Chapter 3
I huddled against the side of the helicopter, one hand in a death grip on the strap that was bolted to the wall. I wanted to use both hands to hold on, as if by holding very tightly to the stupid strap it would save me when the helicopter plummeted to earth. I used one hand because two hands looked cowardly. I was wearing a headset, sort of like ear protection for the shooting range, but with a microphone so you could talk above the teeth-rattling noise. I hadn't realized that most of a helicopter was clear, like being suspended in a great buzzing, vibrating bubble. I kept my eyes closed as much as possible.
"Are you all right, Ms. Blake?" Lionel Bayard asked.
The voice startled me. "Yeah, I'm fine."
"You don't look well."
"I don't like to fly," I said.
He gave a weak smile. I don't think I was inspiring confidence in Lionel Bayard, lawyer and flunkie of Beadle, Beadle, Stirling, and Lowenstein. Lionel Bayard was a small, neat man with a tiny blond mustache that looked like it was as much facial hair as he would ever get. His triangular jaw was as smooth as my own. Maybe the mustache was glued on. His brown suit with a thin yellow tweed fit his body like a well-tailored glove. His thin tie was brown-and-yellow striped with a gold tie tack. The tie tack was monogrammed. His slender leather briefcase was monogrammed as well. Everything matched, down to his gold-tasseled loafers.
Larry twisted in his seat. He was sitting beside the pilot. "You're really afraid of flying?" I could see his lips move, but all the sound came out of my headset; without them we'd never have been able to talk over the noise. He sounded amused.
"Yes, Larry, I'm really afraid of flying." I hoped sarcasm traveled the headsets as clearly as amusement did.
Larry laughed. Evidently, sarcasm traveled. Larry looked freshly scrubbed. He was dressed in his other blue suit, his white shirt--which was one of three he owned--and his second-best tie. His best tie had blood all over it. He was still in college, working weekends for us until he graduated. His short hair was the color of a surprised carrot. He was freckled and about my height, short, with pale blue eyes. He looked like a grown-up Opie.
Bayard was working hard at not frowning at me. The effort showed enough that he shouldn't have bothered. "Are you sure you're up to this assignment?"
I met his brown eyes. "You better hope I am, Mr. Bayard, because I'm all you got."
"I am aware of your specialized skills, Ms. Blake. I spent the last twelve hours contacting every animating firm in the United States. Phillipa Freestone of the Resurrection Company told me she couldn't do what we wanted, that the only person in the country who might be able to do it was Anita Blake. ¨¦lan Vital in New Orleans told us the same thing. They mentioned John Burke but weren't confident that he could do all we wanted. We must have all the dead raised or it's useless to us."
"Did my boss explain to you that I am not a hundred percent sure that I can do it?"
Bayard blinked at me. "Mr. Vaughn seemed very confident that you could do what we asked."
"Bert can be as confident as he wants. He doesn't have to raise this mess."
"I realize the earthmoving equipment has complicated your task, Ms. Blake, but we did not do it deliberately."
I let that go. I'd seen the pictures. They'd tried to cover it up. If the construction crew hadn't been local with some Bouvier sympathizers, they'd have plowed up the boneyard, poured some concrete, and voil¨¢, no evidence.
"Whatever. I'll do what I can with what you've left me."
"Would it have been that much easier if you had been brought in before the graves were disturbed?"
"Yeah."
He sighed. It vibrated through the headphones. "Then my apologies."
I shrugged. "Unless you did it personally, you're not the one who owes me an apology."
He shifted a little in his seat. "I did not order the digging. Mr. Stirling is on site."
"The Mr. Stirling?" I asked.
Bayard didn't seem to get the humor. "Yes, that Mr. Stirling." Or maybe he really expected me to know the name.
"You always have a senior partner looking over your shoulder?"
He used one finger to adjust his gold-framed glasses. It looked like an old gesture from a time before new glasses and designer suits. "With this much money at stake, Mr. Stirling thought he should be in the area in case there were more problems."
"More problems?" I asked.
He blinked at me rapidly, like a well-groomed rabbit. "The Bouvier matter."
He was lying. "What else is going wrong with your little project?"
"Whatever do you mean, Ms. Blake?" His manicured fingers smoothed down his tie.
"You've had more problems than just the Bouviers." I made it a statement.
"Any problems we may or may not be having, Ms. Blake, are not your concern. We hired you to raise the dead and establish the identity of said deceased persons. Beyond that, you have no duties here."
"Have you ever raised a zombie, Mr. Bayard?"
He blinked again. "Of course not." He sounded offended.
"Then how do you know the other problems won't affect my job?"
Small frown lines formed between his eyebrows. He was a lawyer and was earning a good living, but thinking seemed to be hard for him. Made you wonder where he'd graduated from.
"I don't see how our little difficulties could affect your job."
"You've just admitted you don't know anything about my job," I said. "How do you know what will affect it and what won't?" Alright, I was fishing. Bayard was probably right. The other problems probably wouldn't affect me, but you never know. I don't like being kept in the dark. And I don't like being lied to, not even by omission.
"I think Mr. Stirling would have to make the call about whether you are enlightened or not."
"Not senior enough to make the decision," I said.
"No," Bayard said, "I am not."
Geez, some people you can't even needle. I glanced at Larry. He shrugged. "Looks like we're going to land."
I glanced out at the rapidly growing land. We were in the middle of the Ozark Mountains, hovering over a blasted scar of reddish naked earth. The construction site, I presume.
The ground swelled up to meet us. I closed my eyes and swallowed hard. The ride was almost over. I would not throw up this close to the ground. The ride was almost over. Almost over. Almost over. There was a bump that made me gasp.
"We've landed," Larry said. "You can open your eyes now."
I did. "You are enjoying the hell out of this, aren't you?"
He grinned. "I don't get to see you out of your element often."
The helicopter was surrounded by a fog of reddish dirt. The blades began to slow with a thick whump, whump sound. As the blades stopped, the dirt settled down and we could see where we were.
We were in a small, flat area between a cluster of mountains. It looked like it had once been a narrow valley, but bulldozers had widened it, flattened it, made it a landing pad. The earth was so red it looked like a river of rust. The mountain in front of the helicopter was one red mound. Heavy equipment and cars were clustered to the far side of the valley. Men were clustered around the equipment, shielding their eyes from the dust.
When the blades came to a sliding stop, Bayard unbuckled his seat belt. I did, too. We lifted off the headsets and Bayard opened his door. I opened mine and found that the ground was farther away than you'd think. I had to expose a long line of thigh to touch the ground.
The construction workers were appreciative. Whistles, catcalls, and one offer to check under my skirt. No, those weren't the exact words used.
A tall man in a white hard hat strode towards us. He was wearing a pair of tan coveralls, but his dirt-covered shoes were Gucci and his tan was health-club perfect. A man and a woman followed at his back.
The man looked like the real foreman. He was dressed in jeans and a work shirt with the sleeves rolled over muscular forearms. Not from racquetball or a little tennis, but from plain hard work.
The woman wore the traditional skirt suit complete with little blousy tie at her throat. The suit was expensive, but was an unfortunate shade of puce that did nothing for the woman's auburn hair but did match the blush that she'd smeared on her cheeks. I checked her neckline, and yes, she did have a pale line just above her collar where the base had not been blended in. She looked like she'd been made up at clown school.
She didn't look that young. You'd think someone somewhere would have clued her in to how bad she looked. Of course, I wasn't going to tell her either. Who was I to criticize?
Stirling had the palest grey eyes I'd ever seen. The irises were only a few shades darker than the whites of his eyes. He stood there with his entourage behind him. He looked me up and down. He didn't seem to like what he saw. His strange eyes flicked to Larry in his cheap, wrinkled suit. Mr. Stirling frowned.
Bayard came around, smoothing his jacket into place. "Mr. Stirling, this is Anita Blake. Ms. Blake, this is Raymond Stirling."
He just stood there, looking at me like he was disappointed. The woman had a clipboard notebook, pen poised. Had to be his secretary. She looked worried, as if it was very important that Mr. Raymond Stirling like us.
I was beginning not to care if he liked us or not. What I wanted to say was, "You got a problem?" What I said was, "Is there a problem, Mr. Stirling?" Bert would have been pleased.
"You're not what I expected, Ms. Blake."
"How so?"
"Pretty, for one thing." It wasn't a compliment.
"And?"
He motioned at my outfit. "You're not dressed appropriately for the job."
"Your secretary's wearing heels."
"Ms. Harrison's attire is not your concern."
"And my attire is none of yours."
"Fair enough, but you're going to have a hell of time getting up that mountain in those shoes."
"I've got a coverall and Nikes in my suitcase."
"I don't think I like your attitude, Ms. Blake."
"I know I don't like yours," I said.
The foreman behind him was having trouble not smiling. His eyes were getting shiny with the effort. Ms. Harrison looked a little scared. Bayard had moved to one side, closer to Stirling. Making clear whose side he was on. Coward.
Larry moved closer to me.
"Do you want this job, Ms. Blake?"
"Not enough to take grief about it, no."
Ms. Harrison looked like she'd swallowed a bug. A big, nasty, squirming bug. I think I'd missed my cue to fall down and worship at her boss's feet.
The foreman coughed behind his hand. Stirling glanced at him, then back to me. "Are you always this arrogant?" he asked.
I sighed. "I prefer the word 'confident' to 'arrogant,' but I'll tell you what. I'll tone it down if you will."
"I am so sorry, Mr. Stirling," Bayard said. "I apologize. I had no idea..."
"Shut up, Lionel," Stirling said.
Lionel shut up.
Stirling was looking at me with his strange pale eyes. He nodded. "Agreed, Ms. Blake." He smiled. "I'll tone it down."
"Great," I said.
"All right, Ms. Blake, let's go up to the top and see if you're really as good as you think you are."
"I can look at the graveyard, but until full dark I can't do anything else."
He frowned and glanced at Bayard. "Lionel." That one word had a lot of heat in it. Anger looking for a target. He'd stop picking on me, but Lionel was fair game.
"I did fax you a memo, sir, as soon as I realized that Ms. Blake would be unable to help us until after dark."
Good man. When in doubt, cover your ass with paper.
Stirling glared at him. Bayard looked apologetic but he stood his ground, safe behind his memo.
"I called Beau and had him bring everybody down here on the understanding we could get some work done today." His gaze was very steady on Bayard. Lionel wilted just a little; evidently one memo was not protection enough.
"Mr. Stirling, even if I can raise the graveyard in one night, and that's a big if, what if the dead are all Bouviers? What if it is their family plot? My understanding is that construction will stop until you rebuy the land."
"They don't want to sell," Beau said.
Stirling glared at him. The foreman just smiled softly.
"Are you saying that the entire project is off if this is the Bouvier family plot?" I asked Bayard. "Why, Lionel, you didn't tell me that."
"There was no need for you to know," Bayard said.
"Why wouldn't they want to sell the land for a million dollars?" Larry asked. It was a good question.
Stirling looked at him like he'd just appeared out of thin air. Evidently, the flunkies weren't supposed to talk. "Magnus and Dorcas Bouvier have only a restaurant, called Bloody Bones. It is nothing. I have no idea why they wouldn't want to be millionaires."
"Bloody Bones? What kind of name is that for a restaurant?" Larry asked.
I shrugged. "It doesn't exactly say bon appetit." I looked at Stirling. He looked angry but that was all. I would have bet a million dollars that he knew exactly why the Bouviers didn't want to sell. But it didn't show on his face. His cards were close to his chest and unreadable.
I turned to Bayard. There was an unhealthy flush to his cheeks, and he avoided my gaze. I'd play poker with Bayard any day. But not in front of his boss.
"Fine. I'll change into something more bulky and we'll go take a look." The pilot handed out my suitcase. The coverall and shoes were on top.
Larry came up to me. "Gee, I wished I'd thought of the coverall. This suit's not going to survive the trip."
I pulled out two pairs of coveralls. "Be prepared," I said.
He grinned. "Thanks."
I shrugged. "One good thing about being nearly the same size." I slipped off the black jacket, which left the gun in plain sight.
"Ms. Blake," Stirling said. "Why are you armed?"
I sighed. I was tired of Raymond. I hadn't even gone up the hill and I didn't want to go. The last thing I wanted to do was stand here and debate whether I needed a gun. The red blouse was short-sleeved. Visual aids are always better than lectures.
I walked over to him with my arms bent outward, exposing the inside of both forearms. There's a rather neat knife scar on my right arm, nothing too dramatic. My left arm is a mess. It had only been a little over a month since a shapeshifting leopard had opened my arm. A nice doctor had stitched it back together, but there is only so much you can do with claw marks. The cross-shaped burn scar that some inventive vampire servants had put on me was now a little crooked because of the claws. The mound of scar tissue at the bend of my arm where a vampire had bitten through the flesh and gnawed the bone dribbled white scars like water.
"Jesus," Beau said.
Stirling looked a touch pale but he held up well, like he'd seen worse. Bayard looked green. Ms. Harrison paled so that the makeup floated on her suddenly pale skin like impressionist water lilies.
"I don't go anywhere unarmed, Mr. Stirling. Live with it, because I have to."
He nodded, eyes very serious. "Fine, Ms. Blake. Is your assistant armed as well?"
"No," I said.
He nodded again. "Fine. Change, and when you're ready we'll go up."
Larry was zipping up his coverall when I walked back. "I could have been armed, you know," he said.
"You brought your gun?" I asked.
He nodded.
"Unloaded in your suitcase?"
"Just like you told me."
"Good." I let it go. Larry wanted to be a vampire executioner as well as an animator, which meant he needed to know how to use a gun. A gun with silver-plated bullets that could slow a vampire down. We'd work up to shotguns, which could take out a head and heart from a relatively safe distance. Beat the hell out of staking.
I'd gotten him a carry permit on the condition he didn't carry it concealed until I thought he was a good enough shot not to blow a hole in himself or me. I'd gotten him the permit mainly so we could carry it around in the car and go to the range in any spare moments.
The coverall went over the skirt like magic. I took off the heels and put the Nikes on. I left the coverall unzipped enough that I could go for the gun if needed, and I was set to go.
"Are you going up with us, Mr. Stirling?"
"Yes," he said.
"Then lead the way," I said.
He walked past me, glancing at the coveralls. Or maybe visualizing the gun under it. Beau started to follow but Stirling said, "No, I'll take her up alone."
Silence among the three flunkies. I'd expected Ms. Harrison to stay behind in her high-heeled pumps, but I'd been sure the two men would come along. So, from the looks on their faces, had they.
"Wait a minute. You said 'her.' You want Larry to wait down here, too?"
"Yes."
I shook my head. "He's in training. You can't learn if you don't see it done."
"Will you be doing anything that he needs to see today?"
I thought about that for a minute. "I guess not."
"I do get to come up after dark?" Larry asked.
"You'll get to see the down and dirty, Larry. Don't worry."
"Of course," Stirling said. "I have no problem with your associate doing his job."
"Why can't he come along now?" I asked.
"At the price we're paying, humor me, Ms. Blake."
He was being strangely polite, so I nodded. "Okay."
"Mr. Stirling," Bayard said, "are you sure you should go up alone?"
"Why ever not, Lionel?"
Bayard opened his mouth, closed it, then said, "No reason, Mr. Stirling."
Beau shrugged. "I'll tell the men to go home for the day." He started to turn away, then stopped. "Do you want the crew back tomorrow?"
Stirling looked at me. "Ms. Blake?"
I shook my head. "I don't know yet."
"What's your best guess?" he asked.
I looked over at the waiting men. "Do they get paid whether they show up or not?"
"Only if they show up," Stirling said.
"Then no work tomorrow. I can't guarantee they'll have anything to do."
Stirling nodded. "You heard her, Beau."
Beau looked at me, then back to Stirling. He had a strange took on his face, half amused, half something I couldn't read. "Anything you say, Mr. Stirling, Ms. Blake." He turned and strode off over the raw ground, waving at the men as he moved. The men began to leave long before he got to them.
"What do you want us to do, Mr. Stirling?" Bayard asked.
"Wait for us."
"The helicopter, too? It has to leave before dark."
"Will we be down before dark, Ms. Blake?"
"Sure. I'm just going to take a quick look around. I'll need to get back in here after dark, though."
"I'll give you a car and driver for your stay."
"Thanks."
"Shall we, Ms. Blake?" He motioned me forward. Something had changed in the way he was treating me. I couldn't put my finger on it, but I didn't like it.
"After you, Mr. Stirling."
He nodded and took the lead, striding over the red earth in his thousand-dollar shoes.
Larry and I exchanged glances. "I won't be long, Larry."
"Us flunkies aren't going anywhere," he said.
I smiled. He smiled. I shrugged. Why did Stirling want it to be just the two of us? I watched the senior partner's broad back as he marched across the torn earth. I followed him. I'd find out what the secrecy was all about when we got to the top. I was betting I wouldn't like what I'd hear. Just me and the big cheese on top of the mountain with the dead. What could be better?