The Day Before (9 page)

“Everyone wants a command, sir, but I don't have the time in ser­vice.”

“Over two years with the bureau,” Barsol said. “Not enough to take my job, but an office in a smaller district? You could handle that.”

A new fear bloomed in her chest. “I'd rather not stay in Alabama District 3.”

Uncertainty crossed Barsol's face, then he raised an eyebrow and laughed. “Is it really that bad?”

“Humid, hot, isolated. It's a swamp when it rains and a red dust bowl the rest of the time. There's only one restaurant open after nine, and it's a dive. I'm desperate to escape Alabama. I'll go anywhere. The Arctic Circle. Panama Canal. Nothing fazes me as long as there's a city in easy driving distance.”

Which was all true—­no need to go into the stultifying professional climate when the actual climate was such crap.

Agent Barsol chuckled. “Noted. We'll see if D.C. can find a desk for you, but keep your eye open for other opportunities. A smaller district would be lucky to have you.”

A few more dismissive pleasantries, and Sam walked downstairs to hail a cab. At first, she couldn't help but be pleased by his confidence in her ability to lead. But by the time she got into the taxi, cold certainty settled over her. She hadn't gotten the job.

“G
ood horse . . . ah, Hoss. Good, Hoss.” Mac held up his hands as a giant tan monster bounded toward him. Light from a gibbous moon fell across the dry lawn, washing the dog and Rose's house in velvety shadow.

The monster bumped a huge head against Mac's hip. He patted it tentatively. “Good boy?” What was Rose thinking? The beast had to weigh more than her. Probably more than him. When she said “puppy,” he'd expected something more United Standard, like a golden retriever. Or a Chihuahua.

“Good, Hoss. That's a good massive. Er, mastiff.” He pushed open the front door to the house. “Uh, Sam said I could?” His voice echoed through the empty house as the security system turned lights on. Hoss stepped in, and he followed, letting the door snap shut behind him. So far, the dog wasn't chewing . . .

Something wet and cold smeared his leg. Mac looked down, prepared to see blood and bone, but there was no pain. Hoss looked up at him, head connected to Mac's leg by a trailing gob of bubbling drool.

“Fantastic.” Mac shook the slime trail loose. “Let's get your food.” His feet slid on the polished wood floor. Agent Perfect might be a hotshot in the dress department, but she seriously needed to consider hiring a decorator. Buy a couch at the very least.

A morgue-­like smell filled the house. The heavy, familiar smell of death. Mac hesitated by the stairs, hand running along the smooth end cap of the balustrade. He'd seen Rose a few hours ago. All right, eight hours. She was fine.

The scent of decay pulled him up the stairs.

She had to be fine.

The steps creaked under his weight, the soft song of well-­used stairs worn under the loving tread of living ­people. This house had history, weight. Nothing prefabbed or postdated. Real wood on the floor. Real stone in the foundation. Real trees outside instead of gen-­engineered pollution eaters.

How the hell does she afford this?
But the smell was his primary concern.

The first door he pushed opened into a south-­facing room with a wide window and plants. Neat rows of soil sat beside the glass, inviting him to play in the dirt. Hoss knocked him aside and walked into the room. Nubbin of a tail wagging madly, the dog sniffed the pots and sneezed. “No marking,” Mac warned. He dipped a finger into the nearest pot, still moist, recently watered. “Let's go.”

There was a blue-­and-­white bathroom with an elegant white towel that smelled of lavender laundry soap. A gold-­framed black-­and-­white print of a ­couple dancing in Paris hung over a sunken tub. Pure luxury. Probably sixty years old, maybe eighty. He flicked the tub and heard the semiporcelain thunk. Not biodegradable at all.

There was a spacious empty room at the end of the house, filled with dust and memories, a lazy ceiling fan turning in an unfelt breeze. A linen closet stood opposite the bathroom. That left one door. The dog lifted his head and whined.

Maybe he'd hallucinated the smell. “Mind if I peek?” Mac asked.

Hoss's nubbin thrummed with delight.

The door swung inward. Wooden floors, polish worn down by bare feet. A large lilac shag carpet beneath a brass bed, lilac-­and-­white quilt, a computer, a wooden hope chest pushed under the window that had white-­lace curtains blocking a view of the trees in the drive.

Agent Rose's perfume lingered in the air, drowning out the smell he'd followed upstairs. A pair of navy-­blue heels were tossed thoughtlessly in the corner, a little scuff mark on the wall where they'd hit after a long night. He touched the computer: cold.

The closet was filled with sensible business suits, a few workout uniforms, and a winter jacket Agent Rose didn't need in June. Everything was well used, a few years old, and normal. Perfectly normal for an agent on her way up. She'd probably built her wardrobe out of the first few paychecks. The winter jacket might be a holdover from her college days.

A picture by the computer caught his eye. An older ­couple with thirties haircuts—­her parents maybe, smiling and happy. The room couldn't be more perfect if it were staged by a Hollywood director.

He went downstairs, grinding his teeth. Would it kill her to have one skeleton in the closet? Just one thing that made her semihuman? Mac kicked the door to the kitchen open and stepped back, gagging at the smell of putrefaction.

The smell of rotting flesh brought memories: heat, blood, screaming until his throat was dust dry. His left hand convulsed over a knife handle that wasn't there. No more knife. No more gun. Not even a Kevlar helmet and flak jacket to hide behind.

Overhead, the ceiling fan hummed.

That didn't fit with the memories. Hell didn't have ceiling fans, or the faint smell of jasmine. Mac closed his eyes.

Focusing on the smell of flowers helped. Agent Rose wasn't in the next room. He'd seen her leave from the office for the Atlanta airport. Ignoring a treacherous voice that whispered facts about decomposition rates of a body in this heat wave, he steadied himself.

Whatever was dead in the kitchen, he could handle it. For a few minutes, he could handle it.

“Skeleton in the closet. I wanted a skeleton, not the whole bloody body.” Mac glared at the ceiling. “God, not funny. Just in case you're still listening.” Probably not. He and God had quit talking years ago.

Hoss whimpered behind him as he pressed against Mac's legs. Mac dropped his hand to pet the dog. “Yeah. Me too.” There was prayer and a cowering two-­hundred-­pound dog. Neither inspired real confidence. He took out his cell.

Phone in hand, he tried the door again. Hoss trailed behind him. The back door swung on broken hinges like a lazy drunk. The kitchen was clean, but the chest freezer with Agent Rose's steak was propped open. Mac almost sobbed in relief.

She must have left it open before work. Maybe she pulled dinner out and forgot to slam it shut. No dead bodies or skeletons, just a waste of prime-­grade steaks. A weak chuckle escaped him as he edged toward the freezer.

A lock of black hair curled out from under the lid, escaping with the oversweet smell of decay.

Switching the phone to his right hand and clutching it like a teddy bear, he lifted the freezer lid with his elbow. “Um . . .”

Hoss lay down and whimpered.

M
ac leaned against a tree, eyes watering as his stomach dry heaved. Hoss leaned against his leg, pushing him sideways. With quivering hands, he dialed Agent Rose.

Two rings later, she answered with a sharp, “Yes?”

“Um . . .” Mac swallowed bile and terror, watching the back door. As long as the body inside didn't walk out, he felt he could stop dry heaving for a few minutes. “Uh. Hi?”

“Agent MacKenzie?”

“Yes?”

“Why are you calling in the middle of the night?”

“I . . . I . . . found Robbins.”

“Call Altin. Bring him in for questioning.” There was a muffled sniffle, then she was back sounding a little more normal. “Where did you find him?”

“Your house.” Silence. “Agent Rose?” More silence. Somewhere behind Agent Rose, he heard the filtered sounds of the city. A car horn blared. Someone screamed.

“Is this a joke?” she finally asked, her tone making it clear that if it was a joke, she might kill him for it. Considering the dead body in her freezer, he wasn't so sure she wouldn't kill him anyway.

“I wish.”

“What do you mean my house? Is he prowling around? Is he sitting there? Give me details.”

“He's dead. In your freezer. He is dead and decomposing in your freezer.” Mac took a shaky breath.

Agent Rose took a moment to digest that. “Dead?”

“Yes, ma'am.”

“You're certain?”

Mac closed his eyes. “There's obvious trauma to the neck, maybe an entry wound for a bullet or a jagged-­edged weapon. Something tore open his throat, and it isn't neat.” He looked at the house in resignation. She was going to ask him to go back inside. “Before you ask, yes, I'm sober.” He wished he weren't.

“Mother Mary, God give me strength, I didn't think today could get worse.” Rose sighed. “MacKenzie, call Altin and Marrins. Get a forensic team there. I want them going over that house with a fine-­tooth comb.” She took another ragged breath. “Is Hoss okay?”

“Yeah, he was sitting out front when I got here.”

“Out front? I locked him in the kitchen this morning.”

“The back door is busted, it's swinging from the doorframe like a drunk at Mardi Gras.”

Agent Rose muttered something away from the phone. “Look, call the team. I'll get the first flight I can home. Can you handle this?”

What a loaded question. “Um . . .”

“Stop starting your sentences with ‘Um!' You're a bureau agent. For the love of all that's holy, act like one!”

“I'm sorry,” Mac whispered, as the breeze ruffled his hair. He wasn't even sure what he was sorry for. Sorry he was still alive. Sorry he had failed. Again. “I'll call Marrins.”

“I'll call when I get to the airport.” She hung up.

Mac looked at the phone. He wanted to run. Find some dark hole to hide in until the familiar panic ebbed away and left him empty again, but Agent Rose said act like a bureau agent. Act like her. He could do that. Even shaking and screaming inside, he could do that for an hour or two. Two pills, he promised himself. If he could just get through this, he'd take all the pills he could find and slip into quiet oblivion. One more lost cause dying in the shadow of heroes.

 

CHAPTER 11

More good is done, more atrocities prevented, every day by the fine men and women of the Ministry of Defense than can ever be reported to the ­people of the Collective. Their actions ensure you live.

~ President Toinen I1–2074

Saturday June 8, 2069

Alabama District 3

Commonwealth of North America

M
ac was the first person to see Detective Altin pull into the drive with his lights flashing. While the kitchen was crawling with bureau personnel borrowed from District 4, Marrins had posted him in front of the door to the living room and told him to keep the dog out after Hoss tried to bite Marrins's hand off—­at least, that's what Marrins claimed. Mac was pretty sure Hoss was just trying to lick him. Either way, he wasn't surprised by Marrins's sending him out.

His orders were to stand there and stay out of trouble. It wasn't a hard order. Anybody could stand. You didn't need to be a hero, or even have a processing, sentient brain: even trees could stand. Which made trees better bureau agents than him because Mac was about to pass out.

“What's going on?” Altin demanded as he stalked past Mac without even a nod and stormed into the kitchen. “The whole radio's buzzing with bureau chatter, and I don't even get a courtesy call? What kind of bull pucky you throwing out, Marrins?”

Mac caught the door as he held Hoss back.

Agent Marrins glared at the detective. “It's an internal matter.”

“Sounds like a police matter,” Altin said, glowering at the bureau techs loading the late Mordicai Robbins on a stretcher and photographing the scene.

“Rose's house isn't in the city, so it's out of your jurisdiction. It's in mine.” Marrins waved to Mac. “Get him out of here.”

He wants
me
to get rid of Altin?
Mac glanced at the much taller man skeptically but made his way toward the detective.

“You've got a dead body tied to my case, and you think you can lock me out?” Altin demanded, shoving Mac away.

Mac's phone buzzed. He slunk into the empty living room, breathing in the scent of dust and perfume like an elixir. “MacKenzie.”

“It's Sam—­what's going on?” She sounded calmer.

“Marrins is working the scene. Altin just showed up.” The yelling in the next room escalated. “They're fighting over jurisdiction.”

“Tell them there's a ruler in the top drawer by the fridge. They can whip it out and measure. When they're done dicking around, they can get back to work.”

Mac laughed in spite of himself. “Sure, I'll tell them that.”
Right after I retire.
He rubbed his eyes. “Do you have a coffeemaker here? It would make everyone a lot happier.”

“I can't stand the stuff. Marrins can run to town if he wants some,” Sam said. “How's Hoss?”

“Not happy.” Mac petted the massive beast in question. Hoss leaned his head on Mac's thigh, trying to knock him over. It was the beast's new favorite game. “I don't think he likes intruders.”

“Probably not. Look, the earliest flight I can get is four this afternoon. Can you ask Marrins what he will do with my dog?”

“Sure, gimme a sec.” Mac poked his head into the kitchen. “Sir?” Both Altin and Marrins whipped toward him, looking ready to kill. “Agent Rose wants to know what we're doing with the dog.”

“Drop him at the pound,” Marrins said.

“Sure.” Mac closed the door again. “He said the pound,” he told Agent Rose.

“No! That's doggy prison!”

“Um . . .” Mac cleared his throat. No more ums. “I could . . . could take him to my place. Like we planned.”

Agent Rose sighed. “Sure, that works. I'll come get him when my flight lands. It'll probably be late. Oh . . .” she hesitated. “Does Marrins want me to report to the precinct for questioning first?”

Mac nudged the door open with his foot. “Sir, Agent Rose is catching a red-­eye flight back to the state. Do you want her to come in for questioning or do you want someone to pick her up at the airport?”

Marrins glared at him. “It's three in the morning. I want her to find a hotel room and promise not to ruin any more of my weekend. My schedule didn't have ‘homicide' on it.”

“Right.” The door swung closed. Marrins wants you to put yourself under house arrest at a hotel until Monday.”

Even over the phone, he could hear the heavy sigh that always accompanied Rose's disappointed eye rolls. “Fine. I'll pick up Hoss as soon as I get to town.”

“Okay.” He hung up and tugged Hoss's collar. “Want to go for a walk?” The nubbin wagged.

T
he dashboard clock read half past ten when Sam parked her car in front of an apartment with a peeling facade. At a gas station across the street, two police cruisers huddled around the remnants of a drug deal gone wrong. An ambulance siren wailed through the night.

MacKenzie's place was all 2020 architecture: a strong, boxy design that fit the mood of a failing country, painted in scorched-­earth tones. It needed renovation, possibly done by a local arsonist in colors of gasoline and fire. He rented a ground-­level hovel in a back corner of the complex between a broken streetlamp and an overgrown, empty lot that seemed to double as the local landfill. In the humid June night, the smell of ripe and rotted garbage was gagworthy.

Hoss barked wildly when she knocked. Sam winced, wondering for the first time if she should have just left the dog alone and found a hotel for the night.

The sound of chain locks being undone jolted her out of her daze. MacKenzie tugged the door open with a yawn and ran a hand through sleep-­styled hair. “Agent Rose?”

She managed a weak smile and pulled her purse over the ketchup stain on the hem of her dress in embarrassment. “Hi.”

“Come on in.” He switched off whatever late-­night chatter was showing on the TV and collapsed into a dark green sofa.

She petted Hoss, taking comfort in his familiar warm bristle. “I'll grab his stuff, and we'll go find someplace up by the highway. There's a No-­tell Motel they haven't condemned yet.”

“You . . . you could stay here,” MacKenzie offered hesitantly.

“Here?”

MacKenzie stood, awkwardly brushing debris from his sofa. “On the couch? I don't . . . don't mind.”

“Thanks.” The memory of Jane Doe's tortured body flashed through her head. “It wouldn't look right.”

“Neither would your car wrapped around a tree.” He held out a crocheted afghan. “You're falling over, and there's nowhere else to go.”

Thunder rolled outside, and the heavy beat of rain hammered the roof. She fell into the couch beside the ME and bit her lip.
Saint Jude, protect me.
“Right. Do you have a bathroom where I can get washed up?”

“Right by the kitchen.”

Sam went back to the car for her overnight bag and gave herself a quick tour. Living room, narrow hall with one door that led to a closet, and another that smelled of unwashed clothes and despair—­that was probably MacKenzie's bedroom. Kitchen, folding card table, empty cupboards, and a small door to a smaller bathroom, the ceiling and linoleum both cracked. A sink with rusting pipes practically sat in the lap of anyone using the toilet, and the weak yellow light overhead showed a dingy ring around the shower stall.

Outside, the storm was rumbling and rolling, settling in for a good night's soaking. Sam locked the door and showered, leaving her perfumed shower gel next to a sliver of green soap that looked as welcoming as a military basic training unit. How did MacKenzie live like this? Simply being here filled her with shame. All the work society had done to rebuild. All the laws and man-­hours put into revitalizing a broken nation, and this is what they achieved?

The bedroom door was shut tight when she slunk out of the bathroom, red-­eyed and wearing sweats with the word
ATLANTA
stretched across the chest.

Hoss wagged his nubbin before stretching out on the floor beside the couch, happy to have his human back. She patted his side. “Good puppy.” She picked up the pillow MacKenzie had left for her and gave it an experimental sniff. Much to her surprise, it didn't smell of mildew, sweat, or Smelly Boy—­just a hint of eucalyptus laundry wash and dust. The blanket smelled the same.

She pulled it over her head, listening to the much-­needed rain until she fell into a restless sleep.