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"Oh, rats," he muttered, sensible shoes pausing at the bottom of the stairs. Hefting her laundry basket under one arm, Nicki bent down and snatched up the fallen bra, feminine and lacy and that no one would see her wear, now that she was practically a widow. She wasn't wearing her ring, and for the first time since she'd taken it off two weeks

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As far as Bush was concerned, it had been a perfectly normal day thus far. He had been in the kitchen, and had just been picking up at apple from the careful stack kept on the counter when the scream suddenly came up from the basement. Some instinct kicked in - that of an officer, or a member of the IPD, or merely a gentleman - and a second later he had dropped the apple and was hurrying to the stairs to see what had happened.

He all but charged into the still screaming Nicki Grant halfway down the basement stairs. "Whoa there-" he grabbed her arm to stop both of them from tumbling down the rest of the way- "calm yourself. Calm yourself. What's going on here?"

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In that moment, she wasn't sure she'd ever been so relieved to see a familiar face. He wasn't a friend, maybe not quite, but Nicki Grant wasn't the type of woman to have friends. Back home had family and acquaintances and enemies, and she had a man who might have loved her, only he thought she was someone else entirely.

But right then, even just an acquaintance was close enough to matter, and she took hold of his wrist, turning to pull him back down the stairs with her. "You have come with me," she said, the only explanation she would give.

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"Good Christ, woman what are you going on about?" But she had her hand around his wrist and was already dragging him down the stairs. Bush could only follow, even more baffled than he had been when the screaming had started up. With some women he would have chalked it up to hysteria, but while Nicki might have her abrasive moments, she seemed sensible enough to him. "Mrs. Grant, if there's something going on here..."

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She tugged him around the corner, coming to an abrupt stop with the Prophet in his hat and slippers staring unseeing at the two of them, and even though she'd seen it once before, her heart lept up into her throat.

"There," she said, trying to catch her breath, "That's what's going on."

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Bush had seen dead men before. Hell, he'd seen them in much worse shape than this man, propped up like a doll in a chair, looking like he could stand up at any moment if weren't for that glassy look in his eyes. Bush had seen more gruesome than that. But the dead man in the linen closet was bloody eerie, and all the more so thanks to his mundane surroundings.

No wonder she'd been screaming.

He whistled low. "Jesus Christ in heaven, where the hell did he come from?" He turned. "You just found him there? Tell me straight. Tell me precisely what happened."

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"I don't know!" she shouted, taking a deep breath and a moment to clamp down on her hysteria before she continued, "I came around the corner and there he was! Oh, good Lord. Mama's going to be beside herself."

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Along with seeing dead bodies before, Bush had seen his share of dead bodies that had been sitting around for a while, and he was pretty sure this one hadn't been. Hell, people were going through here all the time. If the dead man had been there for a while, someone else would have noticed him first.

He shot Nicki a sharp look. "You mean to say you know this fellow?"

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"Of course I know him! He's my father," she said, doing her best to tone down the volume of her voice, but it was a losing battle.

"Why on Earth is he tied to a lawn chair?"

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"Oh, Christ." Well, that gave the story a whole new cast. He'd heard of bodies of people showing up on the island before the same way things showed up sometimes, but he didn't have the damnedest idea how he was supposed to explain that. He'd report it, and maybe those scientist types - squints, the called themselves - could figure out what had happened to him. Putting a hand on Nicki's shoulder, he began to steer her out of the room. No reason to linger in there, staring at the dead man. "Strange question, ma'am, but you didn't see him on the island before this, did you?"

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"No. He shouldn't be here. I don't... I don't know why he's here like this," she sighed, her hands opening and closing at her sides, all this pent up energy but no room to pace.

Is it wrong to wish your parents dead?

Then, suddenly, her eyes widened, jaw clinching angrily, and she said, "I know who did this. It was Alby. It has to be."

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Bush was a practical man. He did what had to be done with little fuss and much efficiency. And in terms of the practical, the matter here was fairly straightforward. He'd write up a report for the IPD, and they would confirm that this man had not been on the island before he had appeared dead in the linen closet. The entire matter would be chalked up to one of those strange and unsettling island tricks, and that would be that.

That would take care of the fact that Nicki looked about ready to fall over, and that Bush couldn't blame her for it. Deciding he'd see to the paperwork in a little bit, he led her to the kitchen and, without saying much of anything, started to make tea. "That someone from back home, ma'am?" He wasn't one to pry, but if she wanted to talk, he was there to listen.

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She nodded stiffly, squaring her shoulders and thinking of her father down there all alone. Thinking of him and feeling... nothing. No remorse, no pain, only confusion. Anger.

"My brother."

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"Ah." Bush's expression was difficult to read. He had long learned when and how to keep his opinions to himself, and even when not to have any opinions at all. "Sounds like quite the family you have, ma'am, if you don't mind me saying."