“Dax? What are you doing in these parts?”
Dax turns to see Tacoma. His practice partner is usually to be found in Hobby Two, overseeing everything from tennis-court schedules to bingo night. Tacoma explains that he’s been temporarily reassigned due to the extra interest in Mrs. Montag in the wake of Delilah’s passing. Dax has always envied his friend’s talent for fitting in anywhere. Nothing much ruffles Tacoma’s feathers—not even losing. “Sorry about your match, Tacoma.”
His friend gives an easy shrug. “My only regret is that I won’t get a chance to beat you in the finals.” The first of the semis is tomorrow and Dax is playing, with the finals in a couple of weeks. Tacoma cocks his head in the direction of Delilah’s memorial. “I bet you’re wondering why most of the stuff is from fans and not the cast or crew. Theater tradition, apparently. You’re supposed to give flowers when they shine on the stage, not when they’re dead.”
“There are some from Rick—were they a couple?”
“Rumor is, no.” Tacoma’s quiet, shy manner makes him a good listener and therefore privy to gossip. “Word is she’d lost interest in dating a while back. He, of course… Well, there’s a rotation of who’s on his arm around town.”
A bouquet of lilies that matches Rick’s rests against the back of the table. The accompanying note has made its way onto the floor and Dax picks it up. From Jada, professionally handwritten. It’s not an end. Delilah’s way of doing things will continue. A nod to Delilah’s leadership skills. Dax tucks the note back into the bouquet as Tacoma prods him, “Did you come for the flowers, to recycle them into compost?”
“No, though now that you mention it, I’ll add that to the task sheet for the week. Tacoma, er—they don’t by any chance have you working on ticket sales?”
“Ticket sales, props, sets, wherever I’m needed. It’s been a bit of a madhouse.”
“Look, can you do a buddy a favor?”
“You name it. But on one condition—that you beat Angus in the finals.”
Angus is heavily favored to win his semi, also tomorrow. “If I make it to the finals, I’ll try my best… Here’s the thing. I need a couple of tickets. For, uh, opening night.”
“For Mrs. Montag? You got a hot date or something?”
“Er—no. I thought Scottie might enjoy an evening out.”
“Yeah, Incompetent is not a brand anyone wants to be stuck with… The tickets are scorching hot, but I can try.” Tacoma’s eyes glaze over as they go low left. “We had a rush on tickets. They all say they want to support Vicky the Former Understudy in her new starring role… Well, I don’t like to say it, but I think they’re hoping to see a disaster of a performance… Hold on, you might be in luck. Two seats left.” He blinks and turns back to Dax. “Decent ones, as it happens.”
Dax can translate the meaning of decent. Expensive. Reserved for the Top Hundred. “You’re sure you won’t get in trouble if you release the seats to me?”
“Nah, you’re a rising tennis star. I’ll say I expect you to soar to yet greater social heights by winning the tournament.”
“Thanks, Tacoma, I owe you one.”
It crosses Dax’s mind that Lu and Wayne might have wanted to be included—he did invite Wayne out for drinks last night, as promised—but as there are only two tickets, it’s out of his hands. He’s hoping his bank balance is enough to cover the cost. Apparently, Tacoma is wondering the same thing and his eyes go low left again. “Sorry man, I need to check your…”
“Sure. I’ll wait.”
Dax is permitted to pay. After Tacoma is called off to help out elsewhere, Dax realizes, somewhat belatedly, that he skipped a step. Fingers crossed, he sends a thought: “Hey, Scottie, are you free Saturday evening?”
“What for?”
“It’s a surprise. Wear your best outfit.”
“I was planning on spending the day packing.”
It’s his turn to ask, “What for?”
“I may have shot myself in the foot. Never mind that. See you Saturday.”
On the way out he passes the memorial for Delilah again. A phrase comes to him from a history lesson: The Queen is dead, long live the King, or maybe it was the other way around. But it doesn’t ring true—not with Rick as the new number one. Rick was a pretty shrub in the shade of Delilah’s oak, nothing more. But maybe he’ll rise to the occasion. Stranger things have happened. Still, Dax reminds himself, this is why it’s best never to think about the List and one’s place on it. It hardly ever makes sense.
11
It’s Thursday and I’m at the Agency, vacuuming the fourth-floor hallway. To one side is the room that among other desks holds what used to be my own and to the other is McKinsey’s office—empty at the moment—then Wayne’s down a bit. Except for Wayne, who greeted me with a friendly wave, everyone’s avoiding meeting my eye. They’re embarrassed on my behalf. I’m not. A job’s a job, though I wish mine had sent me to a less familiar hallway.
The vacuum starts making a strange noise and I stop at the window at the far end and crouch down to dig around the wheels. The culprit is a bird feather that traveled indoors on someone’s shoe. I yank it out and, rising to my feet, catch sight of my reflection in the window, which overlooks a narrow alley. The reflection is faint but not too faint for Cece to helpfully top it with my halo. The black void is now doubled, the onyx from Rick as weighty as the old one from the Code Enforcement Office.
I miscalculated. If Rick isn’t guilty, I reasoned, he’ll look up the meaning of awesome and shrug off my rude onyx, worth no more than the feather in my hand on Hugh’s social scale. And if he is guilty, he’ll contact me privately to find out what I know. Instead he seems to have settled on a public battle with a low-Lister, which should be beneath the number one. It means he’s either innocent and very petty…or guilty as heck and wants to send me out a gate no matter how it makes him look.
A broad-shouldered shadow falls across my reflection and I turn to see Bodi. He nods at me. “Scott. I’m a bit early for a meeting with McKinsey. When is she expected back?”
The closed door to McKinsey’s office means she’s with a client somewhere. I set the feather on the windowsill. “No idea. I don’t work here anymore.”
“I can see that… What’s in the window?”
His presence is no less alarming here than it was in the security office across the street, and my answer is a frank, “A new onyx. From Rick.”
“Well, that’ll ding your rank,” he remarks. “Can you point me to the coffee machine?”
“The kitchenette’s that way, across from the elevator. Wait.” I stop him before he can leave. “Has security looked into Delilah’s death—really looked, I mean? Did you know that all of the Tenners were in her suite the night of the town party—and Ben as well? Have you checked which of them was the last to leave? Did any of the neighbors see or hear anything? Did Delilah’s CC have a record of why she was on the balcony so late?”
My breathless questions come to a halt and I expect Bodi to snap at me that he knows how to do his job, thank you very much. Instead he picks up the feather and takes a seat on the windowsill, his broad back blocking out much of the light, and asks a question of his own. “Why did Rick give you the onyx?”
“I gave him one first.”
“I see. And why did you do that?”
I kneel back down to close the vacuum’s wheel compartment. “Because I think he did it. Pushed Delilah off the balcony.” The words sound wild even to my own ears. I’m ready to jump in with indications of Rick’s guilt—the lure of Eternal Life, Delilah holding a secret over his head, his smug smile at the seeding, the conversation I overheard in the Tenner room. Bodi motions for me to stop fiddling with the vacuum. “I want to tell you a story.”
I stand back up, puzzled. “About Rick?”
“About Blank Jack. I interviewed him when he first came in. He wouldn’t tell me why he wanted to live here in the Dome. All he kept saying is that he was a logger Outside but no longer
wanted to do that. I felt he was hiding something and was all set to say no before I finally dragged it out of him. His whole family—wife, elderly parents, a grown-up child living with them with a family of their own—they were all killed in an avalanche. Their cabin was hit. He dug and dug but couldn’t reach them. They’re still out there somewhere.”
“That’s awful,” I say, my own problems rendered insignificant, though I don’t understand why Bodi is telling me this.
“Yes, it is awful.” He smooths down the brownish barbs of the feather between two fingers. “I was never much focused on my rank anyway, but that day was when I stopped caring about it altogether. I figure as long as my paycheck hasn’t shrunk down to nothing, things must be going okay.”
“Bodi, do you believe me? That I didn’t wipe the Maintenance alerts—that I’m not responsible for Delilah’s death?”
“What I believe is that you should leave Rick alone.”
Whether he still suspects me or not, the advice is sensible, if a bit too late. I stare at this stern man perched on the windowsill in a starched security uniform, his knees sticking out at a right angle, the feather small in his hands. “Rick’s onyx will boot me into last place come Monday,” I say.
“Yes, well…” McKinsey exits the elevator at the far end of the hallway and waves a hello, and Bodi adds, rising to his feet, “I think McKinsey might be the one to consult for practical advice on what to do if you’ve offended the number one.”
McKinsey spots the new onyx at once and shakes her head at me. “Scott, an onyx from Rick? I don’t know what’s going on with everyone this week. Both you and Wayne seem to have forgotten how the game is played.”
“Wayne?” I remember what Lu said about his gems starting to go downhill.
“He doesn’t have an onyx from the number one like you do, but he’s acquired a hatful of small ones.”
Bodi hands the feather back to me and follows McKinsey into her office. Just before he reaches back to close the door, I overhear him say, “It’s the Ben matter. I have an update.”
“The halo-padding rumor?” McKinsey’s voice is muffled.
“I know it’s not great timing for a scandal to break, but it might be the right thing to do…”
The Agency doors are pretty solid and I hear no more, but it’s enough. Nothing to do with Delilah’s death; just another halo-padding scandal, though I wouldn’t have pegged Ben as the type.
I restart the vacuum cleaner. Leave Rick alone, Bodi said, but I can’t. Cece, some groveling might be in order. Send this to Rick: “Can I come by to apologize?”
If Rick responds with a yes, I can try to work into the conversation the evening of Delilah’s death, perhaps catch him in a lie…such as what time he supposedly left her suite. Pushing the vacuum back and forth, I consider a different matter. Wayne’s got a hatful of small onyxes, McKinsey said—as if he, too, has been poking around and getting under people’s skin. Cece, we might have a brand rival.
Someone else wants to be Sherlock Scottie?
Not exactly. Wayne the Killer Catcher, maybe. This is good news—you know what they say, two heads are better than one.
Wayne is right down the hall, but I don’t want to talk to him here—not about this. I send him a thought asking to meet up after work and we settle on half past five.
I’m approaching the front doors of Puget Chow when three women come out. It’s the popular PAL trio, Magda, Mia, and Audrey. I brace myself, though perhaps being socially cut means they won’t bother lobbing barbs at me.
I’m wrong. Magda sends a taunting “Incompetent Interns should know their place,” in my direction, a quote from Rick’s onyx for me. The other two take up the chant. “On a sled, on a sled…”
“What did she say to Rick—that things were awesome for him?”
“Bet she doesn’t think they’re awesome for her now, Audrey…”
“Tooth Gap on a sled, on a sled…”
Ignoring them, I go inside. Wayne’s at a table, lost in thought above a tall glass of lemonade. Late afternoon clouds have hidden the sun and the grub spot, with its medley of mismatched tables and chairs, is lit by ceiling lights above busy tables. Wayne starts at my presence, though we arranged to meet here. His hair is loose around his shoulders and though he’s never been known for a particularly smooth chin, he seems to have forgotten to shave at all the past couple of days. He says cheerfully enough, “Scottie, we seem to be in a race to the bottom.”
I take the chair across from him. “Lu’s worried about you.”
“Join me in a lemonade. It’s very good today.” He takes a long sip through the straw. “Have you ever considered how fragile and wondrous citrus trees are?”
Minor though they may be, the new onyxes are threatening to overrun his halo, for the moment held back by the good gems he’s garnered over the years. Eight onyxes in the past three days. That’s a lot of people ignoring the keep-your-gripes-to-yourself suggestion in the Code. And no onyx from Rick… Does that mean Rick isn’t his main suspect? I lean forward to study the comments in Wayne’s gems but he sticks a hand in front of my eyes and his halo vanishes. “Scottie, let it be.”
I sit back—did Sherlock in his fictional investigations have this much trouble getting people to open up?—and shake my head. “Fine. What do you want to talk about? Everyone’s favorite subject, the birds? Now that Ben’s in the Ten, what do you think he’ll do, build a giant cage in Founders Square?”
“Don’t care about Ben.”
“Train the sparrows to carry tiny packages cross-town?”
“Don’t care about the sparrows.”
“Well, then, how are things going with Lu?”
“Better than I could ever have expected.” The words come out in a rush, seeming to astonish Wayne himself and arresting his hand on the way to the glass.
“That’s good, isn’t it?” I venture.
“It’s complicated, Scottie.” Wayne drains the glass as if the citrus trees really are all about to die out any day now. Having signaled the server for a refill and an extra glass, he says, “Look, it’s Delilah’s death.”
I sit up in the chair. Finally. “What about it?”
“Her fall off the balcony… Are we supposed to pretend it means nothing?”
12
Dax is unsurprised to find Puget Chow packed this time of day—the cafe adjoins the youth center and is popular with those who live or work within the complex. He is, however, somewhat surprised to see Scottie at a corner table with Wayne. He stops by before getting in line. “Hey, you two.”
Scottie starts at his greeting. “Hey yourself. We’re just, uh, enjoying lemonade. What are you doing all the way down here?”
A curt response. She must still be mad about how unfeeling he came across in talking about Delilah’s seeding. “Had to check on a vegetable patch nearby and got thirsty,” he explains.
“Have some lemonade,” Wayne offers. “I wonder if Outsiders grow citrus. I’ve heard they’ve repurposed abandoned indoor malls and sports arenas for farming.”
“Only if they have a way of heating those spaces.” It’s a subject Dax can expound on for hours but he resists pulling up a chair as Scottie’s body language reads that he wouldn’t be welcome. There is a new addition in her halo. How does she always manage to get into trouble? Wayne, for his part, also has a dimmer halo—Lu won’t be happy.
“Well, see you later,” Scottie says.
“Right, better get my drink. See you Saturday.”
“What are we doing?” She forestalls what he was about to say by adding, “I know, it’s supposed to be a surprise. So surprise me now.”
He wishes Wayne weren’t here to listen in. “Uh—I have two tickets for Mrs. Montag.”
“The play?” she says, perking up. “Yes, let’s go see Rick in his natural habitat.”
This strikes him as a rather strange response, but he’s used to that with Scottie.
Lemonade in hand—the lidded cup will make its way
back to Puget via the town-wide recycling system—he exits via a side door. It opens again behind him and he turns, hoping Scottie followed him out.
It’s Wayne. “Daxton, can I ask you a question? It’s kind of personal.”
“Sure.” Dax’s general policy is that anyone can ask; it’s the answering that’s not guaranteed.
“How come Scottie has no gem from you? Lu does—a ruby.”
Dax doesn’t see how it’s any of Wayne’s business, but he explains his philosophy. “I take my time in assessing a person’s value to the town. When Lu graduated—seven months after me—I waited a bit while she settled into her job at the Oyster and I had a chance to observe her as an adult before giving her the ruby.”
Oliver was a problem. Dax couldn’t in all honesty give him anything beyond a jade, so he did nothing. This weighs on him—will weigh on him forever, he expects.
And then there’s Scottie. She said his philosophy was too rigid and they bickered about it, the result being that they were holding off on giving each other gems.
Wayne gives a snort. “Is that why we met up for drinks the other day—so you could assess my value?”
“It’s just how I am,” Dax defends himself. He ended up giving Wayne a ruby, mostly for Lu’s sake. Wayne struck him as possessing a frivolous streak.
“Scottie’s been out of the youth center for a year now,” Wayne points out. “She’s a responsible citizen and her rank could sure use a boost. It’s simple enough: How do you, Daxton, feel about Scottie? In your life, is she a jade-level person? Amber? Ruby?”
“Ruby.”
“Well then, there you have it. It really is as simple as—”
Dax holds up a hand. “I was about to do it anyway.”
All the Whys of Delilah's Demise Page 9
