By careful observation of einselected nodes in other iterations, we are able to predict the event horizons where decoherence—the collapse of all possible histories but the prime state—will occur with over 80 percent accuracy. At this time our calculations suggest that humanity will reach the next event horizon before the decade is out.
~ Excerpt from Lectures on the Movement of Time by Dr. Abdul Emir I1–20740413
Monday June 10, 2069
Alabama District 3
Commonwealth of North America
Hurricane Jessica stormed into town on Monday, a bitter woman with a grudge against humanity. She shredded the Gulf Coast, leaving the resort towns of Florida’s panhandle in retreat. She tore through lower Alabama, swelling the rivers and spawning tornadoes. In record time, District 3 went from concerns over summer wildfires to sandbagging sidewalks.
In the short sprint from Sam’s car to the bureau’s front door, the rain drenched her, and mud from the flooded sidewalk splattered her pants. She leaned against the glass doors, managing a half smile for Theresa. “Rough weather.”
Theresa pursed her lips. “Senior Agent Marrins is upstairs with Detective Altin. They’ve been waiting for ten minutes.”
“Wonderful.” Sam grimaced as she pushed away from the door.
Altin stood in the hall outside the conference room, thumbs hooked on his belt. Behind him, the horse-faced Officer Holt glared at her, hand resting on her cuffs. “Agent Rose.”
Sam smiled. “Good morning, Altin. Loving the weather?”
The old detective sighed. “Hardly.”
Marrins sat at the head of the conference table, swilling his off-brand coffee. “So glad you could join us.” He made a show of checking his watch. “Running a little late, aren’t we?”
“No, sir, technically my pass is good until noon today. I showed up three hours early just for you.”
He narrowed his eyes. “Keep it professional, or Officer Holt there is going to have you in cuffs.” The senior agent smirked at some private joke.
Sam tried not to visualize the horse-faced Holt and Marrins enjoying some unprofessional kink together. It was repulsive at an awe-inspiring level. “I’m not at fault here.”
Altin sat. “That’s what we’re here to determine, isn’t it?”
“Shouldn’t I have a lawyer and a judge?” Sam asked.
Marrins shook his head. “This is a friendly little inquiry, Rose. Altin is going to ask a few teensy-tiny questions because this ties to his case. Then I’m going to ask some rather serious questions because violent crime leading to death is a bureau problem, and—if you answer the way we want—everyone will break for lunch without major changes to anyone’s living arrangements.”
Sam took her seat at the back of the room with a tight smile. “Ask away, Detective Altin.”
Altin sat. Deputy Holt stayed near the door, artfully blocking Sam’s only means of escape. Altin pulled out his notepad and an old-fashioned pen. “All right. You are Samantha Lynn Rose, junior agent of the Commonwealth of North America Bureau of Investigation?”
“Yes.”
“You were assigned to Case 516-29-5698 involving the property damage, and assumed break-in, at N-V Nova Laboratories?”
“Yes.”
“Prior to the order to join the case, did you, or anyone you are in close contact with, have knowledge of, communicate with, or work for N-V Nova Labs?” Altin asked.
“No.”
Altin made a note. “Did you, or anyone you are in close contact with, have dealings, contracts, knowledge of, or a friendship, with the deceased security guard Mordicai Robbins?”
“No.”
“Had you ever seen Mordicai Robbins before he was found at your house?”
Sam raised an eyebrow. “I never saw Mordicai Robbins at all. I have his file photo in my case files, but I haven’t ever seen him in person, dead or alive.”
Altin frowned and made a note. “Is there any reason why Mordicai Robbins might have been at your house at the time of death?”
“Was he at my house at the time of death?” Sam turned to Marrins. “I thought he was dumped there. No one said he was killed there. Did the forensics team find blood? A murder weapon? Anything?”
“Ah.” Marrins coughed. “Actually, we’re still waiting on the report.”
Altin gave Marrins a tired look. “You said this morning Robbins died at the house.”
“I said he might have,” Marrins protested.
“Do you have evidence?” Altin asked.
“We’re working on it.” Marrins crossed his arms.
There was a knock at the door, and Coroner Harley waddled in. “Sorry I’m late. Rain.” He took his donut and dry coat to the other side of the table and sat. “I miss anything?”
Marrins held out his hand, snapping his fingers as if he was calling a dog. “Harley! Where’s that autopsy report?”
“Which one?”
“The traitor who got his throat shot out gang-style. They found him in Rose’s freezer. That one.”
Harley leaned back in his chair. “Don’t know, that’s bureau business. Where’s your boy, the scraggly one? I told him to do it.”
“Agent MacKenzie?” Sam asked through gritted teeth.
“Yeah, him.”
“As the agent who found the body, he isn’t supposed to work on the case,” Sam said. “And yesterday, MacKenzie worked for fourteen hours on autopsies for the city. I know. I called to ask about Robbins.”
“Shouldn’t have done that,” Harley said with a belch and a smile. “It looks bad.”
Sam looked to Marrins for help.
The senior agent rubbed his temples. “Harley, I told you to take care of the body. You promised me you would handle this.”
“Right, it’ll be handled. What’s the rush? We know the cause of death. He choked to death on his own blood because his throat was cut out by a bullet.”
“We’re trying to determine if there is enough evidence to arrest Agent Rose on suspicion of murder,” Altin said patiently.
Harley frowned. “Rose?” He looked over at her in confusion. “Did you kill that guy?”
“No, but the law demands proof.” She glanced at Altin. “I still don’t have a motive–isn’t that enough?”
“It was your freezer, Sam. At least give me an alibi,” Altin said.
“How can I give you an alibi when I don’t know time of death? I wasn’t there when he died. It’s not like I have ‘Make up alibi for 3:15 Friday’ penciled in my planner.”
“Wasn’t dead on Friday,” Harley said.
“What?” Altin demanded.
The ME shrugged. “Body bloated like that? He was probably dead Wednesday or Thursday, maybe early Friday if he was left in the sun a bit.”
“That’s not good enough,” Altin said as he leaned back in his chair. “Honest to goodness, Marrins, what kind of circus are you running here? I’ve got half the force tied up waiting for the dams to break upstream, and instead of doing something useful this morning, I’m jumping in your clown car. Please tell me you have something I can work with.”
Marrins thumped the conference table, making everyone’s drinks jump. “Fine, I’m not making any arrest. Rose, I want you to document your every waking moment of the last week.” She’d already done that after speaking with Altin on Sunday but decided it wasn’t worth bringing up again. Marrins continued, “When Harley is done with the autopsy, we’ll see where you were at the time of death. In the meantime, you’re on office duty. Stay in your office, go straight home at the end of the day, and no leaving the district until you’re cleared.”
Sam forced herself to sit still even though she wanted to yell.
“Altin, the bureau will collect the case files and look them over. If Robbins’s death can be tied to the break-in, we’ll take over. Otherwise, we’ll cut that loss and call it funny timing.”
That did it. “You honestly think it was a coincidence?” Sam demanded.
“I honestly don’t think we’re going to get the timing to become admissible court evidence! There are no prints, no murder weapon, nothing that ties Robbins to anyone. We still don’t have any evidence that something was stolen from the lab, but no, Rose, I don’t think it’s coincidence. I think someone is doing a damn fine job of covering their tracks.”
She crossed her arms and slammed back in her seat.
“The death of Mordicai Robbins will be treated as a separate investigation until we find evidence I can take to court. Harley will do the autopsy. I’ll handle the investigation.”
Reluctantly, Sam nodded agreement.
“Anything else?” Marrins asked. “Good. Now y’all get out. Except you, Harley; we need to talk. Close the door on your way out, Rose.”
Sam stormed out of her seat but waited to slam the door behind Altin.
Holt sneered. “It’s nice to see the old man protecting you. How many lap dances did that cost? Was it more or less than it took to buy you a job?”
“Out of line,” Altin said. Holt rolled her eyes. Altin frowned. “I’ll meet you at the car.” He waited until the Holt moved away before turning back to Sam. “You better get used to that.”
“Being insulted? Please,” she said, rolling her eyes. “It would take more than Officer Holt to get me upset.”
Altin gave her a small smile for the nickname. “Seriously, though—there are rumors floating around the district, basically since you got here. Marrins was pretty free about telling people you called in a favor to get this position.” He shrugged.
“I did: my friend called around to some senior agents. That was it.”
Guess it takes being a murder suspect for others in law enforcement to show what they really feel about you.
“I’m just letting you know it’s out there,” Altin said.
“Appreciate it.”
“Where’s your office?”
“This way.” She trudged to the end of the hall and motioned for Altin to make himself comfortable.
“Do you have the paperwork I asked for?”
“Yes,” she said. She looked at him critically. “Why didn’t you ask for it in there? We went over this yesterday.”
Altin gave her a pitying look. “This has setup written all over it. You don’t like your morgue geek for this, but I do, and if he’s in on it, then I’m willing to bet my next paycheck either Marrins or Harley gave the go-ahead.”
“No.” Sam shook her head. “No bureau agent would do this. I’d bet my paycheck on that. MacKenzie might be . . .” she scrambled for the word, “he’s plenty of things, but not a killer. Senior Agent Marrins has a solid career with over twenty years in service. I can’t even wrap my mind around the idea of him breaking the law.”
Altin shrugged. “Give it another ten years. I’ve seen officers go bad.”
“He’s not police. He’s CBI.” She could barely conceal the insult. She had always considered Altin a . . . maybe not a friend, but a colleague who shared mutual respect with her. Now, though, with his revelation about the rumors of her and Marrins, and this weird conspiracy, she wasn’t so sure.
“Papers?”
“Yes.” Grabbing her purse and files, she handed over her work from Sunday afternoon. “I listed everyone I talked to, everything I remember saying to them. Nothing screamed ‘guilty’ to me.”
Altin took the file. “I meant what I said. Keep your head down. Get a roommate if you can. Stay where there are security cameras. I don’t want you off grid.”
She couldn’t help it this time: the bitterness came through as she said, “Because it’d help a lot of careers if you could close this case quick, and I look guilty as Eve?”
“Because I don’t want to pull your body out of the next freezer. Get it through your head: someone wants you dead. Play it safe.”
“I’ll do what I can.”
“Do you have the standard GPS and call recorder on your phone?”
A wet strand of hair dropped past her eye as she nodded.
“Turn it on.”
Marrins’s door slammed, and voices filtered through the hall.
Altin put on his stern face and walked out of her office. “Yes, you will. Stay away from my case. I don’t want you tainting it,” he said, just a little louder than necessary.
The lights flickered, and Marrins cursed. “Rose! I need to go kick the generators. Keep an eye on things!”
Sam dropped her head to her desk, gently banging it against the synthetic wood as the first winds of Hurricane Jessica whipped the building. She should have taken Bri’s offer to hide out with her at the lake in the Georgia mountains until this blew over. Of course, then she’d look even more like a suspect, this time fleeing the crime.
There was a soft tapping on the doorframe, barely audible over the thundering rain outside. Lightning stretched across the sky and illuminated MacKenzie, dripping-wet, dark brown hair hanging limp over his face. “Hi,” she said.
“Hi.” He rubbed his neck. “Do you still work here?”
“I guess.” She snorted in laughter and sat up. “I file paperwork. It’s like being a secretary, except I’m still on call for all major emergencies.”
“Are you going home tonight?”
“Yeah, I have a green light to go back to my house. The freezer was taken as evidence, and the back door. Someone from the security company is coming out to assess the damage today. It should all be covered.” Thunder rumbled. “I’m waiting for the call saying they have to cancel because of the storm, but the forensic team took pictures, and I have some plastic sheeting to cover the hole. I’m not worried,” she lied.
MacKenzie nodded. “I’ll . . . um, I’ll drop Hoss off if you want. Harley is sending everyone home in the next hour. We . . . we’re just boarding up the building.”
“Have fun,” Sam said. She looked around her office and tried to sync his comment with his presence. It didn’t work. “Why are you here?”
“Um . . . a-a couple of things. The Melody Doe blood test results, do you still want them?”
Sam raised an eyebrow. “I’m off the case. I can’t discuss it with you.”
“So, do you still want me to run them?”
“I have no opinion,” Sam said through gritted teeth.
“So, if I couldn’t find a clone marker on Melody Doe just like I couldn’t with Jane, you don’t want to know about them? No report on the similarities?”
She pursed her lips. “You need to wait for Agent Marrins to request that information before you do anything with it. I have no opinion.”
“Right.”
“What else do you need?”
He grimaced. “A favor?”
“What kind of favor?”
He dug in his back pocket and unfolded a square of soggy orange paper. “My landlord is redoing the floors. I need to move my couch. Could I . . . can it stay at your place? Since you aren’t being kicked out?”
She took the paper from him as the lights turned back on with an annoying buzz. The paper was bright orange and rain-soaked, but it did say that all tenants needed to move bulky furniture out so that the floors could be redone. She shrugged. “If you can move it, you can drop it at my place with Hoss.” She handed the paper back.
“Thanks.”
“You watched my dog,” Sam said. “I can babysit your couch.” MacKenzie hovered on the other side of her desk. “Anything else?”
He licked his lips. “About . . . about last night. I’m sorry.” His cheeks flushed pink. “I . . . I haven’t been that bad in years. The flashbacks, the pills make me a walking zombie, I know I’m not functioning like I should, but the pills keep me from being . . . there again. I’m sorry if I said anything I shouldn’t, or hurt you. I didn’t mean to hurt you.”
Sam sat back in her chair. “You didn’t hurt me. You didn’t even try. Do you have enough medicine for now?”
“I . . . yeah.” His shoulders sagged. “I took two of the new pills this morning.”
“And those worked?” she asked, incredulous. If breath mints could solve PTSD, she would win a Nobel Prize for medicine.
“I remember things. Too many things. But I’m thinking. I can get out of bed without wanting to kill myself. I guess that means they’re doing something.”
The door to the main office slammed shut. “Rose! Hurry up and shut down the computers. That generator isn’t going to last much longer!” Marrins shouted from down the hall before launching into his rant against secondhand, outdated equipment.
“Yes, sir,” Sam shouted back. The door slammed again. “Back to work I guess. Marrins believes putting in a full day will be good for my soul.”
Mac leaned on the morgue door to close it against the wind.
Harley stepped out from the side hall. “Pack up. Get everything off your floor. If this turns into another Hurricane Derek like we saw back in ’57, we’re going to need waders just to find our desks for a week.”
“Boss! I can’t lift this!” one of the interns shouted from the back.
“Get going,” Harley ordered, going to help the intern.
Mac nodded and moved, nearly slipping on the smooth, concrete floors. He slid into his office as he stifled a yawn. The previous night was a jumble of memories, the smell of oranges mixed with the sound of mortar fire and a woman’s voice. Sitting, he started saving his files so he could shut everything down. Agent Rose smiled up at him from the file.
He blinked. Right. He was cyberstalking Agent Rose through the CBI system to find her line number for the Melody Doe report. A few minutes of digging through the piles on his desk, and he found the file lying on the floor. He checked the files and line number. Everything good to go.
A flashing red light on his monitor called his attention. “Search Completed—Match Found for Jane Doe 756581530263.” Search for more pills was what he needed. He saw the orange bottle out of the corner of his eye, wallowing under a mess of unfilled reports. Grasping for it like a dying man Mac reached out. No familiar rattle greeted him. Empty. His stomach knotted in terror.
Dry-mouthed and shaking, Mac jerked back to the computer monitor and away from half-buried memories. He clicked the search button, and Agent Perfect’s file reappeared.
He hadn’t closed out of it. Figured.
Mac closed Rose’s file, cleared his electronic desktop, and reopened the search results. Jane Doe 756581530263—Match—Agent Samantha Lynn Rose . . .
It wasn’t possible. There was . . . He licked his lips. All right. Yes, there was a way. Jane didn’t have a clone marker. Melody Doe didn’t have a clone marker. Both were dead. Both were seen after their deaths.
The simple math made perfect sense.
A rich daughter missing, now running loose in Europe financed by a trust fund. The other a CBI agent, the daughter of an ambassador. Not as wealthy as a business magnate like Mr. Chimes but still worth the trouble for a terrorist group.
Shaking, he sagged in his worn office chair, staring at the screen. Agent Rose, he wouldn’t have guessed. She was so . . . perfect. Too perfect, maybe.
“Mackenzie, we’re shutting the generator down!” Harley yelled.
“Aye, sir.” His hand hovered over the keyboard. Eighty percent accuracy, damning even on a bad day. Mac hit the SAVE button and shut off his computer. With a quick yank, the cord snapped out of the wall socket, and he rolled it up. Scooping up the scattered texts and papers on his floor, he made a hasty pile that leaned dangerously.
The light shut off. “Let’s go, MacKenzie. I’m locking up!”
“Coming.” He grabbed his jacket and hurried to the door.
“Keep your phone on you,” Harley said. “If the dams break, we’ll all get called in, police and bureau.” He hesitated, then clapped Mac on the back. “You okay? You look a little peaked.”
Mac jerked a nod. “Yeah. I’m fine. Just fine. Tired.”
“Uh-huh, well, get some sleep this afternoon. It’s not like you have anything else to do.”
Nothing else at all, Mac thought as he stepped into the driving rain. Except return one slobbering dog and drop the couch off with Agent Rose.
The clone.
By three o’clock that afternoon, the skies were pitch-black, and thick curtains of rain hid the parking lot from view. The lights flickered off again. Marrins knocked on her doorframe. “Go home. Grab something to eat and plan on a late night. The district just called: we’re going to lose Harris Dam up the river.”
Her heart sank. “Are they sure? We’re already getting reports of flooding downtown. If we get any more . . .”
“The National Guard is bringing in sandbags, and we’ll be out there to help.” Running a hand over his balding head, Marrins sighed. “Decades of neglect. They knew the dam was falling to pieces,” he muttered. “But do we get the funds? No.” He drawled the word sardonically. “The Commonwealth is an improvement for everybody on top, but the little guys, the working stiffs at the bottom? We just have to suck it up and make do.” He growled, then jumped, as if he had forgotten Sam was there. “Get home. Drive careful. I don’t need any more paperwork because of you.”
“Yes, sir.” Sam gathered her things and walked through the eerily silent bureau building. Wind howled outside, lashing waves of water across the sidewalk to slap the front door. Taking a deep breath, Sam muscled the door open against the wind and slogged through the rain to her car. The little Alexian Virgo gurgled as it started and whined as she drove out of the parking lot. “St. Christopher, holy patron of travelers, protect me. Amen.” If the saints were inclined to listen to one lax Catholic, this would be a perfect opportunity to step in and keep the hurricane from drowning her.
There was no traffic on the roads. Everyone who could had already left town, and those who remained were hunkered down somewhere safe. She crossed herself again. The nuns always said thunder was God talking, but that had never helped.
She drove at a crawl as gusts of wind buffeted the car. Once she’d turned onto the farm road for the house, she punched MacKenzie’s number into her phone. It went straight to voice mail. “MacKenzie, just keep Hoss for me. I’ll pick him up after the storm.”
An hour later, hands shaking, she finally pulled her car to a stop in front of her house. Another burst of wind whipped past, forcing the ancient oak trees to bend until the branches brushed the ground. This is how horror movies started. The menacing creak of branches and shoes sticking in the mud. It didn’t matter if she ran for the door or waltzed, she would be soaked to the bone and quite possibly twist an ankle.
The car door groaned in protest as she pushed it open. Her heels sank into the ground. She ran for it, fighting the storm and leaning against the wind to reach the house. Her front door fell open as she reached for it, and Sam landed sprawled on the floor.
“Hello?” Her voice echoed in the dark living room as the security light flashed a merry green, disarmed and docile. Hoss barked from the kitchen. Sam scrambled to her feet. “Hold on, Hoss.”
Grumbling under her breath, she walked into the kitchen, and stopped. A glass hurricane lamp filled with blue oil sat on her ancient table illuminating Miss Azalea with gun in hand standing at the back entrance watching MacKenzie kneel on the floor with his hands behind his head.
The elderly woman nodded to Sam. “Fine storm tonight,” her landlady said as the wind stretched the heavy plastic tarp Sam had taped over the empty doorframe.
“Yes.” Sam slowly set her purse on the table. “Is everything all right, Miss Azalea?”
“I found this young coot breakin’ in,” her landlady said. “He didn’ think anyone was home.”
Hoss bumped Sam’s knee, and she stroked his head in a daze.
“Sam . . . Rose.” Mackenzie’s eyes were wide with fright.
Miss Azalea bumped his shoulder with her Smith & Wesson as Sam’s phone rang.
“I thought you were in Florida, Miss Azalea. And, Mac, what are you doing out here?” She checked her phone, and they both started to talk at once. Not to be outdone, Hoss started barking. “Yes?”
“Rose, where on the green Earth are you?” Marrins demanded. “I’ve been calling for the past hour! We lost the dam five minutes after you left, and they’re calling in everyone. Get down here.”
“Shut up!” Sam yelled at the dog, her landlady, and her landlady’s hostage. She shoved a finger in her free ear and squeezed her eyes shut. “Sir, I just got home. There’s a bit of a situation here.” She peeked over her shoulder.
MacKenzie mouthed the words Help me.
“It’s not another body, is it?” Marrins asked.
“No, it’s my landlady.”
“What’s she need?”
“I honestly have no idea.”
“Well, sort it out,” Marrins snapped. “We need help out here.” He hung up with a grumble.
She stared at the floor for a long moment before turning back to the strange tableau. “Miss Azalea, weren’t you in Florida?”
“Was,” her landlady agreed affably, “but the storm done sent me home. The crick’s rising so fast, it’s crawling out of its bed into mine. I come up here to see you. I’m gonna stay up here, or I can go to Widow Carnegie’s place if that’s a problem. She’s got the guest room done up real nice.”
Sam shook her head. “No, it’s okay. I’m renting one room, not the whole house.” She frowned at MacKenzie. “What are you doing here? Didn’t you get my message? Why would you try moving furniture in this weather?”
He grimaced. “There was a break in the rain.”
“Those are called rain bands. You should have used it to buy groceries.” Sam grabbed the barrel of Miss Azalea’s gun and pushed it toward the door. “You can let him up. He’s harmless.”
“Harmless?” The old lady humphed. “He broke my back door!”
“The door was broken over the weekend,” Sam corrected. “I just hadn’t fixed it yet.” Miss Azalea tugged at the gun, but Sam tugged back harder. “Please tell me you loaded this with some liquid bullets before threatening a CBI agent.”
Miss Azalea sniffed and folded her arms. “If I shoots someone, I aims to kill ’em, not let ’em have a light nap.”
Mac was starting to shake. A few more minutes of this, and she was going to have an incident.
“Miss Azalea, these things are illegal.” Flipping the safety on, Sam laid the gun on the counter. “You can’t go waving a gun at everyone who drives up. Especially not Commonwealth agents.” She moved between her landlady and the man kneeling on her floor.
Mac stood up slowly and backed away. “Um . . .” He rubbed his arm. “I should . . . I should be going.”
“Do you have a truck?” Sam asked.
“Yes.” His focus was elsewhere, probably lost in the past remembering whatever tragedy had driven him down this road.
“Can you give me a ride to the staging area?” Away from Miss Azalea. “I barely survived the drive home—my car isn’t heavy enough to handle the wind.” And her nerves weren’t up to fighting the steering wheel. If Mac was driving, she could shut her eyes and pretend she wasn’t living through a nightmare.
He bit his lip, blinked, then nodded. “Sure. I guess.” One deep breath later, and he seemed as close to normal as he ever was.
“Great, let me get changed real quick. Is there anything you need before we leave, Miss Azalea?”
Her landlady was still frowning at MacKenzie. “You sure you can trust a city boy?”
“Farm boy,” MacKenzie said. “I was born in Idaho on a farm. I’m a farm boy.”
“Right, Idaho,” Sam said, as if she’d known that all along.
“Fine. But he best be fixin’ that door once this storm blows through.”
Sam nodded, knowing it wasn’t worth repeating that it hadn’t been Mac who had broken the door to begin with. “It’ll be a top priority as soon as the back porch is dry.” She rushed upstairs, stripped off her soggy work clothes, and found a pair of old jeans suitable for drowning in. From the depths of her closet, she pulled out a neon yellow raincoat that she’d bought on a whim when she’d moved to Alabama but never worn. She tied on her oldest sneakers and went back downstairs, where MacKenzie was cowering behind Hoss as Miss Azalea glared. “Come on, Mac.”
He patted the dog and stood.
“I’ll have my phone in case you need anything, Miss Azalea.” Sam pulled her hood on. She turned to MacKenzie. “Are you parked around back?”
He nodded again.
She crossed herself and followed him into the storm. MacKenzie pulled the passenger-side door open for her and slammed it shut once she’d climbed onto the high seat. The truck smelled comfortingly worn: the scent of leather and sweat and man. She settled back in the seat, dropping her wet jacket on the floorboards as MacKenzie pulled out onto the road. Wind buffeted the truck, but it didn’t budge.
“You won’t have trouble driving in this, will you?” Sam asked, trying to keep her nervousness from showing.
“I’ve driven in worse,” he said, as they accelerated. MacKenzie kept glancing at her.
“Is there a problem?”
He jerked his head side to side. “No.”
“Then keep your eyes on the road.” Sam drew her knees to her chest and shut her eyes so she wouldn’t see the waves of water cresting on the highway. They turned onto the main thoroughfare, where concrete barriers blocked the worst of the wind, and she felt MacKenzie watching her again. “What is it?”
“Hmm, nothing. I just . . . it’s nothing.” He refocused on the road. “It’s about the Jane Doe case.”
“Can it wait?” Sam asked. The truck hydroplaned, and she screamed.
MacKenzie chuckled as he brought the truck back under control.
“We’re about to die, and you’re laughing?”
“This isn’t bad. I’ve driven while it’s mudding.”
“Mudding?”
“It’s what you get when a sandstorm and a rainstorm collide. It muds.” He grinned. “This is so much better.”
“No it’s not!” Her voice climbed an octave as the truck’s traction light flashed on and off. “Please slow down.”
“Play it chill, Rose. It’s just a storm.”
“I don’t like storms.” She squeezed her eyes shut.
The truck slowed. “I’m sorry. I’ll be more careful.”
“Thank you.”
Now if I could only get God to promise the same thing.