Working Stiff (33 page)

“God, Annie, do you think I’m a
drug dealer
?” Because that would be gruesomely ironic, all things considered.

Annie chose her words carefully. “I think you may have some kind of a problem you don’t want to acknowledge,” she said. “I mean, damn, you’re working with dead people; it’s no wonder you’d want … some kind of—”

“Oh, so I’m not a drug dealer, just a junkie.”

“I’m not
saying
that!” Annie took a deep breath. “Okay, I’m taking the next flight back home,” she said. “I’ll leave your key with the apartment manager. And I shredded and flushed your apartment codes. Anything else you want me to do?”

“Walk Mr. French before you go running home to tell Mom what a loser I am,” Bryn said.

“Bryn, c‘mon, you were
arrested
. Many people would consider that a wake-up call!”

“I was innocent.”

“You were off skulking around in the dark with a
married man
and you almost got shot. I don’t know what you think you’re doing, Bryn, but whatever it is, it’s nuts.
You’re
nuts. I always said you were when you went running off to join the army, but now—”

“Says the girl who can’t add well enough to avoid overdrafts,” Bryn snapped. “Don’t hit me up for money anymore. Go crying to Mom; tell her I’m not her golden girl anymore. Maybe you’ll get the job.”

“Maybe I will!”

“Do it!” Bryn slammed the phone down and concentrated on controlling her breathing. Damn, no one could push buttons like family, especially bratty little sisters. How
dared
Annie get holier-than-thou with her, especially when the
holier-than
had to be bailed out of trouble six months out of twelve?

The downside is that I have to make my own dinner
, Bryn thought, and almost laughed, but she was afraid it would sound too much like a sob. She felt sick and feverish, and was deathly afraid there was something wrong with her. Nanite wrong.
You have another shot coming up
, she reminded herself.
Don’t get panicky.

She drank three glasses of water, signed papers, wrote checks, and finally it was twelve thirty. She told Lucy where she was going, and headed for La Scala Ristorante.

“You know,” Bryn said as the needle pushed into her arm, “my sister thinks I’m a junkie, and she’d really think it if she could see me now. Shooting up in a bathroom. A men’s bathroom, at that.” She closed her eyes and focused on the warm strength of McCallister’s fingers where his left hand gripped her, holding her shoulder still. The hot surge of the shot almost took her focus away, but she held on and didn’t flinch.

McCallister put the used syringe back in the tube and pocketed it. “You’re done,” he said, as she pulled her shirtsleeve down. “Have a nice lunch.”

“Wait—”

“I can‘t, Bryn.” But he hesitated, with one hand on the latch of the cramped bathroom stall. There was barely room for the two of them and the discolored curve of the toilet seat. “What?”

“I just wanted to ask …” She fell silent as the hinges on the bathroom door creaked. They stared at each other, pressed intimately close, as the unknown man outside unzipped his pants, grunted, and started splashing the urinal cake. Bryn covered her mouth with her hand, afraid that for some insane reason she was about to laugh. Even McCallister couldn’t suppress a smile.

Especially when the man started to sing off-key along with the Italian music piped in over the bathroom speakers. Dear God, he was awful.

McCallister put his lips very close to her ear and whispered, “I think he’s got a future on
American Idol
. The wrong kind.”

She shook with the silent force of her laughter, and bit her lip until tears threatened. Part of it was the sheer craziness of being so tired and emotionally stretched. The man finally flushed, washed, and the door thumped shut behind him.

Bryn found herself leaning against McCallister, eyes closed. She’d relaxed sometime in the last few seconds.
I trust him
, she thought, and hated herself for it.

“What did you want?” he asked, still in that very soft whisper.

“He’s gone. You don’t have to whisper now.”

“I know.” There were volumes of meaning in that, too much for her tired brain to decipher. “You’re wondering about Joe. He’s fine. Kylie’s at the hospital with him. He’ll be home in a few days to recuperate.”

“She probably hates me.”

“She hates me a whole lot more. I’m the one who’s responsible for all this.” McCallister’s slightly beard-rough cheek rubbed along hers, waking all kinds of shivers down her skin. “I have to go. You’ll be all right, Bryn. I’ll see you for dinner on Thursday.”

Thursday was after Irene Harte’s deadline, and he knew that. He was trying to give her some kind of hope for a future.

She appreciated it, but she no longer really believed it.

Bryn stepped back, and he unlocked the stall door and stepped out, then gestured for her to go ahead. She moved fast, and heard him locking the stall back again as she reached for the door handle.

A man pushed it open, and she scrambled away, feeling a surge of panic that heated her face. “Oh, God,” she said. “Wrong room. Sorry.” She hurried past him and directly into the women’s room, opposite, where she lingered for a few minutes checking her hair, makeup, washing her hands, and wishing she’d put on more concealer to blot out the dark circles under her eyes.
Sleep. I need sleep
.

First, she needed food.

As lunches went, it was unremarkable right up until the front entrance bell jingled, and two men in business suits walked up to her table to loom over her. She looked up, frowning, and one of them produced a Pharmadene ID in a fancy flip wallet, like a police detective would carry. “You’ve got an appointment,” he said. “We’re your drivers.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said. It was a busy restaurant—waiters everywhere, diners, cooks, and a maître d’ who was currently smiling at a large group of women who’d entered together. “I’m not going anywhere.”

“Ma’am, Ms. Harte wants to see you. Right now. Let’s not make this a scene.”

“If I scream—”

“If you scream,” he interrupted her, and bent closer, “we will turn around and walk away, and you will be cut off, do you understand? Completely cut off. No one will be able to help you. It’ll take a long time before you stop feeling what you’ll be feeling, Bryn.”

“Screw you!”

The look in his eyes turned even colder. “Do you want us to walk away? Because we can certainly do that. Ain’t nothing to me, lady.”

Ah, that closed, choking feeling was her leash being yanked. Bryn stared him down for another few seconds, then reached for her wallet.

The Pharmadene man smiled and said, “Oh, it’s on me.” He dropped a twenty on the table. “Let’s go.”

They took her gun as soon as they had gotten her outside. It happened without a fight only because the larger of the two pulled his own weapon first and held it steady on her as his partner searched her. Bryn fumed, but there didn’t seem to be any point in trying to go hand-to-hand with men who were obviously very serious about their jobs.

The Town Car they put her in was a duplicate of the one McCallister normally drove, but there was no sign of him. Once they were on the road, Bryn said, “This isn’t right. I’m a Pharmadene employee, and I work for McCallister. Call him.”

Silence. Neither of them even turned to look at her. “Hey!” she said sharply. “Either you call him, or I do. Your choice.”

“Try it,” one of them said. He sounded smug, and as she checked her phone, she found it dead. “You’ll get service back when we want you to have it. Now shut up. You’re not a person. You’re a proprietary lab rat.”

A plastic barrier went up between her and the two in front. Bryn tried the door handles, but without much hope, and she was right: they controlled the locks. Kicking out the window was an option, but she didn’t know whether she was desperate enough to try it. Besides, they were right: where was she going to run? It wasn’t like she had a lot of choices.

The ride to Pharmadene left her time to think about what she’d do, what she’d say, but in truth, she had very few plays to make. The goons in the front seat were right: she wasn’t a person, not once she was in their custody.

“I’d like to call Ms. Harte,” she finally said, leaning up against the clear barrier that separated her from the men in front.

“No need for that,” the one who did all the talking said. “You’re on your way to see her.”

“I need to tell her—”

“Doesn’t matter what you want to tell her. Paperwork’s been signed. You’re done, sweetheart.”

An ice-cold panic formed in the pit of Bryn’s stomach. She was going to disappear and never be seen again.
Like Sharon
. She didn’t want to vanish like her sister, without a word; she didn’t want her last minutes with Annalie to be angry. She didn’t want her mother to spend her last years agonizing over what had happened to yet another daughter.

She’d given Annie the perfect explanation.
Bryn got involved with drugs. That’s probably what happened to her.

They’d be sad, and they’d be sorry, but she’d be gone. Completely, utterly gone.

I have to get out of here
. Better to be on the run than be hauled in there, to die trapped. Maybe Manny Glickman could help her. Maybe Joe Fideli. Running was her only hope.

Bryn twisted and kicked. Her heel connected solidly with the window next to her on the first try, with an impact that rattled all the way up to and through her brain, but she got nothing to show for it, not even a hairline crack in the surface. She kicked again, and again, until the barrier between her and the two thugs in front rolled down, and one of them pointed a gun at her.

“Easy,” he said. “You’re going to break something, but it won’t be that window. Bullet-resistant glass, all the way around. This is our VIP car.”

“I’m honored,” she said in utter disgust, tugged her skirt down to a ladylike angle, and sat in silence until they’d passed the gates of Pharmadene.

Until all hope was gone.

Damn you, McCallister, what is going on? Where are you?
She was starting to think that Joe Fideli wasn’t the only casualty of the last twenty-four hours—or the last.

Irene Harte had an office approximately eight times the size of Bryn’s; it was so large that there were two conference tables at different points, a sofa-and-chair grouping, a full bar…. It was bigger than most apartments, kitchen included, and as Bryn was frog-marched across the expensive Persian carpet toward the desk, there was no sign of the woman herself. Just an extremely impressive desk—clutter-free, save for two thin folders in a letter tray and a Montblanc pen lying at an angle. The empty leather chair behind the desk could easily have doubled for a throne in a movie about Queen Elizabeth the First. The view from the gigantic panorama windows behind it was breathtaking, and mostly green and unspoiled.

“Sit,” Bryn’s guard said, and pushed her down in one of the two angled visitor chairs. He stood behind and a little off to the side, ready to counter if she did anything stupid.

Which she was considering, but it would probably be fairly difficult to stab someone fatally with a Montblanc. The pen’s shape was a little too rounded.

A concealed door opened to the side, and Irene Harte emerged, trailed by another movie-star-beautiful woman who carried a steaming cup in one hand and a notepad in the other. The cup went on the desk, on a crystal coaster. The pad, and the woman, left the room without even a glance at Bryn or her escort.

Harte nodded to the guard and said, “You may wait outside.”

“Ma’am, I don’t think it’s advisable. She’s—”

“I know exactly what Ms. Davis is capable of doing,” Harte interrupted, her gaze fixed on Bryn’s face. “Go. If I need you, I’ll ring Mareen’s desk. You may wait there.”

“Ma’am.” He touched an invisible hat and left. It seemed to take forever for him to cross the office, even at a brisk walk, but Harte didn’t move or speak until the door had clicked its latch behind him.

Then she sat back, smiled, and said, “How are you, Bryn? Doing well?”

That was
not
what Bryn had expected. She didn’t answer. Harte glanced at the steaming cup on her desk, and her fine eyebrows twitched, then pulled down. She pressed a button on her phone. “Mareen, bring Ms. Davis a cup of coffee….” She paused, looking at Bryn. “Milk? Sugar?”

“Yes,” Bryn said. If she was going to die, she might as well have coffee. The whole thing—already surreal—was turning into a French farce. “Are you going to offer me a blindfold and a cigarette, too, or just a last meal?”

“Don’t be so dramatic,” Harte said. “Mareen, milk and sugar in that, please. Thank you.” She let go of the intercom button and sat back. She tapped her index finger on the desk’s surface, slowly. It was the only sound in the hushed room.

Bryn said, “You abducted me for coffee and to ask how I was. You know, most people just phone.”

“I’m not most people.”

Obviously
. “What do you want?”

“I want you to tell me everything you know about Patrick McCallister.”

That was a
very
odd request, coming from a woman who had access, surely, to every scrap of information on record about the man. “I don’t know anything, really. He likes to be mysterious. Don’t
you
know him better? You’re his boss.”

“Boss,” Harte repeated softly, with an odd smile. “Yes, I am. But as you say, he’s mysterious. You’ve been working with him quite closely.”

Bryn shrugged. “If by
closely
you mean he tells me what to do, yes.”
Calm
, she told herself.
Be calm
.

“It’s come to my attention that Mr. McCallister may be involved in … questionable activities. Do you have any knowledge of these things?”