Devil's Due (7 page)

“Once they get to us.”

“Yeah. Once they get to you.” It was unspoken, but he knew Manny would get to them first. Of course.

“Your techs already did field tests, right? What did they say?”

Rawlins was impossible to read. “Like I said, field tests aren’t really reliable. They’re just indicators. We don’t base any kind of decisions on what they say.”

McCarthy, who’d sat quietly through this entire conversation, said, “Listen, friend, I haven’t even been out of prison for one full day yet. Don’t make me assault a federal agent. I’d like to spend at least one night in a decent bed, watch a little television…so please, answer the nice lady’s question.”

“I can’t comment.”

“What are we, the friggin’ press? Right,” McCarthy said. “Guess I’m on my way back to Ellsworth.” He stood up. Lucia did, too, getting between him and Rawlins; she didn’t like the vibe that was cooking the air between them.
Dammit, nobody told me that Jazz was the calm one of their partnership
…

“Back off, Ben,” she said, and put a hand flat on his
chest. She felt the contact like a physical shock, felt the tension in his muscles, and lowered her voice. “Ben. Please. Let me handle it.”

He hesitated for about a second, then lowered himself back into the chair. Next to him, Pansy looked paralyzed with fright.

Rawlins said, “The field test kit showed positive for anthrax. But the field test kit shows bullshit results about thirty percent of the time, so I wouldn’t get too excited just yet. Besides, both of you made all the right moves, even if the results are reliable. It’s going to be okay. You barely had an exposure.”

Pansy nodded. Her face was the color of old ivory, her eyes stark and scared. Lucia felt her fingers tingling again, and knew it was just nerves, just her mind playing tricks on her.

“Thank you, Agent Rawlins,” she said. “Can we go?”

“We’re going to take you to the hospital as soon as we’re done here. By the way, this place is going under seal until we get the results back from the lab. After we find out, either way, you’re going to want to line up a biohazard team to come in and do a thorough cleanup. Just in case. Good for business, anyway. It’ll make those potential clients feel safer.”

McCarthy looked as if he wanted to commit a federal crime. Lucia took Rawlins’s arm and walked him a few feet away before she said, “Do I need to get Pansy on any treatments?”

“The two of you should be on prophylaxis, just to be safe. I’ve made a phone call. You’ll be going to Saint Luke’s. They’re already set up for you. They’ll start you on antibiotics. You can discontinue them if the tests show a negative.”

Reality was starting to set in. She could feel it as a fine trembling in her nerves, a slight hazy edge to the familiar surroundings. “And if the tests show positive?”

“Antibiotics for thirty days, at least. Maybe sixty, depending on if you start to show any symptoms. Look, Lucia—” He stopped. One of the techs was motioning at him from down the hall. “Be right back.”

He walked away, had a short conversation and came back. “Interesting news. My guys tracked the FedEx. Guess what? It doesn’t exist.”

“Sorry?”

“Officially, this tracking number doesn’t exist. It never entered the FedEx system. Label looks genuine, but it must be a mockup. Pretty good one, too.” He moved past her toward Pansy, who looked up at him with a determined expression. “Was it the regular FedEx guy today?”

“No. His name’s Jim, but it wasn’t him. It was a woman.”

“We’re going to need to sit you down for an Identikit, okay? We want to know what she looked like.” He glanced back at Lucia. “FedEx didn’t make any deliveries today to this office.”

Pansy looked, if possible, even more pale.

“Let’s get you guys to the hospital,” Rawlins said.

S
aint Luke’s was exactly as much fun as Lucia expected. She thought that she probably could have walked away, anonymous in her booties and scrubs, before anyone thought to look for her, but she didn’t. Loyalty to Pansy won out against an atavistic desire to just get the hell out, and besides, McCarthy was there, looking sardonic and grim. The nasal swabs were exciting, and the industrial-strength shower and shampoo even more so. Fresh medical garb awaited at the end, but this time she wasn’t alone; both McCarthy and Pansy had been given hospital couture as well. McCarthy’s hair was damp and sticking up in points. Pansy looked well-scrubbed and a little less scared.

“Doxycycline,” the doctor said, and handed over a giant bottle to each of them. “Take it as indicated. If your tests come back negative, you can discontinue it immediately, but if not, keep taking it. No skips. Continue to the end of
the regimen, no matter how good you feel. Tell us immediately if you get any symptoms.”

“Symptoms?” Pansy said faintly.

“Fever’s the first sign,” he said. “I want to see all of you in three days, sooner if you have even the slightest rise in temperature or start feeling under the weather. Clear?”

“If we get symptoms—” Pansy began.

“Then you check in here, and we start you on an IV antibiotic course. But we don’t even know that what you’ve been exposed to is dangerous, and even if it is, we certainly don’t know that you came into contact with any significant amount, or contracted anything from it. Lots of don’t-knows and ifs in there.” He shrugged. “Just relax. Chances are you’ll be fine.”

He wasn’t the most caring doctor Lucia had ever met, but she appreciated his clear-eyed, blunt approach. Even if he did look barely old enough to have graduated from high school, much less completed any kind of medical school.

His eyes met hers, and she was surprised to find that he wasn’t nearly as young as he looked. Not inside, anyway.

“Good luck,” he said, and held out his hand. She shook. He had a firm grip, soft, strong fingers. “Three days, back here, or I send the FBI to handcuff you and bring you in.”

“We’ll be back.”

And that, it appeared, was that.

Ten minutes later, Pansy’s cell phone rang. She unfolded it. “Hello?” Her face brightened and took on a little color. “Manny! Any news?” Pansy, Lucia was amused to note, was like watching the news with the sound off. “Oh. Okay.” Obviously, no results yet, but then she perked up again. “Yes! Yes, fine…”

When she hung up, Lucia said, “You’re going over to his place.”

Pansy paused in the act of putting her phone back in her purse, obviously surprised. “How did you know?”

“Remind me not to put you undercover, Pansy. And besides, I think I know Manny well enough to know that he’s not going to allow you to go home alone. Since he’s working, he’ll want you there, where he can watch out for you.”

Pansy blinked and smiled. “Kinda nice, isn’t it? Having somebody care?”

“Yes.” Lucia, on impulse, reached over and took her hand. “You may have saved my life, you know. I don’t forget that kind of thing. Anything you need, Pansy, I’ll deliver.”

It wasn’t an idle promise, and Pansy must have known it. She squeezed Lucia’s fingers, and nodded.

“I’d better get moving,” she said. “He’s sending a car for me. Knowing Manny, it’ll be a Bradley Fighting Vehicle, with a full squad of off-duty marines.”

Lucia smiled a goodbye and let her walk away. Pansy looked small and fragile, but there was a core of inner steel in her that Jazz must have sensed the first time she’d met her. A fighter, that one. She’d been cool and calm when she’d spotted the problem, and not many people could have handled it with such grace.

“What about you?” McCarthy. He was standing next to her. Some people appeared ridiculous in scrubs, but he managed to carry more gravitas than the doctor who’d just walked away in his official lab coat. Light blue suited Ben, she thought.

“I guess I’ll go home,” she said. “I don’t imagine I’ll be able to sleep much.”

He nodded and opened the plastic bag they’d given him for the contents of his pockets. All he had was a wallet she
supposed was left over from before his incarceration, some keys, and the assorted motel keycards that Omar had procured. Rawlins had asked for his gun, and hadn’t asked to see the permit. She’d have to see if she could borrow a gun from Omar for McCarthy.

Omar. She’d forgotten about him. She’d have to call and tell him to take a few days off—or better yet, see if he could trace the fake FedEx. Pity she hadn’t opened the red envelope all the way. She dearly wanted to know what they’d had to say. Whoever
they
happened to be.

McCarthy fished the keys out of the bag in his hand and shook them lightly with a bemused expression.

“What?” she asked.

“Just thinking. Jazz put my car and apartment stuff into storage, but I guess I should pick up the car, at least. Most of these keys don’t mean much anymore. Apartment’s gone. Office—well, I don’t think they were saving my desk in the squad room. Anyway, I think I’ll pick up the car, then head for the motel.” He still wasn’t looking at her. “Unless you want to grab some dinner. You’ve got to be hungry by now.”

“Starving, actually. We could eat, then I could give you a ride to your car.” She smiled slowly. “Besides, I’m the only one who’s actually armed, I believe. Unless you’re hiding a gun somewhere I don’t want to know about.”

“I don’t like to boast about my weapons.” He dropped the keys back in the bag and followed her out.

Her car was downstairs, in nonemergency parking. They got in and she drove silently through the moderate nighttime traffic to Vine Street. Odd that she didn’t feel a need to talk, and even odder that she didn’t feel awkward with his silence. He was thinking, she sensed.

“Where are we eating?” he asked, as she slowed and turned into the parking garage.

“Best pizza in town,” she replied. “Delivered. Sorry, but I can’t stand being in these scrubs another moment. We can pick up your car after.”

He didn’t comment, just raised his eyebrows a little. She key-carded into the parking garage and found her spot, then led the way to the elevators. They let them in the lobby, which was vast, cool, and had two security guards on duty.

“Ms. Garza.” The first one nodded. “Evening. Should I even ask about…?” He gestured at her clothes.

“Mr. Marsh, I’d rather you didn’t,” she said. “This is my friend Mr. McCarthy. Ben, they’ll need your driver’s license. Nothing personal. This is a high-security building.”

“How high-security?” McCarthy asked, and handed over his license. Marsh scanned it in and handed it back.

“Can’t talk about that,” he said, and smiled. He was a huge man, intimidating when the situation called for it, but generally good-natured. Lucia liked him. She especially liked that he never let anybody he didn’t know pass without ID. “Let’s just say Ms. Garza here isn’t the most high-profile resident we’ve got.”

“Jagger and Clapton both keep apartments here,” she said. “For when they come to town.”

“You’re kidding. To
Kansas City?
”

“Home of the blues.” She shrugged. “You’d be surprised. This place has millionaires, CEOs, a few movie stars. I’m lucky they let a peon like me in the door.”

“You’re good to go, Mr. McCarthy,” Marsh said. “Check in before you leave via intercom. Elevators won’t work without a passkey or us releasing one for you.”

McCarthy was looking at her as she slid her passkey into
the slot in the apartment elevators and pushed the button for the sixth floor. “What?” she asked.

He shook his head. “You must be loaded, living in a place like this.”

“Let’s say I have resources.” Not that she was particularly proud of how she’d come by them. The elevator rode smoothly up to six and dinged arrival, releasing them into a corridor with gleaming white walls, original artwork at regular intervals and deep plush carpeting.

“Jagger live next door?”

“He has his own floor,” she said, and led Ben to the second door on the right. Two key locks. Once she’d ushered him in, she flipped on the lights and went to the control panel to shut off the intrusion alarms. The blinking lights went from red to a steady, soothing green.

“Damn,” McCarthy was murmuring. “So I guess breakfast at Raphael’s was just par for the course for you.”

She glanced around, seeing it through his eyes. A sleek, modern kitchen in black and golden woods; a panoramic view past the dining table. A balcony out past the living room, overlooking the city. It was comfortable and classic, and it had virtually nothing of her personality in it.

“Looks like a really nice hotel,” he said. “This how you live?”

“Pretty much,” she said, and went to pick up the phone. She called the pizza place and ordered two large pies. McCarthy, it seemed, was a meat-lover. She wasn’t much surprised. Hers remained, of course, vegetarian.

“Make yourself at home,” she said, and picked up the TV remote from the low coffee table. She tossed it to him, and he fielded it without hesitation. “You said you missed TV. Have at it.”

She walked past him and grabbed clothes from the
closet before making her way to the bathroom to change. She heard the TV start up as she was pulling on a black knit top. Baseball, it sounded like.
Men
, she thought, and smiled. Her hair needed brushing. She took care of it and thought about applying makeup, but it seemed ridiculous at this point. She looked tired, but she’d come by it honestly, and no amount of concealer was going to help.

You realize
, she told her reflection,
that you’re thinking about makeup and appearances when you’re about to eat pizza. With an employee, no less
.

Unsettling. She shook her head, tossed her sleek black hair back over her shoulders and went out into the apartment.

McCarthy was on the couch, feet up, watching—yes, she’d been right—baseball.

“Beer?” she asked. He turned to look at her, and kept looking. “I assume beer and baseball still go together.”

“Sorry,” he said, and muted the sound on the TV. “It’s been awhile.”

Whether he meant baseball or something else was open to interpretation. He stood up and joined her in the kitchen as she opened the refrigerator and pulled out a cold bottle. Imported beer, the only kind she willingly drank. She popped the cap with an opener and handed it to him, opened a soft drink for herself, then clinked their bottles together. “To surviving another day,” she said.

“Amen.”

They tipped bottles and drank. McCarthy was still watching her, but his eyes closed when the taste of the beer hit his tongue. Sheer ecstasy, from the look on his face.

“Wow,” he said, when he put the bottle down on the counter. “It really
has
been awhile. And obviously, you know beer.”

“I try.” She took down two plates. “You want to tell me anything?”

“Like?”

“Like your theory on why the evidence exonerating you showed up so conveniently when it did?”

He took another sip of beer. Stalling for time.

“Didn’t seem very convenient to me,” he said. “Considering I’d already had the crap beaten out of me.”

“Maybe they decided you’d suffered enough.”

“Let’s just say that little things like compassion don’t enter into the equation for the Cross Society. And I mean that literally, by the way.”

She slid onto a bar stool and sipped from her bottle. She hadn’t offered a glass; he hadn’t seemed to mind. “I don’t think I understand.”

“What Simms does—you understand about him, right? That he’s looking at alternate realities, not just telling the future?”

“Excuse me?”

McCarthy shook his head.

“Oh boy. You’ll need a lot of beer, somebody smarter than me and some kind of consulting physicist.” He shrugged. “Okay. There’s this thing called string theory. Don’t ask me how it works—I’m just a cop, okay? But the idea is that there are a whole bunch of realities all layered up against each other. Every decision everybody makes, there’s a slightly different chain of events, right? Take six billion people times about a billion decisions—good, bad or indifferent—and you get how many potential realities we’re dealing with here. The thing is, most of these decisions end up being meaningless, in the great scheme of things. They cancel each other out, and such. So instead of sixty fazillion realities, you get some manageable num
ber, like a couple of million that simultaneously exist in the here and now.”

Lucia listened, thinking hard. Mostly, she happened to be thinking that she’d never really believed the unlikely story of the Cross Society, or Max Simms, though Jazz seemed to have come closer to buying it, and Jazz was hardly the credulous type. “So, Simms supposedly can use all this theory to predict the future.”

“No, Simms is the real deal, he’s some kind of savant. He doesn’t need theory to do what he does—he just sees it. Like some psychic in the circus.”

“Then why the physics explanation?”

“That’s what where the Cross Society comes in. They made what he does scientific.”

“Uh-huh. And Eidolon…?”

Ben flipped a hand in assent. “Started out the same way, but Eidolon took it further. Has to do with predictive math, or something. Both the Cross Society and Eidolon can track decisions and look at the different outcomes. Only problem is, once playing god gets to be a multiplayer game, it gets nasty. Eidolon actually came first, by the way. It got a ton of defense department money, and Simms actually worked with a staff of high-level physicists to develop a computer system that could do what he did. That was his mistake. He created himself right out of a job. Then he founded the Cross Society to do the same thing, once he realized Eidolon was going to manipulate events to their own advantage. Counter of a countermove.”

“And when Eidolon wanted him gone…”

“The new CEO made sure that he was taken out of the picture. I figure Simms should have been killed, but he managed to work the decision tree enough that he only got convicted and sent to prison. You’d better believe that Ei
dolon’s been working hard to keep him there, or better yet, make sure he dies behind bars.”