The Day Before (16 page)

“He's currently addicted to Orange Sun breath mints.”

“Say that again?”

She smiled in spite of herself. “It's a long story. Anyway, he takes five to six breath mints a day from a regular medicine bottle. It's all placebo. I knew there would be some withdrawal symptoms, but that's not what this is. Mac said he remembered emptying this bottle. Then Harley handed him a bottle. And now he's delirious.”

“Where are you?”

“My house. MacKenzie's apartment was caught in the flood, so he's renting the back room.”

“I didn't see a back room.”

“No one sees the back room. It's on the other side of the mudroom, and everyone thinks it's a closet.”

“Give me thirty minutes. If he gets worse, head for the emergency room.”

“I will.” Sam set the bottle on the kitchen counter and went to check on Mac. He lay on the floor outside the bathroom, curled in a fetal position. “Any blood?”

There was a faint whisper, “No.”

She sat on the floor beside him. Training had never covered this situation. “
Do you get poisoned often?
” sounded like a pickup line from a cheesy goth sitcom. “
How do you feel?
” was too trite. He shivered, and she rubbed his back gently, trying to think of something to distract him from the agony. “Did you get the autopsies done?”
Brilliant, Samantha, absolutely brilliant. You are never going to win a Partner of the Year award.

“Yes. Harley . . . Harley came.” Mac coughed and groaned. “Told him I was working on the graveyard bodies.”

“Did he believe you?”

“I don't . . .” He unrolled and rushed to the bathroom again. Sam went to fetch a towel and a fresh bar of soap. MacKenzie gave her a weak smile when he came back. “Thanks.”

“Go shower. I have Altin coming over with one of his lab monkeys. We'll see what he says about the pills.”

Sam was waiting at the door when Altin's patrol car pulled up with a younger man in the passenger seat. “Sorry about the after-­hours call,” she said, holding the screen door open. “I locked Hoss upstairs. Mac is in the back room.”

Altin nodded, not looking convinced. “This is Vik Zhoundroff, one of our EMT boys.”

Sam couldn't tell if Vik was eighteen or thirty-­eight; he had blond hair, blue eyes, and the high cheekbones she'd learned to associate with Slavic ancestry. He would probably look like a teenager until he was ninety. “Nice to meet you, Vik.” She held out a hand. “Agent Sam Rose, CBI.” She nodded to the kitchen. “I'll show you the pills. He's still alertish, so I didn't want to make a hospital run.”

“ ‘Ish'?” Altin asked.

“He's talking, but I think he's hallucinating. But then again, it's Mac. So I can't tell.”

Vik picked up the orange prescription bottle from the table. “What's he taking pills for?”

“If I had to guess, PTSD,” Sam said, crossing her arms. It wasn't her story to tell, but Altin was scowling, so she went on. “He was USA army, before they joined the Commonwealth. From what Mac says, he saw some rough stuff overseas.”

Altin raised an eyebrow. “Army?”

“Yeah.”

“I never would have picked that out. He's so quiet.”

Sam shrugged. “Well, he
has
been on heavy antidepressants for about five years.”

Vik fished out one of the pills. “This is fluphenazine. One of the older antipsychotics. We use them at the hospital as a bridge drug when we have to change medications. It's not something you can take long-­term.” He dropped the pill back in the bottle. “I actually don't think they prescribe these anymore.”

“So how'd it wind up in Mac's office?” asked Sam.

“Never mind
how—­why
is a better question.” Altin looked at Vik.

The EMT shook his head. “A fatal dose is over twenty milligrams. The pills are ten each.”

“He said he took one, but he usually takes two pills in a pop.” Sam said. “I saw him dumping pills in the grass and went over to ask what was going on. He was having trouble walking and looked feverish.”

“You can give him a small dose of antihistamine,” Vik said, “but only if he starts scratching at his skin. Otherwise, it should wear off in a day or so.”

“Does he still have the other drugs in his system?” Altin asked Sam.

“I don't know. They were antidepressants—­how long do those stay after you stop taking the drugs?”

“Days to weeks, depending,” Vik said. “The drugs could interact. Maybe. I wouldn't suggest mixing them.” Sam looked at him, and he must have noticed the I-­could-­have-­came-­up-­with-­that look she was giving him. He shrugged. “That's the best I can do, considering the lack of info.”

“Can we take these?” Altin shook the bottle.

“Be my guest,” Sam said.

The detective put the pills in his pocket, but then frowned. “Are you reporting this?”

“I'm doing that right now.”

“But he's bureau, so I'm not the one to report to.

Sam shook her head. “Mac works for the coroner's office more than the bureau, so it
does
fall under your jurisdiction. I believe him that the bottle was empty. Someone planted the fluphena-­whatever in his office. I don't see how this could be a mistake.”

Altin nodded. “What was MacKenzie working on?”

“This morning I asked him to do those autopsies you asked about. I'm not sure what else Harley had him doing, probably grunt work, identifying bodies found after the hurricane.”

“The cases this morning could stir up trouble,” Altin said, picking his words with care.

“Trouble enough to kill an ME over? There are a lot of things I'll believe, Altin, but telepathic serial killers isn't one of them. There's no way anyone outside the coroner's office knew which case Mac was working on today.”

Altin gave her a pointed look.

Sam shook her head. “No. There's no one like that in the bureau.”

“Like what?” Vik asked in confusion.

She pressed her lips together, uncertain of how much of Sunday's conversation about MacKenzie she wanted the EMT to know about.

Altin waved her off. “I know what you think, Rose. But every day this looks more and more like an inside job. Dead bodies do not dump themselves. And strange pills don't appear in bottles without help.”

In Mac's room, the shower turned on. At least he was still alive. Sam turned to the detective. “If you think this is an inside job, you better start watching your back, Altin. I'm not the only one on this case.”

“That a threat, Rose?”

“You know it's not. Out of everyone, I'm the only one with an alibi for today. But if you think someone at the bureau is doing this, take a good look in the mirror. You're the lead on this case. If anyone should be worried, it'd be you and Marrins. I'm small potatoes.”

Altin nodded. “I'm going to talk to Marrins in the morning, just in case. I've known him for years, and his heart's not that good—­he's pretty discreet about it, but he takes pills all the time, too.” This was news to Sam—­Marrins definitely didn't eat like he had a heart condition. “You and MacKenzie can handle these sudden shocks,” Altin continued, “but if this same joker dropped these pills in Marrins's desk we'd have a dead senior agent in this district.”

Sam nodded with grim understanding. “Tell him to turn on his home security, too. He lives alone. Whoever murdered Robbins will see Marrins as an easy target.” She walked them out, then double-­checked the lock on her new back door. Somehow, she didn't think she'd sleep easy.

 

CHAPTER 17

We are each the sum of our choices.

~ Excerpt from
The Oneness of Being
by Oaza Moun Il–2070

Friday June 14, 2069

Alabama District 3

Commonwealth of North America

S
hadow and light fell on the still form of Agent Rose standing in the doorway, hands on her hips. An amused smile made sensuous lips curve in invitation. “Most of my dreams start like this,” Mac said. The previous night was a blur. If the taste in his mouth was any indication, he'd spent half the night riotously drunk, and the other half violently ill. The way Rose smiled at him, maybe they'd both been happily drunk, and he'd only been disgracefully ill.

“You start most your dreams alive and healthy?” she asked.

“Something like that.” He rubbed his face against the pillow as memories from the day before teased his brain.

“Get up.” She tossed something on the foot of his bed. “Get dressed.”

He hitched the blanket up over his shoulders. “I'm good, thanks.” She smiled, and for a moment the world was right. In the back of his mind, he knew it was only in his private fantasy. Even if Agent Rose wasn't a murderous clone bent on killing him, she wasn't interested. He knew the symptoms. He was falling in lust at a terminal velocity, and she was giving him a look reserved for the last puppy in the shelter.

“Up, Mac. We're going running.”

“Beg your pardon?” He rolled on his back and lifted his head. She wasn't laughing. She was smiling, and it wasn't a nice smile. “Running?”

“Yes.”

“I hate running!”

“The EMT who came by last night said that a light workout this morning would help you feel better.”

“The EMT lied. Running will make me feel miserable.”

Her predatory smile widened. “Exercise is good for depression.”

“I'm not depressed, I have flashbacks. The two are not the same.”

“You'll have fewer bad memories if you make some good memories.”

Then get naked.
Mac stared at the ceiling. The commentary came from a part of his brain that insisted Agent Rose was everything he wanted. The rest of him was a little more interested in self-­preservation. He lifted his head again, watching her. “Why are you doing this to me?”

“For your own good.” She probably meant it too. Everything about her said PROTECTOR in all-­capital letters. Agent Rose was a crusader, a guardian. It didn't matter what she thought about him, she was going to keep him safe. Which killed his murderous-­clone theory and blew away his defenses.

“It's not worth it.”

“What's not worth what?”

“Saving me. I'm not worth it.”

“What?” She frowned in confusion.

“I'm not worth anything.” The ceiling fan turned, creaking in the vacuum of his statement. Angry footsteps signaled Agent Rose's approach. He pulled the blanket higher.

She leaned over him, dark eyes narrowed. “Ten minutes, Agent MacKenzie. And then we are running until you puke.”

He closed his eyes. “That shouldn't take all that long.”

She left, slamming the door behind her.

Mac rolled on his side, shutting his eyes tight. He wasn't running. He did not want to run. She could not make him run. He had to be at least a foot taller than her. Thin as he was, he still had to outweigh her by a hundred pounds or more. She couldn't physically force him to run.

Five minutes later, she poked her head into the room again while wearing tiny black running shorts and a running bra that did nothing to flatten her chest. “Let's go, Mac.”

“Yes, ma'am.” He sat straight up.

Her head reappeared. “Did you just ‘Yes, ma'am' me?”

“Yes, ma'am.” He rolled into a sitting position and stripped his shirt off with a weak grin. He was sick, not dead, and he'd have to be dead to ignore a body like that flouncing in front of him.

Agent Rose's eyes narrowed. “I'm going to make you pay for that.”

“You can't kill me,” he pointed out. “They'd miss me at work.”

“Not until tomorrow.”

He dressed quickly and chased after Rose. “What do you mean not until tomorrow?”

“You have today off, and tomorrow you don't go back until you've had a physical.”

“I get a sick day for a hangover?”

Rose tied her hair back in a ponytail. “You think you're hungover?”

“It sure feels like a hangover. My head aches, my stomach is in knots, my tongue tastes like I spent an hour licking the alley behind the bar.”

“Ewww! I don't even want to know how you could possibly know what that tastes like.” Her nose scrunched in the cute way only pretty girls could manage.

“What happened to me?”

“Medicine mix-­up. You weren't looking so good, but the EMT Altin brought over said you'd survive.”

He tied his shoes and tried to piece together facts with the flashes of memory from the night before. “Why did Altin come over?”

“Because I asked him to.”

“Why not just take me to the ER?”

She whistled for her dog and put a harness on him. “Because the nearest after-­hours clinic is an hour away, and Altin isn't. I wasn't sure what an hour's drive would do. And if you needed to go to the hospital, you were going in a patrol car, not mine.”

“Gee. Thanks.”

She handed the leash to him. “Ready to go?”

“Um . . .”

Rose opened the door. Warm morning air swirled around his feet. “Let's go running. Come on, Hoss!”

Before he could get a handle on what was happening, Agent Rose was sprinting down the gravel drive, and Hoss the monster dog was dragging him behind. They jogged half a mile before Rose stopped for stretching and push-­ups. Standing on one foot as she pulled the other back, she smiled at him like a maniac. “Race you to the lake, MacKenzie?”

He shook his head. It was already over seventy outside, steamy warm and smelling of magnolia blooms. “Let's go take a shower.”

“If you're hot, you can jump in the lake.”

“No . . .”

She leaned over to look him in the eye while he stretched. “Come on, MacKenzie, you're not going to let a girl beat you?” And then she was running again. “Are you?” she shouted over her shoulder.

Hoss barked once before trying to run after her. They went another mile before Mac let go of the leash so he could stop and empty his stomach again.

Rose caught the dog and kept running. He trudged back to the house in defeat. He was out of the shower and staring at the cupboards trying to find food when she came home, glowing like the Greek Goddess of Running.

She beamed at him. “Good job this morning! You made almost two miles. I thought you'd be dead by one.”

The tension in his shoulders eased. “Really?”

“In this heat? The first time I tried running in an Alabama, I made it less than a mile. Give it a month or two, and you'll be able to race me to the lake.” She grabbed an apple from the counter. “Not beat me, but race me.”

He smiled. “Maybe.”

She winked. “There's the positive mental attitude you need. Call in sick and enjoy your day off.”

M
ac called the office as soon as Rose left for the day.

“Coroner Harley, it's MacKenzie.”

“How you feeling?”

“Terrible,” he said honestly. “Those pills you found weren't my regular meds.”

“So I heard,” the older man said. “Agent Rose was kind enough to call in and let us know what happened. The interns have been playing pranks all month, but this one went too far. I don't think they meant anything by it, but I don't find this kind of thing funny.”

“Neither do I,” Mac said as he collapsed onto his worn green couch. It was still damp, but it smelled cleaner than before.

“I'm writing them both up. I'd have 'em both in county lockup if I could. But Daddy's got money and threatened to lawyer up unless I could provide evidence they'd done it.”

“And the security cameras still aren't working?” Mac guessed.

“You know it. Good news though, I had them clean your office,” Harley said. “I realized you didn't get a new computer when we upgraded the rest of the labs.”

“Don't worry about it, the one I have runs fine.”

“No, no,” insisted Harley. “You need an upgrade. Since you were out today, I'm having the tech ­people set up your new computer.”

Mac groaned quietly. “You don't need to, sir.”

“No trouble at all.”

Except for all the files he was losing. “Did you have them make a backup file?”

“We're using the one from Friday, just like always.”

“What about the work I did yesterday?”

“I have the autopsy for the bridge case.”

Mac bit his lip—­he couldn't remember if he'd saved any of the autopsy data Rose had wanted or not. “That's good. Do you know what the interns gave me?”

“Both of them are denying everything, but I think someone said it was a dose of fluphenazine hydrochloride. Nasty stuff.”

“An emetic?”

“No, an antipsychotic. Overdoses usually end in cardiac arrest. Saw it once when I was in college. The nurse overdosed a patient by accident, didn't realize he'd been given his evening meds already. It makes ­people drowsy sometimes. If we'd released him on schedule, he would have wrecked his car, and we'd never have known. As it was, he fell asleep and had a heart attack. If we hadn't been testing his blood levels for something else, we never would have caught it. Honest mix-­up, but deadly.”

“Remind me to thank the interns when I get back.” His stomach flipped with delayed fear.

“Now, now, Agent, play nice. They're just kids. They don't know what this stuff can do.”

“I'm surprised they found the pills at all.”

“The city gave me a full kit of medicine when I went out with the rescue workers. I'm guessing they grabbed the pills out of it when I wasn't looking.”

Mac wondered if that was a subtle dig at him for looking at the bodies Thursday. The interns weren't the only ones sneaking around without Harley's permission.

“Take it easy,” the coroner advised. “By the time you get back, I'll have everything under control.”

Mac swore as he hung up the phone. The last few hours in the lab were a blur. He remembered reaching for a pill out of habit, but they weren't there. A breeze bent the oak tree outside as he searched for a recollection of what had happened next. There had been the empty pill bottle, then Harley coming in, and he'd stammered through a lame excuse so he could run off with the data pad. Then Harley had given him some pills. Big, fat, bitter pills—­a drug the old coroner seemed all too familiar with.

It was the perfect setup for murder. Harley slipped him the pills, Rose took him home and quietly let him die. Except she hadn't . . . so whose game was she playing? He needed his lab and to find out if the files linking Jane Doe to Agent Rose had vanished without a trace, along with the autopsies of Melody Doe and Mordicai Robbins. That would at least let him make an educated guess about who was doing what.

Mac reached for his shoes. Screw sick days. He could sleep in when he was dead.
I expect that could be any day now. . .