Nor am I. Gloria is damn good.
“Cindy is on page 2,” he says. “Gloria is number 23. Rachel is on page 14 and I couldn’t find my name anywhere.”
“Because you’re dead,” I say. My heart knocks hard against my ribs. “How is Ally on this list?” Maybe if I just keep repeating it, it will make sense.
Rastafarian Brinkley comes forward on his forearms, clasping his hands together in front of him.
“Unfortunately they didn’t post a detailed explanation of their ranking system,” he says. “They aren’t working strictly in order anyway. Look at the names I’ve highlighted.”
There are eleven highlighted names on the first two pages. “Who are they?”
“They’re victims with NRD that have been killed since this list was last updated.”
“Gee-zus,” I say. “Why rank them if they’re just killing them at random?”
Brinkley sits back in his seat again, and tries to look relaxed. We both know we’re on camera. Everyone and their maids have cameras these days. “Maybe this is a prize system. Higher rank, better prize.”
“Gruesome,” I say. “So you still think they’re working in small groups?”
“Yes.”
“Then maybe some groups are just better than others,” I say.
“I’m not sure of anything,” he says. “But I want you to take a good long look at your name. Number two Jesse.”
I stare at my name on the page. Jesse Sullivan. Location: USA/Nashville. Priority 2.
“That word priority is my only clue. I’ve tried to see if it’s alphabetical, geographical, financial, and a bunch of other ways, but priority is the system that makes most sense.”
As I stare at my name on the sheet my eyes gravitate downward. It isn’t my name that worries me on the page. I’ve known for a whole year my own damn father wants me dead. But why Ally? Ally has never hurt anyone in her whole life. And Ally is normal, perfectly human. Worse—I’ve replaced her already. I had to in order to save her life after she was stabbed, which means I can’t ever save her again. Something about replacing a person reverses that person’s magnetic charge. A second replacement is impossible—for anyone. It simply doesn’t work. So I can’t even beg my boyfriend to save her if she dies a second time.
“I can’t save her twice,” I tell Brinkley. I feel sick. “If they try again—”
Brinkley stares at me through the dark shades, unmoving.
“If they take her. Maybe torture her—” I begin.
“We won’t let them get that far,” Brinkley says. If those words are meant to reassure me, they don’t. The more I think about it the more I’m certain I will puke.
“Jesse?” he asks. “You’re losing color. Look at me.”
“Tell me about Liza or something,” I say. “And get this freaking plate out of my face before I barf on it.”
“She used to be a death-replacement agent in Philadelphia,” he says. “Then she was attacked a few months ago like you. She disappeared. Her handler’s body was found in the Delaware Bay. Probably dropped into the river outside Philly and washed down. And they found another body too, Liza’s boyfriend who also had NRD.”
That sounds familiar. “Wasn’t there a huge earthquake there recently?”
He nods, stroking that damn beard again. “It’s one of the reasons they were reluctant to claim foul play on the body. There were a couple other deaths in the quake.”
“So she’s missing and her handler and boyfriend are dead,” I say. “Déjà vu.”
“We need to know what she knows. Maybe she saw something or maybe she knows things about Caldwell,” he says.
“If I were her,” I say. “I’d keep running and never look back.”
“Gloria has found moving targets before.” His voice is steady. “I don’t doubt her.”
I tap Ally’s name one last time. “This really freaks me out. Why her? Just to hurt me?”
“There are others on the list connected to you, but they aren’t high priority. She must be doing something more than picking up your dry cleaning.”
Secrets. Ally is keeping secrets.
Brinkley is speaking again, pulling me out of my thoughts. “When Gloria finds Liza, I need you—”
“I know.” I cut him off. I just need some time alone to think about all this—about Ally. “Liza is more likely to trust me if she knows what I am. And we need her to trust us and tell us what she knows.”
“Exactly,” he says and throws a twenty on the table to cover our meal.
And who else would be willing to go anyway? We’re our own small tactical group. Sometimes I hate Brinkley for taking on half the freaking world and asking me to go down with him when really all I want to do is spend a Saturday night on the couch with my boyfriend and best friend—as if they could ever be in the same room together—eating junk and thinking about stupid shit like when is the next time I’m going to get laid.
Then other times, I know better. Even if Brinkley hadn’t gone rogue, even if I hadn’t been attacked by Eve and the hate mongers hadn’t rolled in like the tide, I’d still be in this shit sooner or later.
Because Caldwell is my father and he wants me dead.
But why Ally?
Why?
Ally
Nikki and I crouch around my low coffee table littered with papers, photographs and notes. I’ve also taken the trouble to place a plate of cheese, crackers, and fruit, along with steaming cups of tea on the low table. It is the best I could do as hostess, failing to recall the last time I’d had someone here for any reason at all. I’ve spent the last year—since I stopped staying over at Jesse’s— just getting used to sleeping in my own bed.
Part of me wanted to stay at the safehouse and not come back to my place at all, just to make sure Jeremiah honored his promise not to hurt the woman. However, Nikki assured me Jeremiah is a man who values his word, which means it is safe to work somewhere more peaceful and familiar.
“This is the missing person’s list?” I hold up a print-out that’s been highlighted.
Nikki lowers the cup of tea carefully to the coaster and looks up from the photograph she’s been examining. “Yes. The yellow ones are the children.”
“Why is Jeremiah only focusing on the children?”
“Women and children first?” Nikki shrugs. Her hair falls forward over her shoulder and the lamp lights make her eyes shine. “Maybe he just has a soft spot for children.”
“Who doesn’t,” I say. Jesse. I look at the list again and notice a few of the names also have a small star beside it. “What about the stars?”
“Confirmed or possible NRD,” she says. She plucks a slice of cheese from the plate and pops it into her mouth.
“How do they determine possibility?” I ask.
“Family history.”
It’s true that most NRD-positive people have the same AB- blood type and it’s common for parents to pass on more than their blood type. Like Jeremiah’s poor sister.
“Does Jeremiah have NRD?” I ask.
“He doesn’t know,” she answers. “It’s never been put to the test. But he doesn’t have AB- blood so it seems unlikely. Less that 1% of NRD-positives have a non-AB- blood-type. And most of the outliers are AB+. Jeremiah is B-.”
I’m surprised she’s volunteered such personal information about him. I start to wonder what else I could ask, but I don’t press my luck.
“Not everyone from this list has NRD,” I say. The list of nearly fifty people has no more than ten stars.
“In fact, most of them don’t.”
“Let me see.” She comes around the edge of the table and sits beside me. The side of her thigh brushes the side of mine and my heart responds with a funny little leap. I’m hyperaware of her scent, clean with a hint of vanilla. I like it a great deal as she takes the missing persons’ sheet from me and our fingers brush. I pay a good deal of attention to the pale green rim of my tea cup.
“You’re right,” she says. “Maybe we�
��ve been reading it wrong.”
“Who did the highlights and stars?” I ask. I try to keep my voice level.
“I did. I was looking for connections,” she says.
Her hot breath warms my cheek as she turns toward me. I keep looking at the list without really seeing it. God, how long has it been since I’ve had sex? Not since Jesse—ages ago.
“Jeremiah told me to make the children a priority so I highlighted them and then I marked the family history or confirmed NRD. I figured this was a missing persons or presumed dead list for NRD-positives, all of them Caldwell’s targets.”
“This time last year, we had no idea if it was the military, FBRD, or Caldwell calling the shots,” I say. “And now look at us.”
“He’s the puppeteer,” Nikki says. “He can’t do it all on his own.” Yeah but at least we know who the bad guy is,” I say.
Nikki frowns at her list. “Julia changes everything. She was replaced, so there’s no possibility that she has NRD.”
“Maybe she’s an exception,” I offer. Because Jesse is an exception and my guts tell me that Caldwell’s interest in Julia is also somehow connected to his interest in Jesse.
“Maybe not,” she argues. “Maybe she was the missing piece to the puzzle.”
“I’m not following you,” I say and I turn to look at her. Her face is dangerously close. So close her eyes are big and beautiful with darker blue around the edge.
“What if they are all like Julia?” she says.
I look at the list she presses flat on the table. “Children who’ve been replaced?”
“Children have a high replacement rate.” She sits up straighter, bringing her knees under her. “Parents are always screening them, right? So perhaps the reason why this list has so many children is simply because they have been replaced more often.”
I tuck my hair behind my ears and look away from the soft petals of her lips. I also try to ignore the growing burn in my groin. God, how long has it been?
I try to distract myself by saying something. Anything useful. “But if everyone on this list has been replaced, what about the ones with confirmed or possible NRD? If you have NRD, you can’t be replaced.”
If Jesse tried to replace someone with NRD it wouldn’t work. Something about the condition prevents it from working. Gloria says it’s because the magnetic charge can’t be reversed and that’s the same reason why someone who’s already been replaced can’t be replaced again.
“There aren’t that many with confirmed or potential NRD,” Nikki argues. “It’s possible they really are missing or dead. They may not be part of the roundup at all.”
I count nine who are probably dead—if Nikki’s theory is right.
“So we need to find out if these others have been replaced by an agent,” Nikki says. “Do you recognize any names?”
“Maybe a couple,” I admit, but I can’t possibly remember everyone Jesse has replaced. “But I can run them through the database to see if they’ve been replaced by others. There’s a program to make sure no one lies to an agent trying to get a second replacement. I can run the names through and see if any of them turn up with a history.”
“Perfect,” Nikki says. She turns and smiles at me and I’m forced to look away. My God, what is wrong with me? It’s just a girl. You’ve been around girls before. Pretty ones.
“But if that’s the case, what does he want with people who’ve been replaced?” I whisper. My body leans into hers of its own will.
“I don’t know, but at least we’ll know what we’re looking for.”
I turn to say something and she catches my eye. So close. I can feel the heat of her face near mine. And a static charge seems to build on my skin and bristle. A feverish wave warms me as her hair brushes my cheek. It’s as if someone has picked up the other end of the rope and is gently tugging me toward her. A solid, slow tug. Inescapable.
Her lips brush mine like a question. Is this alright? And because it takes all I have just to keep breathing, let alone give an answer, she kisses me.
Oh my God is this happening?
It is soft and tentative. It stops and because I say nothing—can say nothing—resumes again this time with more force, more excitement.
Is she kissing me? Is Nikki really kissing me?
Her hand comes up and clasps the side of my neck. Her fingers in the back of my hair remove all possibility of escape.
I haven’t been kissed since—
My guilt supersedes the desires of my body and I manage to get one hand on her chest.
I feel her breast swell and I push harder to send a different message. Her teeth come together in a kind of grit as she pulls herself back. Her face presses against the side of mine.
Don’t be stupid, Ally. It’s just a kiss. Enjoy it. You’re not cheating on anyone for God’s sake.
“I’m sorry,” Nikki says. Her eyes open and that glaze of pleasure recedes.
It’s harder to find my voice than I thought. “W-what are you apologizing for?”
“You look upset,” she says.
My hand stops pushing and slips up around her neck. I give her a soft reassuring kiss on the cheek. “It isn’t that.”
“You didn’t like it?” she asks.
I blush. “I liked it.”
She grins and runs her fingers through my hair. I shiver and resist the urge to press the full length of myself against her. A very docile and feminine inclination that I haven’t felt in a long time, or that clenching ache between my legs.
“Then what is it?” She kisses my cheeks.
I don’t know seems false. And I’m in love with someone else seems like the wrong thing to say in a moment like this.
I turn back toward the sheets of paper on the table. “We should solve this first.”
“It can wait,” she says, playfully.
“Can it?” I ask. “I’m not sure the mothers or the missing children will agree.”
She pulls back from me and takes her tea cup to the kitchen. I listen to her refill her cup and sit the kettle back on the stove with a clank.
God, why am I so awkward? I haven’t hurt anyone. I haven’t cheated on anyone. I’m not destroying any homes unless—
“Are you married?”
“What?” Nikki looks taken aback. “No.”
“Engaged?”
“No.”
“Committed in any way?”
“No,” she says and smiles. “Why?”
Because I’m a crazy person who can’t handle a little tongue.
My explanation never fully forms before someone bangs on my door. I jump up and knock papers off the table. Nikki makes it to the door first.
“Are you expecting someone?” she asks, on alert. “Faux-blond. Uh—glossy.”
“Glossy?” I nudge her out of the way and come up onto my tiptoes to look out the peep hole.
“Do you know who it is?” she asks, her breath warm on my ear.
“I do,” I say and open the door.
Jesse
Sunday seminars are nice and small which is a plus. I’ll admit I don’t have the best track record with seminars. Though they were created by state departments to foster “sensitivity” amongst employees in certain civic roles, I find many of the people aren’t “sensitive” at all. I’m no longer required to do these seminars, but I know Dr. York personally and he’s the Death-Replacement liaison for this hospital. And Dr. York is also the kind soul who usually puts me back together after a bus, or only-god-knows-what tears me apart, arranging me enough so I don’t have another ugly scar and so Kirk can do the cosmetic corrections. I think it’s only fair to show my appreciation once in a while.
And I’m overdue for a psych evaluation anyway. Two birds.
All my lanterns arranged at the ready and with a flashlight by the door in case I come home after dark, I leave. Today is considerably sunnier than the last few dreary days of rain and gloom, so I roll down my window, turn up the music and enjoy the twenty minute drive to th
e hospital. The air is crisp and smells like leaves. A vanilla air freshener dangles from my rearview, mixing with the smell of the wind. I tap my fingers lightly against the steering wheel to the tune of the song.
I manage to hold onto this feeling even after entering the hospital.
Because the seminar is held in the same room every time, a spacious, conference room on the main floor, I can find it just fine.
Dr. York smiles as I slip in and take a seat at one of the smaller, moveable tables.
He stands up front, hands in his lab coat pockets and says the exact thing he says every time he begins one of these things. “I want to welcome everyone. I know most of you are here because your employer requires it. Regardless, I hope you find the information interesting and helpful. Our program is divided into two parts: a short orientation video about twenty minutes long, followed by a Q&A with two death-replacement agents.”
I look around the room to see twenty, give or take, diverse faces. Cindy, a fellow death-replacement agent, slips in beside me and gives me a short acknowledging smile.
Her hair is cut near her chin and her big blue eyes are like glass marbles. Cindy has a little mole on her cheek and pretty white teeth to match her pretty French-tipped nails. Her Texas drawl adds to her good southern girl persona. She usually wears knee-high boots, thigh length coat and overlapping necklaces, which is to say she looks like she just walked right out of a fashion magazine. We are quite the contrast, compared to my torn jeans, a zippered black hoodie and my dirty, mismatched sneakers. Clearly, we have different priorities.
Most of these people are morticians, social workers, police officers, firefighters or EMTs.
There are other occupations of course, doctors, nurses, etc. Anyone who comes into contact with our dead bodies, and also happens to be a state employee of some kind, is required to take this training.
Many of these people come into contact with zombies like myself either because they’re part of the cleanup crew, or because they play some other part in the death replacement industry. For example, insurance workers encourage their clients to screen for death replacements once a year for lower insurance rates, so sometimes underwriters turn up at the seminars.
Dying by the Hour (A Jesse Sullivan Novel Book 2) Page 10