Two Weeks' Notice (5 page)

So was the kiss McCallister gave her, warm and sweet, before they went into the more formal areas. McCallister headed toward the library, which was his favorite evening spot. Bryn was following when Liam came down the stairs with a telephone in his hand.

Liam insisted he wasn’t a butler, but Bryn couldn’t help
but think of him that way. He was silver-haired, dignified, and even though he didn’t wear butlerish clothes, he definitely had the manners. And the grace. She’d felt clumsy and glaringly out of her league when she’d first come here, but he’d never made her feel anything but welcome.

Tonight, he gave her a smile and said, “I have a phone call for you from someone who doesn’t wish to give a name. Do you want me to decline?”

That call could have been from anyone, but Bryn had a sudden, painful conviction—irrational as it was—that it would be her sister, Annalie. The metallic taste of adrenaline filled her mouth. No one had seen or heard from Annie—or her kidnapper, Mercer—for more than a month; there were no reports coming in through Pat McCallister’s contacts, or through Joe Fideli’s.

They’d simply dropped out of sight.

She needed to know that Annie was all right, so without a word, she held out her hand, and Liam put the phone into it, then walked away to give her privacy. She headed off in a different direction, Mr. French at her heels. “Hello?” Her voice shook a little, more from eagerness than fear.
Annie, please let it be you. Please.
She’d let her sister down in a huge and awful way; she’d allowed Annalie to come into her life knowing things were dangerous. She’d done it because, in the aftermath of her death and Revival, she’d been feeling so alone, so vulnerable. It was Annie who’d paid the price for that.

Annie, too, had joined the ranks of the Revived, against her will. And she now depended on Mercer—the original creator of the drug—and his slimy henchman, Freddy, for daily shots to keep her alive.

Please, Annie, help me find you.

It wasn’t her. In fact, it was a voice Bryn didn’t recognize at all. “Bryn Davis?” A man’s voice, medium register, not much of an accent she could detect.

“Yes.”

“I—I’m sorry for calling out of the blue, but I was given your name by a friend. A Pharmadene employee. Like me. Her name is Chandra.”

She turned her back to the doorway, unconsciously shielding the phone from any accidental eavesdropping by Liam or Patrick. “I’m listening.”

“My friend said you run a kind of…counseling service. Support group.” The man pulled in a deep breath, then let it out again. “For those of us who are, you know…addicts.”

“You mean, you need your hit every day or you get very sick?”

“Yes.”

“Uh-huh.” There was a desk in the corner of the room, largely ornamental, but it held some writing paper and a pen, and Bryn quickly jotted down the number on the caller ID and said, “Do you want to meet somewhere and talk things over?”

“Yes.” He sounded relieved. “Yes, I need to talk. Please.”

“Anyplace you feel comfortable that you can get to tomorrow?”

He named a coffee shop she knew, and she wrote it down. “I’ll be reading a book,” he said. “Stephen Hawking,
A Brief History of Time
.”

“What’s your first name?”

“Carl,” he said. “Carl—”

“I don’t need your last name, Carl. That’s fine. How about ten a.m.?”

“Fine. Thanks. I just need—I need to deal with this, and I haven’t been doing a real good job lately. It’s my family. My wife. It just seems…”

“Overwhelming,” she said. “I know. It gets better when you talk to someone else who can really understand.”

Carl was one of those the government had saved, and kept saving, every day that they provided him with a shot. He probably had the same question Bryn did: how long would that last?
Not long,
Bryn thought. She wouldn’t tell him that, but she knew the ruthless truth: the government didn’t need these people, other than a key few; they were just excess baggage, and sooner or later, they’d get dumped as the stockpiled supplies of Returné dried up.

These were victims,
innocent
victims—Pharmadene employees who’d been designated as mission-critical. They’d been “converted”—corporate-speak for killed, then Revived. And now the government was stuck with a bunch of people they couldn’t allow to run around loose and unsupervised because of their undead status…but there were too many to simply, conveniently disappear.

Bryn didn’t fool herself into thinking there was any genuine moral or ethical dilemma involved. Just expedience, risk, and reward.

Word was starting to get out, and Carl wasn’t the first Pharmadene employee to cold-call, looking for answers. Bryn didn’t know how many Revived were out there under the government’s control, and Riley Block wasn’t going to tell her…but this, in a small way, was making a difference.

Though absolutely
nobody
wanted her to do it. Particularly not Pat McCallister. He thought there were risks—and he was right. She just couldn’t
not
do it.…She felt responsible, somehow, to all these luckless bastards who had (like her) never asked for this sinister gift of pseudolife, who had to live a lie now.

Her lies, at least, were less personal.

She finished the call and hung up, and turned to find—no surprise—that Pat was standing there silently watching her. She shook her head. “Don’t start.”

“I won’t,” he said, but she could tell by the stillness in him that he wanted to. “Come on. Dinner. Liam won’t be happy if you let his beef Wellington get cold.”

It was so odd that she lived in a house where
beef Wellington
was what was for dinner. And it wasn’t even that exceptional.

“I need to change,” she said, and kissed him quickly on the way out the door. “Be down in a minute.”

Her room still didn’t feel like
hers
, exactly, although all her stuff was here, or as much as she’d wanted to bring with her.…She hadn’t wanted the old, cheap pressboard dresser, the secondhand couch or bed, but she’d brought the old armchair she’d always preferred, and her pictures, mementos, books, music, and movies were all neatly ordered on shelves. The room had come with a television, a vast flat-screen thing that probably also made coffee, as high tech as it was, and she was a little scared of it. It had its own curtains to conceal it, so as not to upset the soothing autumnal glory of the furniture and fabrics; they wouldn’t have been out of place a hundred years ago, in this very house.

Her clothes were not great, but they were better than they had been, mainly because she had some grasp now of how to dress for her job. She’d come straight out of the military to her first funeral home job, and wearing a uniform hadn’t prepared her for the challenge of buying suits. She’d gotten some advice from Lucy, the funeral home’s formidable administrator, who’d surely trained with some kind of fashion-related Zen master.

Bryn stripped off her doggy-mudded jeans and shirt and put on what was casual evening dress here in the mansion—a dress, which was a little sexy, like for a first date at an upscale restaurant. She added a necklace that she’d been given by her mom years ago, and then picked
up the nice watch that Annie had given her as her “first job” present.

I wish
…

Bryn stopped the thought, held the watch in her hand for a moment, and then put it on with sure, quick snaps of her fingers.

I’ll find you,
she promised the absent ghost of her sister.
I will. I swear.

But she had nowhere to look, and nothing to go on. If her sister was still out there, still alive, still
waiting
, Bryn was letting her down with every moment she didn’t find her. Worse, she was letting down her whole family, who didn’t even know Annie was in trouble.

After a deep breath, Bryn went downstairs for a dinner for which she had, suddenly, very little appetite.

Chapter 3

B
ryn had never liked mornings, but she’d usually been an early riser anyway—life in the army did that to you, accustomed you to being out of bed before dawn whether you wanted to be or not. She woke in the predawn light, comfortable and warm, with Mr. French snuggled against her legs on top of the covers. His chin was on her hip, and he was snoring like a little old man and twitching as he dreamed. The room was cool, dim, and soothing, but for a moment it felt…
wrong
. Early mornings sometimes brought her doubts out of the depths and up to breach the surface.
What am I doing here? I don’t belong here, in this house.

Her apartment—cheap and crappy as it had been—had been her own space, but she’d started worrying about not her own safety there, but that of her neighbors. Innocent people, families, who had no knowledge of the kind of knife’s edge on which she lived. She’d woken up with every noise, every car engine, wondering if the government was coming to make her disappear, or worse, if someone else had decided to grab her, experiment on her.…The paranoia (justified or not) had driven her half nuts.

Patrick McCallister had made the offer to give her a room at his mansion—a protected space, safe, controlled, where she endangered no one who didn’t know the score. She hadn’t been able to bring herself to take that last step with him yet, and they weren’t lovers, but she knew she could trust him. And she knew that she
wanted
to be with him.

But in the mornings, she still wondered whether she’d sacrificed her independence for security.

Then again,
she thought, and yawned,
the apartment complex didn’t set out a full breakfast, and have coffee going by the time I got up.
Which Liam did, every morning. He was an even earlier riser than she was, and he seemed to feel that it was his sacred duty to be sure she had fuel before starting her day.
Screw independence. Who doesn’t get used to that?

She didn’t, apparently. She still felt like a guest here; regardless of what Patrick did, or what Liam would excuse, she didn’t feel that she could roll out of bed in her bathrobe and shuffle down to breakfast. No, she had to get up, shower, fix her hair, do her makeup, dress, and
then
go down. And she was self-conscious about it. Every day, she had the argument with herself about moving out, finding her own space, but every day, the larger part of her wanted to stay.

And truthfully, it was because of Patrick. They hadn’t slept together, but they’d had some fantastic everything-but-skin sessions; she didn’t feel like either of them was reluctant to take the next step, but she did feel that they were both…cautious. And careful not to push. He was waiting on her, and she was waiting on him, and that made for an interestingly frustrating relationship, because fairly soon, one of them was just going to seize the moment.

She couldn’t help but think about that. A lot. And she imagined that he did, too.

Down, girl. Time to get up and focus.
She had a meeting at Pharmadene today, which she dreaded. And she had to meet with Carl, the Returné-addicted Pharmadene employee, and try to give him a little help and perspective. If she liked his vibe, she’d invite him to the evening group meetings they had once a week…a support group, but even though they jokingly called it Dead Persons Anonymous, it was more about reaffirming their humanity than talking about the inevitable. If he was ready for it, it might be a place for him to turn to release that inner stress and panic that had been building up. The others claimed it helped.

Bryn just liked being reassured that she wasn’t the only one facing this weird, uncertain future.

Bryn moved Mr. French off her (he grunted, snuffled, and rolled over without waking up) and turned the lights on. Getting ready was mechanical routine, and she didn’t do a lot of thinking while that was going on…brain on idle until the checklist was done. Makeup slowed her down a little, because she was still relearning the tricks she’d ignored as a teen and never mastered in the military, but she was ready for breakfast in a record thirty-five minutes, even so.

Downstairs, Liam was laying out the chafing dishes in the small dining room. He had all her favorites ready—bacon, low-cholesterol eggs, bagels with cream cheese, orange juice, and, best of all, free-flowing coffee. She didn’t know what Liam made his coffee with, but it had to be magical sparkles and crack beans, because it was the most delicious stuff she’d ever tasted. She was on her third cup when he sat down with his own breakfast.

“Nice to see you this morning,” he said, and took a sip. He liked his coffee black, and she’d never seen him eat anything at breakfast except the occasional soft-boiled
egg. Although he never wore what she would have described as butler clothes, he was definitely well dressed at all times. Even now, he was rocking a petting-soft sweater vest that matched his steel blue eyes and graying hair. “Is there anything else you need this morning?”

“No, and if I do, I’ll get it,” she replied, and flashed him a smile. “I know where the kitchen is.”

“Horrors,” he said drily. “Next you’ll be wanting to do your own laundry.”

“I already do my own laundry.”

“Appalling.”

“Good.”

Liam tapped delicately at the shell of his egg and removed the pieces. “May I ask what your schedule is today?”

“Only if I can ask yours.”

“Then let me phrase it another way: do you expect to be home for dinner at seven?”

“As far as I know,” she said. “I’ll call if I have to change plans.”

“That would be helpful. You
are
being careful, are you not?” Liam knew everything about her current not-dead status; Patrick had seen to that, on the excuse that Liam knew everything anyway that went on under this roof. She still wasn’t entirely comfortable with that, but the horses were well out of the barn on that one.

“I’m taking my medicine on time,” she said. “Thanks, Mom. And I promise not to pet stray dogs or talk to strangers with candy, too.”

Liam sent her a quelling look for that particular snarkiness. “I mean it sincerely,” he said. “I sometimes worry you don’t take enough care of yourself.”