Working Stiff

“Is the syringe dangerous?”



“Nah, but it’s proprietary. So I try to keep it double-bagged until I can get it back to the mother ship. I’m responsible for every one of these bastards.”



“Have you found Fast Freddy yet?”



“No.” Fideli seemed peeved about it. “He must have had a stash of the drug somewhere, and was able to make it there safely before too much damage was done. Otherwise he’d have shown up by now. People tend to notice shambling, decomposing—” He checked himself and looked at her. “No offense.”



Bryn cleared her suddenly tight throat. “Uh, none taken, I guess. So what do we do now?”



“Same thing you were doing before, while we wait for our mysterious friend to get over his stage fright.”



“I need another trained mortician before I can open for business.”



“Luckily, I already got that covered. You’ve got an appointment in”—he checked his watch—“half an hour. Applicant’s name is Riley Block.”



“But I didn’t even put out an ad yet!”



“Actually, you did. You’re paying pretty well, too. Oh, and you offer medical and dental. Lucy’s already prepared all the paperwork for you.” He stood up and smoothed the creases out of his pants as the front bell sounded. “That’d be your applicant, I guess.”



It was. Lucy bustled in, marched up to Bryn, and gave her a sassy grin and a thick sheaf of paperwork. Bryn took it and tried to smile brightly in return, but she must not have fooled anyone. Lucy gave her a concerned look. “Boss, you look pale. You need to stop working all day and night. You spend too much time inside this place.”



The more she came in contact with real human sympathy, the more isolated Bryn felt. “I’m okay, Lucy. Thank you. I have to say, between you and Joe, you’ve done an amazing job pulling this place together. I really don’t feel like I’ve done anything.”



Lucy smiled. “Well, that’s just nonsense. You pay me to know what I’m doing, and I know more about the death business than anybody you’ll ever meet. I’ve been through all the wars.”



“I’d love to hear some of those war stories,” Joe said.



“Why, let me tell you …” And she was off, chattering with Joe about her favorite mortician story, which was not just shocking but downright perverted, and hilarious. Bryn got herself a cup of coffee and left them to it as they walked from her office. She’d decided not to take Mr. Fairview’s palace of a workspace, but had kept her own; she felt more comfortable there. Less haunted by what had happened. Now she sipped her coffee, then got up and put on her white lab coat and modeled it for the mirror. How did I get here? She could still remember the echoes of how proud this coat had made her, how excited she’d been to dive into the new job on that first day.



It seemed like a million miles away now.



Bryn started a little as a brisk knock sounded on her door; she couldn’t help but flash back to Mr. Fairview, and her first morning with him. She took off the lab coat and hung it up, straightened the line of her jacket over the holstered gun, and went to greet her prospective new employee.



Riley Block was not what she’d expected—mostly because she’d expected, well, a man. Riley was a woman, older than Bryn by about ten years; she was taller, blonder, and had a square face with a prominent jaw that seemed all business, all the time. Even the smile she gave Bryn seemed artificial and businesslike as she held out her hand. “Miss Davis,” she said. “Nice to meet you.”



“Nice to meet you. Please come in.”



They settled in the same comfortable area where Bryn would have placed a prospective customer, and Bryn tried to gather her wits. She’d never interviewed anybody else for a job; she’d expected Joe Fideli to be here and guide her through it. How do you tell if someone’s a lunatic, anyway? There had to be some kind of clue, but as she studied Riley Block, she didn’t catch one. She finally, somewhat desperately, said, “So, tell me about yourself.”



Luckily, that seemed to be the right thing to say. Riley whipped out an impressive résumé, which Bryn studied as Riley described her training (excellent), academic record (also excellent), references (ditto), and goals.



One thing was certain: she was no Fast Freddy, and Bryn loved her on the spot just for that.



Fideli finally showed up during the tour of the premises, but he let Bryn take the lead—just what she didn’t want, but she toughed it out. Riley seemed to have a good grasp of the prep room; she did a fast and thorough inventory of the restocked supplies and suggested a couple of additions, which Bryn added to her notes. All in all, it wasn’t a warm experience, but then, morticians weren’t generally known for their social skills.



Riley seemed perfectly competent, and after a quick consultation with Fideli, Bryn hired her.



Fairview Mortuary was back in business.



If Bryn didn’t feel especially great about that … well, she hoped it didn’t show.



They booked their first client the next morning: mercifully, it was a natural death, a ninety-year-old grandmother of four kids, twelve grandchildren, and twentysomething great-grandchildren. It was a sad experience for the family, naturally, but nothing traumatic. Bryn didn’t think she could deal with trauma anyway, not yet.



Fideli carried the bulk of the work, and was surprisingly good at it; for someone who’d initially seemed so alpha-male-soldier and intimidating, he could really empathize when it counted, or at least give a damn good imitation of it. Riley received the body later that afternoon and started her work, and Bryn was surprised to find that she, too, was efficient and capable.



I’m the only one with a learning curve, Bryn thought. It didn’t make her feel any better. Neither did her daily shot, administered by Fideli in the privacy of her office; it still stung, every time, and she was starting to really hate the sight of a needle.



What alarmed her, though, was that after his usual ritual of bagging up the syringe, he reached in his pocket and took out his little black pyramid device, switched it on, and checked its effectiveness against his phone app, which led her to wonder, again, whether there was a countersurveillance app store somewhere.



Probably.



“Okay, two minutes,” Fideli said, and leaned forward, looking at her with unexpected directness. “Need to give you a heads-up. You’re going to get a visit today from Irene Harte.”



“I don’t know the name.”



“No reason you should. Ms. Harte is a vice president at Pharmadene, in charge of the division that makes our little wonder drug.”



Bryn frowned. “What does she want from me?”



“My guess? She’s going to try to shut all this down. And you.” He didn’t say it, but Bryn understood the subtext instantly—shut down was code for death. “McCallister had to make a situation report, and apparently Ms. Harte didn’t take it too well. So you get a personal inspection. We need you to be on your toes, Bryn. She’s got the power to destroy a lot more than just you.”



“You mean McCallister.”



Fideli nodded. “Patrick put his neck on the line when he brought you back, on my say-so,” he said. “And it’s still on the line, because he didn’t terminate your revival as soon as he knew you weren’t going to be an instant gusher of information. Harte likes results, fast, while McCallister prefers to invest time and get things right. It doesn’t make them buddies.” He glanced at the red indicator on his device, which was flashing a fast warning. “Time to wrap up. Be ready for her, and don’t let her intimidate you.”



Bryn nodded, and he tapped the top of the pyramid and shut off the surveillance jammer. It went back in his pocket, and he resumed talking about funeral arrangements for their new client as if they’d never stopped.



It set Bryn on edge. She was feeling a little odd anyway; maybe it was her imagination (and it probably was), but she felt jittery and warm, and she wanted nothing but to go home and sink into a hot bath with a glass of wine. Spend the evening curled up with Mr. French watching a shamelessly romantic movie. That kind of thing. She forced herself to cut down on the coffee, but that didn’t seem to help.



She thought they’d actually make it to the end of the day without the mysterious Ms. Harte making an appearance, but at ten to five, a whole entourage pulled into the parking lot—a sleek black limousine, flanked by two Pharmadene-issue black sedans. McCallister was driving one of those, and he was the one to open the limo’s back door and offer a hand to the woman getting out.



Even from the perspective of Bryn’s office window, Irene Harte seemed formidable—tall, attractive, with clothes that Bryn could never hope to afford (or pull off) and the body language of someone who went through life absolutely confident of her place in the universe. Which was almost certainly at the center.



Her bodyguards hustled to get ahead of her, open doors, check hallways. She didn’t slow down for them. McCallister trailed her, and Bryn had the impression he was doing the rearguard work. Either that, or he just didn’t care to be too close to Irene Harte.



Her phone rang, making her jump; it was Lucy, announcing—in a doubtful tone of voice—that Bryn had visitors. Bryn was actually pretty proud that her reply sounded calm and steady as she told Lucy to send them in.



She wished Joe Fideli were here, maybe just sitting quietly in the corner, but he was a no-show, probably for good and sensible reasons of self-interest. And I hope our mysterious supplier doesn’t freak out about this. He might, if he were watching; she couldn’t do anything about that.



The first man to open her door—without knocking— was the Fideli type: big, well muscled, with a shaved head. The difference came in the eyes; Fideli’s always seemed to hide a sense that he knew how ridiculous the world was and was secretly amused by it, but this man was deadly serious as he looked around the office, nodded to Bryn, and then stepped out of the way to assume some kind of guard position in the corner. A second guard, identical assessments, parade rest in the opposite corner.