“Not yet. But I will, no doubt about it.” He glanced down. “Time.” He tapped the top of the pyramid, and it went back to a lifeless black plastic object. He waved silently at the two of them, shooing them to leave. McCallister nodded, opened the door, and ushered Bryn back out into the hallway. As they left the empty office behind, it was like the whole thing had never even happened.
“You have a full understanding of your position with us, Bryn?” McCallister asked, back to the poised, confident corporate exec. She had no choice but to nod. “Excellent. If you have any questions, my number’s programmed into your cell phone, as is Joe’s. If we need to meet, you can call me and ask me out on a date.”
“Excuse me?”
“Was that unclear? Ask me to coffee. Or dinner. Whatever seems convenient. Simply to ensure you’re maintaining your cover in the field.”
“You are unbelievable.”
There went that tiny little smile again, tight and controlled, meaning nothing. “I do date, Bryn. Occasionally.”
She bet he did it on a schedule. 1900 to 2100 hours, dinner. 2100 to 2115, drive the girl home. 2115 to 2130, sex. 2135, shower, kiss good-bye. 2140, drive home.
“I don’t date jackasses,” she said. “Just so we’re clear.”
If she’d expected to hurt his feelings, she was disappointed. “You express yourself with great clarity,” he said, as if it couldn’t have mattered less to him. They were back at his office again, and he opened the door and went inside. When she tried to follow, he held out his hand to stop her at the door. “Your escort will be with you in a moment.”
“What about the, uh, Code Red?”
She was already talking to the wood, which had closed decisively in her face.
She needn’t have worried. By the time she’d finished the sentence, there was someone at her elbow wearing a green badge and a Pharmadene blazer, mutely inviting her to proceed toward the elevator, please.
“Jackass,” she muttered to the door, and followed orders. She had the feeling there were going to be a lot of orders to come, and she wasn’t going to enjoy it.
At all.
With nothing better to do than wait for the construction, Bryn went back to her apartment. It felt very strange pulling the big, shiny Town Car into a slot in the very working-class parking area; she felt like a total fraud. Her neighbors would be gossiping like mad, dying to know how she’d come into such a windfall. She’d have to get her story together.
Right. Rich dead uncle, inherited the business, blah, blah.
Bryn climbed the stairs to the second floor and unlocked the door, not even thinking about any of it; she was focused instead on the heavy weight of the box in her arms that McCallister had given her. Have to get a holster for this sucker, she thought. Having a heavy handgun like this rattling around in her purse or stuck in her waistband, gangsta style, wasn’t going to cut it.
She hip-bumped the door closed and reached for the light switch, then hesitated, because her instincts suddenly woke up and screamed. She didn’t know why for a second, and then she heard the subtle whisper of breathing in the dark.
Oh, God. Fast Freddy. He’s here!
No time to get the box open and the gun ready for use.
Bryn dropped her purse to the floor, flipped the light switch, and swung the heavy box in a short, powerful arc that connected perfectly with—
Nothing.
It didn’t connect at all, because the breathing wasn’t human, and there was no head in the way. Her bulldog, Mr. French, looked up at her with sleepy, disappointed brown eyes, snorted, and shook himself in a ripple of loose skin and fur. He turned around three times and plopped down on the floor next to his empty food bowl.
“Holy crap, dog, you scared the hell out of me!” Bryn gasped, and staggered over to the small card table she had in place of a dining room set. She put the box on it, retrieved her purse, and clicked the dead bolts firmly shut before coming back to glare at Mr. French. He snorted again. “So this is how it is, huh? You lurk in the dark and creep me out, and expect to be fed? Is that it?”
He put his head in his bowl and gave her the melting puppy-dog eyes. Bryn groaned and gave up. She kicked off her shoes and opened the pantry, pulling out the sealed bin of dog food; Mr. French obligingly and politely moved out of the bowl for her to pour, then sniffed the food. He always did that, as if he were in doubt about its quality, but this time, again, it passed doggy muster, and he began digging in with sharp little crunches. She refilled his water bowl, too, and checked the papers in the corner of the apartment. No messes. Mr. French had his standards about that, but now that he’d supped a bit, he looked up and her and wiggled his butt to let her know he was ready. She sighed and reached for the leash, and he padded over with great dignity to be harnessed for the trip outside.
Once his business was finished, it was back to the food bowl for more. Bryn watched him eat, mindlessly soothed by his happiness. Food consumed, Mr. French waddled over and jumped up in her lap, where he leaned against her, a solid little weight of muscle and fur. She petted him and scratched where he liked it and talked to him about nothing in particular, until suddenly tears were streaming down her cheeks and Mr. French was staring up at her with concern on his old-man face and trying to lick the sadness away. She hugged him. He had dog-food breath, and he needed a bath, but it was good, so good, to have someone love her right now.
“I’m sorry, baby,” she said, and kissed him on the top of his furry head. “Was your day better than mine?”
Mr. French barked, just once. He knew when she asked him a question, and although his reasoning skills were a little suspect, she had the feeling that on this one, he’d almost certainly agree.
It felt so good to be home, with her clothes in the closet and her robe hanging on the hook in the bathroom. The shower felt great, and as the hot water beat down on her head, Bryn Davis, dead girl, sat down in the tub and let it carry away all the tears, the sweat, the fear, and the anger. And if she cried a little more, it didn’t bother Mr. French, who did sentry duty curled up on the bath mat until she shut off the water, dried off, and got into her robe. Then he padded his way into the bedroom and hopped up on the unmade bed.
Routines. She’d come so close to never making it back here to this, to the dog, to her life. Maybe it wasn’t much; maybe in Patrick McCallister’s terms this didn’t constitute a useful existence, but she liked it. Her apartment was spare, but nice; she had what she needed, and a few things she wanted.
“But everything’s changed,” she told Mr. French as he curled up on the bed beside her. Her hair was still damp, and she fluffed it as she leaned back against the stacked pillows. “I’m not the same as I was. You know?”
He huffed a little, which she interpreted to mean, Oh, well, nothing stays the same. And as always, the dog was right.
Bryn rested for a while, then checked the clock. It was seven p.m., and the voice on the message had said to meet at nine. The only question was, where?
Time to go back to Fairview and find out.
She blow-dried her hair and dressed in dark jeans and a black sweatshirt, tied her hair back in a ponytail, and rooted around for her most comfortable running shoes. As she strapped them on, Mr. French watched with troubled interest. He whined softly as she stood.
“No, you can’t go,” she said, and patted him on the head. “Tell you what: we’ll go for a run in the morning, okay? You stand guard here.”
He licked his chops and sat down next to the bed, and she felt a surge of love for this one relationship in her life that wasn’t even a little bit complicated.
Then she went to perform some crime.