“What a tragedy,” the newsman said, but he spoke to the large insectile eye of the camera. Not to me.
Yes, I thought. But more than a tragedy. It tightened my guts. My girls—and I had come to think of Maisie and Rachel as my girls—were not safe. Their conditions were known and public. They could not hide. And the longer they were out there, missing, the slimmer the chance I could bring them back in one piece.
Chapter 17
36 Weeks
I’m sitting on the back porch with Jackson, finishing off a case of Rogue and watching the sun go down.
“You need to tell her,” she says.
“You need to cut your yard,” I say. “Do you even have a lawnmower?”
“If you don’t tell Jesse, she’ll never forgive you.”
I snort. “You act like I deserve forgiveness. We both know that’s not true.”
“She’s going to find out about Maisie and it will go over better if it comes from you,” she says and lifts the brown neck of the bottle to her lips again.
“If I’m going to tell her about Maisie,” I say and scuff the bottom of my boots against the little stoop. “Then I should tell her about Aziz too. Hell, I should throw in Gideon. And let’s not forget her father.”
I take another swig of my beer and feel the last of the foam slide down my throat.
“He said I’m making her ready for him,” I confess. “That it’s my fault she is what she is.”
“Jesse is a good kid,” Jackson says. “You can take credit for that if you want.”
“No, I can’t,” I say and look up at the sky. “But you can’t deny that he’s right. It is my fault Caldwell is what he is. I started this.”
Jackson interrupts my pity party. “‘A true war is never moral. It does not instruct, nor encourage virtue, nor suggest models of proper human behavior, nor restrain men from doing the things men have always done. If a war seems moral, do not believe it. There is no virtue. As a first rule of thumb, you must know a war is what has always been—an absolute and uncompromising allegiance to obscenity and evil.’”
“Did you memorize that whole book?” I ask.
“I read it every night.”
“You need a new book,” I say.
“If you don’t tell her you’re dying—”
“If I tell her, she’ll try to replace me.” I know that kid and her stubbornness. She’s about as good at accepting no as a stallion accepting the reins.
“Yes,” Jackson says, emphatically. “Yes. If not her, then Rachel.”
“Now you’re asking me to play favorites.” I snort and pull my leather jacket tight. I can’t imagine being any colder, but there’s got to be colder, right? There’s death.
“I don’t deserve to be saved,” I tell her. I sound repetitive even to myself.
Jackson runs a hand over her head. “If you won’t let them save you, then you have to prepare.”
For what? Heaven? Hell? I wasn’t sure either existed. I say, “I’ve been writing it all down. Does that count as preparation?”
She looks at me then, the white of her eyes reflective in the moonlight. “All of it?”
“Everything I can remember.”
Her face pinches as if a sharp pain has run through her. “Even Micah?”
“I can leave him out if you want,” I say, a peace offering.
“No.” She looks up at the few stars we can see. “Someone should know.”
Chapter 18
Wednesday, March 26, 2003
The next morning, before I even left my apartment, I put in the request for all the Sullivan files. I specifically wanted whatever was recorded at Jerome, but I kept my request wide, just in case something interesting was churned up. Then I drank a beer. It was early, but I was having one of those mornings where everything was just a little stiffer than usual and beer helped with that.
I was at my desk by ten. Keeping a schedule—whatever the schedule—helped me focus. I’d been in the military too long to just free-fall through a day now.
Maisie’s folder was open on my desk when Charlie appeared, a woman in tow. When I first saw her, I did my best to keep my face blank, though I recognized her immediately.
“This is former military officer Gloria Jackson,” Charlie said. He’d quit shaving. His stubble was almost a full beard.
Jackson and I shook hands.
“She is a recent release like yourself,” he went on.
“Not released,” she said. Her face grimaced then. “Not exactly.”
“Have a seat,” I said. “What can I do for you?”
Charlie leaned forward one hand against my desk. “Captain Jackson is part of the pilot program I was telling you about.” When I looked confused, he offered clarification on her role. “She is an AMP.”
I remembered then. The pilot program was an attempt to pair remote viewers, with their ability to draw the future, with NRD-positive individuals, to serve as death replacement agents. This way, someone who could die, but not really, would save lives.
The program still had some bugs. Not all deaths were replaceable and people were still trying to figure out how to make money from this. Insurance companies, healthcare professionals, and law enforcement agencies all wanted a piece of the pie. The paperwork was outrageous, but we had won support by maintaining some stable replacement statistics for the last couple of years.
In the beginning the FBRD had two major functions. First, to investigate all crimes connected to Necronites. Mostly that meant cleaning up the mess from The Great Panic and camp detainment. This meant finding people, reintroducing them to society, that sort of thing. Our second biggest task was to make these individuals a commercial asset to the country by introducing as many of them as possible to what we were calling the Death Replacement Industry.
Our hands were full.
“I’ve asked Captain Jackson to help you find Sullivan,” he said. “It’s what she does.”
“It’s what I do,” I snapped. I should not have reacted. I respected Charlie as a superior but he was also one of my oldest friends. He should know I always do what I say I’ll do, and I said I’d find Sullivan.
Charlie froze and his blue eyes met mine.
This is about Aziz. You think I’m unstable. You think I’m obsessive. You don’t trust me.
I said nothing.
The air charged between us and I wondered if he would reprimand me. If he did, I’d take it without complaint.
“I’ll leave you to it,” he said and walked away.
When I turned, Jackson was sitting in the chair, waiting. She’d politely averted her eyes while Charlie and I squabbled, which won her some points in my book.
“What can I do for you?” I asked again.
“I’m here to assist in your investigations,” she said and before I could get pissed about it, she went on. “I know you don’t want my help, but this isn’t about you or your ego.”
I stiffened. “I’m not one of those dicks who walk around with a puffed up chest.”
I had a moment of hesitation before cursing in front of her. As a rule, I try not to curse in front of women, even if they talk like sailors themselves, but on her first day of basic training, Captain Jackson would have heard far worse coming from a man’s mouth.
“I saw you compete with the boy,” she said, being the first to acknowledge the bar the night before. It was her after all, alone at that table, watching me.
The heat crept up the back of my neck. “I saw you watching me.”
“You are competitive by nature.” Her face was still perfectly blank. Damn she was good. I’d never met a woman before who was as good—maybe even better—at hiding emotions as I was. When she didn’t speak, I caved.
“I like being good at what I do,” I said.
Her face flushed. “I need you to understand that this is very important.”
“Of course it is,” I said. “We are trying to save lives.”
She regarded me then. Her gaze heavy. It was as i
f she knew something I didn’t, and was trying to figure out if I should be let in on that secret or not.
Jackson sat up straighter. “I specialize in finding missing people. I’ve had a 100% success rate in the 134 cases I’ve worked so far. After we find your three targets—”
“Three?” I stopped her. “You’re here to help me find Sullivan.”
Her lips flattened. “You’re my partner. I’ll help you with everything.”
“Yes, pushing Sullivan off on you while I obsess about the girl would just prove everyone right, wouldn’t it?” I ask.
I was still pretty pissed that one of my oldest friends who was well-acquainted with my abilities thought I needed help. But as much as I hated a finger in my pie, I knew better than to tell Jackson to get lost. If I rejected her offer, Charlie had grounds for suspending me. He could call me irrational and obsessive. Worse, Jackson would probably think it was because she was a woman. Or worse, because she was a black woman. The only thing more insulting than being thought of as an incompetent misogynist was being considered an incompetent racist misogynist.
“I’d appreciate your help on all three cases, Captain,” I said. “But I’ve got a question.”
Her shoulders, which had relaxed at my acceptance, tightened once again.
“Why were you following me?” I asked. “Last night at the bar.”
“I wanted to make sure I could work with you before accepting Agent Swanson’s proposal.”
“Do you always investigate your partners before working with them?” I asked.
“It is a new policy. I want to start with the child,” Jackson added, drawing attention away from herself.
“Don’t let Agent Swanson hear you say that,” I said. “He brought you in to find Sullivan. He doesn’t want us working on anything else.”
“I know,” she said. “But I’ve already started on Sullivan. In the meantime, I think we can make progress with the girl. After all, I think she is more at risk than a grown man, who probably just doesn’t want to be found, don’t you think?”
I grinned. “I do, but I can’t help but wonder what’s in it for you?”
She considered me for a moment longer. Her face twitched and her eyes glazed. Then her hands clasped hard onto the chair. It took me a minute to recognize what was happening.
I leapt up and came around the desk just as Jackson began to convulse. I grabbed hold of her and eased her out of the chair and onto the floor as she shook in my arms. I tried to put her head down gently enough and get her rolled onto her side. My knees against her back, I held her there so she couldn’t hurt herself. Charlie and a couple other agents came out to see what the hell was going on.
“Call an ambulance,” I ordered. One of the guys ran off without question.
Charlie said, “Jackson has a complicated medical history.”
I gave him a don’t be a dick face.
“But confirmation is always best,” he said and went back into his office.
Jackson started to slow in her twitching. Her convulsions gave over to deep rasping breaths as she tried to suck air into her lungs.
I patted her back. “You’re all right. You’re all right.”
She went completely still and I worried she’d passed out. I bent over her to find her blinking and trying to sit up. This whole thing took maybe five minutes.
“Hey, easy there,” I said and tried to help her.
“I’m fine,” she said and pushed me away. For all her talk, she was just as prideful as I was. But seeing it relaxed me. Maybe I wasn’t the only one with something to prove here.
In a sitting position, her head between her knees, she drew slow and steady breaths. There was spit, snot, and blood smeared all over her nose and mouth.
“Shit,” I said. “Someone get us a fucking napkin or something?”
Another guy trotted off and returned with those scratchy hand towels from the bathroom. I handed them over to Jackson who cleaned herself up.
“Are you all right?” I asked.
“No,” she said. She didn’t sugar coat shit.
Two paramedics came through the front door to collect her. When she refused to get on the stretcher, they helped her to her feet, insisting she get checked out with the equipment in the back of the ambulance.
“You need me to come out with you?” I asked.
She gave me a proper fuck off look, and I admit I liked her a little more. I saw a blood spot on the carpet where she’d fallen. I pointed at it when Charlie came up to see me.
“That’ll have to be burned,” Charlie said.
“A bit excessive, don’t you think? She isn’t contagious.”
“I just got off the phone with her boss,” he said. “She said Captain Jackson has a history of seizures. She is fit for work, but these episodes can be expected. Apparently they are still working out the kinks in her treatment.”
“What the hell did they do to her?” I asked. I tried to remember what I had heard about AMPs. They were soldiers who’d volunteered. First they were taught remote viewing, a remnant from the military’s ESP research in the 90s. Then, they were subjected to tests and alterations in the hopes that the NRD condition could be recreated successfully. The military thought soldiers who couldn’t die as long as they wore good helmets were a hell of an asset.
I watched Jackson through the glass. She sat in the back of the ambulance, her head tilted so a paramedic could shine a light up her nose and poke at her with gloved fingers.
“They messed with her brain,” he said. “Her boss called it ferromagnetic material. It’s what they injected into the volunteers’ brains when they were trying to turn soldiers into Necronites. Find out what crazy fucker came up with that idea and let’s uninvite him to dinner, all right?” For just a moment, he was my friend again. My old friend who served in three tours with me. Charlie who used his own knife to dig a bullet out of my ass. Just good ol’ Charlie Swanson. “I heard it killed 98% of the volunteers, or so severely retarded them that they wished they were fucking dead. Jackson should count her lucky stars that she isn’t pissing through a tube and eating through a straw.”
I watched Jackson turn and spit blood onto the concrete. Count her stars indeed.
Chapter 19
Thursday, March 27, 2003
I got a hit on Henry Chaplin. I couldn’t let Charlie know, so the moment he stepped out, I slipped from the office and met my contact at the 7-11 near Hamilton.
Fizz was a jittery kid, early twenties, who would roll over for cocaine the way a dog will roll over for a good belly rub. I’d caught him with a gram about a month after I moved to St. Louis, but I knew he was big on the drug circuit and let him go rather than bag him. He was a small fish, and when you’re working crime on streets as bad as the ones in St. Louis, it’s important to think big.
So my policy was to let the little fish go and see just where they swam back to. Fizz hadn’t disappointed me.
I’d taken his picture with my phone, made him hold up the coke and everything. Then I lied and said that the statute of limitations on that was 10 years. If he was a good boy, he’d never see the inside of a jail. If he crossed me, well—I let him assume the worst.
When I pulled up to get gas, Fizz was standing outside the pump smoking a cigarette despite the giant no smoking sign over his head. He had bright blue hair that looked like one of those Japanese anime characters. I’d seen lots of them with bright hair and shimmery eyes, showcased on posters, billboards, and store signs around Okinawa where I was stationed for two years. Fizz also wore shades that reflected the store, parking lot, and cars around him like twin mirrors or giant fly eyes.
The cigarette glowed brighter with a deep inhale. His fingernails protruding through fingerless motor-cycle gloves were chewed down to the nubs, bloody cuticles dried from an assault hours ago.
“Tony,” he said when I put the Impala in park and opened the gas cap to insert the nozzle. It was the fake name I’d given him when I busted his ass. No need for
him to know who I really was. Besides, I always thought I looked like a Tony.
“Fizz,” I said. “You were quick on this one.”
“It’s because everyone who knows the difference between shit and a pony knows who the fuck Chaplain is.”
“I didn’t know,” I said and mashed the button marked unleaded. I was turned away from him. It was how most of our conversations went. I pretended to do some bullshit thing, he pretended to ignore me.
“Because you’re a cop,” he said. “Who’d tell you anything?”
“All right,” I said. “So what don’t I know about him?”
Fizz flicked his ashes and looked up at the sky. “He’s the biggest dog in town. He’s got eyes everywhere and if you piss him off, he doesn’t make threats. One minute you’re breathing and the next you’re not.”
“Just drugs?” I asked, watching the gas numbers climb up and up on the little pump readout.
“Are you fucking listening, man? No, not just drugs. Everything. He’s into everything.”
“All right,” I said and felt like I was talking down an angry horse. “So what would he want with girls?”
Fizz snorted and flicked his ashes. “Who doesn’t want girls?”
“Sex slaves, trafficking, things like that?”
“Sure,” Fizz said and shrugged his shoulders.
“What about special girls?” I asked. I returned the nozzle to the pump and removed the squeegee from the bucket of washer fluid. “He got any need for special girls?”
Fizz plunged a thumb into his mouth and started gnawing on the flesh.
“Fizz?” I pushed.
In my periphery, I saw bright blood bloom in the rim of his thumbnail and Fizz sucked it hard.
“Come on, Fizz,” I started. “Don’t make me—”
“Don’t make you what?” he snorted. “A few years in prison for drugs is shit compared to what Chaps is gonna do to my ass.”
First the girl and now Fizz.
“Is he really that bad?” I asked, hoping he’d clarify why Chaplain had everyone running under the fridge when the light came on.
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