Justine’s mother had worked all the time, so her grandmother was the adult who had been around to raise her. Much of what her grandmother said was strange. “The cold is what we hate more than anything, the distance from others, being the one on the outside alone. The heat we love. The closeness, the touching and motion and feeling, the mind and pulse racing, and wanting more. It almost doesn’t matter whether it’s more fighting or its opposite, because there’s always some of both and either can switch to the other with a look or a word. It’s what we want above all other wants, and we’re right to. But over time, heat burns. It leaves us with scars and calluses, so we’re thicker-skinned and tougher, but less able to feel than we were when we were young and first stepped into the fire.”
Justine remembered how her grandmother had stopped, her eyes fixed on the little girl’s, shining like obsidian beads. The girl could see there was a frustration behind them. “When it’s your time, move toward the heat and the light that’s life. The cold is death. You may not remember who told you this, or know that it was true until you’re old. You only need to remember which direction to take. Anybody who tells you different—priest, teacher, politician, boss—is your enemy and wants to fool you into working for his benefit.” The girl knew even then that the way the old woman said it—that she would probably not even remember—was her way of making sure she would remember it forever.
Justine grew, and she got hurt sometimes. Her grandmother would take a quick glance and say, “You’re all right.” After this had happened dozens of times, Justine stopped letting the old woman know. All of the cuts, bruises, or burns would heal, because what she’d said was true again. What her grandmother had done was give her a kind of invisible armor that weighed nothing. The girl could have the armor because her grandmother had it first. The girl never heard her complain. Even the couple of times when the old woman hurt herself in the kitchen, she looked past the blood or the burned skin and said, “It’ll heal,” ran water over the spot, covered it, and appeared to forget the whole event. She hadn’t even seemed surprised in the instant when the cut or burn had happened.
For the old woman the world was both a good and bad place in extremes. It was to be enjoyed, but she didn’t trust it. If she shook a pill out of the pharmacist’s bottle and, instead of the one she had chosen, another fell out first, she would make the effort to get the one she had intended. When the sharp-eyed young girl asked her why, she said she liked to be in charge. The girl knew her well enough to realize that the old woman couldn’t be sure about the pill that had volunteered: this could be the one destined to get caught in her throat, or it could be the one that a benevolent deity had induced to jump in front to save her. She had little faith in benevolent deities, and if they saved people, she had no special right to be one of them.
At first the girl couldn’t imagine why her grandmother thought there would only be one bad pill in the bottle, but with a little thought she understood. If there was a poisoner, he would want her to have only one fatal pill. That way, if she died, all the pills left in the bottle would be found clean and wholesome, so her death would be dismissed as natural.
Justine’s relationship with her grandmother consisted of shared conversations that probably nobody else would have found important because the old woman and the young one were not really part of the current world. One had nearly used up her turn and the other was waiting for hers. The one who had to face the current world was Justine’s mother, who worked and supported them all.
Justine was slipping into thoughts about how much of her relationship with her mother had consisted of missing her when she heard Ben Spengler answer his own phone again, which he usually didn’t do unless somebody was sick. He said, “I’m sorry, Ms. Brellin. Spengler-Nash doesn’t release any personal information about its employees. This is a private security agency, and that would cause an unnecessary risk to our clients as well as our employees. I’m sure you understand. And of course, this is a police matter, so there are strict rules about the information the police want released.”
Justine was sure that if Ms. Brellin understood, she didn’t care. Reporters needed stories, and anything that had even a remote connection to the entertainment business was like a magic elixir to them.
He said, “And these two gentlemen had three companions, also armed. Violent criminals often have associates who want revenge.”
The next call came only five minutes later. Justine reached for the phone on her desk, but Spengler had disconnected it. “Spengler-Nash,” he said. “This is Spengler.” He listened for about thirty seconds, then said, “I’m sorry, Mr. Huebler. Television interviews are out of the question.” He listened again, then said, “I’ve seen the technique. Everybody has. A darkened backlit face and disguised voice. Yes, it’s pretty effective. But no, thank you.” He listened again. “No, not me either, or anybody else in the company.” She saw the muscles in his jaw tighten. “We don’t have a ‘side of the story.’ And we’re not interested in publicity, good or bad. Goodbye.” He hung up.
She stepped into the doorway of his office. “I’m sorry, Ben.”
“Don’t be. We—particularly you—did what we were hired to do. This will cool off in a day or two. Once they’re all convinced that we’re not dumb enough to do what they want—which can only get us in trouble—and we haven’t agreed to an exclusive for somebody else, they’ll turn to the next story.”
She said, “You know they’re going to get something they can write. I’m grateful that it won’t be from us. But this isn’t the kind of story that stays hidden.”
“I know,” Spengler said. “But doing interviews can only get us in trouble with the cops. We depend on their patience and goodwill, and they have to sort out what happened and why, and the rest of this mess. So we’ve got to stay out of their way. And this stuff is why everybody here has a work name on their company ID. All we’re doing right now is buying time until the cops hold a press conference.”
Justine shrugged. “Thanks. I’m not sure what to do with that time.”
“Reload,” he said. “Not literally. But rest up. Your name will be announced or leaked, and a day later, your address and whatever else they can find will be on computer screens. These same people will be on your front lawn and banging on your door five minutes later.”
“You think it’ll be that bad?”
“A lone woman fights off five criminals to save an old couple.” He amended it. “A famous, rich old couple, both of whom give money they got from producing beloved TV shows to lots of good causes. And once the camera gets a look at you, it will be worse. A lot of media people will make you their favorite human until too many people know too much about you for you to be safe. And what the hell are you even doing here? It’s not even your shift, and if it was, we couldn’t send you out to protect a client. You’re the subject of a police investigation.”
“Investigation?” she said. “Did anybody call it that? Won’t they just check my record and ask the only nonsuspect witnesses—you and the Pinskys—what happened?”
“I don’t know what the Pinskys told the cops last night. I know the cops asked them to hold off on any public statements for now, because I talked to Jerry and Estelle a while ago. Look, I’d like you to go home and pack a suitcase. You can stay at my place for a few days until we know where this is going.”
“I don’t know,” she said. “What are you going to do?”
“I plan to hang out here at the office while you have my house to yourself. That big couch in my office is where I sleep best anyway.”
She walked into the office and sat on the couch. “Maybe I should be the one to sleep here. I’d be surrounded by armed bodyguards twenty-four hours a day.”
He thought for a moment. “You’re right. It hadn’t occurred to me, but this is about as safe as a place can be. We’re on the fifth floor, and there aren’t any taller buildings close enough to make a rifle shot practical.”
She shrugged. “Sounds like my dream house.”
“I’m not kidding,” Spengler said. “Do it and we’ll both sleep better.”