Dax makes a face. “What reason would I give? An expensive set of clothes would kind of stand out in the Gardens Center or on the tennis court.”
“Make something up.”
“You know I’m not great at lying.”
“You did seem to be struggling back in Franz’s therapy office. Just tell Ben it’s for next time you eat at the Oyster. For now I’ll put him down as Could be the killer—of more than just the sparrows’ chances of staying in town.”
We’ve looped the square and are back in front of the eatery, under a streetlamp buzzing intermittently as if the bulb is about to fail, a reminder that my time, too, is running out. The flickering plays with the shadows, morphing them as if they are living things. A soft flutter of wings makes itself heard somewhere in the dark. Life, it strikes me, is like that—you can never tell what’s in the shadows just up ahead. If I could, I’d freeze this moment forever—Dax and I under the dreamlike hum of the lamp.
I blurt out, “Hey, how come you never invite me to your tennis matches?”
Seeming a bit taken aback, Dax says, “I assumed you wouldn’t be interested.”
“Not in playing, but I could come and cheer you on. When’s this big match?” He tells me that it’s the tournament final, on Wednesday, and I add, “Well, good then—if I’m still around.”
“We still have all of tomorrow. Something will come up.”
It’s the first time I’ve ever heard Dax flat-out lie to me. I know he doesn’t believe that the next thirty-six hours will bring a miracle any more than I do. “It seems to me that we’re missing a big piece of the puzzle,” I say. “I wonder if one of the Tenners is ill and desperate for Eternal Life. Jada always looks so gaunt.” Inside the eatery, business is still brisk despite the late hour. I go on. “You know, I used to believe that a brand’s an artificial thing, a gimmick, but Delilah told me—that last morning—that for a brand to work, there has to be something real behind it. Jada’s brand—the best of everything—strikes me as dangerous, like a chemistry experiment where you don’t want to lift the lid off because whatever is within will scorch your eyebrows… Damn and damn.” I follow that up internally with Cece, pipe down, no one here cares that I used the word twice.
“What is it?” Dax asks.
My doubts spill out one after another. “What if there never was anything real behind Sherlock Scottie and it was just a house of cards—a story I fed myself to feel better about being slapped with the Incompetent Intern label—and Delilah and Rick’s accidents were just that and nothing more?”
Dax shakes his head as the streetlamp gives another flicker. “Like I said before, I believe you that something odd’s going on. That Delilah was killed.”
But not just Delilah. Gasps break out all around the square. Inside the eatery, the patrons are rising to their feet. Dax and I check the Commons to see what the news is.
Rick has succumbed to his injuries.
22
Housing Nine
It’s the night before Scottie and Wayne find out who won the race to the bottom. Dax is eating a cafeteria dinner alone when Tacoma, who lives a couple of floors above him, breaks his chain of thought. “Hey, Dax. How’s the meatloaf?”
“See if you can figure out what the mystery meat is. I sure can’t.”
Tacoma slides across him with his tray. After a few minutes of silence punctuated only by the sound of chewing, Dax’s hunger abates. He pushes the plate away, the crumbs on it a reminder that the kitchen will demote any leftover meatloaf to tomorrow’s cafeteria mix. This in turn reminds him of Scottie, not that he needs reminding. She’s all he can think about these days. He clears his throat. “Tacoma. I have a favor to ask.”
As sad as Rick dying is, he can’t help but view it through a personal lens. He tried to sound optimistic in talking to her, but Scottie’s saddled with that onyx for good. Dax went to Ben’s tailor shop for a suit fitting but it was a waste of time; he was attended to by an assistant, not Ben himself. As for Scottie, she’s vacuuming at the Agency, with hopes of catching McKinsey at the end of the workday. Doubtful anything will come of that either. Scottie’s only hope is that Hugh’s algorithm breaks in her favor. It’s a matter of simple math: Will all the onyxes Wayne’s accrued—minor ones from low-Listers all the way up Lucille’s in the Top Thousand—add up to more than the weighty two Scottie has, Rick’s and the section F violation?
“I’m listening,” Tacoma says as he works his way through the large serving. “And I think this might be turkey.”
Dax clears his throat again. “Any chance you could lob a ruby Scottie’s way? I know it’s against section A—Never ask for gems as a favor, either for yourself or others—but she’s in the bog and every little bit helps.”
“I didn’t know she was so low. Sure thing. Good for you, Dax.”
This makes Dax look up from the empty plate. “What for?”
“For breaking the Code. That’s growth, you know. No one’s perfect—why burden yourself with the expectation?”
Dax considers himself far from perfect. “I used to believe that I should adhere to every article of every section of the Code, no matter the circumstances…” In fact, he would have said as much had Tacoma asked him about it as recently as last week. “Now, I’m not so sure.”
“What’s changed?”
Dax knows he can trust Tacoma. And didn’t Tacoma just say no one’s perfect? Still, he lowers his voice. “I’m pretty sure I have feelings for Scottie.”
“Yeah, I like her too.”
“No, Tacoma… Feelings.”
“Oh. Dax, forget what I said about it being a good thing to occasionally bump against the Code.” Tacoma shakes his head. “Section Q’s not a good one to break. Are you going to do anything about it?”
“God, no. It wouldn’t be fair to Scottie—not with her miserable rank.”
“If you don’t mind my saying so, you’re better off not pursuing it even if her rank improves. For both of your sakes. Peggy and Leon—she was the best of our science teachers and he was a great gym coach—and look what happened there.”
Having made that rather prim remark, Tacoma releases the burp of a full stomach behind one hand. He’s set his fork down on a half-empty plate—a waste of food. But it’s not his friend Dax is mad at. It’s the corner he finds himself in: unable to help Scottie beyond asking a trusted friend to give her a ruby. Dax responds with “You’re probably right,” not adding what’s gnawing at him, a runaway weed in his perfectly ordered garden. The possibility that Scottie might feel the same way.
CC, show me the corkboard, he instructs, which brings up the large NO in his eye-field. Wipe and replace with a countdown clock to eight a.m. tomorrow.
This brings up 13 hours 29 minutes 15 seconds.
What are we counting down to, Daxton? his CC asks. Not curiosity, just an assistant learning the needs of its host. Here, at least, he can be honest. The moment Scottie finds out if she gets to stay one more week.
If she’s sent to a greenhouse, he won’t be able to visit her there. And if she’s sent sledding…well, he won’t let her go alone, that’s for sure. Despite all that he said to Wayne and Scottie herself, the possibility of leaving the Dome frightens him. It’s one thing to contemplate doing a bold thing at some far-off future moment and quite another to have it be only hours away.
He watches the clock tick down for a moment, then lets it disappear from his eye-field as his friend says, “Scottie’s kind of a funny one, isn’t she? Keeps to herself. But she seems all right.” Tacoma shifts in his seat and makes a show of being struck with an idea. “What if I ask her out—if she sticks around? If she says yes, that means she isn’t interested in you, which solves your problem.”
Dax can’t think of a reason to protest against this, at least not one that doesn’t involve jealousy. Irritated at himself for bringing up the subject in the first place, he asks, “Tacoma, have you ever broken the Code?”
His friend adjusts the fork on his pl
ate. “I suppose it’s only fair that I share back. Section A, in a major way—I engaged in halo-padding. But just the one time. I wanted a private bathroom but couldn’t afford one… You know me, I always have trouble…uh… going in front of others in the tennis arena locker room. Paid someone at the market. Well, there it is. They never caught it, the Social Agency, but I feel guilty every time I brush my teeth and the toothbrush goes back into a cup on my sink instead of a toiletries bag.” Tacoma digs something out of his teeth with his tongue and changes the subject. “Can you believe the news about Rick? Dead. I’ve never been this happy I’m only a mid-Lister—at least Gemma Bligh’s curse won’t come for me next. Still, there are plenty of people I could have been kinder to along the way, you know? Just in case, I gave rubies to Blank Jack and Renee…”
The Social Agency
Hugh is doing List housekeeping in preparation for tomorrow’s update. Rick will be coming off, leaving the count short again. It’s always unsettled him that when this sort of thing happens, a death, no one’s ever proposed not kicking the bottomer out, giving them a reprieve.
Making the battle for his customary detachment harder this evening is an unfamiliar emotion—astonishment. Rubies have been coming in for Blank Jack and Renee. The thoughts coupled to the rubies are hopeful: “I’ll be your friend; maybe this will help break Gemma Bligh’s curse.” That in itself is not surprising—after all, the Tenners unveiled a campaign aimed at achieving that very goal. But the scale of the response… With Rick’s passing adding fuel to the curse frenzy, the rubies are piling up, building to…what? A huge influx of gems can change fortunes overnight. The pair will be catapulted up, that’s for sure, Blank Jack out of the bottom thousand and Renee up from the middle of the List, where she started her new life with the welcome amber.
A knock takes his attention away from the screen. A young person is at the door. “I’m Scott,” she says. “I’d ask you to call me Scottie but won’t since you’re in charge of the List and the rule is that we’re supposed to go by our proper names. I used to work for McKinsey. Not anymore. Now I vacuum.”
There is a vacuum machine behind her in the hallway. He shakes his head. “Scott, all the cleaning inside this office is done by me.”
“I know. I came back up to talk to McKinsey but she’s left for the day. I wanted to tell her that someone’s trying to game the List.”
Hugh’s response to this is automatic. “Of course they are. People are always trying. You should talk to Bodi in the Security Office.”
“But do they usually resort to murder? Twice? And—I think they may have succeeded in getting away with it.”
He digests this remarkable statement for a moment. “You’d better come in.”
Her halo is weak—she’s in the bog, though the Listkeeper should not refer to position 9,999 in such a frivolous way. The too-long sleeves and her small frame make her seem very young, as do the words spilling out of her mouth. “They are all brands, the Tenners. Poulsbo is the nicest of them but even he’s become one: the Tired Handyman. Delilah told me that there has to be something real behind a brand, but real doesn’t necessarily mean good, does it? It could mean the opposite. Evil.”
Here she has to stop for a breath. There is no guest chair in the office as he rarely gets visitors, so he offers her his own and stands, arms crossed. The topic she’s brought up is one he’s given much thought to. “Scott, who tends to be at the top?”
“Those with the catchiest brands.”
He can supply a more granular answer. “It’s entertainers such as Delilah and Rick, and Samm and Sue, who make us feel and laugh—and yes, who have the obvious stage. Managers who’ve made a success of their own establishments and give the impression they might do the same for the town. Then there are those with big personalities—McKinsey is one—and those such as Poulsbo for whom goodwill accumulates over the years. As to Ben and others who chisel their way up, all we can hope is that they’ll make an effort to do as promised. Rank is not about who’s a decent person and who isn’t, as you’ve discovered. To put it bluntly, it’s about how many people know your name.”
“Like they used to know Delilah’s.”
“She hasn’t been forgotten.” He finds himself unexpectedly drawn into reminiscing. “Delilah, McKinsey, and I used to be PALs, did you know that? I was the oldest, graduated first, and was recruited as Belinda’s successor—you probably haven’t heard her name, and that’s as should be—a Listkeeper must aim for invisibility. It meant I had to sever all close connections, PALs included, and so I watched Delilah’s success from afar. She was special. She graduated and immediately landed a plum role at the theater… Now, what was it?” He can’t remember the name of the play. Fifty years is a long time. Delilah had fire. She commanded every room she walked into, even when she was just a girl with the shy smile, and he always felt as plain as cardboard next to her—and he had always been smitten. Scott is watching him and he gets back to the topic at hand. “Before Delilah, the turnover was more frequent—people rising to number one and dropping back down in the matter of weeks or months. But plays and partners and enemies came and went, and she stayed at the top.” He doubts that Scott knows about what else came along with the years—such as Delilah’s shady dealings that Bodi told him about—so he stops there.
Scott, having listened without interrupting, comes back with a shrewd, “Maybe you don’t understand how important rank is—what people might resort to.”
“Perhaps,” he admits. “But this I do know: Achieving the top spot is probably not as wonderful as it seems, including Eternal Life. Is it such a good thing to outlive peers? To have to battle to keep the number one chair, never be able to let your guard down?” He studies her earnest features. “So you don’t believe Gemma Bligh’s curse is real. You think Delilah and Rick were murdered.”
Her eyes are big as she looks up at him. “Bodi thinks I did it.”
“I find that hard to believe.”
“I may have to leave in the morning.”
He doesn’t make the rules. “Yes.”
“Dax can carry on looking into it,” she says with the energy of the young, “but I figured you should know too, so you can keep an eye on things. You have a unique perspective, up here on the fifth floor. You view us all from above.”
That’s a good way of putting it, the distance he tries to keep. “Then my perspective is this,” he says. “They may or may not be good people, the Tenners, but they’re far from being murderers.”
I couldn’t make Hugh see. In the hallway outside his office, I call up the snapshots of the Tenners one by one in my eye-field.
Bonnie, number one at last. Do her amiable features hide a sinister streak?
Chase, with his glib grin. A breath away from the top. Is there to be one more death?
Samm and Sue with their matching hair and outfits. Murder for the lark of it—a game.
Jada, thin-lipped and grim. Determined to climb—to the peak?
Poulsbo, overworked and tired, committing murder as an outlet for all the pressure.
Prim and proper Ben, justifying it as being for the common good. To help rid New Seattle of the tiresome birds.
Franz with the stupendous goatee… Murder as a compromise, to avoid something worse.
McKinsey, with the hobbies and sculpture dust on her hands…and Delilah and Rick’s blood?
No, I can’t—won’t—picture McKinsey as a killer.
I take the elevator down and hop on my bike—I fixed the flat tire despite being unable to shake the feeling that everything will change come the morning. I find Bonnie’s tavern packed. The town waits, here for the front-row seats—will Gemma Bligh’s curse strike a third time? A pair of bartenders are attending to the crush of customers but Bonnie herself isn’t behind the counter. She mentioned inventory the day Dax and I stopped by and the door to the tavern basement is ajar. My senses are tuned up high, on alert. Was the basement door left open the previous time? It strikes me as a thi
ng out of place.
The bartenders have their hands too full to worry about me and I slip through the side door unnoticed, leaving it partially open. Shadowy stairs lead down to an L-shaped space. The longer branch of the L holds the nuts and bolts of a tavern—cider and wine racks, wooden barrels, an apple press, bubbling fermentation containers. The shorter branch, into which the overhead lights scarcely reach, has shelving with burlap sacks stacked high. Both branches are empty of people, though someone seems to have been attending to one of the barrels—a plastic yardstick sticks out of it and the lid is on the floor at an angle against the barrel, as if the person was interrupted in the task.
I peer inside. Apples, a whole lot of them, red and plump. I haven’t had a fresh apple since leaving the youth center. I reach in for one and sink my teeth into it. The meat is soft and juice runs down my chin. I wipe it, then lick the finger. Any trouble I get into won’t matter if I have to leave tomorrow, and besides, Bonnie has so many apples, she won’t miss one, and there’s no one to see…
The hairs on the back of my neck stand up and I whip around, expecting to find someone behind me, watching, judging me for the bit of petty thievery.
There’s no one. The space and the stairs loom dark and silent. Cece, is someone in here with me?
The map shows that Bonnie is also in the basement of the Dragon and the Drumstick.
All the Whys of Delilah's Demise Page 16