Two Weeks' Notice tr-2

by Rachel Caine

  “Do you have to empty it when I’m done?”

  “Not a chance, sweetie. I don’t love you that much.”

  Annie’s smile was almost like her old one. “You were in the running for best sister ever, but now you’re back to, you know, just best in the room.”

  “Except you?”

  “So far, you haven’t tried to stab me, so I think you’re one up on me right now.” Annie swung her legs over the side of the bed and groaned. “Ow. Sore. A little help?”

  Bryn supported her and eased her to a standing position, and rolled the IV stand over so Annie could hold on to it. “Better?”

  “In one way. In another, now I really have to pee, now that it’s actually possible to do it.”

  “In there.” Bryn walked her to the bathroom door and shut it behind her. As she waited, she looked down at her suit—grimy now with her twisting and wriggling around on the pavement underneath the limo—and remembered that she’d been on her way to change, again. How many outfits had she ruined today?

  Well, she couldn’t change now until Liam came back to supervise Annie; she might trust her sister again, a little, but not enough to let her roam around the house without oversight. If her Protocols weren’t completely deactivated, she might choose the moment Bryn was cleaning up to reenact the shower scene from Psycho, and that wouldn’t do anyone any good. Least of all the shower curtain.

  Annie came out a few minutes later, looking almost herself again. She’d even taken a moment to brush her hair, which fell in bouncy, ridiculously shiny curls halfway to her waist. It still looked thinner than before, but it’d fill out. “Okay, warden, I’m done.”

  “Good. Back in bed.”

  “Seriously?”

  “Just for a few minutes,” Bryn said. “I’ll come back to get you.”

  She fastened the Velcro around Annie’s wrists, ankles, chest, waist, and thighs, feeling stupid as she did so. Annie took it without any snarky commentary, which was nice, if unusual. “I’m sorry,” Bryn said, smoothing the last fastener in place. “I’ll be back for you soon. Tomorrow you won’t need these at all.”

  “No hurry,” Annie said. “I’m not going anywhere.” She sighed, wriggled a bit, and closed her eyes. Mr. French, who’d been following the two of them around with anxious concentration, trotted after Bryn as she went next door. After a moment of consideration, she locked the door, then started stripping off the old, stained clothes. At this rate, she thought, I’ll have to buy a whole new wardrobe every month. Well, at least it wasn’t a depressing idea for a change. New clothes were always cheerful.

  A fast, hot shower made her feel brand-new, and Bryn toweled off and dressed from the skin up again.…After consideration, she went for the best underwear she had, lacy and flirty, and over that, in compensation, a plain pair of jeans and matte jersey shirt. Comfortable. Not seductive. Overtly, anyway. Mr. French decided not to follow her after that; he curled up in his dog bed and put his head down, evidently worn-out by the day’s trials. She shook her head and left him there as she checked on Annie.

  She wasn’t there.

  Bryn did a fast, alarmed check of the room: no sign of Annie hiding in the closet with a butcher knife or lurking in the bathroom or under the bed.

  Pat.

  Bryn dashed back in her room, grabbed the handgun she kept in the nightstand, and raced out again. That got Mr. French up and running at her heels; he seemed to think it was a fun chase game meant just for him, and he almost tripped her up as she took the steps at a terrifying pace…

  And almost ran straight into Patrick as he rounded the corner at the bottom. He took a step back, and she did, too, almost knocking herself over as her heels encountered the stair riser. Pat’s gaze fell to the gun in her hand. “What’s wrong?”

  “I thought you—” Bryn took a deep breath and didn’t try to holster the gun. “Annie’s not in her bed.”

  “I let her loose,” Patrick said. “And before you tell me I’m taking a risk, I tested her before I released her completely. She’s doing fine, and Liam’s keeping a sharp eye on her. I don’t think she’s liable to come after me at the table with a butter knife, but if she does, I assume you’ll…shoot.”

  Relief made her weak at the knees for an instant, and then she felt her cheeks burn a little. Maddening, because she hadn’t overreacted…not considering the circumstances.

  “I watched the videos,” he said. That surprised her, and she realized with a shock that in the heat of dealing with Annie she hadn’t even thought about the videos. “Two theories come to mind. First, someone is conducting a cleanup, officially sanctioned or not.”

  “Which would explain why Graydon was on the list of vendors for Pharmadene after the turnover in management.”

  “Or someone is abducting the Revived to find out exactly how they’re still alive. Testing them.”

  Bryn hadn’t actually considered that. She’d been so focused on the method of their death that it hadn’t dawned on her to think about what might have happened before…but it was possible. More than possible. Someone could have gotten wind of the existence, or possibility, of a drug-based immortality; someone could have taken the logical step to find a person who was living proof and start experiments.

  Which meant that when she’d seen Jason on the gurney being shot in the head and loaded into the furnace…that hadn’t been the beginning of his suffering.

  That might have been a merciful end.

  Her brain raced ahead of her, imagining all the horrifying things that could be done to a body that wouldn’t, and couldn’t, die.…It made vivisection look sane and humane, and she tried to close the door on her imagination, shut it off.

  She’d go crazy if she spent much time in that dark, dark place.

  “It could be something else,” Patrick said. He’d read her expression; she could tell from the sudden softness of his voice. “Something we haven’t considered yet. Let’s keep from rushing to judgment, Bryn. This is going to take a little time.”

  “Time to what?” she said. “Track down two anonymous men in ski masks who are trying to abduct me?”

  “No,” he replied very calmly. “Trap two anonymous men in ski masks.”

  Oh.

  Chapter 11

  Dinner seemed fine, although Bryn couldn’t have said what it was exactly that she ate.…Chicken, she thought, with vegetables, all perfectly normal. Annalie, although pale and still nervous, was making an effort; she was all tinsel-bright smiles and eyes that were just a bit too wide, gestures too fast. Bryn watched her, waiting for any strange lapses, but she saw nothing but her sister, amped up a little too high. Liam didn’t seem to be paying attention, but she knew he was; he was well within striking distance of Annie’s fork, should she choose to go completely wrong, but her sister’s Protocol order hadn’t included the butler, just Patrick. And, of course, Bryn.

  They were just finishing the dessert—a silky butterscotch pudding that was the first thing that actually made an impact on Bryn’s senses—when a tone sounded from the kitchen. That, she recognized, was the security alert. Liam excused himself, then came back and said, “Patrick, I believe you have guests. Again.”

  “Wasn’t expecting any.”

  “These seem to be in a large vehicle, and they’re wearing police-issue bulletproof vests. I’d guess that your FBI friends may be a bit unhappy.”

  Bryn got up and went to the kitchen, where the surveillance monitors showed—just as described—a large tactical van, black and nondescript, with four men in helmets and flak vests standing around it.

  Liam had forgotten to mention the semiauto rifles they carried. Bryn tried the little joystick on the keyboard, and zoomed in.

  FBI. It said so very clearly on their vests. And walking up in the center of them, also wearing a vest but no helmet, was Special Agent Riley Block.

  She didn’t look at all happy. That was extremely clear in the high-definition look she shot directly at the camera.

  “Open the
gates,” she said through the speaker, “or I’m driving in over them. That would be awkward for you to explain to the neighbors.”

  Not that explaining the presence of an armed tactical team was going to be any piece of cake, if said neighbors were taking a jog around the block, but Bryn shot a look at Patrick, who was standing behind her. He shrugged.

  “Might as well,” he said. “Knowing her, she’ll start using the bullhorn in the next minute.”

  What he didn’t say was that this was an extremely vulnerable moment for them; if either or both of them disappeared into FBI custody, it might well be the last time they saw daylight, depending on what Riley knew, and how angry she was about it. But the alternatives were worse—shooting it out with the feds had never been much of an option.

  Bryn pressed the gate release and disarmed the security system.

  “What’s going on?” Annalie asked from the doorway. She sounded scared. “Is it—is it them?” She meant Jonathan Mercer and Fast Freddy, her captors.

  “No, it’s not,” Patrick said without turning. “Mercer’s not stupid enough to come here. It takes a federal employee for that.”

  “Hey, play nice,” Bryn said. Patrick smiled grimly. “Riley’s probably angry over the fact I lied to her about Graydon. She’ll have heard something else by now. What are we going to tell her?”

  “The truth.”

  “And the video?”

  “We’ll play it for her,” he said. “Because I want to see her face when she gets a good look at what’s going on. If she knows anything about those disappearances, it’s going to be hard for her to hide it. If she doesn’t know…that’s instructive, too.”

  The tactical van was rolling up the drive now, with the five agents riding the running boards. It was, Bryn thought, effective theater straight out of the Prohibition-era playbook. Riley knew perfectly well they weren’t going to walk into a guns-blazing firefight, but she was making a point.

  Loudly.

  Liam headed for the front door, but Bryn cut him off. “No,” she said. “It’s for me.”

  “You want backup?” Patrick asked. She shook her head.

  “Stay with Annie. I’ll see if I can’t make this go away without too much trouble.”

  Patrick took Annie’s arm and led her to the kitchen table, and as Bryn was leaving, he asked, “Do you like hot chocolate?”

  Bryn was sorry to have to go, if it meant missing out on the hot cocoa. But she firmly shut the kitchen door on the other three, and—Mr. French tagging faithfully at her heels—went to the front door and swung it open just before Riley was about to deliver a wood-damaging knock with the blunt end of a very large flashlight.

  Riley glared at her for a few seconds, then turned to her tactical team, waiting just behind her with weapons still hot. “Stand down,” she ordered, and arched an eyebrow at Bryn. “Unless you want to do it the hard way?”

  Bryn silently stood aside to let her in. The team commander followed her inside and gestured for his other men to remain where they were. Well, Bryn thought, at least we don’t have to worry about my friends in the ski masks sneaking up on us just now.

  What she did have to worry about was the boiling fury kept barely under the surface in the FBI agent’s body language.

  “I suppose offering you coffee would be out of the question,” Bryn said, and got nothing, just a flat stare as she closed the door. “Okay. Shoot. Metaphorically.”

  “You lied to me,” Riley said, and every word was individually sharpened and polished to a high sheen, and flung at high speed. “Do you really think your situation is that safe, Ms. Davis? Do you think that because you’re living here, you’re no longer subject to the terms of the agreement you signed? Because lying to me is a very, very bad idea and will have serious, painful consequences, not just for you, but for Mr. McCallister as well, and any of his associates who want to earn themselves an accessory charge.”

  Bryn hesitated for just long enough that it was clear she wasn’t going to be bullied, then said, “Let’s discuss this somewhere more comfortable.” She turned and walked into Patrick’s office/library. After a pause, Riley followed, trailing her somewhat unnecessary bodyguard. He, at least, seemed amused, and, once they were in the library, took up an at-rest stance by the doors as Riley and Bryn crossed to the desk.

  Bryn checked the computer quickly. Patrick had left the thumb drive plugged in, and she quickly copied the files with a fast swipe of her fingertips over the pressure-sensitive trackpad.

  “Davis,” Riley said, and knocked knuckles on the wood of the desk. “Focus. What are you doing, checking Twitter? You lied to me.”

  “About what?”

  “I hope you’re not stupid enough to think I’m kidding, because in about five seconds you’re going to be in handcuffs, on your way to a location so secret that it’ll take even McCallister ten years just to find it on a map.” Riley visibly controlled herself, and then said, in an artificially even voice, “You said you didn’t find anything at Graydon’s offices. That was a lie. Go on, ask me how I know.”

  “Manny Glickman,” Bryn said. “He called and told you. But the question is, did he tell you what it was?”

  “He said you brought it to him, and he refused to have anything to do with it.” Riley sat back, arms crossed, eyes half-hooded but bright with challenge.

  Bryn said, “I need to show you something.” She spun the monitor around and clicked play.

  Riley started to object—she clearly wanted to keep momentum in the meeting—but when the video began, she stopped, frowning, then leaned forward. The frown deepened, and Bryn watched her closely.

  She saw the almost imperceptible flinch as the shots were fired into Jason’s head, and then the gradual dawning of horror as the furnace began doing its grim work. But Riley didn’t ask for it to be turned off. She watched the whole thing, as if it were her sworn duty.

  When it finally ended, Bryn said, “I have two more. They’re the same, except for the identities of the people being put in the furnaces. And from the length of time the screaming goes on, they’re all Revived. Now. Let’s start over. What do you know about this?”

  Riley was silent for a few seconds, then said, “The coveralls the workers were wearing had a logo on them. Was it Graydon doing the dirty work?”

  “Cleaning up,” Bryn confirmed. “Literally. And then they got the same treatment.” She smiled a little, but it wasn’t from humor. “The people in that office died from bullets in the head, then were burned when the bomb went off. I doubt that was any kind of an accident. I think it was done that way to send a message. Was that message meant for you, Riley?”

  The bitter anger in the look she got spoke volumes. “Do you really think I spent the last six months of my life playing grief counselor, nanny, and Mother Teresa to a bunch of spoiled corporate-ladder climbers just to shoot them and shove them in a furnace? No, Bryn. It wasn’t me.”

  “Not even on executive orders?”

  “It may have escaped you, so I’ll spell it out slowly: I work in the FBI. That doesn’t stand for Federal Bureau of Incineration.”

  “Tell that to the employees of Pharmadene that didn’t make it out of the Civic Theatre when it blew up.” Riley shook her head, but Bryn didn’t give her the chance to talk. “You knew, and you let it happen, because it was one of those necessary evils. So is that what’s going on here? Sanctioned murder, and a blind eye by your bosses? Because I swear to God, Riley, I will blow every whistle with every media outlet there is, including the Daily Shopper, if you don’t make it stop!”

  Riley sat back in the leather chair. “If you threaten that kind of thing, you know I have to take you seriously. You don’t want that, Bryn. You really don’t. Because for starters, you disappear into custody. You, your sister, McCallister, Joe, Liam, Manny Glickman, Pansy Taylor, maybe even Joe’s wife and kids. It becomes a roll-up of everyone who has any personal knowledge of your status. Hell, even your staff at the funeral home. All confined to six-
by-six cells. Do not mess with me. I don’t play chicken. I wring necks.”

  The threat wasn’t anything Bryn hadn’t expected, but it still chilled her, because the look in Riley’s eyes was unyielding. She was right; the FBI couldn’t take risks. Her job was to walk a delicate line between the care of the people who were—not by their own choice—addicted to Returné and keeping the secret from getting out. It wasn’t by any stretch easy. And it required a certain level of unflinching, weirdly compassionate cruelty, too.

  Mr. French, lying at Bryn’s feet, sensed the mood in the room getting even darker, and raised his head to stare at Riley. He gave her a low, rumbling growl.

  “These people couldn’t just disappear,” Bryn said. “They reported in daily for shots. If any of them missed two days in a row, the alarm must have sounded. You must have known, Riley.”

  “What I know, and when I knew it, is none of your business.” Riley stood, grabbed the thumb drive from the laptop, and yanked it free. “I won’t ask if you kept copies; of course you did. But I’ll just give you this one warning: stop. Agent Zaragosa asked you to do one thing: visit Graydon and see if it warranted a full investigation. You did. You found a massacre and a mystery. Your job’s over. The rest you leave to us. It’s our job to protect you.”

  “And you’re doing such a great job.”

  “Let me make it very, very clear,” Riley said. “Go back to selling caskets to grieving relatives. Take care of your sister—I understand she’s pretty fragile right now. And let it go. These killings died with Graydon. Understand?”

  “Then who tried to abduct me tonight—Santa Claus?”

  “We’re handling it. And we have the resources to shut them down, so let us do our jobs. Stop playing Harriet the Spy, or your next room with a view looks out on Guantánamo Bay.”

  Riley stood up and stalked for the door, and her tactical team leader opened it for her, then followed her out. There were no good-byes. Bryn made sure they left, sealed the gates, turned on the security, locked the front door, and then went to the kitchen.