The Reburialists

by J. C. Nelson

  My cheeks heated up, and I stammered a protest.

  “So how did you and Brynner meet?”

  At those words, his head lolled over in my direction, his eyes pleading with me. The legendary Brynner Carson didn’t look so impressive now.

  “A briefing. We met at a field briefing. The first time I’d ever seen him up close.”

  Brynner let out a sigh, relaxing back.

  “Not the first time I’d ever heard of him, of course.”

  Brynner’s eyes fluttered open, and his gaze locked on me.

  Emelia shook her head. “I’ll bet not. What do you think now that you know him?”

  I wanted to relish this moment, but fear wasn’t an emotion I enjoyed, my own, or others. I spoke with care, choosing each word. “I think I don’t know the real Brynner Carson. I think I’ve heard what people think. Maybe what he wants people to think.”

  Emelia rewarded me with a smile and a nod. “And how’s he been sleeping?”

  “Sleeping?” I couldn’t stop my mouth from falling open. Or the surprise or shock on my face. “I can’t really say. We’ve only been together a short while.” Whether I counted it by hours on the plane or days since I took the assignment, it was true.

  Aunt Emelia put a hand on her chin and waited for me to say more, but I’d said enough already. “Well, we’ll ask him later when he’s feeling more talkative. Let me go wash up, and I’ll make some dinner. My husband will be home soon and eager to see you both.”

  By dinnertime, an hour and a half later, I’d grown used to Emelia. Her open and warm nature made it hard for me to distrust her, even though I’d had plenty of practice. The two times I broached the subject of Heinrich’s journals, her oneword answers made it clear this was not the time.

  So I busied myself in the kitchen, cutting salad, until the sound of a distant garage door opener announced someone arriving.

  After a moment, a stout man in his sixties bustled into the kitchen. Tall, with wide shoulders and a protruding belly, he walked right past me to squeeze Emelia in a bear hug. His black polyester suit looked like something from the eighties.

  Then he turned and looked at me, tipping his head. “Ma’am.”

  “Grace Roberts, sir.” I dried my hands and offered him a handshake.

  He looked me over from head to toe like a horse trader making an appraisal. “You’re too pretty for our boy. You come here with him on purpose?”

  “Hush,” said Emelia, smacking him in the chest. “Go set the table. And check on Brynner; he’s been dozing.” After he ambled out, she looked at me. “I’m sorry. Bran has a habit of speaking his mind.”

  “He called me pretty. I think I’ll let him live.”

  Bran called from the living room, his voice dark with worry. “Emmy, the boy’s doing it again.”

  Emelia turned off the stove and ran to the living room with me at her heels. Brynner thrashed back and forth, caught in a nightmare. His lips moved, but no sound came out.

  “Aren’t you going to wake him up?”

  Emelia nudged me. “He might take it better from you.”

  “I don’t get paid—” I clamped my mouth closed, reminding myself that I did. Field grade, field operative pay. Kneeling by the recliner, I put one hand on his arm. His skin radiated heat, making my fingertips tingle. “Brynner, wake up. Come on, wake up.”

  He didn’t move.

  I shook him, and his head lolled. He was whispering words through gritted teeth.

  With my other hand, I reached out, cupping his jawline. “Brynner.” His beard stubble scratched my hand, his skin almost fever hot. “Brynner, wake up.”

  Brynner’s eyes shot open, wild, feral. He lunged at me.

  Eight

  BRYNNER

  The dream unfolded the same as before. Mom, her face slack with horror and realization. The blood running from her chest where a spear protruded. Her gaze locked on the silver jar in her hands as the air before me shimmered.

  She tossed it, her blood-flecked lips mouthing words without voice. “Brynner.”

  I moved to go after her, but in the dream, like my memory, my legs weighed two tons each, and my arms wouldn’t move. The monsters looming behind her watched the Canopic jar sail through the air. Into my hands.

  “Brynner, wake up.” Fueled by guilt, I hurled myself toward the fading image, forcing my arms to reach for her—

  And off the couch, onto a hardwood floor. Sweat covered me. My limbs shook.

  “Get off me.” Grace Roberts’s voice squeaked the words.

  She lay pinned beneath me, gasping for breath. A few feet away, my aunt and uncle watched, not even trying to hide their amusement. I pushed myself off Grace, ignoring the pain in my chest. The embarrassment hurt more. I wanted to make an impression on Grace, not a belt-buckle-shaped bruise.

  Grace struggled to disentangle herself, then scrambled away, a mixture of fear and concern on her face.

  What did I say? What did she hear? I rose to my knees, woozy from whatever Aunt Emelia had given me. And afraid. Fear was normal. A constant in my life.

  “Son.” Bran Homer, the man who raised me from the day I turned nine until I ran away. He offered me a hand up and over to the dinner table.

  I’d eaten more relaxing dinners in the morgue, waiting for bodies to get checked in. Still, it wasn’t my fault. You try having dinner with a family you haven’t seen in ten years and see how much eating you get done. I forked my chicken, pushing it around my plate, until the silence grew so heavy I couldn’t stand it anymore.

  “Tomorrow, I want to look at some of Dad’s things.” I glanced to Emelia, knowing it was more her call than Bran’s.

  Emelia nodded, as though I’d just said I was going fishing. “Of course. Grace tells me she’s going to translate them for you.”

  Grace said what? I bit my lip until it hurt, then forced another tack. “You did good work on the stitches. Feels better.”

  Bran took another chicken breast and tore into it. “You’ll be going down to the clinic tomorrow with your aunt.”

  “But I need to be here with—”

  Aunt Emelia shot me a warning glance, telling me I’d be better off picking a fight with a rattlesnake. The snake would give in sooner.

  Grace offered a conciliatory smile to the both of us. “I’ll be okay on my own. I’m a big girl.” About then, my mind finally registered that Grace had changed clothes. Not that she didn’t look stunning in a gray suit with co-org blood spattered on it.

  Just that she seemed to be rocking the eighties, with her hair in a ponytail and a button-down blouse she couldn’t button all the way up. And no bra? I clamped my eyes on my plate, hoping she hadn’t noticed me noticing her.

  Grace set down her drink. “Ms. Homer—”

  “Girl, what did I say? It’s Emelia. Or Aunt Emelia, please, sugar.”

  Grace nodded. “Aunt Emelia, is there a drugstore in town? I need to stop off for a few things on my way to the motel.”

  “Motel?” asked my uncle, like she’d just said “Brothel.” Which, given what the Big 8 motel was most often used for, made sense. “You don’t want to stay there.”

  Aunt Emelia pushed away from the table. “I’ll go make up the bed for you in Brynner’s room.”

  Grace spewed tea back into her cup, letting it dribble down her chin. At least it didn’t come out her nose.

  I stood up to pat her on the back until she held up a hand. “Thank you, Aunt Emelia, but BSI rules say it’s not a business trip if at least one of us doesn’t stay in the motel.”

  “That’s right,” said Grace. “Rules are rules. I’ll be back in the morning before you know it.”

  Bran didn’t bother hiding his distaste, wrinkling up his nose like I’d stepped in something in the yard, but he kept his opinions to himself. “The boy will show you the way out there later. If you insist.” He pointed to the key rack on the bar. “Son, the Black Beast is yours.”

  Driving Grace around in that would be a lethal blo
w to my pride. A coat of black house paint, cracked vinyl cushions, and worst of all, no backseat made it definitely not my kind of vehicle. “I’m not taking her anywhere in it.”

  “Then you’ll walk.” That same infuriating patience he used every time I blew up at him as a teen came back. “Now, let’s pray.”

  Aunt Emelia brought out the prayer bells, lit the incense, and offered Grace a bell. “Honey, something wrong?”

  “No.” She squirmed, as if the incense might burn her. “I— I don’t do prayer bells.”

  “It’s okay, sugar.” Aunt Emelia blew out the incense. “Are you Jewish? We can throw open the door for Elijah, if you want. Bran can say mass in Latin. We’re flexible.”

  “I don’t actually do religion.”

  I counted twenty heartbeats before Bran spoke. “But you’re a field op.”

  Grace folded her hands together, speaking with slow patience. “I’m a translator on field assignment.”

  “So you don’t actually believe in anything?” My uncle raised both eyebrows and squinted at Grace.

  And like a soldier marching to a massacre, Grace answered. “Yes. I believe in science. In math. In chemistry. I believe in understanding the world rather than making up stories to explain how it works.”

  Aunt Emelia almost dropped the tea pitcher.

  “No,” said Grace. “I don’t believe in a sky wizard who makes up rules against pork. I don’t believe in a devil who wants me to sacrifice goats. And if a Jewish carpenter crawls out of his grave, Brynner will probably put him back in it.”

  Emelia leaned across the table toward Grace, as if she could force her to understand. “You have to believe in something. You have to.”

  “I believe I’m hungry,” said Grace. “Could you please pass the mashed potatoes?”

  Food was practically my aunt’s first religion, and every dish she served got baptized in gravy she made from bacon grease. She handed the bowl to Grace, her lips drawn into a frown that said she hadn’t given up yet.

  After the most awkward meal of my life, I volunteered to do dishes by myself. I polished every plate and cup until it sparkled, in an attempt to give Grace and Aunt Emelia the time they needed to air their differences.

  Only when the arguing died down did I grab the key ring of the Black Beast. In the living room, Grace wore a peaceful expression, while Aunt Emelia wrung her hands.

  Aunt Emelia fidgeted as I came in, then looked back to Grace. “I just think a little religion might make you feel a lot better.”

  “I really appreciate the concern, and I know you are trying to help, but I feel fine. I’m fine.” Grace looked like I felt every time I said I was fine.

  I held up the keys. “It’s getting late, and Grace and I have to work tomorrow. We should probably get her settled in at the motel.”

  Emelia sighed and crossed her arms. “We’ll talk tomorrow.”

  Grace followed me out into the chill New Mexico night. I stopped by the Black Beast, a Ford pickup manufactured sometime before Abraham Lincoln, or possibly before Father Abraham himself. “It’s not far to the highway. The Big 8 isn’t high-class, but it’s low-cost, and last time I was in town, the ice machine still worked.”

  “I’m good almost anywhere.” Grace ran one hand along her hair self-consciously. “About that drugstore.” She walked toward the rental car.

  “Orting’s. It’s on Main. We’ll drive over to it first.” For just a moment, it felt like a normal conversation. The kind I’d have with any woman. If I talked with women. I never remembered the mindless conversations in the evenings, and the morning after was often embarrassing.

  By every right, the evening had disaster marked on it. Aunt Emelia drugging me. Grace knowing about the nightmares. Aunt Emelia and Grace arguing about religion.

  But what worried me most was how easily I’d returned to this world, this life.

  It felt almost normal.

  GRACE

  I can do this.

  I could do anything for field pay, I told myself. Even tolerate Aunt Emelia’s attempts to inject gods I neither knew nor needed into my life. When I agreed to come, I’d thought putting up with the legendary Brynner Carson would occupy all my patience. Thing was, I couldn’t tell if the legends about Brynner were myth or mistake. Here, he was just Brynner. Or “boy.”

  And his family, their fierce loyalty and drive to protect one another made me jealous in so many ways. I followed Brynner in our rental car, all the way to the drugstore. I’d forgotten smalltown life, where everyone knew everyone. The attendant took one look at me, realized I was a stranger, and gave me a suspicious glare. But then Brynner walked in behind me.

  She took one look at him, and her face lit up. Forgetting me, she rushed over to shake his hand, asking to see his BSI badge, wanting his autograph. Wondering if he remembered her. He smiled and nodded. “Tamara, right? You went to Benton, a few classes behind me.”

  Her eyes widened, and she pulled her mouth into an expression that said she was either happy or hungry. The way her eyes darted back and forth, the nervous tremble in her fingers as she tapped the counter, even I could tell.

  He’d done it again. With that easy personality, projecting trust and confidence, I had no doubt the other rumors I’d heard about him were equally true. How he never slept alone, regardless of where he was.

  Once I’d gathered a few basic toiletries, a cheap T-shirt labeled “Bentonville,” and a pair of sweatpants closer to my size, I checked out, while Brynner waited for me by his truck.

  “Do you work with him?” asked Tamara.

  “Yes.”

  She looked out the window. I could’ve handed her my yogurt punch card instead of the BSI credit card. “What’s he like?” I took my bag once she’d rung it up. “You tell me.” Outside, Brynner leaned against the grill, his gray BSI jacket zipped all the way up. “You look tired. We’ll have you set up in fifteen minutes.”

  “Your drugstore sells clothes and power tools.”

  “And ice cream. Don’t forget the souvenirs for people who accidentally get off the interstate. Welcome to small-town life.”

  “Speaking of not forgetting, you have an amazing memory. And a fan.” I glanced over my shoulder, to where the drugstore attendant stood, a dust cloth in hand. She held it to the window and stared at us.

  Brynner looked down. “I have no idea who she is.”

  “Butyou—”

  “Her name tag said ‘Tamara.’ Benton’s the only school for twenty miles, and she’s way too young for me.”

  The ease with which he lied frightened me, as did how calmly he admitted to it. “I wasn’t aware there was a woman who wasn’t your type.”

  Brynner looked old with experience, if not years. “I don’t— Never mind. Follow me.” He got back in the truck, waving to the lone police car sitting in the square as we pulled out of town.

  The biggest thing about the Big 8 motel was the sign. Not the rooms, of which there were exactly eight, or the ice maker sitting outside, which was just a freezer with ice cube trays in it. A lone soda machine sat beneath flickering fluorescent lights, while moths danced overhead.

  Brynner got out ahead of me, headed into the office. By the time I made it out of the car, he and the owner were laughing and joking.

  When I stepped inside, the owner took his hat off and offered me his hand. “Welcome, ma’am. Pleasure to have you at the Big 8.”

  He glanced over to Brynner. “How many hours you need it for?”

  Hours?

  “Grace is spending the night,” he sputtered. “I’m not. She’ll need the weekly rate.” Brynner’s face turned deep red in the cheeks, flushing clean to his chest.

  A look of recognition lit up the owner. “Right. Room number eight is clean and ready.”

  Brynner spoke before I could. “No. Put her in one. Eight has two side windows anything could crawl through, and I don’t like her having to walk all the way down there.”

  The owner shook his head. “One’s o
ccupied till ten thirty. I could have it ready by eleven, eleven thirty if you want me to wash the sheets.”

  “Number eight is fine,” I said, taking the key. “I can walk myself all the way there. Good night.” I clopped out the door and down the broken concrete walkway until I came to room eight. The key turned easily, and despite my fears, nothing furry scurried across the floor when I turned the light on.

  The tired burgundy carpet didn’t have stains as much as the stains had tired burgundy carpet. I flounced on the bed and immediately rolled to the center, sagging into a mattress with a taco-shaped indentation in the middle. Field pay, I reminded myself over and over. I thought about calling the care center, but I’d been gone only one day. Not even one day.

  Tomorrow, I’d earn my money and make sure if similar opportunities came up, Director Bismuth would call me first.

  Outside, Brynner’s truck roared to life, and headlights flashed in the window as he backed up. Tires crunched through the parking lot gravel, and then aging brakes whined. A door opened, followed by bootsteps to my door.

  Would he really dare knock on my door? What exactly would he expect?

  After a moment, the boots retreated, the truck door slammed, and Brynner roared off into the night. My heart slowed, until the throbbing in my ears subsided, replaced by confusion. So I did the best thing I could, crawling into bed determined that the next day would go better. Smoother. Right.

  I woke only once, disappointed but not surprised to find that the motel room had rats. Outside my window, something small scratched back and forth, gnawing something. I threw a shoe at the wall, and it skittered away. That’s the last thing I knew until dawn.

  Nine

  GRACE

  Dawn came early in western New Mexico. Without mountains to hide the sun, it split the plains like a giant, fusion-powered alarm clock. After a shower with depressingly little hot water, I changed into the “Bentonville” T-shirt I bought and the spare clothes Aunt Emelia lent me.

  I hung my BSI field badge from my neck, just so folks would know I wasn’t some floozy. I was here on official business. When I opened the motel door, the ground beneath my feet crunched. A line of white crystals crossed the door, under the window, and ended in a mound by the brick wall.