.”

“Too bad.”

G
ant threw a tasteless burrito wrap stolen from the corner gas station on the table with a growl. “I hate this place.”

“Noted,” Donovan said, not looking up from the device he'd liberated from the college student they'd met on arrival.

Nice enough kid. Bit whiny. Screamed in the end, but now they had his car, his computer, and his wallet, which had enough cash to buy the worst Mexican food ever made. Donovan had even managed to get a little information about the local
federales
out of the kid before he'd lost his patience and squeezed a little too hard.

“The food is horrible. Their accents are abominations. The whole place makes me itch. This isn't the past, it's hell. You found us a gate to hell.” He sneered at Donovan. Under any other circumstances, that man would be dead already, but Gant needed him, as a barrier between him and the strangeness of this place if nothing else. Donovan was his anchor, irrefutable proof that the real world existed and so did this strange alternate universe where English was still the dominant language of North America and the food wasn't fit for dogs to eat.

Donovan looked up. “I see beaches, pretty women in bikinis, and palm trees. This is Florida. What's wrong?”

“The food!” Gant slumped into the motel-­room chair, beige this time, and an improvement over the one he'd had after the jailbreak. “I miss El Cardenal.” The national restaurant of Federated States had an amazing breakfast. His abuela had taken him to one every year on the Monday after Easter as a boy. They'd go and celebrate with a big breakfast, fresh-­baked bread, and the Dona Olivia hot chocolate. This Florida was a pit stain with the strangest food he'd ever seen outside of a reality TV show. “What is poutine anyway?”

“Unimportant,” Donovan said. “I found him.”

“Him who?”

“The Timeyst Machine was created by who?” Donovan asked in response.

Gant shook his head. “I don't know. Someone rich?”

“It was designed by Dr. Abdul Emir, and built by his protégé, Dr. Henry Troom,” Donovan said. “Troom owns a controlling but silent share of the Timeyst Machine. Zoetimax Industries owns the other half. He built the machine, they market it, everyone wins.”

Hope blossomed in his chest. “He can get us back?”

“He can at least tell us what went wrong,” Donovan said.

Gant jumped to his feet. “Good. Let's go get him.”

“We'll need a vehicle first.”

“There are dozens lining the streets. Pick one.”

“Such a socialist, Mr. Gant.”

Gant smiled. “Opportunist.” And, should the opportunity present itself, murderer once more. Once he had Troom, there'd be no need for anyone else.

Donovan's calm was grating on his nerves. Everything from the smell of the beach to the colors of the buildings screamed to him at an animal level that this was not his place. Never in his entire life had he felt so wrong.

All he could think is this wrongness was what ordinary ­people felt when confronted with the idea of murder or sacrilege. All those dear, rosary-­clutching nuns who came to pray for the prisoners, this is what they would feel if they felt a stranger's neck snap under their hands. Like a part of them was being ripped away. Like they were about to shatter into a thousand points of madness.

Donovan stood up, folding the clunky device in two. “Are you ready to go?”

“I'm always ready.” Gant walked out of the motel room and sauntered to the parking lot away from the manager's office. Donovan kept insisting that leaving a trail of bodies would draw unwanted attention. Gant actually agreed with him on that. Couldn't have police from hell chasing them. He grabbed the car door and pulled it away from the frame. He then dropped a slim rod from his pocket, extended it, and pushed the unlock button. The door opened and within a few minutes it was running. “Where to?” Gant asked, as Donovan took the passenger's seat.