Working Stiff (Revivalist #1)

Working Stiff (Revivalist #1) Page 17

In the desk chair sat Joe Fideli, who reached into his pocket and took out a small device. It looked like a black plastic pyramid. He pushed the top of it, and it glowed red in slow, hypnotic pulses.

“What—” Bryn started to ask, but McCallister put his finger to his lips. She subsided, waiting, until Fideli checked something on his smartphone, then nodded.

“We’re good,” he said. “Just keep your voices down. I can’t do much about the soundproofing in here.”

“What the hell is going on?” Bryn asked.

“I wanted to tell you something,” McCallister said. “Something that shouldn’t be on Pharmadene’s public record.”

“So talk to me after hours.” If you ever stop working, she thought. She couldn’t imagine McCallister without his suit and tie. He wasn’t an off-duty kind of guy.

He and Fideli both shook their heads. “Doesn’t work that way, sweetheart,” Fideli said. “You already know you’re being followed. Thing is, we’re all being followed, monitored, tracked, you name it. You work for Pharmadene. You’re their property, twenty-four-seven. Having any kind of private conversation is a real effort.” Fideli looked at the red glowing device, which was pulsing just a bit faster now. “Enough chitchat. We’ve got about two minutes before I have to shut it down. Talk fast.”

McCallister turned to Bryn and said, “When you get the name of the person selling the drug to Fairview, I want you to tell Joe that you need to see your sister Sharon.”

Sharon. That sent a shock through her, and made her take a step back. “What do you know about Sharon?” Sharon had walked out of the house at nineteen and never been seen again. She might have run away. She might have … not. Privately, Bryn had always thought that something terrible had happened, something they might never fully understand, but the rest of her family carried on talking about Sharon as if she were still alive, still just absent.

“Nothing,” McCallister said. “It’s a signal to let him know we need to meet off book and exchange information. This is for your own safety, Bryn.”

She blinked and looked at Fideli. Him, she felt she could trust. “Joe?”

“He’s playing straight with you. Listen to him.”

“Why can’t I just do what you told me to do? Find the seller and turn him in?”

“Because,” McCallister said, “once you do, your usefulness to Pharmadene is over, and they’re not going to waste one more dose of Re turné on closed business. Understand? Succeed, and you’re dead.”

Her mouth opened and closed, but she couldn’t think of anything to say. The look on his face, anxious and earnest, convinced her that he meant what he said. Her life— whatever it was—hung by a very slender thread, and Pharmadene’s faceless bureaucrats and accountants held the scissors.

“I’m an investment,” she said. “Once I no longer pay off …”

“Exactly. They’ll let an investment mature, but a useless tool … gets discarded. Play for time. Give me a chance to find a way to keep you alive after that objective is achieved.”

Fideli held up a finger, watching the now rapidly strobing pyramid. “Thirty seconds, man.”

McCallister glanced at him, then focused back on Bryn. “Please,” he said. “Do what I’m telling you. And be careful.”

“Why do you care?” she asked, mystified.

He hesitated, then shook his head. “I don’t think you’d understand even if I told you.” His cell phone buzzed for attention, and he pulled it out and checked the screen. “I’m due for a meeting in fifteen. We need to wrap this up.”

The little flashing-red device was really working now, clearly warning them failure was approaching. Bryn quickly looked at Fideli. “One more thing: did you find Fast Freddy?”

“Not yet. But I will, no doubt about it.” He glanced down. “Time.” He tapped the top of the pyramid, and it went back to a lifeless black plastic object. He waved silently at the two of them, shooing them to leave. McCallister nodded, opened the door, and ushered Bryn back out into the hallway. As they left the empty office behind, it was like the whole thing had never even happened.

“You have a full understanding of your position with us, Bryn?” McCallister asked, back to the poised, confident corporate exec. She had no choice but to nod. “Excellent. If you have any questions, my number’s programmed into your cell phone, as is Joe’s. If we need to meet, you can call me and ask me out on a date.”

“Excuse me?”

“Was that unclear? Ask me to coffee. Or dinner. Whatever seems convenient. Simply to ensure you’re maintaining your cover in the field.”

“You are unbelievable.”

There went that tiny little smile again, tight and controlled, meaning nothing. “I do date, Bryn. Occasionally.”

She bet he did it on a schedule. 1900 to 2100 hours, dinner. 2100 to 2115, drive the girl home. 2115 to 2130, sex. 2135, shower, kiss good-bye. 2140, drive home.

“I don’t date jackasses,” she said. “Just so we’re clear.”

If she’d expected to hurt his feelings, she was disappointed. “You express yourself with great clarity,” he said, as if it couldn’t have mattered less to him. They were back at his office again, and he opened the door and went inside. When she tried to follow, he held out his hand to stop her at the door. “Your escort will be with you in a moment.”

“What about the, uh, Code Red?”

She was already talking to the wood, which had closed decisively in her face.

She needn’t have worried. By the time she’d finished the sentence, there was someone at her elbow wearing a green badge and a Pharmadene blazer, mutely inviting her to proceed toward the elevator, please.

“Jackass,” she muttered to the door, and followed orders. She had the feeling there were going to be a lot of orders to come, and she wasn’t going to enjoy it.

At all.

With nothing better to do than wait for the construction, Bryn went back to her apartment. It felt very strange pulling the big, shiny Town Car into a slot in the very working-class parking area; she felt like a total fraud. Her neighbors would be gossiping like mad, dying to know how she’d come into such a windfall. She’d have to get her story together.

Right. Rich dead uncle, inherited the business, blah, blah.

Bryn climbed the stairs to the second floor and unlocked the door, not even thinking about any of it; she was focused instead on the heavy weight of the box in her arms that McCallister had given her. Have to get a holster for this sucker, she thought. Having a heavy handgun like this rattling around in her purse or stuck in her waistband, gangsta style, wasn’t going to cut it.

She hip-bumped the door closed and reached for the light switch, then hesitated, because her instincts suddenly woke up and screamed. She didn’t know why for a second, and then she heard the subtle whisper of breathing in the dark.

Oh, God. Fast Freddy. He’s here!

No time to get the box open and the gun ready for use.

Bryn dropped her purse to the floor, flipped the light switch, and swung the heavy box in a short, powerful arc that connected perfectly with—

Nothing.

It didn’t connect at all, because the breathing wasn’t human, and there was no head in the way. Her bulldog, Mr. French, looked up at her with sleepy, disappointed brown eyes, snorted, and shook himself in a ripple of loose skin and fur. He turned around three times and plopped down on the floor next to his empty food bowl.

“Holy crap, dog, you scared the hell out of me!” Bryn gasped, and staggered over to the small card table she had in place of a dining room set. She put the box on it, retrieved her purse, and clicked the dead bolts firmly shut before coming back to glare at Mr. French. He snorted again. “So this is how it is, huh? You lurk in the dark and creep me out, and expect to be fed? Is that it?”

He put his head in his bowl and gave her the melting puppy-dog eyes. Bryn groaned and gave up. She kicked off her shoes and opened the pantry, pulling out the sealed bin of dog food; Mr. French obligingly and politely moved out of the bowl for her to pour, then sniffed the food. He always did that, as if he were in doubt about its quality, but this time, again, it passed doggy muster, and he began digging in with sharp little crunches. She refilled his water bowl, too, and checked the papers in the corner of the apartment. No messes. Mr. French had his standards about that, but now that he’d supped a bit, he looked up and her and wiggled his butt to let her know he was ready. She sighed and reached for the leash, and he padded over with great dignity to be harnessed for the trip outside.

Once his business was finished, it was back to the food bowl for more. Bryn watched him eat, mindlessly soothed by his happiness. Food consumed, Mr. French waddled over and jumped up in her lap, where he leaned against her, a solid little weight of muscle and fur. She petted him and scratched where he liked it and talked to him about nothing in particular, until suddenly tears were streaming down her cheeks and Mr. French was staring up at her with concern on his old-man face and trying to lick the sadness away. She hugged him. He had dog-food breath, and he needed a bath, but it was good, so good, to have someone love her right now.

“I’m sorry, baby,” she said, and kissed him on the top of his furry head. “Was your day better than mine?”

Mr. French barked, just once. He knew when she asked him a question, and although his reasoning skills were a little suspect, she had the feeling that on this one, he’d almost certainly agree.

It felt so good to be home, with her clothes in the closet and her robe hanging on the hook in the bathroom. The shower felt great, and as the hot water beat down on her head, Bryn Davis, dead girl, sat down in the tub and let it carry away all the tears, the sweat, the fear, and the anger. And if she cried a little more, it didn’t bother Mr. French, who did sentry duty curled up on the bath mat until she shut off the water, dried off, and got into her robe. Then he padded his way into the bedroom and hopped up on the unmade bed.