by Liana Brooks
“Maybe online?” Bradet guessed. “Once he was in his room, he’d turn on the computer, and that was it. No more communication from the Henry.”
“Can I see his room?”
“Can you pick locks?” Bradet asked. He stood up and led Sam down the left hall. “Henry’s bathroom, and his fortress of solitude.” He batted at the combination padlock handing on Henry’s door. “He was a very private man. But he paid his rent on time.”
“Your roommate padlocked his bedroom when he left, and you weren’t the least bit concerned?” She’d lived with a pill addict and hadn’t ever felt the need to padlock her room. Either Henry was scared of someone, or he was scared of someone’s finding what he kept in his room. Neither thought gave her much comfort.
Bradet raised his hands in surrender to the cruel fates of roommatedom. “What do you want me to say? He paid his bills. He washed his dishes. He could have been drinking blood and sacrificing gerbils to the elder gods for all I cared. As long as the house didn’t stink, and the air-conditioning stayed on, I wasn’t going to complain.”
“You have very low standards.”
He winked at her. “The lower the better, am I right, babe?”
“Don’t,” Sam said, stepping away as he encroached on her personal space. “Just don’t.”
He moved closer. “I’m just being friendly.”
“And I’m clearly stating I want my personal space without you in it. Are we clear?”
“Yeah,” Bradet said with a frown that said he clearly didn’t understand why she wasn’t thirsting after him.
She let it go. Bradet’s insecurities weren’t her problem. Besides—she had no doubt she could handle this slacker if it came to that. “Do I have your permission to enter the house when I find a bolt cutter for Henry’s lock?”
He scratched the back of his head. “I don’t know. Some of the stuff here is kinda, you know, important.”
“Like what?”
“The games? My holoset? They’re early models I get for working at the station, perks. I get them a couple months in advance. I’m really not allowed to have people around them unless I’m here. It’s in my contract. I take most of my dates to hotels. And, you know, to respect my roommate’s privacy.” He nodded, like taking girls to pay-by-the-hour motels was an improvement. Then again, if the living room was any indication of the general state of Bradet’s housekeeping, maybe it was a step up from his bedroom.
“When would be a good time for me to come back? Tonight? Tomorrow?” Next time she’d bring Edwin or Mac, some big, burly bureau shield who would make sure Bradet didn’t try to climb into her pocket again.
“Friday afternoon would be best. I mean, you’re cutting into my sleep time.” Bradet was giving her a beaten-dog look as if he were the victim.
Sam raised an eyebrow. “You do realize your roommate is dead, and I’m trying to find out what happened to him, don’t you?”
“Yeah, but it was an accident at the lab. I know. I read the police report at work. It’s tragic—he didn’t pay money for April’s rent yet—but it’s not a murder or anything. If you thought there was something important here, you’d have come by on Monday.”
“Henry’s death was, we believe, accidental. I want to prevent future accidents. If Henry had notes about what he was working on or what he was planning to work on the day of the incident, it’s important.”
“Friday,” Bradet said. “I’m usually up by four.”
“Fine,” Sam said. “I’ll be here at four with some bolt cutters. In the meantime, if you think of anything, please don’t hesitate to contact my office.”
Bradet leered at her.
“And if you think of anything along those lines, I’ll use the bolt cutters on you when I return.”
Mac sat back and enjoyed the scenery as Agent Edwin drove out of what the locals optimistically called a city, south to the Mosquito Lagoon. Edwin’s beat-up red Karoshi Legend rattled down a gravel road and stopped by a tree in an area not visibly different than the past ten miles of trackless gravel road they’d passed. “And this is?”
“The quickest way to the camp,” Edwin said. “They used to live up by Webster’s Creek, but a developer bought the area a few years back. Don’t ask about the creek at camp. They protested it, and if they think you’ll listen, you’ll get a blow-by-blow story of it from Connor Nu.”
“Connor Nu and Nealie Rho? Are those surnames real names?” Mac asked, as they climbed out of the truck.
Edwin grabbed two pairs of long plastic waders from the back of the truck and tossed a set to Mac. “One hundred percent invented. Nealie told me there’s a society record, but I never got all the details out of him.”
“You sound like you spend a lot of time down here with them.”
Edwin shrugged. “Someone has to. The police don’t care what they do. They’re outside the city jurisdiction. Neither Volusia nor Brevard County wants to take responsibility for them if they get sick.”
“Do they get sick a lot?”
“Not too much. Although one time I told them there was dihydrogen monoxide in the water around here, and three of them went to the hospital for dehydration.” The younger agent flushed red with embarrassment. “Connor was on an anti-chemical kick. Kept saying that we shouldn’t eat anything with chemicals in it. Lectured me on how I was poisoning myself eating grocery store food and refusing their all-natural fish and cattail biscuits. I got mad.”
“Hey—it’s not your fault they don’t know basic chemistry.”
“Yeah, but I should have known better.”
“Better you play a trick on them than punch them in the face.”
“I’m too big to hit people,” Edwin said. “I played football my freshman year of high school. Knocked a guy out, and he quit playing because of the head trauma. I quit, too. I don’t want to hurt people.”
Mac nodded. “I guess hitting with your words is the mature thing to do, then.” He pulled his waders on and looked at the dusty road. The humidity was near a hundred percent. Every breath was a gulp of hot steam. “How wet are we going to get?”
“In a mangal swamp? Don’t bring anything that isn’t waterproof.”
“Is my wallet okay in the car?”
“Oh, yeah. Nobody comes out here but me and sometimes the park ranger.”
Flattened grass and a faint tire imprint caught Mac’s eye. “Any of your pirates have a car?”
“Not parked out here. I think a few of them have bikes at the marina. Mostly they get around on boats. All the waterways around here connect to Indian River Lagoon. You can take that all the way south to Sebastian Inlet. Or you go south of Mosquito Lagoon and hike everything across the A1A to the Atlantic. That’s how they get most of their smuggled stuff in.”
“So, this was the park ranger?” Mac pointed to the flattened grass.
Edwin shook his head. “Sheila Bingara is the ranger on duty up here. She doesn’t come out here unless she calls me first.”
“Are you two dating?”
Another blush. “I wish. Nah, she doesn’t like being the only girl out here with a lot of what she calls bogans. I think it means hoodlums.”
“And you haven’t been out here in over a week?”
“Right.”
“So let’s get a picture of this tire mark and some measurements. This was probably Nealie’s last ride.”
Equipped with the bureau’s standard crime scene kit, they took pictures, measured everything, and started hiking into the jungle interior. Long grass and gravel quickly gave way to thick trees, vines, and mud.
“Mind the orb weavers,” Edwin said, pointing up. “They’re usually not a problem, but you don’t want to stretch in here.”
Mac glanced overhead and saw spiderwebs stretched from tree to tree. Something scuttled past.
&n
bsp; “Here.” Edwin stopped. “This is what you’re watching for.” On the tree trunk next to Edwin’s head there was a fist-sized yellow-and-black spider with strange horns on its carapace.
“Mutated?”
“Nah, orb weavers are spiky. Just watch for the little red-and-black ones. They like to make webs across the pathways. They’re not poisonous, just pesky.”
“And people are willing to live out here?” Idaho had spiders, too, but they were the normal little brown ones or the occasional black widow. Spiky spiders were something out of a kid’s cartoon.
“People willingly live everywhere,” Edwin said. “Ready to head into the swamp?”
“We aren’t there yet?” How could it possibly get wetter?
“Oh, no, this is just the bike trail. We’re in the swamp when you have water up to your knees.”
“Oh. Yipee,” Mac muttered. “There’s so much to look forward to here.”
“Not quite Chicago, is it, sir?” Edwin asked with a laugh.
Mac looked at the trees, ancient, gnarled creatures that looked like primordial ooze that had just found a solid form rather than the more prim maples lining the lanes of Chicago. “This isn’t quite a walk past the linden blossoms, but it’s not bad.” Florida was less sterile. He took a deep breath, and the air soaked his lungs. “I could live with a little less humidity.”
Edwin laughed. “This isn’t humid, not yet. Come summertime, we’ll have over a hundred percent humidity and triple-digit temperatures.”
“A hundred percent humidity is called rain. We have plenty of that in Chicago,” Mac said as he followed the junior agent down the suggestion of a game trail that might–if he squinted and used his imagination–be a path to a campsite.
“Down here, it gets so hot the rain evaporates before it hits the ground. It’s like walking through a sauna.”
“Oh, I remember days like that.” He’d hated them in Alabama until he realized those were the days Sam wore her thinnest shirts. On the weekends, she liked to wear lacy camisoles that the wet air plastered to her body like a second skin. “It wasn’t so bad, actually.”
Edwin looked over his shoulder at Mac. “You’ve been here before?”
“I was in Alabama. The humidity isn’t quite so bad, but there were days.”
“Right.” Edwin snapped a branch and took a breath. “Ever eaten alligator?”
“Um . . . no. Am I about to get the opportunity?” Mac stepped behind Edwin and, much to his chagrin, had to go on tiptoe to see over the other agent’s shoulder. “We found our swamp.”
Edwin smiled. “It should be too early in the season for the gators to be this far north. They like to stay down in the Everglades until the weather really warms up, but there’s always a risk of early migration and water snakes.”
“Fun place, Florida. Why do these pirates live here again?”
“Cheapest rent in the district.”
“Right.”
Edwin waded into the murky water, and, with a reluctant grimace, Mac followed. “It’s chillier than I thought it would be.”
Agent Edwin pointed up. “Canopy cover. I’m not sure if this actually qualifies as a rain forest, but the upper-level foliage gets most of the light. Down here, it’s dark and shady . . .”
“And humid, and buggy, and damp,” Mac finished for him. “I think I see why Agent Rose lets you handle the pirates.”
“Oh, she’s come out here. Once at least.”
Mac raised an eyebrow. It was hard to picture Sam wading through the mud for fun. “She didn’t recognize Nealie.”
Edwin shrugged and forged deeper into mangal swamp, walking around the mangrove roots and leaving slow eddies in the water. “All I know is they’ve mentioned her. I think she first came out here in late January. Nealie mentioned seeing her once, didn’t remember her name, but I knew her from the description. Maybe she only talked with Connor Nu. All I know is Nealie thought she had a funny accent.”
“Not that I’ve noticed.” He replayed Sam’s voice in his head.
“She doesn’t have a noticeable accent, unless you count Commonwealth Newscaster as an accent. Agent Rose always sounds very polished. Maybe that’s what he meant.” Edwin stopped and looked around. He pointed in a southwesterly direction. “This way. I think.”
“You think? That’s not what I want to hear. Landnav is not an exercise in guesses.”
Edwin sighed. There might have been an eye roll. “I think this is the right island for the main camp. During high tide, it’s easy to lose count and go down one too many. But I didn’t hear anything, so it’s probably this one.”
“Fair enough,” Mac said. He scrambled up the muddy bank after Edwin. “Sorry for, uh, you know.”
“Questioning my every move?” Edwin said.
“Yup. That. Sorry.”
“Don’t worry about it. The only person who treats me like a real agent is Agent Rose. I don’t think it’s crossed her mind I might fail.”
“Have you?” Mac asked.
Edwin looked confused. “Have I thought I might fail?”
“No, have you ever actually failed?”
“No.”
“Then why would she think you’d fail? Sam expects the best out of people. She always has.” Mac climbed the small bank and pushed aside a tangle of vines along with his thoughts on how Sam had first viewed him. She hadn’t been a fan, but then he hadn’t been someone worth rooting for when they met. But, if her flirtatious smiles last night over dinner were anything to go by, he was growing on her. “This is the camp?”
Edwin nodded. “One of them. They travel between the islands for fishing and whatnot, but this is the main base of operations.”
There was a suggestion of habitation. A circle of cleared space on the muddy island. Fewer Brazilian pepper vines wrapping around the mangrove trees, and compacted earth suggested someone had been here recently.
Edwin walked in confidently and started scuffing the ground with his wet boots. “They were here.”
“Yeah?” Mac walked farther into the circle and looked around. The dusty, dry ground looked rippled.
“Their bags are still here.” Edwin pointed up, and Mac saw nets and plastic boxes hanging from a rope a good eight feet off the ground. “It keeps the bears away,” Edwin said.
Mac nodded. “I’m sure it keeps it dry, too.”
“Exactly,” the junior agent said. “Here!” Edwin ran across the encampment, kicking up dust, and gestured for Mac to follow. “Tents and everything. Although . . . I wonder why they’re over here.”
Mac followed, eyeing the pile of broken tents and scattered shoes with distrust. He reached for Edwin’s arm. “We should go.”
“Why?”
“I need to talk to Sam.”
Edwin frowned. “I thought you wanted to interview the pirates.”
“I need to talk to Sam first, and there’s no phone signal here.” Mac took out his phone and snapped pictures of the camp. “Let’s go.”
He hoped Sam would tell him he was crazy. There were dozens of reasons the site looked like this. Maybe the pirates had decided to draw some geometric designs to fancy up the swamp, but the last time something had shattered in neatly concentric rings, people had died.
CHAPTER 7
Every expansion event is followed by a collapse. Every collapse is preceded by a series of decoherence events. One iteration of time collapses into the other like tumbling dominoes creating chaos and noise, but nothing more.
~ excerpt from Lectures on the Movement of Time by Dr. Abdul Emir I1–20740413
Friday March 3, 2073
Broward County, Florida
Federated States of Mexico
Iteration 3
Gant regarded Bahia Corsario—or Privateer’s Bay—with a dispassionate look as Donovan steered
their stolen car down the well-lit boulevard as the car’s AC breathed out tinny, recycled air. “It looks like a church.”
“It is, almost.” Donovan turned the car away from the buildings and down a side street lined with boutiques and pastry shops.
“What’s the security like?”
“Tight. Zoetimax Industrial owns the complex. Twelve acres of paradise for the wealthy. A modern San Carlos, full of treasure.”
“San Carlos held an army, not a treasure.”
“It was a treasury before Mexico took their independence from Spain,” Donovan said. He took another turn, and the difference between Bahia Corsario and the rest of the sheltered city of Pembroke Pines became visible.
Entire houses were missing. Empty lots choked by vines filled the places where humanity had been vanquished. “What happened?”
“Hurricane, three years ago. The whole area was destroyed. Pembroke Pines was far enough inland that some of the buildings stood. The government paid to relocate people to safer towns with low populations. Zoetimax bought up as much land as they could.”
“Good for them.”
“Everyone here works for Zoetimax in one way or another,” Donovan said as he pulled up to a house and into the car park behind it. The metal awning wasn’t much protection from sun, rain, or satellite, but most people weren’t worried about the government sky cameras. “All those little businesses you saw? The mom-and-pop shops down the main jag? Zoetimax fronts. Zoetimax owns the bank. People get loans, open preapproved businesses, charge a set amount.”
“Manuel Helu still owns Zoetimax, doesn’t he?”
“Zoetimax and the senate and the palace if he can get it. This is his ciudad de la perfección. His blueprint for the modern Federated States of Mexico.” Donovan got out and looked across the withering grass of the house’s backyard. “Makes me sick.”
Gant rolled his eyes. Smooth-talking politicians weren’t his business. Money meant security, and security wasn’t what he wanted in a mark. “Whose house is this?”
“No one’s. The owner ran into trouble with some buddies of mine. Took a fishing trip.” Donovan met his eyes. “Fell off the boat.”
