The Day Before (6 page)

She had the same ring with the inscription in English once upon a time. It had been a gift from her mother when she'd graduated from St. Catherine's, probably the only gift her mother had bought for Sam herself. All her other birthday presents were bought by her mother's personal secretary. There was a little Catholic bookstore across the street from St. Catherine's imposing main gate where you could buy a ring like this with the quote in English, French, or Spanish. On their way to the graduation ceremony, they'd stopped to purchase a chapel veil to replace the one her mother had forgotten at home, and her mother had bought the ring at the same time. It was a trinket, really, but it meant her mother had thought of her.

Sam clicked through the images on her computer screen. There was nothing about the ring that made it stand out from the millions of other rings that were the staple of the Chris­tian retail market. Still, part of her wanted to say this was a St. Catherine's ring.

“Rose?” Marrins knocked on her doorframe as he walked in. “Just got off the line with Birmingham. Where's their Jane?”

“Sir? I put a copy of the blood work report on your desk this morning before I pulled the data from Agent Anan's case. Atlanta confirmed that Jane Doe is not a clone.”

Marrins sighed and collapsed into one of the rickety aluminum chairs meant for visitors. The chair creaked under his weight. “No hits on the public database?”

“No, sir. MacKenzie is accessing the public-­census database, and I sent a request to the regional headquarters for permission to check the private database. I can't access that information at my pay grade.”

“And they bounced it back to me.” Marrins shook his head. “I've checked. This Jane doesn't match anyone. Trust an old man's instincts on this: she's a clone. I've seen a hundred cases just like this.”

“But there were no Verville traces.”

He waved her into silence. “Lab error. Atlanta will rerun the test and find the traces.”

“And we have already started that test, so we should have confirmation soon. But, sir, we have the ring—­”

“A ring that fell off her hand.” Marrins exhaled noisily. “I saw your note, Rose. It's nothing.” He sat up a bit straighter. A bit.

Hard to sit straight when you're so round. . .

Sam looked at Marrins guiltily, unsure if she'd said it aloud. But the senior agent continued, saying “I need you to refocus on the lab case. Altin is turning up nothing, and I need suspects. Start working the phones, call the tech ­people who have the cameras.
Do the background checks I asked you for.
I want to know what they saw. I'm tired of loose ends all over the place.”

“Yes, sir,” Sam mumbled, as Marrins rose and lumbered back out the door.

A ring. A body. Nothing more. No suspects. No witnesses. Not even a name on the corpse.

Her phone rang, and she picked it up with a weary sigh. “Agent Rose speaking, how can I help you, sir or ma'am?”

“I've . . . I've got a problem,” Agent MacKenzie stuttered over the line.

“Yes, you do,” Sam agreed. She heard Marrins's door slam down the hall.

“Are you at your computer?” MacKenzie asked.

Ice crawled up her spine, and she had to glance over her shoulder to make sure he wasn't staring in her second-­floor window. “What do you need?”

“I'm”—­there was a click on the other end—­“sending a file. I need help.”

A black-­and-­white picture of circles appeared on her screen. “What is this, MacKenzie?”

“Bone fragments. Patterns on bone.”

She zoomed out of the picture to see the whole of Jane's skeleton. “The bone looks like it's rippled. Can bone ripple?” she asked.

“I don't know,” he said.

Sam snarled in exasperation. “MacKenzie, you're the one with a medical background. I took two years of basic biology in uni. They didn't cover melted bones. What caused this?”

“I . . . I think it's what killed Jane. The murder weapon.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Like the shatter around the entry point of a bullet? Or are you saying she had a genetic defect that left her like this, and she died of natural causes after being tortured?”

“Like the bullet,” he said. “I . . . I think I've seen it before,” he added in a whisper.

“Way too much hesitation, MacKenzie.”

“I've seen this before,” he said, still quiet but firm.

Sam tapped her finger on her desk. “Are you sober?” There was a splutter of protest from the other end of the line. “I've got to know if you're reliable. Are you sober? Right now?”

“I'm trying. The pills . . . I need them. I need them to sleep.”

“Well, then, you're no help to me—­I'm being ordered to wrap this up now.” She took a deep breath. “Look, I'm going to call this a Class Five for now, which means we can always follow up on it later. In the meantime, try taking a hot shower and reading a book,” Sam said. “Call me back when you're sober, and your pickled brain remembers what caused this.” She hung up, putting the receiver down a bit harder than she needed to.

Growling under her breath, Sam started to fill in the forms to close the case. Jane deserved so much more. A name on her gravestone, the promise of her killer brought to justice. No one deserved an anonymous grave to be buried and forgotten. Sam marked Class Five, suicide with questions.

Saint Peter have mercy, Jane didn't die like that.
Surely God and the saints would understand.
As soon as I have more information, I'll give Jane back her name.
She'd tell the Father at confession and say a few extra Hail Marys. At least Marrins would be satisfied, and her transfer paperwork could finally get processed.

 

CHAPTER 6

When I close my eyes for the last time, I pray to the unfeeling gods that my last thought is not one of regret. Let me live while I live, so that I might die in peace.

~ Excerpt from
The Heart of Fear
by Liedjie Slaan I1

Monday May 27, 2069

Alabama District 3

Commonwealth of North America

S
am deleted the itinerary from her mother and took a bite of her blueberry muffin and perused the list of possible matches for Jane Doe. Still nothing. Searching by estimated height, weight, and age wasn't connecting Jane to any person missing or dead in the public database. Sam tried to dismiss the feeling she was missing something. All the flags were there for a black-­market-­clone case . . . except for the known clone markers. Agent Anan in Birmingham was still holding out hope that Atlanta would find Verville traces, but that only made the decision to close Jane's case worse.

“Agent Rose.” The receptionist's voice over the intercom stopped Sam mid–internal rant.

She hit the
REPLY
button. “In my office.”

“You have a visitor, Agent Rose. The lady identifies herself as Miss Chimes. Should I have her come back another time?”

“Show her up, please.” Sam brushed the crumbs off her desk and slipped out the pair of handcuffs issued to her for emergencies. She dropped them into her lap as she heard voices in the hall.

“This way,” the secretary said. “Last office on the left.”

“Thank you,” was the demure reply. A woman stepped into Sam's office, dark skin, green eyes, wiry curls with a tint of red. Atlantic Islander Irish with a mocha-­latte baby resting on her hip. She didn't look like a college student working her way through school.

“Miss Chimes?” Sam motioned to the free chair. “Won't you have a seat?”

Miss Chimes took the seat with athletic grace. “It's Chimes-­Martin now,” she said with the crisp accent only an expensive private education could buy.

Sam quickly reassessed her guest. “You aren't Melody?”

Mrs. Chimes-­Martin gave her a bland look. “I'm Dulcet, Melody's older sister. Detective Altin said you were handling Melody's disappearance?”

“If the police determine she is missing, yes, I'd take over. I'm the bureau liaison for the case.”

“If she is?” Dulcet Chimes-­Martin said in a tight voice. “What do you mean,
if she is
? My sister isn't answering her phone. How much more evidence could you possibly need?”

“There is no evidence your sister is missing, only that she left work. The summer course she's enrolled in starts in two weeks so she hasn't missed any classes yet. She hasn't missed work. She hasn't been reported missing by her family—­unless that's what you're here to do. According to her work file, she was going on vacation and planned to spend the week with her parents. The bureau is not in the habit of chasing down ­people on vacation when all their paperwork is in order.”

Mrs. Chimes-­Martin set her baby on the floor, then leaned forward. “I know the protocol for situations like this. Under the circumstances, I feel I have been exceptionally patient. Melody's name has been all over the news as a suspect, but no one has contacted my family. Why did no one knock on my door? Why weren't my parents notified?”

Irritated, Sam turned back to her computer and opened the file. “Melody had no next of kin on record. Her listed addresses for the past three years were Dorm C, rooms 102, 312, and 314 respectively. Detective Altin sent a patrol officer out to interview the roommates, but everyone denied knowing her. Detective Altin also tried her mobile number, and the listed number for your parents. Both went to answering ser­vices.” Sam sent the file to her handheld and pushed the small screen to across her desk.

Dulcet Chimes-­Martin's expertly applied makeup creased in a frown. “I don't understand.”

Sam took a deep breath and tried again. “Some ­people like to go on vacation and disconnect.”

She let that sink in, then continued, “Nothing at the lab suggested anyone was injured. There's some broken glass and a few fried cleaning bots, but no signs of bodily violence. If anything, your sister is guilty of negligence and will probably lose her job for leaving work early. The police would like to speak with her, but she isn't a suspect, no matter what the media are saying. We've pursued her with due diligence and come up with nothing. Can you look at her information? Maybe there was a typo, or she used an old phone number? Any help you can offer would be appreciated.”

Reluctantly, Mrs. Chimes-­Martin took the data pad. She frowned at it, then shook her head. “I don't understand this address. This is wrong.”. She handed the pad back. “My sister never lived in the dorms. Our parents bought her a house next to the school.”

“I'm sorry, that's what we have on record.”

“Melody's files must have been mixed with another employee's.” There was a note of desperate pleading in the woman's voice.

Sam pulled up her work for Melody's missing person report. “Mrs. Chimes-­Martin, at this time, would you like to officially state that your sister is missing?”

The woman looked at her in bewilderment. “What?”

“I need an official report to get the bureau involved. As her sister, do you want to report Melody Chimes as a missing person?”

“Yes!”

Sam nodded. “When was the last time you saw Melody?”

Mrs. Chimes-­Martin scooped her baby up and held her close. “Um, two weeks ago, I guess. She comes over every other Sunday after choir practice. Usually, she calls home once or twice a week, but she didn't call this week.”

“Is it possible she's with your parents?” Sam asked as she filled in details.

“My parents? No, they're at their summer home on the Riviera. Melody doesn't like it there. She was planning to work all summer. She's saving for a trip to Ireland next fall. My parents are making her pay for half of the expenses.”

“Why would she ask for vacation time to visit her parents if she wasn't going?” Sam countered.

Dulcet Chimes-­Martin shook her head angrily. “You must have someone else's file.”

“That's doubtful. All files at the lab are genetically coded. This is the file linked to your sister. For whatever reason, she chose not to list anyone as next of kin, and she lied about where she was going on vacation. Apparently, she lied about her address, too. Do you know if she had a boyfriend? Could she have left town with friends?”

The baby started to cry. Mrs. Chimes-­Martin hugged her child and stood. “I don't like what you're insinuating. My sister is a loving, caring, honest girl. She wouldn't run off without talking to me first.” She bit her lip as if afraid to say too much. “My sister is missing, Agent Rose. I'm saying that officially. She is missing. I want a report filed. I want her found.”

Marrins is going to love this.

T
he graveyard on the outskirts of town had a white stone fence, two lion statues in bronze at the entrance, and an old-­world feel of elegance at odds with the modern memorials lining the main thoroughfare. Sky-­blue pillars of light crowded the walkway with faces and laughter. Electronic ghosts, the latest way to make your loved one live for eternity.

Sam's car phone played the first few bars of a dirge. “Averton Place Memorial Park, who are you visiting with today?”

“I am here for the Jane Doe ser­vice, public space 88-­751.”

“Our condolences on the loss of Jane Doe, public space 88-­751.” The blue ghosts flickered, and the console map illuminated a path to Jane's grave.

Nothing like an automated message to bring the sentiment home. . .

Blue-­light projections of the dead flitted around the car as Sam drove through the memorial arch to an open field. Jane's grave was here under the bright blue Alabama sky, cast adrift with the other flotsam of society.

Her heels sunk into the freshly watered grass. Marrins stood talking with the funeral director in a quiet voice, not sparing her a glance. Public-­ser­vice drones—­freed clones released from their owner's ser­vice for one reason or another—­carried the flimsy pine box up the hill. A third vehicle pulled in on the gravel driveway. Agent MacKenzie unfolded from his truck, blinking against the bright sun.

Detached, Sam watched the clones lower Jane into the red-­clay earth. The funeral director murmured a few words of memorial before tossing a handful of religious trinkets in after the casket.

Sam crossed herself, said a brief prayer to Saint Anthony of Padua, patron saint of lost things. Jane lost not just her life but her name as well. Perhaps the saints and angels would get it back.

Plus, she could honestly tell her mother she'd prayed this week. That should earn her a few brownie points.

Agent MacKenzie's accusing glare stopped her as she walked to her car. “You stopped looking.” His harsh whisper came out full of anger and hurt. “Why'd you close the case?” He was shaking again, but the stutter was gone.

She waited in silence until Marrins left. “I saved both our careers. Marrins wanted Jane laid to rest, I made that happen. Like I told you, if we find something, I can reopen the case.” She hesitated as his eyes narrowed. “I promise, if we find proof Jane was human, I will find her killer. But right now, I've got to focus on a girl who might still be alive.”

He stalked away, anger and exhaustion seeming to flow off him in competing waves.

I know exactly how you feel, MacKenzie.