Godless (15 page)

You have a job to do
, Matthew reminded himself.
And a mission to fulfill
.

If anyone needed to be freed from her misery, it was Brianna Jackson. Her forgetting that she had volunteered was proof enough that she needed to go. She hadn't changed her mind. She had simply misplaced it.

He knew what he needed to do.

A cold spike of adrenaline reached upward through Matthew's throat before descending down his limbs into hands suddenly quivering in dreadful anticipation of a task they were never meant to fulfill. Ignoring the rising fear, Matthew carried the bag of supplies in the direction of the bathroom he had passed while searching for his missing client. It took him less than a minute to empty out the tub and position the tourniquet, sterilization cream, and other items on the corner of the sink. Then he reached into his bag for something Brianna Jackson had not requested. He had decided to improvise, to make real-time decisions to deal with an unscripted scenario. He could cover the extra expense himself if needed, sort of a complimentary upgrade for an unusually anxious client.

He shook the container to confirm its status. Full.

A moment later he approached Brianna's bedroom door. He started to knock, but changed his mind. He instead turned the handle. Unlocked.

He didn't have time to plan how he would get her to breathe in the vapor. He nearly panicked when she turned toward his unexpected approach. But then he stopped.

“Brianna,” he said gently. “I apologize. I can see that you're upset.”

She softened a tad.

“I'd like to give you something to calm your nerves,” he said while handing her the inhaler. “And then I'll leave you alone.”

She looked at the label. Big words that meant nothing to her. “What is it?”

“It's what I came to sell you,” he lied, assuming the role of door-to-door salesman. “But we're allowed to give free samples. No obligation. If it works, call in an order. If not, you'll never hear from us again.”

She inspected the device. It looked like something asthmatic athletes used before a big run, only several times larger. “How many shots?” she asked.

“Whatever helps you relax. I inhale deeply three or four times. That usually does the trick.”

She eyed it again, this time with more interest than the last. “So you use this stuff?”

“I do,” he said. “Helps me fall asleep at night.”

“And there's no charge?”

“A free sample, my compliments.”

She lifted the inhaler toward her mouth. “Well, I have been feeling more nervous lately.”

“I think this will help,” Matthew said. “Go on, give it a try.”

Fifteen minutes later Matthew stood watching a single stream of perspiration flow down the side of his face. He reached down, tore a bit of bathroom tissue from the hanging roll, and wiped his face dry. All of his supplies had been carefully returned to the bag, with one exception. He forced his eyes back toward the tub. An arm dangled lifelessly, the rubber tourniquet still fastened securely above the elbow. He hadn't noticed he had been holding his breath until after the knot loosened and the item fell free. He exhaled, and then reached into the bag he had inspected before and, thanks to fast thinking, would likely inspect again. Removing a small tube he twisted loose the lid and released a large dab of cream to purify his hands.

He returned to the kitchen table to awaken his tablet and complete the final step in his assigned sequence:
ALERT DISPOSAL SERVICES
. He tapped the icon, informing some nameless colleague that he could remove the cadaver anytime in the next twenty-four hours.

Matthew walked out the front door and looked toward his car. He stood for a moment as the adrenaline that had fueled a dreadful improvisation waned. He inhaled deeply through his nostrils, eager for the fresh scent of the clean summer air. Then he turned toward the bushes, where he released a violent wave of nausea.

The shop
offered a range of dresses that would look adorable on Amanda's slight frame, the perfect blend of modest chic and playful spunk. They were the kind of clothes Julia would have worn back when hints of pubescent transformation had begun to show themselves on her own figure. Amanda had recently graduated from training-bra-awkward to the petite-women's section of what must have been ten different stores in the past hour.

Julia displayed a blouse and matching skirt toward the twelve-year-old skeptic. “How about this?” she asked hopefully. “It would bring out your beautiful eyes.”

The beautiful eyes rolled dismissively. “Too old!”

Julia glanced back at the set. “What do you mean, old? It's the latest fashion.”

“Yeah, for someone in their forties.”

The comment stung, as intended. Julia had recently celebrated her thirty-sixth birthday, tipping her officially closer to forty than thirty. Her taste in clothes, as in everything else on which she offered an opinion, was apparently out of date.

“I don't see what was wrong with what I tried on in the last shop,” Amanda said.

That's when Julia rolled
her
eyes. Why had she even agreed to enter a store like Her Edge? “I told you,” she replied, attempting to conceal exasperation with a maternal lilt. “It was way too low and way too short.”

“It was cute,” Amanda said. “Aunt Maria would love it.”

Julia couldn't argue. Ever since her younger sister dominated the “most likely to turn heads” category back in high school, Maria had lived by the motto “If you've got it, flaunt it!” Julia, the valedictorian, could never compete with the fast-and-loose fashion sensibilities of Aunt Maria. Nor had she cared to. Elegant sophistication, not sassy allure, had served her well.

“I tell you what,” Julia said, pulling out her trump card. “Let's go back to Her Edge and have you try it on again.”

Amanda leaped. “Really?”

“You bet,” Julia said, springing the trap. “I'll call Troy and have him meet us there. We'll let him decide.”

The glow on Amanda's face dimmed.

“Or,” Julia continued with a smug grin, “you can try this one on for size.”

The girl took the outfit from Julia and slunk toward the dressing rooms with a pouty huff.

While scanning the store for other possible selections, Julia heard her phone chime. She skipped her usual glance at the screen, confident it would display an image of her husband's flirting grin. He probably wondered how much longer he needed to wander through the outdoor mall looking at nothing while Amanda tried on everything.

“I'm sorry, babe,” she said after tapping the edge of her ear. “Amanda still can't decide…”

“Babe?” the voice answered. “I love when you call me that. Such a tease.”

“Paul?” Julia asked with embarrassment. “Paul Daugherty?”

“The one and only,” he said brashly. “How's my favorite journalist?”

Julia suppressed a groan. She had never liked Paul, even when she depended on him for her livelihood. How long had it been, nine months? A year?

“Favorite former journalist,” she corrected. “Or have you forgotten?”

It was Paul who had sold Julia's last big series, a string of features in a weekend journal covering the real-life impact of the economic crisis. He didn't know she had pitched it in a stealth effort to help legitimize Kevin Tolbert's proposal by putting human faces on dark zone trends and bright spot choices. The stories created a mini-stir, especially once the editorial board realized the series cast a negative light on the former. The last thing RAP Syndicate wanted was for their readers to raise questions about what they considered “overwhelmingly successful” and “economically sound” policies that were finally tackling the mountainous budget deficit.

“I told you, Jewel,” Paul said self-protectively, “I tried to defend you.”

She knew Paul too well. He would have distanced himself from his “favorite journalist” the second he smelled the approaching witch-hunt. “The whole thing was Julia Davidson's idea,” he would have backpedaled. “What was I supposed to do, censor her?”

Which is exactly what they would have expected him to do, although they would have resented the implication.

“I loved the series,” he added. And he probably meant it. Paul had always admired Julia's talent as a writer, or at least envied it. “I told them it was a big mistake letting you go.”

“I'm sure you did, Paul.” It was more benefit of the doubt than he deserved.

“Besides, I got canned myself. So I'm no longer part of the evil empire.”

The comment surprised Julia. Paul had become a fixture at RAP Syndicate, almost as well respected as she had been in her glory days. Julia had won a Pulitzer, but Paul had orchestrated one of the most aggressive acquisition strategies in the company's history. The company now described itself as home to the largest network of feature writers and opinion columnists on the Web. And, thanks to the sudden departure of one Julia Davidson Simmons, all of them safely antagonistic to debit-loving, religiously motivated breeders like Congressman Kevin Tolbert.

“You lost your job?”

“Two months back.”

“I'm sorry to hear that.” It was the expected thing to say.

“Don't be,” he said glibly. “I'm glad to be out. In fact, that's why I called.”

She waited for more.

“I just launched my own agency. Media and publicity, but mostly publicity.”

“Really?” she said, distracted by the sudden realization Amanda was taking longer than she should to change.

“Yep. It's going great. I just landed a big contract with Trisha.”

The name recaptured Julia's attention. “Trisha? As in Delisha?”

“That's right. Trisha Sayers.”

Julia recalled the tour she had taken of the model turned fashion mogul's plush office complex two years earlier. Trisha Delisha, as she had been known in her curvy prime, had been a fan of Julia's popular column. “You're marketing clothes now?” Julia asked.

“Nah. Trisha chairs some new communications commission connected to the Youth Initiative. Nicole Florea gave me a heads-up after she heard about my demise. She suggested I shoot Trisha a proposal and, bingo, the Daugherty Communications Agency was born!”

Julia felt her stomach tighten at the thought of the mountain of federal cash pouring into agencies like Paul's to promote the same initiative her husband and Kevin had been working so hard to oppose.

“Congratulations,” she said grudgingly.

“Thanks. So, how about you? Anyone snag you yet?”

“Snag me?”

“Come on, Jewel. You're probably crazy busy. Am I right?”

“Busy?” she muttered, eyeing a darling dress hanging slightly out of reach. “Oh, yes,” she lied. “Busier than ever.”

“I thought so,” Paul replied. “So I imagine there's no hope for me.”

“Hope for you to what?” she asked.

“To what? To hire you, what else?”

The question stunned Julia. And, to her surprise, gave her a slight surge of adrenaline. She hadn't realized how much her confidence had waned after a year of exile in journalistic Siberia.

“Hire me? To do what?”

“I told you, I landed a big contract. I need a writer who knows how to turn difficult concepts and controversial ideas into commonsense rhetoric.”

Julia didn't know whether to take the statement as a compliment or a rebuke.

“You'd be perfect. And I can make it worth your while.”

She said nothing while trying to absorb Paul's offer.

“Come on, Jewel,” he said to fill the silence. “Don't play hard to get. I'm in a real bind.”

“Well,” she finally said. “I'll need to think it over, and discuss it with Troy.”

“Who?” he asked before remembering. “Oh, right. Same partner?”

“Husband,” she corrected. “Troy is my husband.”

“Right, sorry. Still haven't adjusted to the idea, I guess.”

“Can you send me something I can look over with specifics?” she asked hastily, eager to get off the phone to hurry Amanda along.

“Done!” he said triumphantly. “And don't worry about your day rate,” he added. “I can double whatever you're making now.”

Double? She must have misheard.

“Just do me a favor and look over the project summary document right away. I need to know who's in and who's out by tomorrow if I'm gonna have any hope of pulling off my first presentation.”

“When is it?”

“Ten days,” he said.

“And you're just hiring your project team now?”

“I know. Crazy, isn't it? But really fun. I'm on a deadline high like when we made our first big splash at RAP.”

Julia resisted the urge to correct Paul's memory for the hundredth time.
She
had made the splash.
He
had merely taken the credit.

“What do you say?” he prodded. “Can I count you in?”

“I'll read the summary,” she said. “No promises.”

“I'll take it. Thanks, Jewel. I'll call you back in the morning.”

“Fine.”

“Bye, love,” he said before ending the call.

Two seconds later she heard a ping. Paul's promised document had arrived.

Julia began reading the synopsis while standing just outside the dressing room waiting area. That's when she noticed Amanda's face peeking over the top edge of a partition door.

“There you are!” she said impatiently. “I've been waiting for five minutes.”

“Why didn't you come find me?” Julia asked.

Amanda slipped out of the dressing room to model the perfect outfit. “Because I don't want anyone to see me in this!” she said with mortification. “I told you, it's too old!”

“Here,” Julia said while shoving three other ensembles toward her foster daughter. “Try these.”

Amanda glanced at the selections while shaking her head in obvious disbelief. “These are worse!”

“Just try them,” Julia whispered intensely.

Amanda disappeared indignantly around the corner.

Julia found herself drawn into the text of Paul's project summary, her alarm escalating with each sentence. After reaching the end she quickly tapped her phone. Seconds later Troy answered.

“Hi, beautiful!”

Julia smiled at the voice of a man who considered her anything but old and out of style. “We have a situation,” she said.

“What's wrong?”

“I need you to look at something I just received from Paul Daugherty.”

“Paul Daugherty!” Troy said, understandably surprised to hear the name again.

“He just called me,” Julia explained. “He's left RAP to launch his own publicity agency.”

“I'm glad to hear it,” Troy said, apparently pleased to have one fewer snake in an influential editorial position. “What did he want?”

“He's looking for help. Just landed a big contract with the federal government that…well…you need to read what he sent me. Where are you right now?” Julia asked.

“In Sports Authority looking at running shoes.”

Where else
? she thought. “Meet us just outside”—she glanced around the store to find the name—“Talbots. It's a few stores down from Macy's.”

“How about in ten minutes?” he asked.

Before she could reply, Julia noticed a blur of preteen movement out of the corner of her eye. She turned to see Amanda, not modeling the next outfit, but storming toward the store exit.

“Amanda!” she called out. “Where are you going?”

The girl continued her escape without a word.

“You better come immediately,” Julia said into the phone. “Amanda just bolted.”