Capture (Siren Book 1) (3 page)

Six

I've got work ahead of me. I got John W.'s remains of into one of the ballast tanks with no problems; he was a lanky bastard, really more like handling an enormous comforter, or an unassembled tent or canopy. Parts bouncing at awkward angles, getting caught on things, but overall fairly manageable.

John C. is more of a problem, though. I don't really want to look at the bastard's ugly face, or think of his hands on me, and the stretch of engine room I dumped him when I thought he'd wake up is one of my favorite places to sit and think, when it's otherwise uninhabited. So he
has
to go, so I can have my space back. But it's taken me two days to do it, since I don't want to risk injuring myself and missing work.

Janice is still alive, for the moment. She's sealed off a few floors below me, talking to herself almost constantly, and she hardly moves anymore from hunger. If I felt kinder toward her, maybe I'd creep in while she slept and leave something to eat. But I didn't.

Every so often she gets the gumption to try to find a way out, but she's missing the few I've left her, and is probably too weak to take those opportunities, even if she found them. Still, with her focus gone, it's only a matter of time 'til she falls to her death. That doesn't strike me as a bad thing. At least two of the names in her ledger met that same end. It has a pleasant sort of symmetry to it.

I almost laughed, when the dizziness and nausea became too severe to ignore, and they threw themselves at the machinery in the walls, looking for some purchase to help them get to the exit. They eventually figured out the right solution—John C.'s ribs are cracked to shit from being used as a step-stone for that much weight—but Janice wasn't strong enough to pull John W. up behind her. Not that she tried very hard. She didn't even wait to see what became of him, merely crawled off along the pipe.

A wicked grin plays over my mouth as I drag John C. the last of the way to the opening of the ballast tank. Rot and mold wafts over me as I pitch him over the edge, nudging wayward limbs over the rim. I shine a flashlight down there to look. There's nothing at the bottom but brackish, filthy water. Perhaps eventually the corpses will float, but for the moment, they haven't bobbed to the surface.

Maybe if I can get this done,
fast
, I'll be able to make it back to the monitor room in time to check on Janice, before I have to go home and scrub up for work.

*              *              *

Back in the monitor room in the upper engine level, it takes me a moment to realize what's wrong. Janice isn't visible in any of the screens. After ten minutes of staring, I finally realize why. There's a section of railing askew in the west camera on level 3A. Curiosity overwhelms me, and I have to make my way through the tangled catwalks until I find the spot.

The loosened screws released one end of the rail from its anchor, and it's barely hanging on to the other. I tug it back into place, and hold it there; I'll need to replace the bolts before I can fix it, but the cool metal grounds me from the euphoria coursing through my blood. I step up to the fully secure rail next to it, and carefully peer over the edge.

She's definitely at the bottom. Probably not visible in the 6A monitors, from the location; she seems to have gotten stuck on a pipe embedded in the wall, rather than falling further. But she's not moving.

And just like that, the euphoria gives way to fear and pain. I howl and shove the loose railing away from me, listening to the metal squeal as it rubs against its remaining anchors.

“You're off at eight, right?” Robin glances at me, his dark lashes hiding most of his eyes.

“Nah. Ten. They have us going a little later tonight. Why?”

“Bummer. Rick had the day off, and said he was gonna spend it cooking. We're gonna eat it while it's warm, not just reheated.”

“Hah—awesome.” Truly. On our schedule, that's a treat usually only enjoyed regularly by those with a partner working from home. But Robin's roommate loves to cook, and creates his own opportunities whenever he can. He's a crane operator, and with the limited daylight, it's his short season. Some of the other stuff, they run multiple crews through the night. But the cranes, they have somewhat regular hours.

“It's not
quite
as good, but you're welcome to join us when you get off...”

“Yeah, but I don't think Rick really likes me much. He always acts really skittish around me.”

“Well, you're intense. And he knows—” Robin catches himself and changes what he was about to say. “I mean—your family's really well known around here.”

I shrug, listlessly. “You think Beck'll let you lunch now? I was gonna go in ten.”

“Yeah—gimme a sec to check.” He tucks his hammer in the loop on his cargo pants, and backs away to look for his supervisor.

I hide a smile, relieved at how smoothly the conversation's going. Things with Robin are kind of hit or miss—sometimes we get along famously, and the rest of the time it's kind of point-a-to-b, like he's afraid that
any
divergence will take the conversation somewhere he's afraid of going with me. I'm intimidating; I get that. I've gotten that all my life. In most circumstances, I'm proud of it.

Twenty minutes later, I've given up hope. Beck probably told him to shut the fuck up and work another hour. The electricians are under a lot of pressure right now since the carpenters are
already
supposed to be at work, covering up the exposed wires on the third floor barracks.

I tell my own supervisor I'm stepping out for lunch, and retreat, following flight after flight of stairs to get to the gangway. And only then do I realize something's wrong. Noises have been becoming steadily getting louder as I approach the main deck, including an eerie keening shriek.

Sirens, howling, and an ambulance parked right alongside the gangway. Beck's standing at the edge of the pier, tears in her eyes. I hurry down the sloping planks, and stop near her. “What—”

“Rob—he—” She glances over the edge of the pier, as one of the paramedics calls to the other “Do you see him?”

I push up to the edge, shoving past the rest of the work crew, and look down.

All I can see is a hard hat in the water. I squint, harder, and eventually make out a ruddy hand, draped over one of the rotted wood pylons at an unnatural angle. The whispers around me become clearer—“He fell—” “Board wasn't anchored down—” “Pylons rotted through; no way to get up—” “Wave threw him against the boat—”

I can't cry. I can't scream. The scene's too familiar.

And the sirens shrill, police arriving to take reports from those who saw.

Work halts as they try to fish his body out. Thankfully, the next wave seems to have tossed him against the wooden moorings hard enough to catch him; we won't need divers this time. That'll make the higher ups happy—it's cheaper, and less emotionally trying for those at work.

A man with blue eyes in a suit, next to a woman clad in a loose dress. Neither wearing a hard hat, despite the rules. Both of them talking to the police, and the foremen, demanding that everything be cleared out
fast
so work can resume. The hate wells inside me; don't they
care
? They're debating the worth of our labor twenty feet above where a man
died
for it.

Later, at his funeral, Rick puts his arm around my shoulders. “He always liked you. Wanted to ask you out. Guess he never got around to it.”

The veil lifts from my eyes. So
that
's what was with all the awkward pauses. We'd talked about love, once or twice, but both of us thought that it was never really a good time to seek it out. Not with such draining schedules, and not with the community in such transition. White picket fences were for people who could build theirs as a hobby, not for people like us who built such things for a living.

His parents had divorced, without the luxury of time together as
people
, not just as caretakers and repairmen. How could you love someone who woke you up coming home at three AM, when you had to be up at six to get the kid to school? A lifetime of little papercuts that took hold, rendered them unrecognizable, until they couldn't remember
why
they'd hitched their wagons to each other in the first place. He never wanted that to be him.

Me? I was tired of losing people. It was easier to spend my life alone than to open myself to someone who was only going to wither and die in front of me.

I'm glad he never asked me on that date. If he had, I'd have had to say no, and I'd have lost my best friend that much sooner.

A misshapen limb twitches, below me, and I loosen the other side of the rail, enough to shimmy it free. I have to fix this shit
anyways
...

I clutch tight around the cold grate, look down at the injured, likely dying woman below me. Then I push it away from my body and release it.

It clatters down, the edge catching across the back of her neck and tearing her flesh open, creating a rain of blood and muscle down the side of the pipe. Itchy dust coats my fingers, and I rub them vigorously to get it off.

I've gotta get to work. She can wait 'til tonight.

Seven

Calder

“John never showed up to work today.
Again
,” my mom's oldest friend and advisor, Lucy Herzog, says. She purses her lips, etching the wrinkles deeper. “That's a bit unusual.”

“You called his wife? Maybe he's taking a personal day.”

“She's out of town. Her and the kids are taking a brief excursion to Disneyworld. Have been gone all week.”

“And they didn't bring him?”

“Oh, come
on
. You think he'd rather look at people in furry costumes rather than throw his weight around here, try to get some idiot girl to think she's a real
sugarbaby
, not just a cheap whore?”

“
That
seems a bit harsh.” Most of the sugarbabies I've known have been pretty agreeable. And far from idiots.

She shrugs. “Well, it's not
my
problem what he does on his own time. So long as it doesn't affect his
work
.” The implication being that it plainly
has
. “Anyways, I've got these for you, needing a signature.”

“What are they?”

“You're welcome to thumb through if you want; they came right from legal, though, and they'll be pissed at any changes you want
now
.”

My managerial philosophy is largely “why fuck with the people who know what they're doing?” Besides; it's an election year, which means lots of lunches with people donation-hunting, and practicing speeches about RI's role in the community, to boost my brother George's campaign. I scratch out signatures on the sheets she directs me to, and she sweeps them up to be copied and filed.

“I meant to ask—you know the players pretty well, right?”

She raises an eyebrow at me—she often accompanied my mother to parties as her plus-one, after my dad's death. For a while, I even wondered if they were lovers. “I've made the rounds.”

“There was a woman I didn't recognize, the other night. Dark hair, brown eyes.
Intense
. And not at all interested in currying favor. Anyone got a new wife, or a daughter moving back home?”

“Not that I can think of,” she says, sticking her pen in her mouth while she thinks. “How old?”

“I'd say fairly young? Mid-twenties, if she's got a baby face? Or early twenties?”

“Hmm. Rosalie's got a girl that age, but she wouldn't be coming around with their blessing.”

“Oh?”

She cocks her head, searching for a tactful way to say it. “Her oldest, Elsie. But she came out a few years back, and the family wasn't having any of
that
nonsense.” Her mouth twists. “Rosie thought it might just be a phase, that she'd seen too much
Girls Gone Wild
and gone experimental. But Herb was
dead
set that they couldn't risk the embarrassment.”

That sounds like Herb. At least once a week I get a scathing voicemail from him, in a rage, because of some project he felt he was cut out of, or some directive he's taken offense to. I can't imagine growing up around that.

“Anyways, it's probably just a cousin or something, helping someone keep their toes in the water. I wouldn't worry. Why're you asking, anyways?”

“No reason. She just intrigued me.”

She chuckles. “You've got a
type
, that way. You know, it'd be
just fine
if you moved to the city. I could handle things here, and you could find a woman who didn't know enough to kiss your ass—”

It's an old discussion. “No. Mom wanted the family business to stay in the family. I can't do that from a distance. I'm already still catching up on the shit she never kept me privvy to.”

Lucy pats my wrist. “You're a good son.”

I try to smile back, accept the rare show of emotion, but it's
too
readily offered. It sets my teeth on edge, and after a moment, I realize why. The emotion doesn't reach her eyes. Whatever she says, she wishes I
would
step aside and represent the company in name only.

*              *              *

The morning passes almost too quietly. A handful more things to sign, and emails to read, but people largely haven't gotten used to bringing things to me yet. I've long since adjusted to the eyerolls; they think some of the details I want to understand are beneath me. But especially knowing Lucy may be working against me, I don't quite know who my mom had reservations about trusting, or who I
should
.

Even having prepared for this my whole life, the learning curve's still thrown me for a loop. It's not constantly butting heads with them that unnerves me... it's the idea that any of them
could
have the power or knowledge to betray me, and unless I dig to the bottom of it
fast
, that
will
happen. I've
never
felt that powerless.

Any other time, the thrill of the challenge would agree with me. But so soon after Mom's death... I'd still rather wrap myself up in memories and curl up on the couch with her favorite throw afghan. We never got along, in
part
because I didn't like spending time in Winchester, but it still rankles, that one day I'm avoiding her calls, and the next day I'm handling the arrangements for her funeral. It seemed like I
should
know whether she'd have a preference for the flowers, the speaker, but... we were never really close. About the only thing she ever said about death was that she'd have time to sleep when she was dead.
That
's a fat load of comfort. Finally, after years of running herself ragged, she gets to rest.

And I'm left wondering what I really knew about the world she ran in. Sure, she insisted I sit in on meetings when I could, even when Dad was alive, but it still didn't prepare me for the weight of it all. All the moving parts.

I hate depending on people like I depend on the people she's left me.

I should try doing a background check on Lucy, find out if anyone might be leaning on her. But some part of it seems like a shitty thing to do to a woman who dandied me on her knee.

I'll do it later. I'll come back after everyone's gone home for the night but the grave shift crews, and have peace and quiet. I'll have the building to myself. Maybe then I won't feel their eyes on me, ready to find guilt.

I have no clue what to do in this shitheel town. Never spent any time actually seeing the sights. There's gotta be a bar, or something. I'll kill a little time, maybe get lucky, and just forget about work for the afternoon.