Decoherence

by Liana Brooks

  She blinked. “A hunch?”

  Miss MacKenzie winced. “ For now, until I can confirm a few details with an expert, yes, it’s a hunch. This looks exactly like a gun that I saw on a prior case. The owner was . . . let’s say private military. The kind of group everyone likes to pretend doesn’t exist in the Commonwealth. They manufacture the guns and the bullets. You won’t find it anywhere on any registry or sold by any company. Which makes it the perfect, untraceable weapon.”

  Ivy shook her head. “No, the CBI wouldn’t let that happen.”

  “Even the CBI has cases they’d rather not solve,” Miss MacKenzie said. “Now, can we get out of here? This place is giving me the creeps.”

  “I don’t understand why you’re scared of circles on the ground.”

  “I hope you never understand,” Sam said. “I really do. And I hope my hunch is wrong.” But she knew it wasn’t.

  The detention center wasn’t much different than it had been when the reforms kicked in after the Commonwealth united. It wasn’t supposed to be a prison but a rehab center for individuals addicted to antisocial behavior; however, the million-­dollar landscaping only gussied up the surface. Inside there were cellblocks, neon-­green prison jumpsuits, and hard-­eyed men looking Sam over like she was a piece of meat. In training, she’d been told not to make eye contact, that it encouraged reckless behavior.

  Today, she made eye contact, and the criminals were the ones who looked away in fear.

  A woman was waiting inside a prison advocate room with a white plaque stuck on the door that read FAMILY THERAPY ROOM. Her escort opened the door and returned to his desk.

  Sam nodded at the woman. “You’re Dr. Mallory?”

  “Yes, Mr. Troom’s rehab facilitator for first-­stage therapy. I’m afraid we aren’t having much luck breaking the denial cycle. It’s holding him back.” Mallory had the look of a perky cheerleader: bright pink lipstick, eye shadow a few shades darker than her suntanned skin painted to elaborate the arch of her eyes, and hair curled and shellacked in defiance of the humidity outside.

  Sam supposed she didn’t look much different right now. “Have you considered that Dr. Troom might not be guilty?”

  “Everyone is guilty of something,” Mallory said. “A person may not be here long, but if he isn’t guilty of murder, there are other things he can confess to that will put him on the road to a healthy, happy, productive future.” Her smile never faded, and it didn’t reach her eyes.

  Sam smiled in kind. “What are you guilty of?”

  Dr. Mallory’s smile shattered, and, for a moment, Sam saw rage. It was quickly covered by a smirk worthy of any high school student. “Trying to rattle me, Agent?”

  “Do I need to?” Sam asked.

  Guards arrived at the lock, with Henry between them.

  Mallory looked over her shoulder and back. “I will leave you alone for the private conference the CBI has requested, but I must remind you that you are required by law to give us any relevant information that would help us put Mr. Troom on the path of rehabilitation.”

  “I am aware, and I will comply,” Sam said. Her smile sharpened. “First step: Call him by his title and respect his intelligence. He earned his degree.”

  The therapist’s lips puckered like she’d bitten a lemon, and her heels rapped against the cement floor with quick, angry steps as she exited.

  Henry’s guards let him in as Mallory left the room, locking the outer door behind her. His smile was genuine, then he laughed. “Your hair looks awful.”

  “I know. It’s for a case.”

  Henry shook his head. “Nice job with Dr. Mallory. You have a talent for driving smart ­people crazy. Dr. Emir had that look on his face every time you talked to him.”

  “Really? I didn’t actually mean to antagonize him.” She took a seat in the plastic chair across the table from an identical one the prison had provided for Henry. “How are you doing?”

  He shrugged. “Solitary confinement and the accusation of being an antisocial element at risk for suicide, with a prescription medicine to fix my delusions.”

  “Hmmm. Are you suicidal or delusional?” Sam asked.

  “I know you’re required to report this to the therapists, but I’ll say it anyway. I’m feeling homicidal. Low-­key. I’m not an advocate for violence, but the pills make me violently ill, and they can’t erase what happened last summer.”

  Sam frowned. “They have your files from the N-­V Nova Labs case? That’s not supposed to be available for civilians.”

  “They don’t have the whole thing. They called around and got ahold of my cousin, who told them I was into weird stuff although that’s probably not the term he used. He’s a crackle addict, legalized and nonaddictive LSD for the gezes who can’t get their lives together. He lives in Alabama District 12 on disability and has a prescription for the pills. I saw him in September. Got drunk.”

  “You talked?”

  “Not about specifics. I didn’t know any. But I told him what I’d heard. What’d they’d done. It was a near-­death experience!” He crossed his arms. “I didn’t kill Lexie Muñoz if that’s what you wanted to know.”

  Sam shook her head. “I already know you didn’t. But I need details. And your alibi.”

  His eyes narrowed into a mulish look. “Agent Rose, is this really necessary? Can’t you just, I don’t know, do a DNA test or something? Rule me out as a suspect?”

  “You took Lexie to the beach party. Multiple ­people saw you walk onto the beach with her and leave with her. You were the last one to see her alive, so start there.”

  Henry squinched his eyes shut, then shook his head. “Son of a—­” He bit off the curse. “Are we friends?”

  Sam raised an eyebrow. “Friends? Is this relevant?”

  “You saved my life. Twice, by my count. You know what I’ve been through. It’s not like I can talk to anyone else about this . . .” He gave her a pleading look.

  “Henry, I don’t know what you’re asking.”

  “Just . . . don’t make fun of me, okay?”

  “Okay.”

  “Bradet invited me to the party. The station had a thing going on . . . have you met Bradet?”

  Sam tried to hide the wince that came with those memories. “Yeah.”

  “He’s solar wind. Wild and fun, and all the girls want him.”

  Which spoke to the poor taste of the girls going to these parties. Every time Sam had talked to Bradet, she’d felt the need to wash.

  “I thought if I went to the party maybe some of his magic would rub off on me. Girls don’t like geeks, you know? I start talking about work, and their eyes glaze over.”

  “Try talking to smarter women,” Sam said.

  Henry blushed and looked at the table. “Lexie was solar. I mean, hotter than the sun, solar. She’s triplicate, the whole package. She was working on a math degree at the college, she’s from a good family, she had a body that was just . . .” His hands curved in the air and dropped as he tried to describe her. “It wasn’t love, but I thought we were having a good time. We went to the beach to get away from the noise and talk about her thesis paper, which sounded really promising for a master’s student, and she said she was thirsty. So I went back up to the bar.”

  Anger suffused his face, creasing it. He wasn’t seeing Sam anymore, but that night. “I came back with sangrias, and she was with some guy. Tall, handsome, surfer tight with a military haircut and muscles.” Henry shook his head. “She was having fun.”

  “It could have been small talk,” Sam said.

  Henry looked her in the eye. “They weren’t talking.”

  “Oh.”

  “Yeah. Bradet had already seen me. He’d winked at me when I walked out with Lexie. Gave me the high sign when I got the drinks. If I went back in, I was going to be humiliated. So I figured I’d walk down the
beach a bit and loop around, get to the parking lot, and make a quiet escape. Bradet usually goes home with a girl, so it wouldn’t matter. I could lie about it, and he’d leave me alone.”

  Sam rubbed the bridge of her nose. “I feel like there’s a piece missing here. I get the male ego, trust me—­married life teaches a woman these things. But why not tell the cops? Someone saw Lexie leave, and it wasn’t with you, that’s a mistake.”

  Henry rolled his eyes to the side and bit his lip.

  “What aren’t you telling me?”

  He put his hands over his face and rested his elbows on the table. “This could end my career. I haven’t been at the think tank a month. It’s paradise, you know? Like being the kid in a candy store.”

  Sam shook her head. “Not that big a fan of candy.”

  “Makeup shop?”

  “No.”

  “Gun store?”

  “Me?” Sam gave him a disappointed look. “I like fresh produce, running shoes, and my truncheon.”

  He sighed. “Fine, you have your healthy ways, and I have physics. And the think tank lets me do work without writing grants, without answering to committees, without teaching. I can request anything. I can try crazy things and fail because I don’t need to show results to anyone for years. Do you know how wonderful that is? This is the golden apple of science.”

  “Isn’t the golden apple the one that started the Trojan War?”

  He nodded. “Yeah. ­People would kill for the slot I got. I’m only there because I’m Emir’s protégé, and his posthumously published papers were very well received. They’re on particle wave physics and advanced communication between the planet and orbital satellites, but it has wonderful applications for the space industry.” He paused, and a little smile crept onto his face. “He wrote those papers years ago. Erased most of them, but I had copies since I had worked with him in grad school. I did some of the math, nothing major. After he died, the lab wanted to publish something, and it wasn’t like we could let his current research get out. I thought it was a nice memorial.”

  Sam tapped the table. “Back to the night Lexie died?”

  He closed his eyes. “If anyone finds out the truth, I’ll lose my place at the think tank.”

  “If I don’t find anything, you’ll be here for murder for years. Eating the horrible pills and still not working at the think tank.”

  “I went home with someone!” Henry shouted.

  Sam shook her head in confusion. “So? Who could you possibly go home with . . .” Her imagination caught up with her tongue. “She is over eighteen, or he, right?”

  Henry glared at her. “She’s twenty-­three, five years younger than I. And she’s a protestor.” He looked at the floor like he’d just confessed to some lewd form of bestiality.

  “I don’t get it,” Sam admitted.

  “Her name’s Krystal, with a kay. She protests government oversight and waste.”

  Sam shook her head. “Still not seeing a problem.”

  “She’s on a government watch list for antinationalistic behavior.”

  “Like Marrins?”

  “No!” Henry sounded horrified. “As an undergrad, she was part of a modernist group pushing to reopen various habitats for human use.”

  “Are those the anti-­ecoterrorist types?”

  “Oh! No. She’s not with them, she was petitioning to open up various preserves for recreational activity. Camping, kayaking, that sort of thing. She’s really into outdoorsy things and . . .” He shut his eyes tight. “We had a thing, before I graduated. Not anything formal, but kind of an open relationship. N-­V Nova Labs told me I couldn’t work there if I was associated with anyone who couldn’t pass a background check. Krystal was chill with it. There were other guys, I spent too much time in the lab, it wasn’t a big deal.”

  “Except she followed you here?”

  “She came to see some guys who live in the swamps. There’s a protest coming up, and she’s out here rallying troops or something.” He shrugged. “I was going to leave, and I didn’t even know she was at the party. Lexie was kissing this beach guy, then there’s Krystal.”

  “The perfect rebound.”

  “She likes sangria. We finished our drinks in maybe ten minutes, then headed for the car.”

  Sam took out her notepad. “This Krystal, dark hair, about five-­five?”

  Henry nodded. “She doesn’t look like Lexie, but at a distance after a few drinks? I guess they look alike.”

  “You left together?”

  “Yeah. Maybe, thirty minutes after I left Lexie? She was still on the beach talking to the guy when I left.”

  “Do you remember anything else? Anything odd?”

  Henry stared into the distance for a minute. “It was a bit serendipitous running into Krystal again. But, no. The party was noisy, ­people were laughing, listening to bad music, drinking. It was a beach party. The weather was nice. Warm I guess—­that probably caused the heat lightning.”

  Sam raised an eyebrow as a sense of certainty settled over her. “Heat lightning? In January? When the party had heat lamps in every corner?”

  Henry frowned. “I guess that was a little odd. I was wearing my slacks and a sweater, so I guess I didn’t think about it. The pavilion on the boardwalk was hot, but it wasn’t really warm, I guess.” He frowned.

  Sam pulled up her notes. “It was fifty-­six that night. It was the tail end of the cold snap.” She closed her notebook.

  “Does that help?” Henry asked.

  “It confirms something I suspected and gives me the murder weapon.”

  “Lightning isn’t what killed Lexie,” he said. “They made me look at the crime scene photos. She . . . they . . .” He shook his head and looked away.

  Sam grimaced in sympathy. “Did you see any concentric rings in the sand, or was the area too trampled.”

  Henry frowned at her. “What?”

  “Concentric rings,” Sam said slowly. “Were they there?”

  “Like the rings from . . .” He shook his head. “No. That’s not what happened. Lexie was beaten to death by someone. Not me, but someone.”

  “There’s no blood on the beach. Witnesses saw you leave the party, but if you left with Krystal—­whose full name and address you will be giving me—­then no one saw Lexie leave the beach. She didn’t die there. She was dumped there. I think I know how. With Krystal as your alibi, you’ll be cleared of charges. And then we’ll talk about the rings.”

  “Agent Rose,” Henry said quietly, “what you’re cryptically suggesting is impossible. The device in question was destroyed.”

  Sam looked him dead in the eye and let him see what had driven the other inmates to look away. “Tell me right here, right now, that you didn’t make another one. Look me in the eye and say it.”

  He looked at his hands.

  “Exactly. You tried to reconstruct the device. How unstable is it?”

  Henry jerked back in surprise. “How . . . ?”

  “Just be honest with me, Henry. We are friends, after all.”

  “It’s okay, but the charge is weak. I need a better battery. I didn’t . . . I didn’t put anyone at risk. I swear it. I know what it did to Matt and Miss Chimes, so I took it out in the desert.”

  She frowned.

  “I went to Colorado to see a friend at the School of Mines before I moved down here. I took the machine out to the sand dunes. Middle of winter, the wind and cold, it was abandoned. It turns on, but there’s not enough energy to get the portal to accelerate properly. It fizzed, and there were some weird little dust storms. Almost like an energy pulse but at a distance. Subportals maybe, but I don’t know. I’m missing some of the original components, and there’s no way I can find a replacement for the core you smashed. Thanks for that, by the way.”

  “I had a very good reason for smash
ing it,” Sam said. “Not that it worked like I planned, because if it had, Lexie would be alive, and you’d be at work right now.” She pushed her pen and paper to Henry. “Give me a way to contact Krystal, please.”

  He slid the notebook toward himself and froze. “Are you sure about this?”

  “Do it, Henry.”

  Obediently, he wrote down the name and address.

  “I’ll get this wrapped up and get in touch with you.” She stood. “Don’t call the CBI office, though. If you do, I won’t remember this conversation, and it will be awkward all around.”

  “What do you mean you won’t remember this conversation?” Henry demanded. “Agent Rose?”

  She held up her left hand. “Agent MacKenzie, now.”

  “Congratulations on the engagement?”

  “Marriage.” She studied her ring. “We’re getting married before the year’s out, and we’ve been married five years already.

  “Isn’t time funny like that?”

  CHAPTER 26

  “A time cyclone, or uncontrolled time portal, is created during a moment of convergence or expansion when multiple iterations pass through one another’s probability fans. Calculating these events is difficult, and controlling them currently not within the scope of our abilities.”

  ~ memo to senior members of the Ministry of Defense—­I1—­2067

  Thursday July 4, 2069

  Alabama District 3

  Commonwealth of North America

  Rogue Iteration

  Stars and cicadas were the first things Rose noticed as she passed through the portal into the rogue iteration. Moonlight illuminated the wooded glen and the portal’s ringed imprint in the grass without giving the verdant foliage a chance to shine. The vivid green leaves were a muted shade of near black that blended with the bruising blues and purples of the rest of the landscape.

  Rose did a visual sweep with night-­vision goggles and signaled for her team to move forward.

  Senturi hit the door first. “Locked.”

  She motioned for him to keep his mouth shut and unlock it. A light blipped in the corner as he touched the door. The first reconnaissance team hadn’t found a hidden security system, but if someone had gotten sloppy . . . The treacherous memory of the broken dial demanded attention.