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

Chapter 2: The Music Box (Part 1 of 6)

Barbara Gracie glided across the blazing parking lot, like a glacier over the scorched pavement.  The only thing impeding her smooth progress was the rubber tips of her heels sticking to the asphalt that the mid-afternoon sun threatened to turn back into tar.

Her pale skin bristled at the heat.  Sweat fought to break free of her tight pores, but they stubbornly refused to show any sign of melt.

The front doors of the building led into the sixty-foot high, reflective gold, glass atrium.  The rest of the structure was pink concrete and only two stories in height.  According to the sign facing the highway, it housed Aira Cosmetics.

Barbara opened the door and was hit with a blast of wintry air conditioning.  The relief of it coated her skin and loosened the tension in her back, but the only sign she made was to adjust the collar of her crisp, cornflower blue blouse. 

She had been in Arizona for less than a day.  Not nearly enough time to become acclimatized or to get over her jetlag, but it hardly showed.

The lobby was filled with a forest of palms and tropical plants.  There were creamy beige leather sofas arranged in semi-private seating areas throughout the expansive space, as though an army of visitors were expected. 

The only person visible was a bored receptionist, sitting behind a polished wood console.  Barbara gave her name to the young woman and picked a couch facing away from her.  She sat down on the edge of the seat and adjusted her hem, so her white skirt covered her knees.

While she waited, her eyes traveled across the foliage.  Opposite her, there was an exotic plant with red flowers.  Each of the large petals had a yellow mark in the shape of an angel.  It looked like it might be poisonous.

"Ah, Dr. Gracie.  We've been expecting you," a man said from behind her. 

Of course, you have.  I'm half an hour late, she thought.

His voice was gravelly.  Most people would say it was deep, but she detected a subtle tenor under his hoarseness.

A smoker.  He's a smoker, and he's weak.

She waited for him to circle around to greet her, without moving or showing any indication she had heard him.

"We are so pleased to have you join our team."

"And you are?" Barbara asked.  

His clothes were neat but inexpensive and untailored — beige suit, white and dark blue checked shirt, and a plain tie matching the color in his shirt.  His hair was dark, full but thinning.  His face was tanned, the cheekbones sharp, a cleft in the chin, and faint lines marking the progress of time.  The hand he put out for her was poorly manicured but soft and uncalloused. 

Middle management, she assessed.

"R.J. Blass."  He waited for her to take his hand and shake it.  "But you can just call me R.J."

"And you are?" she asked again, looking up at him from her seat.  There was disdain in the slow blink she gave.

R.J. let his arm drop.  His face revealed no offense.  "I'm the administrator of this facility.  I guess I'm your manager.  But we can discuss that more once we are inside.  Would you be so kind as to follow me?"

She got up, but there was nothing that could be considered kind about her movements.  Barbara had accepted the DTAA's deal, but she didn't have to like it.  And she knew instantly she wasn't going to like working for them or this man.

Her new boss led her down a hall behind reception to a door marked "Testing – Authorized personnel only."  He swiped a security badge and held the door open for her.