Beautiful to the Bone (The Enuis Trilogy #1) (26 page)

“You like art objects?” asked Anthony.

“No!” I was pissed at myself but taking it out on him.

“Well, you’re always talking about beauty. Where I work we have a lot of beautiful things . . . antiquities, from ancient times. Not cartoon collector items like that.” He dismissed the comb.

“I know what antiquities are. I’m not interested in beautiful
things
, but thanks.”

“They’re
historically
beautiful.” Anthony dropped his shoulders and winked at Vinnette.

“Lyle,” I said, “you still have your Hollywood Pizza hat? The yellow one?”

“Sure.”

“Can you get a couple large pizza boxes?”

“I guess, why?”

“And buy two large frozen.” I turned to Anthony and Vinnette. “When I get back can I use your kitchen to heat a couple pizzas?”

Anthony was entertained. “Of course.”

“Good.” I turned to Lyle. “Are you willing to help me?”

“I guess.”

“Yes or no, ‘cause it could be dangerous.”

He peeked over at Vinnette. “I’m cool with danger.” She pretended not to see, rocked her head, leaked a small smile, and continued turning the soup.

Foolhardy
was probably more accurate and here I was walking us both into it.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

The front entrance to the lab was modern, faceless, a glass and brick building twenty floors high, designed by a world-renowned architect I’d never heard of. More than a million square feet, of which my employers leased 33,210 on two floors, and all I needed were five square feet of it, for less than an hour. Without my security passkey, not likely. But I had promised.

I’d entered through the front entrance once, the day I was hired and given my key. Now, having researched my target, I waited in its shadows like a thief, for the four AM bio waste crew to arrive, the paradoxical exit to my career. The March morning wind threaded currents through my hair. I shivered.

“Miss Flores.” I greeted the crew chief with a smile. She was a small sturdy woman with quick dark eyes and a no-nonsense mouth. “I feel ridiculous . . .”

She waved the four-person crew through the front door with the swipe of her card and stepped in front of it as it closed. “Do I know you?”

“I work on the seventh, late shift, but I’m usually out before you get in. Lab nineteen.”

She looked me over pretty good. “So?”

“There’s a test I’ve got to complete before morning and I spaced it out, then left my card at home. I’m usually in bed by now.”

Her mouth was tighter still. “This is my problem?”

“I can show you ID.”

“Let’s see.”

I pulled out my Minnesota driver’s license.

“You’re the one they call
La Siguanaba
.”

What did I say to that? “I’ve been called all sorts of names. Can you let me in?”

“It’s your hair.”

“What is?”

“The trap. Men see
Sigua
drawing her golden comb through her long, beautiful hair. They see her by the lakes and rivers, in the moonlight. Her body lures them till she turns and they see her face. She’s a shape-shifter. Their souls are not safe.”

“Can you let me in?”

“Sure, I
can
. But why?”

“Because you know I work here. I can describe every inch of those labs, and I can leave a mess that will reflect badly on you and your crew.”

“Why would you do that?”

“Spirits have bad tempers, even the nice ones.” I grinned. “I’m sure you’ve heard that. All I want is to finish my tests and get some sleep.”

“I don’t believe in spirits.” She grinned back.

I deliberated knocking her down and kicking in her teeth. “What
do
you believe in?”

“
Tres ciegos ratones blancos
; three blind mice, white. My niece wants pet mice. She wants to save them from this place.”

“We don’t have any blind mice.”

“She won’t know the difference.”

“A win for everyone.” I held out my hand.

“Especially the mice.” She shook it.

“Especially the mice.”

***

Think of a simple battery with positive and negative terminals. That was basically my power supply. The cathode and anode of the chamber attracted oppositely charged particles in the casting tray. In that tray the teeth of a comb left small holes in the gel when it cooled, and that’s where I placed the blood samples. The equipment did the rest. Opposites attract, and I had my results.

Then to round up the mice and slip out undiscovered. I turned the corner.

“Excuse me,” he said, his hulk blinking down at me. “What are you doing?” It was Eddie the large night watchman, sitting on the counter, chopsticks in hand, eating Chinese food out of a container, shoes and socks off, size-18 feet dangling.

“Tests,” I said showing him the vials. “Tests I should have finished yesterday.”

“Oh. Kinda late for you to be here.” Even in the bright fluorescents his stout face was smooth and childlike.

“Yeah,” I said. “Mmm, that smells great.”

“Pork chow fun.”

I looked longingly at his takeout.

“You haven’t eaten?”

“Got so wrapped up, just forgot.” I let my eyes fall to the floor, but I didn’t move.

He looked at his remaining chow fun. “Well  . . . ”

“I guess you’ve got to finish your rounds, huh? You’re on that silly clock. And I’ve got to get going.”

“Oh, upstairs, yeah.” He took one last look at his dinner. “D’ya want the rest?” He reached the box to me.

“Oh, I couldn’t.” I looked away again. I still didn’t move.

“No, please. Take it. I was almost done. Better get to work. You won’t mention this?”

“You’re allowed to eat.”

“No, actually I’m not. Not on duty.”

“Well then, I’ll just take
my
Chinese food home with me,” I said accepting the chow fun.

He gave me a meek smile. “Thanks.”

“No, thank you.” I held up the box.

He ambled away, shoes and socks in hand. I heard the stairwell door close.

I dumped the remaining Chinese food in one of the bio waste cartons. I appropriated three of the older mice from my cages —no point damaging Elizabeth’s reputation any further with mine already in the toilet— and left them in the takeout container on the shelf for Flores, next to the frozen dead who would be reduced to ash. Anthony Junior would require a bit more care.

***

“The thing is, Lyle, just do what a pizza guy does. Don’t take no for an answer. You can’t take them back. Your boss will kill you. Say you’ll leave them for free, if that’s what it takes to get to the kitchen. Whatever. But they’ll pay, so have a price in mind for two large pepperoni and green pepper pizzas plus tax. Bring the pizzas into the kitchen. Only the kitchen. Then I can slip in the front door.”

“You’re sure you can just waltz in?”

“Kitchen only. They’ll be so hammered by eleven PM on a St. Patrick’s Day night that you could feed them shit on a platter.”

He gaped at me, like I wasn’t the goody-two-shoes he’d remembered. And I wasn’t.

“They’ll still be happy. Numb.
And
screwing everything in sight.”

Lyle cocked his head.

“Do not dabble in anything you are offered —drinks, drugs, smoke or sex— because this place is very friggin’ dangerous.”

“How dangerous?”

“Not sure exactly.” I swallowed the night air. “But what’s going on in there, it’s bad.”

“What kind of sex? Better than being blown up to a Muslim?”

“Lyle!”

“So let’s not go there for a stupid scrapbook of Momma’s clippings.”

“They’re not Momma’s clippings, they’re mine. More than fifteen years of organizing and cross-referencing. I’ve got to have that binder back.”

I’d looked at that scrapbook of faces and face parts thousands of times, tens of thousands of times. I still didn’t see the code. But I knew it must be in there, somewhere. To let that book go would be giving up on my dream.

“So Lyle . . . Lyle! Listen to me. You get in and out. It’s a bit of a maze the first time in the apartment. It’s like a labyrinth, a ship’s belly. Keep it simple: front door to kitchen, kitchen to front door. Goodbye, adios. You’re just there to distract them. Once I’m in, I can find the scrapbook — it’s not easily hidden — and I can get out on my own. Got it?”

“Just a pizza guy?”

“Just a pizza guy.”

“I can do it.” He nodded, assuring himself.

“Good.”

“Can I bring my guitar?”

I cuffed his arm.

***

At 11:15 PM Lyle and I had been watching people stream into Atara and Levi’s apartment for nearly an hour. Over that time at least seventy-five percent of those entering were in some sort of altered state. It was obvious, the staggering path, the way they leaned on each other, the way they stood and stared at meaningless objects for minutes at a time before entering. I knew the feeling. Once they were in they were only going higher.

I didn’t see a familiar face, which was good in case Atara had been bad-mouthing me, making me an outsider. More irony. I just had to hope Atara and Levi —what
was
his real name— had screwed their brains out and were not in the living room.

“You ready, Mr. Pizza?” Even with his thermal delivery box zippered shut I caught a whiff of oregano and pepperoni.
We could stay home and eat it
.

“You’re sure this is gonna be okay?” As if this was the first he’d asked the question.

“No.”

He smiled weakly. “Okay, then.”

The street flowed unevenly with revelers —a leprechaun cocked hat here and there, some yelling or speaking loudly, others running through or dancing or singing. Even a young Chinese man swinging a shillelagh walked by, a cudgel to cure and maim. According to legend.

Lyle crossed the alleyway and jogged across the street. One glimpse over his shoulder and he was down the steps and ringing the basement doorbell. Memory of its angelic chimes reawakened me, and part of my body wished I was already on the other side of the door, merging into the tactile glow. Like the old days. Skin on skin.

Even at a distance Lyle was restless without the guitar in his arms, uneasy in his own hide. Whereas I’d become easy with my own and with others.
Was that true?

He slouched and primped. Maybe it was the gaudy yellow pizza hat. Maybe it was the number of times he’d rung the doorbell. He looked back to me. Worry clamped around his mouth, soliciting retreat.

The door opened. I sucked air. I should never have gotten Lyle into it.

He talked to a woman I didn’t recognize. Then he was in.
Don’t turn around!
He pushed his heel against the door, leaving it ajar.
All right, Lyle!

In seconds I was across the street and into the dimly lit apartment. Thick warmth massaged me. The tinkly piano welcomed me.

“You zombie

Be born again my friend

Won’t you sign in stranger . . .”

The lyric came mocking and, as I had hoped, bodies clasped, huddled, fondled, more interested in devouring each other than checking my ship passport. Lyle was in the kitchen accepting a joint from the woman and laughing.
Shit!

Like my Minnesota woods, I’d mastered this terrain and I moved swiftly toward my old bedroom, the last place I’d left the scrapbook. On route I stepped over two men wrestling amorously in the Tapestries Hallway. Shirtless, white hair, lithe chest, Maurice. He didn’t look up.

I skated past them into my bedroom —
my bedroom
— which I was surprised to find empty, though the bed had already been inaugurated judging by the nautical curls of blankets and pillows. In the small closet, a pair of men’s Navy white dress pants, a dark blue double-breasted peacoat, but no scrapbook.

Next, the Moroccan Room, the room I’d
most
wanted to avoid, although it was possible Atara hadn’t accurately communicated with Levi about my ouster. At its entrance I listened for activity. Voices.

“Aren’t these wonderful?” said a woman, and before the answer came I envisioned Marguerite’s flaming orange hair.

“Gorgeous,” he said. “They feel gorgeous.”

“Come,” said Marguerite. “Nan has surprises for you too.”

Peeking around the door, her naked, trim, re-engineered body and large breasts were silhouetted by the light blazing from the bathroom doorway. Facing her, a young sandy-haired man in his early twenties, easily forty years her junior and naked from the waist down, wore the remainder Naval service dress white t-shirt and a long-sleeved open-collared jumper. A dark blue neckerchief sat undone draped over his neck and chest.

“Come,” she said again, taking his hand, pulling the neckerchief from his shoulders and draping it over hers as she led him into the bathroom, leaving the Moroccan Room empty.

I didn’t hesitate. Moving stealthily though the room, I scanned for the scrapbook before searching the closet. There, on the shelf where I’d seen the miniature child’s rake or brush, sat my binder.
Yes!
The euphoria, the adrenalin, I had to slow it down.
Be smart.

I picked up a striped ottoman from the main room and placed it gingerly beneath the closet shelf, then pulled down my album. Like long-lost family, I pinned it to my chest and closed my eyes.

“Now you wait right there while I get Nan, okay?” I heard Marguerite tell the young sailor.

I lurked in the closet as Marguerite, humming, swayed unabashedly out of the room and closed the door. I was quickly out of the closet clutching my scrapbook and ready to escape. But I stopped. Frequencies radiated around my heart, leading me by invisible current to the bathroom.

The lights had been dimmed. Essence of sweet turmeric hung in the air. Candles ringed the large oval tub except where the young man sat passively on its lip. Not far from him lay the small brush/rake that I’d originally seen on the closet shelf.