by Blake Pierce
And Zoe couldn’t see any way out of this mess—this mess that she had created. She could only sit at home and leave her phone turned off, and ignore the calls that would come when her suspension was up, and let it all fade into someone else’s memory.
CHAPTER TWO
Elara Vega looked at her watch and raised her eyebrows, the gesture meant only for herself. She was alone, after all; her colleagues had all left, mostly at six when their workday was over. But Elara’s work was everything to her—had always been everything to her.
No, that wasn’t quite true, she reflected as she gathered her things and moved her notes into an orderly configuration for the morning. There had been a time when other things had mattered more. She had raised her son, and for a time there had been her husband, although the divorce came twenty years ago. Two years after that the son had moved out to go to college, and since then, she had been alone. She liked it that way. Just her and the stars and planets, eternal and yet fleeting.
Elara glanced over her tidy desk, checking for anything astray. If there was something she had learned in her fifty-nine years of life, it was that keeping things tidy was a lot less effort than cleaning up a build-up of mess after it had had time to settle.
Satisfied, Elara grabbed her coat from the back of the chair and shrugged it on, heading for the door. She was still straightening the collar as she stepped out into the hall, where a janitor was running a mop in smooth circles over the floor. She always felt bad when she stayed late enough to interrupt the cleaners. They had a job to do, and here she was, walking over the newly washed floor in her boots.
The planetarium was set up with office spaces, corporate and event rooms, and facilities branching away from the central theater, which led directly to the main foyer and the exit. Elara stepped out into the dark space, always slightly eerie at night with the whole building in darkness and all of the chairs sitting silently empty. It had always reminded her of those apocalyptic movies when the characters would come across something poignant: an abandoned theater, the covers on the seats slowly rotting, the projection equipment gone to ruin. She crossed the floor quickly, wanting the comfort of the foyer and the night air.
She was halfway across the front of the seats when a familiar whirring noise started up: the mechanical noise of the projector coming to life. Elara’s steps faltered, and she looked up and around herself in wonder. The stars and planets had burst into light overhead, swirling around until they settled into their places for the beginning of the presentation. She had seen it a hundred times, had even taken part in checking the accuracy of the new astral maps a few years ago when it was updated, but it was something new to be standing right in the middle of it like this. Feeling that you could almost reach out and touch the stars…
But who had turned the projector on? All of her colleagues had gone home, and it wasn’t supposed to be on at this time of night. Orchestral music was beginning to blare, so loud it drowned out everything else. Elara frowned and began to turn, thinking that she would investigate the projection room—
But she was on her knees, staring at the floor. How had she gotten here? Just a minute ago, she had been—but there was a pain in the back of her head—a clattering impact she remembered, louder even than the music—and she found that her legs wouldn’t lift her, and neither would her arms, and everything was throbbing—
There was something else now, something at the back of her neck—another pain—a hand, gripping her tightly, with no thought for the delicate skin. Elara dimly tried to struggle free, wanting the pain to stop, but the hand gripped her more tightly, the ache coming to her from some distant place far away. Like another planet, maybe, shrouded by distance and the light from other stars. She was moving—being moved, by the back of her neck—being taken somewhere, her legs dragging helplessly on the ground.
Elara fought to get her feet under her, to stop them from skidding and bouncing on the smooth floor, but nothing seemed to be working properly, and the music was so loud and the lights were so bright, and something hot was falling down her forehead and getting in her eye. She found herself looking down into something round, metal, the light bouncing and reflecting off something glinting and moving inside—off water—and then—
The cold water was a shock to her system, making her gasp out loud, the one action she had managed to fulfill with clarity since the projector turned on. It was unfortunate that it was also the one action that, in this case, was inappropriate: she inhaled only water, not air, feeling it rush into her mouth and down her throat with a panic that overcame the confusion and pain in her head. She only knew that she had to get out, to get away, to haul herself back to the surface and the air again.
Elara struggled, latching her hands onto the sides of the metal bucket, feeling it move under her in a sickening lurch, but somehow she went with it. There was something over her shoulders, pressing down on her, stopping her from raising her head up out of the water. She felt her vision darkening, black spots appearing in front of her eyes, dancing along with the flecks of light that reached down into the water, playing off the bubbles all around her as she thrashed desperately to raise her head.
Elara tried with one last effort to simply fall backward, to tip the bucket and the water away, but her throat was convulsing and her vision failing, and she knew she had nothing left. A painful contraction in her chest forced her to try to suck in one last breath, but she found none, and then there was a blackness so absolute that there was nothing—not even the glimmers of stars millions of light years away, dying in another galaxy, perhaps already dead.
CHAPTER THREE
Zoe had to pause twice as she crossed the kitchen to hold her head in her hands and groan. Rehydration was what was required. But turning toward the front of the room, and the windows, she immediately regretted it. She had never closed any of her curtains last night, and now the late morning sun was streaming in through the glass, dousing her room with a bright glare that sent pain ricocheting through her skull.
The hangover was just insult to injury. She had consumed around fifty-six grams of alcohol last night, which meant that her body should have been able to break down the alcohol within seven hours. The only thing was that she had gone to bed late last night, still wearing her shoes, and there was a definite possibility that she had drunk more units after coming home without remembering it. At any rate, her head was pounding, and she wanted nothing more than to go back to sleep.
The pain was probably about a six on her personal scale. Worse than that was the noise: Zoe hated the city during the day. Even with the windows closed, shut away inside her apartment, she could hear it. The steady stream of tires and engines on the asphalt below, telling her the average speed of the traffic on the nearest roads today. The woman in the apartment above walking across her floor with a heavy stomp that told Zoe she was walking to the fridge, because the layouts of their apartments were the same and she had made seven steps southward. And then back again, seven steps north.
There were birds, calling out to one another and somehow living whole lives in this city, even though there weren’t as many trees as they must have preferred. They called out in a rhythm that itched inside Zoe’s head: one call with three trills, one call with three trills, one call with three trills. Always the same. Then silence for a while before they started up again. The only variation was when one of the birds was a little hoarse on one of the trills, and then it was gone and the rhythm returned.
“Shut up, birds,” Zoe said out loud, covering her face with her hands. A soft mewl over by the door made her crack open her eyes to see Pythagoras, her Burmese, watching her with a reproving look.
Zoe groaned. At least her life hadn’t totally lost all meaning and routine. There was still the cats, and they still needed feeding, no matter what. She grabbed their food out of the cupboard and shook the packet until the rattling noise allowed her to estimate that she had shaken out a hundred twenty individual pieces of the dry cat food. Pythagoras and Euler came running i
mmediately, and she watched them attack their bowls as she took a painkiller with a glass of water.
Zoe forced herself to drink the rest of the glass of water down, then refilled it immediately. Another three of these, and she estimated that the headache would be gone. She already felt better.
That didn’t help, however, when the loud knock battered at the door, making her start so much that a large drop from her glass splashed down to the floor.
Not now, Dr. Applewhite, Zoe thought, but something about the knock made her reconsider. Actually, it sounded as though there was more weight behind it. It was firmer than Dr. Applewhite’s knock, and the pattern was off. Rat-tat-tat, no fourth tap, and only once. Probably a man, Zoe guessed, which was odd.
Maybe the FBI had sent anything she’d left in the J. Edgar Hoover Building back to her in a parcel, and she needed to sign for it. That was a thought. Maybe not entirely likely, but it pushed her to go and take a look all the same.
Zoe opened the door, letting the chain extend fully before she saw that it was SAIC Leo Maitland—her boss. He was standing in front of her door with his arms held behind his back and a mild expression on his face, which was not necessarily a good sign. He was a busy man, and he didn’t take time out to do home visits. Something about that look, and natural trained obedience to her superior, made Zoe push the door back toward the frame, unhook the chain, and open it fully to meet him face-on.
She regretted not choosing a more cohesive outfit, or brushing her hair this morning, but it was what it was.
“Agent Prime.” Maitland’s voice was a deep rumble. At six foot three, he had five inches of height on her, and he used it now to look down on her like a teacher on an errant child.
“Sir,” Zoe said, trying to keep her voice steady. She hadn’t wanted to deal with anything from work. Not while the numbers were still everywhere she looked, now measuring the angles in Maitland’s straight military posture, noting that the man’s forty-five-inch chest and fifteen-inch biceps had not at all diminished since she was last in his office.
Since he had told her to go home on leave, because she had witnessed her partner’s dead body and then punched a guy like she was never intending to stop.
“I came over from HQ to see you personally,” he said. His tone was meaningful. “Do you mind if I come in?”
Zoe looked at him, uncomprehending for a moment. What was that tone? Was he mad at her? Amused? Disappointed? What? All she could hear was the sixty-one decibels, the sixteen words, the cadence and rhythm, the flow of syllables. But she stepped aside and gestured toward the sofa, and Maitland stepped past her with the air of a man taking care where he put his feet.
Not because he didn’t want to step on something important, mind. Because he didn’t want to dirty his shoes.
Maitland took a careful seat on the sofa as Zoe closed the door and followed him. She hesitated; since there was no one else who came to visit her here, she’d never seen the need to invest in an alternate form of seating. There was just the sofa, which meant she had to sit beside him—awkwardly inappropriate, and confusing, too, because which angle should she position her body at? She sat after a moment of hesitation and finally settled on a forty-five-degree angle: halfway between facing him and straight ahead.
“Agent Prime,” Maitland said again, as if he was speaking very carefully. “What happened yesterday?”
“Yesterday?” Zoe repeated dully. Her mind began to race back. Yesterday? What had she even done? Sat listlessly in front of the window, turned Dr. Applewhite away again, gone for a walk. Ah. The walk. Had Harry Rose made a complaint?
Maitland shifted his position, changing his angle more toward her. Zoe noted that his dark buzzcut was the same length as it always was, though there was more gray in it than she had noted last time she saw him. “Your suspension was over yesterday. I expected you to report for duty.”
“It was yesterday?” Zoe asked, turning over her mental calendar. Yes, she thought, it had been the right number of days. And that was a Wednesday, too, so she guessed it was the right date. She had missed it entirely.
“I sent you several emails to that effect,” Maitland said. His head moved, glancing around the apartment. Zoe noted the angle of his chin and knew what he was looking at: computer, turned off; cell phone, dead; landline, unplugged. “I also called you a number of times, and when I couldn’t get through, left you numerous voicemails.”
Zoe nodded slowly. On the beat, one, two, three. “I am sorry,” she said, though she didn’t particularly feel it. “I have not really been keeping up with my correspondence lately.”
Maitland sighed. “Look, Zoe, I know it’s been a tough couple of months for you,” he said. “I gave you a six-week suspension because I knew you would have to be on leave anyway. It’s mandated, when an agent loses their partner. Especially in the fashion that you did. Have you been seeing the counselor?”
Zoe shook her head slowly. On the beat, one, two, three. There was no point in lying. He could check the records. He probably already had. She hadn’t seen the point. She had her own shrink. Not that she’d seen her lately, either.
“Why not?” Maitland asked.
Zoe thought about the answer. She thought about it for too long. The seconds ticked by, three, four, five, and Maitland got impatient.
“All right, listen to me,” he said, prompting Zoe’s eyes to meet his. She tried to focus on his words, not on the radius of his iris or how it changed when he twisted his head from side to side, the light hitting him differently. “The reason I’m here today is because I need to know what your intentions are. You’ve chosen not to return to work. Should I consider this to be your resignation?”
Zoe opened her mouth quickly, so that he would know she wanted to answer. It wasn’t a hard one to consider. “Yes,” she said, instantly. How could she ever consider going back? How could she walk through those halls without her former partner by her side? Before Shelley, everyone there had hated her. Turned their backs on her. Now that Shelley was gone, it would be even worse.
Maitland nodded slowly. Just like she had. On the beat, one, two, three. “All right,” he said. “If you’re sure. I’m going to need to see that in writing, though.”
Zoe glanced toward the computer and nodded mutely. She could type something up and send it to him. Get it done tomorrow.
Maitland began to stand, raising his huge frame with some care, obviously unwilling to hang around much longer. “Before you do write that letter of resignation, though,” he said, holding out a folder toward her. Zoe had been so focused on the measurements of that singular iris that she hadn’t even noticed it sitting on his knee. It was standard-size, brown, with a thin two-millimeter edge of something white poking out. “I think maybe you should take a look at this. It might interest you, and I could use you on it.”
Zoe eyed it warily, and Maitland sighed before placing it down on her coffee table.
“I’ll see myself out,” he said, walking toward the door. Just before he reached it, he paused and looked back at her. There was something in his face, something that Zoe thought might be sadness. “You’re a good agent, Prime. It would be a shame to let that creep end the careers of two of my best. I’ve seen other agents go through these kinds of losses, and the best thing for them has always been to dive in and get back to work.”
Then he was gone, leaving Zoe to stare down at the file on the table, analyzing its dimensions and trying to ignore everything else.
***
It wasn’t even yet midday, but Zoe felt awful. Her headache hadn’t gone away yet, and she was dead tired. After walking around for half the night, combined with the drinking, she felt like every ounce of strength had been wrung out of her. It wasn’t the first day like this. It wasn’t even the first day in a row.
She eased herself off the sofa and trailed through to her bedroom, falling onto the covers without bothering to move them or get undressed. She closed her eyes, her head against the pillow as she lay on her sto
mach, and grabbed hold of the calming nothing of sleep.
“Z, you’ve got to listen to me.”
Zoe turned, looking around to see Shelley standing in front of her. She was wearing a nice dress, her hair and makeup done even more neatly than usual, her height elevated in heels. Zoe looked down and realized that she was wearing the same. They were standing in the women’s bathroom of a restaurant, their partners waiting for them in the other room.
“What?” Zoe asked, frowning. Something was off, but she couldn’t remember what. Something wasn’t quite right here.
“You have to listen,” Shelley insisted.
Zoe frowned deeper and took a step toward her, but without moving Shelley managed to stay the same distance away. “Listen to what?” Zoe asked.
Shelley pointed behind her, and Zoe turned: in the mirror was a reflection of her own face, not done up in makeup and fancy clothing, but as she was now: sleep-ruffled and pale, scruffy in sweats, dark rings under her eyes.
But there was nothing else there.
Zoe turned to face her again, wondering. But Shelley was mute, staring at Zoe with such concentration and force that it killed the words wanting to burst out of her mouth. She could only look back, trying to figure out the meaning in Shelley’s stare, even as Shelley’s eyes filmed over with white and stopped staring at anything at all.
Zoe sat bolt upright in bed, breathing hard. She was sweaty and hot, her hair damp when she reached up to brush it off her forehead. It took a long moment for the thought of Shelley’s white-out eyes to fade from her head, and she looked to the side only to be confronted with another huge pair. Zoe yelped and shot sideways across the bed, only to realize that it was Euler, making a concerned purring noise under his breath as he watched her with one paw lifted cautiously in the air.
Zoe caught her breath and reached out to scratch him behind the ear, letting him know that it was okay. Her heart was still racing as he tossed his head and wandered away, losing interest in the odd behavior of his human. Zoe counted his steps until he left the room, then tried counting her own breaths instead, slowing them down as much as she could.
