Rachel Caine - Thin Air

When the elevator dinged to a halt at the ground floor, I was wondering where the hell I ought to go, and how I was going to get word to Venna.

I didn’t have to wonder about that first part, not anymore. Facing me, blocking my path, were two guys in matching sports jackets, with logos on the pockets. They were the size of minivans, and they didn’t look happy.

“Come with us,” one of them said. Not that I had a choice, because before the third word of the phrase was out, there were hands around my upper arms, and I was being marched off to the side, away from the busy foot traffic and ringing slot machines, to a discreet unmarked door with a key card entrance.

They sat me down at a table and stared at me in silence.

“So,” I said. “Guys, this is all just a…mistake. Okay? I was looking for my…my niece, she’s about twelve, cute kid, blond hair, blue eyes, looks like Alice in Wonderland…”

They kept on staring at me. One of them finally demanded my name. I lied. They kept staring.

After about two eternities, a woman came in and bent over to whisper in one of the guards’ ears. He nodded. She left.

I waited for someone to explain to me what was going on. That was about as successful as you’d expect; these were not chatty fellows. I kept offering conversational olive branches, and they kept snapping them off.

Thirty minutes later, give or take, two uniformed police officers entered the room, escorted by the woman I’d seen earlier. I felt a real, serious chill spread over me.

“Joanne Baldwin?”

I didn’t nod. It didn’t matter.

“Joanne Baldwin, I need you to stand up and put your hands behind your back,” the older of the two cops said. “Are you armed?”

“Armed? No! What’s going on?” I stood up, mainly because there wasn’t any point in not complying. More than enough muscle in the room to enforce the request.

“There’s a warrant out for your arrest,” he said, and spun me around as he grabbed my right wrist. I felt the cold metal pinch of handcuffs on that side, then the other hand, and it was done before I could even react. “I’m going to need you to stay calm, ma’am. I’m sure if there’s a mistake you can work it out, but we have to take you in now.”

“But-what kind of warrant?” I asked. Because this seemed pretty excessive for accidental Peeping Tom-age. Or even accidental breaking and entering.

“You’re under arrest for the murder of a police officer,” he said. “You have the right to remain silent…”

I didn’t remember the words of the Miranda warning. It’s possible I’d never even heard them before, at least not directed at me. Murder of a police officer?

Man, you’d think that somebody would have mentioned it to me if I was a cop killer.

I didn’t remember the guy I was supposed to have killed, although they showed me pictures. I suppose that didn’t exactly come as a shock, but what disturbed me was more the fact that I had no idea-none at all-whether or not I’d actually committed the crime. Nothing seemed clear-cut anymore, since I’d done whatever it was I’d done to Marion.

The dead guy’s name was Detective Thomas Quinn, and they had surveillance footage of me with him-or someone who looked exactly like me, who used my name. Like, say, a Demon. How long had she been impersonating me? Could she have been responsible? It didn’t really matter, because as far as the police were concerned it wasn’t exactly a viable defense.

So I went with the truth as I knew it. I didn’t remember. No, I couldn’t recall being in Las Vegas before. No, I didn’t know Detective Quinn. No, I had no idea what had happened to him.

They showed me photos of a blown-up truck in a deserted area to prove that I’d killed him, but all I came up with was a feeling…a bad one. If I had killed the guy, it would have been in some sense necessary, right? Justified? God, I hoped so.

The two detectives interrogating me seemed interchangeable-not physically, but in every other way. No personality to speak of, and all they wanted from me was a confession, which I couldn’t properly give. I asked for an attorney, because at least that would give me time, and the questioning ended for a while.

Which left me stranded in a hot, airless interrogation room that smelled of sweat and desperation, old coffee and vomit. Charming. I fidgeted with the coffee cup they’d given me-it was paper, of course; accused murderers didn’t rate the good china-and tried not to think about the consequences of what was going on.

Look on the bright side , I thought. You don’t have to worry about not having any cash. Free food and lodging.

The door rattled, and a new man came in. I didn’t know him, either. He moved slowly, like he might be in pain. He had a badge showing, so he was another detective, maybe their secret weapon pinch hitter who was known for extracting confessions. Was he going to beat me? I didn’t think so; he didn’t look like he was in any physical shape for hand-to-hand, even though I was handcuffed to the table. I looked at him silently and sipped my coffee as he sank into the chair across the table from me.

And then he waited. I took the opportunity to study him. He was in his mid-to late forties, Hispanic, with graying hair and large, dark eyes as hard as obsidian. I couldn’t tell what he was thinking, and my feeling of stunned, low-level fear that had been with me for the past few hours, since they’d dragged me in here, was gradually ratcheting up to full-fledged panic.

He finally said, “I’m fine; thanks for asking.”

Great. Another person I was supposed to recognize. Wonderful. “Glad to hear it,” I said. I sounded tired. I felt exhausted, wrung dry by all the uncertainty.

“Your friend left me by the side of the road,” he said. “I was lucky someone found me in time. Twenty-two stitches. Nearly lost my spleen.”

Okay, I was definitely in over my head now. “Do I know you?” I asked slowly. And he actually blinked. His eyes revealed something at last, but nothing that was very comforting to me.

“Hard to believe you’d forget a thing like that,” he said. Not a question. His lips curled, but there was nothing remotely smile-like about the expression other than the muscles controlling it.

“Sir, I’m sorry, but like I told the other detectives, I can’t remember-”

“Amnesia. Yeah, they told me.” He sat back, studying me, arms folded across his chest. “You know how many we get in here a year who claim to have amnesia? Dozens. You know how many actually have it? I’ve never met one. Not even one.”

“Well,” I said, “I’m busting your streak, because I really don’t know you. I don’t know anyone. If you tell me I killed this detective, this Quinn, then maybe…I don’t know. But I don’t remember !” I heard the hard, cutting edge in my voice, and closed my eyes and fisted my hands and fought for internal calm. “Sorry,” I said. The chains fastening me to the table clanked softly when I shifted position. “It’s been a tough day.”

He leaned forward, staring. “Let me get this straight. You’re telling me that you don’t remember me.”

“No, sir.”

“And you don’t remember Thomas Quinn.”

I bent over and rested my forehead against my fists. “I have no idea,” I said. “Did I know him?”

He didn’t tell me, not directly. He said, “My name is Detective Armando Rodriguez. I met you in Florida. I followed you. You remember any of that?”

I didn’t bother to do more than shake my head this time.

“You told me things. Showed me…” He gave a quick glance toward the corner, where I was sure audio and video were being recorded. “Showed me things that I didn’t know were possible. And you convinced me that maybe Thomas Quinn wasn’t the guy I’d believed he was.”