Indexing (13 page)
By the time she reached the door, her headache barely registered with her conscious mind. She pulled her ID card out of her bag and swiped it against the scanner, snarling at the little light until it beeped and turned from red to green, unlocking the office door. She yanked it open, harder than she needed to, and stepped inside.
What’s happening to me?
The thought was small and almost inaudible over the roar of blood in her ears.
Why is this happening?
She was still fumbling with her key, trying to get it back into her purse, when a voice behind her shouted, “Sloane! Wait up!” Henry. Just the sound of that frigid Snow White knockoff’s syrupy soprano was enough to set Sloane’s teeth on edge.
“I’m not in the mood today, Henrietta,” she said as she stopped walking, hoping that the other woman would hear the warning in her voice. She wasn’t sure how long she’d be able to keep her temper.
She wasn’t sure how long she’d keep wanting to.
“Agent Winters?”
The bitch sounded nervous. Good. “I told you, I’m not in the mood.” Sloane turned, scowling. “My fucking fire alarm broke this morning. It’s been blaring for the last hour. Does that count as me checking in with the boss, or do you need me to fill out some forms in triplicate?” It was a good lie. It would do.
Sympathy suffused the bitch’s red-on-white features, making her look even more like a caricature than she normally did. “Oh, hell, Sloane, I’m sorry,” she said. Her eyes raked across Sloane’s body, weighing, measuring,
judging
.
How dare she judge me?
This time, the thought was very loud. “I’m
so
sorry if I’m offending your sensibilities right now. Some of us didn’t get narratives that came complete with a permanent makeover, okay? I’ll put my face on when I get to my desk.”
“Get some coffee first,” said the bitch. “You look like you could use it.”
And just like that, Sloane’s headache burst, and everything became finally clear. “I’ll do that,” she said.
“Okay,” said Agent Marchen.
“Okay,” Sloane echoed, and turned away. It was all so clear now.
All she had to do was kill the bitch, and all her troubles would end forever.
ATI Management Bureau Headquarters
It didn’t take long to write up our reports, since they mostly consisted of variations on “Rapunzel confirmed downtown, field team dispatched to resolve the incursion; incursion resolved when Agent Winters shouted at it until it agreed to go away. Resolution mechanism not recommended for future incursions.” Demi’s was even shorter: “Barely made it out of the car.”
Sloane herself vanished into the kitchen for about twenty minutes, returning with a bottle of painkillers from the first-aid kit, a sour expression, and a fresh mug of coffee. She sat down at her desk, and for a brief moment, I was afraid that she was going to get to work on her own after-action report. Sloane never did her paperwork without being reminded over the course of at least three days. If she started documenting our day without prompting, it would be time to call one of the departmental therapists for an emergency appointment.
To my sublime relief, Sloane just opened a web browser, went to eBay, and started browsing listings for stompy boots. Just another normal day at the office.
“Are you going to do your after-action report?” I asked, just to be sure.
Sloane responded by raising her left hand and flipping me off, without turning away from her computer.
“Just checking.” I picked up my own empty coffee mug. “Jeff, you want to come with me to scavenge for donuts in the kitchen? I didn’t get breakfast before we got dispatched.”
“Happily,” he said, picking up on the ulterior motive in my words. He was our archivist. He’d know if there was something wrong with Sloane—and maybe more importantly, he’d be able to find out if there was any way for us to fix it.
“Bring me back an apple fritter,” said Andy laconically, sinking deeper into his desk chair.
“If I find one,” I agreed. “Demi?”
“No, thank you,” she said, looking confused. “I’m on a diet.”
Sloane snorted audibly. “You don’t need to be on a diet. You’re already going to blow away in a stiff wind.”
“My body is my business, Agent Winters,” said Demi. Her tone was cold. That was a bit of a surprise. Our newest team member rarely stood up to Sloane, preferring to make herself as small a target as possible. We all tensed, waiting for the explosion that would follow.
And then, against all odds, Sloane smiled. “That’s true. What you do or do not put into your body is none of my concern. My apologies, Agent Santos.” She turned back to her computer, leaving the rest of us gaping.
I grabbed Jeff’s shoulder. “Kitchen,” I said. “Now.”
We didn’t talk until we were far enough away from the bullpen that I was confident of not being overheard. “What’s wrong with her?” I asked.
Jeff frowned. “That’s rather blunt, don’t you think?”
“She’s been acting strange since she came in, and not in a good way,” I said. “Is she all right? Should we be looking for an ensnarled narrative?”
“I don’t think so,” said Jeff. “She shouldn’t be able to get caught in a secondary story as long as she’s in abeyance—not the way that you or I could. She’s probably just having a bad day. It happens to the best of us. I’ve even seen it happen to you.”
“Most of us don’t have the potential to do as much damage as she could.”
Jeff sighed. “Henry. You know as well as I do that any one of us could do a great deal of damage if we set our minds to it. Demi is the human equivalent of a nuclear bomb. I could cripple the power grid for this entire coast. You could—”
“Rally the squirrels of the world to my defense,” I finished sourly. “So you’re sure she’s all right? This is normal?”
“There is no normal in our line of work, my dear Henry,” said Jeff. “Sloane is normal for Sloane. That’s as much as we can ask for.”
I cast an uneasy glance down the hall toward the bullpen. “I hope you’re right,” I said.
Jeff put a hand on my arm. “Believe me, so do I.”
Memetic incursion in progress: tale type 315 (“The Treacherous Sister”)
Status: ACTIVE
The others were busy with their computers, with their ordinary little problems in their ordinary little lives. Sloane glanced between them, making sure that neither was looking her way. Henrietta and Jeff were gone. This was her best chance.
Quickly, she typed a new search into her browser. The first link was for a chemistry supply company. She added items to her cart with the quick, easy swipes of a practiced Internet shopper, and barely even noticed the tears that were running down her cheeks. They offered overnight shipping on sodium cyanide. That was a nice bonus.
Her headache was completely gone by the time she clicked the checkout button.
Memetic incursion in progress: tale type 510A (“Cinderella”)
Status: CONCLUDING
Jenna bent over the stove, trying to ignore the aching in
her feet and the burning in her eyes from the sweat that trickled down her
forehead. If she could just get dinner on the table before her stepmother
started yelling at her again, she’d consider this day a win. Maybe her
standards for “victory” were lower than they could have been, but she had to
take her happy endings where she could. They sure weren’t thick on the ground
anymore.
When she’d been younger, right after her mother …
No. This wasn’t the time for dwelling, not if she wanted to
get dinner on the table.
When she’d been younger, her father had sent her to see a
therapist who specialized in grief counseling for preteens. Jenna had been
resistant at first, until she realized that having a therapist gave her the one
thing that was more valuable than gold or diamonds: someone who
listened
.
Ms. Brooke was paid to pay attention to the emotionally damaged children who
clogged her waiting room, and yet somehow, whenever Jenna had been alone with
her, she felt like the doctor was only interested in what
she
had to
say. It helped her believe that things were going to be okay. Somehow, someday,
things were going to be okay.
It was Ms. Brooke who’d taught her to treasure the little
things, what she called the “street pennies” of daily life. “‘Find a penny,
pick it up, and all day long you’ll have good luck,’” was one of Ms. Brooke’s
favorite sayings. “It doesn’t have to be literal,” she had said. “Every good
thing you find, no matter how small, is a penny for you to put in your pocket.
Gather them close, and treasure them. Someday you’ll have a future where you
feel rich enough, emotionally, to spend them freely.”
Jenna couldn’t really imagine that future on a daily
basis—it was too tiring—but she could allow herself to think about it
sometimes, in moments like these, where she had a simple chore to finish and
just enough space to breathe.
She was so focused on stirring the pan of beef and onions
sizzling in front of her that she didn’t hear the kitchen door swing open or
the sound of footsteps on the floor. “Jenna?” said a voice from behind her.
“Mama wanted me to come and see how dinner was coming.”
“Elise!” Jenna jumped and turned at the same time, clutching
the spatula to her chest. Her elbow hit the edge of the pan, sending it, and
its contents, crashing to the floor. Hot grease splattered her ankles and
calves. Jenna didn’t cry out. It was hard, but learning to swallow her pain had
been necessary if she wanted to survive.
Her stepsister’s eyes went very wide, making her look almost
comical for a moment. “Oh, God, Jenna, I’m so sorry! I didn’t mean for you
to—are you all right?” Elise dropped into a crouch before Jenna could recover
her senses enough to respond, and started scraping the ruined meat back into
the pan. “Your poor legs …”
“Elise, please.” Jenna knelt awkwardly on the grease-covered
floor, trying to push her stepsister away without actually touching her. “You
have to get out of here or we’re both going to get into trouble. You can’t … you can’t be in here.”
Elise stopped scraping and sat back, looking sadly at Jenna.
“We’ve really treated you horribly, haven’t we? Me, Mama, Camille … how can
you stand us?”
“You’re my family,” said Jenna simply. “I don’t have anyone
else in the world.”
That answer seemed to make up Elise’s mind for her, somehow.
She nodded once as she stood, holding her hands out for Jenna to take. “Go to
your room, wipe that crap off your legs, and put some clean clothes on before
Mama sees you and yells at you for looking like a common ragamuffin.”
Jenna took her stepsister’s hands automatically, allowing
herself to be tugged from the floor, and asked, “Are you trying to get me into
trouble? I need to finish fixing dinner.”
“Don’t worry about it. I can start a new pan of beef and
have it ready to go by the time you get back. Then I’ll just tell Mama I wanted
to snatch some cheese slices before we ate, and she’ll be so busy yelling at me
for spoiling my appetite that she won’t notice that you’ve changed your
clothes. Camille and I do that sort of thing all the time.” Elise spoke with
calm, easy certainty, like she had no doubt that her plan would work.
“But …” Jenna frowned, searching her stepsister’s face
for signs of treachery. “Why are you being so nice to me? You hate me.” That
wasn’t strictly true. Out of the three of them—Elise, Camille, and the
eponymous “Mama”—Elise had always been the nicest, like she somehow understood
how much Jenna had suffered since the loss of her biological family. And maybe
she did understand, on some level. Elise was also the older of Jenna’s two
stepsisters. Maybe she remembered her own father, and how she’d felt after he
died.
“I don’t hate you,” said Elise gently. “I just don’t like
looking at you. You remind me too much of what could have happened to me.”
The honesty of Elise’s words was staggering. Jenna stared at
her for a moment more before she decided to take the risk. “Thank you,” she
said. “I’ll be right back.” She turned and ran out of the room before her
stepsister could change her mind. The sound of her bedroom door slamming came a
few seconds later.
Elise stayed where she was, counting slowly downward from
ten. When Jenna didn’t return, she smiled. It was a dark, wickedly pleased
expression, and if Jenna had seen it, all doubts about her stepsister’s
motivations would have fallen away on the spot. “Yes, dear sister,” Elise
purred, as she sashayed her way across the room to the fridge. She was vamping
it up for an audience of dust bunnies and spilled onions, but that didn’t
matter. Some of the greatest scenes in cinema history had been focused on a
single actress, emoting her heart out for the camera’s unquestioning eye.
The second pack of ground beef was on the second shelf of
the fridge. It was clearly a sign: the rat poison had been on the second shelf
of the hallway closet.
Humming to herself, Elise turned and walked back to the
stove. It was time to start fixing dinner.
Four years later …
We arrived at the Marlowe residence ten minutes after Piotr
called us with the details. Unfortunately, that put us half an hour behind the
local police. They had been called by a neighbor reporting a strange smell coming
from the house—one that was bad enough to have crept over the fence into the
next yard over. Pretty scary stuff, although not that surprising if you’ve ever
been in the vicinity of a dead body. The bacteria that break down human tissue
after death are some pretty powerful things. The smell of decay hit us as soon
as we stepped out of the van.
Demi, who had never been near a dead body before, went pale
and clapped a hand over her nose. “What
is
that?” Her voice was muffled
by her hand, but that wasn’t enough to conceal the way it quavered and wobbled
at the end of her question.
“According to the police report, it’s the Marlowe family,”
said Jeff, sliding out of the van. His copy of the Index was open on his arm,
and his eyes were fixed on the page, considering and rejecting possibilities
faster than I could even read. “Mother, two daughters, all found in the living
room by the officers who answered the initial call. According to what they’ve
filed so far, the Marlowes have been dead for at least a week. No one reported
any of them missing.”
“What Agent Davis isn’t telling you is that we don’t
officially have any of this information yet, since he acquired it through
illegal means,” said Andy gruffly. He walked around the van to stand beside me.
“How do you want to play this, Henry? They haven’t called us in.”
“They never call us in,” I said, with a shrug. The front
door was standing open to allow the police easy access as they came and went.
No one was looking our way yet, but they would be soon. When a big black van
that clearly belonged to the government pulls up in front of your crime scene
and starts spilling out feds, you notice. “We’re going to play this straight.”
Andy looked dubious. “Are you sure about that?”
“I’m the senior agent,” I said, and removed my badge from
the pocket where it normally sat unused, replaced in the field by a dozen fakes
that would play better with the public than the reality of the department I
worked for. “Come on. Let’s go say hello to the people we’re replacing.”
The officer in charge of the crime scene was named Troy, and
we’d worked with him before. That was something of a relief. People don’t
always appreciate our butting in on their crime scenes, especially when we
start talking about the staying power of fairy tales and how much the Brothers
Grimm got right. Officer Nicholas Troy was one of those men who had either had
an early encounter with the narrative and then blessedly managed to forget
about it—more common than most people like to think—or he was just extremely
open-minded, especially when it came to people who were willing to take
complicated cases off the shoulders of his perpetually overworked and
understaffed department.
Even with all that, he still frowned when he saw us coming
across the lawn, following a junior officer who was less familiar with who we
were and what our presence meant. “This is another of your special serial
cases, Marchen?” he demanded, turning toward us. “I didn’t see anything that
would indicate that it was one of yours, or I wouldn’t have let my men go
inside in the first place.”
His words were less rude than they seemed on the surface.
Troy had been around long enough to know that sometimes the narrative can be
contagious, grabbing onto whatever hosts it can find and not letting go. “Sometimes
they can be subtle,” I said. “You remember Agents Robinson and Davis?”
“Hello,” said Jeff.
“Hey,” said Andy.
“And this is Agent Santos.” I indicated Demi, who still
looked like she was about to toss her cookies at the earliest available
opportunity. “She’s our trainee, so please forgive her if she throws up on your
shoes.”
Officer Troy took a healthy step backward. “Where’s your
bitchy psycho girl?”
“You mean Agent Winters?” He nodded. I shook my head. “She’s
not feeling well. We left her at the office to monitor the situation from a
safe distance.”
“I had no idea she could get sick,” said Officer Troy. “I
would’ve thought she’d scare any virus that got too close to her.”
“That’s entirely possible,” said Jeff, finally looking up
from his copy of the Index. He sounded completely serious, which made me wonder
whether or not he was joking. It was sometimes hard to tell with Jeff. “May we
see the bodies, please?”
Officer Troy looked uncomfortable. “I’m not sure that’s the
best idea.”
“This is our crime scene now,” I said. “If you have someone
escort us inside, you can take your people and leave.”
Maybe it was the thought of getting away from the stench,
which was permeating everything it touched with a layer of decay that would
take weeks to scrape off. Maybe it was just an understanding of the chain of
command. Whatever the reason, Officer Troy sighed and said, “All right. I’ll
take you in myself.”
I smiled thinly. “Thank you.”
Demi did better than I had expected her to: she made it all
the way into the living room, into the meat of the stink—pun intended—before
she turned and ran for the yard. The sound of retching followed shortly after.
Andy walked back to the door and stuck his head out for a moment before turning
and walking back to the rest of us.
“She’s tossing her cookies in the bushes,” he said.
“Nothing’s been compromised.”
“Except the hedge,” added Jeff helpfully. Maybe he
could
joke.
“Good for us, if not for the hedge,” I said. In situations
like this, I was actually grateful for my dead-white skin tone. You can’t go
pale when you have no color in your cheeks. “Officer Troy, if you would walk us
through the scene?”
“This is it,” he said, gesturing to the horror show that
occupied the living room. “We were starting an examination of the kitchen when
you all showed up. If you’d been ten minutes later, we might have more that we
could tell you. As things stand, this is your problem now.” He sounded
half-smug and half-relieved. This becoming our problem meant that he could walk
away from it without feeling like he was leaving his job undone.
“Ah,” I said. “Well, then, you can consider the handover
complete.”
“Thank you,” he said. “Please notify the department if you
find anything which might indicate that this case is somehow relevant to the
real world.” And just like that, he was gone, turning and rushing out the door
without a word of farewell. I couldn’t blame him. If I’d been given the chance
to run away from the narrative—let alone three gruesomely decayed bodies—I
would have taken it a thousand times over.
But that chance was never made available to me, and here and
now, I had things I needed to do. Pushing away the faint resentment that
Officer Troy’s flight left in its wake, I turned my attention to the crime
scene in front of me.
“Names, Jeff?”
“Christina Marlowe, age thirty-nine. She’s a widow twice
over, with two daughters by her first husband. She married Michael Marlowe five
years ago; he already had a daughter, one …” Jeff turned a page in his copy
of the Index. “Heather Marlowe. Christina formally adopted Heather three years
ago. Michael was killed in a car accident six months later, and Christina
became sole guardian of all three girls.”
“So a new mother arrives on the scene with two little girls
and manages to be left holding the whole package when she loses her husband.” I
snorted, and promptly regretted it as the action required me to take another
lungful of the room’s putrid air. “This is a familiar story.”