Two Weeks' Notice

Bryn picked up the phone, dialed part of Riley’s number, then slowly put the receiver back in the cradle. If Riley didn’t want her to know, there had to be a reason for it—one that Bryn wouldn’t agree with, either. Zaragosa had warned her not to trust her.

An ice-cold chill swept over her, and she stared blindly at her computer screen. What if they’ve had an order to end the project? That would, in fact, explain everything. The contractors, hired to abduct and destroy Returné addicts. Maybe Zaragosa didn’t know. Maybe Riley herself didn’t know. But sooner or later, Bryn had fully expected the government to tire of the expensive job of hiding the truth; this was a neat way to end their problems. Neat for everyone but those going into the incinerator, anyway—especially in a budget-cutting economy.

She couldn’t trust Riley, or Zaragosa, or anyone with government ties. They had to know these three had disappeared, and if there had been an investigation, surely they would have involved Patrick, at least.

Would Patrick have told you?

Yes. Yes, he would have. Bryn had no doubts about that.

Unless he is protecting you, or thinks he is.

God, this was a circular cycle of paranoia.…She could implicate everyone, and no one, but the only real proof she had was seven dead people at Graydon and video of three Revived—like her—burned alive.

Bryn took the thumb drive out of her purse and stared at it for a moment, then slotted it into a USB port. Maybe watching it again, blocking out the horror, she’d gather some little detail, some hint to follow. Tonight, she’d find out if Patrick knew anything.

Tomorrow, she’d go after Riley Block and find out what she knew about it. If it was the government cutting their very substantial losses, then they’d have a fight on their hands. A public and bloody one—the very last thing they wanted. If word of Returné hit the streets, things would go insane. Everyone would want Revival—for themselves, for a loved one. And that was a cycle that never stopped, and would destroy governments, crush economies, and lead to chaos like nothing she could imagine. People were genetically selfish, and they were panicky. A bad combination when something like this was dangled in front of them, a life preserver to the sinking ship of their mortality.

Bryn didn’t want to see that happen, and in truth she’d try her best to keep Pharmadene’s dirty secrets, but the threat was significant enough to force the government’s budget-cutting madmen off their backs.

Hopefully.

She lost track of time staring at the video files; even with the sound muted, the images made her feel trapped, mired in a nightmare. The calm efficiency of the killers was chilling; it said they’d done this, or things like it, so much that it was just another day on the job. That utter lack of empathy reminded her of soldiers at concentration camps and Rwandan butchers chopping up innocents. The human race, alive or Revived, was a terrifying thing.

Bryn flinched when she heard a knock at the door, and slammed the laptop shut on the video. She hastily put it away, pressed her sweating hands on the desk for a moment, and tried to still her racing heart. Wasn’t entirely successful. “Come in,” she said.

It was Gertrude Kleiman. She was a tall woman, with pale hair going imperceptibly gray; she wore it in a teased style that reminded Bryn strongly of her mother’s prom picture from high school. Not a warm person, but a competent one, and she dressed better than Bryn did—old money, the break room gossip said. Not that Bryn listened—much. “You wanted to see me, Miss Davis?”

“Please have a seat,” Bryn said. She’d never had to give anybody a dressing-down outside of her time in the military, and she figured it probably wouldn’t be wise to approach it the same way. “Would you like a glass of water?”

“No, thank you.” Kleiman—even Bryn couldn’t really call her Gertie—sat down primly on the edge of the chair, knees together and at just the correct angle. Not a wrinkle in her expertly tailored suit. She had dark blue eyes, and a very direct gaze. “Ms. Kleiman, I had a report that you’ve been referring to our office administrator in a less- than-appropriate way.”

“Meaning?” Kleiman said without even a blink.

“I believe the phrase was ‘that colored girl up front.’”

Now Kleiman blinked, as if that wasn’t at all what she was expecting. “Excuse me? I don’t understand the problem.”

“The problem is that she’d like you to refer to her by name, not by her skin color. She’s also not a girl; she’s older than I am. I realize that the phrase used to be appropriate years ago, but—”

“I was trying to be polite!” Kleiman said, and, if anything, looked more rigid and cold. “If you’d like me to say what I really think, I think that…that woman is taking great advantage of you. She’s hardly qualified to run something as complex as a business like this.…”

“Actually,” Bryn said, “I’m fairly certain I don’t want to know what you really think, and neither does Lucy. Lucy works for me, not you, and I’m the final judge of her performance in the job, as I am of yours, and it’s your job performance we’re discussing, not Lucy’s. So consider this a warning. If you use inappropriate terms toward any of my staff again, the next time we talk about this will be the last.”

“This is ridiculous! What I said was not in any way offensive!”

“In your opinion,” Bryn said. “And the point of something being offensive is that it was offensive to someone else. We’re done now. Thank you.”

It was a clear dismissal, and Kleiman took it that way. She also slammed the door on the way out, which was damned difficult, since the doors were on hydraulics to make sure they didn’t make a lot of noise. Impressive. Bryn sighed and called Lucy’s desk phone. “Incoming,” she told her. “Kleiman’s on fire. Let me know if she comes after you.”

“She comes for me, she’d better be wearing asbestos,” Lucy said. “Nope, she just passed me by and went to her office.”

“If you have any problems…”

“Come to you, yes, boss. Your four o’clock’s not here yet. I’ll ring you when he comes in.”

“Thanks.”

Bryn looked at the clock, stretched, and decided she was too restless to sit still for twenty minutes. She stood, put on her white lab coat from the closet, and took the back stairs down to the preparation area.

William Nguyen looked up as she came through the frosted glass door and gave her a big, warm smile. “Hey,” he said. “Busy day, eh?” He nodded down at the body lying on the table in front of him.

It was gruesomely damaged, but from the part of the face that hadn’t been mangled, the man was in his fifties, with short-cropped graying hair. There was another body on the second table, covered with a clean white sheet.

“Are these the accident victims?”

“Yeah, it was a nasty one—rear-ended by a drunk driver at a stoplight, pushed their car into a dump truck. The drunk must have been going about a hundred; the car looked like it already went through the cube crusher. This is Mr. Lindell. I’m just doing gross examination right now. I’ll e-mail you the general outline of what it’ll take, but if the son wants open casket, this is going to be a pretty intricate job.”

“Thanks,” Bryn said. “Just let me know as soon as you can. Hey, William…”

“Yeah?” He didn’t look up from his close analysis of Mr. Lindell’s cheekbone. “Damn, this is all splintered in here. Gonna be tough to find good anchor material for the reconstruction.”

“Have you had any problems with Gertrude Kleiman?”

“Nope,” he said. “Except she won’t talk to me.”

“Excuse me?”

“Never says a word. Even when she comes down here, she hands me paperwork, or picks it up, and leaves. If I say hello, she just ignores me. I don’t know. I just figured she was shy.”

“Huh,” Bryn said, which was about as neutral as she could make it. “Okay. Thanks.”

“For what?” He still didn’t take his attention from the dead man in front of him, gently palpating torn tissues.

“Just thanks.” For being cheerfully oblivious, she thought. But the idea that Kleiman was rude to him, too, made her burn. “See you later.”

“Yeah, see ya.” He finger-waved her off, and she went back upstairs, wondering exactly what to do about