“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.”