Tracy Montoya - Maximum Security

“Ay, I’m just glad you’re okay.” Adriana leaned back and stared at her for a moment, then hugged her tightly again, cracking her gum with a vengeance.

“Of course I am,” Maggie said, her voice calm and strong as she assumed the once-familiar role of caretaker in a crisis. “Why wouldn’t I be? Girlfriend, you’re scaring me.”

Adriana put her hands briefly on Maggie’s cheeks, a “poor shut-in Magdalena” look on her face. Then she backed off, twisting the silver bangles on one wrist and muttering to herself in Spanish. One thing about Adriana—she’d been an American citizen for eighteen years, but her English, which was perfect in most circumstances, almost completely deserted her under stress. And if Maggie knew her correctly, she would mutter for a few more moments and then…après muttering, le déluge.

Addy didn’t disappoint. She took a deep gulp of air and then let it rip. “Okay. First thing we have to do is call James. He’ll know what to do. Then we have to get you over to my house somehow without your flipping over. Maybe with good drugs you can leave the state, even—”

“Flipping out,” Maggie corrected her automatically. “Addy, breathe.” She was dying to know what had gotten Adriana so spun up, but she knew she’d never find out if the woman passed out in her entryway.

“But—”

“Breathe.”

Adriana threw her slender hands in the air, her rings sparkling under the skylight, and cursed rapidly in Spanish. “Por el amor de Dios, Magdalena Luz, I’m a yoga instructor. I know how to breathe.” The yoga was a new thing. Addy taught classes after hours in the upstairs rooms of her shop in an effort to share her latest obsession with the world.

“Could’ve fooled me,” Maggie responded. But when a film of water grew over Adriana’s large green eyes, Maggie knew it was serious. “Addy, tell me what’s going on,” she said softly.

Adriana shook her head, a thin line of worry forming between her eyebrows.

Tension coiled like a tightly wound snake between Maggie’s shoulders, and she felt the cold wrapping around her body once more. “Tell me.”

“Go stand over there.” Biting her lip, Adriana turned her slender body and swept a graceful arm toward the living room to her right. Maggie stepped around her and walked into the room, bracing herself for whatever was coming.

But you know what’s coming, Maggie. You’ve known all along.

Grasping the brass handle, Adriana pulled the heavy wooden door open. From her vantage point, Maggie could see the door clearly, but her view outside was completely obscured. Then Adriana stepped back, and she could see only the door.

Someone had stabbed a long, serrated hunting knife in the center of the wood.

Not a ghost, or a vision. Just a too-vivid memory that echoed in the stark halls of his empty home. He would have thought that the months would have eased the pain of Jenna’s death, but every day, every damn day, Billy could see her and hear her as clearly as if she were actually standing before him. Everything but touch her.

“Jenna,” he said again. And then his sister was gone.

This one had been from three years ago—her high-school prom. Biggest night of her life, up to that point, and she’d come down with food poisoning. She’d met him at the door, wrapped in an old quilt with a weak smile on her face. He’d helped her into bed, held her long, sand-colored hair while she was sick. He’d called her boyfriend Tom and apologized for her, then convinced her to stay in bed when she’d wanted to crawl to the Mission High School gym, bad breath and gray complexion be damned.

He’d thought there’d be a hundred more dates. A thousand more dances.

He shook his head with a sharp jerk, half wishing the violent movement would clear the images once and for all. But they were still there. They’d always be there. At least he could be thankful that the brutal slide-show memories of the crime-scene photos only assaulted him on special occasions.

Billy strode through the house he and Jenna had shared before she’d gone off to college. He went into the living room, tearing off his T-shirt and shedding the rest of his clothes as he went. Empty picture frames hung on the pale-green walls, the contents torn out and the glass long since swept away. As usual, he paid them no mind. Stripped down to his boxers, he picked up a pair of gray sweatpants that had been carelessly tossed over the back of a battered blue recliner and put them on. Some white athletic tape lay in the chair’s seat cushion, and he scooped it up to wrap his hands. His slender hacker’s hands with their wiry tendons and fingertip calluses from rapid typing. His good-for-nothing hands.

He’d destroyed most of the living room furniture long ago, other than the recliner and the TV set. The other half of the room was bare, except for the Everlast punching bag hanging from the ceiling by a thick metal chain. Billy figured it was probably the only thing standing between him and the deep well of insanity Maggie Reyes had fallen into.

Beautiful, crazy Maggie.

He punched with his right hand, then followed with a quick jab from his left. Right. Left. Uppercut. Jab. Right. Left. Uppercut. Jab. He would not think of Maggie.

Controlling his breathing, he fell into the familiar rhythm of hard exercise for the next couple of hours. Small drops of sweat flicked off his hair and forehead with every movement, but he didn’t stop to wipe his face. He didn’t need to. After an hour or two of a punishing workout, he didn’t feel much of anything. And that was the point.

Right. Left. Uppercut. Jab. Right. Left. Uppercut. Jab.

Jenna.

The next punch went wild and his fist skimmed off the bag, tipping him off balance, and he crashed to the floor. His right hip and elbow hit the bare wooden boards with a loud smack.

“Jesus,” he breathed, unsure whether it was a curse or a prayer. He rolled over onto his back, his arms flung out from his sides as he caught his breath.

“Nope, just me,” a voice said above him. “Not that I haven’t been confused with the divine before.”

Billy swiped the back of his hand across his eyes and pushed himself up into a sitting position. “Agent Parker,” he said calmly, as if his boss wandered into his house uninvited every day.

“Special Agent Corrigan.” Somewhere in that ageless territory between fifty and infinity, Fay Parker, Special Agent in Charge of the San Francisco field office, strode into the room and sat down on the edge of his recliner. She smoothed the skirt of her black power suit before crossing her ankles and fixing him with the stare that had earned her the nickname “the Basilisk.” One slight move of her head, and her gold wire glasses slipped far enough down her nose so she could eye him over the rims. “You’re a goddamn mess, Agent Corrigan,” she said finally, her deep, raspy voice the hallmark of too many cigarettes.

Billy leaned back against the wall and drew his knees up so he could rest his elbows on them, only slightly breathless from the two hours he’d spent at the bag. “I am.” He paused. “Ma’am.”

She raised an eyebrow at the hint of challenge in his tone, but chose to ignore it. “Well, now that everyone’s in agreement.” Her voice was soft, but cold. “Judge Randall told me she hasn’t seen hide nor hair of you or the affadavit for the DigiSystems case you told me you were going to submit today. Where is it? And where’s the cell phone you’re supposed to have with you at all times?” She tapped her fingers rapidly on the chair arm, but otherwise gave no outward sign of her agitation. But she was agitated.

“I’m sorry, Agent Parker,” he said, not bothering to point out that he’d never been late with a paperwork at any other time in his career. Except when they’d called him about Jenna. “I thought it could wait until morning.” The T-shirt he’d tossed away earlier lay next to him, and he grabbed it, using it to wipe his face before he put it on. “But my guess is you didn’t come here for that, or to remind me to turn on my cell phone.”