Staying Dead. Laura Anne Gilman
Staying Dead
Laura Anne Gilman
For Mom and Dad, of course.
And for Mir and ElaineMc,
who have some small blame in all this…
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Because no writer works alone,
no matter what it feels like at 3:00 a.m.,
I need to praise and thank the following people:
Jennifer Jackson (agent) and
Mary-Theresa Hussey (editor). Finestkind.
Peter, who understood that there was something I
needed to do, and gave me the space to get it done.
The Cross-Genre Abuse Group, for smacking this
around the room more than a few times.
eluki, who said “yes” to my kids before anyone else,
and Dana and Lynn, all of whom took time out
to pay forward.
The folk in my newsgroup who came up with the info
when I needed it (and the Hounds, who howl on cue).
James, who told me to shut up and get back to work.
Marina Frants, who taught me all sorts of lovely Russian
phrases…some of which even made it into the book.
To you all, if I haven’t said it recently,
grazie. Molto grazie.
The Mississippi’s mighty, but it starts in Minnesota
At a place where you could walk across
with five steps down…
—Indigo Girls
“Ghost”
Contents
Acknowledgments
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
one
“Hey, lady! Move it or lose it!”
The cyclist sped past her, a blur of expensive aluminum, narrow wheels and Lycra-clad body topped by a screaming-orange helmet. He—she? it?—hopped off the curb and dove into the light traffic moving up Madison Avenue, almost slamming into a cab that was cruising around the opposite corner looking for an early-morning fare. The cabbie slammed on the brakes and the horn at the same time, and the bike messenger made a rude gesture as he wove in and out of the middle of the street, heading downtown.
“Oh, for a stick to spoke his wheels,” Wren said wistfully, staring after the cyclist with annoyance. The man standing next to her smothered a surprised burst of laughter. Wren blinked. She hadn’t been kidding; bicycle messengers were a menace.
Dismissing the incident with the single-minded focus she brought to every job, Wren turned her attention back to the building in front of her; the reason she was standing out on the corner at this ungodly hour of the a.m. on a Monday. What terrible sin had she committed in a past life, to get all the morning gigs in this life? She made a soft, snorting noise, amused at her own indignation. At least it was a pretty morning as those things went.
In fact, Manhattan in the spring was a pretty decent place to be. Winter meant slush and biting winds, while summer had a range of heat-induced smells that ranged from disgusting to putrid. You could live in the city then, but you generally didn’t like it. But spring, she thought, spring was the time to be here. The sun was warming up, the breeze was cool, and people were in the mood to smile at each other. Even bad days had an edge of promise to them.
But right now, spring weather aside, Wren couldn’t find a damn thing to be happy about. Seven in the morning was way too early, and the job that had sounded like quick and easy money at first was rapidly going deep into the proverbial shitter. She was going to have to do some actual work for her paycheck on this one.
“Maybe that will teach you to answer the phone before six,” she said out loud.
“Excuse me?”
Rafe, the guard who had been detailed to “help” her, had a cute little wrinkle between his eyebrows, totally spoiling his until-now perfect Little RentACop look.
“Nothing. Never mind.” Don’t talk to yourself in front of civilians, Valere. It wouldn’t have mattered, anyway. Even if she had ignored the phone’s ringing two hours ago, before either she or the sun had thought about getting up, the sound of Sergei’s voice on the machine would have made her pick the receiver up. She might have the skills that people paid for, but her partner was the one with a nose for jobs that was slowly but surely making them moderately well-off, if not obscenely wealthy. Only a fool would pass up a call from someone like that, no matter what the time.
And while Wren Valere was many things, a fool had never been one of them.
“Rafe? Can you go get me a refill of water?” she asked, handing him the plastic sports bottle she had been holding. He wasn’t thrilled at being an errand boy, she could tell, but his orders had been explicit. Give Ms. Valere all the help she needed. Type of help not specified. So he went.
Freed from observation, she sat back on her heels and closed her eyes slowly, holding them shut for a count of ten. She had been doing this long enough that it didn’t take her any longer than that to slip into a state of clear-minded awareness. The sounds of early-morning traffic, the smells of exhaust and fresh-budding greenery all faded, leaving her with a clear, concentrated, settled mind. As she opened her eyes slowly, not rushing anything, her gaze went back to the sleek marble foundation in front of her, as though there might have been some change in those ten-plus seconds of blackout.
Nope. Nothing. It still looked as ordinary and commonplace as before, one of any of a hundred-plus buildings throughout the city built in the same time period. No bloody handprint, no chisel marks or dust left on the pale gray surface, no sign of any kind of disturbance at all. Nothing to suggest there was something different about this northeast corner of the building, as opposed to the southeast, the southwest or the northwest sides. The four corners of this building stretched out over a full city block, and she’d just spent the past hour becoming far too familiar with all four.
God, she hated prep work! But you had to check everything before you started looking for anything. Even the stuff you knew you wouldn’t find. Except, of course, the fact that one corner, or rather one small block inside of this corner, wasn’t really there anymore.
A deliberate letting-go of