The Things We Bury - Part 1: In Anticipation of the End of the World [Completed]

Chapter 2: The Music Box (Part 3 of 6)

Barbara Gracie turned the photo on the desk around to get a better look.  She examined it and nodded.  The expression that played on her face was an attempt at admiration.  Her features were forced, the purse on her lips strained.  She was a terrible actor.

The picture showed a young woman and two adorable children standing in front of a picnic blanket.  A cliché wicker basket sat between the little boy and girl.  Bucolic pastures rolled out behind them, stretching to the horizon.

"Nice family."  The phrase felt like it should be followed by it would be a shame if anything happened to them.

"Yes.  They are."  Maxwell turned it back to face him.  He calculated it would make him appear to be protective of the family – his family – and wouldn't give Gracie the chance to guess the photo's real purpose. 

It showed lots of open sky and lush green ground.  It was his small window of escape from the horrible weight of rock and sand that hung above him.  He looked at it every time the featureless, imperial blue walls started to tighten in on him. 

His office was one of the largest in the bunker, but the size did little to ease his anxiety.  Like all the offices, it had originally been a bedroom.  This one had been reserved for the governor or possibly a senator, in case the Soviets decided to launch their nukes.  This hole was designed to be a refuge of last resort not a place of work.

The picnic scene helped him breathe easier, whenever the hot, prickly sweat began to inch down the back of his neck.  He had no idea who the people were.

Maxwell picked the smile he thought best said, I am at your disposal, to cover the scowl that threatened to overtake his features.  He had no interest in spending a minute more with her than he had to.   Her presence made the work he was doing on the budget spreadsheet appealing. 

"It is so pleasant to see you again, Dr. Gracie.  It was very nice of you to think of me on your first day here."

"Cut the shit."  She threw herself into one of the guest chairs.  It seemed more like she was testing its solidity than to take a seat.  "I want to see my patient.  And not through three-inch-thick Plexiglas."

His smile never wavered.  "I see you still possess the same blunt wit I found so charming at our first meeting."  The same blunt wit and the same sociopathic stare.  He certainly hadn't minded the Plexiglas that had separated them in the prison's visiting room.

Sitting in the chair, it looked like she was trying to slouch.  Her butt was on the edge and her spine curved to meet the seat back, but her shoulders remained rigid and thrust straight back in perfect poise, ruining the appearance of casualness.  The waves of malevolence that radiated off of her didn't help either. 

All of her movements and expressions were wrong.  Maxwell had studied people long enough to spot a performance.  She was playing a part.  But not to fool him.  To appear normal?  Or perhaps to appear human?

"Are you going to let me see her or not?"  Direct and to the point – at least, her agenda was always clear.

"Fine."  He let his smile drop.  His mouth formed into a serious, neutral expression, to signal he was being all business.  "Wear a level three containment suit, and I'll release the lockdown on her enclosure, for you."  Maxwell turned back to his computer monitor, hoping she'd get the message that they were done.

When the fight she was expecting didn't materialize, she stood up.  She made a confused gesture, transferring her weight from one foot to the other, as though she wasn't sure if she should take a step to the door or towards the desk.

"Why do I need a suit?"

Was she really trying to prolong the antagonism?  Why did that surprise him?

"Because we haven't ruled out a pathogen as the cause for her condition.  If she was to bite or scratch you..."  Maxwell shrugged.  "Well let's just say, we went to a lot of trouble getting you out of prison.  We wouldn't want that to be a wasted effort.  I have better things to do besides finding a new doctor."

She bristled as she smelled the dismissive tone in his voice.

"I didn't think you were so superstitious.  Do you really believe in those old fairy tales?  Or have you just watched too many horror movies?"

It was becoming clear: she wasn't going to leave until she had her fight.  Maxwell sighed inwardly.  Might as well get it over with then.

"It's not about what I believe, Angel."  Barbara's eye's bulged, and her deathlike pallor vanished as her cheeks became tinged with red.  There.  The ax has dropped.  He kept talking while her anger grew.  "Now if there is nothing else, I have a lot of work to do.  And I believe you were anxious to see your patient."

Barbara Gracie slammed her hands down on his desk like she was swooping down on prey.  "What did you call me?"  The subdued fury was the closest Maxwell had come to see her show a genuine emotion. 

While she waited for his reply, her fingers pressed against the laminate wood surface.  She looked as though she was preparing to shred it apart.

Maxwell looked up at her in mock horror, making sure she knew he was playing with her.  That should really piss her off.  "I'm so sorry.  I forgot you might have some bad associations with that name."

The Angel of Death, that's what the media had called her during the trial.  It was hardly original, but it did suit her.  With her porcelain features and blonde hair, she looked perfectly angelic on the front page of the tabloids.  The national press probably would never have picked it up, eight dead patients over three years weren't all that sensational, but add a pretty woman and a catchy nickname and it was a story.

"Listen to me, you bastard.  I agreed to work here, but that doesn't mean I'm going to take any of your shit."

The smile crept back onto his face inch by inch and twisted at the ends, Grinch-like.  Did she really think she could intimidate him?  Did she really believe she was the only killer in the room? 

He imagined what it would be like turning the tables on her.  He would spring from his chair, hurdling over the surface of the desk in a fraction of a second.  His right foot would sweep her legs out from under her, while a quick, two-finger smack to her solar plexus would knock the wind out of her and push her down onto the desk.  From there, his hands would lock around her long slender neck and snap it.

He could practically feel the silky, tender flesh beneath his fingers and her warm breath on his face, as he leaned over her, his body pressing against hers.

The flush of arousal caught Maxwell off guard.  His brain stammered trying to remember the part he was playing.  Somewhere off stage, an inner voice called him his cue, and he continued.  "Don't you be worrying about me.  You report to Blass.  It's his shit you'll have to deal with.  And believe me, you will take it unless you want to return to your cell and your fifteen-minute exercise breaks."  He made a little shooing motion with his hand.  "Now, if you'll excuse me..."

She glared at him a moment longer, before spinning around and heading for the door.  The phrase tail between her legs came to Maxwell's mind, and he snapped his eyes away from her retreating white skirt.

Her hand touched the door handle and she stopped short.  Barbara turned back with one more attack on her lips.  "Understand this: if you ever call me that again, I will kill you."

"I doubt that very much, Angel."