Working Stiff tr-1

by Rachel Caine

  That fast? Bryn felt a surge of unease. If it had been that easy, McCallister wouldn’t have bothered to bring her back at all … and if she presented him with the solution on day two, what was there to keep her alive?

  “Anything else?” Lucy asked, clearly interested now. “That one must have just come in. I only heard the prank calls, and that weird one to Mr. Fairview about having the money.”

  “Just a wrong number,” Bryn said. She erased the message and handed Lucy’s cell phone back. “Thanks. Listen, why don’t you take the rest of the day off? Nothing we can really do here. Tomorrow, we’ll go in and see what we can salvage. Wear something you can get dirty; I don’t know how much smoke damage there is in there.”

  “All right. See you tomorrow, Bryn.”

  “Bye.”

  Lucy got back in her Cadillac and drove off; Bryn watched her go, then looked around the lot.

  Mr. Fairview’s car was still there. He, of all people, would be most likely to have GPS installed in his private vehicle, and GPS kept a record of destinations.

  The car was locked, of course. Bryn tried the keys Fideli had given her, but they didn’t work. She peered in through the heavy tinting and saw that sure enough, there was built-in navigation. Perfect. The only problem was getting in. An alarm light was flashing on the dash, and she didn’t want to attract the attention of the construction crew.

  If Joe Fideli had been here, he’d probably pop the lock in two seconds, using a harsh look and a bobby pin. She was not the car-theft expert.

  But she knew enough to come back later, when nobody was around.

  Nothing left to do here, then. She examined the car keys Fideli had given her, then looked at the choices. The lot was mostly empty, except for Fairview’s other parked vans, hearses, and limousines, but tucked over in the far corner, next to Fast Freddy’s sports model, sat a long, sleek Town Car. Bryn unlocked it with the remote and slipped inside. Warm, buttery leather interior. It was an automatic transmission, which was a relief, and when she poked around in the pockets she found that the car was registered to Fairview Mortuary, and she was listed as the principal driver. It was brand-new, apparently.

  It started up with a purr that was hardly audible at all, but it grew to a low growl as she pulled out of the parking space. The acceleration on it was alarming, and she had to hit the brakes, fast, to avoid overshooting the stop sign at the top of the rise that led to the road. Pulling out into traffic wasn’t just easy; it was scary easy. She’d expected it to be less … powerful.

  Somewhere, a phone rang. A cell phone on the seat of the car. She tried to fumble for it, but she didn’t need to; a speaker inside picked up the call and magnified it for her. “Ah … hello?”

  “Bryn, it’s McCallister. How are you doing?”

  “Doing?”

  “Feeling.”

  “Fine, I guess.” She looked at the clock on the dashboard. “Uh, I guess I need to come in for a shot?”

  “Yes. No later than three p.m. We’ve programmed in Pharmadene as a destination for you on the navigation system. Head this way. I have some things to show you, and something you have to sign for.”

  “What?”

  “Your gun,” he said. “You did ask for one, didn’t you?”

  He didn’t say good-bye, just hung up on her. She glared at the console, then pulled over to the side of the road and punched commands into the nav. Pharmadene was codenamed DOCTOR, she guessed; it was the only destination programmed. Surprisingly, it wasn’t that far away, and even if it had been, the Town Car was a pleasure to drive. There was something amazingly simple and Zen about letting everything fall away and concentrating on the road, the view, the ride.

  At least until her phone rang again, and she heard her sister Annalie’s voice say, “Bryn? Bryn, I’m in trouble. Bryn?”

  You could live, you could die smothered with a plastic bag, you could get brought back by some sci-fi nightmare robots in your blood, but some things just never, ever changed. “What is it this time, Annie?” Though Bryn could have made book on what the problem was, actually. Annalie’s emergencies were always one of three things: men, money, or a combination of the two. The only good thing was that Annie didn’t drink and didn’t do drugs; that would have made things so much worse.

  From the tone of Annie’s frantic voice, Bryn guessed money, and she was right. “I don’t know what happened; I was so careful, but I’m short. I think maybe somebody stole money from my account….”

  “How much are you short?”

  “Only about a hundred bucks.”

  Of course, Annie rarely had more than two hundred in her checking account, ever. Bryn shook her head and said, as she always did, “I’ll send you the money.”

  “Uh, today? Because, you know, rent and stuff.”

  “Can’t you get Walter to give you an advance?” Walter being her boss, and an old friend.

  “He already did,” Annie said. “Uh, last week. I swear, I don’t know how I got so screwed up this time.”

  Annalie never did. She was hopeless with money in general, and she skated by on check floats and loans—always had. If she weren’t her sister, and honestly so good at heart, Bryn would have cut her off, but Annie didn’t have a mean bone in her body. She had a job, a steady one, working the bar at Hooligan’s Tavern, and Walter was pretty tolerant of her money problems so long as the till didn’t come up short. Which, curiously, it never did. Annie could add like a fiend when she was on the clock.

  “I’ll send it to you today,” Bryn promised. “Overnight mail. Okay?”

  “Okay You’re a doll, Brynnie. I love you.”

  “Love you, too. Hey, did you hear from Tate?”

  “Nothing since the last cryptic e-mail. Guess he’s still in country.” Their brother Tate, only a year older than Annalie, was in Afghanistan now, halfway through his rotation. They all tried to keep track of the casualty lists, just in case, but so far Tate had demonstrated the same trademark luck he’d always had. Drop that boy in the thick of the battle and he’d emerge unscratched.

  Nothing like Bryn. She’d managed to get herself killed in a morgue.

  “Okay, give Mom and Dad my love, okay?”

  “’Kay.”

  Short and sweet, that was Annie. She never chatted when she asked for money; Bryn guessed it made her uncomfortable. The next call would be about her latest boyfriend, and what she’d bought with Bryn’s loan, and the latest frantic night at the bar … normal life.

  Bryn wondered what the hell she was going to have to say during that conversation. Because her life right now wasn’t exactly … something she could chat about. Family get-togethers were going to be odd and awkward from now on. Mom would be asking about when Bryn was going to give her a grandchild, which had always been a little bit weird, but was now going to hurt, a lot, for reasons Bryn couldn’t possibly explain. Her oldest sister would be full of advice about that, most likely; she was the fertile one. Bryn never saw George or Kyle, which was a relief; Kyle was a criminal, and George was an asshole, despite being her brother. Bryn felt closest to Annalie, for all her screwups, and Tate, for all his absences.

  Hey, guess what, guys. I’m dead. Apparently forever. But, you know, still hanging around. Cool, huh?

  That would be one to drop into conversation over the barbecue grill and beer.

  Oddly, hearing Annalie’s utterly normal crisis had made her feel better, steadier, more herself. Life goes on. Bryn’s undead, but Annalie’s still overdrawn.

  She found herself smiling as she pulled into the drive leading to Pharmadene, following the green line on her nav system. She hadn’t noticed, leaving in the dark the night before, but this place was huge. The driveway was probably a half a mile, with two guard posts, both of which she had to pass with video conversations between the armed security presence and McCallister before being allowed to proceed. Her car was searched. She was searched, in a pat-down worthy of airport security. And finally she was allowed into a parking garage
, which was the size of an office building on its own.

  She was directed to the basement, which seemed weirdly appropriate, and, of course, armed security met her at the elevator. She wasn’t given a choice where to go, but she was issued a badge with her picture on it—creepy, because she was sure she’d never posed for it. God, had they taken it when she was dead? No, this looked more like a hidden camera had snapped her from a distance. The badge had a red stripe at the top, and some kind of holographic image superimposed on it. Pharmadene’s logo, she guessed.

  “Miss Davis,” the security man said who was escorting her. He had on a blue sports coat with the Pharmadene logo on the breast, and a badge with a green stripe. “Let me familiarize you with the rules. You’re not supposed to be here from this point forward, but I’ll go over the rules in any case. You will go only to your designated floor, and proceed straight to the person with whom you are meeting. You’re authorized for that person’s office, the common break-room areas, and the restrooms. Nowhere else. Understood?”

  “What happens if I go to the wrong place?”

  “Alarms go off, and we go Code Red. Not a good thing. Please mind the rules.”

  Well, that was good to know. Code Red didn’t sound like much fun, at least for her. “I’ll be careful,” she promised. The elevator doors opened on the seventh floor, and the guard walked her down a plushly carpeted hall that seemed to stretch on forever, to a door with no number, just a sliding nameplate that said MCCALLISTER, P., DIR. SECURITY.

  The guard knocked, waited for the okay, and ushered her in. He didn’t follow, and when Bryn looked back she saw that the door had closed behind her.

  Patrick McCallister, wearing a fresh (but still beautifully tailored) suit and tie, came around the big modern desk and offered his hand. She took it, not sure why they were so formal all of a sudden, and took the square padded guest chair he indicated. “You’re looking better today,” he said, which was a backhanded compliment, at best. “Slept well?”

  “Yes,” she said. She wasn’t sure if he knew she’d been at Joe Fideli’s house, and didn’t say, in case there were rules against it. “Surprisingly, I did. Maybe the nanites come with a Valium setting.”

  That surprised him into a smile, a genuine one. He was entirely different in that moment, and it caught her off guard. She looked away. When she checked, he was back to his old, unsmiling, very corporate self. “Let’s get the obvious out of the way,” he said, and reached in his desk drawer.

  She was expecting to see the gun he’d promised, but instead, out came the pneumatic syringe. I’m really going to get tired of this, she thought, but rolled up the sleeve of her sweater and took the shot without complaint.

  “Now. More forms for you to sign.”

  “Lovely.” Bryn picked up the pen and clipboard and began flipping through, trying to glean from the legalese what exactly was being promised. It looked like the standard sort of safety disclaimers. Shoot anybody with the weapon we provide you and we’re not liable. Whatever. She signed. “I would have thought being undead came with less paperwork.“

  “Not in the corporate sector.”

  “So am I a real Pharmadene employee now?”

  “Unfortunately, you’re not only official; you’re my responsibility.” He opened his desk drawer again, took out a box, and passed it across to her. She swung open the hinged top. Nice. A Beretta 92F S, basically the same as the weapon she’d been issued in the military. He’d included two boxes of ammunition as well. “It’s registered to you personally,” he said. “No direct connection to Pharmadene, as a security measure.”

  “Plausible deniability.”

  “Exactly. Should you go shooting up the town on Saturday night, the company won’t be implicated.”

  “Am I likely to do something like that?” Bryn asked, checking the slide on the pistol. It was smooth as silk.

  “Are you asking me if the drug makes you go insane? No. Not in any of our clinical trials.”

  “Well, that’s reassuring.”

  “And I think we already established that it doesn’t make you crave raw meat or brains.”

  “Even better.” Bryn put the gun back in the box. “Still, this is quite a statement of trust, all things considered.”

  McCallister cocked his head slightly, watching her with those secretive, slightly sad dark eyes. “Not really,” he said. “Pharmadene owns you now, Bryn. They control your access to the drug, and that absolutely guarantees your loyalty and service. Doesn’t it?”

  That was a harsh way to put it, and she felt a bright surge of anger inside. “Or it guarantees that I want to punish them for it,” she said.

  “Not advisable to take it there.”

  “Because you’ll stop me?”

  “Yes,” McCallister said, and she was suddenly aware of his stillness. It wasn’t quite human, the way he could shut down like that. And the look in his eyes … She’d been in the military, and she knew a stone killer when she saw one. “That’s what they pay me to do.”

  She understood that; it hadn’t been any different being a PFC in Baghdad. Whatever your personal feelings were about what you were ordered to do, you did it, unless it was illegal or immoral. And sometimes, she had to admit, you did it even then, because the gray areas were pretty broad.

  “Good to know,” she said softly.

  McCallister relaxed in his chair, as much as he ever relaxed. “Good to have it clear between us,” he said. “I understand you spoke to your sister on the way here.” That was another unpleasant little jolt, and Bryn let him know she didn’t like it without a word being said. McCallister gave her one of those little half smiles again, the kind that meant he didn’t really mean it. “You’re the property of Pharmadene now, Bryn. You won’t have a personal life we won’t know about. Sorry if that upsets you, but you’re now carrying top-secret information, and we can’t afford to let you just roam around without checking up on what you’re saying.”

  “And what did I say?”

  “Nothing specific, which is exactly what we’d like you to say. Nothing to anyone. Your family’s not close geographically, which is good; we’d like you to limit your interaction with them to phone calls for a while, and discourage any kind of visits. Having your sister get curious about this unknown out-of-the-blue uncle you’ve just acquired would be … awkward.”

  “My family wasn’t planning any get-togethers until the holidays,” Bryn said coldly. “Is Big Brother going to spy on me on dates, too?”

  “Probably,” McCallister said. “At the very least, your gentlemen friends will be checked out thoroughly. Or lady friends, if your tastes run that way.” He lifted an eyebrow, as if mildly curious.

  “I thought you’d probably already know that, since you know so much about me.”

  He shrugged. “I try not to pry except where strictly necessary.”

  Which was so ridiculous that she wanted to hit him with a blunt object, preferably a bullet. “Didn’t you have something to show me? Or was this just an opportunity to humiliate and frighten me again?”

  “And give you a loaded weapon.”

  “That, too.”

  McCallister stood up and came around the desk, passed Bryn, and opened the office door. “This way,” he said, and left. She scrambled up and after him, because he wasn’t waiting on her. “Well, that’s rude,” she muttered, and hurried down the hall to catch up. “You know, if I go somewhere I’m not supposed to, this badge thing goes off.”

  “I know. I designed the system. If you’re in close proximity to me or someone else with a green badge, you’ll register as being escorted. Of course, until you try to open a door. Then you’ll set off a Code Red.”

  “And what exactly happens during a Code Red?”

  “You get thrown to the ground, handcuffed, and Tasered. If you’re lucky.” He sent her a half-amused glance. “Oh, and don’t think that you can randomly shadow someone with a green badge, either. We’re all well trained to challenge intruders and ho
ld them for security. You wouldn’t get far.”

  They rounded a corner—and this hall looked pretty much exactly like the last one, Bryn thought. Pharmadene wasn’t big on decorating. Now that she thought about it, McCallister’s office had been one big pile of modern nothing, too. No photos, plants, desk toys, the usual stuff people gathered around them. Not even a nonstandard paper clip tray. Of course, that could have just been him; he didn’t seem like a cube-toy-and-kitty-poster type of person.

  But as she glanced into a couple of nearby open offices, Bryn thought it might have also been corporate policy, because she’d never seen such personality-free workspaces. Everything matched, everything alike, everything company owned.

  Like her.

  “In here,” McCallister said, and swiped his card to open up a closed door. No nameplate, she noticed, but didn’t have time to ask what they were doing here. He ushered her in with a light touch at the small of her back, not quite a push. The fluorescent lights overhead flickered and came on automatically, revealing … an unoccupied office. Completely bare, except for the same stripped-down glass-and-chrome desk McCallister had, only this one was without accessories, a computer, or anything else except a desk chair in a plastic dust jacket.

  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.”