The Day Before

by Liana Brooks

  “You okay?” Harley asked.

  Mac jerked his head in a nod. “It’s just, I’m waiting on my refill. All these bodies . . .” Weren’t bothering him nearly as much as they had a month ago.

  A heavy hand landed on his shoulder. With a painful squeeze, the coroner shook him. “Lemme handle it. You go sit in your office. I can clean this up.”

  His hand slipped to the efile; he had what he needed. “Sure. Sure. Thanks.”

  “Not a problem.”

  Retreating to his office, Mac turned off the light and rested his head on a pile of old forms. Sunlight streamed in through the ground-­level window. He could see the parking lot, Agent Rose’s office window . . . and Agent Rose, stepping out of her car, wearing a perfect navy skirt on her perfect tan body. For a moment, his ghosts fell silent. There had to be a mistake.

  There was no point to planting a clone in the bureau unless they were primed to do something, to feed information to someone. But there was nothing in District 3 anyone could possibly want.

  Except for the lab. And a CBI senior agent who would rather write Jane Does off as clones than open murder investigations. No wonder Sam wound up as a target. Young and eager to please, she was just the kind of person they didn’t want. Whoever they were.

  And with a cushy promotion, the clone-­Sam could do even more. Muddle more investigations. Destroy evidence when a politician was replaced. A whole conspiracy to destroy the country was blooming in front of him, and he didn’t want to stop it because the little soldier had finally woken up from a five-­year nap.

  “MacKenzie?” The office door opened with a squeal of protest. Harley squatted beside his chair. “You doing all right, son? I saw that girl—­she was in a powerful bad way. Not a pretty sight. Why don’t you take off early?”

  Mac sat up. “I’d like that.”

  “I’m sure you would.” Harley picked up a pill bottle from Mac’s desk. It rattled with toxic relief. “Take a ­couple of these on the way out. You’ll sleep better.”

  He took the bottle gratefully and dumped a pill in his hand even as Harley walked away. The bitter aftertaste made him gag. The taste was off, and he idly wondered what the expiration date was on these meds. Rolling the second pill between thumb and forefinger like a worry bead, he pulled up Agent Rose’s file again, his mind wandering down the tunnel of depression. Too many ­people had died because of his mistakes already. He couldn’t let Sam be a victim. But she was dead already. He spun in his chair.

  Agent Rose was dead . . . maybe. The woman he knew as Sam was a clone . . . maybe. The answers were there dancing just outside his reach. If he could shake the fog. Ghosts of dead men stared at him from the darkness of his own mind. Fallen friends waiting for him to make that last, fatal mistake. And he was running out of time.

  Mac shook his head. He had to buy time. Had to get sober.

  Had to . . .

  Had to . . .

  He frowned in confusion at the pills. Had to get off the pills. Five years of living with his head in a fog so he could forget one cold morning in February of ’64. Five years of twelve pills a day. Five years of barely remembering his own name, forgetting to eat, losing everything. He bit his lip, tasted blood.

  He couldn’t think like this. Couldn’t think with his head in the fog. Couldn’t remember what he was supposed to do. Trembling, he walked out of the morgue, dumping the pills onto the lawn.

  Agent Rose looked across the parking lot at him.

  Mac swore under his breath. Wiping a cold hand across his mouth, he flicked the pill bottle into the grass. Her eyes followed the fall of the bottle.

  If looks could kill. “Agent Rose, hi.” Mac tried for cheerful and wound up sounding desperate.

  “I was looking for you.” She crossed her arms and glared at him. “MacKenzie?”

  Mac shook his head. “Sorry. I’m . . . I’m not feeling well.”

  She glowered at the pills in the grass. “Where did you find those?”

  “Harley had some extras.”

  “I see.” Agent Perfect was not happy.

  He was shaking. Mac rubbed a hand over the back of his neck. “I had one. Just the one. And I feel . . . I feel nauseous.” Exceptionally nauseous, he realized. Burning-­in-­the-­heat-­ready-­to-­pass-­out nauseated.

  “You look it,” she said, sounding disgusted. So judgmental . . . but who is she to judge? At least he was real.

  Then again, what’s “real . . .”

  “Why don’t you let me drive?”

  Mac nodded. The world was spinning around him, but he could focus. And focusing on Agent Rose was no hardship. He giggled.

  “What?” She pulled him up and helped him steer his unruly feet toward her car.

  “The world revolves around you.” He laughed and fell into the backseat.

  “Does it now?” She tilted her sunglasses down so he could see her eyes.

  He sighed. “God, you’re beautiful.”

  “Save your prayers for later, Mac. Where’d you get those pills?”

  “From . . . from my office.” He frowned. “Harley helped me find them. I left . . . left the bottle there, because of the prescription number.”

  “Just the bottle?”

  Mac battled his memory. He remembered the empty bottle, he’d left it on the edge of his desk so he could call in the refill. “It was empty. But it’s not.”

  Agent Rose patted his knee. “Stay right here.” She walked off and came back with the bottle, a ­couple of pills, and grass clippings on her knee. “Pull your legs in.”

  He groaned when the car started. Agent Rose’s hand came into view with two small orange pills, just like the ones he’d been taking over the weekend. He gulped the fruit-­flavored medicine down. “Feel worse,” he groaned. “Mixed . . . shouldn’t mix.”

  “I know. Just don’t die on me before we get to the house. I think you’re in for a bad night.”

  Mac heartily agreed.

  Sam barely managed to get MacKenzie into his room. He was feverish to the touch and shaking, but still somewhat responsive. Time for phone calls.

  “Altin here.”

  “Altin, it’s Rose. I have some pills of suspicious origin, and I need to get them tested.”

  “Is this a bureau thing?”

  “I don’t know. I asked MacKenzie to do some autopsies for me. At lunchtime, he was fine, this afternoon he’s—­” She heard MacKenzie throwing up in his bathroom. “It looks like the flu—­fever and vomiting—­but I don’t know a virus that hits this fast. He found some pills in his office, thought they were his, and took them.”

  “What sort of pills does Agent MacKenzie do?” Altin’s asked with polite menace.

  “Do,” she thought. Not “take.” That seems about right.

  “He’s currently addicted to Orange Sun breath mints.”

  “Say that again?”

  She smiled in spite of herself. “It’s a long story. Anyway, he takes five to six breath mints a day from a regular medicine bottle. It’s all placebo. I knew there would be some withdrawal symptoms, but that’s not what this is. Mac said he remembered emptying this bottle. Then Harley handed him a bottle. And now he’s delirious.”

  “Where are you?”

  “My house. MacKenzie’s apartment was caught in the flood, so he’s renting the back room.”

  “I didn’t see a back room.”

  “No one sees the back room. It’s on the other side of the mudroom, and everyone thinks it’s a closet.”

  “Give me thirty minutes. If he gets worse, head for the emergency room.”

  “I will.” Sam set the bottle on the kitchen counter and went to check on Mac. He lay on the floor outside the bathroom, curled in a fetal position. “Any blood?”

  There was a faint whisper, “No.”

  She sat on the fl
oor beside him. Training had never covered this situation. “Do you get poisoned often?” sounded like a pickup line from a cheesy goth sitcom. “How do you feel?” was too trite. He shivered, and she rubbed his back gently, trying to think of something to distract him from the agony. “Did you get the autopsies done?” Brilliant, Samantha, absolutely brilliant. You are never going to win a Partner of the Year award.

  “Yes. Harley . . . Harley came.” Mac coughed and groaned. “Told him I was working on the graveyard bodies.”

  “Did he believe you?”

  “I don’t . . .” He unrolled and rushed to the bathroom again. Sam went to fetch a towel and a fresh bar of soap. MacKenzie gave her a weak smile when he came back. “Thanks.”

  “Go shower. I have Altin coming over with one of his lab monkeys. We’ll see what he says about the pills.”

  Sam was waiting at the door when Altin’s patrol car pulled up with a younger man in the passenger seat. “Sorry about the after-­hours call,” she said, holding the screen door open. “I locked Hoss upstairs. Mac is in the back room.”

  Altin nodded, not looking convinced. “This is Vik Zhoundroff, one of our EMT boys.”

  Sam couldn’t tell if Vik was eighteen or thirty-­eight; he had blond hair, blue eyes, and the high cheekbones she’d learned to associate with Slavic ancestry. He would probably look like a teenager until he was ninety. “Nice to meet you, Vik.” She held out a hand. “Agent Sam Rose, CBI.” She nodded to the kitchen. “I’ll show you the pills. He’s still alertish, so I didn’t want to make a hospital run.”

  “ ‘Ish’?” Altin asked.

  “He’s talking, but I think he’s hallucinating. But then again, it’s Mac. So I can’t tell.”

  Vik picked up the orange prescription bottle from the table. “What’s he taking pills for?”

  “If I had to guess, PTSD,” Sam said, crossing her arms. It wasn’t her story to tell, but Altin was scowling, so she went on. “He was USA army, before they joined the Commonwealth. From what Mac says, he saw some rough stuff overseas.”

  Altin raised an eyebrow. “Army?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I never would have picked that out. He’s so quiet.”

  Sam shrugged. “Well, he has been on heavy antidepressants for about five years.”

  Vik fished out one of the pills. “This is fluphenazine. One of the older antipsychotics. We use them at the hospital as a bridge drug when we have to change medications. It’s not something you can take long-­term.” He dropped the pill back in the bottle. “I actually don’t think they prescribe these anymore.”

  “So how’d it wind up in Mac’s office?” asked Sam.

  “Never mind how—­why is a better question.” Altin looked at Vik.

  The EMT shook his head. “A fatal dose is over twenty milligrams. The pills are ten each.”

  “He said he took one, but he usually takes two pills in a pop.” Sam said. “I saw him dumping pills in the grass and went over to ask what was going on. He was having trouble walking and looked feverish.”

  “You can give him a small dose of antihistamine,” Vik said, “but only if he starts scratching at his skin. Otherwise, it should wear off in a day or so.”

  “Does he still have the other drugs in his system?” Altin asked Sam.

  “I don’t know. They were antidepressants—­how long do those stay after you stop taking the drugs?”

  “Days to weeks, depending,” Vik said. “The drugs could interact. Maybe. I wouldn’t suggest mixing them.” Sam looked at him, and he must have noticed the I-­could-­have-­came-­up-­with-­that look she was giving him. He shrugged. “That’s the best I can do, considering the lack of info.”

  “Can we take these?” Altin shook the bottle.

  “Be my guest,” Sam said.

  The detective put the pills in his pocket, but then frowned. “Are you reporting this?”

  “I’m doing that right now.”

  “But he’s bureau, so I’m not the one to report to.

  Sam shook her head. “Mac works for the coroner’s office more than the bureau, so it does fall under your jurisdiction. I believe him that the bottle was empty. Someone planted the fluphena-­whatever in his office. I don’t see how this could be a mistake.”

  Altin nodded. “What was MacKenzie working on?”

  “This morning I asked him to do those autopsies you asked about. I’m not sure what else Harley had him doing, probably grunt work, identifying bodies found after the hurricane.”

  “The cases this morning could stir up trouble,” Altin said, picking his words with care.

  “Trouble enough to kill an ME over? There are a lot of things I’ll believe, Altin, but telepathic serial killers isn’t one of them. There’s no way anyone outside the coroner’s office knew which case Mac was working on today.”

  Altin gave her a pointed look.

  Sam shook her head. “No. There’s no one like that in the bureau.”

  “Like what?” Vik asked in confusion.

  She pressed her lips together, uncertain of how much of Sunday’s conversation about MacKenzie she wanted the EMT to know about.

  Altin waved her off. “I know what you think, Rose. But every day this looks more and more like an inside job. Dead bodies do not dump themselves. And strange pills don’t appear in bottles without help.”

  In Mac’s room, the shower turned on. At least he was still alive. Sam turned to the detective. “If you think this is an inside job, you better start watching your back, Altin. I’m not the only one on this case.”

  “That a threat, Rose?”

  “You know it’s not. Out of everyone, I’m the only one with an alibi for today. But if you think someone at the bureau is doing this, take a good look in the mirror. You’re the lead on this case. If anyone should be worried, it’d be you and Marrins. I’m small potatoes.”

  Altin nodded. “I’m going to talk to Marrins in the morning, just in case. I’ve known him for years, and his heart’s not that good—­he’s pretty discreet about it, but he takes pills all the time, too.” This was news to Sam—­Marrins definitely didn’t eat like he had a heart condition. “You and MacKenzie can handle these sudden shocks,” Altin continued, “but if this same joker dropped these pills in Marrins’s desk we’d have a dead senior agent in this district.”

  Sam nodded with grim understanding. “Tell him to turn on his home security, too. He lives alone. Whoever murdered Robbins will see Marrins as an easy target.” She walked them out, then double-­checked the lock on her new back door. Somehow, she didn’t think she’d sleep easy.

  CHAPTER 17

  We are each the sum of our choices.

  ~ Excerpt from The Oneness of Being by Oaza Moun Il–2070

  Friday June 14, 2069

  Alabama District 3

  Commonwealth of North America

  Shadow and light fell on the still form of Agent Rose standing in the doorway, hands on her hips. An amused smile made sensuous lips curve in invitation. “Most of my dreams start like this,” Mac said. The previous night was a blur. If the taste in his mouth was any indication, he’d spent half the night riotously drunk, and the other half violently ill. The way Rose smiled at him, maybe they’d both been happily drunk, and he’d only been disgracefully ill.

  “You start most your dreams alive and healthy?” she asked.

  “Something like that.” He rubbed his face against the pillow as memories from the day before teased his brain.

  “Get up.” She tossed something on the foot of his bed. “Get dressed.”

  He hitched the blanket up over his shoulders. “I’m good, thanks.” She smiled, and for a moment the world was right. In the back of his mind, he knew it was only in his private fantasy. Even if Agent Rose wasn’t a murderous clone bent on killing him, she wasn’t interested. He knew the symptoms. H
e was falling in lust at a terminal velocity, and she was giving him a look reserved for the last puppy in the shelter.

  “Up, Mac. We’re going running.”

  “Beg your pardon?” He rolled on his back and lifted his head. She wasn’t laughing. She was smiling, and it wasn’t a nice smile. “Running?”

  “Yes.”

  “I hate running!”

  “The EMT who came by last night said that a light workout this morning would help you feel better.”

  “The EMT lied. Running will make me feel miserable.”

  Her predatory smile widened. “Exercise is good for depression.”

  “I’m not depressed, I have flashbacks. The two are not the same.”

  “You’ll have fewer bad memories if you make some good memories.”

  Then get naked. Mac stared at the ceiling. The commentary came from a part of his brain that insisted Agent Rose was everything he wanted. The rest of him was a little more interested in self-­preservation. He lifted his head again, watching her. “Why are you doing this to me?”

  “For your own good.” She probably meant it too. Everything about her said PROTECTOR in all-­capital letters. Agent Rose was a crusader, a guardian. It didn’t matter what she thought about him, she was going to keep him safe. Which killed his murderous-­clone theory and blew away his defenses.

  “It’s not worth it.”

  “What’s not worth what?”

  “Saving me. I’m not worth it.”

  “What?” She frowned in confusion.

  “I’m not worth anything.” The ceiling fan turned, creaking in the vacuum of his statement. Angry footsteps signaled Agent Rose’s approach. He pulled the blanket higher.

  She leaned over him, dark eyes narrowed. “Ten minutes, Agent MacKenzie. And then we are running until you puke.”

  He closed his eyes. “That shouldn’t take all that long.”

  She left, slamming the door behind her.

  Mac rolled on his side, shutting his eyes tight. He wasn’t running. He did not want to run. She could not make him run. He had to be at least a foot taller than her. Thin as he was, he still had to outweigh her by a hundred pounds or more. She couldn’t physically force him to run.