State of Decay (11 page)

When I looked back at the crowd, no one seemed to have noticed, but everyone was filming. Every move from every angle was being streamed live and would replay on the news channels for the rest of the night or until something better came along. A crime scene was no place to start exhibiting strange behavior.

“You getting anything?” Shanks asked. He was hanging back by the curb, giving me room.

“There’s a lot more to this story,” I said.

“Drink it before it gets cold,” he said, nodding at the paper cup. I took a gulp of the hot, bitter liquid.

“Something else is still bothering you,” he added.

“That call this morning.”

“He wants to rattle you.”

Whoever it was, he was smart; the trace had failed to find the source of the call, and even the voice analysis had been a bust. He was using some kind of electronic filter that not only altered his voice to mask any accent or even any clue as to his age or ethnicity, but even canceled out all background noise. The techs couldn’t get anything, not even traces of breathing or heartbeat. He was very careful before placing his call. He wanted to tell me something.

Shanks watched me, his eyes a little concerned.

“Never mind,” I said. “It’s just been a hell of a morning, you know?”

“I know.”

I signaled to the coroner that it was okay to move the body.

What about Wachalowski?
the voice wanted to know.
What are you going to say when you see him?

I felt my head nod again and pinched the skin on my arm, twisting it until it hurt. I breathed in the cold air and focused, inwardly coaxing my body like it was an old car threatening to stall. On the one hand, I did wonder why I thought that, but on the other hand, I was sure that he could. I didn’t even know how or why, but I felt sure of it.

That was going to have to be enough.

“It got split,” the dead woman said, holding out the heart. I was back in the green concrete room, sitting at a folding table that was set near one end. She walked over to the switch on the wall and pushed it into the up position.

A single light snapped on at the far end of the room, shining down on a figure standing there. This time it was a man with leathery brown skin, dressed in an Army soldier’s uniform. He looked part Asian, maybe in his thirties or so, but it was hard to tell. His hair and even his eyebrows had been shaved off, and his eyes were pale and silvery, glowing faintly in the dim light.

“A revivor?” I asked. The dead woman didn’t answer; she just watched as I got up and moved closer to the figure under the light.

“Do you know who he is?” she asked.

“No.”

His jaw looked like it had been wired shut, and even under his brown skin I could see black veins standing out. It was definitely a revivor. Leaning closer I looked at the name patch on his chest.

ZHANG

“He’s dead,” I said. “Who was he?”

“A piece of history few will ever know.”

Looking away from the man, I turned my attention back to the dead woman to find her staring at him intensely.

“Why are you showing him to me?” I asked.

Just then a phone rang, startling me. The dead woman turned to the wall next to her and touched her fingers to a metal panel that I’d seen before but never paid any attention to. She pushed it and it swiveled outward, revealing a handset inside. The call light on the handset flickered as it rang again.

“Answer it,” she said, and I woke up.

Cracking my eyes open, I found myself in stuffy darkness, and realized I was in my bed, under a pile of blankets. When I heard the ring, I thought it was a remnant from my dream.

A second later, I heard the ringing again. I thought it might actually be my cell phone.

Groping around under the covers, I felt it under there with me and rolled over, twisting myself into the blankets. In my hand the little call light flashed. Was this another dream?

Answer it
, she had said. My hands trembled in front of my face like they did usually in the morning as the light kept flashing. I pried it open and answered it.

“Hello?”

There was a pause, and a man answered.

“Zoe Ott?”

“Yeah,” I said. “Who is—”

Usually I forgot chunks of the previous night; that wasn’t that strange. More often than not the memories never came back to me, and the only reason I knew they happened was because I’d left some kind of evidence behind. Sometimes, though, they’d come back to me in a flash.

“Shit.”

“Excuse me?”

All at once I remembered the bitter cold, the monorail ride, and the snow banks bordering the sidewalk. The lights and the sounds all came rushing back to me.

I hadn’t just left the apartment; I went all the way across town. I went all the way to . . .

“Is this Agent Wachalowski?” I asked weakly. I waited, hoping I was wrong.

“Yes, it is,” the voice said. “How did you know?”

I had actually done it. I had actually gone and really done it. At some point during the night, after I thought I had safely passed out, I had gotten back up, found the FBI building, and left a note. No, not a note—a card. I left a little card.

My ears were burning. He must have thought I was a complete idiot.

“Ms. Ott?” he prompted.

“Yes?”

“I got your card. I’d like you to come in so I can talk with you. Is that okay?”

“You want me to come in?”

“Yes.”

I needed a shower, and I couldn’t remember the last time I shaved my legs or my pits. I hadn’t done any laundry in as long as I could remember, and even washed I probably looked like a train wreck. My mouth tasted like sour puke, and when I held up my hand to check it, my fingers were shaking. I tried to concentrate on them, but I couldn’t make them stop.

“Ms. Ott, is that okay?”

“When?”

“Can you come down now?” he asked. “I promise I won’t keep you long.”

“Am I in trouble?”

“No, ma’am, you’re not in any trouble. I’d just like to speak with you.”

“Why?”

“Because you indicated on your card that you could help me,” he said, “and I’m hoping that’s true.”

My mind was racing and I felt like getting out of bed was going to be difficult, never mind getting across town. A million reasons why I shouldn’t go came at me in a blur, and I answered before one of them could take root.

“Sure. I’ll come.”

“I appreciate that.”

“Just give me an hour.”

“I look forward to meeting you.”

Folding the phone shut, I struggled out of the blankets and jumped onto the floor, which was freezing. I pulled off my nightshirt and threw it away in a pile, trying to get it together. On the bed next to the pile of blankets was an overturned glass in the middle of a big sticky stain, an open spiral notebook, a crumpled cardboard box, and a ton of sugar cookie crumbs. He couldn’t see me like I was.

I took a shower so hot the bathroom filled with steam, then gargled and brushed the life out of my teeth. I washed my hair three times and started to shave my legs, but ended up nicking myself so many times I just gave up and put on pants instead.

I scrubbed my face, my hands, and combed my hair until it was completely straight, which it hadn’t been in a long time. Pulling some clothes out of one of the unopened dry cleaning bags, I got dressed, drank a few shots until my hands stopped shaking, then gargled and brushed my teeth again.

A little over an hour later, I was standing on the sidewalk, facing the steps leading up to a big building and feeling self-conscious. I sort of remembered standing there the night before, but barely. The steps and the area extending out toward the sidewalk in front of them were polished marble, and the building itself looked big and imposing. The whole front of the place looked like black glass divided into panels, and in the center were two doors made of the same glass. It was pretty much the most unwelcoming building I had ever seen.

Taking a deep breath, I marched up the steps and right up to the doors. I grabbed the right one and pulled, but it didn’t budge. I pulled again and it still didn’t open, so I tried the other one, but it was stuck too.

“Name, please?” a woman’s voice said, making me jump. It took me a second, but I realized it was coming from a speaker mounted in the glass. Someone was watching me from inside.

“Zoe,” I said. “Zoe Ott.”

There was a pause; then the woman spoke again.

“Identification?”

“Sure . . .”

I dug around inside my bag until I found the black laminated card with my picture and the worn gold emblem on it.

“It’s kind of old—”

“Hold it up to the reader please,” the voice snipped.

I found the scanner mounted near the speaker and held the card up to it. A little yellow light blinked on the front of the reader and began to flash.

“Ott, Zoe,” the computer interrupted, loud enough to hear on the sidewalk. “Third class. Violations including public drunkenness place you as security risk: low.”

“Thank you,” the voice chimed back in. “You’re expected. You may enter.”

“Great.”

I stuffed the card back into my purse and pulled the door handle again. It opened smoothly, and I stepped through into a small area where there were another set of doors leading in. I pushed those open and found myself in the lobby.

“Wow.”

The lobby wasn’t huge, but it looked impressive. The floors were polished marble inside too, with a big round seal etched into the center of it and ringed with brass. There were big potted plants and flags, and everything looked very clean and expensive. As soon as I stepped inside, there was a guard station with a metal detector, where a stern-looking bald man in uniform sat.

“Step through, please,” he said.

I passed through and immediately a bell went off. Everyone who was milling through the lobby turned to look as the guard stood up and stopped me.

“I’m sorry—”

“It’s okay, ma’am.”

He took my purse and jacket as I set it off two more times before I made it through. The guard scanned my things, the contents displayed on a screen as he passed his wand over them. He paused for a moment when he saw the flask, but he didn’t say anything and he didn’t hold me up any longer. Instead he picked up a phone and spoke into it.

“Sir? Yes, your visitor is here. I will, sir.”

He hung up and handed me my things.

“Take that elevator,” he said, pointing across the lobby. “Head on up to the fifth floor, then take a left. You want conference room B. Someone will be with you shortly.”

“Thanks . . .”

I shrugged back into my coat and took my purse. The guard had already turned his attention to something else, so I walked away and headed to the elevator, pushed the button, and waited.

When the car came, I got in and stood between two tall men in suits who looked at me like I was a bag lady. The inside of the elevator was polished brass or something, and I could see my reflection in it as well as those of the two men. Neither of them said hello. The car moved so smoothly I didn’t even notice it had started up at first, and it didn’t make any of the noises the one at my apartment made. By the time we reached the fifth floor, I was so uncomfortable my heart was beating fast and my face was red and blotchy. Fortunately, neither of the men got off when I did, and I quickly left the car, turned left, and walked until I saw the room marked B.

I slipped in and leaned back against the big conference table inside, trying to get control. I took the resume I’d printed up out of my pocket and smoothed it out. I was still self-conscious about the wording, and I wasn’t sure if “clairvoyant” was misspelled. I started to crumple it up, then smoothed it out again.

“Get a grip,” I told myself, fanning my face with my shaking hands. What was I doing there? From the second I walked up to the place, it was obvious I didn’t belong there. These people, in their suits and uniforms, thought I was a complete loser. Next to them, I looked ridiculous.

Before I let myself go any further down that road, I decided to risk using the flask. I took it out of my purse, uncapped it, and tipped it back, filling my mouth once, twice, then a third time before I heard someone in the hallway and almost dropped it. Clenching my mouth closed, I screwed the cap back on and stowed it back in my purse a second before he walked in.

“Ms. Ott?” he asked. It was him. I swallowed the fiery liquid down in one gulp, bringing tears to the corners of my eyes.

“Yes?”

He was going to smell it—there was no way he wasn’t going to smell it—but it did make me feel better, calmer. I fumbled a stick of old gum out of the pack in my purse and stuck it in my mouth.

“You can take your coat off if you like,” he said. “Just put it on the chair there.”

I took the parka off and propped it on the chair. It was weird actually being in front of him. He seemed a lot bigger in real life, and having him looming over me was kind of intimidating. He wore a dark suit and white shirt and tie like the other men I’d seen, but his knuckles on both hands were covered with stick-on bandages, several of which had a dark spot seeping through. He had a cut on one cheek, and his face was bruised. He looked tired.

“I’m Nico Wachalowski. It’s nice to meet you,” he said, holding out his hand. I shook it, and he gestured for me to sit down, so I did. He sat down across from me.

“So,” he said, “your card said you could help me. Help me how?”

The card. I tried to remember what was on it, but as far as I could remember it was just my name. It wasn’t even a real business card; it was just some stupid thing I made. All I could think about was how I’d just seen him on the news, and how he must have been in the middle of something important. I was totally wasting his time.