State of Decay

“This is crazy,” I said under my breath. Maybe Pyznar was right; maybe I was pushing it too hard. It was one thing to bounce ideas off yourself; it was another thing to suspect your inner voice of withholding information from you.

When I looked back at the crowd, no one seemed to have noticed, but everyone was filming. Every move from every angle was being streamed live and would replay on the news channels for the rest of the night or until something better came along. A crime scene was no place to start exhibiting strange behavior.

“You getting anything?” Shanks asked. He was hanging back by the curb, giving me room.

“There’s a lot more to this story,” I said.

“Drink it before it gets cold,” he said, nodding at the paper cup. I took a gulp of the hot, bitter liquid.

“Something else is still bothering you,” he added.

“That call this morning.”

“He wants to rattle you.”

Whoever it was, he was smart; the trace had failed to find the source of the call, and even the voice analysis had been a bust. He was using some kind of electronic filter that not only altered his voice to mask any accent or even any clue as to his age or ethnicity, but even canceled out all background noise. The techs couldn’t get anything, not even traces of breathing or heartbeat. He was very careful before placing his call. He wanted to tell me something.

Shanks watched me, his eyes a little concerned.

“Never mind,” I said. “It’s just been a hell of a morning, you know?”

“I know.”

I signaled to the coroner that it was okay to move the body.

What about Wachalowski? the voice wanted to know. What are you going to say when you see him?

I’m not sure.

What made you decide to call him? Who is he to you?

He can help.

How do you know?

I felt my head nod again and pinched the skin on my arm, twisting it until it hurt. I breathed in the cold air and focused, inwardly coaxing my body like it was an old car threatening to stall. On the one hand, I did wonder why I thought that, but on the other hand, I was sure that he could. I didn’t even know how or why, but I felt sure of it.

That was going to have to be enough.

Zoe Ott—Pleasantview Apartments, Apartment 713

“It got split,” the dead woman said, holding out the heart. I was back in the green concrete room, sitting at a folding table that was set near one end. She walked over to the switch on the wall and pushed it into the up position.

A single light snapped on at the far end of the room, shining down on a figure standing there. This time it was a man with leathery brown skin, dressed in an Army soldier’s uniform. He looked part Asian, maybe in his thirties or so, but it was hard to tell. His hair and even his eyebrows had been shaved off, and his eyes were pale and silvery, glowing faintly in the dim light.

“A revivor?” I asked. The dead woman didn’t answer; she just watched as I got up and moved closer to the figure under the light.

“Do you know who he is?” she asked.

“No.”

His jaw looked like it had been wired shut, and even under his brown skin I could see black veins standing out. It was definitely a revivor. Leaning closer I looked at the name patch on his chest.

ZHANG

“He’s dead,” I said. “Who was he?”

“A piece of history few will ever know.”

Looking away from the man, I turned my attention back to the dead woman to find her staring at him intensely.

“Why are you showing him to me?” I asked.

Just then a phone rang, startling me. The dead woman turned to the wall next to her and touched her fingers to a metal panel that I’d seen before but never paid any attention to. She pushed it and it swiveled outward, revealing a handset inside. The call light on the handset flickered as it rang again.

“Answer it,” she said, and I woke up.

Cracking my eyes open, I found myself in stuffy darkness, and realized I was in my bed, under a pile of blankets. When I heard the ring, I thought it was a remnant from my dream.

A second later, I heard the ringing again. I thought it might actually be my cell phone.

Groping around under the covers, I felt it under there with me and rolled over, twisting myself into the blankets. In my hand the little call light flashed. Was this another dream?

Answer it, she had said. My hands trembled in front of my face like they did usually in the morning as the light kept flashing. I pried it open and answered it.

“Hello?”

There was a pause, and a man answered.

“Zoe Ott?”

“Yeah,” I said. “Who is—”

Usually I forgot chunks of the previous night; that wasn’t that strange. More often than not the memories never came back to me, and the only reason I knew they happened was because I’d left some kind of evidence behind. Sometimes, though, they’d come back to me in a flash.

“Shit.”

“Excuse me?”

All at once I remembered the bitter cold, the monorail ride, and the snow banks bordering the sidewalk. The lights and the sounds all came rushing back to me.

I hadn’t just left the apartment; I went all the way across town. I went all the way to …

“Is this Agent Wachalowski?” I asked weakly. I waited, hoping I was wrong.

“Yes, it is,” the voice said. “How did you know?”

I had actually done it. I had actually gone and really done it. At some point during the night, after I thought I had safely passed out, I had gotten back up, found the FBI building, and left a note. No, not a note—a card. I left a little card.

My ears were burning. He must have thought I was a complete idiot.

“Ms. Ott?” he prompted.

“Yes?”

“I got your card. I’d like you to come in so I can talk with you. Is that okay?”

“You want me to come in?”

“Yes.”

I needed a shower, and I couldn’t remember the last time I shaved my legs or my pits. I hadn’t done any laundry in as long as I could remember, and even washed I probably looked like a train wreck. My mouth tasted like sour puke, and when I held up my hand to check it, my fingers were shaking. I tried to concentrate on them, but I couldn’t make them stop.

“Ms. Ott, is that okay?”

When he calls, go to him.

“When?”

“Can you come down now?” he asked. “I promise I won’t keep you long.”