Black_Tide

by Patrick Freivald

  Janet almost smiled at the rarest sight of her recent life: uncertainty crossing Matt Rowley's face. Sakura's blank expression could mean anything or nothing or both, but a sledgehammer like Rowley uneasy, that sent a thrill of worry and excitement up her spine.

  "Umm. What do you know about the afterlife?"

  "That's kind of a 'priest' question, isn't it? I'm just a computer gal." The flippant response bought her time to recover from the pointedness of the question. How much did they know?

  "We both know that's not true," Matt said. "You're way more than your job. Did Dawkins—did your brother ever talk to you about life after death? Ever find anything concrete in his research?"

  She weighed the value of additional flippancy and decided against it. "Why are you asking me this?"

  Sakura licked her lips. "My Kazuko came to me, surrounded by white light. It felt very much like the whispers of Gerstner augmentation but exactly not. Mercy where they are cruel, sadness where they find joy."

  "So you're crazy."

  Matt shook his head. "I've felt it, too. The whispers are back, but there's something else with them. I can feel people I knew, Akash and Garrett and even Adam sometimes, before they took him. Even you. I've only ever felt Augs and Jade users, and sometimes it feels like they're all there."

  "I'm in your head?" She considered running, but knew she'd never make it more than a couple of steps, if that.

  "Just a vague impression. You and lots of other people, all tied up together, indistinct, swimming around like a . . ."

  "Maelstrom."

  He grunted. "Exactly. A maelstrom of people's thoughts."

  "My brother?" She watched him for anything, any sign that he knew Dawkins could step through the veil, no matter how little. Matt's face held no guile, and he'd always lacked the imagination to lie with any success.

  "Now that you say it, no. I've never felt your brother in . . . whatever this is. Lots of other people, some long gone, but never him."

  "Never?"

  He held up his hands. "I'm sorry. I don't have an explanation."

  "Who else? Who else do you feel?"

  He ran his hands through his hair. "Everyone?"

  "Explain."

  "It's like they're all there, millions of people swimming through my head." He gave Sakura a small bow. "Kazuko joined them. Blossom and I compared notes. Her daughter passed the same moment, half the world away. I can't explain it, I don't know what it means, but there's something here, something that remains of these people. And I think it's because of Gerstner. She's the only common denominator."

  Sakura pulled off her T-shirt.

  Janet bit back an obnoxious comment, suppressing the defense mechanism she'd built over so many years in the enemy's nest, and leaned in to examine the faint, puckered scar beneath Sakura's black, no-frills bra.

  "Looks old. Get it yesterday?"

  Sakura's eyes flashed. "How did you know?"

  "COM traffic. You were hit, bad enough to admit it, which must have been pretty damned bad, and then you were fine. Didn't take a genius to figure out something weird happened. Matt said they'd beaten you at the airport, but here you are, no obvious bruising. So there you have it, functional Gerstner regenerates. And if I know it, the assholes at DHS know it."

  Matt ran his tongue across his front teeth and tried not to sneer. "We are the assholes at DHS."

  "Yes." Janet raised a finger. "But not all the assholes. Not by a long shot." She turned to Sakura. "They've been keeping a close eye on Matt, but are too afraid to touch him, mainly because they're not sure if they can take him without Aug support. You can bet they'll have a stethoscope up your ass before the week's out."

  Sakura pulled her shirt back on. "They wouldn't dare."

  Janet switched gears. "So your daughter dies—I'm so sorry—and you're saved in a genuine, Vatican-thinks-it's-cool miracle."

  "I'm not Christian."

  Janet ignored the objection. "So you regenerated. Generation two or generation one? Any mutations? Funny growths?"

  "No." Sakura ran her thumb over the scar. "It's much like before, not quite so good."

  "Well that's a plus." Second-generation regenerates improved on the first in almost every way: faster, without weird mutations or increased risk of bonking out, it had revolutionized ICAP soldiery. A reversion to first-generation regenerates might be worse than no regeneration at all. "So why do you think this weird shit is tied to Gerstner? It sounds . . . different." She whirled on Matt. "Maybe you're the common denominator."

  He shrugged. "You remember Ben Mueller, from almost ten years ago? I've never met him, not before he joined, not as an agent. Never saw the body after he bonked out, didn't go to the funeral. I don't think I've been within a hundred miles of him, ever. But here he is. More like him, too."

  "So there's some kind of gestalt hive-mind made up of those exposed to possession by a Nephilim who just decided to live in your brain and give you advice. Seems perfectly logical."

  "What do you want me to say, Janet? We're here because we thought maybe you could shed some light on the subject."

  She mimicked his shrug. "Sorry. In Janet-world, dead is dead. Nothing in D's research ever said otherwise."

  * * *

  Matt filled the 0.5-cc syringe, stabbed it into Kamen's shoulder, and injected the sedative. Her eyes drifted lazily behind closed lids throughout the injection, with no sign of having registered the sensation.

  "She's lying," Sakura said behind him. "Janet."

  "I know. About what, do you think?"

  "Dead is dead. She knows something she's not saying."

  "Why?" He looked down at Libby, her ruined mouth puffy and bruised despite a hefty dose of anti-inflammatories.

  Sakura's shadow blocked the light from the stand-lamp in the corner. "I don't get 'why'. She's a good liar, but there's something she won't tell. You can't trust her."

  He turned away from the drugged girl to look at Sakura. Bloodshot eyes over deep bags betrayed her stoic expression, and deep lines creased her forehead. If he didn't know better he'd call her tired, but for Sakura to show that much on her face she must be in exhausted anguish. "I'll keep that in mind."

  * * *

  The phone rang six times before a female voice dripping with aspartame answered. "AR Promotions, how may I direct your call?"

  "Tina Allison, please." Janet matched the artificial sweetness note for note and stared out across her back field. The goldenrod had faded to light brown and had started shedding petals, revealing dusty purple raspberry canes scattered throughout the semi-tamed field. She'd have to hire that kid with the zero-turn to knock it down in a week or two.

  "Is she expecting your call?"

  "No she's not. This is Janet LaLonde from the Department of Homeland Security Special Threats Bureau. It's of the utmost importance that I speak with her immediately. Interrupt if necessary." She gave her ID number, twice, to give the girl a chance to write it down.

  Nothing. Then, "Hold, please."

  Six minutes of insufferable pop music later, the line went quiet. A strong female voice said, "Miss LaLonde, this is Tina Allison, sorry for keeping you waiting." Her accent tasted of generic Americana, Las Vegas with maybe a little Denver thrown in.

  "I understand that you represent the MMA star Big K. It's imperative that I speak with him."

  "Umm, he's out of the country at the moment. May I ask what this is about?"

  "I'd prefer to speak to him directly."

  "By company policy we don't pass on cold calls, Miss LaLonde. We have a lot of celebrity clients and doing so would jeopardize our business, so I'm going to have to insist."

  Janet watched a trio of chickadees frolic through the brush. Their carefree play belied the constant panic of their existence—eat enough to survive the winter or starve. "Okay. He kidnapped a colleague's child, raped his wife, and killed several of his neighbors. I have something he wants and am willing to broker a trade for the boy."

  "Excuse me?"
Allison's shock sounded genuine enough.

  "I didn't misspeak. I can make a trade for the child, or my colleague can use the full might of the United States military to exterminate your client like the useless vermin he is."

  "There must be some mistake—"

  "There isn't. You can call whoever you want to verify my credentials. Pass on the message, please." She gave the number for the encrypted satellite phone.

  "This is unbelievable."

  "I agree, it is. Your client is a success in his own right who up until recently had a long life ahead of him. His decision to fuck with the most dangerous man on the planet is, to be blunt, completely insane, and the best he can now hope for is life in prison, though I give his odds of surviving this self-made clusterfuck less than one in fifty. I hope you're well insured. Anyway, have him call me at his earliest convenience. Thank you, buh-bye."

  She hung up, ran her fingertips over the countertop, and turned around.

  Matt sat at the kitchen table staring at his hands. She leaned in to draw his attention. "Well, that went about how I expected."

  He looked up. "What do you think? Is she in on it?"

  Janet touched the space bar on her laptop to wake it up. "I don't think so, but it's hard to say, especially over the phone. I'll bet we're about to find out."

  She turned up the volume on the external speakers. Macklemore blared through them for a moment, then Big K's phone kicked to voicemail. "Yo, you've reached me. Do it."

  Tina Allison's voice shook. "Karthik, it's Tina. I just got the weirdest fucking call in the history of ever from some girl who says she's with the Department of Homeland Security. You need to call me as soon as you get this. I'll text you, too. Call me right away. This is serious. Bye."

  The phone clicked dead.

  "Okay," Janet said. "So we've got his number. Let's see if we can't sniff it out." She pecked at the keys with her too-long nails, then hammered ENTER. "Okay. UPSTREAM's got his phone traveling west on Interstate 80 just outside Joliet, Illinois."

  Matt moved behind her and looked at the map. He smelled of gun oil and Old Spice, a noxious, overly-masculine brew that reminded her of NASCAR and pro wrestling and noodling catfish on the bayou.

  The map showed cellular locations traveling west from Chicago, a series of quasi-hexagonal regions, each centered on I-80.

  "So that's Big K's phone, looks like a clean seventy miles per hour. Loading CO-TRAVELER." Janet clicked again, and thousands of vectors joined the first, turning the screen into a writhing mass of multicolored, digital tendrils. In large groups and then small, they faded and disappeared until only two others remained.

  "Who are they?" Matt asked.

  "First is a Verizon phone, 217 area code. Let's see . . . Jeff Rock, Decatur, Illinois address. No record, no priors. Second is . . . also Verizon, 312 area code. Issued to FedEx Chicago, Lake Street, downtown."

  "On it." Matt called the Lake Street FedEx and verified that the second phone had been issued to one of their long-haul drivers, Jeff Rock, who often ran ground shipments from Chicago all the way to Sacramento and everywhere in between.

  A phone call and a few minutes later, the Illinois Department of Justice dispatched the State Police to apprehend Rock, who cooperated fully after surrendering a tenth of an ounce of weed and two rolling papers. A half an hour after that they found Big K's phone, turned on with GPS enabled, in a sealed cardboard box en route via ground transportation to The Venetian hotel in Las Vegas.

  Matt frowned at the picture of the label on the box. It had shipped from Baltimore.

  "Nice try, you tricky bastard."

  At Matt's urging, they let Rock off with a warning.

  * * *

  An hour after dark, Monica pulled into the driveway and killed the truck's engine, blocking in the unfamiliar maroon car. Dried mud spattered the weatherworn Camry's wheel wells. She killed the lights, drowning everything in green afterglow, then got out, helped Ted down, and pulled the pistol. Nine steps brought her to the car, and her eyes hadn't fully adjusted.

  She placed her left hand on the hood. Cold. Whoever drove it had been there a while. She took shelter behind it, blinked away the last of her night blindness, and called out. "Hello?"

  Dark shadows shifted on the porch, and the porch swing chains creaked in their mounts. She wished for the millionth time that Matt would get around to installing the motion lights.

  "Identify yourself!"

  "Mon." Jason's voice carried over the susurrus through the trees, just loud enough for her to recognize it. Ted chuffed and bounded for the steps, tail wagging.

  She holstered the weapon and marched forward. "Shit, Jason, you scared the crap out of . . . are you okay?"

  Dark bags dwelled under his eyes, and he hadn't shaved in days. And he stank, like old eggs and milk gone sour. Jason sat on the step and the dog shoved his nose in his crotch. Jason scratched Ted's ears and the Bassett flopped down on the spot, tail drumming an enthusiastic tattoo on the pine boards.

  She put her hands on her hips. "You look like shit."

  His head bobbed, the barest hint of a nod.

  "You smell like shit."

  It bobbed again.

  She waited, he said nothing. His eyes wandered across the railing and through the brush, down to Ted and up almost but not quite to her face.

  "Well, shit, you know you ain't supposed to be here. Maybe you and Matt patched things up a bit, but that won't stop him from pulling your arms off and beating you to death with them if he finds you talking to me when he ain't home."

  "Is that what he said?" Jason's voice carried a ragged note that matched his current appearance. "That we patched things up?"

  "Well, not right as rain, but you helped him with some old thing down Atlanta way, and again with me. He's grateful for it. Said you saved his life, right?"

  He sighed and lay back on the porch, eyes turned up to the stars. "I did, and maybe even Blossom Sakura's and that little girl's, and brought some long-sought rest to some who needed it. I did all that. But that doesn't make us friends."

  "Oh, come on. I know he's stubborn as a mule, but—"

  "It's not him. It's me. He has something I want and can never have, and I can't forgive him for it, not for taking you and keeping you, and not for bringing you back into my life last year." His eyes sparkled but didn't turn to her. "You've broken me, and I can never heal."

  Her heart lurched in her chest. She put her hand on the railing. "I think you need to go."

  He squeezed his eyes shut, pressed the heels of his palms to his temples. "No, no, that's not even why I'm here. I'm here because I love you, but I'm not here for you or because of you. I came here because of Adam."

  She shivered in the crisp mountain air. "What do you know about my boy?"

  "I've been dreaming about him, about the people trying to hurt him. Only this time he spoke to me. He's so much older than his years. There's something in him, like the void between the stars, you think it's empty but it's not."

  She fumbled with her cell phone, thought about calling 9-1-1. "You're not making sense."

  He gave a vigorous nod of agreement. "No. But that doesn't mean it's not true." His eyes snapped open, wide, mad. "We have to help him!"

  "Matt's doing everything he can. Adam will—"

  "Not Adam. We have to help your husband!"

  "Jason, you listen to me." She cleared her throat. "You don't start making sense real soon, I'm going to kick your ass six ways to Sunday and call the county to haul you to the drunk tank."

  He put up his hands. "I'm not drunk. Haven't had a drink in weeks. I'm . . . enlightened. I can see past here and now, to a string of endless unrealities. I—"

  She leaned in and delivered an open-palm slap, hard enough to wrench his head to the side without the leverage necessary to knock him unconscious. Ted barked at her. Jason carried on, so she slapped him again. "Last warning. You can't bring shit around me. You can't."

  He took a deep breath, letting it ou
t like a drag off a cigarette. "I assure you I'm quite sane and not under the influence. Your husband is in grave danger, and we need to help him."

  She frowned down at Ted, tried to hide her sudden craving in his soft brown eyes.

  ". . . which is something my son told you. Adam, who's barely even said his first word. In a dream."

  "In a dream." He flinched and threw up his arms in a defensive posture. "Please stop hitting me. I know it sounds crazy. I thought I was crazy. But it's not, and I'm not. I swear on the cloak of St. Martin that I'm not."

  "Is that blasphemy for you folks? I don't know about you Catholics and your saints."

  "No, it's not blasphemy. It's a miracle."

  "So, what, Adam comes to you in a dream and says his daddy's going to get killed?"

  Jason shook his head. "No. His daddy is going to kill someone, and in the process lose his soul. We have to keep Matt from going bonk."

  Monica stared at him a long moment.

  Ted looked from Jason to her and back, trying to decide who might have treats.

  "I'm listening."

  * * *

  In the darkness, Jay Z blared at Tina Allison. She fumbled for the console next to her bed and hit "Snooze." Unabated, it dragged her reluctantly from sleep until she sat up, grabbed her phone, squinted at a screen she couldn't see without her glasses, and hit 'Talk."

  "Hello?"

  "Yo. I need my accounts."

  "Karthik?"

  "First thing in the a-to-the-m, got it? Every penny."

  She couldn't tell if his usual intensity had ramped up to something more, but that he didn't ask for more information about her last message brought a tightness to her chest. "What the hell is going on?"

  "What's going on is I need my accounts transferred."

  "Are . . . are you in trouble?"

  "Nothing I can't handle. You ready for the number?"

  "Give me half a second." She got up, shuffled to the desk on the far side of the room, and pulled out a pen. "Hit me."

  She wrote the number on her hand and read it back to him.

  "Soon as the banks open, babe."