Jade Sky (10 page)

"Matt?"

"I'm here, Mon."

"Aren't you going to ask?"

He rolled his eyes, thankful she couldn't see his face, and shifted his weight to disguise the gesture. "I'm precognitive, baby, not telepathic. What am I supposed to ask?"

She sat up, dumping Ted on the floor. He shook off the sleep, trotted three steps, and collapsed under the coffee table. Monica's face crumbled into tears as she looked Matt in the eyes. "You're supposed to ask why."

Matt had assumed the near-miscarriage had triggered the relapse, but in retrospect the timing didn't fit. He realized then that he didn't care why. He loved his wife and would do anything for her, but when it came to this . . . junkies lie
.
That's what they'd always said on the force. She couldn't produce an excuse good enough, nothing that would justify smoking while pregnant with their son . . . and yet she needed something, something she didn't have and he wasn't sure how to give. Hell, he didn't even know what to give, much less how. So he asked.

"Why?"

"I don't know." She sobbed and hugged him again and rambled into his chest. He caught something about distance and being lonely and worried and afraid, so he held her and uttered reassurances he felt but didn't mean until she fell asleep again. She didn't wake up when he moved her from the couch to the bed.

He lay there, restless, listening to a loon's mournful cry in the distance. He knew it wasn't sad, but it sure sounded like it. The clock on the wall read one o'clock. He sat up, shifted Ted off his feet, and got dressed.

Eight minutes later he pulled into Tony's, a former garage, the only place in White Spruce open this late. Ten years back, Tony's sandwiches had started selling better than his maintenance, so Matt's high school buddy had stopped working on cars and converted the garage to a BBQ Bar and Grill. Matt walked through the Old West-style swinging doors to the sound of Brooks & Dunn's
Neon Moon
.

Two gray-bearded men sat at the bar, local handyman Jedd Callaway and thirty-year-mayor-turned-layabout, defeated in the last two elections two-to-one, Sawyer Wilkinson. Both looked worse for the wear, nursing a Coors Light and some kind of brown liquor on the rocks, respectively. Neither looked at him as he bellied up to the bar in front of Tony.

Matt suppressed a surprised grunt. Sawyer had never forgiven him for escaping White Spruce even for a few years, and had always blamed him for stealing Monica. That she'd shown Sawyer not the slightest interest did nothing to dispel his delusions. As pleasant as being ignored could be, Matt didn't expect it to last.

Bald, obese, and always smiling, Tony Palermo stood all of five-one in thick shoes, and to Matt's knowledge he'd never skipped a meal or a beer his whole life. "Hey, Matt. What brings you down here this time of night?"

"Same old same old, I guess." He opened his mouth to order a beer but Sawyer cut him off with a snort.

"Your kind don't even drink, Rowley."

Tony raised an eyebrow.

Matt gave him the barest hint of a shrug and swiveled on the stool to face his accuser. "My kind?"

Sawyer stirred his drink with his finger so that the ice clinked against the side. "Yeah. You left-wing, one-world government, too-good-for-your-own traitor bonks. Your kind."

A dozen replies flashed through his mind, from pointing out the stupidity of that statement, to defending his decisions, to smashing Sawyer's head to a pulp between his palms. He turned to Tony and pointed at the taps. "I'll take a Bosco Rye."

"I'M TALKING TO YOU," Sawyer said, glaring daggers at Matt.

"I know," Matt said, as Tony poured him a pint. "But I ain't listening."

Sawyer stumbled back from the bar, steadied himself on a table, and put his hand at his waist—on the holster of a Colt .380 Mustang Pocketlite. Matt just succeeded in not rolling his eyes. A drunk normal with a pea shooter constituted not the slightest threat to him at twenty feet, much less five.

Jedd stood and backed toward the other end of the bar, sliding his beer across the polished wood the whole way. Tony froze, eyes wide.

Matt reached out, grabbed his beer, and pulled it over. Eyes on Tony, he lifted it to his mouth and took a long pull. He savored the mingled sweet and bitter flavor even as his regenerates attacked the ethanol. He set it down, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and dropped a ten-dollar bill on the counter.

"Thanks, Tony." He got up and walked toward the door.

He made it halfway to the door before Sawyer screamed, "I SAID I WAS TALKING TO YOU, ROWLEY!"

He turned around and walked back, straight at the former mayor, shoulders squared for maximum intimidation. Sawyer's hand quivered over the gun as he came nearer, and he gripped it with white knuckles as Matt invaded the drunk's personal space. Three feet away, Matt flashed forward and put his hand on Sawyer's wrist even as the other man tried to clear the holster. It wasn't unlike trying to wrestle a teddy bear as he kept the weapon holstered and used his own fingers to block Sawyer from reaching the trigger.

He stared down into bloodshot eyes and felt more exasperation and heartache than rage. "You wanted to talk to me, mayor?"

Sawyer snarled and jerked upward, resulting in a tumble to his ass. Matt followed him to the ground, dropping to his knees and pinning the Colt to the floor.

"You clear that weapon I might have to get violent," Matt said. "And there's only one way that ends. I ain't trained to wound."

Bloodshot eyes wide with fear, Sawyer relaxed his grip. Matt snatched up the gun and tossed it to Tony without releasing his gaze.

"So you were talking to me. Talk."

Sawyer turned his head and spat. "I ain't got nothing to say to the likes of you."

Matt let go of the mayor's hand and leaned in nose-to-nose. "No. I didn't think so."

He got up and walked out into the chilly night air.

As he opened his truck door, Tony called out.

"Hey! Matt!"

Matt turned and, seeing Tony’s look of distress, gave the man his best disarming smile. "Sorry about that, Tony."

Tony's brief nod punctuated his next sentence. "I'm sorry about that." He looked back to the bar, then at Matt. "Maybe it's best you don't come around here no more."

An unaugmented man might have blushed with anger, might have yelled something inappropriate. With no adrenal flush at all, Matt returned the nod. "Reckon not, Tony. Have a good night."

He got in, slammed the door, and drove home, angry at his inability to feel proper anger.

Ted met him at the door, tail wagging, so he sat on the deck while the dog rustled around in the undergrowth. A few minutes later he peed and wandered up the deck to lick Matt's hand. Matt scratched his ears a minute, then let them both inside.

Monica lay in the same position he'd left her. She slept through the night, and in the morning he left her again for D.C.

Matt walked up the sidewalk of the blue-sided colonial, flanked by Garrett and Blossom, with Akash trailing behind. Garrett held an Irish flag, Blossom the UN flag. Matt held the letter notifying Jessica Flynn of the death of her husband, a useless faux-vellum lie about duty and service and honor. The haggard lawn needed a good mowing and raking, and there were no lights on inside. A silver Lexus SUV sat in the driveway, a garden hose coiled next to it.

Matt steeled himself and jammed the buzzer with his thumb. He heard the chime through the door, but saw no sign of movement. He tried again. Nothing.

"Nobody home, eh?" Akash said.

A screen door creaked on the house to the left. A middle-aged woman in a pink bathrobe surveyed them from her porch. "No one's been home for days. Jessie missed book club last night, too. Didn't call or anything."

"Okay, thanks," Matt said.

She went back inside without another word.

Next to him, Garrett mumbled, "Does anybody else feel that?"

Matt closed his eyes. His feet tingled. He touched the door with his fingertips, and they tingled, too. "Yeah. And what’s that smell?" Underneath the grass, wood stain, and goldenrod crept the faint, sweet smell of decay, mixed with a hint of sulfur. He opened his eyes. Garrett and Blossom nodded. Akash breathed in, then grimaced.

"Could be a raccoon, eh?" He didn't sound like he believed himself.

Garrett tried the doorknob. Locked.

"Rastogi," Matt said, "check the back door. Sakura, with him." As they circled around the house, Matt shielded his eyes from the afternoon sun and peered in the windows. Aside from mid-range wooden furniture and wall-to-wall carpeting, nothing struck him as out of the ordinary. "See anything?"

"Nope," Garrett said. "Real clean, though."

Not just clean
—
immaculate. Perhaps a trace of dust, but not the slightest bit of clutter. Nothing on the tables, the stand by the door, or the sideboard in the dining room. His desk notwithstanding, Matt's house had never been that neat.

Blossom appeared next to them, so fast she may as well have teleported. "Door's locked. Windows, too."

Garrett spoke as Akash came around the corner. "I don't suppose anyone brought any lockpicks?" Nobody had.

Matt took a step back and looked at the house. "What about the second floor?"

Blossom grabbed the porch column and flipped herself onto the roof in a single fluid motion. She lifted the screen of the closest window, then used her fingertips to slide the window up. She disappeared inside, and a moment later opened the front door, unleashing a downright pungent aroma.

"I really hope that's a raccoon," Akash said. Garrett grunted.

The open floor plan made it easy to clear the house. The upstairs bedrooms and bathroom held no surprises, nor did the ground floor. A check of the small, unfinished basement confirmed that the furnace had been turned off, as had the air conditioning, which left the source of the hum a mystery. And the smell.

"There's something here," Matt said. "Find it."

They knocked on walls and stomped on floors, raising a frustrated, methodical ruckus until Blossom called out. Matt rushed to the dining room and stopped just behind Akash.

On her hands and knees, Blossom pressed her face against the floor and closed one eye as she looked under the china cabinet. Akash helped her up as Garrett lifted the cabinet and moved it to one side. The door behind it had a deadbolt lock but no knob, and blended so well with the wall that Matt doubted he'd ever have noticed it.

"Cute," Garrett said. "Anyone see a key?"

Matt tried the cabinet. Halfway down a stack of Wedgwood bowls he found one. It fit, vibrating in his hand as it slid in, and the bolt clicked open.

"Shouldn't we be armed?" Akash asked.

Matt frowned. "There's a sidearm in my glove box." He relocked the door and waited until Akash got back. Blossom found a cricket bat in the front closet. Garrett contented himself with his hands. The whispers shrieked as Matt opened the door.

A black cloud boiled out. It enveloped Matt as he stumbled backward, suffocating him with buzzing, squirming filth. He sucked in a breath through clenched teeth, the vapor wriggling in his mouth as he hit the ground. He heard a door slam. Someone grabbed his hand and helped him to his feet. He spat, then opened his eyes.

Thousands of flies buzzed around the room. The rotten smell twisted his gut and wouldn't let go. His squad mates brushed at and swatted flies as they backed into the living room.

Akash put his hand over his mouth and spoke through his fingers. "Am I the only one with a good, bad idea of what's behind that door?"

Blossom scowled. "People or animals?"

"Akash," Matt said. "Get the masks out of the car, please."

Gas masks were utter overkill, designed for tear gas or biological weapons, but they'd do the job. Putting them on outside would attract much more attention than he wanted at this point, so they retreated to the foyer to wait for Akash. The cloud dispersed through the house, covering drapes and windowsills and furniture with wriggling black bodies.

Matt hated the claustrophobic feeling as he pulled the rubber over his face, but it beat flies in his mouth and eyes. Several trapped insects wriggled against his head and in his clothes.

Geared-up, the team opened the door.

Every surface writhed. He'd never seen so many flies. There had to be millions of them. They crawled into his uniform, covered his head, squirmed into his ears. He had to wipe them off his lenses to see as he descended steep, narrow steps of poured concrete, each step a slippery, crunching mess of mashed insects.

"Holy shit," Garrett said, his voice muffled by the mask. Matt stepped around him, and bile rose in his throat.

The brown, sticky floor writhed with maggots, plump and white. For a fleeting second they formed an image, a circle bisected, sinuous curves in each half. He blinked and it disappeared, his eidetic memory now hazy on the details. "Did you just see
—
"

"Matt," Akash said, and put his hand on Matt's wrist.

He raised his eyes.

Eight bodies hung from the walls, crucified with razor wire on the naked studs. The farthest body, blonde, female, her lips, ears, and eyes missing, wore a simple gold band and Jessica Flynn's engagement ring, a silver claddagh set with tiny emeralds. The closest corpse consisted of no more than a skeleton, almost held together with strips of dried meat and tendon. Even through the mask, the flies overwhelmed Matt's hearing, the buzz almost primeval. Behind him, someone threw up and retreated up the stairs.