by Rachel Caine
Bryn wasn’t really in the mood to stand her ground, not tonight. She was, deep inside, sobbingly grateful to him for the kindness. If she’d faced those blank, generic walls of her apartment alone …
She wasn’t sure what she would have done.
“Hey,” she said. “Can I bring my dog?”
Fideli raised his eyebrows. “Sure.”
The messes inside the house really weren’t something Bryn wanted to face, but she forced herself to clean up the worst of it. It wasn’t the dog’s fault, after all; she’d been busy getting herself killed and revived for almost a full day. In fact, Mr. French, her bulldog, was well behaved even in Fideli’s wildly interesting SUV; he contented himself with sniffing the interior door and then poking his head out of Bryn’s passenger window, tongue out and ears flapping all the way.
Fideli’s house was a rambling ranch style in a typical suburban neighborhood, nothing really special about it except the old-growth trees that made it seem hidden and protected. There were more signs it was a house with kids that she spotted as soon as she drove up—the mommy van in the driveway, a boy’s bike lying on its side in the grass, a brightly colored Big Wheel nearby. A candy-colored plastic playhouse made for a little girl.
The windows of the house glowed with warmth.
Bryn put Mr. French on his leash and carried her own food as she followed Fideli up the walk to the side door—the kitchen door, as it turned out, and the kitchen was busy. Bryn had to immediately back up against the wall to avoid a pair of running children, a boy and a girl, who whizzed by. The girl stopped to awkwardly pat Mr. French on the head, then dashed off.
Mr. French woofed and sneezed, then sat down with his head cocked, assessing his new situation.
“Jeff, Harry, I’m warning you, one more time….” The woman from Fideli’s picture book rounded the corner carrying a stack of dirty dishes and stopped, glancing from Joe to Bryn and back again. The hesitation lasted for only a second, and then she came up with a bright, nearly genuine smile. “Hey, honey. Who’s this?”
Joe took the dirty dishes from her and put them down in the sink, then kissed her. It was a warm, comfortable kind of kiss, not self-conscious at all, and then the kids came racing back around yelling and flung themselves on his legs, and he hugged them.
Bryn stood there clutching the leash, her Coke, and her bagged food, feeling like this had been a massive mistake, feeling more isolated than ever … until Kylie came forward, wiping her hands on a towel, and took the Coke and bag from her to put them on the counter. “My husband doesn’t know how to introduce people,” she said, “so I’ll just jump in. Kylie, and that’s Jeff and Harry. Harriet, but we all call her Harry.” The two kids, one blond, one dark, waved. “The baby’s still in her chair in the dining room—honey, check her, would you?”
“Yep,” Joe said, and walked out of the kitchen trailing children.
The noise level dropped to almost nothing, and Bryn felt awkward again. “Hi,” she said, and held out her hand. “I’m Bryn. Bryn Davis. I, ah …” How was she supposed to explain any of this? How top-secret was it, anyway? “I work with Joe. Oh, and this is Mr. French. I promise he’s housebroken.”
Kylie smiled at the dog, then shook hands. She had fine blue eyes, and Bryn sensed a sharp, lively intelligence behind them. “I never heard him mention you before.”
Joe appeared in the doorway again with a baby on his hip, comfortably braced in his big arm. “She’s new,” he said. “Honey, take her a minute; I have to lock up the boom sticks.”
“Jesus, Joe, you’re walking around with her and your guns?” Kylie rolled her eyes and took the little girl, who cooed and nestled against her with more trust than Bryn thought she’d ever had shown to her in her entire life. “Go. Shoo. Get less dangerous.”
“Impossible,” Joe said. “I’m a lethal weapon, baby.”
“Shut up.”
He blew her a kiss and disappeared again. Kylie jiggled the baby—Juliet—on her hip and exchanged another smile with Bryn. “So,” she said, “he talked you into the heart-attack special, right? I hardly ever let him eat that stuff, which is probably why he’s running late. Here, let me get you a plate; go on into the dining room.” She raised her voice to a yell. “Jeff, come in here and rinse the dishes!”
“Mooooooom, the show’s starting!”
“It’s recorded, honey; put it on pause and just do what I tell you.” Kylie handed Bryn a plate, picked up the food and drink, and followed her into the dining room. It was a warm kind of room, all earth tones and wood, with family photos on the walls. Bryn felt a little odd eating fast food there, until Joe Fideli came back, plunked his own down on the table, and began digging in. Kylie settled in across from him.
Bryn found out quickly that she wasn’t just hungry; she was ravenous. The burger disappeared, and so did the fries. The fizzy sweetness of the Coke tasted so good it almost made her weep.
She didn’t feel quite as dead anymore. Especially when Mr. French stretched himself out in a warm blanket across her feet.
Kylie and Joe chatted about family stuff, occasionally asking her a question or two; it was all unforced and comfortable, and Joe finally got around to telling his wife that he’d invited Bryn to use the guest room. That got another second of hesitation, as if she were trying to figure out his motivations, and then a quick agreement. Kylie got up to fix the room while Joe slurped the last of his drink.
“Do they know?” Bryn asked softly. “I mean, about what you do.” Whatever that was.
“They know I’m in corporate security,” Joe said. “And that my work is top-secret. So she won’t ask you any questions. She’s just going to assume you’re someone I’m protecting. Which is true.”
“Do you usually bring people you’re protecting home to meet your family?”
“Not ever,” he said. “Hope you feel special about it.”
He started to get up from the table. Bryn put a hand on his arm, holding him in place. “Joe.” She got his full, alert attention. “Thanks. You’re sure I’m not putting anybody in danger by being here?”
He smiled, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “You really think I’d bring you within a mile of my kids if I thought there was any chance at all of that? Bryn, you’re a nice girl, and I admit, I got you brought back mostly because I felt I’d let you down. But you ever pose any danger to my family and I’ll make you permanently dead, and I won’t hesitate for a second.”
She believed him. She let go, and Joe picked up her empties and cleaned up the table, just like a normal guy.
“If I ever did pose a danger to them, I’d want you to do it,” she said. “You’ve got a lovely family.”
“You say that now; wait until you spend a couple of hours with the little terrors,” he said. “Come on. I owe Jeff a video game or two.”
Normal life.
Bryn wondered if she would ever have this again, this taste of a future, of life, of family.
Well, she thought, if this is all I get, I might as well enjoy it.
Chapter 4
In the morning, the family had breakfast, and Joe drove Bryn to drop off Mr. French at her apartment, and then to see what was left of Fairview Mortuary.
It was a grim sight. Most of the building was still standing, but the other part was blackened and had collapsed in on itself. The serene little garden out front had been trampled into mush by firefighters and emergency crews.
“When you stage a rescue, you don’t go about it subtly, do you?” she asked. Joe shrugged.
“I tried that,” he said. “Fairview had hardened the doors. Only choice I had was to break down the loading-dock wall, and I had to use explosives to do it.”
“And you just carry those around with you.”
“Yeah,” he said, “I do. In my job, it pays to be prepared.”
“Like a Boy Scout.”
“With C-four.”
There were a substantial number of trucks pulled up in the driveway, unloading ma
terials. Repairs, it seemed, were already under way, and a work crew in hard hats was swarming around the place looking purposeful. Bryn got out of the SUV and walked toward the building, then stopped. She turned to Joe. “What about the bodies?” she asked.
“Which bodies?”
“Fairview, Fast Freddy, Mr. and Mrs. Jones, Mr. Garcia …”
“The basement bodies. They were removed already.” Joe cleared his throat. “Mrs. Jones and Mr. Garcia were special problems. They were, ah, cleared separately.”
He meant dismembered. Or burned. Or both. Bryn felt a little wave of faintness come over her, and had to grip Fideli’s arm tight for a second until it passed. He didn’t say anything about it, which she appreciated. Once she felt steady again, she started to walk on—and then stopped, stock-still. She turned to look at Fideli. “Just those two?”
“Yeah,” he said, and his brows came down to a level, concerned line. “Why?”
“Because Fast Freddy was the same. Like me, I mean. Revived.”
“Fuck,” he spat, and pulled out his cell phone. He turned away and marched off, talking softly but quickly. She waited. He finally finished and came back, looking even grimmer. “Should have done a blood test. Damn it. Body’s already been processed and sent off for cremation.”
“Well—that’s okay, then, right?”
“Would have been,” he said, “except that nobody had any warning ol’ Freddy might get all better, get up, and walk away. Which he did. He’s in the wind.” He shook his head. “Listen, Bryn, I’ve got to get back—”
“Yes, of course. I’ll be fine, Joe. Thank you for … for everything.” Including, she thought, the clothes on her back … a gift from Kylie of a butter-soft tan sweater and jeans that fit like a dream. Even the shoes—loafers again— were her size, or close enough. Kylie had gotten her sizes and gone on a midnight shopping run, and that woman had some clothing feng shui, no doubt about it. “I’m sorry. I should have told you about Freddy.”
“You had other things on your mind, and I never asked. This one’s on me,” he said. He climbed in the truck and started it up, then leaned out the window. “Forgot to tell you, your ride’s over there in the lot. It’s the black one.” He tossed her a set of keys, which she caught automatically, still not understanding. He grinned at her and backed out, then gunned the engine to a full roar on his way out of the parking area and onto the main road.
Bryn watched until he was out of sight, then looked around again. She wasn’t quite sure what her role here was supposed to be, considering the damage that had been done—or she wasn‘t, until a big Cadillac sedan made the turn off the road and pulled up in the lot near her.
Lucy, the receptionist, got out and stood there, staring. “Lord,” she said. “I was told, but I didn’t believe it. Is it true? Mr. Fairview, gone?”
“And Freddy,” Bryn said.
Lucy tore her gaze away from the damaged building and glanced over at her, lifting an eyebrow. “I’m not crying over him. Oh, you didn’t meet him, did you?”
“No,” Bryn lied. “I went home. After … after what happened to Melissa.” That, Fideli had told her, was the official story, and it made sense. More sense than what she’d done. “I guess Mr. Fairview and Freddy were working late. They say it was some kind of explosion and fire.”
“Some of those chemicals are real nasty,” Lucy agreed. “It’s just awful. Well, I suppose both of us are out of a job.”
“No.” Bryn took a deep breath. “I … I was Mr. Fairview’s niece.”
“You what? Why didn’t anybody tell me?”
“He wanted me to make it on my own. Without any special treatment. You know.”
“Well, that’s just like him, fair as always,” Lucy said. “What a good man. But still …” She let it go. “I guess you’ll be inheriting the place? I know he didn’t have a wife or any children.”
“Yes,” Bryn said. “I’m going to get it up and running as fast as possible. You still have a job, Lucy—if you’re willing to work for me, I mean. I really need your help. You know so much, and I have so much to learn.”
“You must be related to Mr. Fairview. You flatter just like him.” Lucy tilted her head slightly, her expression gone calculating. “So you want me to be more of an administrator, then.”
“Of course, there’s a raise,” Bryn said.
“How much?”
“How much do you want?”
Lucy seemed startled by that, but she didn’t let it throw her too far off. “Thirty percent,” she said. “That’s only fair. There’s a lot more to really running this place than just answering the phone and handing out tissues to the bereaved.”
“I’m starting to realize that. Yes, that sounds fair. Shake on it?” She held out her hand, and Lucy took it for a brief squeeze. “I don’t think we’ll get much done today. Maybe we should make lists of what we need to find first.”
“First thing, you’d better start looking for a good downstairs man; they don’t come cheap. I do wish we’d never let Vikesh go. And we’ll have to make sure these construction crews know which permits they’re supposed to get.”
“Do you think you can handle that last part?”
Lucy smiled. “That’s what you’re going to be paying me for, Ms. Bryn.”
“Did we have anything scheduled for this week?”
“We had Mr. Granberry down there in the freezer—good Lord, we’re going to get our asses sued off for that, I’ll bet. I’ll be in touch with our lawyer to see if he can get ahead of that and offer some kind of settlement. It’d just be the meetings you had yesterday we have to worry about, and I’ll take care of that.” Lucy thought for a second. “Hmm I think Mr. Fairview had some private meetings booked. I only know that because I worked late a couple of times and people came in looking for him.”
“Do you remember any names? Maybe I can contact them.”
Lucy leaned against her car and patted her carefully lacquered hair as wind skirled through the parking lot, picking up ashes and random trash and stirring them ankle-high. “You think he was doing something illegal?”
“Do you?”
Lucy was quiet a moment; then she crossed her arms and stared off at the wrecked building with a distant expression. “I don’t know. He was a good man, but he had his darkness, Mr. Fairview. I know that. Those folks that came in at night—they seemed scared. And desperate. But he seemed to be helping them.”
“Lucy, do you remember the names? It may be important.”
She shook her head. “He was right there, soon as they came in. I didn’t even have a chance to ask. There was a man and a woman; she looked familiar but I couldn’t place her. I saw them twice. She didn’t look so good the second time. You think he was selling drugs?”
“Maybe,” Bryn said. “We need to find out what was going on. Is there anything you can tell me that would help?”
Lucy hesitated this time for so long Bryn thought that she wouldn’t bite, but finally she said, “You’re going to think I’m crazy.”
“No, I promise I won’t.”
“I think …” She took a deep breath. “I said the woman looked familiar. She did. She looked like one of the clients we had. And the man—I know he was a paying customer. The bereaved husband.”
“By client you mean …”
“Corpse,” Lucy said. “Deceased. Gone on to glory. Must have been the dead woman’s sister, I guess.”
“Probably.” Bryn wondered how much Lucy really knew, or guessed, or didn’t want to guess. “What about the other person you saw? Could it have been … a paying customer? Or a client?”
“Clients don’t go walking around.”
“Lucy.”
She didn’t look happy about it, but she finally said, reluctantly, “Maybe one of them looked familiar, too. Bryn, what the hell was going on?”
“Is,” Bryn said softly. “Is going on. I don’t know, but we have to find out. Is the phone still working?”
“I tried the number th
is morning, and it rang through to voice mail. I changed the message to say that we were closed for repairs.”
“Good thinking. Were there any messages?”
“I’m not supposed to check the messages. Mr. Fairview always liked to do that himself.”
“Lucy,” Bryn said, and smiled. “Come on. You checked them, didn’t you?”
“Well … only because of the accident. There were a couple from hospitals about pickups, but I took care of those.”
“Anything else?”
“Two that were strange,” Lucy said, “but strange calls to a funeral home aren’t exactly breaking news. Half the ones we get are pranks during the day. Can’t imagine how many end up on the voice mail during drinking hours.”
“Can I hear them?”
Lucy pulled out her cell phone and dialed, then handed it over. Bryn listened as the recordings played. The first one was definitely a prank, complete with giggling and drunken college come-ons. She deleted that one. The second, though, was interesting. It came with a long leader of silence, followed by a shaky voice saying, “This call is for Mr. Fairview. I-I need to meet tonight; it’s important. I have the money.” A phone number followed, and Bryn quickly rooted in her purse for paper and pen to write it down.
“What are you going to do?” Lucy asked.
“Find out what he wanted,” Bryn said. “Wait. There’s another one.”
This voice didn’t sound at all shaky. It was a man’s voice, and it sounded hurried and sharp. “You were supposed to meet me,” it said. “Don’t stand me up again. You know where. Tonight, nine.” Nothing else. Bryn would have assumed it was a wrong number normally, but not this time. That’s him, she thought. The supplier. The Pharmadene leak. He hadn’t said his name, or left a number, or even specified a location. Fairview would have known.
But Fairview had taken it to his grave. Still, it was a lead. And if the number could be traced, maybe they’d have a name.