Working Stiff
Page 6

“No.” Bryn tried to keep her voice even, her gaze straight. She had the eerie impression that Freddy was one of those men who would go for the slightest sign of weakness. “I’ll be going now.”
“So you didn’t get into the business for the cold ones? Some do, you know. Lucky you, then. I’m nice and warm.” He winked at her, and Bryn wanted to throw up. “Right, it’s drinks, then. We’ll see about what comes after.”
Bryn took a step back as Freddy rounded the end of the embalming table, suddenly aware of everything—the chilly temperature of the room, the deserted mortuary, the fact that the alcohol had led her into what could be a very bad decision. “No. Thanks. Really, I was just … on my way out.”
“Going home to what? A single-serving frozen dinner and a twin bed? You don’t look like a woman with a boyfriend—at least, not a boyfriend who’s keeping you satisfied, and I can always tell. So how about that drink? You can tell me all about how lonely you are.”
Bryn was shaken, not that she’d let him see it. “Take no for an answer, Freddy. You ought to know the word by now. I’m sure you hear it enough.”
“Ouch.” He seemed more amused than hurt. “Look, I don’t really want to be seen in public with you either; you’re not exactly up to my usual standards. So how about a quickie down here? Nobody here but Mr. Granberry; I don’t think he’d mind. I could break out the wine coolers.”
“If you come near me with a wine cooler, I hope you go both ways, because I will shove it up your ass.” Bryn walked for the door, half expecting him to grab her and throw her to the floor, but when she looked back Freddy was still standing there, smiling at her.
“Don’t know what you’re missing,” he said. “When you’re ready for a good time, you know where to find me, sweetheart. You’re welcome down here anytime.” He blew her a kiss.
Bryn didn’t even remember going up the stairs, or going into her office—only the slamming of the door let her know that there was a solid oak surface between her and Fast Freddy. She shuddered, locked the door, and backed off to collapse into her office chair. “Ugh, ugh, ugh,” she said, and dropped her head into her hands. “Now I really need a shower.” She’d met guys like him, of course. Lots of them. It came with the territory of working in a traditionally male area. And she’d learned to deal with them. She just hadn’t quite expected to have to do it here, in civilization.
And not at the end of a miserable first day.
After taking a few dozen deep, calming breaths, she stripped off her lab coat and retrieved her purse from the drawer of her desk. So time to go home. Maybe Lucy had been right—a glass of wine and a massage—but if she couldn’t get the massage, at least a glass of wine, a movie, something to take her mind off of things.
Bryn jerked at the sound of a thunderously loud knock on the door. “Hey, girl? You still here? Come out! Come out!”
She hadn’t turned her fluorescent office light on, so as long as she kept quiet, Freddy wouldn’t know she was there. Hopefully.
She could hear him breathing. There was something very creepy about that.
Finally, he muttered, “Man, you are one cold bitch,” and she heard him walking away. She held her breath until she heard what sounded like the front door slamming, and then went to the window to look out. Carefully.
Freddy drove a silver sports car, and she watched him climb inside and drive away in a squeal of tires. Oh, thank God.
Just her, then. Her and the late Mr. Granberry downstairs.
She bet Freddy hadn’t bothered to put him in the refrigerator. That seemed like the kind of slap-dash asshole move he’d pull.
Bryn unlocked the prep room door and turned on the lights, and yes, she was right: Freddy had left poor Mr. Granberry naked on the table. It was cold in the room, but not cold enough to properly retard decomposition … and besides, it was just disrespectful, leaving the poor man there exposed and alone.
Bryn walked over and looked down at his face. Bodies didn’t scare her—never had, really. They were a sad remnant of a life already gone by the time she saw them like this—an impermanent memorial, melting like paper in water. Everybody—and every body—had a story. She supposed Mr. Granberry’s was kind of tragic, given his wife and what had happened with his daughter, but he didn’t look especially tragic—just absent.
“I’m sorry,” she said, and put her hand on his cheek. He felt cool and utterly lifeless, like a rubber doll left outside in winter. “Take care of Melissa, wherever you guys are. I don’t think she meant to hurt anybody. She just didn’t want to live with all the pain. I’m sure she really loved you.”
Talking to the dead was always useless. Mr. Granberry didn’t hear, didn’t feel, didn’t care. But Bryn felt better for having said it, and that was really the point.
“Time to go to your room.” Bryn spread a clean white sheet over him, then removed the brakes from the wheels and rolled his table into the walk-in refrigerator. “Sleep tight, Mr. G. I promise we’ll do our best for you. Oh, look— you’ve got a friend.” Mr. G had a neighbor, it seemed— another body, still zipped in a dark plastic cocoon. She supposed it was a late arrival from a hospital or the coroner’s office.
As she closed the door on him, she could have sworn she heard something. Bryn paused, holding her breath, but she heard nothing now but the hum of machinery. She couldn’t help but think of poor Mr. Granberry sitting up on his tray. Corpses sometimes did that sort of thing. It wasn’t anything to do with zombies; it was just muscles contracting. It seemed creepy, but it was just … biology.
Although biology could be pretty damn creepy, when you came right down to it.
She looked inside, but nothing seemed to have changed. As she swung the door shut, she heard it again. A faint sound but definite.
Kind of a scratching.
“Rats,” she said, and shuddered. She’d have to tell Mr. Fairview. The last thing any mortuary needed was a rodent problem. That would get them shut down quickly, and ruin their reputation forever.
Bryn clicked off the lights decisively and walked out the doors, locking them behind her.
She was halfway up the stairs when the door at the top opened. She was caught—nowhere to go. All she could do was stand there and look alarmed. Of course, Fast Freddy had come back … and this time, he had her where he wanted her.
No … As the shock faded and her eyes adjusted, she realized that the man standing at the top of the steps wasn’t Fast Freddy, or Lincoln Fairview. For a second she couldn’t place him at all, and then she remembered.
It was the man who’d come earlier today to talk about his brother’s arrangements. Joe. Joe Fideli.
He lifted a finger to his lips, a clear shushing motion, and Bryn took a step backward slowly.
Mr. Fideli raised a pistol. Not just a Saturday-night special—no, this looked like a very serious professional semiauto. Not military issue, but a similar model, and just as good. She raised her hands in mute surrender. Mr. Fideli gestured her down the stairs. She slowly went, feeling for each step as she took it backward.
Once she was at floor level, there still weren’t many options. The elevator and loading-dock doors were closed, and she didn’t know the maze of basement storage at the other end well enough to count on another exit. Still, she had the crazy impulse to run—but there was something about running into the dark that stopped her.
Well, that and the fact that she thought Mr. Fideli was probably a crack shot.
“It’s Miss Davis, right? You’re not supposed to be here,” Mr. Fideli said. “Sorry. I don’t mean to scare you, but I’m going to need you to do what I say for a while.”
He sounded like he meant it. He also sounded completely different from the buttoned-up, blankly inquisitive man who’d been sitting across from her this morning. He was kind of relaxed, as if this were his job, and he was very, very good at it.
Also, she supposed an unarmed, first-day-on-the-job funeral director probably didn’t pose much of a threat.
“What are you doing here?” Bryn demanded. Her voice was shaking, so it spoiled the confrontational words, but Mr. Fideli just raised his eyebrows and ignored the question anyway.
“Anybody else here I need to know about?” he asked. “Fairview? Freddy Watson? Lucy?”
He knew everybody’s name. That was … strange. Bryn shook her head.
“Okay.” He stared at her for a long second, and she sensed he was making some kind of decision. It might have been about her own life and death. “Upstairs. Let’s have a seat in your office and talk. Might as well be comfortable.”
She led the way, terribly aware of the gun he was aiming at her back; she supposed some movie action hero would have been able to spin around, roundhouse-kick the gun out of his hand, and martial-arts him into blubbering submission. She’d been through extensive unarmed combat training, and she knew that in no way was that a good idea.
Bryn lived in the real world, and in the real world, you followed a gunman’s instructions, and waited for any opportunity that wouldn’t get you shot.
Once they were in her office, Mr. Fideli locked the door and sat down in the guest chair opposite her desk with a relieved sigh. When she hesitated, he gestured with his free hand for her to take the chair behind the desk. She did, making no sudden movements.
“Long day,” he said. She nodded. You’ve got no idea, mister. “So. You weren’t on my briefing paper. I’m guessing you’re the new hire?”
“Today’s my first day,” she said.
“Well, you picked a honey of a time to start, Bryn. Mind if I call you Bryn?”
“Mind if I call you Joe? If that’s even your name?” She felt a little better sitting down. A little more in control.
“Sure. And yeah, it’s my name.”
“Do you even have a brother?”