The Day Before

by Liana Brooks

  “Tell me what happened to Emir,” he said quietly.

  Composed, Sam said, “He was tied up behind the lab. Shot through the throat like Robbins. His intern called the police first thing this morning.” She licked her lips. “He called me last night.”

  Mac frowned. “The intern?”

  “Emir . . . He called, begging me to come to the lab. He said they knew it worked, and they were going to kill him. He couldn’t stall them.”

  “They who?”

  “He didn’t say.” Her hands clenched. “I didn’t go. I could have saved him, and I didn’t.”

  “How were you going to save him?”

  Sam looked up sharply. “What?”

  “You were going to rush in alone? Again? For what? They—­whoever they are—­would have tied you up, and you’d be dead with Emir.”

  Her eyes narrowed.

  “Why didn’t you go?” Mac asked, knowing the answer before she said it.

  She looked out the window with a hundred-­mile stare. “I thought it was a trap.”

  “You were right.”

  Sam crossed her arms. “It doesn’t help. If I’d called Altin—­”

  “He wouldn’t have believed it any more than you did.”

  “I know. Altin said the same thing when he listened to the phone call this afternoon.” She sighed. “I hate failing.”

  “No kidding?”

  Sam smiled before shaking her head. “We need to tell someone about this.”

  “Who?” He raised an eyebrow. “It’s time travel, Sam. The first thing anyone is going to do is lock us up for a psych eval. After we’ve spent three months in padded rooms, we’ll come out with our careers shot to find out they’ve classified this into a black hole. This is dangerous information.”

  “Are we crazy? Should we go in for a psych eval? I mean, time travel?”

  “It fits all the evidence we have. The DNA, the patterns on the skeletons, the penny.” He held up his lucky coin. “It all lines up.”

  She laughed. “It lines up?”

  “Occam’s razor—­the simplest answer is usually the correct one.”

  “And you consider time travel simple?”

  “I consider it the only explanation that fits with the evidence we have.”

  “Why didn’t Emir know the machine worked, though? He said it only sent waves. If it could do more, why wouldn’t he publish that information?”

  “Even if he could only send small things back in time, think of the damage. Next year, someone sends back an advanced phone prototype. The research labs tinker with it, and we make a huge advance, but then someone sends back a phone from ten years in the future. It’s too advanced, so we just re-­create it without developing the science. What happens from there? When do we hit a point where we are dependent on the future?”

  Sam slipped the penny from his fingers. “What happens when someone travels too far back and introduces a new virus, or a new weapon?”

  He took the penny back, letting his hands linger on hers. “What happens when we send ­people back, and we have iterations instead of clones? If your husband’s duplicate comes back in time, who are you married to? Does the duplicate have a right to your bank account? Your health care? Your children? Genetically, aren’t they his? And that doesn’t even address the nonliving things—­books, art, music—­that could be sent back in time. Buy a famous painting, send it back, sell it as your own.”

  “If all iterations reach a ground state where they are the same . . .”

  “Emir said this was based on wave forms. All the waves cancel each other out. Every time you split history, it creates a wave, and the wave crashes back to the ground state. Sam”—­he took her hand—­“anyone who has this information is going to want to use it.”

  “I don’t!” She looked panicked. “Do you?”

  Glad he was holding her hand, Mac nodded. “If I could go back and warn my platoon what would happen . . . if I could prevent the massacre from happening? I would.”

  “It would be a way to test the machine,” she offered carefully.

  “No. Luckily for me, the temptation is more of a pipe dream.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The machine wasn’t invented then, so I couldn’t go that far back. At least I think that’s how it works. Because if I could, I don’t know if I could stop myself. The idea of undoing all that pain . . .” He looked past her, seeing the sand and sun and blood and fire . . .

  “Mac?”

  She said it so softly, at first he wasn’t sure he heard. But then he swallowed, finally saying, “Anyone who knows this machine works will use it.”

  Sam frowned. “Someone killed Emir because the machine worked.”

  “Yes.”

  “Did they kill him to stop the machine or because he wouldn’t use it the way they wanted?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “I really, really hate not having any answers.”

  Mac flipped the penny. “Then let’s find some.”

  CHAPTER 26

  Today you have elected stability. Today you have elected temperance. Today you have elected peace.

  ~ Excerpt from President Toinen’s inaugural speech I1–2072

  Friday July 5, 2069

  Alabama District 3

  Commonwealth of North America

  When Sam came back, Mac dished up two bowls of fiery hot chili topped with cheese, sour cream, and chives. He slid her bowl across the table and smiled. “Thank you for making dinner.”

  She smiled back and took a bite. “How was your day?”

  “Ballistic. I spent the morning playing with guns in the lab until I found a match for the injuries on Robbins and Emir. I don’t have a bullet for either, but they were killed the same way. The shot across the throat is distinctive. From the amount of damage, I think they were killed by the same weapon, or similar weapons. I’m guessing same for the sake of simplicity.”

  “Why the throat?”

  “Execution style for a traitor or liar.”

  “I know, but that’s a regional thing. As a rule, gang members don’t travel far. We don’t have the right population for that kind of gang violence here. And I’ve been reading up,” she said, “and none of the outfits in the cities near here do that. So why do it this way? Think like the killer for a minute. Whoever did this could have killed Emir and Robbins any way they wanted. Emir was tied up. It could have looked like a suicide. It could have looked like a drive-­by.”

  “The killer wanted attention.” Mac ate for a few minutes and shook his head. “No. It’s more than attention, isn’t it?”

  Sam finished her chili. “The killer is making a statement. He wants us to know that these men were traitors. He wants us to know they were killed because of what they did. Emir was killed because he called me, because the killer thought he was a traitor.”

  “Our guy thinks he’s safe,” Mac said. “Two violent deaths, and he’s flaunting it. The killer has a god complex. Thinks he’s untouchable.”

  She tapped her spoon on the empty bowl. “I wish it weren’t true.”

  “You’ll find him. Or her,” he added as an afterthought.

  “Before another body turns up? I’m getting paranoid, Mac. Everybody looks like a suspect right now. I’m ready to canvass the town and ask everyone what they did last night. I have nightmares where the whole city is in on the murders. I was home alone, sleeping. Where was everyone else?”

  “I was at work,” he offered.

  Sam gave him an odd look. “Were you? Or are you lying? I can’t even tell anymore. I’ve started twitching at the office. If someone steps into the hall, I reach for my gun. A bird flew past my window this morning, and I jumped out of my seat.” She started rubbing her neck. “I can’t live like this.”

  “Welcome to my wor
ld.” Depression had seeped in as the nightmares became less vivid. It seemed like he was hovering over the abyss, ready to fall. Sam was the only reason he crawled out of bed in the morning.

  “Are you always like this?”

  He could see the despair and darkness cocooning her, trapping her the way they had him. He forced a smile and lied. “After a ­couple of years, you trade twitchy and paranoid for sleepless nights and depression. It’s not an improvement, but it’s a change. More chili?” he asked as he stood.

  “Yes, please.”

  He served up more food. “The case is going to break soon. He’s killed two ­people, and there are CBI agents crawling all over the lab. Someone is going to find something. There are no perfect crimes. ­People see things. ­People remember things. Little things stick out in the mind.”

  “I hope you’re right.”

  Sam’s phone rang as she fed Hoss. She picked it up as Mac finished the last of the chili. It wasn’t a number she knew. “Agent Rose, how can I help you?”

  “Rose, it’s Marrins. We’ve got a situation down at the office.”

  She groaned. Across the room, Mac frowned at her. “What do you need, sir?”

  “Get down to the bureau building ASAP, and don’t tell that idiot from the coroner’s office what’s happening. This is an almighty mess, and his fingerprints are all over this. You be careful.” Her gaze slipped to where Mac was sitting, arms crossed and frown in place. “That won’t be a problem, sir.” She turned off her phone and set it down with a casual nonchalance. Panic slithered down her spine, a living terror. Where had he been last night?

  Mac raised an eyebrow. “What’s all that about?”

  Those ballistics tests were a handy alibi if anyone accused him of handling a gun. “Hmm? Oh, Marrins is having computer issues at the office. He wants me to fix it for him.” She shrugged and reached for her purse. “You want me to pick up anything while I’m in town?”

  “All the stores are closed.”

  “Oh, right.” She fiddled nervously with her keys. “Right. Well. Good night.”

  With a frown Mac stood up. “Why don’t I come with you?”

  “You don’t need to,” Sam slurred her words as she stepped backward.

  “I’m good with computers, and we can talk about the case while we drive.”

  She shook her head. “No. No, that’s not a good plan. You worked late last night. Get some sleep. Take a break.”

  His eyes narrowed.

  “Stop looking at me like that! Really.” She lifted her chin. “There are limits we need to respect here. We work together. That doesn’t mean you need to follow me everywhere I go. Okay?”

  He nodded. “Sure.”

  “Good. Good-­bye.” She practically ran from the house, worrying the entire way about what Marrins had found.

  Mac slammed his fist into the door, leaving a small dent. That woman got under his skin. They weren’t friends? Going on runs together in their free time, and working on the case, even eating meals together. Okay, so it wasn’t a lot of free time, but it wasn’t nothing. He thought they were building a rapport.

  A phone buzzed behind him.

  Stupid woman, she’d left her phone. He picked it up with shaking hands and saw Bri’s face next to the phone number. “Hello?”

  “MacKenzie? I thought I called Sam.”

  “She just left to run some errands.”

  “Without her phone?” Bri sounded concerned. “She was supposed to call me tonight. She’s not mad at me, is she?”

  No, apparently she’s mad at me about something.

  “No, there was something with work.” Which made less sense the more he thought about it. “I’ll have her call you when she gets back.” Sam was a creature of habit, and the image of her running off to work without her work clothes on or her phone in hand didn’t compute.

  The phone weighed heavy in his hand. After a long moment, he trudged out to his truck. He knew where she was going. If he hurried, he could catch her at the bureau building, hand over the phone. The pills were gone, but there were other ways to flirt with oblivion. And there were at least ten liquor stores between here and morgue. By the time she got home, he could be so soused, he wouldn’t be able to tell dawn from damnation.

  The Alabama back highway was empty as a church during Carnival. A full moon hung low over the trees. He tried a few of his preprogrammed radio stations, but none were playing what he needed. There probably weren’t songs for this anyway. No one wrote sound tracks for abandoned, unwanted ­people sliding into the depths of depression. A passing graveyard beckoned. He could go there to drink. Sit with the dead and drink until he joined them.

  He turned into the city and pulled into the square to park in front of the bureau building. Mac took the phone and walked across the low-­cut grass. A light flared upstairs in Marrins’s office. Angry voices filtered down through the thick glass.

  Stepping back, he craned his neck, trying to see who it was. The light went out. He looked around the parking lot, finding Sam’s Alexia Virgo parked in the usual place and a red DLD Zibann he didn’t recognize parked by the main entrance. The building door swung open, and two ­people walked out, carrying a third between them. They tossed the body in the backseat, and drove off in the Zibann.

  Terror held him by the throat.

  The car pulled out and slowly circled the main square. Knees trembling, Mac ran to his car. Bile filled his mouth.

  Lieutenant Marcellus knelt beside him, his uniform torn and bloody. It was an ambush. All around him, the ghosts rose from his memory, watching him, condemning him. . .

  With a white-­knuckled hand, he punched redial on Sam’s phone. The phone rang while he started the car, pulled into traffic, and watched the Zibann weave through the streets ahead of him.

  He held the phone up and dialed Marrins’s number. A warning light on the dashboard reminded him to plug his phone in for safe driving. He ignored the light and hit the accelerator.

  The Zibann pulled onto County Road 10, heading west across the bridge, when the yellow phone light lit up, and the car swerved as it slowed.

  “Marrins,” the senior agent answered with a growl.

  “Um . . .” Mac slowed too. “Um, sorry. I was trying to find Agent Rose.”

  “You’re using her phone, gez.”

  “Right. Sorry. I was, um, trying to call her friend. Um . . .” He was sweating, stomach cramping in fear. “Sorry.” He dropped the phone and watched the Zibann’s phone light turn off as the car sped up. Coincidence was a nasty thing.

  Pulling to the shoulder, he flicked the lights off. The road ahead was flat for miles, and it was easy to see the Zibann’s lights flickering between the low scrub on either side. He pulled his own phone out and dialed Marrins’s number again.

  “Who the gez is this?” Marrins demanded as the Zibann’s phone lights turned on again.

  Mac hung up without answering.

  He barely managed to pull the car to a stop and open the door before he threw up. Sam was in trouble.

  He found her phone and dialed Altin’s line. Mac knew he himself was useless, but Altin would go in.

  “Detective Altin’s line, this is Officer Holt,” a female voice said.

  “Holt? This is MacKenzie from CBI. I need Altin. Now.” His stomach clenched as bile crawled up this throat.

  “Detective Altin is handling an interrogation right now.”

  “This is more important. Agent Rose is missing.”

  “Good for her. Check the strip clubs. You understand, dontchya, peach?” said Holt, in the same syrupy accent as the fake Melody Chimes.

  He dropped the phone to the pavement. Mac cowered in the bushes. Marcellus yelled for everyone to get down. Hiking into dangerous territory to rescue the POW . . . he couldn’t remember what arrogance drove him to believe he could do that.
He’d walked in, calm and sure. He’d gotten Marcellus’s team out and left the fort in flames.

  Almost home, they’d been ambushed. Everything he’d done meant nothing. He’d almost had Marcellus’s team home.

  Almost been safe.

  Almost was failure.

  Bile and nausea swamped him as his eyes watered, blurring his vision of the weeds on the roadside. A dandelion, sadly muted by the moonlight, seemed to nod in understanding.

  Sam would die.

  A sweet, astringent smell tickled Sam’s nose. Squeezing her eyes shut, she tried to turn from the smell and scraped her face on cold leather.

  “Drunken gez,” muttered Marrins.

  Marrins? She lifted her head, peering into the darkness. Green and yellow lights floated and coalesced into buttons on a car.

  “We should take care of him,” a woman said a little too fast to inspire confidence. “Shouldn’t we? What if he tells someone?”

  Sam tried to brush hair out of her face but was hampered by a pair of handcuffs.

  “Him? He’s a drunken pill addict who can barely string a sentence together. Harley nearly had him in the ground last week. Clueless gez never asked a question,” Marrins said.

  “What if he calls Altin again? I can’t intercept every call.”

  Sam lifted her head, trying to get a good look at the second speaker. Moonlight reflected off a police badge.

  Officer Holt.

  Marrins chuckled. “This won’t take long. In a ­couple of hours, it will all be over. With Emir’s machine, we can go back in time, back to the good ol’ US of A. I won’t have no black man telling me what to do, or some little Mexican whore showing me up in my own district.”

  The car hit a pothole, and Sam groaned. Her head was ready to burst from the pressure, and the smell wouldn’t go away. All she could remember was pulling up to the bureau and seeing a light upstairs. She’d gone up to see what had upset Marrins, and now she was here.

  Marrins slowed the car as it bounced across train tracks, and again. Double train tracks. There was a set on the west side of town going toward the lab. She’d been stuck watching the fast trains from Birmingham race down to the Gold Coast in a sleek white blur.