Convergence Point

by Liana Brooks

  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.”

  “Okay.” 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 superh
eated 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.”

  Gant 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.

  Donovan put a toolbox at his feet. “Go out to the main road and turn left. I’ll give you the directions from there. And, this time, no swerving off the road to hit squirrels.”

  The directions Donovan gave led them to a hideous apartment complex that ought to have been condemned.

  “Third building on the left,” Donovan said.

  “You want me to go up and knock?” Gant asked as he parked the car.

  Donovan picked up his toolbox. “What would be the point of knocking?”

  They walked up the stairs, and Gant touched the knob; it turned easily in his hand. Grinning, he pushed the door open. “Knock, knock.”

  A man sitting in front of a fancy television jumped to his feet. “What? Are you the maintenance guy? The sink’s fixed.”

  Donovan pulled his gun out as he closed the door. “Are you Henry Troom?”

  “Henry?” the man said, eyeing the gun like a rabbit seeing a wolf. “Yeah. Right this way. His room’s this way.” He hurried around the corner, and Gant shook his head.

  “The idiot’s running.”

  Donovan sighed, pushed his way past Gant, and fired down the hall twice. The sound of the gun was followed by the sound of glass shattering. “He fell out the window.”

  Gant followed him around the corner, but his eye was caught on the metallic lock on a bedroom door. “Go shove the body in the trunk.”

  “You go get the body,” Donovan said. “I have a bolt cutter.”

  Weighing his options, Gant decided being near the getaway vehicle and away from any chance of booby-­trapped doors was the safest option. If Donovan entered the room without injury, then he’d come back upstairs. If Donovan blew up, well, he had Troom’s friend. That would be enough leverage to get a ride back home.

  Downstairs, the jumper lay on the grass, still breathing but shaky. There was a crunching sound from the apartment above and a string of curses.

  Donovan looked out the window. “Troom isn’t here.”

  “Is anything there?”

  “Bits and bobs, but not enough.”

  Gant hefted the shivering man to his feet. “This one’s breathing. Let’s go find a private place to talk to him.” The man started shaking. Gant checked his shoulder. “Just grazed,” he told the boy. “You’ll live. Maybe. If you cooperate.”

  The man’s eyes were black, pupils dilated with fear. It had been a long time since Gant had seen that look. Too long, really. It made him feel warm all over. This place was wrong, but that fear was right. He smiled. It was good to be back in control.

  CHAPTER 9

  We need no longer fear the future. We need no longer stagger blindly forward grasping after hope and lies. From this day forward, every action will be done with an awareness that the path is set, the future immutable.

  ~ Dr. Abdul Emir speaking at the inauguration the Future Command Force complex I1–2064

  Friday March 21, 2070

  Florida District 8

  Commonwealth of North America

  Iteration 2

  There wasn’t such a thing as a basement in Florida.

  Half the potholes along A1A were below sea level, and anyone wanting to plant roses needed to accept the fact that a hole deep enough for the roots would fill with water on any day endin
g in Y. Still, it was weird looking out the morgue window at a parking lot below him. Mac was used to looking at trees and grass slightly above his head. As his junior agents in Chicago liked to joke, morgue ­people evolved from mole ­people. The bright Florida sunshine filtering through the tinted solar-­panel windows was unnatural in every respect.

  He sat down between the two preserved bodies of Henry Troom and Nealie Rho as the computers scanned them. The police forensic team had brought the last pieces of Troom’s corpse—­including his head—­over the night before.

  There was a beep outside the door before it swung open. “Hey,” Sam said as she stepped in and locked the door behind her. She sat down in the spare chair. “How’s your day going?”

  “Pretty good. We finally found Henry’s head. What’s left of it, anyway. I’m doing the postmortem scans now. Should have the autopsies done by tonight.” He tapped his computer stylus on the counter.

  “Cause of death: being ripped apart by explosion,” she said in a nasal TV-­announcer voice. “Which I still don’t understand, by the way. How does an explosion rip someone apart?”

  “Physics,” Mac said, as the computer scan beeped, marking an anomaly on the corpse. “Everything’s waves: heat, light, sound—­matter when it comes to it. A sound wave can kill you, but with an explosion like this, it was probably heat and a lack of oxygen that killed him. Probably.”

  Sam knew him well enough that she rolled her chair closer. “What are you seeing?”

  “An anomaly on the preliminary scan.” He frowned and typed in the command to have the computer redo the test.

  “Tell me.” Sam’s voice was cold with fear.

  “Our theory is that the head was lost in the debris, right? Nice, logical, slightly improbable for a room that size, but not actually impossible. Right?”

  “Right.” Sam’s lips flattened into a grimace. “Let me guess. The head is colder than room temperature, and much colder than it should be. With . . .” She held up a hand to her closed eyes like a television psychic, “with no evidence of decomposition.” Her eyes opened, and they were flat with anger. “Almost like it magically appeared out of nowhere.”