Working Stiff (Revivalist #1)

Working Stiff (Revivalist #1) Page 40

“This can’t wait, Joe. It can’t.”

“She’s not going anywhere, right?”

Her eyes were burning now with unshed tears. She couldn’t explain why she felt so oppressed by this; she couldn’t understand it herself. “She needs help now. I’m going.”

“Tell me where you’re going first.” She read him the address. “Seriously, wait for me. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

“I can’t leave her like that.”

He was silent for a second, then said, “You know what you might have to do. She’s probably too far gone to dose.”

“I know,” she said. “I can’t let her suffer, Joe. That’s why I have to go.”

“As long as you know what you’re getting into. I’ll get Pat to meet you there; he’s not far. No arguments, boss. This is how it’s done.” The boss was ironic; Bryn was almost sure. She was no one’s boss, not even her own. He hung up before she could tell him not to call McCallister—not that he would have listened.

She hadn’t spoken directly to McCallister since they’d parted ways in that uncomfortable fashion at the mansion, and she wasn’t looking forward to it now. But mostly what she dreaded was what she was going to find at Violetta Sammons’s house. Where was Violetta’s husband? McCallister will have the shot, she thought. We can do this. We can make it right and figure it out from there.

I have to make it right.

She grabbed her preloaded removal bag from the locker room, added a few things, and took one of the mortuary vans—freshly cleaned out and smelling astringently of bleach. Either I smell like dead people, or I smell like cleaning products. Annie was right: boyfriends were probably out of the question at this point—presuming, of course, that she had any right to think about such real-life issues anymore.

She tried not to think about that, or anything, as she followed the navigation system’s directions to Violetta’s address up in the La Jolla hills. It was in a very posh neighborhood, with big, expansive houses and a breathtaking view. Not Patrick McCallister’s price range, but even the smallest of these properties must have gone for a couple of million.

No wonder Fairview had chosen Sammons for his scam.

Bryn parked the van and got out, carrying her black canvas bag, just as Patrick McCallister’s tinted black sedan closed in behind like a shark. He stepped out, and they looked at each other for a few seconds. His bruised cheek had mostly healed, and his suit looked clean and impeccable, as always.

He had a black bag, too. She didn’t think his held the same things hers did.

“Bryn,” he said, in a very careful, neutral tone. “What’s the emergency?”

“I think she’s one of Fairview’s,” Bryn said. “And I think she’s been without a shot all this time. I couldn’t just … I have to help. I have to. You understand?”

McCallister hesitated, then nodded. “Let me go first.”

“No,” she said. “I have to do this.”

“Not alone,” he said. “We do it together, then.”

That felt better, because she was terrified and trying not to show it. The house looked completely normal, nothing to sound alarms. Bryn rang the doorbell, then tried the front door, but it was locked.

“What now?” she asked. McCallister led her around to the side, to a kitchen door. She tried that one. “It’s locked, too.”

He stepped up and did something with a set of tiny tools—lock picks, she guessed. She expected an alarm, but when the door swung open, she didn’t hear a thing. A house like this, there had to be an alarm….

McCallister stepped inside and checked a keypad next to the door. “It’s off,” he said. “Come in.” He closed and locked it behind her.

She immediately caught the unmistakable smell of decomposition—ripe, sickly sweet, and dense. She wavered, and exchanged a wordless look with him.

“Bryn,” he said. “Let me do this. You don’t need to—”

She shook her head, waited to let her senses adjust, then went forward through a spotlessly kept white tile kitchen, down a hallway. The stench got more intense. She was achingly aware of McCallister sticking close beside her, silent now.

No turning back.

She expected a horror show, but there was nothing in the large, gracious living room, although a big-screen TV was still playing with the sound turned down. There was a glass of what looked like Scotch sitting on a coaster on the coffee table, and a book spread open, facedown, as if someone had put it away for just a moment.

McCallister touched her shoulder and pointed. She followed him out into the marble-tiled foyer. A curving staircase led upstairs.

The smell was worse here, and increased as they ascended. Halfway up, Bryn heard the first hum of insect activity. She hesitated just for a breath on the last step, gathered herself, and stepped over a busy line of ants that marked a trail right to where she had to go.

McCallister was right behind her, silent and solid. He was the only thing that gave her the necessary strength to keep going.

The bedroom door was shut, and Bryn touched the knob gingerly first, as if it might be hot. Instinct, trying to stop her from doing this. Seeing this.

She took a deep breath and opened the door.

The noise exploded in an angry buzz, and flies whizzed past her, heading out into the open air. She ducked. So did McCallister. He coughed and put his hand over his mouth; it was the first sign of weakness she’d seen from him.

Bryn stepped into hell.

The first thing she saw was the dead man, sitting in a deep armchair at the end of the bed. There was a bullet hole in one temple, and a giant exit wound on the opposite side. The gun still lay on the carpet next to his feet.

He’d been gone for days.

The woman lying on the bed wasn’t much of a human being anymore. She was covered in a moving blanket of flies, wriggling pale maggots popping through the slipping, discolored stretch of skin, and ants busily carrying away pieces for the good of the colony.

Her eyes were open. Clouded, discolored, decomposed, but alive.

Oh, God, still alive. They moved, very slightly, toward Bryn. The lipless mouth moved, but there was no sound, could be none. The phone receiver lay on the pillow next to her, and one desiccated finger was still resting on the redial button.

“Mother of God,” McCallister whispered behind her. He sounded shaken, stunned, more human than he’d ever seemed. Bryn, on the other hand, felt … remote. Unte-thered. That was shock, she guessed. Useful thing, shock, at moments like these.

“Give her the shot,” she said.

“Bryn—it won’t work.”

“Give her the shot.”

He shook his head, but he opened his bag and took out the syringe. She saw him hesitate, trying to find enough muscle to inject, and watched as he did his best.

The liquid oozed back out through her skin and soaked into the bedding.

They waited for long moments, and Bryn finally turned to McCallister.

“She’s too far gone,” he whispered. “End stages. The drug won’t help.”

Then there was only one thing to do.

Bryn dropped her canvas bag, opened it, and took out a gown, a mask, surgical gloves. She handed those to McCallister, then took a second set for herself. They dressed in silence. The mask didn’t block the eye-watering stench. There were ants crawling on her feet, over her legs, but Bryn didn’t think about that. Couldn’t think about that.

She took out a surgical saw.

McCallister took a step back. “What are you—”

Bryn didn’t answer, because she couldn’t. Talking required some kind of cognition she didn’t think she was capable of at this point. There was only one thing that was important, one thing that had to be done.

She had to stop the woman’s pain. There was no walking away from this, no choice. It had to be done.

She had to be the one to do it.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered to what was left of Violetta Sammons, and stared into those clouded, desperate, terrified eyes for a second before she put one hand on the mandible of her jaw, pushed up, and exposed the rotten column of her throat.

It didn’t take more than three strokes. The saw was very sharp. As the head rolled free, Bryn saw the life desperately continue in those filmed eyes, and then dim … and then, finally, mercifully, depart.

Byrne dropped the saw, staggered, and put her back against the wall.

That’s me. That’s me on the bed. That’s me.

Not yet, but it was coming, as inevitable as death itself.

Across the bed, Patrick McCallister stood frozen, watching her. He finally reached down and grabbed the canvas bag, retrieved the saw, and took her arm. “Out,” he said. “Come on.”

Leaving that room was like walking out of a grave, and Bryn ripped the mask away from her face and gulped in deep breaths. She’d thought the air out here tainted before, but it smelled sweet now. Sweet as roses.

Her legs had gone numb, but McCallister helped her down the steps, past the line of ants, past the silent living room with its TV still playing, Scotch waiting.

Outside, into the clean breeze, and the sun.

Bryn collapsed against him, put her arms around his neck, and wept as if her heart were breaking. “Oh, God,” she whispered. “Oh, my God. I had to do it; I had to. I had to.”

And Patrick McCallister held on just as fiercely. “I know,” he whispered back. “It’s all right. It’s over.”

“No.” She gasped, and fisted her hands in the collar of his suit. “That was me. Going to be me.”

“No. Bryn, you’re alive; hear me? And I won’t let that happen to you. I won‘t. I swear it.”

“What if—”

“Don’t.”

“You saw; she could still feel—”

His voice turned fierce. “I won’t let it happen. I will never let you suffer, Bryn. Believe that, even if you never believe anything else about me.”