It doesn’t matter that we survive. All that matters is that our world survives.
~ Private conversation with Agent 5 of the Ministry of Defense
Tuesday March 25, 2070
Florida District 8
Commonwealth of North America
Iteration 2
Gant crouched behind the bushes in the predawn light.
“Are you sure it was her?” Donovan asked again.
“Positive. You think I wouldn’t know Detective Rose when I saw her?”
Donovan craned his neck to look at the apartment. “Should we rush the building?”
“No. She’s always got weapons on her. Probably sleeps with her gun. We have to attack when she least expects it.”
“The shower?” Donovan asked. “I don’t mind that view.”
Gant looked at him in horror. “You are a very sick man.”
“You never thought about what she looks like naked?”
“No. I think about what she looks like dead. Alive, she thinks about what I look like dead. That’s how we interact.” He turned back to the apartment with a shudder. “There’s nothing appealing about a woman who wants you in front of a firing squad.”
“Sometimes the sexiest ones are the girls who want you dead.” Donovan grinned. It took all of Gant’s willpower not to slit his throat then and there.
The door to the apartment opened, and Detective Rose stepped out wearing jogging clothes and carrying her purse. Gant frowned. Who went jogging with a purse?
A car alarm beeped.
Nasty, twisty mind that detective had. Naturally, she wouldn’t run near home. She was probably using her jogging time to try to triangulate his position, or the machine’s. Either worked for him.
Gant patted Donovan’s arm. “I’ve got an idea. Car wreck. We’ll follow her to where she’s going jogging and T-bone her car in an intersection. She’ll never know what hit her.”
Donovan frowned as Detective Rose drove away. “We need a certain kind of car to pull that off. Something with extra weight. Unless you want to snap your neck in the process.”
“City maintenance vehicle?” Gant suggested.
“Good idea.” Donovan nodded. “Let’s tail her.”
It wasn’t hard to find the little gray car driving on the empty street. Detective Rose didn’t check for a tail or try anything fancy. They watched her drive into the parking lot of an auto-body shop and jog off. “Easy enough,” Gant said. “You want to stay here and watch the car, or do you want to go lift the other one?”
“Boosting cars isn’t my strong suit,” Donovan said with a grimace, as if Gant hadn’t guessed from the scars on Donovan’s knuckles what the other man’s specialty was. Donovan was a wet-works man all the way.
Gant smiled. “I’ll be back within an hour. If she tries to leave, stall. Give her a flat tire or something.”
Forty minutes later, Gant pulled into a side street and parked the large truck used for breaking up trees that had fallen in storms. The wood chipper welded to the back gave the truck a nice heft. He climbed out of the cab and looped around the corner to where Donovan stood leaning against the chain-link fence. “Anything?”
Donovan shook his head. “She went for a jog and changed. Came back about ten minutes ago. She’s inside now. That’s her car there. Almost done.”
The little gray car was having its tires filled. Gant could taste the anticipation of death on the air. He felt light as a feather—effervescent—and with a good kick off the ground, he could have flown. Removing Detective Rose from the equation would remove the lodestone from around his neck. Everything he’d ever wanted was here in this moment.
“You think she knows a way out of here?” Donovan asked.
“She wouldn’t have crossed timelines if she didn’t.” Gant licked his lips in anticipation. “Can I drive the truck?”
Donovan raised an eyebrow. “If you want. Don’t see what’s so exciting about smashing a car.”
Typical of the man, really. He was all hot and bothered with seeing Rose alive, but put her in the ground where she belonged, and Donovan was getting squeamish. “She dies, and everything is better. It’s letting the tiger off the leash. Once she’s gone, no one can stop us.”
“No one’s trying to stop us.”
“Shut up,” Gant ordered. Detective Rose walked out of the shop, waving to the man behind the counter. It was good that she looked a little less than perfect today. Her black hair wasn’t as glossy in the humidity. Her signature purple jacket had a crease in it from sitting in the shop. The flaws made her look human, a little more mortal, a little bit less scary. She smiled as she climbed into her car, and so did Gant. Everything was perfect. “Into the truck.” He shoved Donovan.
He ran toward the vehicle, hoping he’d planned it right. If she headed back to the apartment, there were two stop signs between her and the truck. Traffic wasn’t heavy, but she wouldn’t be zipping along, either. He didn’t bother waiting for Donovan to close the door before he started the engine and pulled forward. The little side street had a stop sign.
Detective Rose didn’t.
Gant held his breath, heart racing in anticipation.
The little gray car drove toward destiny.
There was a perfect moment. The synchrony of fluid movement as the car drove past and the truck surged forward. Metal met metal with a cacophonous crunch. Gant was thrown back in his seat, but he lifted his head grinning. It had worked! Everything he’d ever wanted.
Like a child racing to see the presents waiting for them on Three King’s Day, he leapt out of the truck to survey the damage.
Detective Rose’s head lay on the steering wheel of her car. The horn’s blaring was the trumpet of God. The final proof that all was right in the world.
Donovan opened the side door. “Here, she’s got some tech and papers. Let’s take it and go.”
Gant nodded, unable to take his eyes off the beautiful scene. Perhaps, in a perfect world, she would have seen his face as she died. The look of shock and fear would have heightened the experience. He knew it from other victims, but her look of terror would have been special. He sighed.
“Gant!”
“What?”
“We have to go before the federales arrive. Is there anything else we need?”
Gant reached through the broken glass and pulled Rose’s head back. Lifeless black eyes stared back unseeing. “No. Let’s go.”
The jagged rhythms of Draxton’s Third Modern Symphony pulled Mac from a dreamless sleep. “Sam?” He sat up and looked around the apartment, letting the phone ring. Hoss ran over to the couch, nubbin wagging. “Sam?”
No answer.
He punched the on button on his phone. “ ’lo. This is MacKenzie.”
“Agent MacKenzie?” a quavering voice asked. It sounded vaguely familiar. For some reason, the color red popped into his mind.
“This is MacKenzie. Who’s this?”
“Junior Agent Dan Edwin, sir. I . . . um . . . can you come over to the county hospital? I need some help.”
Mac scratched his head and yawned. “Sure. Gimme a minute to get dressed. You’re not bleeding to death or anything, are you?”
There was a sniffle from the other end of the line. “No. No, sir.”
“Hostage situation?”
“No, sir.” Edwin sounded like his puppy had just died. Poor kid. Probably got into trouble with some girl and didn’t want the senior agent to know about.
Not too smart calling the senior agent’s roommate. “Hold tight, Edwin. I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.” Mac hung up the phone. “Sam! Hey, Sam, you in the shower?” He waited a second before shrugging and heading to her room. Not his fault if she couldn’t hear him from back there. If he accidentally walked in on her in a towel, it wasn’t like he was going to cry. And Sam was never overly body shy.
He smiled and opened her bedroom door. “Sam?”
The room was empty, the shower off. Her gym bag and car keys were missing from her dresser.
Mac looked down at Hoss. “She left? Without me?”
Hoss wagged his stub of a tail with enthusiasm.
“You only say that because you want part of my breakfast.” Heading back to the kitchen, he dialed Sam’s number.
After three rings, the phone beeped. “This is Agent Samantha Rose of the Commonwealth Bureau of Investigation. I’m not able to answer my phone at the moment, but if you leave a detailed message and a contact number, I will call you as soon as I am able.” The phone beeped again.
“Sam, it’s Mac. Edwin just called me from the hospital.” He balanced the phone between his ear and shoulder and pulled a loaf of bread from the fridge. “Poor kid sounds pretty tore up.” He took the peanut butter from the cupboard and smeared it on the wheat bread to make a quick sandwich. “I’m not sure where you are, but I’m going to take my rental and go see if I can help. I’ll give you a ring if it’s serious. It’s, uh”— he glanced at the clock—“just after eight. I guess you took off early to hit the gym or something. Call me around lunch if you’re free. I’ll swing by your office later and be home by seven at the latest.” He swallowed an “I love you,” before choking out, “See ya,” and hanging up.
But he realized something: It was love. Not hero worship or lust, but pure love. Sam was the first thing he thought of when he woke, his last thought before falling asleep. His internal compass swung due SAM. In the past decade, she was the only thing he was sure about. Even if she could never see that, he loved her. They might never be more than friends, and he’d accepted the fact that eventually she’d probably fall in love with someone else, but between now and then, he was going to make the most of the time he had with her. Tonight, he planned on convincing her to teach him how to cook. Something basic and hands-on. Something that would mean she spent an hour or so standing next to him.
He held the butter knife out, so Hoss could lick it, and scarfed down his sandwich. A swig of milk, a minute to brush his teeth, then his shoes were on and he was out the door following the rental car’s GPS to the county hospital on Beachside Road. It was a wide, squat building painted the same pale gold as the sand on the beaches, with crushed coquina shells decorating the arches. It had probably looked good forty years ago when it was new. Now it looked faded, half-forgotten. The large parking lot was three-quarters empty, and a monument to local plague victims, carved in obsidian, stood between visitors and the main door, looking like a promise of death.
Grimacing, Mac walked past, trying not to look too closely. It had been nearly thirty years since the last victim was interred but it still wasn’t long enough to make the fear of the plague fade.
Agent Edwin was pacing the empty lobby when Mac walked in. The younger man looked up with red-rimmed, tear-swollen eyes. “Thank you.” He closed his eyes and rocked on his heels. “Thank you for coming, Agent MacKenzie.”
“My pleasure.” Mac tried to smile, but the plague statue outside had put fear and doubt in his mind. Please, God, if you’re out there, don’t let it be the plague. “What’d you need me for?”
Edwin took a deep breath. “There was a . . . an accident. Hit-and-run.”
“You look okay,” Mac said.
Edwin nodded. “Agent Rose . . .” The younger man looked up at him with his lips set in a flat line. “They brought her here.”
“Sam?” His voice cracked and thundered, shaking the bulletproof glass of the lobby doors. His calm shattered. “Why the hell didn’t you tell me it was about Sam? I’d have been here in minutes. Where is she? I can . . .” He took a deep breath. “Do they not have a surgeon? I can do that. I mean . . . yeah. Where is she? Get me some gloves. This’ll be fine.”
A woman in medical scrubs with bright pink and green flowers came through a heavy metal door. “Agent Edwin? Is everything all right?”
“Um . . .” Edwin looked panicked between the nurse and Mac. “This is the senior agent in the district right now. Agent MacKenzie. He’s a medical examiner from Chicago.”
“Where’s Sam?” Mac demanded, doing everything he could to get his temper under control.
The nurse frowned with disapproval. “Maybe you should calm down a little before you come back.”
“No,” Mac shouted.
She stepped back.
He swallowed, then coughed. “I mean, I’m fine,” he said in the calmest voice he could summon. “Sam’s my best friend. I’d like to see her, please.”
“I’m . . . I’m sorry.” The nurse pulled a green curtain back as she turned. “Dead on impact.”
His world tilted, spiraled away, colors fading as he realized what he was looking at. Sam lay lifeless on the hospital cot, neck twisted at an unnatural angle. Oxygen fled the room.
“It happened instantly,” the nurse said in a consoling voice. “She didn’t feel anything.”
“Sam.” His knees hit the tiled floor. “Sam?”
“I can get you a chair,” the nurse offered in a calm, rational voice so at odds with what he felt. “We tried to contact her next of kin, but her mother was in a meeting, and her father didn’t pick up.”
“He’s dead,” Agent Edwin said. “And she doesn’t talk to her mother.”
“Oh.”
“I called Agent MacKenzie because he’s listed under her family contacts,” Edwin said. “At least on her bureau file.”
“How irregular.”
Mac reached for her hand. She’d painted her nails lilac. It was . . . cute. He’d never seen her with her nails done before. “Her hand’s cold.”
“Yes, she’s been dead for over an hour now,” the nurse said. “We just needed you to come in and confirm her identity. Officer Hadley was first on scene, and she recognized Miss Rose, but there was no purse or wallet found.”
“Probably stolen,” Edwin muttered.
“This is Sam,” Mac said with all the emotion of his dead partner. “Samantha Lynn Rose, CBI senior agent.”
“Wonderful! You have the condolences on the loss of your coworker. Would you like her cremated? We can have her in an urn by dinnertime, just say the word.”
The ghost of Sam Rose, Agent Perfect, rose over his shoulder with her arms crossed. Something clicked in his brain. The emotions drained away, locked behind steel walls of practicality. Mac stood up. “You said it was a hit-and-run?”
“Yes,” the nurse confirmed.
“Is that common for this area?”
“We have one or two every year, but not really. It was enough to shake up the three witnesses, for sure—they’re all being treated for shock. When we do get them, it’s usually drunks driving around after holidays, but there’s no evidence of that.”
“No evidence the drivers were drunk?”
“I’m sorry, there was no one on scene. No witnesses.” The nurse frowned. “Is that a no on the cremation? Only, anything else is a lot more paperwork. If it’s all the same to you . . .”
“A CBI agent killed under suspicious circumstances is treated as a homicide investigation until the culprit is found and the situation explained.” He looked down at her lifeless face, already starting to swell from decay. There was a pale mark on her neck, like a scar he’d never noticed before. “Have the hospital finish any work they need to do, then have the corpse transported to the CBI office. The medical examiner will need to do an autopsy.”
Never refer to the deceased by their name—it was an old army trick. A corpse was an it. A dead friend on the ground was an inoperative combat unit, a fallen hero. But no one said Johnny was dead. Mac swallowed hard. The ghost of Sam raised a phantom eyebrow in challenge.
“Agent Edwin, you’re with me. Nurse. Make this a priority. I want the body in my morgue in under an hour.”
The bright Florida sunshine hit him like a gut punch as they exited the hospital. He was going to get Sam to go to the beach with him. There was a little seaside restaurant he’d spotted on their drive yesterday that looked like it could knock out a good po’ boy. He was going to take her there. She wasn’t supposed to leave him like this. Not here. Not now.
They had time.
He knew that, eventually, Sam would die. She’d done it once, five years in the future, then been caught in a madman’s nightmare that sucked her back through time. Her face on the diagnostic screen kept him up at night, but they had time. To solve things. To stop her murder. To be together.
He slammed his fists down on the hood of his rental car, searing his hands with the heat.
“Sir?” Edwin looked at him with puffy eyes. “Sir, what do we do?”
“Do?” Mac raised an eyebrow, a perfect imitation of his Agent Perfect. “We do what we were trained to do and solve the murder. We’ll start with this morning. Retrace her steps. Find out where she went and why and with whom. We find her killer, and we interrogate them until their gonads shrivel in fear. Then we lock them away for the rest of their miserable life. And then we get therapy.”
“Therapy?”
“Lots of therapy. Trust me on this.” He unlocked his car. “Get in, I’m driving.”
Edwin didn’t look happy with the offer, but he climbed in, tall frame bent over and beefy shoulders hunched. The junior agent buckled himself in and pulled out his phone.
“I don’t need the GPS,” Mac said.
“Oh, no, sir. I was just . . .” He waved the phone near Mac’s ear as if that explained something. “She was really dressed up today, I thought.”
It took Mac a moment to realize Edwin was talking about Sam. He nodded as they waited for a light to change. “She had her nails painted. I don’t remember her ever doing that when we lived together in Alabama.”
“It was the purple blouse that got me,” Edwin said with a heavy sigh. “She looks good in gem tones, but I’ve never seen her wear them to the office. Do you think her boyfriend gave them to her?”
Mac hit a curve a little too fast, and the brake too hard as they came to a stop sign. The tires squealed in protest. “Boyfriend?” He kept his voice flat, but he could feel the muscle under his high tic.
“You, ah, didn’t know? She used to talk about some guy she lived with in Alabama. And then I think this week she was with someone. It sort of slipped out. I thought, maybe, he bought her some stuff.”
Praying for patience worked for some people. He’d seen Sam do it when she was frustrated with him, but closing his eyes while weaving in and out of erratic south Florida traffic seemed like a bad idea. “Edwin, I lived with her in Alabama. I’m the one who just showed up in town.”
“Oh!” Edwin swiveled in his seat. “You? You seem so normal.”
“Why wouldn’t I be normal?”
“Agent Rose talked about you like you were a genius. I pictured some heroic-looking guy who was, you know, taller.”
“I’m six-two!”
Edwin shrugged, rubbing his shoulders against the fabric-lined car seat so it was audible. “Seems short to me is all.”
Mac growled as he turned into the bureau parking lot. A bright turquoise Montero Sunlit sat in Sam’s parking spot. It was an exquisite car that breathed sensuality and wealth like a French vintner inhaled the scent of grapes on a hot autumn afternoon. He’d never wanted to destroy a car so much. “How dare they?”
“What?”
He pressed his lips together, picturing the brazen gez who’d violated her space.
“Sir?”
“I’m fine.” He refrained from punching the car only because he knew from firsthand experience that it would deploy the airbags, and those things hurt. “Let’s get inside. I need you to pull up Agent Rose’s schedule, then I need all the traffic data for the area. Find out which businesses have security cameras facing the street.” He glared at the Montero Sunlit as he locked his rental car. Damn, Sam would have looked gorgeous in that. With a little black dress and those extra high heels he’d seen at the back of her closet one day. Just picturing her there made his knees weak with pain.
No more Sam.
He couldn’t process the thought. One step at a time. Find a cause of death. Find a killer. Mourn later. Mourn after he’d done everything else he could do for her.
Following Edwin into the CBI building, he could almost smell Sam’s perfume. If he closed his eyes, he could hear her heels tapping a delicate staccato across the marble floors upstairs. She was there, only in spirit, but she was there.
Agent Edwin opened the office door and collapsed behind his impeccably tidy desk, staring into the distance.
The thousand-yard stare. Mac knew it from too many mornings catching his own reflection in the dirty mirror in the dingy apartment he survived in before Sam came along. She’d pulled him out of the depression and given him a reason to live again.
A light at Edwin’s desk flickered as he turned the phone back on. “She was so pretty in that shirt. Why’d she never wear purple to the office?”
“Regulation states a white blouse or button-down shirt with tan, navy, or black slacks or skirts are appropriate attire,” Mac said offhand. “She said the black made her look like a stewardess.”
The door behind him slammed open, and Mac jumped, hand dropping toward where his sidearm should be.
“Edwin, if you’re going to be late, call me,” Sam said.
Mac started shaking.
She was right there. Navy skirt three inches above her knee, two-inch navy kitten heels shined to a fine polish, regulation blouse that was still just tight enough to emphasize the swell of her breasts.
And she was looking at him. “Mac, did you walk Hoss before you left?”
“Agent . . . Agent Rose?” Edwin stood up unsteadily. “Um . . .”
“I hate the word ‘um,’ ” Sam said with an oh-so-typical eye roll.
The junior agent turned pale, blood draining from his face. “I don’t know how to tell you this, ma’am, but you’re dead.”
Mac’s strangled sob turned into a choked laugh. He covered his mouth and dropped into the stiff secondhand couch that completed the government office set. There was a god, and that god was probably Loki, possibly Coyote. Definitely a trickster god bent on torturing Mac until the last of his sanity dribbled away.
The clock ticked as he giggled madly.
Edwin shuffled like fire ants were crawling up his trousers. “Ma’am, it’s nothing personal, ma’am. It’s just that you are dead, ma’am. I . . . ah . . . um . . . went to the hospital. You died. In a car accident.”
Sam’s shiver, such a strange movement, focused Mac’s attention.
“Sam?” He tasted the salt of tears on his lips.
“I had a dream last night that I was hit in a collision. My neck ached like it’d been snapped. I couldn’t get back to bed, so I dropped my car off at the auto-body shop to get the dents knocked out and went for a run. Wound up here, showered and changed in the locker room downstairs.” She rubbed her neck. “I was surprised Agent Edwin wasn’t here, but I must have left my phone in the car . . .” Sam’s word slowed to a halt under the weight of his stare. “Mac? Can you please explain why you’re crying?”
“Edwin called me this morning from the hospital. Forty-five minutes ago, I arrived and was told you’d been killed in a hit-and-run accident.”
Horror suffused her face, and she ran to him. “Oh, no! Are you okay?” She hovered just out of reach.
“Am I okay?” Mac laughed. “Me? You’re worried about me when you’re the one I saw dead?”
Sam’s eyes went wide, and she looked between him and Edwin. “I’m fine. You’re the one who just saw his best friend in the morgue. All I had was a bad dream.”
He took her outstretched hand and pulled her almost close enough. The scent of her perfume surrounded him like the blessing of a saint. Warmth radiated off her body. Her pulse beat a steady rhythm that calmed the wild despair.
Agent Edwin cleared his throat. Mac tightened his grip on Sam’s hand and looked at the younger agent, professional behavior be damned. “Yes?”
“I . . . I hate to be the one to bring this up, ma’am, sir, but how do we know she’s Agent Rose?”
“Who else would I be?” Sam demanded.
“A clone. A spy. A plant or actress of some kind. We positively identified the body at the hospital as Agent Samantha Rose,” Edwin said. “Both Agent MacKenzie and I know her very well. What is the likelihood of someone with your physical description, in your car, not being you?”
Sam took a deep breath and let it out. “Statistically, I admit the numbers aren’t in my favor. However, there are instances of this sort of thing’s happening before.”
“I’ve never heard of them,” Edwin said belligerently.
“You don’t have the right security clearance,” Mac shot back, instinctively siding with Sam.
“Sir, I don’t want to question your judgment, but doesn’t this strike you as the least bit fishy?”
Mac looked up at Sam. Agent Perfect in her uniform and office smile. He let her hand go. “Fine. DNA test?”
Sam shrugged. “If this is what we think it is, the DNA test isn’t going to be conclusive.”
“What?” Edwin asked.
Mac waved his question away. “Twenty questions?”
Sam nodded. “Agent Edwin, there is classified information that only you and I would know, correct?”
He frowned in puzzlement. “I suppose.”
“What about the contents of your primary evaluation when you first reported to this station? I described you as overexcitable and too trusting.”
Edwin licked his lips clearly caught between a desire to believe Sam was the real Sam and his loyalty to the truth. “With all due respect, ma’am, anyone could know that. Especially since you arrived at the office before I did. Anyone walking in could have hacked into our system and checked Agent Rose’s comments on my review.”
“Especially since our password is ‘ice-cream-for-all-6-7-8-9,’ ” Sam said. “All right. When Agent MacKenzie came I told you to find me an ME and you scrambled a fighter jet. I said it was overkill.”
“Again, ma’am, dozens of people were in the building with you when we had that conversation. It doesn’t prove anything.”
“I have one,” Mac said. He looked Sam in the eye. “The first time we met, what bra were you wearing and why did I see it?”
Sam’s cheeks flushed. “I can’t believe you’re asking me that in front of my junior agent.”
“Just answer the question.”
“Black, and you saw it because my white shirt was wet. The maintenance man turned the sprinklers on and said it was an accident. I reported him, and Marrins laughed and told me I should have come in right away if I wanted to file a complaint, not go home to change and whine about it later.”
Mac nodded. “She’s Sam.”
“Then . . . who is the hospital delivering to the morgue?” Edwin asked.
“Probably also me,” Sam said. “Sit down, Edwin, I think it’s time we had a little talk about the facts of life.”
“Like, the birds and the bees?”
“No,” Sam said with a shake of her head. “More quantum physics and the transient nature of reality. Don’t worry, I’ll talk slow, and Mac will fill in any of the gaps in your education.”
Edwin looked at Sam dubiously. “A time machine? I don’t think that’s how time works, ma’am.”
“That’s what we said.” She punched in the code to the morgue and scanned her hand for verification. “Dr. Emir started with a theory.”
“The idea of a multiverse has always been very popular,” Mac said.
“In science fiction!” Edwin looked at her pleadingly. “The idea that someone bent time and space, though? I’m sorry, it sounds ridiculous.”
“It is ridiculous,” Sam said. “But so are birds that can’t fly, giraffes, and someone named Zoe Frillmumper running for president of France—but they all exist.”
Mac went to the morgue cooler and rolled out Jane Doe.
Sam picked up the name tag that read SAMANTHA ROSE and tossed it in the recycler angrily. “We can’t call her Jane Doe. We already worked a Jane Doe case. Jane is Jane. This is . . .” She stared at Mac waiting for help.
“Jane the Second? Jana Doe? Jillian Doe?” Mac shrugged. “We both know it’s you again.”
“Again?” Edwin’s voice cracked into a squeak. “How many times have you done this, ma’am?”
“This?” Sam pointed at her doppelganger on the autopsy cart. “Dying? This is the second time I’ve seen a corpse that looked exactly like me. It’s not like I make it a hobby or anything.”
“That’s two more than most people see,” Mac said.
She rolled her eyes and refrained from punching his shoulder. “Let’s pretend we don’t know this is me. What we have here is an unidentified woman in her midtwenties to midthirties who was the victim of a hit-and-run accident, possibly in a stolen vehicle. We need facts, boys, not guesses.”
Mac and Edwin both nodded, one looking grim, the other looking terrified.
“Edwin, pop quiz: In a case like this, what is the first thing you do?”
“Check for identity carried on the victim such as a citizen ID card, driver’s license, or passport. But none of those were found at the scene of the crash.”
Sam raised an eyebrow. “Mac?”
“Check the car for prints, see if there is security footage covering the area, then check the missing-persons database to see if Jane matches anyone on the list.” He looked at Edwin. “Solve the murder first and get the killer off the street. Identity cards can be forged or stolen. It takes five minutes and a pair of scissors to make something that will pass a cursory inspection.”
“Exactly,” Sam said. “Although I’d really love to know why this lady had my car. Edwin, get me the security tapes from the body shop. See if they think they have my car still or if she came in and impersonated me. If they gave the car to her, find out how she paid for the repairs. We might be able to backtrack and see where she’s been.”
Edwin made a note on his datpad and nodded. “I’ll call you as soon as I have information, ma’am.”
As the heavy door clicked shut behind him, she let the gut-churning sensation of fear creep over her. Bile crawled up her throat at the sight of the dead body, and she turned away. “How long do you think she’s been wandering around our iteration?”
“I’m not sure there’s a way of knowing,” Mac said. “You could go around asking people if they’ve seen a lady who looks like you wearing a purple jacket.”
Sam closed her eyes and swore under her breath. At this point, a few more Hail Marys for blasphemy were the least of her worries.
Mac raised an eyebrow. “What?”
“The lady who rented a storage unit to Henry Troom said a lady in a purple jacket came in asking questions. She thought the woman was a reporter.”
“You think it was Jane?”
“Jillian,” Sam said. “The first one was Jane Doe. This one is Jillian Doe. The lady said the ‘reporter’ was wearing purple, speaking with a heavy Spanish accent, and drove a gray Alexian Virgo which she drove into the pylons.”
“Ah, well, that explains the vandalism at least,” Mac said. He looked at the cold body on the table.
Her body, swelling from decomposition, bruised and bloody from the crash. She looked away.
Mac cleared his throat. “So . . . our Mystery Sam is more of a Juanita than a Jane?”
“Maybe.” She rubbed her aching neck with a cold hand. “Put her in the machine. Let’s get the autopsy going.”
“Are you sure you want to stay for this?” Mac asked.
“We could be barking up the wrong tree, you know. I can think of at least one very plausible explanation for all of this that doesn’t involve time travel at all.”
He looked dubiously at her. “You know a Spaniard who wants you dead?”
“Maybe not dead, but my mother would love for me to forget about the bureau and time machines. It wouldn’t be hard to find a woman my height and skin color in Madrid. A little cosmetic surgery . . .” Sam shrugged. “My mother likes mind games. She wouldn’t be above ruining my career by sending an imposter to start a scandal or destroy the evidence so she can gaslight me.”
Mac was watching her intently.
“What?”
“You’re getting more paranoid than I am. That’s not good.”
She rolled her eyes. “Just get me a DNA sample and her age.”
“She’s not a countdown clock,” Mac said. “You can’t estimate the time of your death based on her accident. I don’t think that’s how the timelines work.”
“Really?” The autopsy scanner clicked shut and hummed softly. She turned around and looked at the metal coffin. “Does she have a healed fracture on her left ankle?”
“Sam . . .”
“Does she?”
Lips pressed into a flat line Mac checked the readout. “Yes, there’s sign of a fracture.”
“And her other scars and injuries? How many of those are going to line up?”
“I don’t know. I can’t even compare Alabama Jane to Florida Jane because of the damage Alabama Jane took in the accident!”
“I hate those names.”
Mac gave her sideways look of frustration. “Noted.”
“Gene scan?”
“Unofficially, you. Officially, I’m going to run the tests through the Birmingham lab.”
“Orlando has a good gene lab.”
“But I know the people at Birmingham, and I know they can run all the tests I need done the way I want them done.” He frowned. “I’m half-tempted to take this whole case to Chicago and run the tests there myself.”
“That’s not a bad idea.” He was brittle. This was a trigger in too many, she could see that. The PTSD that had driven him into depression and self-abuse was only a breath away.
Mac gave her a narrow-eyed look that managed to convey disgust, disbelief, and a general unwillingness to give an inch on his position.
“I’m serious. This is the end of the case. Juanita has been here long enough to steal my car, twice, so that’s handled. She took my car when she saw an opportunity. She worked with Troom to build a new machine, so she could get back, and she died. No one is targeting me.”
“But why does she come back at all? Henry dies from a gunshot nine months after the gun is fired. Nealie dies, what, fifteen years after the car accident that should have killed him. This extra agent dies in a car accident, so what? Who killed her? Who killed Bradet? You’re going to tell me you don’t think this isn’t tied to his murder?” He was inches away and fuming.
“Don’t be snarky with me!”
“I will be as snarky as I want! I saw you in a morgue today, Sam. Dead.”
“Exactly.” She stepped away taking a deep breath. “Let’s face it, I’m very good at ending up dead.”
“That’s not funny.”
“I’m not laughing. I’m saying you should go home.”
Mac’s eyes narrowed with outrage.
Sam held her ground. “You’re ready to break, and I’m not letting you do that to yourself. You’re still recovering. This isn’t going to help. It would be irresponsible of me, as a senior agent, to let you stay. It would be selfish as your friend to ask you to stay.”
He rolled his shoulders back, ready to fight.
“The threat’s past,” Sam said. “Now it’s time for me to pick up the pieces. There’s an APB out on Donovan. He can’t hide forever.
“I don’t like the report I’ll have to write for Henry, but I will, and I’ll send it to Director Loren with most of it blacked out. He’ll use sarcasm and grind his teeth, but it won’t kill my career. Nealie and Miss Doe here weren’t killed by Marrins. If Miss Doe killed Nealie, then there is evidence in this mess somewhere. I’ll find it.”
“I’m not leaving, Sam.”
She crossed her arms across her chest. “I’ll be calling Chicago within the hour to tell them we’re booking you a flight home. I’m a big girl. I can arrest reckless drivers all by myself. Your job isn’t to protect me, Mac. You’ve got that Captain United look in your eye. Reel it in.”
“I am not a fragile flower in need of protection, Agent Rose.” He ground her name out like a curse.
Sam crossed her arms across her chest. “And I’m not a monster who’s willing to hurt you, Agent MacKenzie.” Two could play the name game. Mac was hot stuff, but he couldn’t out-Prim her even on his best day.
He took a deep breath, nostrils flaring, and shrugged. “Fine. Call Chicago.”
She glared at him. This was definitely a trick.
“I already put in for leave. Told them I wanted to use up some of my vacation days.”
“You cannot vacation in my morgue!”
His face lit up with a wicked grin. “Watch me.”
Sam put her hands on her hips. The power pose didn’t help. “You are such a stubborn cuss some days!” He smiled. “I swear, MacKenzie, why can’t you listen to reason?”
“I’m being perfectly reasonable.”
“I’m very tempted to handcuff you to a piece of furniture until this is over,” Sam said. Saints and angels, this man would tempt Mother Mary to swear. “I just . . . I don’t want you hurt.”
“I won’t be.” He stepped forward and pulled her gently into a hug. “Listen, I’ll be fine, Sam. If I can’t handle it, I’ll let you know. But we make a great team. Let me help you.” Lips brushed across her forehead in a tender kiss.
She leaned against him for a moment longer than was appropriate for an office setting, then broke away.
“Fine—let’s find out how I keep dying.”