FRIDAY MIDMORNING
Sara took a deep breath and circled around the private office again, walking quietly. She had on a medical smock and latex gloves, and her hair was tied back, looking casual but in place for Resurrection Gardens—a quick study of the employees on their breaks out back had given her the basic ensemble.
At the moment, nobody else was in the office, and she'd locked the door behind her again to give her some privacy as she assessed the situation. Filing cabinets, but probably not worth going through—a computer on the desk, which was more likely as a source of info, and a walk-in safe, which looked most promising of all. It resembled an elegant broom closet, and she noted the Chubb brand logo across the dial on the door.
Decision time: pick, or crack?
Sara looked at the safe door once more. It was a very old model, probably from the early fifties, with peeling paint along the hinges and a dusty look to it. The thing had probably been installed at the same time the building had been built. That, Sara knew, might make it easier to figure out the combination.
On the other hand, she didn't know how much time she had, precisely. Pertonelli was out—supposedly at Miss Lollipop's funeral—and even though Jelly Bean was stationed there to keep a lookout, it was entirely possible that he could be somewhere on the premises too. If that was the case, then cracking the safe with a few jam shots along the hinges might be best.
Sighing, she tapped her earpiece and spoke softly. "Hey . . . you see the director yet?"
"Not yet," came Jelly Bean's slightly bleary voice, "Although Daddy's here, along with some dude on canes. For the record, my head reeeeeally hurts and I resent you a LOT right now."
Sara grinned and ran a gloved hand over the dial of the safe, looking at the mechanism carefully. "Didn't your mother ever tell you to watch out for women who order Jaegermeister instead of white wine spritzers at dinner?"
"Nope, she was too busy lecturing me on the evils of playing with myself and using public toilets," came the low sigh. Sara smirked.
"Live and learn, Bean Man. At least I'm not going to kill you for cutting into my camera now." Gently Sara turned the dial; it moved sluggishly, and she concentrated on the feel as the tumblers sifted. In her ear, Jelly Bean gave another little groan.
"Yeah well I'll say I'm sorry again and it wasn't my idea, but you've gotta admit it's expedient, right? If we have to keep tabs on that Ecklie guy, it makes sense to use a remote camera already pointed in the right direction. My mouth feels like a baby dragon's potty."
"Drink a huge glass of lemon juice and Tabasco . . ."
"Will it help?"
"No, but it will be funny to watch your face if you do it—" Sara teased. The first turn around the dial had resulted in two definite clicks; one on the nineteen and another on the five. That was definitely promising; she thought hard and spoke softly once more.
"Greg, what year was Resurrection Garden built—do you know?"
"Sometime in the Fifties. Hey, wasn't Miss L going to be cremated?" came Jelly Bean's question. Sara stared at the dial once more and tried zero. Nothing.
"Yeah, that was what she first thought, but it's the burials that are the returnees—the cremations are legit. Why?"
"Just checking—the coffin's being unloaded now. Pertonelli's here."
Sara dialed nineteen, five and one this time. Nothing. Then nineteen, five and two. The door remained stubbornly shut, and Sara chuffed a little, stirring her bangs as she eyed the door.
"Okaaay, I don't know what's going on, but SD looks like he's ready to tear Pertonelli's throat open and yank the dude's pecker through the bloody hole," Jelly Bean murmured warningly.
"That's not good," came Sara's distracted comment. She dialed nineteen, five and three. The door clunked and swung open. Grinning broadly, Sara buffed her nails on her smock front for a second in self-congratulations, then rose up and pulled the door wide. "Oh, FYI? Resurrection Garden was built in nineteen fifty three."
"I'll remember that for the big test."
"Shhh, just keep an eye on Pertonelli while I finish up here," came her soft order. She carefully stepped inside, and slipped out of her shoe, using it as a wedge to keep the door ever so slightly open behind her. A string dangled next to her ear, and Sara tugged on it; weak light from a sixty-watt bulb filled the tiny space.
Sara looked around at the shelves. There were a few moneyboxes on a shelf to the left, and a hanging file box with neatly lettered tabs. Moving closer, she looked at the file and skimmed the tabs: Accounts, A-F/ G-M/N-R/S-Z; Formula; Personnel; Photos.
Curiously, she looked into the first folder and found a printed chart with an alphabetical listing of names, causes of death, dates and amounts. Sara recognized the last three names on the list; Lyle Tarkov, Theresa Cornejo and Delores Morris. Smiling, she pulled the file out. Carefully she flipped through the folder that read Formula and skimmed the stack of chemistry notations, then took those as well, adding them to the papers in her hand. She listened carefully but heard nothing for a moment, then turned back to the files.
Personnel yielded a list of names, only two of which where vaguely familiar, but Sara took the list anyway. She reached the one labeled Photos and pulled out a sheaf of glossy eight by eleven prints, puzzling for a moment at what she was seeing.
Then she fought a hard gasp.
"Sara?" came Jelly Bean's concerned comment in her ear.
"Shhh, I'm . . . okay," she stammered.
The photos were in color, clearly focused and obscene. Sara's grip on them trembled a little, but she looked at every one of the eight photos carefully, taking in the humiliation evident in each one. When she reached the last one, she bit her lips, feeling a surge of personal despair at the sight.
Sara added the photos to the bottom of her handful and forced herself to look around the safe once more. On the other side of the safe was another box of files with labels marked Insurance, Business License, Crematorium Permit, W2s, Tax Papers but Sara barely noted them. She tugged out the light, moved to the door, stepped back into her shoe and slipped out, closing the safe behind her.
"Okay, out of here and clear. What's going on at your end?"
"Just about to bury her. Same enamel liner at the bottom as the other grave."
Sara left the office and made her way out of the mortuary.
FRIDAY EVENING
She lay still. The stifling darkness around her vibrated though, and she felt herself shift. Miss Lollipop tried to concentrate, feeling slightly sick as the memory of Mr. Pertonelli's voice echoed in her head.
"The best thing to do is concentrate on memories or plans, Mrs. Morris. The formula is quite effective for your physical state, but your mental awareness will be unimpaired, so you may want to consider a few diversions for your long wait. We have a few audio books and music of course, although not everyone chooses those.
And if you're thinking of revenge, my dear, please don't waste your time. There are unpleasant aspects to every business deal, and really, you're not naïve. We have your complete future in our hands, so I'm sure you're not going to risk that over my little personal . . . quirk. In any case, a good shower and you'll be well clean of my nasty impulses, won't you my dear?"
She listened. The sound of hydraulics had died away, and now heavy clumps rained down. A surge of panic shot through her, and Miss Lollipop thought again of a field of daisies, bright and cheerful, stretching over a green field.
She held that thought for a long time, wrapping it around her mind.
Gradually she heard a slow creaking sound, then a rumble. It seemed to take years, but finally cooler air brushed her face and Miss Lollipop felt a surge of relief.
Then came the cold touch of fingers along her jaw. "And once again in the land of the living. Time to rise, Mrs. Morris . . . it's a lovely thing you have good credit, my dear, otherwise I might have had to let you stay buried, eh?"
She opened her eyes to the embalming room of Resurrection Garden. Through the frosted industrial windows off to the side, Miss Lollipop could see the fading light of sunset. Mr. Pertonelli was leaning over the open coffin, looking smug.
"You had such a small turnout for your passing . . . your boss, your brother and your husband were the only ones there. Sad, actually, but I'm sure you'll have a few visitors to your grave in the next week or so."
"You're . . . v-vile," she managed, shivering a little. Mr. Pertonelli frowned faintly.
"The pain of your contempt is so easily wiped away by your money. Speaking of wiping away . . . May I offer you a hankie?" he sneered. Miss Lollipop struggled to sit, her eyes blinking. She gripped the edges of the coffin and pulled herself up, glaring at the man who stood by, not offering a hand to help.
"There, there . . . you'll be fine in an hour's time or so," Mr. Pertonelli murmured carelessly. "My associates have your new identification ready, along with an airline ticket to Boston. All's well that ends well . . . if you have the money."
"More money?" Miss Lollipop asked with the right tone of desperation in her voice. The funeral director nodded.
"Yes, and we need your authorization for that. Since the banks are closed, you'll need to stay as my . . . guest this evening. Then in the morning, we'll have the matter of added expenses all straightened out."
"I've already paid for my new identification," she pointed out through gritted teeth. Mr. Pertonelli shrugged.
"The costs have gone up. So let me escort you to your room and we'll just wait for tomorrow."
Miss Lollipop nodded tightly. She climbed out of the coffin and let the man lead her through the adjoining doorway, tottering along as the drug slowly wore off. When she reached the room she sank on the small cot there, listening to the click of the lock as chuckling, Pertonelli closed the door behind her.
Nearly an hour went by; she was getting very good at waiting.
Miss Lollipop went to the sink, and washed her hands, then looked around the room carefully. A cot, a sink, a closet with a few empty wooden hangers in it. The walls were bare, except for a few nails here and there. Slowly a smile crossed her face.
Ten minutes later, she carefully tapped out the last hinge pin on the door, using a nail and a section of pipe from under the sink. The hinge pin fell out with a soft clatter, and she picked it up. One of the hangers acted as a wedge under the doorframe and she tugged with success, dislodging the door open from the hinge side.
She stepped out into the mortuary workroom. It was dark, but she remembered the layout, and made for the wall-mounted phone. Dialing a number from memory, Miss Lollipop smiled when the first ring barely began, to be followed up by a familiar and worried voice.
"Heather?"
"It's me. We need to go to plan B, my love."
"Already there," came his relieved growl.
"Wonderful. I'll be at the back door."
SATURDAY MORNING
The fire at the Resurrection Gardens Mortuary wasn't the lead story for the morning news in Las Vegas, but it was impressive enough for several TV stations to send camera crews. The footage showing the four-alarm blaze that firefighters attempted control played repeatedly throughout the morning, with commentary from the anchors about the hazardous chemicals used in embalming being blamed for the disaster.
The owner and operator of Resurrection Gardens had been reported missing, and the fire chief was quoted as saying it was possible that his body might be recovered from the site, but only once the fire was contained.
On the sofa of the lounge, Licorice and Jaw Breaker watched with professional interest, each of them looking thoughtful.
"It's a terrible thing when people don't follow safe storage protocols for chemicals," Jaw Breaker muttered, "A real shame."
"A formula for disaster," Licorice agreed. "Storing volatile material close to flammable cleaners, solvents and smocks. And so much fuel . . . all those acetate lined coffins and varnished caskets. Once a blaze gets started in a place like that, the acceleration is . . . exponential."
Jaw Breaker shrugged. "At least the crematorium might come through, being fireproof and all."
"Maybe—if they rebuild it in a year or two."
Down one level below the lounge, in a plain cell fronted with bulletproof glass, Mr. Pertonelli lay still on a cold metal table.
He could hear everything.
"Hello, Mr. Pertonelli. I'm sure you're wondering what the fuck is going on, but then again, you might appreciate a first-hand taste of what your formula feels like. It's me, Mr. Morris. Not my real name of course, but you don't need to worry about that."
"What you should be worrying about is what's going to happen to a slimy puffed-up hyena turd like yourself. I mean think about it—you're drugged and helpless, in the hands of a guy whose significant other you jacked off all over."
Sugar Daddy glared down at the body on the table, taking a moment to let his rage ebb slightly before continuing. He spoke again, striving to keep his voice mild.
"I would love to kill you, frankly, but I've been ordered not to. That doesn't mean I'm going to let you get away with your molesting habits though. So I've wired up your little willy and marble sack to this electroshock regulator. This sex soundtrack will complete the training, you know? Get a chubby, get a serious jolt. Lie still, get a jolt. In fact, think about any sex at all and . . . it's pretty much over for you, Pertonelli. For the next eight hours you're going to lie here never knowing when the next agonizing charge will be, wishing you could hack your own junk off."
"Then we'll let you go home and patch up your charred prick and nuts, but we'll be keeping an eye on you. And at some point in the future—maybe tomorrow, maybe next week, maybe in a few months—we're going to kidnap you, bring you back and give you a little refresher."
Sugar Daddy leaned down, letting his breath brush the other man's face. "Just between you and me, I think you need to leave Vegas. I ever see you again you sorry-assed motherfucker, I'm upping the voltage waaay past eleven, got that?"
SATURDAY NOON
Sara pushed the papers across the table towards Miss Lollipop, past the blue elephant teapot as she spoke. "Names, amounts, dates as well as the formula for the curare blend. I think we ought to let somebody in the State department handle the ID data base corruption myself. I know it might compromise ours, but—"
"—It's a very good suggestion, Sara dear, yes." Miss Lollipop murmured quietly. She looked over and smiled, but her gaze was distracted, and she held her cup a little too tightly.
Sara felt a pang of pain. Carefully, quietly she spoke again quietly. "Thank you."
Miss Lollipop blinked a little. Sara continued. "I saw the photos . . . you knew, didn't you? That's why you insisted on doing this one yourself."
" . . . Yes," came the slow reply. "When I'd interviewed Theresa she told me what happened . . . what to expect. I didn't feel it was right to ask anyone else to go through that."
For a long moment neither woman spoke. Sara looked again at Miss Lollipop, and cleared her throat. "I guess . . . I'd better get going."
"Yes. Vacation time for you, isn't it? Paris, I believe?" Miss Lollipop murmured absently. She was clutching her cup tightly again, Sara noted sadly.
Rising to leave, Sara said her goodbye. She passed through the door and saw Sugar Daddy coming towards her, his eyes locking onto hers. Sara sighed softly. "Not good."
"I'll take care of her. Don't worry—she's going to be fine," he assured her in a low voice. "She's a tough, classy lady—sort of like you."
At that Sara smiled, and lightly hugged him.
Sugar Daddy slipped into the terrace and looked at Miss Lollipop. She blinked up at him, startled at his arrival. "Jim."
"Heather," he murmured, crossing to reach her at the table. She tried to smile at him, but it was more of a rictus, and her fingers slipped as she picked up the teapot. It tumbled over the edge of the table and fell, shattering on the terrace with a loud crack, pieces flying everywhere. Startled, both of them looked down at the mess of ceramic and tea.
"Ohhhhh . . . " Miss Lollipop gasped in a hurt tone. "I've never . . . " she looked up at Brass, tears welling in her eyes. "Never broken one before. Ever. And it was the elephant . . . "
"Shhhhhh—" Sugar Daddy squatted down next to her, pulling her chair from the table until her legs were in front of him. She splayed her hands across her thighs protectively, and the hurt and pain in her eyes flashed out.
"No . . . I'm not . . . clean, yet," came her whispered little sob.
"Heather—" Sugar Daddy bent his head and reverently kissed her skirt, the heat of his lips seeping through the cloth. "Let me . . . make it better—"
He kept kissing her thighs, and after the third one, her hands hesitantly reached to stroke his hair, smoothing the brushy feel of it, caressing his skull gently. Sugar Daddy kept kissing her skirt until he reached her waist, then lifted his face to her, his expression patient and full of love.
Miss Lollipop burst into tears and pulled him to her, holding him tightly in the warm still light of another bright Las Vegas day.
(Coming next: Candy Shop: Off the Clock)
